ohnofeelings | no faith in brooklyn

One thing Steve learnt a long time ago was to not pull punches. He have this fight his all, just like he did any other time he got in a fight. The difference was, now that he knew what this masked assassin looked like, he was conflicted. This was Bucky and he wouldn't be convinced otherwise, but that didn't explain why or how any of this was possible.

"I thought you were dead." The words come out uneasily, Steve's voice shaky. He was aware of the wound he'd inflicted, but he wasn't sure if it was a good idea to offer help just yet. He had to do something and he would. It was imperative that he made sure that Bucky had his senses about him enough that he wouldn't try to attack him again.

Thing was, Steve didn't know when that would be. The only information he had on the Winter Soldier was the briefing prior to this. Considering that Bucky had been able to see his face the entire time and still engaged in fighting- well, that meant it would take more to get through to him.

"I saw you fall. I couldn't reach you. How--how are you even here?"

The Winter Soldier had been trained to work through pain worse than this, but he knew the damage done. If the wound was as deep as it felt, he could bleed to death. He needed this to end, and fast. That meant either surrendering, something he had been effectively trained to never consider as an option, or reaching that dagger and ending his attacker.

If he killed Steve now, he would never understand those photos. Never find out who he might have been before he was their assassin. Had he been a killer for the US as well? Traded hands and 'reprogrammed' to use against them? Steve fought like a soldier, not an assassin. It should have given him the edge but Steve was stronger and faster than any human Bucky had ever fought. A super soldier.

If he let the man take him in, he could gather intel from the inside. No torture they inflicted on him would get information to leave his lips, the Russians knew that. They had made sure of it. But there, if they did not kill him. Maybe he could get answers.

His hand squeezed at his wound, cold metal gripping tight over the deep, wide gash, thick red-black blood staining the metal and the glove. The knife was an easy reach. He should have grabbed for it.

In a Russian tinged accent, the wounded assassin forced a few words out.

"There is a knife in my boot."

He would let Steve decide if it was a threat, a warning or a surrender. At least the Russians would never be able to prove which it was.

The accent alone, which was much clearer now that he'd spoken more, took Steve aback. If it looks like a duck, but doesn't quack like a duck, is it still a duck? He'd leave that up to someone else to decide. He didn't have time to think about that, even if it didn't stop him from it. Too many questions came to mind now. Bucky had always been brilliant and gifted with languages, sure, but Steve had still expected to hear a Brooklyn accent. The one he grew up hearing.

He also wasn't sure how to interpret that statement. In any case, his instinct to look out for his best friend took over. Even if this really wasn't his best friend. Steve slowly walked toward the assassin, careful not to make sudden movements that would startle him- yes, Steve was treating Bucky as if he was a wounded animal, and for good reason. He didn't know what to expect just yet.

"That's going to need stitches. We need to get you to a hospital." He stepped a little closer, holding his hand out for Bucky to take. He was still aware of the knife's presence, but he planned on jumping back if there were any sudden or unexpected movements. "Let me help you."

Bucky was still debating with himself, whether to take the chance or wait it out. With his leg wounded, there was no way he could get the upper hand or more than one chance at taking Steve down. The man might have been confused and confusing but he was obviously not an idiot.

His still flesh and blood hand grabbed Steve's after some hesitation. He was at a disadvantage, making himself vulnerable against all of his training. Every fiber arguing with his decision as he gave up the opportunity and let it pass.

"I was trying to kill you."

There was unguarded confusion in his voice this time. Confusion at his own hesitance and reluctance to take the window or die trying. And confusion at Steve for helping him after they had both all out been going at one another.

"Was. Past tense." This was sound reasoning, right? Steve might've verbally implied that he didn't expect another attack from him, but that wasn't true. He knew he was taking a huge risk with this. His objective was to neutralise the enemy, but in the loose definition that Steve was going with, this still counted as neutralisation.

It was possible that he'd be more useful alive.

Steve couldn't kid himself though, he was rationalising for the sake of his own actions.

He leaned down, setting his free hand on Bucky's shoulder to steady the other man as he pulled him to his feet. It was a swift movement, but he did his best to not cause any unnecessary pain. Easier said than done.

"You don't know who I am, do you?" It didn't take much to come to that conclusion, but he needed to hear it from the other man.

