Chapter Text
"Aunt May, can you read me a story?"
"Really? Is your Starkpad broken?"
"It's flat and I can't be bothered charging it."
"Well then, how can I resist such an invite to spend time with my favourite sick little nephew."
"Not little, and I'm your only nephew!"
"Oh…well then, how about we read…The Prince's Bride."
"Urgh, isn't that a simping story?"
"A what?"
"Simping."
"Honestly Peter. I don't think it is. But there might be a kiss."
"Hmmmm, okay…if there's nothing else on offer."
Way back in 1918, there was a dashing young dockhand named Bucky. He lived in a borough called Brooklyn with his best friend, Steven, whom he affectionately called Stevie.
Stevie had always been ill as a boy, always in and out of hospital, his small and sickly stature an easy target for the other kids to tease. But never Bucky.
They were inseparable from the schoolyard to adulthood; always together.
When Stevie's parents passed away, Bucky took him under his wing and kept an eye on him, pulling Stevie out of fights and looking after his welfare. And whenever Stevie became too sick and felt like his time on earth was coming to an end, Bucky would smile softly and say they'd be together 'til the end of the line'.
But every time Bucky said 'til the end of the line', what he really was saying was, 'I love you'.
"See, I told you it was a simping story."
"I really don't know what that means, Peter, but do you want me to stop?"
"How long till I have 10% on my Starkpad?"
"It's up to 3% now."
"Keep going then."
Bucky decided to join the army to seek his fortune, knowing he couldn't offer Stevie a good life; not when Stevie needed medical care. Even in those days it cost a small fortune. So saying an emotional goodbye, many important words still not said, Bucky headed off on a large carrier. Meanwhile, Steve, who never wanted to be a burden to anyone, joined up with an experimental program and became a super soldier. When he learned Bucky had been captured, he single handedly saved him from the evil scientist Zola. And with the words 'til the end of the line' ringing in their ears, they parted ways again with Bucky lost, presumed dead. Steve, in his grief, saved New York by defeating the Red Skull and crashing his ship Valkyrie into the ice, where he remained frozen for the next 70 years.
And that is where our story begins…
~*~*~
The Soldier couldn’t help but fidget with his jacket. The dark green crushed velvet felt too decadent against his skin, wrong somehow. He glanced at his hands, one human, one metal, knowing they'd been covered in blood for most of his scattered memory but were now clean, nails clipped and cuticles tended. He couldn’t quite remember when that had happened, nor when his hair had been styled into a low bun nestled at the nape of his neck.
To be honest, he couldn’t remember much of anything.
He’d woken up that morning and been told the day of his betrothal to Alexander Pierce, a so-called Prince of New York, was to be announced. There was something about Pierce that made the Soldier's skin crawl; but he was trapped, had no recourse to get out. He didn't even know his own name.
So to be put on display at a press conference was not how he wanted his day to start. He'd much prefer to sit in the bottom of his cupboard and embrace the darkness. The wisp of a memory, a small bony body pressed against his in the dark, filtered through the fuzz, but it was gone the moment he went to inspect it.
An attendant whose name escaped him, Rollins maybe, pushed him through an arch, and he found himself walking out to stand on a balcony overlooking a huge crowd. Pierce was already speaking and the Soldier kept the disgust off his face as the announcement was made.
"I would like to introduce you all to my betrothed, the Winter Prince."
The moniker he'd been given rankled as a roar went up from the crowd. Pierce's beady eyed stare made him drop his gaze, something deep inside told him to flee, that he didn't love this man, that there was someone else…
Who, though?
His mind remained blank. But there was a sensation of knowing it to be true.
Thousands of pairs of eyes honed in on him and he tried to stand stoic, proud as he'd been ordered. Yet, he longed to duck behind a pillar, hide, be stealthy, not used to such scrutiny in the open.
