That fandom-obsessed "writer" from AO3 and Tumblr. I write fic. Really, I do. It's finishing them that's a problem.
primaveral 1/?
Summary: In which the Winter Soldier (who might have once been Sergeant Tony Stark) slips HYDRA's leash, pretends to be a human being, and makes a friend. Not necessarily in that order.
Tags/Warnings: Role Reversal, Unreliable Narrator, Gen/Pre-Slash, Self-harm, general Winter Soldier warning tags
Notes: I did say I would be posting chapters/snippets of my fic here. So. Well. Chapter one, in all its unbeta'd glory.
As always, awareness returns in pieces.
The cold is there, of course; the only constant in the Soldier’s existence. Handlers age, scientists change, targets die, but he is the Winter Soldier, and there will always be a chill in his bones.
Then comes touch, two men on either side of him sliding his arms over their shoulders and dragging him out of the cryotube. Their skin feels hot enough to burn against his bare body. Sensation begins to return to his limbs, and the Soldier begins to move under his own power. He can hear the sound of his boots hitting concrete and smell something like blood, or rust.
His vision clears. This is a new base, unfamiliar but also not. It’s still a concrete bunker, though smaller than the last, and the center of the scene remains the same: the Chair. Three technicians in lab coats watch him warily from their positions at the monitors by the Chair. Ten operatives in full combat gear, backs to the wall, surrounding him on all sides. They’re well-trained enough to keep their rifles pointed at him even now, when he’s cooperating. And just in front of the Chair, Alexander Pierce, a little older, but still wearing an impeccable three-piece suit.
The Soldier is pretty sure he has to dye his hair to keep it that blond, though.
The men who pulled him out of stasis continue to push him towards the chair. Once, he might have resisted. But that was a long time ago.
The electric current shuts off and the plates move away from his head, leaving behind the sharp scent of ozone and a mind burned clean of all the parts he doesn’t need. The Soldier’s chest heaves as his screams cut off and fade into gasping breaths. One of the technicians reaches forwards towards his face, but he spits out the mouth guard before their fingers get anywhere near him.
Pierce steps forward, waving the technician away as something akin to a smile crosses his face. “Good morning, Soldier.”
The required words pour out of his mouth, automatic after countless years of reinforcement. His handler speaks a different language now, but the routine has not changed. “Ready to comply.”
“Good,” Pierce nods, and a technician disengages the restraints on his arms. The Soldier flexes, testing his range of motion, but makes no effort to move. He has not been given instructions, and he has long since learned what happens when he acts without them.
Pierce lets out a sigh. “I was actually planning to let you rest a little longer. I’m sorry to wake you up so soon, but something came up. Read this.” He holds out a thin folder with James Rhodes written across the front in black ink.
The Soldier takes it and doesn’t wonder why the name sounds familiar. He flips it open and scans the first page - a US Army personnel file, but an old one, circa 1943, for a Captain James R. Rhodes. A target, most likely. Nothing unusual. Then he turns to the next page: notes about the effects of something called Project Rebirth. A serum granting abilities similar to the Soldier’s. That explains Pierce’s words; even if this man is now old and wrinkled, he may still be a threat if the serum is as effective as the file claims. It’s the next page that manages to truly surprise him. A mission report, from 1945, describing how Rhodes crashed a HYDRA plane into the ocean, where he froze and remained in stasis for sixty-seven years.
The cryotube remains in a fair corner of the room, inert. The Soldier’s grip tightens, wrinkling the papers in his grasp.
He returns to the first page, and takes a second look at the attached photo. Something in his gut twists with - familiarity? Longing? He doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter. Even if he has crossed paths with Captain Rhodes before, that matters little in comparison to HYDRA’s orders - orders that Pierce has yet to give him.
Clarification on the mission objective is necessary. “Is he a target?”
