December // A Winter Soldier Story

40

ｊａｎｕａｒｙ ７ｔｈ， ２０１４

２９°

ℬ𝓊𝒸𝓀𝓎

He sits over her broken body. When her eyes lose their light, he sobs, harder than he ever has in his life.

He hated seeing a smear of blood on her thumb earlier. And now, not even an hour later, she is cold and blue and empty of the blood that should belong in her veins. The substance that has haunted him all his life covers her, soaking her hair. She has been painted by death, by the murder that follows him everywhere, and everything that made her human is already gone.

The grief gives way to fury. They will pay, his mind screams. They'll regret having ever touched me at all.

This time when the rage takes over, there is no steady, calming voice to counter the fire. There are no soft hands to comfort him with touch. Instead, Lea's small, broken form lies lifeless on the ground at his feet, staring up at the sky with eyes that can no longer see. The fury causes his eyes to blacken and a guttural scream to wrench from his throat. His fists clench so hard that his nails cause crescent-shaped cuts to form on his palms. Sharp, metallic blood is all he can smell.

He thinks of all the times Hydra has tortured him, used him as a puppet, stolen his life and his freedom and his willpower. He thinks of all of the red he has on his hands because of what others have turned him into, the voices they've put in his head that will never leave. He thinks of the small bit of beauty and love Lea gifted him, of how she could make the voices stop for just a moment, of how she gave him a purpose. He thinks about how Hydra took her beauty, her courage, and her light and stole pieces of it all, replacing the gaps with shadows of misery and pain and desperation before taking her away completely. He thinks about the fact that they believe they have won. That they believe they are invincible.

In his madness, there is no force on heaven or Earth that could possibly stop him. His grief is enough to rip the sky from the ground.

He takes off on one foot, flying toward the nearest Hydra soldier with his guns raised and a ball of hot tears in his throat, hacking them down in one motion without even firing a bullet. Within seconds, five soldiers have the life torn from them. Within minutes, the ground has been saturated with blood. More blood.

You killed her, he screams. He doesn't know if he is thinking these things or saying them, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care about anything anymore. Not with her lying cold on the same grass he is walking on just a few feet away. You killed something beautiful to prove that you're powerful. But you're nothing, and I will rip you down to prove it.

A bullet pierces him somewhere, but he doesn't stop, doesn't even hesitate. He can't feel physical pain right now. He can only feel the agonizing weight of the death of another innocent on his hands as he spills the innards of those he deems responsible. He shoots, stabs, and slices his way through every Hydra agent he sees. At some point, they become harder to catch; he realizes they have turned and started running. He increases his speed and continues his gruesome act.

There will be no surrender for them today. They lost their right to mercy when they took her from him.

In the back of his head he knows Lea would've condemned this. She would've been horrified, told him that this is not who he is, that he is more than his demons, that he can control them. But she is not here to witness this, she is not here to console him and force him to listen to her, and there is nothing that can alleviate this horrible pain that threatens to consume him entirely, except for the possibility of appeasing the monsters inside of him by killing those responsible for putting them there. He can't stop. They killed her, and he can't stop.

It is an hour later when he drops to his knees in the grass outside of the compound. The grass gurgles when he kneels; he is crouching in blood. His uniform is soaked through with the sticky substance. A line of red crosses his forehead above his right eyebrow from where he rubbed it with his thumb earlier. His bicep wound, and a fresh wound to his calf, bleed, but he wouldn't know - there's so much, he can't tell where any of it is coming from. He would be thankful that he can no longer tell what is Lea's and what is not, but to him, it is all Lea's blood. It stretches for miles. I did this, he thinks. Hydra wouldn't have gotten her if it hadn't been for me. This is my fault.

His head falls with defeat as he kneels over the bodies of the men he has killed and the girl whose death clings to his shoulders with the weight of the world. It hits him: she's not coming back. His rage-induced madness gives way to nothing but grief. A hand appears on his shoulder, and he barely feels it. He thinks it must be Steve's. It sets him over the edge.

He bursts into heavy sobs. He is wracked with guilt, with misery, with the mourning of someone who meant almost everything to him. He's lost her, and now — just like before — has nothing left to his name but murder. He has endured much in the last several decades, but he can't remember ever feeling so hollow. Tears fall from his eyes with each breath he takes. He lets out a yell that comes from the deepest part of him, screaming until he no longer has any breath left to fuel it. He wishes he could just stop breathing altogether, but he made a promise. And now he must live through the greatest agony he has ever felt.

He looks up during a lapse in his tears to see a single snowflake fall before his eyes. Instantly, his mind flashes back to his first memory of her — her blonde hair shining against the white snow, crystals of ice clinging to her eyelashes. He remembers what she told him just earlier today. Winter is long, but it never lasts forever.

You were wrong, Lea, he thinks, eyes unfocused, fingers shaking. Some winters never end.