The Soldier tried to unfocus his gaze and look out at the crowd, not wanting to give anyone eye contact else they see the silent plea for help in his soul. But a figure in dark navy, a mask covering their face, caught his attention. He couldn’t say why, there were many people in masks, yet his eyes were drawn to this one in particular. They stared back unflinchingly. The person stood on the edge of the crowd, large broad shoulders that tapered into a slim waist paired with a stance that seemed familiar but foreign at the same time. He glanced away for a second and by the time he flicked his attention back, they were gone.
Sighing inwardly, the Soldier plastered a smile that he hoped wasn’t too grimace-like on his face before waving woodenly; then allowed himself to be led back into the building.
His muscles twitched under the fancy clothing, the impulse to kick, punch and fight his way out of his situation growing with each second. He sensed someone following them along the corridor, but before he could voice his concern, Pierce was there.
“Status report, Rollins.”
“There’s chatter the Dread Pirate Rogers is here in New York." The Soldier watched in interest as Pierce sucked in a shocked breath, soon losing his train of thought when Rollins pointed a thumb at him. “But this one here was compliant, though getting fidgety. Might need another dose soon.”
“Don’t tell me how to control my property.”
“Who is the Dread Pirate Rogers?” The Soldier asked, something about the name familiar. Both Pierce and Rollins snapped their attention to him as if it was the first time they’d heard him speak.
“See what I mean,” Rollins stated. This time Pierce didn’t argue, but looked down his nose at the Soldier and grabbed his upper arm. The Soldier flinched, breaking the grip and Pierce’s eyes narrowed further.
“The Dread Pirate killed your greatest love. The only person who could ever save you. You’re mine now, you hear it?” Pierce's eyes were steely and condescending.” There is nothing and no-one out there for you. Your place is by my side.”
With each sentence, something in the Soldier started to burn, his fingers twitched with excess energy and his stomach swirled with the need to stand his ground, to argue, to tell Pierce that he was wrong. To yell out that…St…the name was gone as soon as it appeared…someone did love him. The thought this person Pierce talked about was dead, filled him with a barrage of chaotic emotions: anger, betrayal and a fierce desire to hurt the people who had wronged him.
He spun and punched Rollins square on the nose, blood spurted everywhere as Rollins howled and Pierce started to say a series of words. Words the Soldier knew all too well; and by the time ‘freight car’ had been uttered, the Soldier wanted nothing more than to sleep.
The only escape the Soldier had left to him was a daily ride on his bike, a Harley Davidson that Pierce had gifted him. Even though the Street 750, that he'd named ‘Colt’ was presented in a way that made the Soldier feel he was indebted; he still accepted it with an excitement rushing under his skin.
To ride out under the blue sky, wind in his hair, a rumbling between his thighs and the illusion of autonomy, was worth the lecherous looks and whispered conversations about him. Though his ‘freedom’ came with strict stipulations. He always had a full guard follow him, and he was never left alone. He fantasised on occasion about escaping, finding his own path, knowing somehow he had the skill and knowledge buried deep to do so…but what was the point? He had nowhere to go, the city he lived in was unfamiliar in a way that should have bothered him.
It was on a sunny autumn day that the Soldier was allowed to ride out to the ocean, finding himself pointed towards Coney Island. Something about the place called to him.
As he walked past the various rides, he glanced behind him, unable to see his minders. They weren't usually so inconspicuous, but he'd take the extra breathing room.
Children laughing, tourists taking photos and money exchanging hands surrounded him on every side, and although he preferred to be alone, the Soldier found a strange comfort in the crowd.
Rounding the next corner he bumped into a tall muscular man with dark hair and piercing eyes. He'd almost be handsome if he didn't exude an aura of douchebag, his smirk off-putting, not sexy.
He also didn't move out of the Soldier's way.
"Excuse me," the voice dripped in sarcasm and the Soldier immediately was wary. "My friends and I seem to be lost, can you please direct us to the Cyclone?"
