Chapter Text
"Soldat..."
"...ready—"
no, he's not—
comply.
James?
Where is—
he's gone—
he's you—
no...
he's yours—
You miss him. You miss him. You miss your Soldat. You miss the way his grey eyes unravel you. You miss the silence. You miss the mission. You miss the sound of you on his lips—
comply.
comply. comply.
"Wake up- ready to—"
"—Break—"
your soldat.
⸻◼⸻
[REDACTED]
SUBJECT 057-798: GHOST PROTOCOL INITIATION
SESSION: 47
AUTHORIZATION: DELTA-3
[VOICE COMMAND: TRIGGER PHRASE — DISTORTED]
RESPONSE: INCONSISTENT
[NEURAL SCRUBBING INITIATED — 13:06]
[MEMETIC FRAGMENT DETECTED: "James"]
[ELECTRO-CONVULSIVE STIMULUS APPLIED — STAGE 2]
[AUDITORY LOOP REDEPLOYED — "COMPLY" x 6]
RESPONSE:
"...miss him. miss him. Soldat. mine. mine."
[PHASE III CHEMICAL IMMERSION — COMPLETE]
FINAL RESPONSE:
"Ready to comply."
—END RECORD—
⸻◼⸻
Your earliest memory was when you were around four.
The nice maid Mary was telling you a funny story, tickling your tummy with Mr. Bear and making you giggle. You kept laughing and laughing and laughing. Mary was so funny.
She said she would give you a little midnight snack. Mary got up and opened the door, taking one step into the hallway.
Bang!
You got scared by the loud sound. It sounded like fireworks, but you didn't see any lights. You waited for the sparkle. It never came.
Suddenly, Mary went to sleep. Her head hit the ground—thump—as she fell over. Red paint started coming out of her forehead, bright and apple red.
You called out her name, confused. Quiet. Then louder. But Mary was really tired.
There was so much paint. It got in her hair, her clothes... It was a mess. You'd have to clean that up later.
Suddenly, you could hear your father's voice in the hallway. He sounded angry—like always—but he also sounded scared. His voice was wobbly, the same way yours would shake when he threw things around you.
You stood up and peeked around the doorway, careful not to step on Mary. It would hurt a lot if you got stepped on. Your father taught you that.
And he was there at the end of the hallway. He laid on the ground, leaning against the wall. He was also asleep, with the same red paint leaking from his forehead. Messy, messy.
But he wasn't alone.
A really tall man with long hair stood over your father's body, his large back facing you. His left arm was so shiny. It caught the hallway light and made you squint. Your mouth shaped into an 'o'.
He was a cyborg, like in the stories!
He noticed you behind the doorway, turning around as his eyes glided over to you. You could see that he wore a black mask. It seemed really stuffy.
You couldn't look away. His eyes were so pretty. Mary said that color was grey, like storm clouds and the moon when it's sad.
His eyes looked like the moon. They looked sad.
The sad man approached you slowly. You didn't move. You just couldn't look away. Even as he stopped directly in front of you, and you had to look all the way up, you kept staring.
And so did he. His metal arm made little robot noises, kind of like your fridge during really hot summers. You wonder if he was sweaty under all that black.
Maybe he was lonely? He looked really lonely.
You reached out and touched his metal hand, wowing at the feeling. It felt cool but sticky. Maybe he was cleaning up the paint.
Your hand curled around his much larger one. There, much better. His eyes were a bit wider now and less sad.
You smiled.
He stared.
"Soldat!"
Your attention snapped to the woman angrily stomping towards you. The man straightened up and faced her, even though his hand still held yours. You held his hand tighter. The lady seemed angry, and you didn't like angry people.
She took one look at you and stopped in her tracks.
"A child?" she crouched down in front of you and smiled.
You didn't like her smile. It felt fake. Like rubber, or plastic.
You inched closer to the man, but he wasn't really there anymore. He was still staring at you, but not seeing you. Like he was looking at the wall. Like a ghost.
"Come with me," she grabbed your other arm and pulled. Her hand was colder than the man's metal arm. You didn't want to go, but the man just stayed still. You knew he couldn't help you. So you followed the woman, hiding from her plastic smile.
"Hydra will be your new home, malysh."
When you looked back at the sad man, he was gone. You frowned to yourself. He was going to be lonely again.
~
As you grew up, Hydra re-wired your brain.
From the very cells of your body to the instincts carved into your bones, Hydra made you theirs.
They groomed you into an obedient servant ever since you were a child. They made you into the perfect little soldier for them to use.
