Captain America Listen to the Sound

**A/N: Hello! Thanks for reading/reviewing! This is sort of a songfic based on BBB (Big Black Boots) by How to Destroy Angels. It's a good song, and always makes me think of Bucky. I'd recommend listening to it while reading :)**

**((To anyone who follows me, I'm working on a WinterWidow story that should be published around Valentine's Day, then writing up the prompts people have sent me on Avengers Tower shenanigans around April Fool's, and then hopefully a sequel to I Would For You before Age of Ultron :) So, hope to see you around!))**

He waits. The sunlight drifts lazily through the trees above him, glinting off his arm and the remaining patches of unmelted snow protected in the shade. Birds singing in the trees above his head is calming, but he must stay focused. Must do this last job before he rests again. He knows he rests between missions; different men, _older_ men are his handlers whenever he wakes up. Time slips away quickly while he sleeps. But then he is given missions and it's good to be needed again.

The grass beneath him does not betray his position as he shifts his weight slightly. Slowly, slowly, he slides his elbow down to relieve some of the pressure it puts on his back at the angle in which he will need it to shoot. But the target isn't here yet, won't be here for a while. So he can make himself a little more comfortable. Comfort isn't a priority, but maintaining a good physical condition in order to complete the mission is important. Or so he tells himself. He waits.

Finally, the door to the cabin opens and a man steps out. He stretches, perhaps preparing for a jog. The Soldier grows tense, finger resting lightly on the trigger as he assesses the likelihood of success. Before he can finish the mission, another person steps out; a body guard of some sort. Not that he can do much guarding from a sniper rifle. Still, he manages to block his direct shot and he waits as the two men speak and laugh about something. The target gestures toward the area where the Soldier waits, and he briefly considers taking the shot before reassuring himself that this is no time to be rash. The mission objectives clearly stated he must be alone. He can wait.

The body guard begins walking away from his target, turning back to say something. The target salutes him with a smile, and the guard continues into the trees. Blinking away a strange thought that there should be rubble, not trees, around them, the Soldier settles down and listens hard. If his position has been noted, he will certainly hear the other man before he can get close enough to be a threat. Carefully ascertaining that the target is now alone and will soon be leaving the cabin, he exhales and fires. The rifle is silenced, but his cover is blown. Time to go. Mechanically, he sits back on his heels and disassembles the weapon, storing it in a duffel bag, which he then swings over his shoulder. Surveying the area to be sure he's left nothing to indicate his presence, he turns and begins walking to the extraction point.

* * *

The trek through the forest takes a few hours, and the sun is at the tree-line by the time he reaches his destination. As he marches, he can't help but think of other, similar times he's gone for miles through dense foliage on missions. None of them are clear, and images flit through his head of other forests, other targets, other… comrades. Focus, he reminds himself. Other missions may not have been alone, but that's hardly relevant now. He works better alone. He must, or they would not have sent him here by himself.

When he arrives at the abandoned ski lodge where he was told to go, he cannot shake a feeling of unease, a feeling that there is something important he needs to know. The mission is complete, he tells himself. It was a success. Now he is done, and will soon rest until the next one. There shouldn't be anything to worry about, but he can't help it. He knocks on the door and waits, biting his lip and fighting the sudden and bizarre urge to run into the trees, and keep running.

The door opens before he can act on such an irrational idea, and a technician he seems to know smiles at him, beckoning him inside. Obediently, he follows him into the lodge and down the hall to a makeshift lab. It's familiar, but a sense of discomfort fills him at the sight of it. Still, it is where he is supposed to be, what he is supposed to do, so he walks in and sits down on a metal chair where he always sits. The man who opened the door and another man come and hook things up to him, monitoring him and scanning him for injuries. Which is unnecessary, he thinks but doesn't say. It was hardly a dangerous mission.

"Mission report," a different man says to him, a man in a suit.

"Target eliminated as ordered; no witnesses. One shot to the head. No evidence left behind," he answers automatically.

"Good," the man says and goes away.

* * *

As he waits for the men to complete their inspection, he thinks. Something about the gesture of his target to the other man reminds him of … something. Someone, maybe. He's seen people salute before, of course. Plenty of times. But this was different. It was someone he knew, someone he knew well. He can't fit any of the technicians or men in suits he sees regularly now into the category of someone he knew, and begins to frown deeply.

Grasping at straws, he remembers the feeling that there should be rubble around. Concrete, white like the snow had been in the forest. The man he knew was climbing through it. Was he going to shoot him? Why would he salute the Soldier if he was a target? He is certain that the man looked right at him before making the gesture, meant for him to see it. So it wouldn't make sense for him to have been aiming there.

Try as he might, he cannot bring any other context to the memory. It's short and vague, but it upsets him. It's important, he's certain of that. Or perhaps the man was important. He tries to reassure himself that, given the way his technicians age, he must have been doing this a very long time. It's likely the man is dead, or at least retired. Perhaps he was a comrade he'd had in his early days here. The thought of having had early days, or a place before here, is novel and he bites his lip as he turns the idea over in his head.

"Where was I before I was here?" he asks suddenly.

The men working on him, perhaps forgetting that he is alive, both startle away, then look at each other. "You mean, what was your previous mission assignment?" one asks tentatively.

