The Silver Soldier

XLVII

"Morning, Fury." I begin to wash my hands.

"What are you doing up at this hour?" He comes up to the sink beside me and goes through the motions of washing his hands as well. Water, soap, scrub, rinse.

I meet his gaze through the mirror. "Old habits." I say. "I can't sleep past 4:00."

"Ah, I see." He dries his hands on his pants. "What did you do?" He asks. I look at him in question, not catching the meaning behind his phrase. "When you got up at 4:00, what did you do?"

"On the Island..." I pretend to pause, blinking back memories. "On the Island we had to go for a 10k run before breakfast. It was usually three laps around the Island, depending on how fast you were going." I say, not lying. We did have to go for runs, the five of us always made it a race to see who got back first. It was usually Colton. "After breakfast we would head down to the shooting range and practice until 7:00."

I take a paper towel from the dispenser and dry my hands, Fury seems to think about what I just told him.

"Every morning?"

"Most of the time. Every other day we would work out after our run, sit ups, push ups, planks... that sort of thing."

"And after that?"

"We'd train at 7:30, practicing stuff like martial arts and different fighting styles."

Fury nods, leaning casually against the wall. "How long would you spar for?"

"A few hours. Until lunch, sometimes."

He hums a response. "Do you miss it?"

I turn to stare at him. "What?"

"The structure - having a schedule - do you miss it?"

My brows furrow. Of course I miss it, skipping my morning run ruins my day. Fury knows the answer to his own question, there is no point in lying to him. "A little." I confess, downplaying it. "It was my routine for nearly three years, it's hard to just let go of something like that."

He nods, understanding.

"Parts of it weren't that bad." I say. "Aside from the killing and the torture... not all of it was miserable. We had food fights, the other agents and I. Most of the time our breakfasts ended in one of us covered in eggs and orange juice..." I shake my head, looking towards Fury. "What Hydra did to James Barnes... that's not what they did to me."

Fury, to his credit, keeps his surprise in check. "I'm not sure that I follow, Stiles." 

"The Winter Soldier was brainwashed completely, he didn't remember anything about his past. They tortured him and used force to make him submit... but with me-" I close my eyes. "I was still me. I remembered my father, Scott, Malia... They didn't take all of my memories, they only took the happy ones. And without the happy ones, all I had left was hatred."

Fury stays silent.

"All I knew was that I hated Scott for what he did to me, and I would do anything to kill him. I was completely and utterly loyal to Hydra, and it was all out of my own free will."

"And what do you feel now?"

"I don't blame Scott for what happened to me. Not anymore." I lie. "I used to, that's what Hydra used to trigger my rage. They amplified that hatred, and took away all the good memories I had of Scott. Now that I have those memories back - the ones you gave back - I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders."

Fury straightens up, his body language telling me he's finished with this conversation. I can't tell whether or not my story eased his suspicions. "I lost many good men on that island, Mr. Stilinski. And because you were on the opposite side when it happened, most of my men do not trust you. In fact, a majority of them despise of my choice to bring you here."

"Then why did you?"

"I wanted to meet you personally." He says. "You are the second man we have managed to extract from the Winter Soldier program. I have come to know Bucky Barnes very well, I hope that I will have the same chance with you."

And at that, he inclines his head in a silent farewell.

As he's halfway out the door, he turns. I meet his gaze, standing awkwardly under his stare. "Oh-" he exclaims, as if just remembering something. "Breakfast is at 7."

~

I eat breakfast alone, sitting at my own separate table. Away from the rest of the men gathered in the cafeteria.

I can feel their eyes on me, watching me, whispering as I eat my bread.

The food is atrocious, I would kill for some eggs and bacon right about now. But instead of the variety I got on Malagasco Island, I am left with watery, grey porridge, toast (white bread, what a shocker. No source of nutrients at all), and a banana.

I swirl my spoon in the chunky monstrosity sitting in my bowl, staring down at it. I am honestly not hungry, I feel as though I would throw up if I ate anything right now - eggs and bacon included.

I try and ignore the footsteps approaching me from behind. I take a bite of toast, it tastes like ash in my mouth.

"So this is the Silver Soldier." A man laughs, the mockery in his voice is quite obvious. I keep my eyes down, looking at my porridge. He's not worth my time.

He rounds the table, coming to stand in front of me.

To my delight, he brought friends.

"Looks a little young, don't you think?" Another man remarks. I don't bother myself with responding. I haven't looked up to identify them, but from what I see in my peripheral vision, there are three more men behind me, two of them are a decent size - larger than me. The last is about the size of Scott, and the one in front of me is an absolute unit.

"Come on, mate." The man in front of me, the leader, teases. "Use your voice like a big boy."

I glance up, meeting his gaze for only a second before decided that he's no threat. I raise my toast to take another bite, he slaps it out of my hand. It lands on the floor a few feet away. I blink.

Classic.

American bullies are the best.

I pick my spoon back up, dipping it into my porridge. Pay no mind to them, I tell myself. Don't engage.

They're only looking for a fight.

They aren't going to find one here.

The leader snaps his fingers in front of my face. "Look at me, you fucking traitor."

Not a fucking chance, bitch.

"I saw you on the island." He sneers. "I watched you kill all my friends, yeah? That's not going to slide here."

My eyes flicker up to his, his palms are on pressed down on the table, leaning over it. He's about 30 years old, dirty blond hair and brown eyes. Looking at his face, I can't help but pity his girlfriend. He stares down at me, and he looks fucking pissed.

Good.

I think I'll call him Piss-face.

Ignoring his comment, I glance over at the piece of bread lying on the floor. "I was eating that."

Piss-face blinks, surprised by my response. But before he can make a rude comment, he's cut off by a hand on his shoulder. "What's going on here, boys?" Fury asks, glancing from me to Piss-face, then to the three men behind me.

"Just introducing ourselves." Piss-face smiles at me, oh-so-genuinely. "Ain't that right?"

I smile back, if only to get under his skin. Surely Fury knows what had really been going on, otherwise he wouldn't have intervened. I meet Nick Fury's eyes and shrug. "Gotta make friends somehow." I smile.