To The Bitter End (Bucky Barnes/ Winter Soldier x reader)

Chapter one

1946

Still and silent

calm before the storm

The Calling by TheFatRat

The sound of heavy boots on the ground woke you from your dreamless sleep.

You didn't bother to glance up, no one ever came into your room.

The sound of the bolts on the door being undone, however, proved you wrong.

You were on your feet in an instant, glowering at the barred window in the heavy, iron door.

As soon as the door opened, someone was shoved into the room and the door slammed shut again.

The person who they tossed into your room tried to haul himself to his feet, but only managed to get up on one elbow. He was bleeding severely from what look to be whip cuts all across his back, a couple on his face and numerous other wounds.

You stayed on the edge of the room, watching as his chest rose and fell rapidly, his eyes were wild and clouded from pain as he struggled to stay conscious.

You waited a few more seconds before approaching him, slowly.

As soon as you came within a meter of him, he seemed to notice you and growled low in his throat, reminding you irresistibly of an angry dog.

"You're hurt," You stated, taking another step closer. "Let me help."

"Why should I trust you?" His voice was rough, but not from disuse, it rather sounded like he'd been screaming continuously. What did they do to him?

"You're right, you shouldn't." You said softly, backing away into your corner. "I'll just stay over here."

He seemed surprised by your submissiveness, and you watched from the corner of your eye as he glanced around the room, taking in the gloomy, grey stone walls and the barred door.

You took in his appearance, knowing he'd give in to your help soon, he was clearly in agony.

His hair was unkempt, dark and matted with blood. There was a cut on his brow, just below his hairline, which was leaking blood into his right eye. He shook his head to blink it away and a couple of drops of blood splattered the walls and floor.

As your eyes travelled along his tattered and torn shirt, you noticed how scarred up his left shoulder was. You turned your head just slightly to get a better look and almost gasped as you took in the shining metal of his left arm. It, too, was covered in blood and grit, but now you understood why it wasn't trembling from pain like the rest of him

"Why would you help me?" He asked after a while, his voice was becoming shaky.

"Because I'm a prisoner too."

"You are?" his voice cracked, and you stood up and grabbed the small bag next to your cot.

"Let me stop the bleeding, then I'll tell you."

He eyed you warily for another moment, before nodding.

You took the few steps you needed to take you to his side, then knelt beside him and opened the bag to reveal your small stash of medical supplies. He watched without speaking as you tended to his wounds, staunching the bleeding before patching up the worst with your meagre supplies.

You took in some marks that seemed to be days, months, maybe even years old and wondered how long he'd been here.

"What's your name?" You asked, dabbing at the cut on his brow with a cloth soaked in disinfectant.

He seemed to ponder it for a moment before responding. "Bucky."

What kind of a name is 'Bucky'? You wondered.

'Bucky' seemed to guess what you were thinking and answered your unspoken question.

"It's a nickname."

"Oh..." You still refused to meet his gaze, instead fixing your eyes on his left arm, at last noticing the red star on the shoulder. "Don't people only use nicknames when they're close friends?"

"I prefer it when people don't use my actual name."

You nodded and sat back on your heels, making sure there weren't any more wounds you'd missed. "You should be fine now."

"Thanks," Bucky muttered, his eyes found the floor, fixing on a drop of his own blood that had dried there.

"What did you do wrong?"

Bucky looked up with confusion in his eyes.

"They never beat people this badly unless they've done something really, really bad." You explained, voice hushed with fear.

"I'm not going along with whatever plot they've got going."

Your eyes narrowed as you stared at the red star on his shoulder again. "You're here for the Winter Soldier program, aren't you?"

"If I am, I didn't choose to be."

You were becoming more and more curious with every guarded answer he gave you. "How'd you end up here?"

It took at least an hour for you to exhaust your curiosity. Bucky had started to open up a little, but he still reserved the right not to answer any question you threw at him.

You'd deduced, from what he'd said and some of what he hadn't said, that he'd been locked up here since somewhere in the '40s. You weren't in the least surprised when he said he'd lived in Brooklyn; if anywhere could come up with a nickname like 'Bucky' it was there.

"Can I ask you a few things too?" His voice was quieter now as he edged slightly closer to you.

You gave him the closest thing you could to a warm smile. "Sure."

"What's your name?"

You suddenly found something very interesting to stare at.

"What's wrong?" A hand met yours and you jerked back, the only physical contact you'd had with another human being in years was painful.

Bucky's eyes filled with concern, but he didn't try to touch you again.

"I-I don't know my name," You said in a choked whisper. "They- they have this way of- of getting in your head. They make you forget things you don't want to forget-"

You suddenly turned on him and gripped what remained of his shirt in your hands, so your faces were only centimetres apart. "Never let them in! Ever!"

"Ok, I won't," Bucky said soothingly, gently prying your fingers of him. "Is there anything you do remember?"

"All I know is that I can heal people," You mumbled, looking at the medical kit you'd used for him earlier. "I don't remember when I learned to, but I can. Sometimes they make me help with soldiers' injuries or... other things." You shuddered and Bucky's hand wrapped around your own gently and his thumb began rubbing soft circles on your palm, his eyes never leaving yours. You didn't pull back this time, his touch was warm, kind, promising.

"Do you know how long you've been here?" He asked softly.

"A long, long time." You murmur. "I think they put me under for the first few years like they did for you. But I don't remember much."

"Do you think I could help you remember?"

"Why would you do that?"

"Why wouldn't I?"