"No," he replies, shaking his head slowly. "Before," he tries to explain, but can't find the words.

After glancing at each other again, one nods. "I think Mr. Pierce would better answer that," he explains calmingly.

The Soldier doesn't care who answers it, so long as someone does.

* * *

"I understand you have questions," the man in the suit says.

He shakes his head slightly to bring his scattered thoughts back to the present. "Yes," he says, when it becomes apparent the other man, Pierce, is waiting for an answer. The technicians have left, he notices, and men in tactical gear wait on the edge of the room.

"What is your question?"

He licks his lips, trying to gauge the expression on the other man's face. "Where was I… before I was here. Not, not before I was on this assignment. Before that."

"You have been stationed at many important locations so as to better serve HYDRA. You've done great things, you know. Better than any other asset," the man tells him with a smile.

His frown deepens. He knows that; they tell him it frequently. It doesn't seem important now. "Alright, but what did I do before?"

Pulling up a chair to get a better look at him, the man considers for a moment. "I wasn't around before you were, my friend. But I think you weren't doing much of anything; that's why you volunteered."

"Why?"

"Because your job takes quite a sacrifice, and you were willing to make it to be the best. And you are. Your people are grateful," he adds.

Licking his lips, he looks at the man squarely, directly. "I must have done something before this. I wasn't born here," he says, alarmed by the note of desperation in his voice.

A similar look of alarm passes briefly over the other man's face before he smiles reassuringly. "No, of course not. You were just an ordinary citizen, and you wanted to do something more. What you did today will go down in history as a very heroic, very important act. As all of your missions have been. So don't worry about your life before; if it were something you'd wanted to hold onto, don't you think you would have?"

The logic follows, but it doesn't answer his question. Perhaps he should just not worry about the strange bits of memory that plague him. Surely they don't matter. The present is what matters; finishing his missions is what matters. Ghosts of the past are just distractions. "Alright," he says slowly, leaning back. "But it felt important," he adds before he can stop himself.

Something like anger flashes briefly in the other man's reassuring expression. "I'm sure it wasn't. Why don't you sit back and let the good doctors take care of you?"

The man gets to his feet and he feels a strange sense of loss. "Wait! Who's… who's Steve?" he asks sharply, the name coming to his lips unbidden.

Frowning at him coldly, the man shakes his head and turns toward the technicians, who have appears near the doorway. "Wipe him," he snaps, before sweeping out of the room. Most of the armed men join him, while the technicians approach warily.

"Who's Steve?" he asks them, though he doubts they would know or would tell him.

"Lay back," one of them tells him nervously, holding out a mouth guard. The other types commands into the console nearby. Obediently, he opens his mouth and doesn't ask any foolish questions this time. Biting down hard, he leans back and is surprised by a whimper that escapes him as the metal restraints on the chair close over his arms. The machinery above him begins to move and he closes his eyes as pain explodes everywhere.

* * *

The vehicle comes to a stop and he opens the door, stepping onto the sidewalk in a fluid motion. Someone shuts the door behind him, and he walks casually through the crowd of people toward the hotel across the street. His metal arm is covered, though he must make sure not to move it too much or the whirring sound it makes might be noticed. Underneath his jacket, he carries three pistols and four knives; plenty of ammunition to get him through this job. Though he hopes it doesn't go too fast. It's always nice to be needed. It is, after all, what he lives for.

Silently, he moves through the hallways of the hotel, avoiding notice. He's aware of the maids' schedule, and the movements of most of the patrons. Surveillance has taken a while, which is fine, because he likes having something to do. Not that keeping tabs on the hotel staff really requires much effort. But now it's time to work, to get his job done. The target is checking in tonight, and he must be ready.

* * *

As the maid finishes up in the room, he slips in through the closing door. He listens to see if he was detected, but nothing suggests his cover is blown. A quick survey of the room shows no evidence of a change from his previous inspections. Pulling out a knife to twirl it restlessly through his fingers, he makes his way into the bathroom and positions himself inside the small closet there. Then he waits.

* * *

The target's party arrives and searches the place, and he must change his cover to avoid them. They are overly casual, as their intel indicated they would be, and do not search very closely. Night falls as he waits. Finally, the room grows silent and he moves outside and through the darkness to the king-sized bed. Its occupants are asleep, and he unsheathes one of his knives. Carefully, he slits the throat of his target and moves away, hastily wiping the blood off on a stolen towel before resheathing.

"What the – ?" someone behind him says.

He whips around and throws his knife, striking the man in his throat. His comm device buzzes to life in his ear. "Eliminate witnesses, Soldier," it hisses.

So he does. It doesn't take long; most of them are still asleep and are too confused by his presence to react appropriately. Definitely not professionals. He uses knives so that gunfire doesn't wake any other rooms, but keeping from being shot at takes some effort. When he's finished, he wipes off his knives on the clothes of the targets, then lets himself quietly out the front door. A woman in the hallway gives him an odd look, but he pulls his collar closer and heads outside without anyone commenting. As he heads to the extraction point, he reflects that he'd much rather stay on a mission than go back to the endless silence and cold that awaits him.


End file.
