Part II  || Part III || Part IV || Part V || Part VI || Part VII|| Parta VIII || Part IX || Part X
continuation of imagine 

Word Count: 6770

Warnings: strong language, blood and injuries

Author: Beast

“You’re safe, you’re safe…”

The words reached him gradually, spoken
softly and warmly as his tentative grip on reality tightened. He felt awful,
head swimming and senses dulled. He wanted nothing more than to give in to the
lull of sleep, to let go of consciousness and fall back into the waiting
darkness, but he knew that would leave him vulnerable. The awareness of his own
body was painfully slow to return. He was lying on something soft, his shoulder
ached with a pain like broken glass in his head, his mouth was far too dry and
something was touching him.

For some odd reason, he wasn’t as panicked
as he thought he’d be. Concerned was a more accurate word; concerned about what
was near him and who was speaking, but the voice was comforting and gentle, and
his guard wasn’t so quick to build up. It was familiar in some odd way that he
couldn’t quite put his finger on; it was nothing like the barking orders and
fearful murmurs of the white-coated men who pulled him from the icy depths of
cryostasis. He couldn’t have been in cryo for that matter, he felt too warm for
that, and waking from that death-sleep never happened on something soft; he
always awoke strapped down on a metal table, alone.

Movement in front of him; someone was
standing, walking away. He heard wooden floorboards creak softly underfoot. Not
in the facility. That was assuring, but also alarming. Where the
hell was he, if he wasn’t back there? Memories came back in a fuzzy tangle of
pain and confusion, not at all clear and providing no answers. All he could
definitively pick out was running, running, running, and
suffocating pain. It was too much of a jumbled mess to make sense of.

Testing his body was difficult. The pain
was sharp enough to register through the programming, indicating that something
was damaged severely. His thoughts were too sluggish for him to adequately
catalog his own wounds in his mental checklist to relay to his handlers. Wait—the
handlers are dead. That realization forced his eyes open, mind in
desperate need of affirmation for that line of thought. The light, however dim
it might have been, was oppressive and overpowering. He blinked several times
before he could make out any semblance of detail. The walls were painted a
warm, light color, with pictures and furniture scattered around the room. It
was nothing like the sterile space he typically woke in. Everything about it
was different, but not in an uncomfortable sort of way. He could see a pile of
bloody clothes—mine?—off
near the door, and was suddenly quite aware of how defenseless he felt.

“… Bucky?” the voice was so
sudden it caused him to twitch, body suddenly tense and ready to spring when he
caught sight of someone peeking in from a doorway across the room. His vision
was still blurry but he thought he recognized him. When the person stepped
closer he was sitting up in an instant—and instantly regretted it. The sharp
movement caused a burst of warmth on his shoulder, choking down a yelp at the
intense pain. He chanced looking away from the man, metal hand cautiously
touching the back of his shoulder. The limb lacked tactile sensation, but he
did determine there was something spongy and yielding there, and when he
removed the hand, the fingers were covered in fresh blood. My
shirt was removed and wounds tended to. Did the man do this?

The couch, he’d realized he was lying on
one a few seconds prior, dipped slightly as the man sat down next to him,
keeping enough space between them so he wasn’t crowded. The fact that he had
approached without him noticing was enough to alarm the asset into immediate
guard. He pressed himself against the arm of the couch, back against it and
wound as far away from the other as he could get it. He studied him intently,
looking for any weapon or any item that was a danger. He was ready to defend
himself at the slightest provocation.

“I brought you some juice, if you
want something to drink.” The man with the bright eyes spoke softly,
offering him a clear plastic cup filled about halfway with the liquid, smiling
at him with familiarity. It was brightly colored and somewhat unusual looking,
but it smelled rather pleasant and his dry throat was suddenly at the forefront
of his awareness. The confusion surrounding how he got here was still taking
precedence in his mind, but the man, he remembered something about him. His
voice was the one that had said he was safe. His hands were faintly stained
with blood and his shirt was marred with it as well. He
must be the one who treated me. He wasn’t entirely sure why that
thought was comforting, but it was.

