Chapter 17

January 15th, 2014

The Smithsonian Air and Space Museum, Washington D.C.

After spending the morning gathering supplies for their upcoming journey and disposing of their combat suits, Bucky and the Wyvern broke into the museum. They had to – the Wyvern's wings were folded up in her stolen backpack, along with the laptop and phone from the safehouse. The backpack never would have made it past the museum security, and Bucky's arm certainly wouldn't have. So they disconnected one of the emergency exit doors, slipped through and blended with the crowd of civilians.

The fit in fairly well in their stolen outfits. The museum was busy, with couples and families meandering down the corridors from exhibit to exhibit. The Wyvern wore jeans, boots, and a faded brown bomber jacket over a deep red hoodie. She carried the backpack full of their gear, because they'd agreed that if something happened it was better if she was close to her wings. Bucky was also in jeans and boots, but had stuck with his plaid shirt. He wore a green canvas jacket over the shirt, with woolen gloves to conceal his hands, and a cap pulled low over his face. Together they could be any other couple visiting the museum.

They both instinctively sighted the cameras around the museum and angled their faces away. But the Wyvern couldn't help but look around at the main atrium, filled with air and spacecraft. She couldn't remember ever being in a place like this, with so many interesting things collected for people to just enjoy.

They couldn't dawdle, though. She and Bucky followed the colorful signs to the Captain America exhibit, sticking together in the crowd. Bucky was deliberately casual, with his hands in his pockets to hide his arm, but the Wyvern could sense his discomfort. He didn't make the rookie mistake of fidgeting with his cap or glancing nervously at the museum security, but his shoulders were tense, and his nervousness emanated from him to the Wyvern like an echo.

On either side of the escalator up to the exhibit, two large banners depicted an artistic rendering of Captain America's face. Even with the cowl, the Wyvern recognised the man on the bridge. Bucky clearly did too, because his shoulders tensed even more.

On the escalator up to the exhibit, the Wyvern's mind raced. She eventually settled on tucking her hair behind her ear and turning to face Bucky directly. No one would find anything odd in that. Bucky turned his head to look at her, frowning.

"Whatever's in there," the Wyvern murmured, counting on the loud conversation of the family just below them to cover her words, "the hard part is over."

Bucky raised an eyebrow. "Hard part?"

They got to the top of the escalator, and the Wyvern nodded her head at a huge portrait of a saluting Captain America, waiting for them in the exhibit. "You've already faced the man. This is just… research."

Bucky let out a long breath at the sight of the red, white and blue exhibit. People were filing in. "Research," he repeated.

"Yes. And if anything goes wrong, we've got contingency plans."

Bucky didn't exactly relax, but he nodded, took a deep breath, and started moving. The Wyvern stayed by his side.

They didn't linger by the entrance. Beside the title of the exhibit was a video of a waving flag, accompanied by a display that said Captain America had been in the U.S. Military in World War Two, that science had helped him to become the 'pinnacle of human physical potential', and that he was an 'embodiment of freedom.'

The Wyvern wrinkled her nose. She had some operational knowledge about World War Two; weapons and vehicles that originated in the war, and some military strategy, but she didn't know when the conflict started or why.

Bucky said nothing, so they walked into the exhibit. A stoic-sounding voice emanated from speakers in the ceiling, and the words washed over Bucky and the Wyvern as they walked past the enormous mural of the man on the bridge.

"A symbol to the nation. A hero to the world. The story of Captain America is one of honour, bravery, and sacrifice."

Bucky's eyes flicked back and forth. A child in the family behind them was jumping up and down, demanding that his parents properly admire the mural. The Wyvern was already confused.

They followed the corridor around, coming across two blue displays that held first an image of a shorter version of Captain America, and then the taller one that the Wyvern recognised.

"Denied enlistment due to poor health, Steven Rogers was chosen for a program unique in the annals of American warfare. One that would transform him into the world's first super soldier."

The Wyvern looked out of the corner of her eye at Bucky. He was staring at a photo of the smaller version of Rogers: a squinting, skinny-limbed boy with dog tags around his neck.

"Thought I was going crazy," Bucky eventually muttered. "Remembering a tiny kid called Steve. But yeah, this… this makes sense."

The Wyvern was about to reply, but her eyes had caught on a sentence inscribed on the other side of the corridor: While on tour in Azzano, Italy, Rogers' heroic actions saved 163 lives – including that of his best friend, Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes.