All your life, you were subject to agonizing experiments and ruthless training. Unsurprisingly, it didn't cultivate any loyalty to the terrorist organization, only mindless subservience. You stayed because you didn't have a choice. You didn't know what choices you had at all.
You were just another part of their resources. Another assistant, another lab rat, another brainwashed soldier as expendable as the rest of them.
All except for one person.
The Winter Soldier. He wasn't a resource, he was the Asset.
You've heard the handlers and scientists rave on and on about the Soldier. The only one of the Winter Soldiers that produced desired results with Arnim Zola's serum, and it has never been replicated since the 1940s. Granted, the only time you heard these remarks was over the remains of another failed experiment on the table and you were tasked to remove the bodies.
You felt nothing for your fellow resources; one day, once you were no longer functional, you'd be removed just like them. Your purpose would be served. But an odd feeling of... admiration towards the Winter Soldier grew past the confines of Hydra's mind-control within you. The Soldier's purpose was so much bigger than you. Indispensable.
He was perfect. He was the Asset.
Every time he walked by you on his way to another mission or to report to his handler, your eyes would stray from your objective and linger on his tall frame. His empty gaze from the memory wipes on the chair, his bionic arm that had taken countless lives—you could never look away from him, as if a magnetic force drew you to him.
(You remember seeing those eyes of his before. A lonely shade of grey stone. Like the moon. But where?)
One day, the Soldier stalked down the hallway, walking in the opposite direction of you. Every step he took oozed efficiency and power where his intimidating stare did not. His mere presence seemed to thin all the air in the narrow dull corridor, smothering you. This was the Winter Soldier.
Ah, you mused, that is why he is an Asset, and I am nothing.
The files in your hand crinkled under your grip. His eyes glanced in your direction, most likely out of habit rather than interest. You felt yourself preen and cower simultaneously at the attention of someone so much more powerful than you, who could crush you like an insignificant bug.
An unfamiliar emotion welled in your chest. You haven't felt in a long time. Not since you were a child blanching at the bloodied chair as your trainer held weapons of your nightmares.
Your lips twitched and formed an expression you knew as a smile. (Learned. Hydra never gave you a reason to smile.) You registered the minute change in the Soldier's facade, the slight twitch of his eyelids as surprise.
Surely, they had not wiped his brain of basic human interaction, right?
The Soldier schooled his expression into his usual blankness and quickened his pace. Perfect, once more. The Fist of Hydra once again.
You lingered in the hallway as you watched his figure disappear down the long path, marveling at the shine of his titanium arm and the feeling in your chest.
Your smile widened into a large grin. Laughter threatened to bubble from your throat, but you swallowed it down and headed to the labs.
You feel.
~
The next time you saw him, it was after one of his missions. You were familiar with the Soldier's routine to know that after his maintenance, was the memory wipe. Or as the handlers liked to say, the Chair.
The technicians in Hydra were disposable, but steadily growing scarce. There had been multiple occasions where the Soldier had broken his restraints and killed them in his madness. Hence, they called you and another three assistants as human shields before he could reach the others. It's not like you could have said no, anyway. Your options were always death, or maybe death. Hydra truly spoiled you with choices.
This time, however, was an alarmingly close brush with the afterlife.
The Soldier took his seat on the uncomfortable chair and the machines trapped him, subjecting him to the harrowing sparks of electricity.
The sounds of his screams and his spasming muscles enchanted you. Momentarily distracted, you tilted your head in fascination as you saw the frightening process for the first time.
Perhaps you should have looked away. Should have felt the emotion called guilt, or revulsion. But you couldn't look away.
This was how Hydra created weapons to be worshipped.
Suddenly, the restraints on his wrists gave way with a sickening grind and fell to the ground with a loud clang.
Well, блядь.
Instantly, the three assistants sprang into motion, scrambling to hold the Soldier down. Panic flashed in their eyes—raw, animal fear—as they fought to pin his thrashing limbs. You hesitated only a second longer than you should have, then stepped in.
You had a job to do, after all.
You reached for his metal arm, fingers locking around cold titanium.
Big mistake.
You realized it too late—the precise moment the chill of the alloy registered beneath your skin. The limb shifted, jerked, alive with impossible strength. He tore free like your grip meant nothing, like you meant nothing, and his hand was suddenly at your throat.
Panic stole the breath from your lungs before he even squeezed.
The grip was unbearable, brutal. A perfect vice, engineered to kill. You grasped at his wrist, choked—but it didn't matter. He wasn't looking at you.
