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For Coulson
[It's not been long after the fight over the Potomac. He's not sure how long exactly, time has blurred together and he keeps losing chunks of it, but he knows it can't be more than three months. Perhaps less. He went to ground pretty thoroughly after seeing the exhibit at the Smithsonian, all that evidence in black and white of exactly who this body used to be.
James Buchanan Barnes.
He doesn't remember any of it. Just vague impressions of the man from the bridge, a strange tight sensation in his chest whenever he imagines the man-- Steve-- falling into the water. But that's it. It's a malfunction, he should return to his handlers and request a fix, but he finds himself doggedly avoiding all attempts to track him down or pursue him.
He doesn't really have a plan of action for where to go, he moves like a ghost picking up food and money where he can. How he got to this strange hanger, he doesn't quite know, but the plane that stands gleaming in front of him is too much of a temptation. He can sneak aboard, hide somewhere, and get taken to another country. Safer that way. He isn't expecting it to look so much like living quarters when he gets aboard, and he spends a good half hour silently padding through the various rooms until he gets to one that looks like an office.
It's the comic that draws his attention. Old, framed, a pristine Captain America vol. 1 dated in the early years of the war. He sort of remembers seeing those, a propaganda tool after an experiment? Serum? He doesn't know, all he knows is that the comic is holding his attention very sharply. It's why he moves to stand behind the desk and, without care for how old it is and how carefully it has been preserved, takes it out of the frame to begin flicking through the pages.
He's so enthralled that he doesn't even hear footsteps approaching.]
James Buchanan Barnes.
He doesn't remember any of it. Just vague impressions of the man from the bridge, a strange tight sensation in his chest whenever he imagines the man-- Steve-- falling into the water. But that's it. It's a malfunction, he should return to his handlers and request a fix, but he finds himself doggedly avoiding all attempts to track him down or pursue him.
He doesn't really have a plan of action for where to go, he moves like a ghost picking up food and money where he can. How he got to this strange hanger, he doesn't quite know, but the plane that stands gleaming in front of him is too much of a temptation. He can sneak aboard, hide somewhere, and get taken to another country. Safer that way. He isn't expecting it to look so much like living quarters when he gets aboard, and he spends a good half hour silently padding through the various rooms until he gets to one that looks like an office.
It's the comic that draws his attention. Old, framed, a pristine Captain America vol. 1 dated in the early years of the war. He sort of remembers seeing those, a propaganda tool after an experiment? Serum? He doesn't know, all he knows is that the comic is holding his attention very sharply. It's why he moves to stand behind the desk and, without care for how old it is and how carefully it has been preserved, takes it out of the frame to begin flicking through the pages.
He's so enthralled that he doesn't even hear footsteps approaching.]
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I don't know where I'm going.
[Maybe here is a good enough place to pause for a while and figure some things out.]
I don't really know who I am.
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No. It was taken from me.
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You'll get it back.
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How?
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[He doesn't sound like he's all too charmed by the idea. He hates that thing.]
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[That's immediate and dangerous, and there's a knife in his hands again in another second, ready to attack.]
I'm not going to let you wipe me again.
[As if he believes that any machine that messes with his brain will do anything else, it's just a trick.]
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Yeah, I didn't think you'd like that option. Don't worry. That thing's not going anywhere near you. You're safe here for as long as you want to stay.
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I don't know if I can believe you.
[But it's probably obvious from the longing in his eyes that he wants to. He's tired, he's hurt, he wants to find the pieces of himself.]
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You know how to fly a plane, right? Disable the tracking system and fly us anywhere you want. There should be half a tank left and she's efficient enough to get us half way across the world on that.
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Why are you trying to help me?
[Surely, as an agent of SHIELD, he should be more concerned with bringing him in than helping him.]
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[Is he talking about the exhibit? Maybe even Steve (Captain, friend, target, enemy)?]
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Alright. Is there anyone else on board?
[Because he's taking the offer of taking the plane.]
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[It's said with perfect surety, this is the sort of thing he's trained for. He finally slips out from behind the desk.]
You walk first.
[He's not dumb enough to turn his back to go to the cockpit.]
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[He doesn't seem too worried as he turns to the door behind him to lead the way to the cockpit. The good thing is his office is on the upper floor of the large plane, where the lounge and sleeping cabins are. There is a holding cell there too. As well as weapons and restraints hidden away in compartments.]
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But it doesn't seem there is one, and he drops down into the pilot's chair to begin the take-off sequence with ease. HYDRA made sure that he was well equipped to fly or drive pretty much any vehicle on earth.]
Then keep it short.
[No phone calls long enough to be traced.]
sorry for the delay. RP drive fled
Bus to base. Bus to base. Maintenance crew's taking us out for a test flight. Will reconnect when done. Over.
[He switches the comms off and leans over towards Bucky, just enough so he can point at a a red switch under the panels] That should buy us some time. You might wanna switch that off. [It's the homing beacon for the plane.]
no worries
He doesn't bother turning it off, he just slams his metal fingers into the panelling and literally rips the system out of the plane altogether, crushing it in his hand.]
Last chance to bail out.
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Are you kidding? This is my favorite plane.
[He buckles in, ignoring the flashing red indicating an incoming transmission]
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Talk to me.
[The silence is cloying.]
Tell me about yourself.
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I was born and raised in Manitowoc, Wisconsin. My dad died when I was really young. He's a history teacher and he left me his red corvette. It's in the hanger. You might have passed it when you got in here. [he sounds oddly proud of it] It's been modified with Stark tech so it hovers, among other things. Now I do all the tune ups myself. My mom... Julie, she raised me right. But she died twenty years ago and, by then, SHIELD was all I had left.