Russia 1986

Agent 317 crouched, hidden behind the burned-out shell of an old van. Bullets rained over her head and an explosion to her left gave her the opportunity to throw herself out from cover and into the safety of an adjacent alley across the street. Smoke plumed from the exploded bomb and spread out across the ground, impairing her vision. She flicked down the goggles perched on her head, activating heat vision. The heat radiating from the fire blocked a section of the area, but she could still make out three gunmen walking down the road towards her position.

The roar of a motorcycle engine cut through the air and she cursed under her breath.

"About time," she removed one of the guns from the holster, waiting for the seemingly endless spray of bullets to stop. She flicked her arm out, firing blindly twice and taking down two of the figures. They dropped to the floor and the third tried to cut her off, moving around the other side of the building. Before he could turn the corner she was waiting, snapping her hand out to connect with his throat and kicking him in the stomach. She holstered the gun and grabbed his head with two hands, cracking it into the wall beside her and letting him drop like lead to the floor.

The engine grew louder and she looked around as the motorbike pulled up at the alleyway entrance. She lifted her goggles.

"Do you have the key?" the Asset asked in Russian, his voice muffled by the mask over his face.

"Not yet," she replied, reaching down to search inside the military vest of the body by her feet. "Two more, in the alley," she ran to meet the Asset as he stepped off the bike, propping it onto the stand. She dashed to the first body, skidding onto the ground next to it and checking once more. Nothing.

"We need to evacuate," the Asset stated, standing still, watching her as she moved to the third body.

"One minute," she snapped, finding nothing in the third body's pockets. "It has to be here…" Before she could stand the doors of the abandoned building beside her burst open. The first bullet caught her in the thigh, sending her skidding to the side; the second grazed her shoulder as she rolled. By the time the third shot rang out, the arm of the gunman had been ripped clean off. He screamed in agony before the crunch of metal on bone silenced him. Agent 317 looked up to see the Asset drop the limb next to its owner's body. He crouched down, pulling a silver key from his inside pocket.

"Good work Soldier," she groaned in English, rolling onto her back, her hand at her thigh. He didn't reply, he just dragged her to her feet, and pulled her with him towards the motorbike. She looked around at the destruction around her. The mission file had said abandoned, one guard, one scout, not the carnage that she had found upon arrival.

They were two minutes out of the town when the Land Rover appeared behind them. The passenger leaned out of the window with a semi-automatic rifle and the Asset swerved severely to the right to avoid the wave of bullets. Agent 317 winced as she tensed her legs to keep balance. The Asset moved his flesh arm behind, firing at the vehicle, but missing repeatedly.

"I got this," she said, pulling her gun out. She tried to turn but the pain of the wound on her shoulder stopped her motion. The motorbike swerved again and she shouted out in pain. "Okay, okay," she said, looking down at her legs. Slower than her normal movements she lifted the injured leg in front of her, up around the Asset's waist, resting her foot on the seat in front of him. Instinctively, he moved his metal hand to her calf, gripping her and keeping her in place, the other hand tight on the handlebar. She took a deep breath and laid back, her spine resting against the seat, her head hovering above the back wheel. Watching upside-down she pulled her gun with her good arm and fired three shots, taking out the two front tyres. The Land Rover veered off into the forest next to them, crunching into two trees before it rolled down the bank. Agent 317 winced as the Asset released her foot when she sat up and she returned it to the side of the bike.

"Safe House, three miles. We can return to base tomorrow, you need medical treatment," despite her being the one in charge, she didn't argue with him, feeling her weight fall against him as he took a sharp right and continued down a dirt track.

Inside the sparse wooden hut, the Asset set her down on the couch after helping her off the bike and moved to light a fire in the prepared grate. He pulled the restricting mask from his face and set it down on the table. Agent 317 pulled the heavy black jacket off her good shoulder before beginning to slide it off the injured one.

"Motherfucker," she swore in English, biting her lip. The Asset looked round briefly before returning to his task and she dropped the jacket on the floor, looking at her bloodied arm. "It's going to need stitches," she switched back to Russian.

"And the leg?" he asked, standing up and moving towards her.

"I think it went straight through," she said, pulling her hand away from the back of her thigh covered in crimson. He pulled out his knife with his flesh hand, and the sudden movement made her flinch. He sliced through the combat fabric before dropping the knife and tearing. She cried out as the material pulled away from the wound and he tugged the trouser leg off, casting it down with her jacket.

"Stay here," he said, examining it closely before standing and moving towards the kitchen.

"How good is your medical training?" she said in English, suddenly feeling self-conscious with one leg of her trouser almost completely gone. He returned, holding a towel and medical kit in one hand, a bottle of vodka clasped in the other.