Moments passed with no movement between
the two, the assassin distrustful and rightfully wary. Kindness and compassion
were both incredibly foreign concepts, locked out of him by layers and layers
of ridged programming and conditioning. There had to be some reason this man
was doing this. Was he being prepped for something?

He swallowed thickly, the dryness of his
throat too much to ignore, and cautiously extended his metal hand out to take
the offered cup. Eye contact was never broken, not giving the other the chance
to do anything that could threaten him. The cup was fragile, thin plastic, and
it took a little testing to make sure he wouldn’t break it before he took it
from him.

“Its orange juice,” the man
started, “I have milk or water if you’d rather have that?” was he
asking for his preference? That was… he didn’t really remember any time when
anyone had asked what he’d wanted. He didn’t respond and regarded the juice
warily, but he eventually deemed it safe. It wasn’t logical to go through all
the effort of tending to his wounds just to poison him. Even with that thought
in mind, his first sip was hesitant. It tasted overwhelmingly sweet, enough so
that it almost made him gag, but he was so thirsty he probably would have taken
just about anything.

Emily was standing on the corridor,
listening to the conversation of two men. She sighed sadly, knowing that
something was about to happen..

“Will you let me look at your
shoulder?” the question was entirely unexpected, causing icy eyes to cut
over to the other man, “It’s bleeding again, and I’d like to get an actual
bandage on it, if that’s alright with you.” He was asking his permission.
The concept was almost intangible to his methodical mind. He had rarely been
told what was happening to him, let alone given anything resembling a choice;
when things needed to be done, things were done, and he had no say in them. He
was interested in his wellbeing, so perhaps he was a new handler, to replace
the ones that were dead.

“One round, sniper rifle, distance of
several blocks.” He repeated all the information he knew about the injury,
“Bullet didn’t exit, needs extraction.” His voice was monotonous, not
looking away from the man at his right. Several moments of silence passed
before he watched the other man retrieve several items from the floor before
sitting back down next to him, much closer this time. In response the soldier
moved, sitting so that his back was to him so he could reach the wound easily.
He was operating on programming and instinct, otherwise he never would have
turned away from him.

“I’m going to take off the bandage
now, let me know if it hurts and I’ll stop.” His voice was still that
gentle tone that held a familiarity that he couldn’t place. He didn’t respond,
just sipping the juice he had been given as he felt the other peel the
blood-soaked fabric from the wound. To distract himself he tried to focus on
the events that ended with him waking up in this place. He remembered something
about the Strike team, about HYDRA,
about desperately seeking out someone, about Robrax.

The asset tensed absentmindedly when he
felt the other man dab at the wound with a cloth, wiping away the blood. He
heard a hastily mumbled “sorry” from behind him before the work was
continued, gentler than before. Minutes passed in silence, with the weapon
sitting stilly and obediently as the taller man cleaned and dressed the wound.
The disinfectant stung but he didn’t show any discomfort, allowing him to clean
the wound thoroughly as he let himself be lost in his own thoughts.

A hazy memory trickled into his mind of a
cold and dimly-lit apartment, with himself and someone else sitting on a ratty
old couch covered in moth-eaten blankets. The other person was scratching the
stub of a charcoal pencil into a small sketchbook, bundled up in as many of
those pathetic-looking blankets as he could and sitting as close to—me?—as was physically
possible. He remembered feeling Steve, his name was Steve, shivering horribly
even through all those blankets. It was winter, he’d just gotten over
pneumonia, and he remembered how scared he’d been thinking he was going to lose
him. But… why did he remember this? Were those memories actually his?

“… you still draw, don’t you,
Steve?” the soldier suddenly questioned, the degrading programming
loosening its grip on his awareness now that he was fully awake. The other man,
he remembered his name now. He was Steve Rogers. Captain Steve Rogers. He was
the only face he could recall with any clarity, therefore he had to have held
some significant importance to him at some time.

“I—” Steve faltered, finishing
up wrapping gauze tape around his shoulder to hold the sterile packing in
place, “Y-yeah I do, Buck. You… always liked watching me draw.” His
voice was tentative and hopeful, something the asset made immediate mental note
of. He heard Steve putting away things behind him, and he took it as a sign
that he was finished.

