Chapter Text
Hamburg
The sun is starting to rise, and the blood on Bucky’s hands is still wet, but they made it – just in time.
For all the open space in front of the glass, the small round window of their cabin reminds him of the cryo tube. He has to keep reminding himself to breathe.
The chugging engine picks up, reverberating through the core of the ship like a heartbeat, and for a moment Bucky imagines himself swallowed by some ancient leviathan. Like Jonah. Tossed overboard and gulped up again, salvation in the form of a gaping maw.
The ship pulls away from the shore, and Bucky exhales slowly.
In the tiny closet that serves as a bathroom, he peels off his gloves, wincing at the way the blood sticks to his skin and the inside of the leather as it begins to dry, going tacky like glue. He scrubs at his hands in the weak stream of cold water.
“Here,” Jason says, and passes him the little scrubber-brush from his kit. It helps.
“Sloppy,” Bucky mutters, holding his fingernails up for inspection in the flickering fluorescent light. At least he didn’t get any on his clothes.
“By your standards, maybe,” Jason replies. “From where I was standing, that was a thing of beauty.”
Bucky ducks his head in a pointless attempt to hide his smile. Realistically, there’s no concealing anything in close quarters like this. Jason fills the entire door of the bathroom.
It was a hastily-concocted plan, in his defense. It was just hours before their ship was supposed to depart when he realized that one of his targets was living in Hamburg, not far from the port. He couldn’t resist dropping by.
Stupid. He didn’t have all the details. Didn’t have backup plans for every variable. Didn’t make time to squeeze out every bit of information his target could provide. He got impatient. Over-excited, and sloppy with it.
There’s no doubt in Bucky’s mind that he is doing the right thing by exterminating Hydra. There’s never been a shadow of doubt or guilt, not when it comes to each individual kill – to the act of ending a Nazi life. He does, however, worry about his own eagerness to cause them pain. It might be a liability.
After all these years, all these victims who scream in his nightmares, it shouldn’t feel so satisfying to watch another man bleed out. But it is. There’s a part of Bucky that sings when it’s time for violence. There’s a part of him that relishes every moment of it – every bit of pain, every bit of blood, as if he could spill enough to repay what was done to him.
He let that outweigh his survival instincts tonight. He’s going to need to be more careful. This is a job, and he’s going to do it right.
Bloodthirstiness and caution don’t play well together. It’s like he told Jason back in Prague; it was Hydra’s sadism that eventually led to their downfall.
If they hadn’t felt the need to taunt Steve with his old friend’s face, to hurt him, they might’ve gotten away with so much more. But in letting the Soldier get close enough to be seen, they let him get close enough to see. To recognize. To hesitate.
Twisting the knife always makes for a messy cleanup.
Bucky can’t make the same mistake. Clean and careful. Know your exit strategy. Account for all variables. Get in unseen and get out fast.
He got the job done, though, and they got out. Nothing but open ocean ahead of them, not for miles.
If this ship goes down, nobody will ever know that Bucky and Jason went down with it. Nobody knows where they are. It should make him feel safer, given the circumstances. It doesn’t. There’s safety in anonymity. There’s also the danger of falling off the map.
Behind them, the shoreline is receding, a long line of shifting purple shadows. Bucky’s still half-convinced that they’re being followed – that they haven’t actually gotten away with it, that pursuers are going to emerge from the waves and drag him down into the dark like so many kraken tentacles.
He should get used to feeling like prey. They’ll have more than Hydra chasing them by the end of this.
The ultimate goal, of course, is to ensure that Hydra never, ever makes another Winter Soldier, but Bucky’s not sure how far he’ll get. He just needs to make sure he keeps Jason safe — gets him home, eventually.
For now, they’re heading north. Next stop, Stockholm, to get the coordinates of the Siberian base from a researcher who lives there. Bucky knows of at least five other people who might have that information, but Stockholm involves the shortest geographical detour.
From Stockholm to St. Petersburg, and eventually Siberia itself.
Bucky would rather be heading south, somewhere with sandy beaches and sunshine, but there’s no point thinking about that. Siberia is the most dangerous variable, as best as he can tell. It’s where they kept the original book. The trigger sequence, the code words. The master key to his goddamn central nervous system, right there on paper for anyone to read.
It’s also where they kept the other five super-soldiers — the five failed attempts to replicate Bucky’s own obedience. When they proved themselves to be too volatile, unbiddable, they were put in stasis while Hydra worked to find a solution. As far as he knows, they’re still there. Five scientifically enhanced killing machines, each boxed up and wrapped and tied with a bow, waiting in the ice like perfect gifts for whichever homicidal maniac wants to come looking.
If they’re all gone… if those cryo tanks are empty…
Shit. Bucky’s not sure what he could do about them, but he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it.
Odds are good someone will want to put Bucky in a box of his own again, before this is all over. Might be a prison cell, if the government has its way. Might be another cryo tank. Might be a cage built for a larger-than-average lab rat.
They’re welcome to try.