He knelt down beside the sofa, dabbing the towel at the wound, causing her to wince again. He began to open the bottle but she stopped him.

"Here, first," she reached out and took it from him, downing two large mouthfuls. She handed it back and the corners of his mouth almost turned up into a smirk.

"Why do you talk to me in English?" he asked, looking back up to her. He rarely held eye contact and it made her uncomfortable. "Am I English?" Her head swam with the pain in her leg and shoulder, the intensity of his gaze and the burn of the vodka on her throat.

"American," she replied before she could stop herself. When she became one of his Handlers they gave her a brief glance at his file. The secrecy of his past never sat well, neither did the wiping. She argued repeatedly that he would become a stronger agent if he could retain memories of his previous missions, but in their mind the danger outweighed the strengths and she was overruled before it got any higher than her immediate superior.

"American?" he asked, sitting back on his feet from his kneeling position.

"Yes, that's all I know," she looked over at the crackling fire in the corner. A sharp pain drew her attention back as he emptied some of the bottle onto her leg. His metal hand moved to her thigh and the cold contact made her jump. He squeezed. Hard.

"What else?"

"Nothing," she said through gritted teeth. She shouted out, before regaining composure as his grip lessened. "I am in charge of this mission Soldier, continue your job," she snapped in Russian, letting her head fall back against the pillow. He nodded, unable to ignore her command, and reached for the medical kit.

Two hours later Agent 317 jumped awake, she must have passed out while he tended to the other wounds. She looked at her bare shoulder and leg. The stitching was neat and clean. A glint of metal caught her eye and she looked up to see him sat in the chair opposite, watching her closely. She sat up, her hand reaching for the tight bun it was held in, pulling it out and letting long hair fall about her shoulders. She saw the vodka bottle still beside the couch and took another swig.

"I'm as much of a Prisoner as you are," she said, breaking the silence. "I'm sorry for what they do to you." She wasn't sure exactly why she was apologizing but she felt nothing but guilt as she looked at him sat in front of her.

"Do you remember everything?"

"Yes," she replied. "That I know of."

"Then you are nothing like me," he said, slumping slightly in his seat, strands of hair falling into his face.

"I ignored their commands once. Worst mistake of my life," her posture straightened. "It is a blessing you don't remember." With that she disappeared into the bathroom. When she emerged a few minutes later she had replaced the bloodied tank top with a loose cotton shirt several sizes too big from a spare equipment pack left for the safe house and removed her half-destroyed pants, leaving on her cotton undershorts. His eyes scanned her.

"That's not the first time I've had my hand on your leg," he said, lifting his chin. "Is it?"

"No," she replied, stopping and looking at him. "You remember?"

"I remember how your skin felt under my fingertips," he said, looking at the palm of his hand. She remembered the night; it had been several years ago in Berlin. A high-profile assassination had cost them one of her closest friends in the organization and she had drunkenly propelled herself towards the Soldier. It was only the second time she'd been appointed his Handler and it was the most unprofessional thing she'd done in her life. His grip on her had been strong and just as the confusion started to subside and he began to return the kiss, gunshots in the hotel lobby had interrupted them. And that had been the end of it.

She walked towards him, her gaze never leaving his. Usually she kept conversation to a minimum. The other Handlers usually forbade him from talking, but the company kept her sane. Some of their missions had been weeks long and without even brief conversation she would have been driven to insanity. As she came within reach he put his hand out and touched her thigh again, just above the gunshot wound. She shivered as his metal hand reached for the other leg. He looked at her as if ready to pull away.

"Don't," she said, enjoying the contact.

"What is your name?" he asked, switching back to English.

"Ava," she said. It had been so long since she'd used her real name. Hydra prided itself in removing identities and the burden they carried, but she missed the sound it made on her tongue when she spoke it.

"Ava," he repeated, his metal hand sliding up to her hip and then taking her hand in his. Before she could register the move he was on his feet, his lips hard against hers. His stubble burned her cheeks but she enjoyed the sensation, moaning into his mouth as his flesh arm locked around her back, pulling her close. She couldn't remember the last time she had this much human contact. She felt a surge of energy and spun them around, pushing him backwards towards the couch, where he fell heavily. She straddled his lap, returning her lips to his. His human hand tangled in her hair as the metal one slid down her back. She moved her hands down his chest, pulling at the military-issue jacket he wore. Once it was off he cast it aside, but turned his head as she went to kiss him.

"Who am I?" he asked, both hands sliding to her waist.

"James," she breathed, her chest rising and falling quickly. "James Barnes," recognition flickered behind his eyes but he shook his head.

