twinkats | Голубка [My Dove] {4}

Captain America: The Winter Soldier SPOILERS abound! Beware!

Summary: For some reason Steve keeps running into the familiar face of the Winter Soldier. Each new time heralds a mission gone wrong, and yet, Steve can't help but be baffled. Is the Soldier his enemy? Or friend? /Capkink response/ AU TWS [SPOILERS]

Any foreign words has a tooltip with translation

It took two days before boredom set in and the Soldier decided he'd better go and requisition a new rifle to replace the one he'd mangled. He'd put it off for two days, surveyed his target for two whole days and he felt pretty confident that even if he disappeared Nick Fury wouldn't leave his not-SHIELD base. So he slipped out of the tree, scooped his bag of supplies up, and bit back a curse when his leg throbbed furiously at him because he put too much pressure on it.

The Soldier made his way into downtown DC, searching out a phone booth of some kind to make the call to his equipment handler, another HYDRA agent he didn't know by name but by face and voice like the one who gave him missions and told which group of armed guards to punish him for whatever infraction he'd committed this time. He didn't carry any sort of communications devices on him accept for a single pager which would give him a number to call but they rarely paged him when he was on assignment. Everything HYDRA told him to do was first vetted and quadruple checked before he was sent out to work. The Soldier was their efficient killing machine, after all.

He pulled his bike up to rest next to the first phone booth he came across. Slipped off his seat and limped into the box. He didn't bother hiding himself because for some reason nobody really noticed the odd guy in leather and kevlar as long as his arm remained wrapped up, which on most missions it did. With his right hand he picked the phone off of the hook and dialed in a familiar code to bypass the need to pay, and then a familiar number.

He waited, patiently, until the familiar voice picked up. Stuffing the feeling of (awkward) standing in public for a work related call into the recesses of his mind like everything else.

“There had better be a damn good reason you are calling me.”

The Soldier licked his lips. “Мое оружие со сбоями. Я нужна замена.”

“How many times do we have to tell you to use English?”

The Soldier bit his lip but repeated himself in English. “My weapon malfunctioned. I need a replacement.”

“Which weapon? And what the hell did you do to it?”

“My rifle.”

“That thing is top of the line, what did you do, fuck it?”

“No,” the Soldier said. He grit his teeth, ground them together at the simple thought of—of—what did that even mean?

“Tell me why, exactly, your goddamn rifle doesn't work. That thing is worth more than you to replace.”

The Soldier pursed his lips, tried to find the words. “Хотите, я продемонстрировать, как я молол в металлолом? Руки бы сделать хорошую замену.” He kept his voice even, complacent, but couldn't help the sharp grin of all teeth and how his eyes narrowed, blood burning in his veins. Normally he wouldn't even dare say something like that, too familiar with his place at the bottom, as nothing more than a tool to be used. However he remembered this voice didn't known Russian, couldn't speak it, and he remembered—remembered—he didn't like this voice, this face.

He didn't like any of them. He wasn't allowed likes. The Soldier bit his lip, forced the pain to bring focus, and waited.

“English you pitiful fuck.”

“My weapon malfunctioned. I need a replacement,” the Soldier repeated.

“You know what? I don't want to know how you screwed your own rifle. A replacement will be waiting at the facility, and you better be prepared to make this up to me.”

The Soldier said nothing, waited for the tell tale click to signal the end of the line, and hung up. He stared at the phone for a minute, before with a snarl shoved his left arm straight through it like butter. He flexed his fingers, stared at the bits of the phones inner workings as they tumbled away. He scowled.

What did it mean?

It took two days before Nick felt comfortable in letting Steve go, and even then it only came about because he threw up his hands and gave the Director of SHIELD what for, tired of this overreaching paranoia. Nobody had attacked, Nick was still alive, and Steve had a life to live.

“Two days, two days Nick!” Steve snapped. “Do you think HYDRA won't notice a two day absence?”

“It's SHIELD,” Nick reminded him, weary. “And you're on assignment.”

“The hell I am!” Steve said, punching his fist into the wall. “I get that you are a paranoid bastard, but jesus fuck Nick, it's like you don't even want to try and make this work! If we want HYDRA to remain in the dark we can't let them know we're on to them!”