Pierce watches him intently for a long moment. The Soldier has no idea what he’s looking for, and stares blankly ahead as he awaits instruction. Eventually, Pierce nods. “He’s an old enemy of HYDRA. Frankly, I thought we’d never have to worry about him again. But now he’s back and causing trouble, and we need him gone.”
A simple yes would have sufficed. “Understood. What are my orders?”
“We have an infiltration plan set up already. Rhodes is flying out of Teterboro Airport for Geneva this afternoon, and we have someone who can get you inside disguised as security. He’ll point you to Rhodes’ plane. Kill him before he boards, and try not to be seen.”
“Acknowledged.” It’s been some time since the Soldier has had to use an actual disguise. He’s almost looking forward to the novelty of it.
The door opens, and another HYDRA agent, dark-haired with a square jaw and a weightlifter’s build, steps inside carrying a plastic bag. “Ah, there you are,” Pierce says, glancing at the newcomer. “Rollins, this is our asset. I’ve given him the mission briefing, but take care of the rest of it. I have a meeting at the Triskelion tomorrow that I’ve got to make some preparations for.”
“Yes sir,” the agent - Rollins - nods sharply. He will be the Soldier’s handler for this mission, then. Pierce turns and exits the room as Rollins drops the bag on the floor.
“Strip and put on the clothing inside the bag,” Rollins orders.
The Soldier stands, drops the folder on the floor, and does so without hesitating. Shame over something as petty as nudity is for civilians and green combatants. The Soldier is neither of those things.
Once he divests himself of his clothing, he kneels down to pull the clothes out of the bag - civilian in style a t-shirt, a hoodie, a pair of jeans, gloves, socks, underwear, running shoes. Nothing that will stand out as too fancy or too old. The Soldier ignores the lack of weapons. They are useful, certainly, and make his job quicker and easier, but his whole body is a weapon. He does not need a knife or a gun to kill somebody. He dresses himself and then stands, awaiting further instruction.
“Let’s go,” Rollins says as soon as he’s finished. “We’re on a tight schedule.”
Rollins marches towards the door and then up the stairs behind it, and the Soldier follows dutifully. The next floor is the ground level of what for all intents and purposes appears to be an industrial warehouse or storage facility. Perhaps it is; it wouldn’t be the first time one of the Soldier’s handlers preferred to keep him somewhere other than an official safehouse. Or perhaps this bolthole is simply better disguised than most of the ones the Soldier has seen.
Rollins leads him outside, and the Soldier blinks rapidly to adjust to the sudden shift to the sun’s bright glare. The Soldier inhales deeply, noting the scent of salt in the air - an ocean is nearby. The sound of traffic is present in the background, but distant; wherever they are, it’s not on a major thoroughfare.
The Soldier glances up at the building he exited - square, painted in shades of yellow and gray, designated safeguard self storage, according to the sign on the wall - and then at the parking lot. Definitely not a HYDRA safehouse, then. Or at least not just a HYDRA safehouse.
Fishing a set of keys out of his pocket, Rollins unlocks a nearby black SUV with the attatched remote and strides toward it. The Soldier assumes he is to follow.
Rollins glances back at him only long enough to growl out, “Get in,” before he moves to open the door on the driver’s side and ducks into the car. The Soldier slips into the passenger’s seat just as Rollins starts the car. The Soldier shuts the door but doesn’t bother touching the seat belt.
He glances around the interior of the vehicle. Nothing remarkable that would mark it as anything other than a civilian car, except perhaps the screen built into the gray plastic of the dashboard. It displays a message warning about interacting with it while driving until Rollins leans in and presses the yellow rectangle under it. The display changes to a map of the immediate area with an arrow-shaped icon with the time displayed in the right corner. 10:23 A.M. GPS. He has seen such systems a few times before, though never built into a car, and always pre-programmed to give him the location of his target.