“… do you still keep a
sketchbook?” the assassin wasn’t sure why he was so interested, but the
memory had been rather clear and he took it as an opportunity to possibly learn
if it was real. He tilted his head to glance back over his shoulder, and saw
Steve nod slightly. “Can I see it?” he wasn’t used to asking
questions, to voicing his own thoughts, and he felt a need to try it. Seeing
the smile that broke across the other’s face was oddly rewarding.

“Of course you can.” Steve
nearly fumbled over his own words, eyes alight with some emotion he couldn’t
place, “Here, Bucky.” A shirt was held out to him when he turned to
face him fully, “Your shirt was ruined, so you can use one of mine.”
Blue eyes regarded it somewhat warily, but he took it from him regardless. It
was little more than a plain grey shirt, but it was appreciated. “I’ll go
and get you some more juice and my sketchbook. I’ll be back in a moment.”
The empty cup was retrieved from his hand, the assassin not startling at the
sudden movement, before the man left the room. Bucky.
There was that name again. His name. He dimly recalled it—yes, it was his name.

The shirt was a little difficult to put on
with his arm and shoulder injured, but it was managed. The horrific grinding
and popping of his joint when he pulled it over his head confirmed that the
injury had to be set. He added it into his mental list of injuries. The garment
was a little big on his thinned frame, but it was clean and comfortable. It had
a somewhat familiar scent to it as well that he couldn’t quite recall. Even in
as much pain as he was, he felt better than he had in a very long time. Not
physically better; he felt absolutely awful physically, but maybe a little
better mentally.

He had confirmation that his name was the
same as the Sergeant memorialized in the museum, and that this other man was
the same Steve that he could dimly remember. There was still an odd disconnect
between himself and his past, between himself and the man known as Bucky, but
this was a fragile thread that tied him back to it. There were a lot of blank,
empty spaces where memories should be in his mind, and he doubted he’d ever get
everything back, but this felt… right? Being here with Steve felt right. Yes,
he was fairly certain this was the right thing to do.

Tired eyes caught sight of a few folded
blankets on the floor near his feet. He might have just regained consciousness
but he still felt absolutely exhausted and drained. One of the blankets was
picked up, wrapped around him tightly to try and block the cold. It was one of
those odd constants that never left; cold seemed to follow him like his own
shadow, sinking teeth of ice into his flesh every waking moment. No matter what
he tried he never could seem to warm himself up. He curled up tightly under the
fabric, feeling a tentative safety for the first time in a long while. All the
running and fear and paranoia was starting to melt, bit by bit, as he allowed
his eyes to close willingly. By the time Steve returned, he had already dozed
off, huddled against the arm of the couch with his back to the door; a small,
fragile sign of trust. It was the first deep, peaceful sleep he could remember
since he woke from stasis.

When he opened his eyes this time there
was no light, the space dark and silent, the reason for just why he was awake
unclear. Several moments passed before he realized he was staring into fabric;
the back of a couch, he determined. Unease breathed at the back of his neck,
but nothing seemed outwardly wrong around him. However, something still felt off.
His memories were slow to catch up with his awareness, but he pieced together
where he was soon enough. This time his return to consciousness didn’t come
with any overwhelming paranoia, just a faint acknowledgment of his surroundings;
it was a first for the soldier.

He hadn’t moved at all since falling
asleep, the skill of remaining completely motionless honed into a fine art. It
was an ability he’d possessed even before HYDRA’s conditioning; he half
recalled something about sniping. The downside was that he was now rather sore,
and he was sure the injuries he’d sustained earlier in the night had only been
compounded by his lack of movement. He’d slept on his right arm, which hadn’t
done his dislocated joint any favors. He would be sure to alert his new handler
to the injury come morning.

There was a momentary lapse before he
corrected his thought. Not handler, Steve.
The man was an odd sort of mystery in his head. He wasn’t a handler, wasn’t a
white-coated tech, wasn’t anything he was familiar with. Steve was Steve.
He was a strange exception in a world of ridged rules and protocols. Normally
such an obvious outlier would make him nervous, but Steve’s presence was
comforting and nonthreatening and achingly familiar.