He’s not going back. He’ll never let that happen again.
If he’s getting in another box, it’ll be his coffin. He doesn’t want it to come to that, but he can’t see this ending any other way.
Baltic Sea
Jason wasn’t built for small spaces. He’s never had much patience for being cooped up; Bucky knew this part would be hard on him.
For the first few days, Jason was content enough to read, disappearing into books or to watch the view from the deck for hours at a time. They’ve both been spending plenty of time in the small gym on board, although Bucky has to be careful to hide his full strength – not to let anyone see the metal arm. It could be worse.
Cargo freighter is the best way to travel, for their purposes. Slow, but reliable; cheap; most of all, it’s discreet, much less likely to draw attention to their (fake) passports. It’s the closest they can get to effectively dropping off the map, disconnected from cell service and internet and every other line to the real world. If anyone’s looking for them, after the warehouse in Berlin and the kill in Hamburg, it’s better to let the trail go cold before they make any more moves.
The lack of internet connection could be seen as a downside. Bucky supposes he could be putting his time on the ship to better use, if he had access to more information; he could be tracking down some of the people on his list, following the threads of their online presence, putting together a clearer picture of what comes next…
There’s nothing he can do about it, either way – not right now. Not while they’re in limbo like this.
One week into the journey, and Jason is getting increasingly restless. He prowls around the ship like a caged tiger, and Bucky feels guilty every time he sees that wild, manic look start to crackle in his eyes.
Bucky’s found that the quickest way to distract Jason is by kissing him senseless, so they spend a lot of time in bed. When they’re tangled together, stripped down, skin to skin, it’s easy to feel like they’re the only two people in the world. Whatever this thing between them is growing into – they haven’t put a name to it, but partner seems apt – it’s still new. Fragile. So Bucky thinks it’s for the best that they have this time together, where they can just be. Tucked away, safe. For now, they have space to learn each other.
When it’s just him and Jason, Bucky thinks he wouldn’t mind getting lost at sea for a long goddamn time.
But it’s not just him and Jason. There are nights when Bucky feels like every ghost he’s ever known is trapped in their tiny cabin with them. God knows he has too many of those.
Bucky’s entire mission depends on the contents of his own memory — which is more reliable by the day, but still patchy in places. Sometimes it’s hard to figure out what he’s forgotten and what he never knew to begin with. There are bases whose address he never knew; he just understands, deep in his bones, how to get there. Supply drops he would recognize on sight, but doesn’t know exactly how to locate on a map. Cities where his memories are buried — where he gets that unsettling prickle that means there are pieces missing.
He has trouble sometimes remembering when he encountered people or places; he can’t trust himself to remember whether it was ten years ago or fifty. So many of the people wandering around his skull are long dead. It feels more like blundering through a dreamworld sometimes. Deja vu and ghosts. The lines have been blurring between memories and dreams, past and present, real and imagined.
But his clusterfuck haunted house of a head is all he’s got, really.
Because of the wipes, they were never as careful as they should’ve been about using their names when he was around, or when he was sent as protection, so he has a sort of mental Rolodex of the worst of the worst. It’s a starting point.
The decentralization of it all makes things difficult. Different branches splintered off from the main organization for maximum secrecy. Bucky himself was shuffled between locations and branches and factions regularly, but most rank and file members were only aware of the people in their own immediate cell. It means that there’s only so much intel he’ll be able to get out of any individual member. There’s no master key, here. This is going to be a long, slow, painstaking process of locating a target and then collecting every lead that target can give them before eliminating it.
Cut off one head, five more will grow in its place. For every name he can remember, he knows he’ll end up with five (or a dozen) more. Associates, subordinates, labs and hideaways, an endlessly branching trail.
With all this open ocean in front of them, his head shouldn’t feel this crowded. Except that there’s nowhere to run to, no escape, nothing much to do but remember, and plan, and pace the same well-worn mental paths in the same circles.
It’s been harder to sleep lately, almost as bad as it was back in Bavaria, when Bucky was fighting the rising tide of memories with everything he had. When he was terrified of what he might find in the depths of his own head. It makes sense, with everything he’s been dredging up.
The bed is barely big enough for the both of them. Bucky sleeps on the outside, after a few bad dreams where he thrashed around so intensely he sent Jason tumbling to the floor. But Jason usually ends up curled around him, sprawled half on top of him, like an anchor. There are nights when that’s a good thing – when his weight is warm and comforting and grounding – and nights when that same weight is choking and claustrophobic.
On the other hand, waking up is always better these days.
Tonight Bucky’s dreams are blurry and fragmented, disjointed flashes of imagery that don’t adhere to any sort of logical timeline, spanning time and space.