"That's not who I am now," he said. "Don't call me that." His grip tightened and he pulled her hips down, grinding them into the front of his trousers. She groaned at the contact and rolled herself into him, feeling the growing bulge in his trousers through her thin shorts.

"As you wish, Soldier," she replied. She leaned forward to kiss him again, but he moved his lips to her neck, biting hard before letting his tongue flick over the area, soothing the ache.

"Fuck," she said, letting her head fall back as she rolled her hips again.

Now it was his turn to groan. His metal arm whirred and his fingers dug into her hip tighter. She cried out, but he didn't stop, letting his hips buck up into hers. She went for his neck this time, placing open-mouthed kisses against the skin, feeling the roughness of his unshaven skin on her lips. He smelled like blood, and gunpowder, and motorbike oil. The metal hand suddenly released, coming up to grip at her chin. He squeezed again and she flinched as his vice-like grip kept her head steady, her eyes focused on his. His flesh arm moved down to her shorts, dipping beneath the material and brushing against her. She knew she was wet, and he smirked as he pulled two, wet fingers away, glistening in the dim light from the dying fire. He examined them for a moment before lowering his hand back in, roughly grazing her clit on the way to her entrance. Two fingers pushed into her her and a stifled cry came from her mouth. He squeezed harder on her chin and throat and she inhaled sharply.

He kept the rhythm hard and rough, and every time her eyes slid shut his grip crushed her face slightly more, causing her to open them again. She could feel the pressure building low in her stomach, her breathing grew quicker and the feeling of his fingers in her, along with his intense gaze, watching every expression on her face, was driving her towards the end. Just as she was about to crash over, his metal hand released, and his human arm pulled away. She fell forwards against him, surprised and disappointed. It took her a few moments to recover and her hands moved straight to his belt, flicking it open and unzipping the fly. He lifted his hips for her to tug them down and she did so enough to expose his hardened cock. She went to lower herself onto him but suddenly his metal arm was there, three of the fingers inside of her, whirring as they moved back and forth. Ava cried out again.

"Oh my God," she said, letting her head roll forward and her hair fall into her face. He pulled them out quickly and brought her forcefully down, impaling her on his cock. His composure broke and he moaned loudly, letting out a deep breath. Ava moved her hands to his shoulders, steadying herself. She began to roll her hips, lifting and lowering onto him rhythmically. He let his metal arm trail over her stomach while the other bunched into the material of the couch beside him. He lifted his hips to meet hers, faster, harder, until her legs were trembling. He glanced and noticed the stitches had begun to tear on the top of her thigh, crimson trails running down onto the material beneath them. The pain didn't stop her and she kept meeting his thrusts, her breasts visibly bouncing beneath the material of the shirt. He tore at it with the robotic arm, leaving it fall to the floor in tatters. His mouth moved forward, catching one nipple between his lips and it pushed her over the edge. She saw stars and her eyebrows furrowed as her movements stilled against him. He kept the rhythm, pushing her through the pleasure with quick snaps of his hips.

Once she had caught her breath he resumed his movements, his head falling back, one arm on her hip, the other at her breast. He locked his eyes onto her as he came, pulsing into her, three final rough bucks of his hips until he finished.

They stayed that way for some time. Her on top of him, their breathing returning to normal, their eyes locked together. She began to step back off him, suddenly noticing the mess her broken stitches had made. The blood was all over his trousers, the couch and was even beginning to trail onto the floor. When she saw the blood she felt fear. If they ever learned about this she would be worse than dead, she had seen what they did to people, what they had already done to her. She stood up and before she could walk away, he pulled her closer, so she was stood between his legs.

"I want to remember this," he said. "Ava," he frowned, his hands holding hers tightly. "Remember it."

"I won't forget," she replied, stepping back out of his grasp and moving towards the bathroom. He watched her go and took a sharp inhale as he saw the skin on her back. It was badly scarred, burn marks running from her shoulder blades to her hips. A large H was branded in the centre of the scarring and below it the symbol of their cause, the six-legged skull.

When they arrived at base Agent 317 went through three debriefings before they excused her from duty and sent her to the medical wing to get the stitches checked. She was told that an advanced Agent should never have failed such a simple recover and return mission, especially with the Asset under her care. As punishment she would be travelling to America the following week, training new recruits in their Washington front. The fact the Soldier remained uninjured went in her favor and they promised not to put a black mark against her future missions after her time at the training academy was complete. She thanked her seniors for their leniency, feeling sick as she spoke.

When she walked down the hall, she heard the screaming. His gut-wrenching cry as everything was torn out of his head. It echoed through the stairwell as she made her way to the medical wing. She walked onto the ward and silence fell over the facility again. She felt a shiver run up her spine.