What we have here is a genuine Captain America: The Winter Solider AU with Timor cast as the Winter Solider/Bucky Barnes, and our lovely little spitfire Raya as Captain America/Steve Rogers. They don't parallel their counterparts perfectly, but hell, I thought this up the other day and I just had to write something for it. Be a crying shame if I didn't, in my opinion, because Timor just fits the character of traumatized brainwashed Bucky so fucking well. Anyway, here ya go, please enjoy. Also I've been reading a lot of Stucky fanfiction (most of which is from Bucky/The Winter Soldier's POV) so bear with me, please. 

And if Captain America's not your thing, and you've no idea what the hell this is, well... uh. Sorry? 

By the way, going for purely platonic here, despite my shipping of the original characters. Can't for the life of me envision Timor and Raya dating. Honestly I can't see Raya with anyone besides Zoro, but, eh, whatever. Wow I'm taking up way too much space with this message, let's just get to my short little one-shot. 

it's a long and wicked road to redemption, too bloody for most, and you're only at the start of it

The asset stares at his hands like reading the lines of his palms will somehow reveal to him how to unravel the twisted nest of brambles his mind has become since he dragged the girl from the sea. Since he disobeyed orders and let her live. Since she screamed his name -- no, you don't have a name, you are a weapon, a monster, molded and rebuilt only to destroy, machines don't have anything as intimate as names.

A weapon. A monster. A ghost.

Nameless. As he should be.

So why did that girl call him -- call him Timor? Like she knew him. 

The asset is soaked to the bone, heavy and cumbersome in sodden clothing, his hair plastered to his skull and dripping onto his shoulders. His hands he still holds aloft, studying them, brow wrinkled with dawning confusion. He isn't used to this, to being baffled. Every time they've brought him out the ice, he's been briefed on the exact parameters of his mission, given precisely the right tools accomplish the task. And even if that somehow fails him, he has years of training, years of experience to draw upon, so that he's able to assess the situation and deal with it accordingly no matter his circumstances.

He is not, however, equipped to deal with this particular problem:

"Timor! You know me, you asshole, you know I can't fucking-- I can't hurt you, I won't!"

"I don't know you."
"Fuck's sake, yes you do! We, god, we were on the same crew together! You were my first mate! And I thought..."

"I don't know you--"

"Don't give me that bullshit, Timor, like hell you could forget me. What did they do to you that you're like this? God, I'm going to kill them for this, they fucking--"
"Shut up!"

The girl, wearing a mask of blooming bruises (that he put there, he remembers suddenly) and dribbling blood from the corner of her mouth, holds his gaze, even through a blackening eye. He doesn't understand the crooked smile curving her lips, or the maddening warmth behind her morganite eyes. She's smiling at Death incarnate, at a machine, a nightmare -- and she looks like she's enjoying herself. She's looking at him like he's God's gift to her, delivered on a silver platter and wrapped up in a neat little bow.

He's seen her flames before, once, when he initially sought to complete his mission on that southern island. She hadn't said anything to him, then, not at first; no, at first they'd brawled, traded blows, felt out weak points. She'd kicked fire at him then, charred the front of his tactical suit before he caught on and kept his distance. He hadn't known the extent of her abilities because the Flynn D. Raya that had supposedly died at Marineford hadn't mastered her devil fruit; she'd obviously changed since returning from the land of the dead, wherever that had been. She'd put up an actual fight, walling him in with crackling flames and nearly succeeding in incapacitating him. As it was, she only managed to dislodge his mask, and then -- she'd stopped.
Stopped with arms limp at her sides, her expression brittle and unreadable. He'd drawn back, observing her, waiting for the opportune time to strike, to counter. But she remained still and motionless, her gaze locked on his. And she'd whispered, "Timor?" 

He doesn't remember what he said in response, but he knows her taut expression had crumpled because of it.

She doesn't employ her flames now, though he's certain she could.
He can't grasp why.

The asset has his hands around her throat, thumbs pressing into her windpipe, and she's still grinning at him.

"Hey, Timmy," she says, rough and thick, her words muffled by blood and the raw scratch of her undoubtedly sore throat. "I'm not gonna fight you. You're my first mate, you know I'd do anything for you, man. You sure as hell have done enough to save my sorry ass, more times than I can count. So you... you do what you gotta do, 'kay? I won't stop ya." 

"That's not who I am," he says, and he doesn't know why he says it. It's not logical, there's no point in communicating with the target when she's surrended herself to him. He does it anyway. "I'm not Timor."

The target tilts her head, her grin widening even though moving the muscles of her face clearly pains her. 

"Yeah," she says, all soft, a catch in her voice he has no way to interpret, "you are. Least to me, that's who you are. And that's... fine. Good enough for me, if it's you who does it. But get on with it, will ya? I ain't the most patient person in the world, ya know?"

