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A Bucky Barnes Winter Soldier Fic - The Constant	By : TheConstant1944 Category: Marvel Verse Comics > Captain America Views: 2391 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own any Marvel characters. They are solely owned by Marvel and MCU. No money is made from this story.

Chapter List
- 24
- 25
- 26
Chapter Twenty-Five
Ghosts of Christmas Past & Future
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all thro' the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar plums danc'd in their heads.

'Twas the night before Christmas – 1939
Only these two young men are not sleeping.
Steve is staying with the Barnes family for Christmas. The rest of the family are asleep, leaving Steve and Bucky alone in the living room where they usually slept together when Steve stays over.
The room is cosy. The only light is from the fire, which is starting to die down for the night, but they can still feel the warmth from it and see the glow of the flames reflected in the baubles on the Christmas tree. The reflection makes it look like it is covered with small glowing lights. They can hear the gentle snoring of Mr Barnes upstairs, and because of that they are not sure if Mrs Barnes is asleep yet. Bucky's younger brothers are fast asleep. They are still young enough to be excited by Christmas and they had vowed they would never be able to sleep...but the moment their heads touched the pillow they were.
The young men are lying on the floor, Steve lying one way and Bucky lying the other, creating a T. Bucky's head is resting on Steve's midriff. They are talking quietly and listening to music coming quietly from the radio. The fire crackles as a log shifts.
Steve can smell the pine from the Christmas tree and he is listening to Bucky talk about the future in a hushed tone. They are both are sleepy. He doesn't think he has ever been so comfortable in his life.
Bucky rolls over onto his front so that he is now looking at Steve; looking at those blue eyes, the blond hair falling over his forehead, and he can't help but smile.
Steve smiles back. “What are you grinning at?” he asks. His eyes are sleepy.
“You,” Bucky replies, and he scoots forward so he can very gently kiss Steve on the lips. One of Steve's hands is resting on his chest, the other by his side, but now he gently pulls Bucky closer and returns the kiss.
Bucky pulls away. “Hey. Where do you think we will be this time next year?” he asks suddenly, and Steve shrugs, knowing it will annoy Bucky. After all, they have tentatively made plans for the rest of their lives together.
“Who knows? I mean where will we be in five years time...in ten?” Steve replies, wanting to tease him... but instead he sees Bucky shiver, and sees a frown appear on Bucky's face.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I think someone just walked over my grave,” he replies, trying to shake off the awful feeling that made him shiver, and to forget the knot of apprehension that tightened in his stomach. Instead he grins mischievously at Steve, bringing his hand up and slipping it under Steve's shirt. He slides it down across his stomach, watching Steve swallow and his hand continues until it slips under the waist band of Steve's trousers.
“Buck...” Steve tries to say, and Bucky shakes his head, still grinning, knowing the effect he is having on Steve.
“Wish you'd learn when to shut up,” he says, bowing his head to kiss Steve once more and he moves his hand down, smiling again when he can feel the Steve's solid reaction to him.
“Oh Christ Buck, you're going to be the death of me,” Steve groans and Bucky moves back to look at him.
“Language, Rogers,” he says, laughing softly, as his hand takes Steve in a firm grip and he watches Steve's eyes close and his mouth open.
On the radio the music has finished and the announcer is moving onto the story for the night, a Christmas Story; he allows his voice to drop, and says, “Twas the night before Christmas,” and then allows the story to run. “Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that.”
But by now the young men are not listening. They are too wrapped up in each other.
*
The next morning is pandemonium in the Barnes's household. The boys are so excited that even Steve and Bucky cannot help but be infected despite their age. Winifred is in the kitchen, trying to prepare the feast they will have at lunchtime. Steve has already helped her with the vegetables whilst Bucky plays out in the front of the house with his brothers. It had snowed early in the week and was still cold with flurries. Everyone is wrapped up warm and sledding down the road, neighbours are out and the scene is one of peace.
Bucky leaves his brothers playing and comes back into the house, stamping the snow off his boots and taking of his coat, but before he can finish his father - George - stops him.
“Oh no you don't! You promised your mother you would bring in the wood for the fire.” And before Bucky moans good-naturedly his father raises his eyebrows.