Rollins continues poking at the screen, bringing up a screen that prompts him to type in the city of their destination, and then another that asks for a street address. The Soldier takes note of both. Jersey City. 215 Fowler Ave. Possible significance: location of Teterboro Airport. Rendezvous with backup. Why is GPS necessary? Airports are not moving targets. A map would suffice.
Rollins presses a square with the words BEGIN NAVIGATION inside, and the screen switches back to the map, now with a blue line extending from the arrow icon to the street outside the parking lot. Then Rollins pulls out of the parking space, and it starts talking.
“Turn right to Bronx Road,” a british-accented female announces, and the Soldier freezes, hands curling into fists automatically. There’s no one else in the car. What---
Rollins pays him no attention, and exits the parking lot, turning right on the road. The map on the screen shifts, displaying more of the surrounding area and then the same voice says, “Continue on Bronx Road and then turn right on East 233rd Street.”
The same route is marked by the blue line on the GPS display. The voice is inflectionless. Recorded. Conclusion: the GPS talks. There is no one else in the car. No danger.
For ten seconds, he holds his breath, then forces himself to exhale slowly. Another ten seconds. Inhale. The Soldier flexes his hands, the servos in his left arm whirring quietly. Exhale. The Soldier repeats the process until the fingers of his flesh hand stop trembling.
If Rollins noticed the Soldier’s lapse in concentration, he gives no indication that he knows enough to think anything of it. The Soldier’s training tells him to immediately alert the closest agent so they can return to the storage facility and report the malfunction to the technicians so he can be prepared for yet another reset. But it’s a small thing, easily ignored. It won’t interfere with the mission. They don’t have to know, and the Soldier can avoid another session in the Chair.
Inhale. The texture of the jeans he was given to wear is entirely different from that of his usual combat pants. His flesh hand can feel the difference, can trace the lines of the weave, though his metal one is completely numb to anything but pressure. Exhale.
Rollins continues to drive, the GPS directing him the entire way. The Soldier can’t understand why it’s necessary. GPS is for tracking moving targets, and even then it’s hardly necessary for it to give verbal instruction. Map-reading is a basic skill. Possibilities: Recent conflict in the area resulted in changes in geography. Standards for HYDRA recruits have been lowered. More data needed to form a conclusion.
Silence reigns as the Soldier bites back his questions. He has been given very little data about the current technology (unusual) or his environment (unusual and potentially mission-threatening), but what his handlers choose to give him is none of his business.
Though the Soldier has not been told where he is, the city itself provides some clues as Rollins drives through it. There are enough buildings that are either so damaged as to be useless or in the process of being reconstructed that he suspects the area has seen battle within the past several months. Despite that, the population density must be fairly high, judging by the traffic. At least half of the people he sees are white. Temperate climate. Possibilities: Europe. America. Not enough data to narrow that down to something that might actually be useful.
They cross a bridge, and skyscrapers eventually fade into smaller buildings. Rollins turns on to a smaller street and parks parallel to the sidewalk, directly in front of - the Soldier glances at the black and red lettering above the tinted windows - the Eagle’s Nest Bar and Grill.
“You know the drill,” Rollins says as he looks over at the Soldier, features arranged into a glare that is probably supposed to be intimidating. “Your contact is inside the bar. He works security at Teterboro Airport, and he’s the one who is going to sneak you in. If everything goes well, we won’t see each other again until Rhodes is dead. And I kind of hope everything goes well, for your sake. I’m pretty sure Secretary Pierce isn’t gonna be real happy with you if you screw this one up.”
Were he anyone else - were he a regular human being, and not a weapon - the Soldier would scoff. He is...proud of his skills, to the limited extent that a thing like him can feel anything, and it’s not unjustified. The Soldier’s memory is spotty, filled with gaping holes, but from what he remembers, he has never once failed to complete a mission. Rollins is like dozens of operatives the Soldier has met before; disdainful, unimpressed, and likely sadistic enough to take some pleasure in the possibility of the Soldier’s humiliation. They are usually disappointed. This time will likely be no different, and even if it is, there is nothing to be gained from acknowledging his needling. The Soldier opens the passenger door and steps out onto the road, then makes his way to the Eagle’s Nest.