Movement was difficult; now that the
adrenaline and shock had worn off he felt the full force of the pain. Every
muscle seemed to ache, a deep-seeded burn that spread from his skin to the
deepest parts of him. His prosthetic creaked and the servos whined pitifully,
the weeks of abuse and ill-care wearing at it. Getting into a sitting position
took much more effort than he expected, but now that he had a clear view of the
entire room he felt a little safer. The tentative feeling of security let him
will himself to take stock of his situation.

The room hadn’t changed except for the
light having been flipped off, but the darkness was of no hindrance. He could
see rather well at night, but whether or not that was inherent or due to HYDRA
tampering he wasn’t sure. Despite the fact that this place exuded a sense of
safety that he’d never experienced before, checking the perimeter and his
surroundings was so ingrained in him that he felt a compulsion to do it.

As he moved to get up, he noticed there
was a second blanket covering him. Or had been, before he sat up and caused it
to tumble off of him in a heap. Absentmindedly he reached out to pick it up,
wincing a bit at the metallic whine of his artificial joints and tendons.
Several of the plates were jarred out of place, clanking together unnaturally
and restricting his range of motion. Dried blood mired the reflective surface,
coming not from himself but from nameless HYDRA agents. As soon as he had
recovered enough to be effective, he had gone and destroyed every safe house he
knew of, killing every HYDRA agent he came across. He was going to destroy
HYDRA all on his own if it came to that; they were going to regret ever having
created him. He’d see to it.

“Mm, Buck?” the sleepy hum of
the Captain broke the silence, the soldier’s eyes cutting over in that
direction. He hadn’t even noticed the other man had placed himself in a nearby
chair, now-open eyes regarding him tiredly. Keeping an eye on me? Making
sure I don’t escape? The second thought made his brow furrow a
bit. No, that’s not right. He somehow
just knew that wasn’t why he had opted to rest out here instead of returning to
the bedroom.

The asset didn’t respond verbally, but
gave him a brief nod before he carried through with picking up the blanket. The
nervousness was once again settling into the pit of his stomach, the sort of
feeling he expected prey felt before a predator sprung from the shadows. It was
such an unfamiliar feeling, as he was usually the lurking predator in question.
He could hear Steve stretching and moving to get up, so he decided to remain
seated; he had a feeling the Captain would fuss if he tried to get up and walk
with his wounds.

“Feeling any better?” the
other’s voice was far too bright for it being so early in the morning. The
assassin just watched as he tapped at a phone, glancing to him after the screen
lit up. He took a moment to check himself mentally before he responded. His
metal fingers hesitantly relinquished their grip on the blanket, instead
wrapping gingerly around his shoulder joint, where the Captain had dislocated
it in their struggle.

“… arm hurts.” He mumbled
quietly, lacking the robotic, monotonous quality that had previously dominated
his voice. He knew that the Captain had seen the deep bruising and
discoloration around the joint, as the bullet wound was plastered in the middle
of it, but he was well aware that there was likely little he could do for it.
Even he wasn’t sure if it was just a dislocation, or if there was a fracture as
well. The frown that appeared on the other man’s face at his words was enough
to make the nervousness he was experiencing leap to the front of his mind.

“We’ll get it looked at, don’t
worry.” His voice was always so soothing, “But…” discomfort,
possibly even fear crept into the other’s tone suddenly, serving to heighten
the soldier’s apprehension. His gaze was at his phone again, tapping his finger
against it nervously. “… we can’t stay here, we need to get somewhere
safe.” The sense of urgency was contagious, it seemed. The hairs on the
back of his neck were on-end again, and the assassin was on his feet in a few
seconds.

“Buck, are you sure you’re alright to
be up and..” the glare he directed at the Captain was much more
threatening than he meant it to be, but he got his point across as the rest of
the man’s sentence withered in his throat. He wasn’t fragile, he wasn’t to be
coddled; he was a weapon that was damaged and malfunctioning, not broken and
useless. Weakness wasn’t tolerated, his handlers had made sure to drive that
into his programming.