Steve overhears. “I'll help,” he says, already shrugging on his jacket. He can see Bucky is going to say no, he doesn't want Steve catching cold, but Bucky himself recognises the look in Steve's eyes and so he relents. The two of them trudge outside to the back garden where the wood is stacked under an over-hang of the house. The Barneses live in a small property a few blocks away from Steve in a slightly more prosperous area. Winifred had inherited a small amount from her parents which with that, and savings, allowed for the down payment when they moved in. The house is just about big enough for them and had an added bonus when they bought it - room for George to build a garage for his beloved car. They also have a small yard out back where the boys can run around, letting of steam.
Bucky and Steve trudge over the snow to the over-hang and Bucky gets Steve to stand still, arms held up so he can carry the wood Bucky piles on his forearms. George can see them from the kitchen window. Those two, he thinks, always talking, always together.
He can't hear what they are saying but he watches as his son reaches up and with the back of his hand runs his fingers down Steve's cheek. It is an intensely intimate gesture and George frowns. No. He must be imaging it...but then he sees the look on both the young men's face and he realises he isn't.
Winifred realises George has gone quiet. She turns to look at him and sees his frown and comes over to see what he is looking at out of the window. All she can see is Steve and Bucky trudging back through the snow carrying wood.
“George? What is it? Whats wrong?” But all he does is shake his head. Winifred loves her husband, knows him better than anyone else. Something has disturbed him. He turns around and leans against the sink, crossing his arms but as he is about to speak the door opens and both Bucky and Steve come trudging in laughing and George falls quiet.
The young men do not notice the quietness in the kitchen. They have taken off their boots and are now struggling out of their coats. Winifred looks at George but he is staring at the floor. The set of his shoulders tells her he is not amused by something.
“Okay you two, next job. Upstairs, tidy up the mess left by your brothers opening their stockings would you” and she pushes the two out into the hallway and waits to hear them run up the stairs. She wants the house to have some resemblance of tidiness before they eat and then open the presents under the tree.
She closes the kitchen door and approaches her husband.
“George?”
George is someone who does not wear his emotions on his sleeve but it would not occur to him to not share his problems with his wife. “Those two.” He is feeling angry, feeling mixed up. He can't be right but he knows he is...deep down he knows. “Their goddamn... they're two...” He swings his head back and forth a gesture Winifred has seen her son do so many times. The two of them are so alike.
“They're what?” she asks gently although she thinks she has guessed.
“They're damn...you know. My son is...a fairy.” And there is such bewilderment mixed in with the anger that Winifred tries not to smile. But George sees and it fuels the flames further.
“You think this is funny?” His voice is loud and she shushes him, tells him to keep his voice down. “He's...a fruit, they're a couple of fairies, they're...queer. Jesus!” And he looks up at the ceiling with his teeth gritted. A few more words come to mind but he knows he doesn't have to say them, he knows his wife has understood what he is saying.
Then he looks back down at her. “What the hell! How did it happen? It must be that Rogers, my son would never...” And he shakes his head again.
“Would never what?”
He gestures with his hand. “You know. Would never...” And now Winifred can see the red in George's cheeks, see the anger in him. “When did it happen? For God's sake it must have been staring me in the face! What do I tell my friends when they find out? Jesus. I'll never live this down. A fruitcake for a son, jeez...what the hell did I do to deserve this, what...”
“George Barnes!”
Winifred's voice is firm and hard, and it is a tone George has hardly ever heard before. She moves closer to him rests her hand on his arms, which are still folded. She keeps her voice low. She doesn't want them to hear upstairs. “He is still the same young man he was when he got up this morning, still the same young man who helps you with your car, who you held in your arms when he was born...”
“He's a fucking queer!” George's whisper is run through with anger.
“So what?” Winifred says calmly.
“What do you mean so what? What the hell are we going to do?!”
Winifred lets her hand drop and takes a step back. “I tell you what you are going to do, George, because there is only one thing you can do. You can decide if you still love him, if he is still your son, if you want him to still be in your life. That is the only thing you can do.”
George looks at her. “You knew? Why the hell didn't you tell me?”
“I only suspected, George. And...he's our son. James is our son.“
She looks at him once more and then turns and picks up her apron and puts it on. She has work to do.
*
Lunch is a noisy affair; everyone talking and nobody noticing how quiet George is. Winifred involves him in the conversations, and for her sake he joins in...but he cannot look at either Bucky or Steve.
George and Winifred leave the boys to clear up, only once hearing a crash from the kitchen. But their conversation is more important. She sits next to her husband.
