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“You could at least recognize me-” she whispered.
He recognized her all right. He also recognized that she was pulling her punches, that had she really thought him a danger she would have fought differently. As he closed his fist over her larynx his body expected her legs to start working against him, but they didn’t. He recognized that later, when his mind came back to him, when he had a chance to think.
But what exactly could he do? He couldn’t just rush up to her and hold her close, bruise her lips by his kisses, tangle his hands in her red hair. He couldn’t stop what was happening around them, couldn’t put it on ‘pause’ for a few days. He couldn’t just lie in her lap, clutching her thigh, forgetting the world. Besides, so much has happened since those times, did they even feel the same way? Were they even the same people?
He could dwell on her for hours on end, but that would be useless. He had more pressing matters: Steve, the other Super Soldiers, his own sanity.
Speaking of Super Soldiers, he would give a lot to have her by his side when they went into the vault. Sure, Steve was amazing, they could work great in a team. But she knew these guys. She also might have known him better than Steve now: she wouldn’t be as strong as Steve, but the teamwork might have even been better.
He taught her, they worked together in the training room, in the filed…in the bed. He knew what every insignificant minute movement meant, knew every thought from just a glance. But just now, he tried not to throw up from all the murder he committed.
***
He tried not to think of her, but when he didn’t – he thought of all the things he did for Hydra. Howard and Maria Stark weren’t the worst case. They were easier to kill than most.
He once let a blunt knife tear into a man’s body while he was paralyzed. He could feel everything, but could do nothing about it. And the knife went in deep. It didn’t slice the flesh, it ripped it open in ragged ends, by shear physical strength. It plunged into the man’s guts, squashing the intestines, blood vessels and nerves before finally hitting his spine, where it cracked the bone and entered the spinal canal.
He remembered her ripping a man’s throat with her bare hands, remembered how she sliced a woman’s, getting covered in blood without batting an eyelid. He also remembered that that was part of why he loved her.
***
She let them go. He half expected her to stop them and half to come with them. He wondered why she didn’t even look at him at that moment. He guessed, she was trying to weigh the situation without prejudice. Just as the jet was taking off he wondered how they would take down six super soldiers on their own. There was no use going back over enemy lines for her and no use thinking about it now. And it would have been a great explanation: yeah, I trained her, we killed JFK, I might work better with her than I do with you, besides, she knows these guys too; no we didn’t think it would be a good idea to tell you.
***
This is how it would end. But he knew that from the start, really. What he did would not be forgetten easily. And what Stark felt was what most people felt: they didn't care that he wasn't in control; he killed those people, and he even remembers it. He doesn't forgive himself either. He's just confused at the state of his life.
How had a war hero become a scared rodent, hidding in the sewers, afraid to see the light. How did his optimistic stamina turn into a prey's instinct for survival? He was on the run for two years now. He had to stop. He was going to be killed like a mad dog behind a dumpster; a crazy super slave in the depth of Siberia. At least he wouldn't be used anymore; because, let's be honest,in the XXI century who doesn't want a Super Slave?
***
He was put to sleep. He thought it best for the time being.
She arrived in Wakanda on a quin-jet in the dead of night. She apologized to the prince, explained herself and went to see Steve. Or rather, to see him.
As she looked at him, asleep in the cryo-chamber, two things hit her. The first was a blood-chilling fear and immense sickness that roused itself from a memory. A memory of him a similar cryo-chamber in Siberia, just after they were found out. The second was the realization that for the first time his face had a sort of calm on it.
She looked at him, half listening to Rogers, and remembered the battered broken toy-soldier that sat in the basement of the UN. A soldier who knew he had served his master well, but now his purpose was fulfilled. And no matter what he said or did, they would never forget what he had done.
Who cared that he had done the same during WWII for the Americans, doing the dirty jobs for Cap? Who cared that he would be doing practically the same if he was written into the Sokovia Accords? What had worked as a miracle for her, might not have worked for him. But if there was one thing she owed him, for old time’s sake, it was a chance. And whichever side he stood on, she would stand.