The door opens when he pulls on the handle, and the soldier slips inside, letting it fall shut behind him. The building is completely empty with the exception of a single blond man sitting at the bar, back to the door as he watches the television mounted on the wall and nurses a glass of beer. Little muscle definition. Average height. Poor situational awareness. If this is the Soldier’s contact, he is either a civilian or a spy. The man does look up when the Soldier takes a seat on one of the barstools, back straight, hands on his legs, but the Soldier could have killed him a dozen different ways in the time it took to cross the room. He corrects his opinion: either a very stupid civilian or a very confident spy.
The man’s watery blue eyes widen as they flit over the Soldier’s form. “So, um--” he leans in and whispers, “you’re the, uh, asset? The one who’s gonna take care of Rhodes?”
He makes an attempt at something that the Soldier is fairly certain is supposed to be a smirk, but it wobbles and looks more like a rather pathetic smile. Definitely a civilian. Likelihood of some sort of personal grudge against the target: high. The Soldier’s opinion of the mission immediately sours. Pierce is usually a meticulous strategist, but this smacks of a plan hastily slapped together. None of his usual gear, no backup, an incompetent ally.
It’s not that the Soldier isn’t capable of handling this mission; he’s done more than kill a single target with less information to work with. But the framework he’s used to relying on is gone, and it leaves him feeling - unsettled?
The man is still staring at the Soldier, as if waiting for a response. The news anchor on the TV is speaking, something about damage done by some group called the ‘Chitauri’.
“Yes,” the Soldier says eventually.
His contact leans back and his smile strengthens into a grin that is more a baring of teeth than anything cheerful. “Great. Excellent. I dunno what your boss told you, but my name’s Rob, I work security at the airport. I’ve already snuck that weapons cache in, so all we’ve gotta do is get you inside, and then you can get to work.”
Weapons cache. That will make things easier.
Rob is silent as he continues watching the Soldier, either searching or waiting for something, though the Soldier has no idea what. Eventually, he continues, “But my shift starts at noon, so we’ve got some time to kill. You, uh - want a beer? This is actually my sister’s bar, she let me hang out here, and she won’t mind if we help ourselves…”
(note: sister may be a complication. alert handlers upon return to storage.)
Hydration is not necessary. And even if it was, alcohol is potentially detrimental to mission effectiveness. The Soldier says nothing.
Rob shifts on his seat, pretending to focus on his beer even as he tries to sneak a glance at the Soldier out of the corner of his eye. “I guess that’s a no?”
The Soldier occasionally wonders how humanity functions. So few of them have anything even approaching common sense.
Rob seems to have learned his lesson, and shuts his mouth with an audible click. The only thing left to do is wait. Unfortunately, that is one thing the Soldier has never been good at. Technicians have tried to scrub the error out of him more than once, but their corrections never stick. If the Soldier goes too long without an immediate goal or focus, he becomes prone to a whole laundry list of defects. Twitchiness. Irritability. Memory instability. Pierce is normally considerate enough to ensure the Soldier’s missions leave no time for such moments, but sometimes it can’t be helped.
He tries to stare blankly ahead, tries to ignore all input, but it’s not long before his attention fastens upon the TV, still on the news station. The anchor - a blonde woman with sharp eyes, is in the middle of speaking.
“--Avengers have been a constant presence in New York, assisting with the recovery effort, and now they’re attempting to reach out to the international community. James Rhodes, also known as Captain America, made an official statement about the future of the Avengers yesterday.”
The Soldier should focus on parsing the news for mission-relevant data, but a large part of him is marveling over the absurdity of the code name. Captain America? Really?
The screen transitions to a video of a too-familiar man in a uniform as ridiculous as his code name standing behind a podium. Rhodes.