He was still screaming. A sound that split the sterile air—raw, animal, hoarse from overuse. His chest heaved, hyperventilating, muscles spasming beneath the restraints. He didn't see you. Not really.
But then his eyes met yours.
Grey. Steel, storm-washed and wide with something beyond pain—something drowned in blood.
Your vision blurred. Lungs shrieked for air. Darkness crept in at the edges.
And yet...
Beautiful.
Not bad, you thought, for a final sight.
If this was death, then perhaps it meant something.
To die at the hands of the Winter Soldier—
No.
To be chosen by him, even in madness.
It was an honor.
Your quivering lips slowly spread into a smile. It might have bordered on maniacal, from the haunted look in the Soldier's eyes—but it felt real, on your face. Honest.
You faintly registered the barking of orders in the background before the pressure around your throat was released.
The Soldier slumped over in the chair. You hit the ground hard, knees cracking against the cold floor, hands flying to your neck as you choked down desperate, ragged breaths. Each inhale seared like fire. Bruises already bloomed beneath your fingers—dark, blooming proof that you'd been touched.
One of the assistants kneeled to help you as the other two stepped away from the Soldier, submissive once more. There was no trace of the madness from before. The storm in his eyes had gone still—glazed, compliant, eerily silent. The process was complete.
Your stomach twisted with something like disappointment.
Ignoring the assistant beside you and the handlers' rapid orders, you held his stare unflinchingly.
When your lips twisted into a phantom grin, the Soldier's eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly. A secret. He saw it. Somehow.
And his expression shifted—just slightly. Confusion. Recognition. Resistance?
It struck you like a blow to the chest.
The flutter returned, deep and dark and inexplicable.
Marveling at his lost gaze, you finally knew what that emotion was.
Desire.
~
There seemed to be a breakthrough in replicating the Super Soldier Serum. You eavesdropped curiously on the heated discussions between the scientists as you stood on standby—on assistant duty once again for the experiments department.
From what you heard, the experiment was nearly successful on one of the prisoners. His strength was greatly multiplied and his vitals were stable; the only mistake had been the fact that he broke out of his restraints and couldn't be stopped until they had the Soldier subdue him.
Upon deeper investigation, the resulting change seemed to have caused psychosis in the test subjects, a mania that couldn't be explained.
"You there," one of the scientists addressed you. You straightened your posture and your hands relaxed from their position on your back.
"Carry those files and come with me."
You heed her orders without so much as a blink. The lab department was familiar enough with you to know you were a resource. The same couldn't be said for other Hydra staff; no one went around with badges other than the higher-ups, so most assumed that you were an agent and left you alone. It wasn't entirely wrong though, you were occasionally sent on easier missions when manpower was lacking—which was the majority of the time. Hydra didn't really pay their employees well.
The room was crowded with people when you entered. Oh, and the dead body on the floor. You realized that he was the prisoner you escorted for the experiment with the replicated serum.
Your eyes slowly moved from the lifeless man to the steel-toed boots standing in front of him, trailing long legs in leather up to a metal arm.
The files nearly fell from your loose grip.
It was the Soldier.
And he was looking at you. Steel grey trained on you like a dog on a bone, analyzing you down to the very last inch (for threats or something else?). You could have purred at the attention, satisfaction blooming in your core that those empty eyes saw you and only you.
It was always a treat to see the confusion lurking beneath his psyche. To see him react to the sliver of teeth in a grin you bared for him. Only him.
You failed to notice the well-dressed man watching you and the Soldier's interactions.
When your eyes finally met his, recognition hit like a blow: Alexander Pierce, one of Hydra's most insidious assets buried deep within S.H.I.E.L.D. The calculative look in his eyes—one all too familiar to you.
"What about that one?"
He pointed at you, tearing your attention away from the Soldier for a moment. All eyes in the room landed on you, an uncomfortable thing that itched at your skin and weighed heavy on your shoulders. You kept your features stone cold, stealing a glance at the Soldier once more.
His lips were pulled taut. Unease. The display of emotion would have elated you if it weren't for the head scientist's next sentence.
"T-That is one of our resources, sir. He has been trained but he has also undergone many experiments. His history might cause anomalies with the serum—"
You didn't like the nonchalance in Pierce's tone even as the head scientist fretted at his side.
"He's trained. That's already a step above—" Pierce kicked the body on the floor with a polished dress shoe, "—this one. Start the procedure. The loss is minimal, anyways."
