The Last Voyages: Memento Youri [Memories]

[worthallthis]

1. Steve

Aunt Sarah's at work, and left Bucky to keep an eye on Steve. Steve would hate the idea of being babysat-- if Steve were awake. Which he's not. He's been out since Bucky got there, stirring fitfully and coughing, fever eating him up. Bucky's seen people sick before, he's seen Steve sick before, but this is worse than anything he's seen. Cool cloths on Steve's forehead don't seem to do much.

"Hey, Steve," Bucky says quietly, as if it might wake him up. Not that he wouldn't mind Steve waking up, because this is awful. "Hey, Stevie." Steve hates being called that, so maybe if Bucky uses it, he'll wake up to swat at him?

No dice. Bucky sighs and replaces the washcloth with a new one. "You're a real pain in my ass, Stevie," he mutters. "I could be out having fun, but no, I gotta sit here and make sure you don't die on me."

The thought makes a lump in his throat. He's never seriously considered that Steve's sickness might actually make him die before, and he-- he hates it. He can't stand it. "Don't die on me, Steve," he says hastily. "Don't you do it. I'll. I'll punch your lights out if you die on me." Which makes no sense at all. He'll be dead so what good would punching him do?

But he says it anyway, because he can't bear the thought of losing this stupid, stubborn kid.



2. Ye Zun

This is his favorite song, Bucky can recognize it in the first few notes, and already can feel his feet wanting to move. He grabs Gretchen, his current date, around the waist. "Wanna dance?" he asks, grinning.

"Thought you'd never ask," she giggles, and lets him swing her out onto the dance floor. It's a good beat, and Gretchen's not a bad dancer. She's good enough that he easily swings her up into the air a couple times, to her delight, and the cheers of a couple other people in the dance hall.

When Gretchen stops for a drink, Bucky lets another girl, Hannah, cut in for a song or two. It's the best time he ever has, on the dance floor. He doesn't even care who he's dancing with, so long as they know the steps.

Though that night when he weaves into the apartment he finally wheedled Steve into sharing with him, drunk as a skunk and feeling great, it's even better to sweep the little guy up into a waltz around the front room, while Steve laughs and steps on his feet.

Street food from Ye Zun



3. Sameen Shaw

Bucky vaguely remembers stumbling in the night before, after spending the night drinking and trading off girls dancing, after Steve ditched him. Steve was already in bed, which, fine, whatever. He'd fallen into the same bed to wake him up, sputtering, because that served him right. For ditching him on his last night to try out for the army again.

Now he's regretting everything, because he has to get on a boat in less than an hour, and his head aches, and Steve is laughing at him. "Fuck off," he groans, face dripping from where he splashed it in the sink in an attempt to wake up.

"Can't give you your coffee if I do that," Steve says, and there's something smug to him. Too smug.

"Give it," Bucky growls, and Steve shoves the mug into his hands, at least. Bucky stares at him grouchily over the rim of the mug as he drinks. You'd think the little shit would at least be sad to see him go, not just gloating because Bucky has a hangover and Steve doesn't. He turns away to finish getting dressed in his uniform and slicking his hair down for his cover.

It's only as he's heading out the door of their crappy apartment that Steve finally relents and catches him in a hug. "Don't die out there," he says, muffled against Bucky's chest.

"Never," Bucky promises, though he knows it's a lie. Everyone dies over there. He's just glad Steve's not going, too.

From Sameen: Captured by Root
From Sameen: Her capture
From Sameen: Used to murder
From Sameen: Captivity



4. Lark

Furnace.

There's a word. It plays over and over in the room, in his head, confusing him-- distracting him.

Furnace.

But it can't distract him. He can't let it. The handler tests his reflexes, his speed, his knowledge of defense with quick jabs to the face and shoulders. His reflexes are good, he is faster than the handler's attacks, and his defense is perfect: block, dodge, swing away, block again. (Just like we taught him. Be faster, be smarter.)

Furnace.

"Now attack," the handler says.

He goes on the offensive, fast and strong, perfect in his attacks, but he knows: he knows he must not actually hurt the handler. There will be punishment if he does. They keep hurting him for mistakes like that. He doesn't know, anymore, why they keep hurting him. Maybe he never knew. (I knew. I used to know. Why don't I know.)

Furnace.

"Now defend," the handler says, stepping back, and three more rush at him. He fends them off, and it's not hard, it's like they move in slow motion compared to how fast he can move, but he's so tired. He's so afraid of what will happen if he fails, or if he hurts one of them too badly. His head hearts, pounding in time with the word. (These fuckers. What are they doing.)

Furnace.

Now they come at him six at once, and they have souped up cattle prods, electrified. Those really hurt, so he tries to avoid them, tries to throw them away from him before they can hit him.

Furnace.

"Who are you?" the handler demands from the sidelines, as he kicks one assailant away.

He doesn't answer. Can't answer. He knows what happens when he answers.

Furnace.

"Answer, soldier," the handler says darkly.

He throws a second assailant across the room to slam into the wall. Too hard, he heard something crack. Not dead. Close, maybe.