“Give me a minute to get ready and
get you a jacket, then we’ve gotta move out.” Those were words the soldier
remembered and associated with. Location compromised, moving to
safety. It must be why he woke up; HYDRA must be closing in. It was
enough to make his muscles stiffen with readiness, not wanting to be taken by
surprise like last time. They wouldn’t have that luxury. Not again.

Emily also had packed some necessary stuff
earlier. She was standing in the middle of the room, with a backpack hanging
over her shoulder.

“Guys…” she whispered. “We don’t have much
time.”

Waiting was not in the Winter Soldier’s
repertoire, and instead of remaining still he was up and moving. The pistol he
had dropped earlier was retrieved, inspected and placed into his pocket. There
wasn’t a lot of ammunition left in it, but enough to be useful. He’d done more
damage with much, much less. Now that he was up he decided to do that perimeter
check he’d been planning on. Steve was doing something in his room, so he
avoided that room and checked every other one. His pass through the kitchen
produced the knife he’d left that first night, still sullied with the Captain’s
blood, and a worn sketchbook. There was a twinge of guilt in his stomach that
passed quickly as he placed the blade back into the sheath at his ankle. The
small book, likely the one Steve had been bringing to show him, was tucked into
his pocket.

The dull, aching burn in his muscles was
pushed out of his awareness; now that there was a clear threat to him all pain
was ignored. It was how he had been conditioned, trained and taught; pain was a
weakness and only useful for determining damage after a successful mission. He
hated to admit that he was nervous, but he was. He had the beginnings of
fragile trust in Steve, but this had the makings of a trap. Suddenly relocating
after arriving? Departing hours before the sun rose, when no one would ever
notice their passing? It was enough to set off warning bells in the soldier’s
mind.

“Buck,” the Captain’s hesitant
voice broke his thoughts, eyes cutting over to where the other man was peeking
in from the door, “Are you ready?” again with questions, again with
asking him things. It was still a strange and unusual concept to the asset,
used only to demands and orders. He responded only with a curt nod, taking a
jacket that the other offered to him. It was somewhat big on him, but worn and
soft and comfortable nonetheless. Nothing like the rigid combat gear HYDRA had
outfitted him with. In a way he felt vulnerable, missing the reassuring weight and
constriction of his body armor.

Steve had a small pack slung over his
shoulder, the contents of which the soldier didn’t know, and shield strapped to
his arm. It was clear, however, that they were likely not coming back, not for
a long time at least. There was no sentimental attachment to this place for
him, he didn’t have any sentimental attachments honestly, but he did know this
place and knew it was safe in his mind, so leaving it didn’t sit right in his
mind. He did know, however, that staying would end in certain HYDRA custody or
death.

Ushered out into the hall, the soldier
only moved when prompted by his new handler. No, Steve. His
senses were on alert, although still dulled and sluggish from the blood loss
earlier. The sleep and bandaging had improved his awareness a bit, although
even with his serum it would take a few more hours before he would be in a
condition he was comfortable with. He just watched as Steve tapped at his
phone, door pulled shut behind him. It was only after he read some text message
for the fifth time that he suddenly froze.

“Shit.” Now that got a reaction
out of the soldier. He tensed up and stood perfectly still, the tone of Steve’s
voice setting off warnings and alarm bells that something was catastrophically
wrong. His tone had been nothing but softness and warmth up until now; the
swear sparked just the ghost of a sensation in his head, of cold wind and the
smell of gunsmoke as he peered over a trench in some long forgotten
battlefield.

“We need to move. Now.”
the words spilled out of the blond man suddenly, a hand grabbing his right arm
without warning and tugging him down towards the stairs. Normally such an
unexpected action would have warranted a swift punch to the jaw, but the
startled tone in the other’s voice alerted him that something was very, very wrong. He didn’t resist, letting Steve
lead him swiftly down the stairs and towards a back door, the other man
mumbling the entire way about something about the text having been wrong.
Muffled voices—HYDRA,
Strike team—filtered through the walls from outside, formless
shadows visible through the frosted glass of the front doors.

