Short Story X reader of the one and Only James B. Barnes.
You're a doctor living in New York, doing your best to help injured veterans adjust to their new lives. You had personal knowledge of just how much freedom could cost.
What happens when your...
Aggravated, you stomped out of the facility, leaving a note on your boss's desk, telling him you were sick and wouldn't be staying at work today, and that you had only come in to grab some paperwork. You were sick alright, your whole stomach twisted and turned with anger and a feeling you didn't quite understand. You were frustrated that Bucky had left, left and taken his answers with him.
Making sure to keep your phone close to you just in case, you headed over to your favorite coffee shop, buying the biggest frappé they had before sitting down with the newspaper you had also bought. Angrily you blew on your coffee, trying to come up with any explanation as to why you even cared so much. He was just a patient. Some lonely stranger to whom you'd extended a helping hand. It wasn't the first time it had happened and it probably wouldn't be the last. You finally took a sip of your coffee, crying out when the heat burned your tongue. Rolling your eyes in utter hopelessness, you got up and made your way to the door, wondering how your day could get any worse. Well, any more mildly inconvenient to be realistic.
Apparently, it could get worse pretty easily. Just when you'd stepped outside the door, a gust of wind blew, knocking your newspaper out of your hands, and blowing it across the street. Furious, you jogged across, dodging angry cab drivers who honked as you ran past, and stepped on the edge of the newspaper to keep it from blowing any further. As you reached down to pick it up, you read the front page article, or, at least the part that wasn't covered by your foot.
Captain America Hospitalized After Fight with Hydra Ghost. Curiosity thoroughly engaged, you picked up the paper, lifting your foot to reveal the rest of the headline. What You found took your breath away.
Steve Rogers, commonly known as Captain America, was Severely injured in fight against a metal-armed man, now thought to be a brainwashed version of childhood friend James Buchanan (Bucky) Barnes. Steve, who claims he was rescued by Barnes, is now recovering in a hospital. Barnes' whereabouts are still unknown. Please notify authorities with any leads or sightings. He Should be considered armed and Incredibly dangerous. Operating under the Moniker of "the Winter Soldier," Barnes is suspected in at least 70 kills, over a span of nearly fifty years. His level of conscious cooperation in the matters... remains to be determined.
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The picture was blurry, but it was unmistakably him. His intense blue eyes full of fury, his prosthetic arm in full motion, moving with all the fluidity of a real one. Sure he was wearing a mask, but that was not a face you were ever going to forget. Your heart racing, you studied the image, realizing what you'd done:
You'd saved the Winter Soldier.
As you rushed home, you wondered, if you'd have known yesterday who he was, how dangerous he really was, a suspected killer, would you still have helped him? One thought back to those pained blue eyes and you knew your answer. Something was off here. Something told you the villain wasn't who everyone thought it was. There was something different about him, and you were determined to find out what.
In a flurry of confusion you rushed inside, sliding behind your computer without ever bothering to take off your jacket or even set down your coffee. You typed in his name, researching anything you could find on the mysterious man. Hours later, you were satisfied you knew all there was to know about James Buchanan Barnes. You'd even managed to hack your way into a couple of secure files to find to out more. Your unusually good hacking skills were a secret you guarded very closely, and something no one else knew about. You'd learned them while you were interning at the department of homeland security, to help pay for college. All you were supposed to do was bring coffee and make copies, but a little feigned disinterest goes along way towards getting to watch the real stuff happen, and picking up on how to do it. It was terrible stuff, what you'd found. Heroic Sacrifice, Tragedy, Experimentation, Torture, even brain washing. You shuddered at the thought.
You were now sure of two things: Bucky was not who everyone thought he was, a cold blooded killer, but rather he was a victim, and you in no way regretted what you'd done, Bucky Barnes was not too far gone, he could still be found. You were proof of both.
Suddenly you burst out laughing, unable to contain your hysteria. Another thing had come to mind:
The Winter Soldier... Had your number.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
He paced around the small room, limping slightly due to his injured leg. It was healing quickly, as expected, but still giving him trouble.
He looked down at the piece of paper in his hand, staring at the numbers, internally hating hydra for everything they'd done to him. He'd given them everything, paid his dues, yet they'd taken everything. They'd even taken his identity.
He wanted to call her. He'd never wanted to leave in the first place, but he knew he couldn't. He was dangerous, not only because of what he could do, but because of what those coming after him could do.
He crumpled the paper in his palm, screaming in frustration. Why? Everything was a why?
Why him? Why couldn't he fight it? Why couldn't he remember? Why did she help him? Why didn't she ask? Why didn't she tell? Why couldn't he call her? Why did he take her number? Why. Why. Why.
He couldn't take it anymore, he picked up the phone, and dialed the number.
Two rings.
Three rings.
"Hello, I'm afraid I'm busy right now, please call back later or leave a message."
Click.
He hung up. It was enough for now, enough to hear her voice. The one person who'd helped him. The one person, who'd made him feel human, alive. The only one he remembered who made him feel cared about. You see, crawling across that bridge, he'd not thought that was possible, that anyone could care. She'd changed his mind.
With a sudden burst of anger, he punched the wall. Crying in hatred of himself. If she'd known who I was.. She wouldn't have helped. If she knew, she'd hate me. Why? Why me?
He called five more times that night, just to hear the recording of her voice.