If you were any less subordinate, you would've clicked your tongue at the offhanded remark. You might have been a resource, but surely they could have treated you better than the prisoners considering your 'loyalty' to Hydra.
Instead, you bowed your head in submission and walked to the operating table the scientist beckoned you to.
The doctors started clambering around you, preparing the equipment and locking the metal restraints tight against your wrists and ankles like a lamb for slaughter. You could only swallow thickly as memories of harrowing screams and wails came with the syringe.
Perhaps this would be your final experiment. You could feel the Soldier's heavy gaze prickling at your skin, and when you looked up at him, you were surprised. Turmoil flitted briefly over the Soldier's expressive eyes even as he stepped in front of Pierce, no doubt as part of a previous order.
They all used him for the same reasons anyway. It was always 'protect me', or 'kill him' and something of the sort. Like he was a shield or a weapon, an object of their whims—but you already knew that, had already been used the same way he was.
But you hoped, deep down as the surgical lights burned your pupils, that if this experiment succeeded, you would use your life to free him. Make sure that no one else could take advantage of the both of you anymore. Just you and him and all the good things to experience in the world.
You wanted to see him smile, see that blank expression replaced with a soft quirk of lips. Oh, wouldn't that be a sight?
Even if it meant sacrificing yourself in the process.
You wonder, when did he start to become everything you live for?
The syringe poked through your skin and everything burned. Your screams sounded foreign to your muffled ears, grating sounds that echoed throughout your head.
All you knew was fire in your veins, pain pain pain, and steel grey eyes that never once left your face.
The world exploded into colors.
Then darkness.
~
"You have been reborn, soldat."
The serum worked.
At least, on you.
You awaken with crystal clear vision, every speck of dust and particle in the air pinpointed with clarity. You note the newfound muscles that strain against your clothes and the raw power that thrums comfortably in your veins.
There is no sign of the Soldier in the lab. You don't even pretend to hide your disappointed gaze—it's not as if Hydra gives a damn about your emotions.
They had been ecstatic when you woke up, showing no signs of the same psychosis as previous failed attempts. However, the excitement with their breakthrough quickly faded when they realized you were an exception. A result of your 'contaminated' history.
The experiments after you followed a trend of failure. It was regrettable, seeing your fellow resources subjected to the same agony only to succumb to the same madness that landed a bullet between their eyes, but you don't even blink at the blood painting the floors. Hail Hydra, and all that.
The more Hydra failed, the safer your Soldier would be. With your newfound power, you can finally protect him. They didn't need to put him through any more experiments or missions; they had their shiny new toy to play around with—and you couldn't care less about what they'd do to you now that you were 'upgraded'.
"You will pave the new future of Hydra, soldat," the scientist's smarmy grin is the last thing you see as you lie down on the table to be cut open once more.
No, you deny internally, ignoring the whirr of a drill as your stomach churned.
Not soldat.
You close your eyes and think of steel grey eyes, the smell of gun oil.
Moy Soldat.
~
The superiors leave you in charge of the Soldier.
Karpov still acts as his handler, taking over whenever the Soldier has a mission to fulfill. You, however, take care of his day-to-day needs when out of cryo, a chore the handlers deemed themselves too 'important' to be doing. And what better use for a new Super Soldier than to care for the other Super Soldier? Idiots.
You're not complaining though. It's a welcome change from experiments and being cut open to test the limits of the semi-successful serum. It may have enhanced your capabilities and senses, but your pain tolerance remains far from super.
(Laying on the operating table with your insides out felt horrifically wrong, but they pumped you with enough drugs to see stars. You could count each rib of yours. Blood. So much blood.)
Regardless, taking care of the Soldier is one thing you've been content to do. Seeing his face and being able to touch him and feel the warmth in his skin is a marvel every time you clean him up after a mission.
The scum before you had been spraying him down with a hose like an animal. Naturally, you took tender care in bathing him, using warm water and your bare hands to clean even the crevices of his metal arm.
You always start with his flesh arm, carefully running a damp cloth over the bruises blooming beneath his skin. Some would be fresh, others faded—a tapestry of pain that no one but you seemed to acknowledge.
Your touch is always slow, deliberate, as you work the grime and dried blood from his body. He never reacts at first, but you catch the way his breathing slows, how his posture gradually eases from rigid to something closer to relaxed—as much as a machine could be.
His metal arm took longer. The joints needed careful attention, the crevices requiring delicate work to rid them of dirt and the faint traces of oxidation that accumulated after long missions. The first time you did this, he had watched you with quiet confusion, unused to such treatment. Now, he simply stands there, letting you tend to him without question. Sinks into your touch like an inevitable force.