“By this time next year we could be at war with what is happening in Europe, you said so yourself. James is old enough to fight, and you know he will. You know he will join up the minute he can. We could have lost him already.”
George can hear the tears in her voice and he bends to kiss her forehead. “I know. I know! I hear you! But...for God's sake, he dates girls!” The exasperation in Georges voice makes her smile.
The door bangs open and the younger boys come in, excited and burbling. Steve and Bucky follow them. Winifred makes to get up but George stops her and stands up himself.
“Okay! So who's for presents?” He does a false Father Christmas laugh and moves to the tree.
Three sets of hand go up. “Me, me, me!” three sets of voice holler. Bucky and Steve laugh at the boy's excitement and sit on the floor in front of the sofa with Winifred and George begins to hand the presents out.
Steve looks around the room. He loves it here. He loves the warmth, the family, and most of all he loves Bucky. When George hands him a present he is surprised - even more so when another two are handed to him. He sits and opens them with the others. He himself slipped a few small gifts under the tree when the family were not looking; they are not much, handkerchiefs for Mrs Barnes, a pair of socks for Mr Barnes, and chocolate for the boys. But it is the gift for Bucky he is most excited with.
He opens his present from Mr and Mrs Barnes and finds they have bought him a new pair of shoes. Winifred leans forward and puts her hand on his shoulder. “Because if you try and stuff any more paper in those old ones of yours there's not going to be any room left for your feet,” she says, smiling, and tightens her grip slightly when she sees he is close to tears.
He doesn't know what to say.
Winifred smiles again and leans back to open her presents. She has seen the holes in Steve's shoes, seen how he stuffs newspaper in them to block out the cold and wet. A few months ago she had taken one of the shoes and drawn around it to try and work out the size. Steve is so small, so delicate, and she wanted to get it right. She has.
Steve's second package has thick socks in it. He tries to thank her but doesn't feel his words are enough and so he stands up awkwardly and gives her a hug. Bucky pulls at him to sit back down and open his final present.
The third present is from Bucky and he stares at it in wonder. It is a leather bound sketch book and a tin of expensive colouring pencils. “That's you on the front,” Bucky whispers to him. The drawing on the front of the pencil tin shows a young blond man sketching.
(Authors note: To see present please use: http://i.imgur.com/rDTkSU1.jpg )
“You cant give me these!” Steve exclaims. “They must have cost a fortune!” Bucky smiles at him and for a moment there is only the two of them, until one of the younger boys whoops in delight at his present and is soon dive bombing the two young men with a tin plane, breaking the moment. But not before Winifred has seen George pick up on their look. Internally she despairs. What if her husband cannot accept the two men's relationship? She couldn't bear it.
“Open yours,” Steve says, gesturing to the small gift he had haphazardly wrapped for Bucky. Bucky picks up the parcel and unwraps it. Steve thinks for one awful moment Bucky is going to burst into tears but he sees him tighten his jaw as he looks down at what is in his hands. At what Steve has bought for him.
“If you don't like it, I can change it,” Steve stutters, suddenly unsure of himself, unsure of his choice. Did he get it wrong?
Bucky looks up at him. “It's perfect...you jerk!” and he leans forward without thinking and hugs Steve. It is something the two men have done before in front of people, but this time George sees so much more in that simple sign of affection.
(Authors note: To see present please use: http://i.imgur.com/M7tDMZp.png )
Nestled in the tissue and wrapping is a badge Bucky had seen in a pawn shop window over a month ago. He had fallen in love with it; the lines of the badge, the two outstretched wings. And Steve had caught him drawing it in doodles all over his technical work for college. Steve had gone in and, after being honest with the broker, had offered a sum not quite reaching what the pawnbroker had wanted. The pawnbroker shook his head. He asked the man to wait and had gone all the way home and bought back with him a ring his mother had left him. It was not worth a lot, but it had made up the amount and Steve came out of the shop with the 1930's USAAF badge tucked in his pocket. He had said a small prayer to his mother, but he felt sure she wouldn't mind. This was for the person he loved and wanted to spend the rest of this life with. He felt sure she would understand.
*
Everyone was tired. It had been a busy day, full of excitement. Winifred is curled up with their youngest son on the sofa; the other two are upstairs in the bedroom they share. Steve is sat sketching the Christmas tree. Bucky is looking at a magazine when he becomes aware of his father looking at him. He looks up and smiles, but it looks like George is a million miles away but he focuses on Bucky. Bucky smiles again but his father doesn't and the smile falls from Bucky's face.