Bucky’s waking up, sliding out of the bunk to wander down the corridor, and when he emerges onto the deck he’s surrounded by soldiers – fresh recruits, the men he went through boot camp with – and he can’t find his gun but it’s time, time to go – can’t find his voice but he wants to tell them to go back, go home, before it’s too late –
Bucky’s under a lamp – Zola’s round glasses glinting light – he’s under a microscope – screaming soundlessly while doctors make notes and take pictures –
Bucky’s chasing a man down the hallway of a lab – falling behind – the guards are catching up and he wants to say no, please, not again, but –
Bucky’s on Zola’s table – everything is bathed in green, and he thinks Steve is supposed to be here, but he’s late, there’s no sign of him – he’s shivering and feverish, straining against the bonds, trying to breathe –
His eyes open, and it takes a moment for him to understand why the eerie green light of his memories isn’t going away. That this isn’t a matter of the past bleeding into the future, of that laboratory creeping into his surroundings. That the green light dancing around him is something else.
The fever and the restraints holding him to the cold table become recognizable: Jason’s body heat and his not-insubstantial weight, where he’s got an arm wrapped around Bucky’s ribs and a leg slung over his thighs.
“Jason,” he slurs, and pokes Jason inelegantly in the armpit with a metal finger. Jason stirs and grunts. Then he startles abruptly, thrashing his way upright. Bucky winces and says, “Hey, sorry. Shit. Sorry.”
Jason reaches for him almost unconsciously before he catches himself. He isn’t looking at Bucky, though; he shivers, stares, at the otherworldly light dappling the wall a pale green.
“What the fuck,” Jason says hoarsely.
“It’s the Northern Lights,” Bucky says, already sliding out of bed. He didn’t think they were far enough North, but it helps that they’re out in the sea; no light pollution to speak of.
Jason blinks a few times, eyes shining, and it takes a moment before he seems to register the words. The color is shifting, green shot through with blue and then purple.
“Oh, holy shit,” Jason says, shaky with – relief? He swipes a hand over his face, sighing.
“Bad dream?” Bucky asks, layering another hoodie over his shirt, fumbling around in the darkness for his coat. He’s fallen out of the habit of keeping his gear laid out when he goes to sleep, within reach, in case of a nighttime attack.
If Jason answers him, the words are lost as he pulls on a sweater, and then he avoids Bucky’s eyes as he finishes getting his boots on.
Bucky still feels dazed, but they’re up and moving within a minute, Bucky pulling on his gloves before grabbing the key and opening the door, and he fumbles re-locking it. Then they’re stumbling down the narrow hallway, staggering up onto the deck, night air a slap across bare skin.
They both move to the railing, faces turned up to the light, as if in a trance. Bucky’s heart is racing. He shifts closer to Jason, leaning into him, keeping as much contact as he can, and slides his hand over to cover Jason’s on the railing.
The sky is dancing and shifting. It’s not the defined curls of light, like silk ribbons in a breeze, that he’s seen in photos – it’s more amorphous than that. Purple at the horizon, magenta overhead, melting in and mixing, painting the star-scattered sky, and shimmering waves of brighter light rolling through it all.
As if there’s a crack in the universe, where it broke open and let something heavenly drip down. Stranger things have happened.
“Have you ever seen them before?” Jason asks breathlessly. The striking turquoise of his eyes isn’t visible at the moment; they glint with reflected green and pink and violet under his long lashes.
Bucky hesitates. He was on a train, traveling across… Russia, he thinks. Somewhere far north. Crossing some nameless stretch of wilderness on his way to another assassination. He was guarding the door while the handler slept, and when the color started to show through the tiny dark cubicle of a cabin, he barely spared it a glance. It never occurred to him to go to the window and look up. He kept his eyes on the blank wall in front of him until the light was gone.
“No,” he says softly.
Jason turns his head just enough to glance at him. His mouth is covered by his scarf but Bucky can see the smile in his eyes, even before he tugs the wool down enough to sneak a kiss – a brush of his lips to Bucky’s temple, warm and sweet.
The lights twist and wash across the sky. There’s no sound but for the constant low hum of the engine, which Bucky hasn’t really noticed since the first day; the ever-present background noise is almost comforting.
It’s nice, being able to experience a first alongside Jason.
“It was the same color as the Pit,” Jason mumbles. “The… the green.”
“Hm?”
“The Lazarus Pit.” Jason glances at him again, blinking. “Not sure if it’s – fuckin’ magic, or natural phosphorescence, or what, but… it glows green.” He looks up again, and the light shimmers pink and purple, bathing his pale skin. “Couldn’t see the sky when I came up, though. It was underground.”
Bucky’s breath catches at that. He shivers.
It’s too cold to be out here, really. Any exposed skin will start to lose feeling soon. But the ice hasn’t touched the overwhelming swell of emotion in his ribcage: awe, and astonishment, and the thrill of knowing that the world still has surprises in store for him, even after all these years. And there’s joy, pure giddy happiness, at the knowledge that he didn’t wake up alone in the dark. That neither of them are underground. Maybe he’ll be able to take that for granted again someday, but not tonight. Tonight it still feels like a gift.
He’s just grateful. For Jason, for the lights, and for the reminder that he’s free to tilt his head back and wonder at the sky.