The Soldier looked behind the man to see a slight woman with bright red hair watching him impassively, and a huge man in a trench whose features were tinged in green. They looked like a troupe of circus performers travelling together.
He was about to respond that he didn't know where the Cyclone was, but his feet were already moving as if on auto pilot and he couldn't stop himself. The Soldier wanted to know how he knew the direction, and the others followed even though he'd not told them to.
"I'm Brock," the tall man said as he caught up to walk next to him. "What's your name, soldier?"
It should have been his first and last hint that things were about to go south, but an image overlayed his vision of a young skinny blonde youth running ahead of him, and he became distracted, trying to chase the disjointed memory.
The big green guy was suddenly in front of him, fingers on his neck and everything turned to black.
The Soldier came back into semi-consciousness to find his body rolling and his stomach lurching. It took another minute of swallowing down the nausea to realise he was on a boat. In the ocean, if the salt in the air was any indication.
He remained silent, listening closely, trying to get his bearings. Whatever the big green guy had done to him, it made him hazy.
"Now we have the Winter Prince, what next?" He heard the woman ask in an almost disinterested tone.
"I dropped a Hydra comm device where we grabbed him that Pierce's team will find. Once we reach our destination, we'll leave his mangled body out the front of the Hydra safe house. Hydra of course will think SHIELD has killed one of their best undercover operatives, and Pierce will think Hydra have killed his fiance and a war will break out between Hydra and SHIELD." Brock laughed hard and almost maniacal.
The plan was pretty outlandish and obscure, and he failed to understand the intricacies as to why his death would result in a war. Or why there was a hunger for it in the first place. He didn’t even remember being an operative - it seemed outlandish. But the Soldier knew one thing for certain, he had no intention of being killed by the likes of Brock. Suddenly a deep, almost kind rumbling voice spoke.
"You never said anything about killing him."
"Well, what did you expect? I hired you to start a faction war - it's a very precise business."
"I just don't think it's right."
"Well, that's your first problem. I don't pay you to think, you big buffoon."
"I agree with Hulk, we shouldn't kill him."
"Oh, you finally have an opinion," Brock started and the Soldier could tell he was a monologue kind of guy. The worst type of bad guy.
"It is none of your concern what happens to him now, I’ll deal with him. But don't forget that when I found you, Natasha, you were so brainwashed you didn't even know what a brain was!"
Something about the words resonated within him and he cracked an eye to see Brock striding towards the Hulk. No one paid him any mind.
"And you, Hulk. You big dopey headed fool, do you want to go back where I found you? Unemployed - as a green-man?"
The silence on the deck was long and awkward.
"I believe there’s a man dressed in navy following us." The woman finally remarked.
"What? That's peachy!"
"I think it's the Dread Pirate Rogers." She deadpanned.
"Can't be. He's merely a myth."
"I don't think so," Natasha responded, pointing behind their boat. "Look, isn’t that his ensignia? A large star in a band of red white and blue circles?"
"Oh, that's peachy." Was Brock's annoyed response.
While everyone was distracted, the Soldier took his chance. Leaping up, he made for the side of the craft, diving into the water and leaving shocked faces in his wake.
He was in the water only thirty seconds when a horrific shrieking started.
"Do you know what that sound is, dear Prince Winter?" Brock asked with a smirk, leaning over the side of the boat.
He didn't want to answer, he wanted to keep swimming. But the god awful noise and the water suddenly churning next to him, made him stop. A metallic fin breached the surface only a few yards away.
"That's Dr Doom's robotic shrieking sharks. We're in his territory, only briefly, but long enough that if you stay in the water any longer. You'll be torn limb from limb."
The Soldier treaded water for a moment, weighing up his options. He didn't know who this Doom person was, but the circling dark spots in the water were concerning. The noise, even more so. His head was on fire, his ears ached and his metal arm grinded from the salt water, it was going to be no help. He glanced behind Brock's boat, seeing a small speck of another vessel gaining on them, still too far away for him to swim to safety though.