Something itches at the back of his mind, like a scab over a healing wound. It’s not an unfamiliar sensation, but this is the first time the temptation to tear at it has been so strong. The Soldier knows this man. From where or when he has no idea, but they have spent time together. Part of him wants to poke at it. Wants to know why he has such an intense reaction to Rhodes’ face. His programming rebels at the idea. His handlers tell him everything he needs to know. Outside data is not mission-relevant. Anything not mission-relevant is to be ignored.
Just as Rhodes opens his mouth to speak, Rob snorts and reaches for the remote. “Not more of this crap. I can’t believe the whole goddamn country is falling for his bullshit.”
Likelihood that Rob intends to turn off the TV or change channels: high. Before he even realizes what he’s doing, the Soldier leans over and snatches the remote away from Rob with his metal hand.
“What the hell--” Rob starts, but he shuts up fairly quickly when the Soldier scowls at him. The Soldier hesitates for a moment as he considers turning off the TV anyway. The training he remembers is telling him to block out unnecessary input, but something heavy and nearly painful clenches in his gut at the idea. Possibilities: Malfunction. Older programming.
“Thank you all for coming here today,” Rhodes says.
His original conditioning happened so many resets ago that the Soldier no longer recalls how it was done, but he does know that the older the programming, the more instinctive it is, and the more important it is that he obey. Some things he remembers explicitly because more recent handlers have reinforced them. Remain silent unless a response is necessary. Do not leave witnesses unless explicitly ordered otherwise. Do not harm Arnim Zola. But if Rhodes is somehow tied to his programming--
The Soldier sets the remote down on the bar without pressing anything.
On the TV, Rhodes continues to speak. “I’m sure you have all heard the rumors, but I have asked you here today so that I can officially announce that the Avengers and SHIELD will jointly present our concerns about future alien threats to the United Nations Security Council and discuss the future role of the Avengers in terms of international peacekeeping.”
The Soldier has no memory of anything or anyone referred to as ‘the Avengers’, but that is far less concerning than the mention of SHIELD - HYDRA’s public name - and the implication that Rhodes is working with them.
Possibilities: Rhodes is a traitor. A liability.
Or Pierce is undermining the organization.
No. The Soldier dismisses the last thought as soon as it crosses his mind. Pierce is HYDRA’s leader; even if he did have his own personal agenda, there would be no purpose in weakening his own powerbase as he pursued it.
(but if it is true, wouldn’t an experienced operative, enhanced to the level that Rhodes is, be an important obstacle to remove?)
Rhodes glances down at the podium before looking back up at the camera. “My best friend once told me that everyone has an event that divides their life into two separate parts. Before I started drinking, or---”
*“--or after we joined the army. we’re both different now, rhodey.” the soldier (no, that’s wrong) is sitting on a cot in a dark tent looking up at rhodey as he paces the muddy ground.
“i get that, tones, i do, and i know you’re always gonna have my back out there, but damn it--”
The vivid - memory? hallucination? - slips away as quickly as it appeared, leaving only a tattered scrap behind. The Soldier forces his breathing to remain even, counting the time between each inhale and exhale. Every bit of muscle he possesses is coiled tight, prepared to lash out at a moment’s notice. Not that it will do him any good when the thing he wants to erase is in his own mind.
It’s a malfunction. It has to be. That was a conversation, an equal exchange between people who knew and cared for each other. Between people who valued each other. The Soldier does not speak, and the Soldier has no value except as a tool. It’s an error in data processing. Nothing more. But this error has occured - and been solved - before. The wiping and programming process was refined by the technicians, and the hallucinations ceased.
Rhodes is still talking. “My hope is that we will not give in to terror or despair, but instead look at this as an opportunity for global cooperation. The Chitauri Invasion was stopped by a group of remarkable people with incredibly different skill sets and backgrounds who still managed to come together and work as a team to defend humanity. If we can do the same internationally, I have no doubt that we can successfully prepare ourselves for future threats of this magnitude.”