George had been a million miles away with his thoughts. How can this be my son? How can I have not seen this? He sees the smile James gives him, and sees it drop when James sees something of George's thoughts in his eyes.
George has to do something about this. He cannot let it fester. He stands up.
“Buck, give your old man a hand with something will you?” he says, and beckons his eldest to follow. Winifred watches as they quit the room. There is nothing she can do. This is between two of the men in her life, and only they can sort it out.
Bucky follows George out into the garden, and then into a side door leading to the garage. He is glad he has such a thick jumper on; the snow is still drifting down, and it is bloody cold. George switches the light on. It is not overly bright but it is all he needs. He watches Bucky close the door and walk over to him.
“Car playing up again?” Bucky asks, looking at his father, and his father doesn't reply, he just stands there studying his son. How does he do this? “Dad?” The serious look in his father's face is making his heart start to race. “Have I done something wrong?”
His father looks old, he is going grey, and Bucky for one moment thinks he must be ill – but then his father speaks.
“James...I don't know how to do this.” Bucky tries to say something, but his father holds up his hand and stops him. “Are you and...” He clears his throat. “Are you and Steven...sweethearts?” That is the only word he can think of using.
Bucky's heart starts thumping, and despite the cold he feels a sweat break out on his forehead. He has never lied to his parents. Bent the truth a couple of times maybe, but never lied.
George watches the look that passes over his son's face, sees the thought of lying in those clear blue eyes...but he knows his son will not lie.
Bucky stands up straighter, shoulders back and stares him down. “Yes, sir,” he says, simply and with respect.
“I see.” And his father looks down at the floor. Everything is so silent.
“Do you want me to leave?” Bucky asks him quietly. He always knew this moment would come, always wondered how he would break the news to his parents. How he would tell his father the truth.
George does not say anything, just looks at the floor. Bucky steps forward until they are only a few paces apart. “I understand. I can move out. You don't need to tell anyone the truth. Just say it was time I found my own feet. I wont embarrass you,” he says, and his father looks up at him and Bucky realises that he is close to weeping. He has only ever seen his father cry once before.
“You don't think I still love you?” George says choking on the words.
Bucky flounders as his eyes tear up as well. “I...I know how such a thing is...” he cant find the right word “...shameful.”
And suddenly George is reaching forward and pulling him into a bear hug, and Bucky's own arms go around his father. This man who has always been such a solid influence in his life, always been there.
His father is crying but talking, the words running together. “I love you son, I couldn't not.” His father holds him so tight for a moment that Bucky has trouble getting his breath. Then he feels his arms loosen.
“If...Steven means that much to you then so be it.” He leans backwards to look at his son's face “...Only don't expect me to call him son just yet. I need time, time to get over...”
“The shock?” Bucky provides the word and his father nods as they pull apart. Bucky steps back and crosses his arms, the cold suddenly hitting him again.
“Does Mom know?”
George nods. “You know women,” he says and Bucky nods as his father colours. “...I mean, women as in...what I mean by knowing women is, well...”
“Dad, it's okay. I like women. It was as much a surprise to me as it is a shock to you but...” the words trail off as the two men look at each other. There is nothing more to be said. Not tonight.
“Jesus it's cold, lets go and warm up.” George puts an arm around Bucky's shoulder and they trudge back to the house where Winifred looks at her men. She has never loved her husband as much as she loves him in this moment. She places her hands on Bucky's shoulders and kisses him then goes to her husband and places her hands on his cheeks and kisses him.
“You're a good man George Barnes, and I love you.” she whispers.
Their children will always be the world to them.
*
'Tis the night before Christmas 1990
The Winter Soldier is used to the cold.
He is stood in a garden. It is snowing, but not that heavily. There is enough on the ground to leave footprints but he is not worried; they will vanish under the new snowfall soon enough. He is a black figure in a white landscape. Black leather pants and jacket; his metal arm is covered up. Black gloves. He is wearing both his mask and goggles and if anyone was to see him they would know it was not Father Christmas visiting.
It is Death.
You would think in this bleak landscape he would be easy to spot, but he is not. The moon shines, but it is not a full moon. The trees are bare. There are deep shadows for him to blend with. He has no problem. He is his own camouflage.
He needs to traverse this garden to get into the neighbours'. It is the neighbour who is the mission, the neighbour who is the target. As he walks silently across the lawn to the wall of the house he hears a noise and turns to the side.