The Wyvern frowned at the words. The name called to her, but she couldn't put her finger on why. She opened her mouth to mention it to Bucky, but he was already moving again, into the wider room beyond.

This room was filled with war memorabilia: film reels, a motorbike, faded letters behind glass. Bucky was marching straight through it all, not stopping to read a single exhibit. The Wyvern hurried to catch up, until she noticed a name and date in bold font on a far wall: Steven Grant Rogers, born July 4 1918.

The Wyvern actually did a double take. Her handlers had sometimes remarked that her mind was like a computer, capable of solving advanced mathematics and engineering problems in seconds. But the sight of that date had her frozen in place for five whole seconds.

The man was almost ninety six years old. The Wyvern looked up and saw Bucky's back moving through the crowd. If Steve Rogers said he knew Bucky…

She shook her head, and paced after Bucky again. They couldn't afford for her to be the one overwhelmed by the exhibit.

She caught up with him just as he entered the next room. This was the largest space yet, a wide room with high ceilings, decorated with more murals and smaller displays arranged around the floor.

"Battle tested, Captain America and his Howling Commandos quickly earned their stripes. Their mission: taking down HYDRA, the Nazi rogue science division."

The Wyvern flinched at the name but forced herself to look back at Bucky's face. He hadn't reacted at all: he was keeping pace with the crowd, ostensibly a casual museum goer, but his eyes were fixed on the mural on the far wall. She followed his gaze and flinched again.

There he was. The mural showed Captain America in full uniform with six men flanking him, and on Rogers' direct left was Bucky.

The Wyvern froze again, and this time Bucky stopped moving as well. The other visitors streamed around them as they stared up at the patriotic mural.

He looked so young. It was an artist's depiction, but the Wyvern couldn't tear her eyes away from Bucky's short, neat hair, serious brow, and bright eyes. Below his face was a replica uniform: a blue double-breasted coast, brown trousers, and a rifle. She stared at him, and the six men surrounding him on the mural. They were a team.

"Over here," Bucky murmured, his voice low and scratchy-sounding. His arm brushed hers as he moved and she couldn't help but follow, mind racing. That was his team: the Howling Commandos. The museum narrator said that they were fighting HYDRA. What happened?

The thought fell away when she looked up to see where Bucky was heading – a glass display on the side of the room, half of it taken up by an enlarged picture of Bucky's face, with short hair and serious eyes. The display read: A Fallen Comrade.

The Wyvern's hands tightened on the straps of her backpack, and she glanced at the real Bucky. His lips had parted, and his eyes were fixed on the display. Heart pounding, the Wyvern looked back.

James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes.

Bucky and the Wyvern stood in silence as they read the words on the glass.

"Best friends since childhood," said the stoic narrator, "Bucky Barnes and Steven Rogers were inseparable on both schoolyard and battle field. Barnes is the only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country."

The Wyvern reached the bottom of the display: Bucky Barnes. 1917-1944.

She wanted to hide her face in her hands, to avoid the serious gaze of the photo-Bucky. She wanted to cry. She wanted to put her fist through the display. She could only imagine how Bucky felt.

She noticed movement out of the corner of her eye and gasped at the sight of a screen showing film reels at the bottom of the display. She'd been so caught up in the photo of Bucky's face, and the apparent date of his death, that she hadn't even noticed.

There was a shot of Bucky, his dark hair combed neatly, poring over a map with Steve Rogers. His face was serious. The film cut to another shot, this time of Rogers and Bucky smiling together in what must have been an interview. The Bucky in this film wasn't so serious: he looked at his friend and laughed, his eyes closing in mirth as he bent over, shaking his head. The sight of what once was, this black-and-white Bucky laughing with his best friend, plunged into the Wyvern's chest like a knife.

This was definitive proof of Bucky's personhood, proof that he'd had a family – oldest of four, the display read – and a friend who loved him. He was a war hero. He'd given his life fighting against HYDRA. The Wyvern remembered the way Steve Rogers had said Bucky's name, soft and quiet in the middle of a battle. She understood, now.

Bucky was still staring, his eyes bright and his jaw clenched. The Wyvern didn't know what to do. She was good at killing people, not comforting them. She decided to do her best – for the mission.

Slowly, she reached out and put her hand on Bucky's upper arm – the flesh arm. She didn't really know why she did it, just that it felt like a good idea. Bucky inhaled in response to the touch, but didn't look away from his own death date.