The Soldier suddenly has the incredibly foreign urge to roll his eyes. There’s no basis for it or the surge of frustrated affection that lies at its root, but it persists for far too long before it eventually fades.
Rob chooses that moment to recover his courage and his tongue. “C’mon, man, you really wanna watch this?”
The Soldier has no idea what he’s talking about, and he could not care less. But while Rob is hardly a handler, not even an agent, he is sufficient to extract the Soldier from whatever odd reverie Rhodes’ speech had drawn him into. The Soldier inhales. Exhales. Reorients himself around the only thing that matters: the mission. He takes his questions about how he knows Rhodes and why they were - whatever that was, and shuts them away. It’s not important.
The TV switches away from Rhodes and back to the anchor. As a picture of four individuals (female, white, redhead. deceptively pretty. male, white, blond. significant muscle mass in the arms. male, white, dark hair. unusually long haircut pulled back into a bun. male, white, dark hair. older. glasses. all dressed in expensive suits.) appears on the screen, the anchor fixes a polite smile on her face and says, “While Rhodes was delayed due to a meeting at the White House, the rest of the Avengers have already flown to Vienna to prepare for their upcoming meeting with the Security Council.” The image of the four people - presumably the Avengers - changes to a close-up shot of a thin, blond man in a dark grey suit and a pale blue tie that matches his eyes. “Rumor has it that Steve Rogers, CEO of Rogers Resilient, close friend of Bucky Barnes, and the man who has been housing the Avengers for the past three months, is also planning to join the team in Vienna. While Mr. Rogers is certainly respected worldwide for his company’s scientific advances and charity work, you have to wonder what he has to contribute to a meeting about the threat of future alien attacks. Our political correspondent, Edward Porter, is here to weigh in on this. Edward?”
“Fuck this,” Rob mutters and reaches over to grab the remote. “I’m not listening to more people fawning over them.”
The Soldier’s hand twitches towards the remote before he remembers that it shouldn’t matter. Only data about Rhodes is mission-relevant, and even before the news station switched topics, it wasn’t providing anything particularly useful.
(other than: rhodes has worked with the soldier, and therefore must be hydra. the file said he was frozen in the north atlantic for seventy years, but given the memory, given the speech, the soldier suspects that isn’t the entire truth. after all, he too has been frozen for a long, long time.)
But if Rhodes is also HYDRA, why--
The Soldier drops his hand back into his lap and curls it into a fist. Tight, tighter, until he can feel his blunt nails digging into the surprisingly soft flesh of his palm. The pain acts as a focus, as a knife cutting away all unnecessary thought. If he wanted, he could tear the flesh away, could use nails and teeth until he stripped it down to the bone, until it was a useless and bloodied thing. But he won’t. Can’t. That would - that would be a detriment to mission readiness. The mission is paramount. Everything that might negatively affect mission effectiveness is to be avoided at all costs.
The TV screen flickers to black and the sound of the political correspondent the Soldier wasn’t listening to cuts off. He does not turn to look at Rob. “When do we leave?” he asks.
“You know what?” There’s a short pause, and then the wet sound of several swallows. The thunk of glass on wood. “Let’s get this over with.” The shadow of Rob’s body pulls out of the Soldier’s peripheral vision as his barstool scrapes against the floor. The Soldier shifts so he can see the man make his way towards the door before sliding off of his stool and following behind soundlessly.
Rob did not bother to push his stool back towards the bar; it remains over half a foot away from its original location. On the bar itself, Rob leaves behind an empty glass, circled by a ring of condensation, and the remote. It will be obvious to anyone who walks in that he was here. That he sat at that stool, drank a beer, and watched some TV.
Sloppy.
The Soldier knows better. The stool he used has not changed positions at all. He drank nothing. His metal arm leaves behind no fingerprints. Without video surveillance, there is no evidence that he was ever here at all.