Nick exploded with fury, and Steve had to shove down the bad pun before it escaped his throat with a snicker.

“I don't want this to work? Of course I want it to fucking work!” Nick snapped, bursting up, arms shaking, until he was face to face with Steve and his lips pulled back into a snarl. “SHIELD is my baby, Rogers. I want nothing more than to get rid of the rot inside her!”

“Then let me do my job,” Steve spat back, brow furrowed. “Let me go home, let me act like life is normal, peachy keen, and give me an assignment, send me out to work. There's nothing more I can do, especially if I stay here.”

“And what if they come for me?” Nick demands. “I'm the most likely target standing in their way, I'm the Director of the fucking agency.”

“You're not the only one at the top,” Steve pointed out.

“You mean Secretary Pierce?” Nick scoffed and turned away. “The Security Counsel? None of them would listen to me in this matter. Hell some of them are probably HYDRA!”

“Because you don't trust anyone!” Steve pointed out. “You don't open yourself up for trust!”

Nick licked his lips as he turned around with a snarl of, “I sure as hell trust you, don't I?”

“Then trust me to do my job,” Steve said sharply. “Trust me to know what works.”

Maria and Natasha stand off to the side. They watch the match like it is a game of ping pong, heads bouncing from one combatant to the other.

“Steve's going to win this one,” Natasha pointed out calmly. Maria gave a slow, “Yup,” in reply. Even she can see when Nick is beat, and Nick is beyond beat now. He's also terrified, not that he'd admit it, and that makes Maria sigh and shake her head and want to slap him over the ear and knock sense into him.

Finally Nick yelled, “Fine! Have it your way!”

Maria and Natasha exchange a glance as Steve hollered back, already on his way out, “About damn time!”

They split up when Nick looked in their direction and scowled, “What the hell are you two lookin' at?” at them. Maria with a repressed smile and Natasha with this look that made Nick just sigh and shake his head. “Oh fuck you Maria,” he added in an undertone.

“I'm not your wife,” Maria replied.

“I don't have a wife, woman!” Nick snapped back. “And a good thing too since you nag like one!”

Natasha snickered, and then slipped out of the bunker-base that Nick wanted to use. She caught Steve standing just outside the treeline, next to the road, scowling.

“How are you going to get back, big guy?” Natasha asked, leaning against a tree. Steve glanced at her and began to stretch out his legs.

“I'll run,” he said calmly. “I could do with the exercise.”

Natasha's lips curled and she shifted her gaze up and down his form, somewhat appreciatively. “Don't wear yourself out, cowboy,” she said, pushed off from the tree, and then headed inside.

“I'll try not to,” Steve shot back, stretched his back one last time, and then took off with a breath.

It happened while he was on his way back to the facility. He sped through the lanes, curved over his bike, trying to refrain from cursing as his leg throbbed and reminded him that the vibrations were the worst thing possible for it now, but that didn't matter because he had a job to do, and further damage meant nothing because he healed far better than any other living thing ever did. The Soldier sped through the streets, so focused on his destination, that he didn't notice the familiar man in blue not in blue until he pulled right up next to him, looked over.

“So, where you headed?” the man not in blue shouted. The Soldier could see at his back rested the Shield, painted red silver and blue, and let out a curse. He swerved left, out of traffic, nearly crashed before he pulled the bike to a halt and unholstered one of the smaller guns that sat just inside his jacket. He took aim, a scowl forming beneath his mask and started to fire.

The man in blue not in blue immediately raised his shield, deflecting most of the bullets and forcing the Soldier flip backwards in order to dodge. The Soldier snarled, tossed the gun, and with his left picked up his own bike and hurled it in the others direction with a yell.

The bike, the shield, and the other went tumbling one after another. A car swerved into two others in an attempt to miss the iconic hero who pulled himself up out of the rubble with a groan. The Soldier was already moving by that point, racing in with a mechanical arm enhanced punch that was dodged. He followed it by a swipe of one of his knives, blocked by the shield. They exchanged blows, parried, got a few hits into one another.

“Is this any way to respond to a question?” the man in blue not in blue asked, dodging around another knife swipe and responding with a rather forceful shield thrust. The Soldier snarled and lashed out with a kick, not his best idea at the moment but it did its job never mind the flare of pain that tore a quick scream from him. It worked as a good distraction though, forcing the other to pause with a furrowed brow and a muttered, “You're injured.”

