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For Steve [sodramatic]
[The Winter Soldier was an expert at moving through the shadows of a bustling city; he could pass by the elbows of greatness and they'd never know he was there, not until the bullet hit them right between the eyes. He had been highly trained in every skill he might conceivably need in order to carry out his missions - speak almost every language, drive almost any vehicle on the land, in the sky, or on the sea, and use pretty much any weapon. He could assimilate with the locals, he knew how to hide from even the most sophisticated surveillance, and he understood communications technology.
So how was it that something as simple as money could stump him?
HYDRA had always provided him with everything he had ever needed for missions, and he only had vague fragments of memory from before, and that only served to make him suspicious of how much money things cost. But people paid on cards now, they transferred money to one another with the touch of a button, and he had no idea how it worked.
Just another thing on the list of things he had no idea about, and by far one of the lesser ones. The biggest ones taking up his whole attention these days were who am I? and what is my mission?. He wasn't the Winter Soldier any more, though those were the parts of him closest to the surface, but neither was he Bucky Barnes. He had gone to the museum and he had seen photographs of a man smiling, a man wearing his face. Or maybe he was the one wearing a dead man's face. He had no idea who the hell he was supposed to be now, only that he didn't want to be owned any longer.
A mission was easier. He'd drifted at first, but then the first agents came after him. He wasn't even sure if they had been the remnants of HYDRA, he was wanted by a whole lot of world governments that might have come after him, but he had killed them all to keep being free. He didn't want to kill, but he wasn't yet at a place where he had the luxury to stop. So his mission became to wipe out HYDRA, and perhaps then the rest of the world would fall into place.
Somehow his hunt had led him back to New York, back to streets that beat with a familiar rhythm even if he had forgotten the name of the song. He should stay low, there are people here that know his face better than most, people who have reason to keep searching for him. He should stay far away from anywhere that Steve Rogers should be, but somehow he doesn't. It's a glitch, a malfunction in his system, that he finds himself standing on the corner of a little running trail watching a familiar man in blond jog ever closer.
He should run now, before he's seen. He should.
He doesn't.]
So how was it that something as simple as money could stump him?
HYDRA had always provided him with everything he had ever needed for missions, and he only had vague fragments of memory from before, and that only served to make him suspicious of how much money things cost. But people paid on cards now, they transferred money to one another with the touch of a button, and he had no idea how it worked.
Just another thing on the list of things he had no idea about, and by far one of the lesser ones. The biggest ones taking up his whole attention these days were who am I? and what is my mission?. He wasn't the Winter Soldier any more, though those were the parts of him closest to the surface, but neither was he Bucky Barnes. He had gone to the museum and he had seen photographs of a man smiling, a man wearing his face. Or maybe he was the one wearing a dead man's face. He had no idea who the hell he was supposed to be now, only that he didn't want to be owned any longer.
A mission was easier. He'd drifted at first, but then the first agents came after him. He wasn't even sure if they had been the remnants of HYDRA, he was wanted by a whole lot of world governments that might have come after him, but he had killed them all to keep being free. He didn't want to kill, but he wasn't yet at a place where he had the luxury to stop. So his mission became to wipe out HYDRA, and perhaps then the rest of the world would fall into place.
Somehow his hunt had led him back to New York, back to streets that beat with a familiar rhythm even if he had forgotten the name of the song. He should stay low, there are people here that know his face better than most, people who have reason to keep searching for him. He should stay far away from anywhere that Steve Rogers should be, but somehow he doesn't. It's a glitch, a malfunction in his system, that he finds himself standing on the corner of a little running trail watching a familiar man in blond jog ever closer.
He should run now, before he's seen. He should.
He doesn't.]
no subject
By the time Rogers actually stops and looks back over his shoulder, the man who currently has no name is holding a knife in one gloved hand, defensive rather than offensive, but ready to flip in the same way that a cornered animal will suddenly lash out if it has to.
His brow furrows, though whether in confusion or annoyance is unclear, and he makes no move to put the knife away.]
You don't.
[Nobody outranks him any more, because he's gone rogue. He's not the Soldier with handlers to report to, nor yet Sergeant Barnes with superiors to give him orders. He doesn't know who or what he is, but he knows that he answers to nobody any more.]
no subject
He turns to face Bucky fully, body language alert, in case he has to react, but non-threatening.]
You won't be needing that. I still don't want to fight you. ... And I don't think you came here to fight, either.
[That would look very differently, he knows.]
... How are you? I've been looking for you. I was worried.
no subject
His brow furrows. He discards the question as too difficult to answer, not knowing if Rogers just wants a physical report or if the question is deeper than that. He's obviously not injured, and so that should be enough.]
I know, I've seen you.
[Twice.
Twice Rogers has come close enough on his hunt for it to almost end in disaster, but his reputation as a ghost is well earned and he can always slip away if he needs to. Which begs the question why he's there now, letting himself be seen.]
You're chasing a dead man.