"Captain America. SSR. Decorated War Hero Steve Rogers."

It was rattled off in the style of a memorized file, and Bucky was still regarding him with a look like he had two heads. Why was Bucky still conscious? Hell, why was he still alive? He had practically bared his neck for the killing blow with the risk he took, and even if it was an educated risk, even if he was confident the other man would not kill him-

It didn't explain why he wasn't dead already. Information was the only option. And information was the reason Steve didn't have a dagger to his throat.

"Advise you remove my weapon if you want it to stay that way, soldat."

He wasn't keeping as much weight off his leg as he should have been and he hadn't moved his arm either. He wanted to test how useless his leg was while he had the chance.

That answered everything right there. If Bucky remembered, the answer would've differed. It would've been less impersonal. The fact that he was cooperating had to count for something, though.

"And you're the Winter Soldier. Formerly Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, 107th Infantry. Born and raised in Brooklyn."

For a moment, Steve regarded the other man, looking for any sort of trace of recognition. Without saying anything else, he reached down and pulled out the knife from Bucky's boot. He didn't have a place for it on his person, so he chucked it into a dumpster that was a considerable distance away, although a straight shot from where they were.

James Buchanan Barnes. He had a name. A real one. It could easily have been a lie. His back had been to the camera. His name could've been anything. It didn't feel right. But something had. Bucky.

"Bucky." He repeated the name out loud again, watching Steve closely. His head was heavy and light all at once. He'd be useless soon.

"They sent you to kill me."

Steve nodded slowly, offering the other man a careful smile. "Only friends can call you that." They weren't just men who happened to be in the same unit. He wanted him to know everything, but if there were only a few things he could mention, that had to be one of them.

"They sent me to neutralise the enemy." He tilted his head some, looking the other man over. Unarmed and wounded. "You look neutralised to me."

Steve was playing with fire if he thought the Winter Soldier was neutralized. But Bucky had laid down his gun, so to speak. In this case, at least, Steve was right.

Especially given he nearly fell back down when his weight settled on the bad leg, dizzy with exhaustion and blood loss but shouldering through it.

"I need to make a tourniquet."

Steve did his best keep Bucky steady, but he frowned. He didn't come with medical supplies, obviously, but the other man had a point. Nothing good would from more blood loss.

He nodded curtly and eased Bucky back to a sitting position on the asphalt. It would be easier to do it this way. Steve ripped the sleeve of his own uniform, figuring his government could afford a replacement. The fabric ripped just shy of his shoulder, so with a swift movement he tore it off completely.

There was enough to make a decent tourniquet, one that would at least make due until he could get Bucky to any sort of medical facility.Bucky might've said that he needed to make it, but Steve went ahead and did it himself. After all, he was the one who caused it anyway.

"That'll work."

Bucky never took his eyes off Steve. How many times had he pulled that faded, folded photo from his pocket and stared, trying to read from their postures, their faces, every little possible clue he could get. Never had he expected the stern and focused soldier to be this... person. Soldiers who had seen war did not spare their enemies. They did not patch up the wounded so they could put a knife back to the throat of those who saved them.

But Winter Soldier had been on this job a week. That meant a week of covering his tracks, running on only his determination and training.

He moved to get back to his feet. Every intention of trying to make a run for it. What was he thinking letting Steve take him prisoner? The Russians would terminate him in hours.

Unfortunately for Bucky, the sudden movement coupled with blood loss and the pain of weight on his leg all slammed into his exhausted brain and the trained assassin lost consciousness.

That wasn't necessarily surprising, but it definitely made things more difficult. The dead weight wasn't anything that Steve couldn't handle, but with the other man unconscious, there was more stress in getting him to the hospital. Steve shifted, catching Bucky at the waist and hoisting him over his shoulder.

There was a worry that something worse would happen to Bucky en route, but the wound wasn't that bad. Steve had seen guys come through with worse.

As soon as he got him to the hospital, the nursing staff helped Steve get Bucky into a rolling bed and into the ER itself for the stitching, due to the amount of bloodloss and the severity of the wound. Steve couldn't follow, so he waited in the waiting room until the doctor was done.

Afterwards, Bucky was given a room to recoup overnight. Steve, who'd already been vague in answering questions about the injury, doubted that Bucky would be allowed to stay there. He still had to report in, after all, and SSR would want the Winter Shoulder in custody.