Furnace.

"Answer, soldier!"

One of the cattle prods connects hard to the base of his spine, and he screams.

Furnace.

"Answer!"

He wants to know? I'll fucking tell him. I fucking will.

On fire, trembling, he says the only answer in his head, each word bitten off, angry and pained. "James. Buchanan. Barnes. Sergeant-- number-- 32-- 55--"

Three cattle prods hit him at once, and then there's nothing but pain, and he can't even black out.

Furnace. Furnace. Furnace.

That's all there is.



5. Nita

The trainees are very cute. Six year olds generally are. The Soldier probably isn't the best teacher, not being great at giving orders, but the trainees follow them anyway. Even the unspoken ones, because he doesn't talk much, either. They seem to like him okay, ever since the first day when they realized he wasn't like the guards or the handlers.

Possibly because he absolutely adores them.

There's three of them this time. (This time?) All girls, of course. (Why of course?) He's already taught them the basics of pistol firing: aiming, compensation for the kick, trigger discipline. Today is breaking holds and turning an attack against the attacker. He has to show them the softest places to hit, so their small size will be a benefit and not a drawback.

But first is their warm-up.

He watches them go through their ballet routine and then run three laps around the training room, listens to them sing in unison, and almost remembers how to smile. There should always be music. Ever since the first trainees (when were there others?), they've always sung when they danced, when they did throws, when he taught them how to braid their hair flat so it can’t be grabbed. It's like they know he likes it, even though liking things isn't allowed. He doesn't even have to ask, because asking isn't allowed, either.

It makes everything so much less frightening when there's music. Music makes a place better.

Even if he's teaching little girls how to kill people.

"All right, kids," he says when they stop and line up in front of him. In Russian, because the guards are always there, but casual Russian, because he fucking adores them. "Let’s get started."

They'll be gone soon. He doesn't know how he knows this, but he knows it. But at least, he thinks, he'll have helped them stay alive when they get bigger. He can give them that, even if he can't give them anything else.

From Nita
From Nita



6. Sameen Shaw

This is standard mission protocol. He presents himself at the entrance to the mobile base. The field team holds their guns on him even as he surrenders his weapons at the door. They sit him down for debrief. This time he's bleeding; sometimes he's not. It doesn't matter. It always stops eventually.

There's maintenance on the arm. There's a drink, full of protein and drugs, which he drinks without complaint while they tinker on the arm. Repairs. Upgrades. It's the only time when he feels halfway at peace, besides the ice. No one asks him questions. No one expects anything of him except to be still and quiet. There's still dread, in the back of his mind, because though he doesn't remember, he still knows what comes next. He ignores it. He is very good at ignoring things he feels. They don't matter.

Maintenance on the arm is complete. That means it's time for another kind of maintenance. Before the ice. After the ice. Sometimes mid-mission if it takes longer than ninety-six hours.

He tries not to ever let a mission take longer than ninety-six hours.

The techs back away. His fists clench. He knows what's coming. He knows. He could stand up, he could hit and throw and bite, he could get away, he could-- he could--

He doesn't. The halo whirs to life, spins slowly, comes down around his face. His breathing is fast, too fast. The sparks light up. Then there's nothing but pain.



7. Xiao Xingchen

The bomb has gone off, and the Soldier had been picking through the rubble to confirm the kill. The whole side of the building collapsed, and the rest is structurally unsound. The local authorities will arrive soon. His handlers will arrive sooner, probably.

He isn't leaving for the checkpoint or even to avoid being seen, though the mission imperitive pounds in his skull that he must leave, he must leave, he cannot be scene. He's on his knees in front of the wreckage, digging through it. Because there's been a child. A little girl. She's dead, and he's afraid there will be more. Children. The building had children in it. The building, his rusty brain tells him, was a hospital. He blew up a hospital because that's where his target was and he couldn't get a good shot through a window. He blew up a hospital with children in it.

"Soldat!" he hears behind him, but he doesn't stop digging, doesn't stop hurling rocks aside with a slowly overheating metal arm.

"Soldat, get up!" he hears again, which he continues to ignore. There are sirens in the distance.

The muzzle of a gun pokes his shoulder, and he whirls, grabbing it and throwing the owner aside. He struck a handler. He knows what comes next. He deserves what comes next, for this.

The two other members of his field team open fire. It won't be enough. There's nothing that can kill him. But for a moment, he can hope.

From XXC



8. Taylor

He sits in the common room of the building in Avengers Compound where Steve's room is. He knows it's Steve's room because he scoped it out before sending that text. His arm whirs and clicks, a sign of nerves. He doesn't know this Steve, and yet he has to know this Steve. They've known each other all their lives. He knows even this Steve wants nothing more than to see his friend again.

And yet, he's nervous.

Steve comes out into the room from the hall, looking breathless and hopeful. B raises a hand, the metal one, with a buzz of gears and a small smile. "Hey Steve. Um. Sorry I'm late."