He goes to tighten his grip, to shut her up and stop this cascade of nonsense, but -- he can't. Can't press his fingers any deeper into her skin, can't -- can't finish his mission. She's staring at him like he's important to her, like he's someone worth protecting. Like he's a person. 

He's caught between the mission and his desire to hear her out, stalled and stalling, when the section of the bridge they've been fighting on suddenly gives out beneath them. It's instinct that has him releasing his hold on the target and scrambling back from the edge, but it's also instinct that drives him forward a heartbeat later, nearly pitching himself off the bridge as he reaches out for the target -- for Raya. But she's falling, eyes fluttering closed, and then she's a splash in the waves below, swallowed whole by the writhing sea along with the debris from the crumbling bridge.

The asset hesitates. She can't swim, she won't survive for long. Mission complete. He can return to his handler for a debriefing and they'll assign him his next target. But--

She can't swim. She's going to drown.

The target cannot swim.

Raya can't swim.

The asset dives into the water after her. 

He thinks -- he thinks this shouldn't be possible, for him to cut through the water so effortlessly, weighed down by nothing but the thick fabric of his tactical suit. He thinks this wasn't always the case, and there's -- a wisp of something that isn't quite a memory, of someone's choked laughter and warm hands on his damp skin, hauling him from the sea like he's the catch of the day, of numb limbs slowly coming back to life under the damning sun. And then it's gone, a passing thought snatched away by the water rushing past him, and he's closing his fist around the neck of the target's shirt.

She doesn't weigh much, even bogged down by her drenched clothing, and it's almost nothing for him to kick them both to the surface and swim for the strip of land that juts out into the sea. He drags her out of the water and lays her out, unconscious and limp, on the ground. He debates for a moment whether or not he should apply CPR, but then she's sputtering, coughing up water from her lungs, and the tension pinching his shoulders (the tension he hadn't let himself notice until now) dissolves. 

He leaves before she's fully conscious.

That... he should have left her to drown. The asset should have confirmed her death and moved on, followed procedure and met with his handlers. He's done none of those things, and it's hours later, and he's still sitting here in this vacant, naturally hidden cove, sand coating him like a gritty film, head in his hands. Thoughts spinning in his head, listening to whispers in a voice that he knows is his own and yet foreign to him. 

She knew him -- knows him. It shouldn't be possible, they've told him time and time again that he's a ghost, a machine. He doesn't have a past and shouldn't desire one. He is a phantom that carries out the wishes of his masters and disappears when he is no longer necessary. He is nothing, to himself, to his handlers, to everyone. 

But she called him Timor. 

The asset grits his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut. His fingers curl into his dripping hair, curl into his scalp, nails biting into skin, nearly drawing blood. He needs debriefing, that's what -- it's what he should do. Find his handlers. Get himself wiped. He's obviously defective, suffering from a malfunctioning psyche. There's a broken part in his system that's hindering his functionality, and getting wiped will fix that. That's what they tell him every time, that he'll be alright once he's wiped, he'll be better. He needs to-- he should--

"God, I'm going to kill them for this..." 

Unbidden, the target's words from before come back to him, managing to drown out the cacophony of his own thoughts. She said she'd... she'd kill them. Them. His handlers, even though she wouldn't know about them. The Government, perhaps, if she was speaking in broader terms. What a feat that would be, to tackle the World Government all on her lonesome.
For some inexplicable reason, he thinks she'd really do it. For him.

If she... if she really knew him -- knows him -- then... what is he to her? She'd called him her first mate, but that's... he'd have to be a pirate for that to make any sense. And he's not even human, how could he ever be something as flighty and terrible as a pirate? 

"...I'd do anything for you, man..."

There's something implied in those words, something that makes his skin crawl because he should know it. He should understand, and he doesn't. Can't. Won't. 

"What did they do to you that you're like this?" 

That implication is simpler to dissect and understand. He was... different, before. With her. Not like this. Not... not a ghost, then. As for what they "did to him"... that's simpler still. They remade him, unmade him. Wiped him down to the bone and started from the ground up. But he had no past, when they got their hands on him he was already nothing. That's what they said. He was nothing and no one, so why does she know him, some other version of him? A version that shouldn't exist?

The asset clenches his jaw and abruptly straightens. Answers. He needs answers. His handlers can wait, or they'll come for him, and he'll deal with the repercussions then. Where he's going to find any answers, though, he isn't sure. He'll figure something out, it's what he was trained to do. He'll survive and he'll -- finish his mission. Perhaps not the one originally assigned to him, but this new one that's become so prevalent to him. His handlers can react to that later, this small rebellion. He'll surely suffer for this decision, but -- for once -- the agony may be worth it, if he finds his answers. 

The asset has no capacity for hope (a trivial, unproductive notion that gets no one nowhere and accomplishes exactly nothing), but he'll put all his cultivated skills to use to make sure his tentative if becomes a when.