You don't rush. The others would have. They would have hosed him down with no regard, treating him like a machine that needed maintenance. But to you, he is more—so much more.
(Sometimes, there would be moments of lucidity when the Soldier is more flesh than machine. He would blink, as if coming back to himself, and for a brief moment, his eyes would meet yours—not empty, not vacant, but something else. Something you can't quite name.
It always vanishes too quickly, lost beneath the weight of his conditioning, but you know it was there. That's all you could ask for.)
There is one problem.
He always... complies. You know what Hydra does to keep the Winter Soldier subservient to them, even aided them in holding him down during the memory wipes. However, it leaves a bitter taste on your tongue to watch him strictly adhere to your commands.
Come here, and he will. Give me your hand, and he gives the titanium one. And your heart aches in a way you can't name.
Be free, you once tried, heart in your throat and sadness on your shoulders. All he did was tilt his head, mouth opening and closing before he said, order unclear, unable to proceed.
He doesn't belong like this. He should have so much more. He deserves so much better.
So you try to break him out of the confines of his mind. Every moment you get with him, you ask him to call you his. Moy Soldat. You tell him this phrase because your name has been lost and the words feel like velvet from his lips, only for him to forget and you let the cycle repeat.
Moy Soldat. He repeats. You will forget me, and he looks at you in uncertainty.
Over, and over, and over again.
You don't give up on him. He's your only ray of light in this godforsaken place. Even if it takes months, years, decades even—he's all you live for.
Until one day, you find him in the cell you both shared just... standing there.
The Soldier's eyes are unfocused as he stares at the door you came through, flickering up to your face once you enter.
You told him to sleep thirty-one minutes ago. He disobeyed an order. You suppress the spark of hope that flares in your chest as you step closer, stopping just an arm's length away from him.
"What's wrong?"
He furrows his eyebrows, holding you captive with his grey gaze. "Soldat. Moy... Soldat."
The words get stuck in your throat. He looks human. He's trying to remember you, even after the memory wipe.
Your heart races, "Yes... yes. Did you call me, Soldat? Say it once more. Who am I?"
When he echoes it back, you relish in the roll of his tongue. His. But—
"It's okay. You will forget me, moy lyubmiyy," your voice lowers to a soft whisper as you reach out and tuck his hair behind his ear.
For a moment, he's still.
Then—without warning—his hands are on you.
You're slammed against the wall so hard the air punches out of your lungs. Cold titanium fingers wrap around your wrists, unforgiving and unrelenting.
You feel your bones give a warning creak under his grip, but you can't look away from the Soldier's wild eyes.
"STOP SAYING THAT!"
His roar is a hurting, pitiful thing that echoes throughout the room. His chest heaves with every shuddering breath, close enough that it ghosts on your lips.
The silence that follows is deafening.
Then a grin stretches slowly across your face. It contains far too many teeth in it, and the pained expression on your Soldat's face reminds you of that fact.
"You remember."
He doesn't react in time when you easily break out of his hold, startling as your hands fly up to cup his face.
Precious, precious little thing. Your Soldat.
The words spill from your lips like a worship.
"You remember me."
Then—
Drip.
Drip.
Your joy vanishes as quickly as it came when you realize that your Soldat is crying.
The tears cascade down his cheeks. Your gentle touch falters for just a split second before you wipe them away. His eyes are blown wide with confusion, a storm in those grey skies. It's as if he doesn't know what his tears are.
Your fingers tremble against his skin. Your Soldat is crying. Glassy-eyed and each tear stabs at your heart like a dull knife.
"No, no," your tone immediately softens, cajoling him, "Don't cry, dorogoy. Why do you cry?"
His eyes stay fixated on you, unblinking. Perhaps he knows your weakness for them. That your weakness is him in his entirety.
"Help."
He grips your hands like a lifeline.
"Help me remember."
He begs. Your Soldat begs you. The Soldier actually—
The choice comes to you easily. You lost the moment he looked at you with those haunted grey eyes of his.
"Anything," you whisper, inching closer and bringing his hands to your lips. Both metal and flesh. "I'll do anything for you, moy Soldat."
(From then onwards, his handlers' orders don't sound the same as they usually do, even with the memory wipes.
Soldat, they would call, false bravado and drunk on power but so so fearful of the weapon they molded.
Moy Soldat, he hears the whispers of a longing voice, so soft and gentle and wanting like he has never known before. And he does not know— never knows.)