The Soldier backed up, licked his lips. He liked the feel of adrenaline that surged in his veins. His lips pulled into a wide grin, full of teeth, hidden underneath the mask he wore protectively around his face. He pulled out another knife, flipped it around, and stalked forward. He had the thought that this was better than sex (what?) as he dashed forwards, ignoring the throbbing pain in his leg, the way his head rang.

They were back into a series of blocks, parries, misses and hits. The other grimaced, his face pulled tight with some sort of emotion than the Soldier just didn't care about. He liked this feeling, this rush, this fire. For the first time in a long time he felt more alive than ever, more than just a weapon. For the first time he'd found his match because he knew if he was in prime condition the man in blue not in blue and he would be even, going toe to toe, instead of the other only half-focusing on the fight because the Soldier's work was sloppy.

“If you keep doing this you'll injure yourself further!” the other said.

“Shut up!” the Soldier snarled back. His eyes widened a second later when he realized he was too slow, didn't see the raised fist that knocked him flat onto his ass. He turned the blow into a backward flip, landing and then nearly collapsing when his leg started to give out under him. He settled into a half-kneel, breathing heavily.

There was wind on his cheeks. The Soldier reached a hand to touch his face, surprised to see his mask gone. His gaze darted about, and there it was just two feet to his left. He stood, slowly.

“You okay?” the other asked.

“You're good,” the Soldier said. He glanced slightly back at the man in blue not in blue. He took a deep breath but didn't move, neither did the other. “Why do you hesitate? An injury is a weakness. You could have taken me out over a dozen times.”

“Maybe I just don't like to hit a guy when he's down,” the other said with a shrug. The Soldier let out a laugh.

“That,” he said, “will get you killed.” He shifted over to his mask, bent down and picked it up, and carefully secured it back in place. He kept his face away from the other, some part of him, some part of him didn't want the man in blue not in blue to see his face.

It felt wrong somehow.

“Better men have tried,” the other pointed out.

“And failed, yes, I can see that,” the Soldier replied, turning around to look at the man in blue not in blue's face. His took in the lines of his jaw, his cheekbone, his eyes, he felt that spark of something and the fire wanted to burn. He wanted another round, but not to kill, which was wrong. A fight was always about the death of the opponent, right?

The other stared at him too, brow furrowed and lips narrowed. Confusion, the Soldier thought. That was what the emotion was, right?

“So you don't kill me here, when I've lowered my guard,” the Soldier said, raising his arms and then letting them flop to his sides. “You won't kill me when we're fighting, despite the obvious holes in my form because of an injury. What sort of enemy does that make you?”

The other pursed his lips. “The kind that doesn't want to make enemies.”

The Soldier tilted his head. “Make peace, not war?” he scoffed, looked off to the side, and then back at the man in blue not in blue. “Another time, then.”

The other stepped forward, picking up the discarded shield. “I can't let you go that easily,” he said.

The Soldier paused, mid step, and then smiled. “You won't have to.” He raised his hand, in it was a small remote. He flicked a switch and his bike, discarded with the others own, just not even a few feet away from him, exploded into a shower of debris and fire. The man in blue not in blue cursed and pulled his shield up and around himself in time to guard himself from most of the blast, giving the Soldier time to escape.

He still had a rifle to retrieve after all. A glance back at the debris, the crashed cars, and the man in blue not in blue frantically searching for him also hit home that he had another thing to discuss that his masters wouldn't like. The Soldier winced, but pressed on.

Russian words (hopefully)

1. Голубка – golubka – my dove
2. Мое оружие со сбоями. Я нужна замена. – Moe oruzhie so sboi͡ami. I͡A nuzhna zamena. – My weapon malfunctioned. I need a replacement.
3. Хотите, я продемонстрировать, как я молол в металлолом? Руки бы сделать хорошую замену. – Khotite, i͡a prodemonstrirovat', kak i͡a molol v metallolom? Ruki by sdelat' khoroshui͡u zamenu. – Would you like me to demonstrate how I ground it into scrap? Your arms would make a good replacement. (Would you like me to demonstrate how I grind in the scrap? Hands would make a good replacement.)