Subtly was thrown out the window as Steve
kicked the back door open and bolted outside, the asset stumbling and fighting
to keep up with the jolting motion. The man had yet to let go of his arm,
guiding him through narrow alleyways and side streets in a path that seemed
predetermined. He didn’t know the plan, which was a source of anxiety in and of
itself, but Steve clearly had something in mind, so for the first time he—trust
was too strong a word—relied on the other’s decisions to get them
out of harm’s way.

HYDRA agents were all over, dressed in
varying uniforms of Strike and police and others he did not recognize. They
shouted as they tried to corner them, seemingly appearing from nowhere from
alleyways and cars and from behind objects. Steve did not engage them, instead
pulling him along as he ducked and weaved dizzyingly between buildings and
sleepy streets. He had a set destination in mind, the asset could tell, and
even though the sight of HYDRA angered him into considering pulling away to
fight, he knew it was too risky to separate himself from the Captain.

Unfortunately, HYDRA did that for him.
There was a sudden, jarring shout from one of the alleys they were about to
blow past, and before either could react the darkened space filled with
blinding light and a concussive sound. Flashbang. Steve
yelled something but the asset didn’t hear, the grip on his arm lost as the
other covered his ears. Even before the white left his vision, formless shapes
surrounded them as agents appeared to spring from the very walls to box them
in. Wordlessly, the assassin and the Avenger stood back to back, fitting into
formation as easily as if it was something they did every day. The pistol was
pulled from his pocket, knowing that even with little ammo it would be more
effective at the moment than a knife. There was a brief flash of familiarity in
his mind, but the situation around him drowned it out almost instantly.

“Drop your weapon and surrender the
asset, Captain Rogers!” a husky voice barked out, a dozen barrels of a
dozen guns aimed at them. He could feel Steve tense against his back, but so
vastly outnumbered and outgunned any outburst now would likely end in one or
both of them dead.

“… Steve.” He wasn’t sure just
why he spoke, or why his voice was softened and hinted with an accent he only
vaguely recalled, but he did. It was a sort of rash, sudden need to ground
himself in the present, to remind himself that the man behind him was indeed
the Steve he could so faintly remember. His statement, however, had an
unintended consequence.

“The asset’s compromised,” that
growling voice spoke again, “he’ll need to be wiped and reconditioned if
we’re going to salvage this.” That statement triggered an intense,
shattering terror in the assassin the likes of which he could not recall.
Broken memories of deafening electricity crackling madly, of being tied down
and unresisting and passive, suddenly swam in his mind and broke through his
calculating combat mindset. Without thought he pressed himself further against
Steve’s back, as if somehow he could hide from his own horrifying memories in
the other’s presence.

“Buck, it’s alright,” voice
hushed and gentle, the Captain spoke only loud enough for him to hear,
“You’ve got to work with me, we’re going to work together to get out of
this, just follow my lead.” It wasn’t worded as an order or command, and
as such disoriented the soldier for a moment, but that fragile ideal of trust
settled in to fill in the gaps and his only response was a slight nod that went
unseen. They could do this. “Emily. I’m gonna take their attention, you need to
run. If they will take us three, nothing will left.”

She nodded slightly and before the fight,
she ran toward the nearest window. She stopped in front of it, taking a look
back at her men. Steve was looking at her above his shoulder, he gave her a
nod, so she followed his order and jumped out of the window, disappearing in
the darkness of the night.

There was no warning for the HYDRA agents,
shield thrown and colliding with several and incapacitating them while three
expertly placed and near-simultaneous bullets downed three permanently. They
moved in sync, still keeping each at their back even after separating and
lunging at the ring of agents that surrounded them. The now-useless pistol had
been abandoned in favor for a blade, which was used to swiftly and efficiently
disable and kill two more agents before they could even fire off a round.

The resonant clang of the shield behind him let him
subconsciously track the Captain’s movements, even as he threw himself into the
tangle of agents in front of him. He used the knowledge that he was wanted
alive to his advantage, as he knew they wouldn’t dare try to shoot him at such
close range as it would likely irreparably damage him and they would lose their
prized asset. It couldn’t have worked better for him, as he was just as
comfortable and deadly dispatching a target at close range as he was sniping.