"I'll be over here," the Wyvern murmured, trying to convey with just her palm on his canvas jacket how… how sorry she was, how affected she was by his personhood, how much she wished everything wasn't terrible and didn't hurt.

She wondered if people usually felt so inadequate after trying to comfort someone else. She supposed most people didn't usually try to console a man who'd lost his life, memories and identity, and had to read about himself in a museum to get a fraction of it back.

The Wyvern paced away from Bucky, hands gripping her backpack straps. She wandered around the Howling Commandos exhibit, reading about Bucky's comrades and their missions in Europe from 1943 to 1945.

She tried to calm herself down – it's not your story, she berated herself. It shouldn't matter. But every time she came across an image of Bucky with his best friend and his team, her chest ached. She wondered if part of being a person was always having to feel. And feeling, so far, had only hurt.

She managed to put together the whole story: Steve Rogers' incredible transformation, his liberation of P.O.W.s in Austria, including Bucky and the members of what would soon be the Howling Commandos. She read about Bucky's fall from the train, and Rogers' sacrifice on the Valkyrie just four days later. She wondered about the kind of man Bucky had been. She wondered if he was still that man, despite HYDRA and the Winter Soldier.

She wondered if she had people who missed her like Steve missed Bucky. The thought made tears sting in her eyes again, so she pushed it away and concentrated on a display dedicated to the team's communication specialist, Jim Morita.

She was concentrating so hard that she was startled when Bucky appeared beside her, his hands still stuffed in his pockets. She didn't flinch, but she knew he'd noticed her surprise.

She met his eyes. "So," she began, and then realised she didn't know how to finish.

He let out a soft half-laugh, though his brow was heavy. "Yeah." He cleared his throat. "I kinda remember. Not everything, but all of this… it helps."

"Good," the Wyvern murmured. "I'm glad we came."

He nodded, and her chest ached again at the pain in his eyes.

"You're a lot older than I expected," she blurted out. That made him laugh again, a little more earnestly this time. Not the way he had in the black-and-white film, with closed eyes and a carefree flash of teeth, but she could see a glint of something that wasn't sadness in his eyes. She smiled, the action still alien to her.

"Ninety six years old," he said, shaking his head. "I think I'm doing pretty well, considering."

"I think I see some grey hairs," the Wyvern teased, and then her eyes widened as she realised what she'd done. She'd never teased someone before. She scrutinised Bucky's face, concerned, but he only smiled again, despite the aching sadness in his eyes.

"We should go," he said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

They ambled side-by-side through the rest of the exhibit, leaving enough time for Bucky to read each display. As they left, he took a brochure from a stack by the door. They slipped out a different emergency exit and left the museum via the loading bay, still processing what they had learned.

Avengers Tower, New York City

Two hundred and thirty miles away, Tony Stark arrived back in his lab after a quick trip to Washington D.C., swinging a bloody shirt in a plastic bag in one hand.

"Hit me, J."

The opening drum beat and guitar riff of Walk This Way blasted through his top-of-the-line StarkTech speakers.

Tony nodded along, and dropped the plastic bag on one of his gleaming workspaces. "Wait, where's Jolly Green?"

"It appears that Doctor Banner took advantage of your rapid departure from the city, sir, and is currently meditating in his living quarters."

"Huh." Tony threw his paper coffee cup at Dum-E, who had rolled into a corner and seemed to be stuck. "Well, the whole evil Nazi cult thing hit him hard. Pity we won't get a visit from the big guy."

"Indeed," J.A.R.V.I.S.'s voice was terse.

"Well, J, it looks like we've been promoted to CSI techs in the good Captain's new world order. Let's get this party started!"

He clapped his hands, and the lab whirred to life.

Port Dundalk Marine Terminal, Baltimore

In the darkness between two shipping containers, Bucky lifted a pair of metal wings and slotted them into the moorings on the Wyvern's back. He vaguely remembered doing it before, so he knew how much pressure to use and knew to let go when he heard a metallic click.

The Wyvern rolled her shoulders, taking a second to adjust to the weight and to let the information from the wing sensors run through her. The weight was familiar, making her feel grounded and safe.

She turned around. She kept the wings mostly folded up, but Bucky was still eyeing the Adamantium skeleton and barbs with something like wariness. She could just see his glinting eyes in the darkness.

"What?" she whispered, eyeing him. Had he noticed something suspicious? They'd been so careful, stealing a car that wouldn't be missed for days from a workshop, and taking side-roads from D.C. to Baltimore, but maybe someone had caught on to their trail.