There is an old lean-to full of wood, and he guesses the sound is rats looking for some warmth...but then he moves closer. The wood piled up reminds him of something, but he doesn't know what. Shaking his head he moves closer to skirt the wall. What must be the kitchen window is dark but there are people in the living room, the curtains are partially closed and he will need to duck to make sure he is not seen. He listens to the wind rustle through the trees and looks up, despite the snow there is still parts of the sky clear and he can see the stars, pinpoints of light against the dark.
Stay on mission.
He moves nearer the window.
He looks in but there is no need to worry, no one will see him. Two children sit on the floor playing with what look like toy cars; the mother is sat on the sofa, heavily pregnant, knitting and listening to the radio; her husband is across from her and is reading a newspaper. Even from outside, the Winter Soldier can feel the warmth in the room, can feel the peace the family feel with each other and it stops him. There is a Christmas tree stood upright and decked with lights and baubles, and for just a moment he sees a second tree in his mind and and feels the warmth of a fire, hears the crackling of logs.
He shakes his head again. He mustn't get distracted. Some times when he is out here in the world thoughts come into his mind, thoughts he knows he should not have. They can make his head hurt, he mustn't let them distract him, mustn't let anything interfere with his mission. He is a soldier, he is under orders.
But before he can look away, the mother puts her knitting down and he can hear what she is saying.
“Come on now, time for bed.” She struggles to stand up and her husband puts down his paper as both children start to moan. The husband laughs and goes over to help his wife who is still having trouble rising from the sofa; she must be due any day.
“Put your things away and go and brush your teeth,” the mother is saying, and the two children make it obvious that they will do what she says but they would rather not.
The Winter Soldier turns and slides down the wall, keeping his back against the cold brickwork and squatting he looks at his watch. He is early. He stays still for another 20 minutes, by which time his legs feel stiff and his feet have almost gone to sleep. He hears a noise in the room and slowly straightens to look in again. The children have gone and both parents are now sat on the sofa. The husband leans over and kisses his wife's forehead and then turns the volume dial of the radio. The announcer's voice grows louder.
“Twas the night before Christmas. Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that...”
And suddenly the Winter Soldier's mind freezes up: he has heard those words before and the deja-vu that hits him makes him feel nauseous. He turns back around and sinks to the ground as his mind tries to grasp some of the many memories that seep into it. The other Christmas tree, the burning log fire, the wood in the lean-to, a blond haired man. He looks at the palms of his hands, convinced he will see a badge lying in them; he can even feel the weight of it, see the two wings spread out...but then his hand curls up hard and he tries to shake the memory away because it doesn't just make his head hurt, it makes his chest hurt. He has broken into a sweat. He is trying to catch the memory of the young man, the one whose blond hair falls over his forehead, whose scent he would recognise anywhere.
“No!” he grunts, his teeth grinding against each other as his programming tries to break in, tries to stop him from thinking, tries to stop him from remembering. His mask and goggles suddenly feel restrictive, making him feel claustrophobic and he pulls both of them from his face.
“No!” he rubs his fists into his eyes, and then scoops up snow and washes his face in it; the cold makes his teeth ache, reddens his skin.
The radio in his ear crackles. Unusual, as it is only there as a safety net if he needs to contact them but they are speaking to him now. The words break through the memories and suddenly he feels calm again, feels normality entering back into this world. He cannot quite remember why he is crouched in the dark and not moving. He shoves his mask and goggles in a pocket and stands this time making sure he is beyond the window. Slowly and steadily he pads across the path, and then using one hand leaps across the wall and into the neighbour's garden.
The house is in darkness but he knows the occupant is in there.
Accessing the house is no problem, and soon he is stood in the dark hallway listening to the ticking of a clock. There is carpet under foot but the house smells neglected, old. He slowly makes his way up the stairs, stopping every so often to listen and ensure there is no one else about. He can hear a voice but it is steady, monotone; a radio. Besides which, he can also hear the man snoring. He has left his bedroom door open and as the Winter Soldier walks forward he takes out his gun and uses the silencer barrel to push the door open further. It creaks and he immediately stays it with his hand. The snoring continues and he slips in though the gap.