An agent was slammed against the nearby
wall, razored blade deftly sliding between neck vertebras to kill his target
instantly. Without a moment’s hesitation he was upon another, moving with all
the predatory grace of a hunting cat, throat slit and body casually dropped as
if it were little more than a discarded jacket. The remaining two agents in his
field of view turned and bolted, and had he been on his prior missions of
annihilating HYDRA installations around the city he would have pursued them
relentlessly, but now he barely acknowledged their escape. Instead, he spun on
his heel to where Steve was fighting, wasting no time engaging the remaining
agents that swarmed him.

His blood-sullied blade dipped into the
throat of a Strike member readying to shoot Steve’s back, a gurgled wheeze of
horrified shock the only noise that escaped before he was roughly shoved aside.
Sticky crimson soaked deep into his jacket and clothes beneath but little
regard was given to it; the horrors of his actions seemed as commonplace as any
daily act to him after decades of repetition. Another HYDRA infantrymen lunged
at Rogers with
a stun baton, but the soldier intercepted him, slashing with a precise stroke
that opened the man’s torso as easily as a zipper. He fell noiselessly into a
jumbled heap of blood and viscera at the Captain’s feet, a non-threat.

Soon only a few hostiles remained, mostly
stepping far back and firing as many rounds as they could at Captain Rogers.
The asset refused to leave the man’s side again, tucked up close near him in an
effort to deter any more firing, and to his dim surprise it seemed to work. The
agents backed away even farther, guns raised but triggers untouched, eyes
locked on them. He took the brief lull in fire to glance at Steve for a moment,
to assess his condition. He was on his feet, but blood had soaked his right leg
from a bullet wound to the calf. A slash from a knife tore through his jacket
and into his side, while red dribbled from his saturated sleeve from another
entry wound. He was standing, for the moment, but the soldier knew that even
with the serum the blood loss would catch him quickly.

Steve asked something, something about how
he was holding up or the like, but the assassin didn’t catch it. Instead his
attention was elsewhere when his eyes caught a brief flash of light from the
roof of a building two streets over. His heart fell into his stomach and his
shout of warning was lost to the rifle crack when the realization hit. Of
course, the bullet hit first, just not in the place HYDRA had wanted it.

The soldier had reacted instinctively,
kicking the back of Steve’s injured leg hard enough that he buckled. His sudden
movement meant the bullet, aimed for a kill shot on the Avenger’s heart,
instead struck and slid off the slant of his shield and hit his collarbone. A
second bullet, fired milliseconds after the first from a likely second sniper,
caught him across his already-slashed ribs, blossoming open as if it were a
grotesque flower. The strangled cry of shock and pain that left the man as he
crumpled to the ground snapped something buried deep beneath HYDRA programming,
and within a half-second he had grabbed Steve by his arm and pulled him into a
small alcove between two buildings. He heard two more bullets strike the
asphalt where they had been moments before, and knew that HYDRA was likely not
going to take Steve alive.

All thoughts of the remaining HYDRA agents
were abandoned at the sound of Steve’s raspy breathing, the assassin leaning
him against the building wall as to hopefully ease it some as he leaned down to
his level. Even though the shield had absorbed most of the energy of the round,
the wound was devastating. The bullet had shattered his collarbone, flesh torn
and ripped and blood dripping freely. A dribble of the crimson stained the
Captain’s chin, breath labored and choking and heaved in and out. His
lung’s been punctured, probably collapsing. The second bullet had
no doubt shattered his ribs, and the awful torn wound was jagged and blown
apart by the unimpeded bullet’s passing. It was a grim prognosis.

The sounds of the agents trying to regroup
from the attack were hardly registered, hands pressed to the man’s injury in a
desperate attempt to stem the flow of blood. A pained cough escaped him,
reddened mouth slackened open as he tried again and again to fill his lungs
full to no avail. “B… B-Buck…” he slurred wetly through the blood,
half-lidded eyes beginning to glaze over as unconsciousness loomed, “… got
t-to… get… a-away…” shock was setting in, body trembling under the
assassin’s hands, but he mustered the energy to nudge him with the shield in a
halfhearted attempt to push him into running. He wanted him to leave him
behind, to save himself from falling back into HYDRA’s control. The very
thought of it twisted the soldier’s stomach in a knot and caused his breath to
catch in his throat.