"Bucky," Steve breaths, and B reminds himself not to flinch. He's going to be Bucky. He's going to be Bucky for this Steve, and it'll be fine.

It helps when Steve approaches, slow and like maybe he's a little afraid, too. "Is it really you?"

"Yeah. Yeah, it's me."

And when he holds out a hand, Steve takes it for granted that a hug is okay. Today, right now, it will be. B folds Steve into his arms and tries not to cry. This is home. This has to be home.

From Taylor



9. Rawne

Late night piano sessions are nothing new, except here in the compound, he doesn't have to hope somebody left the gazebo door unlocked. He can come out of his room and sit at the piano whenever he wants to.

He plays through half of his collection before he realizes Natalia is sitting on the counter between the main living area and the little kitchen. He ducks his head shyly, but she says, "No, keep playing. It's nice."

He gives her a little smile and starts a new song, one he'd put together while on the run: an old Russian lullaby. She doesn't betray surprise, but there's a subtle tension in her, like maybe the song hurts her. He's about to stop when she... starts to sing. She knows the words. Of course she does. Her singing voice isn't even half bad.

Clint, Steve, and even Stark wind up joining them a couple songs later, and Clint's singing voice is not good at all, which makes everyone laugh, even B. (Bucky. It's Bucky now.) Even Stark, though he looks like it pains him to find something pleasant about spending time in the company of his parents' killer.

It's the first night he's really felt at home, here. It's... nice.



10. Xioage

It's not as easy as it looks to climb a tree with only one arm, but Bucky manages it. If a fucking goat can do it, so can he. So he swings up into the split between two branches and sighs a bit, looking down once, then back up again. "I'm comin' for you, Sammy," he warns, in Xsosa because he needs practice with it, and the goats seem to respond better to it, anyway.

The goat, several branches up, bleats at him. But he's stuck where he is, and goats are smart enough to not go swan-diving out of trees, so it's not like he can run away further. Bucky reaches him and slings his single arm around the goats furry mid-section. "Now I have to get down, you little bastard. No kicking."

Sam the goat yells at him and, predictably, kicks him in the ribs. Bucky sighs and ignores it, jumping down to the next sturdy branch. Sam the goat yells again, this time in panic, and starts squirming in earnest. B leaps down the rest of the way in one go, though it jolts his knees painfully to land and he drops the stupid goat in the process.

"Next time you get stuck," he yells after the goat, who is fleeing already, "I'm leavin' you up there!"



11. Sweeney

The last mission is tomorrow, and then they can leave all this shit behind them. Bucky is so ready to leave all this behind them. There's work to do still, but it's honest, normal work: cleaning up after the millions of people brought back two weeks ago, rebuilding, helping people. He's even got a shiny new pardon and, according to Steve, an apartment all set up in Brooklyn.

He's not so sure he really wants to live in Brooklyn, but if it's where Steve is going to be, he'll make it work. He might even, if he gets the guts, make some confessions to the guy and see if that changes anything. He's been ash for five years. That might be worth some truth.

"Bucky," Steve tells him as they settle down (in their separate beds, in the same room), "I think I'm gonna hand off the shield to Sam."

"What's left of the shield, you mean," Bucky says, joking, but elated. If Steve doesn't want to be Captain America-- that, well, that changes some things, doesn't it? Bucky doesn't really want to fight anymore, if he can help it, but he'll always go where Steve goes. "Gonna retire, huh?"

"It's time," Steve sighs. He looks over at Bucky. "Buck, it's time. I'm going to--" He pauses, like he's gathering himself, and Bucky tries not to hold his breath. Steve fixes him with a firm look. "I'm going back to Peggy."

The anticipation, the hope, turns to ash. Bucky's smile freezes. "What?"

"Peggy, Buck. I'm. I miss her," Steve says. "This is my only chance to be happy." And he keeps talking, explaining his plan, while B makes sure his expression doesn't betray him and what just broke inside him.

Laying in bed after assuring Steve that he'll support him, no matter what, that he definitely wants Steve to be happy, B thinks for the first time in years about the Barge.

From Sweeney: A Deal
From Sweeney: Misty



12. Crozier

B's first kiss with Steve

Crozier's first kiss with XXC




13. Steve

The bed is crowded tonight, with both of them, D pressed up against Steve's side, and Libby curled around C at the foot of the bed. It's fine, though. He's used to it. They've slept in more crowded, cramped places.

He isn't sure what wakes him up, maybe a dream, but he isn't falling asleep again. Not yet, anyway.

He props his head up on his arm and looks down at Steve, still out cold, breath warm against his bare chest. Hell, he could look at Steve all night, he thinks. The planes of his face, the flop of his hair, his golden eyelashes. The way he looks at peace when he sleeps. (Or when he bakes. Or when they're running with the dogs.)

He unwraps his other arm from around him, slowly and carefully, and tenderly brushes his hair back. Steve makes a little noise. "Just me," B says fondly. "Go back to sleep."

There's another little mph, and Steve settles again, pressing his face up against B's shoulder. B leans down to kiss his hair, and makes the attempt at joining him again.