He was shit out of options.
"Swim back now. I promise I won't hurt you, but I'm not so sure the sharks will give you the same consideration."
The circling of metal around his body became intense. The Soldier could see at least three of them, their snapping jaws breaching the surface, the glint from the sun making them more menacing.
A snap next to his ear made him flinch and turn towards the oncoming attack…
"Peter, it's okay. The sharks don't eat the Soldier."
"What?"
"You were looking a bit nervous, I just wanted to make sure you know that he doesn't die here."
"Oh…yeah, I know that. I just, I ah, needed a drink of milk. I was thirsty, that's all."
"Okay, do you want me to continue reading, or go get you a drink now?"
"Continue! Err, I mean, continue please, the milk can wait."
"Alright, here goes…"
The shark headed directly for the Soldier and he was completely out of luck, wondering if poking it in the steel eye before it bit his face off would work. Or was that only with flesh and blood sharks?
Then suddenly he was yanked up by the neck of his jacket, the shark jumping into the air at the same time.
Hulk.
The Soldier was thrown unceremoniously back into the boat with a grunt, while the mechanical shark fared poorly. It was ripped in half by two meaty green hands and he watched the two halves, sparking and snapping as they sunk back under the waves.
“Bet you thought you were being brave.” Brock taunted.
“Only compared to some,” the Soldier managed to retort, enjoying the play of emotions on Brock’s face as he figured out his meaning.
“The man in navy is gaining.” Natasha stated, breaking Brock's furious gaze.
Brock cut his eyes towards the vessel that seemed to be following them, leaving the Soldier be for the time being.
“We’re almost at our destination, see.” He pointed towards a sheer cliff face, a lone rope hanging impossibly long from it. “The Palisades will slow him down and give us enough time to cross over to the Hydra estate.”
“Holy shit,” Natasha breathed as she looked up. “These cliffs are insanity!”
“Hulk, take us up. There is no way the man in navy will be able to follow us.”
The Soldier looked on in interest as Brock tied the boat up at the base, and knowing he couldn’t escape right then, he waited to see what the plan was. He was not expecting the Hulk to pick them all up and climb up the side of the cliff as they hung from him, using the rope like it was no inconvenience. It was an incredible show of strength. His eyes were shut for most of the journey though. For some reason he hated heights…or more accurately the sensation of falling.
Halfway up, Natasha commented that the man in navy had started to climb the rope after them.
“That’s peachy,” Brock muttered disbelievingly and told Hulk to hurry up else he’d lose his job.
Within minutes they were climbing over the lip, and Brock immediately made for where the rope was tied, undoing it until it fell over the edge with a ‘whoosh’. Whoever was on the other end had to have fallen to their death. A pang went through the Soldier at the thought. He had no idea who the person in navy was, but he liked the idea that someone was chasing after him. Even if he didn’t know the reason why.
“Hey, he’s still there,” Natasha said, impressed. It was the first time the Soldier had heard an emotion other than bored disinterest from her. His eyes darted to the left, there was an opening in the rocks with a forest beyond. If he could make it to the tree line, he was certain he could escape.
“He didn’t fall?” Brock said incredulously. “That’s peachy!”
Natasha glanced at Brock, the disdain clear in her eyes. “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means."
While Natasha, Brock and Hulk were all looking down at the man in navy, who the Soldier was strangely thankful was still alive, he made a break for it; stumbling over his feet, still a little woozy.
He didn’t make it far, Brock tackled him from behind. The Soldier knew he was the stronger of the two, but Brock started to speak and the words sent a spear of panic and fear up his spine.
“Why I didn’t try this earlier, I don’t know. Longing, rusted, furnace…" by the time he was finished, the Soldier was compliant and following Brock’s orders as they walked away from the cliff, leaving a red-haired woman behind.