The snow was cold and all around him. Or was it the river? People were dragging him places, places he didn't care to go. He didn't mind being left there, in the snow, to die. It was alright, he wanted to say to them. The mission was over, they didn't need to fuss. But they did, and he woke up. And they hurt him, first his arm and then his head and then put him to sleep again.
He was confused and disoriented when they brought him out. He was cold again, covered in ice. They spoke to him in other languages he was surprised to find he knew. Then they sent him out, often into snow, and he eliminated threats. Any kind of threat, from senior officials to children. If he was told, he went. And he killed efficiently and quickly. Then he was put back in that chamber of ice until they needed him again. Sometimes, when he woke up, he stared down at his hands as if he'd never seen them before, as if they were unfamiliar and part of someone else. Some other person who did these horrible things with them. But, no, it was him. He snapped necks and pulled triggers and threw grenades, for no other reason than because they told him to.
Sometimes they could tell he was upset, and they'd tell him how important his work was. And he'd listen patiently to their explanations. Sometimes he'd believe them and go back to work. More often, he wouldn't, and they'd have to hurt him. Recalibrate him, get him back on track to address the mission. They told him how important that was, too. And he let it happen because, really, what else was he going to do? He didn't know who he was or where he could go or anything outside of the chamber, the training room, and missions. There was nothing else.
Except sometimes he was reminded of – something. Something he didn't understand, but only when he was on a mission. From the way being in that American city made him feel to the tearful gaze of the woman who protected his target with her body to the shocked recognition on the face of the man on the bridge. If he talked about those things, and others that were more subtle, they'd exchange looks of distress and strap him down to hurt him again. But he had to know, and maybe this time they would tell him.
He wakes up in a cold sweat, his blanket twisted uncomfortably around his body. Blinking in confusion, he stares up at an unfamiliar ceiling, sitting up abruptly to survey his surroundings. Then he remembers he is on his couch, in his living room. It's still dark outside, so he must have just been awakened by a nightmare. He can go back to sleep. Hesitantly, he lies back against the cushions, trying to slow his heart rate and focus on settling his jangled nerves. The door to his bedroom opens, and he stares at the emerging figure with wide eyes.
Natalia. Of course. He let her stay in his room while he stayed out here. That's all. She looks concerned and he supposes he must have been screaming. "James," she says quietly, gently, as she approaches cautiously. The way a person should approach something feral. He sits up sharply again, trying ineffectually to calm himself, but he can't keep his gaze from darting around the room, in search of some threat. Natalia continues to move toward him until she is about two feet away, at which point she kneels and looks up at him. He stares at her, hands clenched tightly to his blanket, to keep them from hurting anyone else.
"James," she murmurs again. "You're safe here. They can't hurt you anymore." He nods slowly, his tense muscles loosening ever so slightly. "In fact, you destroyed all of their capabilities of hurting you or anyone else like that ever again," she adds, smiling gently. It's not a smirk, not what he's used to seeing on her face, but he feels a little better anyway.
"How did they do it, Natalia?" he whispers, gaze fixed on her face.
"Do what, James?" she asks, holding out her hand.
Tentatively, he lets go of the blanket to take it, and she squeezes his fingers reassuringly. "Take away all the good stuff but leave the bad," he offers.
Her face softens and she shakes her head slowly. "I don't know, James. Were you remembering something?"
He mimics her movement. "No. Nothing new, anyway. I was just... contemplating my actions for the last seventy years," he says, his voice sounding almost back to normal.
She smiles grimly. "Everyone has red in their ledger, James."
"Even you?"
"Especially me."
"What do you do, so you can sleep at night?" he wonders, half expecting her to avoid answering.
She bites her lip and looks down at their clasped hands. "I think of the good things I've done. The important people in my life. And I try to remember that I was a weapon to be used, that my actions, the destruction I caused, weren't entirely up to me."
Hesitantly, he runs his thumb across her hand. "Are you successful?"
"Not always," she answers honestly. "But it gets easier to believe. To accept."
He sighs, letting out the tension in his body. "I hope so."
She looks up at him again, appraisingly, and he wonders what she is considering. He waits patiently for her to speak again, to break the stillness and remind him that he is alive and not a machine and human and not alone.
"James," she asks for his attention. He gives it to her immediately, focusing on her face. His scattered thoughts remind him how beautiful she is and he wonders what the hell she's doing here with him. "James, do you wake up like this frequently?"
He blinks, trying to remember. Oh, how much of his time does he spend trying to remember things? When will it be easier? "Sometimes," he murmurs.
"You don't have to tell me, James, but I was just wondering... Why are you living here by yourself? Why aren't you staying with Steve?" she adds when he looks perplexed.
Pressing his lips together, he looks away from her. How many times has he asked himself that same question? "That's not how it's supposed to be," he says finally.
"What do you mean?" she asks, gentle.
He shakes his head, pulling his hand away from hers to cradle his head in both hands. "When we were young... Steve always looked up to me. Always trusted me to be the stronger of us. Even after he became a damn super soldier, he wanted to look up to me. To show me he could keep up with me, now. So, when I came back after all of this... He wanted to be there for me like I'd always been there for him. But I couldn't... I didn't want him to see me. Like this. See what I've become. It made him so angry."
She is silent during his halting explanation, but her brow furrows and she is frowning at him by the end. "So it's better to be alone and terrified?" she demands, sounding a little angry herself.
A sigh escapes him, and he sits back to look at her. "If I'm here, Steve doesn't have to know how... How I am now."
"How are you now, James?" she asks softly.
He frowns deeply, staring past her. "Broken," he whispers.
"You are not broken," she says with surprising vehemence, getting to her feet. He stares up at her, confused. She's angry again, making no effort to hide it. "They wanted to make a perfect weapon, and, by God, they did. But just because you aren't him anymore doesn't mean you're broken. You're not malfunctioning, James. You're just being – " she pauses, looking at him intently. "Human," she echoes his word from earlier back at him.
A grim smile stretches his lips. "Do most people wake up like this?" he questions.
She grabs both of his hands and pulls him to his feet, facing her. He looks down at her, slightly amused by her ire. Why should she care so much about the fate of a guy like him? "Most people haven't gone through what you have. But you survived. And here you are, still surviving. So you may not sleep as much as everyone else. But we aren't like everyone else, James. So don't compare yourself to them," she insists.
"Then to whom should I compare myself? Steve? Because that's not going to end well for anyone," he replies.
Shaking her head, she seems almost disappointed. "James, you were with me in the Red Room. You may not have been completely yourself, but you were getting closer every day. And you taught me how to reclaim myself from those monsters. Even if you don't remember it, I owe you for that."
He frowns, surprised. "I did?"
"Yes, James."
Slowly, he looks down at his hands again. "You were the one good thing," he echoes very quietly what he'd told her earlier.
She takes both of his hands and leans over to meet his eye. "I know you think you've only done terrible things. But I've seen you do some impressive things with your hands. And I don't think, James, that you should sleep out here anymore. Come with me," she insists, turning and pulling him back toward his bedroom. He's never been more willing to follow an order.