His eyes have become adjusted to the dark, but it is almost pitch black in here: there are black-out curtains. The Winter Soldier waits a moment until he can get his bearings. The man is asleep in his bed, on his back and as he thought, the man has fallen asleep listening to the radio. It is the same channel as next door and Charles Dickens A Christmas Carol is droning out of the speaker. A weak light shows the position of the radio and the crackling noise accompanying the speaker is annoying, so the Winter Soldier bends and switches the radio off.
The man carries on snoring, out for the count. The fact an empty glass stands on his bedside table accounts for that; he can smell the fumes of alcohol on the old mans breath.
The room is barren. A few sticks of furniture and not a lot else. An old paperback book lying next to a lamp. He can smell dust and old age, a bad combination. He knows the man has been living here since before the Wall even came down. The room echoes the whole house. Neglected and dying as its owner is. The man has cancer and only has six months at the most to live but he holds a secret, one he may decide to confess before his death, one that has began to weigh heavily on his mind.
The Winter Soldier has come to make sure that does not happen. He is the only one who will listen to any confession from the old man. The only one permitted to. And then he will be made to forget.
He sits on the edge of the bed, and as the mattress dips it disturbs the sleep of the old man. He switches off his goggles and then removes them. The Winter Soldier leans over and puts the lamp on; the light is not bright but the old man can see, he knows immediately who has come to visit him.
The Winter Soldier looks on impassively as the man attempts to sit up and has a fit of coughing.
“I thought they would send you.” he says, looking at the soldier beside him. He has been told the man must die, but to give him respect.
He does not say anything just looks on.
“Actually, it was more than just a thought. I had hoped they would. I'm not good with pain but I am too much of a coward to do the job myself,” and he gives a dry laugh. “Do you know why you are here?” he asks.
The Winter Soldier nods slightly: “ I am here to kill you.” His voice has no inflection, no pity. These are his orders and he will obey them.
“Whoever thought the Winter Soldier would turn into a compassionate Angel of Death?” The old man laughs to himself.
“I am not compassionate.” He is stating a fact.
“You were once...” and then the old man stops. What is the use of trying to confuse the issue, trying to confuse the man sitting on the bed? The soldier has been tortured enough, and the old man knows he cannot change what has happened, cannot change the world.
The Winter Soldier looks at him curiously.
“I knew your Constant. Is she still well?” he asks, and the Winter Soldier frowns. The old man knows of the jealously that runs through the Winter Soldier and laughs weakly. “No, no not in that way. We were friends once, that is all. I worked with her, I worked with you and with Stefan but you don't remember him I suppose? Listen to me...” And he puts his hand on the Winter Soldiers arm. “Freya loves you, and only you. I wish they would let you remember that.” He starts to cough once again.
The Winter Soldier's heart begins to race, and he starts to sweat, but the suit monitors betray him once again and a voice intones in his ear reminding him of why he is there, bringing him back on track. The old man looks at him, his rheumy eyes running now with tears, his face pale and grey. The Winter Soldier can see the effort it takes for the old man to sit up straighter to face his death.
The soldier stands and lifts the gun.
“For your loyal service to Hydra.”
And he shoots.
Kristo Salk, one time orderly on Project Winter Soldier, falls back against the bed. Out of pain, out of time. Dead. The Winter Soldier has fulfilled his mission. He takes a long look at the body, but cannot access any memories, cannot understand the words Kristo said to him. He will ask the woman when he gets back to base, tell her what the man said, but he doesn't know that by the time he is back with his Constant he will not remember the details of his mission. He will not remember what the man has told him.
He makes to leave but for some reason he stops and instead turns and goes back to the bed. He lifts the top cover and covers the old man to shroud him in death.
He stares at the body for a moment longer, then turns and leaves. His mission completed.
*
You are cold tonight. You cannot get warm, and there are less guards around than normal. You hate these evenings, evenings where there is no one to talk to, no one to take your mind off the Winter Soldier being out on mission. During the day you can keep busy, they always seem to find work for you to do, but for the last few days everyone has seemed more relaxed and you think you know why.
You think it is Christmas.
They keep you mostly in the dark about dates - even what year it is - but every so often you find out.
You walk down the corridor further than you are really allowed. You are heading for the guard's living quarters. You just want to know. You know that the cameras are probably following your every move, but you mean no harm.
You turn left at the crossroads and as you walk you begin to hear music. It has been such a long time since you have heard a melody and you had not realised how much you missed it. You stop and turn towards one of the cameras to show you know they are watching you. They know you will do no harm that might take you away from their most beloved asset.