But for now, he was allowing Bucky to rest. As far as he knew, the other man hadn't woken up yet, and he hadn't noticed stirring yet. Though to be fair, Steve was distracted staring at the photo that had been on Bucky, which one of the nurses had handed him before leaving the room.

It was dangerous, being in a room with an unconscious assassin. The moment Bucky woke, with no concept of where he was or who currently held possession of him, his hands shifted, feeling the surface, eyes closed and breathing remaining even.

He cracked his eyes just enough to be able to see to his side, searching for an exit and a weapon, muscles slowly tensing across his body in preparation to fight his way out.

As soon as he thought he was awake he shoved off the bed, bolting for the hospital window as fast as he could move. The moment the stitched leg took his weight he stumbled, catching himself on the equipment, but he kept going, or did his best to try to.

The Winter Soldier was trained to get out alive or die trying. He was mentally conditioned to it, and without the shock and confusion of the previous fight, it was the default he fell into.

Steve might've been distracted by the photo, but the moment he saw Bucky getting out of bed and trying to make an escape, he set it aside and followed after him. The last thing anyone needed was a fight in the hospital, but Steve was prepared for it, assuming Bucky would retaliate against him the second he tried to stop him from leaving.

"Bucky. Bucky." He reached out before he was even in enough range to do anything other than grab his shoulder. As much as he doubted it, he hoped it would at least be enough to keep him still. "You're going to tear your stitches. Get back in the bed."

So maybe he should've phoned Stark sooner. Oops.

Bucky froze at Steve calling him by that name again. He let Steve grab him, resisting the strong urge to slam his elbows into the man and fight to incapacitate him.

It wasn't easy.

Slowly sinking down to sit on the bed, he eyed the window quietly before turning a blank stare on Steve, trying to keep the American soldier from reading anything in his expression.

A hospital was not where he had expected to wake up, let alone with his wound all stitched up. Like they cared about whether or not he healed from this.

Back to confusion, then.

Steve wasn't sure what to make of this. This was good, of course, but it seemed like it was too easy. This was Bucky, but this was also an apparently brainwashed Russian assassin. It didn't make sense for Bucky to be so compliant.

If anything, it made Steve more wary. He wasn't going to let that show, however.

"You had a photo on you." Now seemed like a good time to bring that up. He stepped away from the bed to fetch the photo, only to return and hold it out to the other man. "Do you remember this?"

The photo made Bucky tense up. It was the only thing he owned and if the Russians discovered he had it, it would be gone for good. He snapped it out of Steve's hand too fast with his metal arm, tearing it just a shade and pulling it in, eyes suddenly cold and harsh.

"How long have I been here?"

It was important. It would let him know how long ago he had missed his communication rendezvous. And whether or not he was already being sought out.

"Why did you bring me to a hospital."

While Steve was confused by Bucky's compliance, the assassin was confused by his helpfulness.

Steve's eyes narrowed at Bucky's reaction to the photo. It seemed odd, and it only made him want to find out why he'd reacted in such a manner. He was determined to find out why, and figured if he answered these questions, maybe he could get something more out of him.

Possibly unlikely, but he couldn't let them go unanswered either.

"About three hours, and remember the gaping wound on your leg? That didn't just go away because a tourniquet was wrapped around it. You needed medical attention. Unless you would've preferred I left you to bleed to death."

He paused. "Why is this photo so important to you?"

Bucky grit his teeth. This was a harmless question. It would reveal nothing about the Russians, his purpose, or anything else of significance.

It would reveal, likely, nothing Steve didn't already know.

What it would reveal was weakness and the extent to which The Winter Soldier was a fabricated being.

He watched Steve, matching the look he was being given with one in return.

Then, without pause and with as little emotion as he could manage, he replied.

"It's all I have." All he had, possession wise, and all he had to help him figure out who he was. Who he really was.

After a moment, Steve nodded. He pulled up a chair from the corner of the room and sat down, just a foot or so away from Bucky. Personal space wasn't happening, not when there was a possibility of him making an escape again.

"Italy 1943." He couldn't give specifics, because the photo reminded him of something that happened regularly in different locations. "After I saved you from the Hydra Compound, we started taking out other Hydra facilities across Europe. You, me, and the Howling Commandos."

no faith in brooklyn

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