"Do they hurt?"

She lowered her hackles. "The wings?"

"Yeah." His voice was low.

The Wyvern thought about it. She was sure that no one had ever asked her that while she was with HYDRA, so she'd never considered it. She rolled her shoulders again and shuffled the wings. "No," she eventually decided. "It's more of a heightened awareness, more information to process. I can feel them, but it's not painful. Why?"

Bucky glanced away. "Didn't want to make you do this, if it was 'gonna hurt you."

She smiled. The action was still unfamiliar, but felt like a fitting response to his empathy. "You're not making me do anything. Does your arm hurt you?"

He glanced down at the gleaming metal, as if he'd forgotten it was there. "Not the arm. I get information from it, like you said. But… sometimes my shoulder, where it's attached."

The Wyvern's eyes flickered over his shoulder, even though it was concealed by his canvas jacket. She remembered seeing his bare chest and the pearly, puckered scars where the arm connected with his flesh. She hadn't really thought about it then, too concerned with the Soldier's tormented eyes, but now her mind was awhirl with theories and questions about the connectivity of the metal arm – was it linked internally, to his bone, or did it fit over the stump of his arm like a socket? And more importantly, could what HYDRA did to him be improved upon, to ease his discomfort? She doubted they would have asked him if it hurt, either.

But now wasn't the time to bring it up. "Let's go," she murmured.

Bucky nodded, pulled their backpack onto his own shoulders, picked up the duffle bag full of food and clothes, and then turned around. This part of the dockyard was dark, filled with empty shipping containers, but they could hear men talking and metal clanking further down the dock, where an enormous cargo ship was being loaded. A salty breeze blew in from the river, and the temperature plummeted with each hour of darkness.

The Wyvern took a moment to focus – this was her first time using the wings outside of HYDRA's clutches, and she didn't want to lose herself in the familiar feeling of soaring into the sky on a mission. Once she was ready, and had listened for a few more moments to make sure no one was around, she looped her arms under Bucky's, whispered "jump!" and gunned as few engines as possible to get them off the ground.

The freezing night air bit at their exposed skin as they soared up from the shipping containers, and the Wyvern narrowed her eyes so they didn't tear up and obscure her vision. Her goggles were stuffed in the backpack somewhere. Once they'd gained enough height, she cut the engines and flipped them into a downward arc, her wings spread to slow their fall. They'd chosen a remote part of the docks to start from, but the container ship was well lit and had men working on the port side.

"Northwest corner," she heard Bucky say over the buffeting wind. She peered at the area of the ship he'd pointed out – the surface of the stacked containers wasn't completely even, and she could see a gap in one corner. There was a space the size of two shipping containers open at the top of the piles, invisible from deck.

"Brace yourself," she warned Bucky, and angled them into a dive. He pulled his arms in tighter to his chest and mimicked the shape of her body – they moved effortlessly together, and the Wyvern remembered flying him like this before. She blinked away the memories, though, and focused on their descent.

They plunged through the air, and at the last second, when the bulk of the shipping containers concealed them from the dock, she flared her wings so they didn't break their knees when they dropped onto the metal container.

As soon as their boots hit metal, Bucky and the Wyvern disentangled themselves and crouched, listening for shouts or alarms. But two minutes passed, and the only sounds were the ship's crew preparing for departure, and the water sloshing against the side of the pier.

The Wyvern raised her eyebrows at Bucky, and he nodded. All clear. She'd already confirmed that the crew had finished loading containers, so all they had to do now was get comfortable and wait for their ship to leave. It would be a cold, windy few days at the top of the exposed pile of shipping containers, but completely untraceable.

Bucky helped the Wyvern remove her wings again, and put them in the duffle bag so they wouldn't clang against the metal containers. The Wyvern paced around their new, temporary home – a twenty foot by sixteen foot hole amongst the corrugated maroon and blue shipping containers, eight feet deep.

Something about the confined space made her skin tingle with recognition. She turned around slowly, chasing the memory, but she didn't get it until she saw Bucky's metal hand flash in the gloom.

Seeing her wide eyes, Bucky stilled and sat on the corrugated metal. "What do you remember?"

"Do you remember fighting me in a cage?" she asked, keeping her voice low so it wouldn't carry down the stack of containers and alert the crew.

Bucky frowned. This was a routine of theirs, by now. If they had a flash of a memory they would ask the other if they remembered it too. They couldn't always help each other, but it helped to have someone to make the memories real, to confirm that they weren't going crazy.

