Sebastian Stan Imagines

Soulmate Pt. 2 | James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes

In which you and your soulmate share bruises, tattoos, cuts, and pen marks.

Sequel to 'Soulmate | James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes'

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You were awakened from the cryogenic rest so suddenly—and jolted into a sitting position so quickly—that your stomach churned and your head span. You held your temples in agony, groaning at the feeling of bile rising. It was soon swallowed down distastefully.

You realized that one of your arms was cold and numb so you raised it to eye level and studied it carefully. The flesh was purple and blue, and light frost was covering the area.

You simply placed your arm back down. This was a common side effect of the freeze, and you had gotten used to it. All the super-serum in your blood would soon heal over the frostbite. It was nothing to worry about.

Your actions had a small audience. Looking up, there was that man standing at the door. He never revealed his name, so you just called him Zhopa (жопа).

Zhopa had this assholish smirk on his face that you just wanted to wipe right off. But betting into fights with him would lead to punishment. You didn't think you could survive another punishment. Zhopa obviously held a lot of power in this hellhole.

"что ты хочешь," you spit out. "What do you want from me?"

"сотрудничество," was the only word that Zhopa offered before turning out the door.

He wants your cooperation. Well, he wasn't going to get it.

A figure was soon tossed into the room, bearing only a right arm. His left side was heavily bandaged. You attempted to get up but there were restraints on your wrists. You were much too tired to break free of them.

"Are you okay?"

The figure looked up, lungs heaving in air. "Three two five five seven zero three eight."

"What?"

"Three two five five seven zero three eight," the man repeated, curling up in the fetal position on the floor. "Three two five five seven zero three eight."

"I don't know what that means."

"Three two five five seven zero three eight."

"What's your name?"

"Three two five five seven zero three eight. Three two five five seven zero three eight..."

"My name is (Y/N)."

The mumbles suddenly stopped. "(Y/N)."

"Yes, that's my name. What's yours?"

"...Bucky. My name is Bucky."

"Well, Bucky. We're going to get out of here. We'll escape or I'll die trying. I promise."

"I really wish you hadn't said that."

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"What did you say your name was again?"

You shrugged. "That was fourty years ago and eight brain-wipes since. I've forgotten how old I am. Do you remember yours?"

"No..." He trailed off. "That's why I asked."

"Well... sorry. I don't remember yours either," you looked down at the ground below you. You were supposed to be keeping watch, but no one was here in the arctic tundra of Russia! In February!

"Is that why you've started to call me Aktiv (актив)?"

"Uh... yeah. It's what everyone else calls you. Even Zhopa."