Part II: Real Man, Always Thinking With My Fists

Shout Out From the Bottom of My Lungs

Trapped.

He is trapped.

No matter how he pushes, the steel beam won't move. His arm hurts – everything hurts. But, more importantly, he is trapped.

The Winter Soldier doesn't get trapped. He doesn't get stuck in places. He thinks ahead of his targets and rarely has to defend himself from them. Of course, his target couldn't have known that the chaos happening outside would cause him to get trapped – and not killed. Trapped and unable to report back to his handlers. Trapped and unable to finish his mission.

He always finishes his missions. He never gets beaten to the point of unconsciousness and fails. He never watches powerlessly as his target completes his own mission, despite the considerable damage the Winter Soldier has inflicted on him. It shows a kind of obstinacy that is somehow familiar...

Trapped and the target is approaching. The target will kill him – won't he? It's what he would do in his place. Even if that isn't part of the mission. He is too dangerous to be left here, too much of a potential threat.

He watches, apprehensive as the man he was sent to kill drops to his knees painfully and starts to lift the beam that lies across his chest. The strain is evident and it surely causes him to lose more blood – too much to warrant such an action. He doesn't understand, but he takes advantage of the opportunity to escape. His left arm doesn't hurt – it never has – so he uses it to pull himself out from under the hard steel. Once he is free, it falls back down heavily.

Pulling himself into a crouching position, he looks over to take stock of his target – uncertain about the other man's intentions. Is this gesture intended to keep him from attacking again? A bargain of sorts?

Catching his eye, the target speaks. "You know me," he tells him, almost gently.

That reminds him of something – of pain, of being punished. "No, I don't!" he snarls, lashing out with his left arm when he gets too close. The man falls back and he is surprised and disturbed by how weak he feels. The helicarrier is going to crash – he can see the river below moving by quickly – and getting closer. He needs a way out of here. He's already failed, so maybe killing his unkillable and dogged target won't be necessary. But he needs to escape before the target does whatever he's planning.

"Bucky."

Something about that... It means something. He looks up, momentarily thrown.

"You've known me your whole life," the target continues, determined.

He stares without seeing, confusing images flashing before his eyes. But only for a moment. Backhanding the target takes a lot out of him, but it stops the flashes. Something explodes around them – he needs to get out of here.

"Your name is James Buchanan Barnes." The name is spaced out, perhaps due to the target's exhaustion and injuries. Or to have greater impact – to make him remember.

"Shut up!" he screams when the visions return, punching the target's shield with all of his remaining strength. Breathing heavily, he pulls himself unsteadily to his feet and faces the target.

The other man also stands, losing his balance briefly and holding his shield uselessly at his side. "I'm not going to fight you," he says, letting the shield drop through a hole in the glass. "You're my friend." He stands straight, staring at the Soldier, expectant.

It doesn't make any sense. Why is he doing this? Why doesn't he kill him? Why did he help him when he was trapped? He was sent here to kill him and he has no reason to think he won't follow through. Angry and confused, he rushes at the target, knocking him down easily since he makes no move to resist.

"You're my mission," he growls, leaning in close, expecting to see a more familiar reaction. Fear or an attempt at bargaining – at least a regret for not defending himself. Not just silent determination. "You're – my – mission," he repeats, landing a punch on the target's face between each one. And the target... He just lays there and takes it, unmoving. He stops, exhausted and confused, fist raised to strike.

"Then finish it. Because I'm with you till the end of the line," the target says.

He has killed a lot of people. They never... They never stare at him as though they are waiting for it, as though it's worth it. They never give him names and call him a friend. They never look at him as though he means anything to them. They never sit back and let him beat them to death. Why won't he fight? He could win. Even injured as he is, the Soldier is injured more. They might both die if they fought here, on this crashing behemoth. But surely it would be worth it to try?

The end of the line... The end of the line. It's not a literal statement – it's figurative. It's familiar. It means... It means when it's all over. When there's nothing left. When they're trapped behind the front lines with no support coming and the only resort is to fight their way out, hoping at least some of the guys will make it.

Wait. He's never had a mission with other people before. Has he? He could almost see them for a moment... Was this man one of them? The target... He's familiar but in an odd way. Like... Like he should be smaller. Like he used to be someone else. Like they both used to be someone else. He stares, eyes widening as the beat-up kid under him suddenly looks –

A crash – the place is falling apart. The glass beneath him drops and he automatically grabs a beam above his head with his left hand. His sudden weight on the place where metal meets flesh hurts, but he barely notices as he watches the other man fall away, into the river below. He watches as explosions deafen him and the man disappears into the murky water. Then he lets go.

It takes a little while to find him – there is debris everywhere and more raining down. His right arm is useless and of little help for swimming as he searches. Where is he?

He doesn't question his actions. He doesn't think about what he's doing. He just looks until – there he is. He wraps his metal fingers around the strap on the man's uniform. Then he pulls him painfully to the surface. The man breathes. A sudden, unexpected feeling of relief floods him and he almost drops the target in surprise.

Then he swims. It is hard. He has to use his right arm to pull them along. It hurts. The pain in his head makes things confusing, and he sees spots. But he swims. He swims until his feet can touch the bottom. Until he can walk, pulling the man along behind him. Until they are on the muddy shore.

He pulls the man up far enough that the water won't suck him back in. Then he straightens, looking down at him. He doesn't know what he's looking for, but he stares nonetheless. The man – his target? – breathes, letting water out of his mouth. His eyes stay closed. That's good. If he awakens, he might say more strange and unsettling things.

Stepping back, he looks toward the river, toward the destruction. People will be looking for him. He doesn't know who. He doesn't care. They will find his target here. But they won't find the Soldier. They can't.

Scanning the other shore line, he turns around and begins walking away. He's soaking wet and holding his injured arm close to his chest. His left arm will be obvious, will make people know who he is. He needs to disappear.

He needs to go back to his handlers, a more reasonable voice in his head insists.

But he doesn't want to do that. He doesn't want to go back to... to whatever it would be. There is a name – James Buchanan Barnes. He doesn't know what it means. He doesn't know if it's his. He doesn't know who the man he just pulled from the river was, or why he saved his life. But he's going to find out.

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