Where Winter Ends

Sometimes I liked to daydream, kind of all I could really do in my condition.

I didn't have many things I could dream about, but I did have a few.

The first was always me and my sister.

Back home, in another life, one where I never left for the Captain America tour.

Where I got a job closer to home, and her and I would go out to the beach, just the two of us.

We'd build sandcastles adorned with pretty rocks and shells like treasure. She would always try to sneak a few into her dress pocket to take home like contraband joy.

We'd splash around in the water, lifting the hems of our dresses just high enough so the tide could kiss our knees.

I could feel the warm breeze brushing my skin like a soft hand, the sun pressing gentle kisses along my cheeks.

The waves danced around my ankles, pulling and swirling sand between my toes.

The salty air filled my lungs, crisp and heavy, wrapping me in a comfort that felt like home.

Jamie always fell asleep on the beach towel, curled into herself like a kitten.

Without fail, I would hoist her onto my back, struggling with her weight and the awkward beach bag as we trudged home, barefoot and sunburned.

This was my favorite daydream.

For me, Jamie will always be that sweet little girl sneaking shells.

I know for certain I won't meet her again in this life. Even if given the chance, I wouldn't.

I couldn't face her. Not after the things I've done.

Not after the time she spent alone.

The things she must've gone through…

I wasn't there. I never came home.

My other daydream, oddly, was with Bucky.

I used to go dancing after shows with some of the military guys. I imagined how it might be if Bucky and I went dancing together.

He looked like the type of man who would know how to lead on a dance floor, confident but respectful.

And I certainly knew how to follow.

We'd burn through every dance floor in the city, waltzing under string lights and laughter.

I could almost see it, him in a clean-cut suit, hair slicked back just enough with product, a confident smile dancing on his lips.

Those baby blues… like glass over water. I could see myself reflected in them.

These were my daydreams.

Simple, gentle things.

But they calmed the darkness in my mind.

Helped me hold onto the last scraps of myself in this cruel prison called my body.

The year was 1991.

Bucky and I had been removed from cryo and given orders to retrieve prototypes of a new Winter Soldier serum being transported by a married couple.

Howard and Maria Stark.

Their names meant nothing to Bucky, he showed no reaction.

But me… I remembered.

Howard Stark, visionary, idealist, inventor. A man who dreamed of a future like no other.

A man I once saw speak at a science expo. His charming smile and enthusiastic voice, always working on something to better tomorrow.

Zola never cracked the code like Stark did.

Despite his obsession, despite us, his two living trophies, we were the only successes.

Bucky and I were the perfect prototypes.

We encountered others through the years.

I met a Soviet super soldier, Red Guardian.

Loud, obnoxious. He chose to fight. He chose his side.

He was celebrated, even had toys made of himself.

Bucky encountered one in Korea. Never knew his name.

Just that he lost that fight, and his arm.

Zola was furious. Took weeks to fix the damage.

For the Stark mission, Bucky was designated primary. Retrieve the serum. No witnesses. Make it look like an accident.

I was support, hidden, waiting.

SHIELD had security on them. I was there to provide diversions and ensure no interference.

And it went almost perfectly.

Almost.

A camera caught the murder.

Bucky saw it, destroyed it, but the footage existed.

While he returned to the compound with the serum, I was ordered to retrieve the tape.

It wasn't hard.

The camera was from a nearby estate.

The house was tucked behind high brick walls, clearly belonging to wealthy retirees.

Art lined the hallways. Mahogany furniture gleamed under soft moon light. The smell of sandalwood and polished wood clung to the air.

A family portrait sat above the mantle.

An elderly couple, children around them. Grandchildren in their arms.

A perfect legacy.

My stomach twisted, a tight knot of longing.

I stared at that photo for a long time.

I wanted kids once.

But that was no more.

I found the room with the monitors. No guards.

I pulled the tape, disabled the backups, and severed the wires.

That should've been it.

Creeaak.

I turned sharply, gun raised.

An older woman stood in the doorway, holding a revolver with trembling hands.

"Please… just leave," she whispered, voice cracking like dried paper.

I hesitated.

Then, "Grandma!"

A little girl ran in.

Brown hair, long and straight. Pink kitten pajamas. Freckles across her nose.

She was maybe twelve.

No witnesses.

My gun shifted.

I always try to stop.

But I never can.

The recoil. The hiss of the silencer.

The thud of her small body.

But then, another bang.

Red blurred my vision.

Warmth ran down inside my mask.

She shot me.

The grandmother.

Right in the head.

I turned and saw myself in the monitor, red trailing down my temple.

She clutched the child, sobbing, rocking her.

I fell back, slumping against the desk.

My instincts kicked in. I dug into my skull, fingers scraping flesh to find the bullet.

A raw, searing pain exploded across my mind. Nausea. Numbness.

I pulled it out.

Throwing it to the side I raise my gun.

Two more shots.

The grandmother fell.

I collapsed to my knees, panting, the smell of blood heavy in the room.

I wipe my face on my sleeve cleaning the blood from eyes.

Then, footsteps.

"Grandma? Everything okay?" A voice echoed in the hall.

I emerged from the doorway to see a boy. Maybe fifteen.

He froze at the sight.

"Please... don't kill me," he begged, hands lifted beside his head.

 Tears falling as he wet himself.

I did.

His body hit the floor like thunder in a cathedral.

Stillness followed.

I felt something drip down my face.

I wiped my mask, blood, I thought. But my fingers came back clear, yet wet.

Tears?

I was crying.

I was crying.

I haven't cried in years.

Not without pain. Not from emotion.

How?

My orders screamed in my head interrupting my thoughts: No witnesses. Get the tape. Return.

I swept through the house, empty now.

No life.

Just echoes of the ghosts I left behind.

I returned as ordered, delivering the tape.

The doctors wanted it to study. Said it was significant, Howard Stark was a key figure in Bucky's memory. They said Stark recognized him, even called out to him.

They wanted to see how it affected his programming.

Bucky was back in cryo already.

I wasn't given a physical, no need I guess. My regeneration made it unnecessary.

Zola was gone now as well. Not dead.

They said he was a computer.

I didn't understand what that meant.

I was ordered back into cryo.

As the frost climbed up the chamber walls and my breath slowed, I thought about the tears.

Were they mine?

The real me?

Or were they just a side effect of the gunshot?

Pain no longer startled me.

My nerves were dulled, reactions less human.

So maybe not.

Maybe that pain wasn't from the wound.

Maybe it was me.

I wonder…

My final thought as I drifted into the cold dark.