You begin to walk again and as you get closer to the quarters you recognise what you are listening to.
Carols of the Bells. Shchedryk. It stops you in your tracks.
You go no further.
Instead you sink down next to the wall and curl up to listen, your arms clasped around your knees. You close your eyes. The corridor is cold and the stone hard but instead you imagine you are back in the house you grew up in.
This is your mother's favourite carol, and you are back in the front room with her and your father. It is Christmas Eve and you are about fifteen years of age. You are watching as your parents decorate the Christmas Tree. It is the first one you have ever seen in the house as the laws before now had prohibited them, but Russia is changing. The excitement of it has brought your mother out of her shell; she chatters on about how she helped decorate them as a child and about how her father would sing to them as they did it and about family gatherings. She shows you her silver locket, the one given to her by her parents, she wears it all the time, is panicked if she thinks she has lost it. Inside is a picture of her on one side and Arthur on the other and Anna says when she closes it they are together and nothing can ever part them. You listen to her, enthralled. You have never seen her this vivacious and you know this is the Anna your father fell in love with. You can see it makes him tearful but his face is also full of light.
“Freya, come and hang this one, you are taller than me.” Your mother hands you a glass bauble and you take it so delicately because to break it would make your mother cry. You go to put it on the tree and you see her eyes widen and you smile.
“Where shall I put it do you think?” you ask her, and she smiles like a small child.
“There,” she says, pointing, and you reach up and put it on the tree. Your mother stands back with her hands over her mouth, her eyes shining, looking at the tree.
“Oh Arthur it is so krasivaya, so...beautiful!” Even after this amount of time your mother knows few English words but one of them is beautiful because that is what your father calls her, his beautiful Anna.
Once the tree is finished you fetch a warm drink of Sbita from the kitchen. It takes you more than a few minutes as you made it earlier but need to reheat it. Your father suggested adding brandy to the mead and jam to help your mother sleep. It is a good idea. Just lately she has taken to waking in the middle of the night so confused, so terrified.
You bring the tray into the front room and pour a drink for all of you and pass it to your parents with some small Rastegai pastries. Your mother is humming her favourite carol, and for a moment you feel that life is so beautiful, you wish it could last forever. The fire is warm and the brandy in the Sbita is making your cheeks warm.
Outside it is snowing again, but your father has left the curtains open to see the changing landscape. Without warning someone comes up and knocks loudly on the window. They hold up a bottle, then, swaying, wander off back down the street. A drunk, too much vodka that is all, but the atmosphere in the room is broken. Your mother had jumped out of her seat when the knocking started and now is holding her hands together and she perches back on the edge of the sofa.
You reach out to touch her and she draws away from you, and you recognise the look in her eyes. A cloud covers her face and your hand falters. She turns to look at your father and you recognise the panic in her face and you try to make things better.
“It's all right Mother it's me, it's Freya.” But she doesn't recognise you, doesn't know who you are. Your father comes forward and kneels in front of her.
“It's all right Anna, just a drunk celebrating Christmas, that's all.”
But you both know you have lost her again for now.
“I think you have had a lot of excitement for the day. Time to go up to bed and sleep,” he says gently pulling Anna to her feet, but she is clutching at his hand and then begins to look around her.
“But where is Freya? Where is that child? Does she not want to say goodnight to me?” She asks, pain in her voice, and a frightened look on her face. She is looking for you but you know she does not recognise the tall young girl standing looking at her; she wants her child, her baby. Soon that look will change to anger and you do not want to see it. Do not want to hear what she calls you. She cannot help it, she is sick, mentally sick, but it still hurts even though you know that.
You look away and you are back in the bleak, cold corridor; you hunch up more and begin to cry. You had forgotten her. You had forgotten your mother and your father and the short spells of time when your mother loved you.
You loved your father but you didn't think you always loved your mother. But you did and something in you at this moment in time misses her. Just the time of the year, you think and you move to stand up. Your bones are stiff and you use that as an excuse to stay a few moments longer to listen to the music.
So beautiful. So krasivaya.
*
The guard watches the woman on the monitor. He reported her presence in the corridors but was told to stand down, no need for worry. He wonders now if he should let them know she is crying as she walks back to her rooms, but he doesn't think she even realises she is.
He decides not to. After all, it is Christmas and everyone deserves a break.
Everyone gets a little emotional at this time of year.
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A Bucky Barnes Winter Soldier Fic - The Constant