HEAVEN IN HELL | Bucky Barnes

LONG WAY FROM HOME

- 02 -

NOVEMBER 12, 1991

The day you left was pleasantly warm, surprising considering it was already far into autumn. The soft breeze that did flow through the hangar blew stray pieces of your hair around, fluttered the fabric of your jacket about you. The sun was shining warmly too, kissing your skin goodbye it seemed.

You wouldn't be seeing much of it in the near future.

"I'll be alright dad." You insisted for the thousandth time as your father squeezed you tight in a crushing hug again. You squeaked as your lungs became desperate for air, he was a strong guy, though absolutely harmless to those he loved. "Dad!" You protested once more.

He let go at last, a small smile on his face. He looked like an older version of your brother. Grey kissing his dark hair, crinkles and creases on his face from years of stress and laughter.  "Sorry kiddo." He said, voice as strong as ever. 

But the bravest man you knew suddenly didn't look too brave. No, the only thing he held in his eyes that looked much like your own was worry for you, and tears.

You had only seen your father cry twice in your life. When his wife, your mother, died after a long and hard battle with an illness no one could cure. And now, now that he was wishing you away on your mission he had tears his his eyes.

"I'll be alright." You insisted with a smile, you too could feel tears pricking your eyes. "It'll only be three months and I'll be back in time to celebrate the New Year with you." You clutched his hands, worn and strong from years of honorable service.

It seemed to be a family tradition, to serve your country. Your great-grandfather had fought in World War I, your grandfather in World War II. Your father had served on multiple occasions in multiple locations, most of which were classified still.

He retired only when he was severely injured on the battlefield, losing his left leg from the knee down. That was one of the happiest days of your life, not because he was hurt, but because you knew he would finally be safe at home.

Pain only makes you stronger, he would say. And it did make him so much stronger, he never gave up and pushed through all the new challenges he faced with a missing limb. You took that little piece of advice with you everywhere.

You were just a teenager when he retired, your mom died only five years later, only six months ago.

But now here you were, all grown up at the age of twenty-two, ready to serve your country in a different way.

You were a good fighter, taught to hold your own well in training. S.H.E.I.L.D. required that all it's employees had these skills as the job got dangerous on occasion. You were a scrappy thing, managing to take down even some of the bigger guys in training. 

You never could stomach the idea of killing someone though. But if it was life or death on the field, you were sure you would make the right call.

You were always more apt to technology anyway, which as the years past was starting to develop into something truly amazing. Being an agent for the biggest espionage, special law enforcement, and counter-terrorism agency honed both fighting and technology together perfectly for you.

Perhaps that's why S.H.E.I.L.D chose you for this mission. You were young, it was the nineties, and not a lot of agents were used to the prospect of advancing change. They needed someone who was, so here you were, ready for your fist solo mission, ever.