“S-Steve,” his
normally-controlled voice was shaky and small, fear filling every inch of him
as trembling, blood-stained metallic fingers brushed golden hair away and
cupped the Captain’s cheek to hold his gaze on him, “You’ve gotta hold
on,” his eyes began to sting as an unfamiliar heat and blurriness began to
build, “I-I’m not leaving you behind.” Something had woken up deep in
his mind, faint ghosts of memories of battles long past. Of fights in alleys
where both refused to run away, never leaving the other’s side. It was such a
strong emotion that consumed him that he couldn’t ever hope to fight it, and
strangely enough, he possessed no will to resist it.

Footsteps and barked orders behind him
drew him from his withdrawn, focused state. It was like a switch flicking in
his head, the sharp focus of combat and programming setting in, and within the
space of a breath he had taken the shield from Steve’s faltering grasp and spun
around, keeping himself between the agents and his injured partner. His vision
was blurred and his eyes stung fiercely, an unfamiliar wetness trailing down a
cheek, but he didn’t move from his defensive stance, rooted to the spot with
shield held solid in his metal prosthetic. The plates whirled and slid together
with a groan of protest, ready to lash out with the vibranium disk at the
slightest movement.

“Get away!” he snarled in a
voice so loud it startled the men, “Get away from him!” he swung the
shield at an agent that dared to approach, knocking him clean off his feet and
sending him tumbling. The sharp, ripping pain as his own shoulder wound tore
caused him to wince, but it was immediately stuffed down as he had much more
important things to focus on. Seeing their own knocked away so easily, even
while he was in such a state, caused the others to take heed and back away a
few feet. Even though his joint protested, he retrieved and hid a blade in the
palm of his injured arm, keeping it disguised behind the shield. If they got
close again they would be in for a nasty surprise.

“This is… unexpected.” The same
agent who spoke earlier piped up, rifle trained on the pair with deadly intent,
“Looks like the programming has decayed more than anticipated. General
Lukin isn’t going to be pleased.” That name was familiar, and struck a
fear like a dagger of ice into the soldier’s heart. He pressed himself back,
shield held higher in a desperate attempt to keep the agents at bay. Steve
moved behind him, whimpering in pain, and a moment later the former Soviet felt
his hand press reassuringly to his back in a wordless gesture of trust. It was
enough to steel his nerves, to dispel his own fear just enough to focus on the
agents who had chanced to venture further.

With an almost animalistic roar, he leapt
at the nearest agent, jamming the sharp edge of the shield into his ribcage,
crushing it like a flimsy can. He dropped into a tangle of limbs, and he used
the moment of confusion to swing at another, feeling the agent’s skull cave
under the impact. The shield was brought down on the neck of another agent,
while the knife in his right hand pierced the torso of one rushing at him. As
he swiveled to lunge at the seeming-commander he froze mid-strike, eyes wide
with terror, when he saw that another agent had a gun trained to the downed
Captain’s head.

“No!” the word clawed its way
out of him, shield and blade falling from his hand in a show of submission,
eyes wide with feral panic. “D-don’t do it.” He’d never demanded
anything from anyone, not in all his active years, but he was now. He was
scared, desperate and out of options, pleading like one of his victims to spare
the other man’s life. The commander’s gravelly voice broke into a laugh behind
him, but before he could round on him he felt a pinprick on the back of his
neck, followed immediately by a burst of warmth that spider-webbed through his
body. His knees buckled and vision swam, awareness growing fuzzy as he
collapsed to the ground. He gasped out Steve’s name, tried to push himself back
up, but he couldn’t even prevent his eyes from sliding shut a heartbeat later.
His hearing muffled, but the last thing he was aware of was that growl of a
voice ordering the surviving agents to take the both of them before everything
drained away into nothingness.