Bucky thought about it. "I think it was twice. I… I fought a few people in a cage, I can't remember where…"

"It was cold," the Wyvern murmured, pacing toward Bucky and sitting beside him, with the duffle bag and backpack between them. "Rock, and ice."

"Yeah," he nodded slowly, and ran a hand over his stubbled jaw. "You were young, both times. The first time you… I beat you, I hurt you." Guilt flashed across his face, and he looked sideways at her.

"I remember," she said, unconsciously reaching up to the back of her head. She remembered him slamming her against the metal bars, and how she'd staggered out of the base. "The second time I almost killed you. Twice." She felt her own wave of remorse at that and curled her fingers around her knees. She'd been so angry. She didn't think she felt angry any more, at least not at Bucky. At HYDRA and all the men who'd used her, sure. But it was a distant, smouldering burn, not the hot pit of rage she used to feel whenever she looked at Bucky.

"That's right," Bucky said. "And then… why did the fight end? I remember it ending, but I don't think I knew why. Did you win?"

The Wyvern closed her eyes, shuddering as the memory washed over her: pressing her fingernails into Bucky's straining neck; gunshots and screams; the man in the black suit clutching at the wet stain on his stomach. She let out a shaky breath. "Your handler shot mine. The base… everyone started fighting. You followed me into the snow, and I tried to kill you. But I didn't." She opened her eyes. "That was the end of the Program."

Bucky was looking down at his clenched fists, the memory clearly having a similar effect on him. "The Winter Soldier Program?" he asked.

"That too, but I meant the Wyvern Program. The one that made me. The people that made me… they died in that base." The Wyvern closed her eyes again, tipping her face toward the starry sky.

"There's more out there," Bucky murmured. "People who wiped us, people who tortured us and made us weapons."

The Wyvern looked at him. Bucky was cross-legged on the metal container, glaring into space. "Do you want to go after them?"

He inhaled through his nose. "I should."

"But you don't want to."

He met her eyes. "What does that make me? I spend seventy years killing people and the second I have a chance to use those skills against HYDRA, I've had enough?" His voice was tight, and he searched her face.

The Wyvern really needed to have some training on how to comfort people. Bucky had done fine comforting her. She sighed. "Maybe… maybe that makes you a person."

Bucky exhaled, and pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Really? Not a goddamn coward?"

"I'm not an expert on cowards," the Wyvern began, peering down at her pale fingers. "No one ever taught me about things like that. But… you just got your mind back. I don't think it's unreasonable to want to get out of the fight." She frowned at herself. The concept of morality was a new one for her, and the endless possibilities were exhausting to contemplate. Bucky had stopped pushing his hands into his eyes though, so she might be on to something. "Besides," she continued, "I'm sure there are plenty of people out there eager to take down what's left of HYDRA, now that it's been exposed."

He sighed. "'Spose you're right. Steve's probably going to be first in line." He huffed a laugh and the Wyvern smiled, recalling the two young men laughing at each other in a black and white film reel.

Bucky was remembering new things about his life before HYDRA hourly, it seemed, but she couldn't recall a single thing. She supposed it was because she'd been so young, and they'd wiped her so many times. She'd keep trying.

"He's a… good man?" she asked eventually. Morality – so confusing.

"One of the best, from what I can remember." Bucky's voice was soft.

The Wyvern found herself – inexplicably – ready with another teasing comment. She considered ignoring it, but the last one had made him smile. "Is he also the 'living embodiment of freedom'?"

Bucky laughed again, the same exasperated huff as before. "I remember thinking that stuff was weird," he murmured. "I mean, I got it, but Steve could also be a little shit half the time."

That made the Wyvern laugh, thinking of that pinnacle of patriotism she'd seen on the museum murals, irritating his best friend. Bucky looked up at the sound, eyes wide, and the Wyvern realised that she mustn't have ever laughed before. She touched her fingers to her lips.

She'd spent her whole life that she could remember as a weapon, unfeeling and cold. Ignoring her handlers' orders and hiding with Bucky was terrifying, but she was uncovering more and more potential within herself every day. She could feel, she could comfort another person – albeit poorly –, she could contemplate morality, and she could laugh. She knew that HYDRA had lied to her, used her, but the proof of it was exhilarating.

The container ship's engines hummed into life, and soon they were pulling away from the dock, down the river and out to the sea. Bucky and the Wyvern leaned against the side of their makeshift cabin and contemplated becoming people again.