A/N - I'll admit, this one ran away with me a little. As always, I hope you enjoy and any feedback is appreciated!
One
The Asset's mission is a simple one. Enter the home of his target, kill him and all occupants of the house while they sleep, and make as little noise as possible to allow more time for his escape. He does not know what the man has done to incite the wrath of his handlers, and he likely never will, but that will not stop him from completing his mission. It never has.
The target's home is grand, he notices, as he approaches and scouts the area for guards. The man is obviously rich; a well-tended lawn stretches out around the mansion, with the flickering blue of a swimming pool reflecting off white marble walls. The house is a fair distance from the nearby village and the surrounding area seems quiet. He will be far away before the police ever receive news that something has happened.
Two guards stand beside the pillars which frame the main entrance, sharing a cigarette with their guns casually kept in their holsters. They do not seem to be expecting danger which means their reaction times will be slower; he can sneak up on them and use a knife. A gun would be preferable, but to use one would make too much noise and he has been warned that he must be as quiet as a ghost.
The guards barely have time to cry out before he creeps towards them and slashes the throat of the closest man. While the other man curses and reaches for his gun, the Asset throws aside the choking body in his arms and makes quick work of slamming his head against the wall. The guard collapses and spasms silently on the ground for a few painful seconds before going still, and the Asset reaches over to the body and pulls free the keys hanging from his belt.
As quietly as he can, he turns the key in the lock and lets himself into the house, listening intently for any activity. His handlers did not give him an exact number of guards – for all he knows there could be several more patrolling the halls – but he hears nothing. Reassured, he creeps silently up the circular staircase to the upper floors where his target will likely be asleep, and finds to his relief that no-one accosts him on the way. The stairs open out to a long hallway immediately facing the doors to the main bedroom, and he makes his way over to them. With any luck, his mission should be completed within minutes.
As the wooden door creeps open, he sees his target with a woman he assumes to be his wife, fast asleep on their king-sized bed. The man is closest to the window while his wife seems to have curled up as far away from him as possible; as if even in sleep his very presence disgusts her. The Asset inches his way towards the target first, knowing that the woman is a mere afterthought, and only takes a few seconds to look on at his sleeping face before bringing the knife across his throat.
The man's eyes snap open and there's a sick gurgle as blood spills over spotless white sheets, and the Asset feels an unfamiliar disgust at the sight. He doesn't notice the woman stirring until it's too late, but she barely has time to utter a terrified cry before he terminates her as well. His handlers had specified that everyone in the house must die after all, and he can only assume that they have their reasons.
He waits for the bodies on the bed to still before making his way back to the hall, grateful that his mission has been completed with only the minimum of fuss. He knows that if there were any more guards in the house, they would have been alerted by the woman's short cry, and he can only assume that his target hadn't suspected the danger he was in. Not for the first time, he wonders what the man must have done to make his handlers fear him so.
He barely starts making his way down the stairs before a small voice makes him freeze in his tracks.
"Papa?"
He turns to see a child standing barefoot on the landing, his hair standing up at all angles and sleep still clinging to his eyes. He's tiny, barely six years old, and the Asset feels something like ice settle into his stomach.
He is to kill everyone in the house. No exceptions.
The boy looks at him, likely taking in his unfamiliar face and the severe darkness of his clothing. He may have traces of blood on him as well, although he imagines it is too dark to be visible in this dim light, but even so he must strike an imposing presence in the familiarity of the child's home.
His fingers are still wrapped around the knife that killed the boy's parents. He can almost hear his handler's voice whispering in his ear, telling him to use it against the boy as well. It would be better to do it now, to make it quick and not draw out the child's fear any longer.
For a reason he doesn't entirely understand, he places the knife back in his belt. The child is still looking at him with wide eyes, but he seems to be frozen in place, as if fearing that the slightest movement will set off an attack. The Asset knows that the boy's life will never be the same again – that he has likely single-handedly destroyed it – but he can't bring himself to hurt him further. His handlers will not be endangered by the survival of one little boy, no matter their orders.
"There will be people arriving here soon. You can trust them."
His voice sounds alien in the stillness of this place, but the boy gives a single nod before carefully making his way back to his room. Perhaps, despite his youth, he knows deep down what is going on; perhaps whatever his father had been involved in had leaked into his life. It's the only reason the Asset can come up with for why the child seems so resigned to his presence.
Without another word, he makes his way back down the stairs and hesitates for only a moment before stopping by the phone and calling the police.
He knows he will be long gone by the time they arrive, but at least this way the child will not have long to wait before someone can help him.
Two
"Look at the Asset and tell me what you see."
Dmitri, one of the soldiers assigned to work with Hydra's infamous weapon, looks at his superior officer with mild confusion, before looking down from their spot at the viewing gallery and watching as the Asset spars in the training space below.
They are five days into a new program designed to mimic the success that the Red Room has yielded elsewhere in the country, with a small group of orphaned, wild children being moulded into perfect soldiers. The Asset has been brought in in the hopes that he can pass his skills onto the recruits without surrendering to the humanity that could seep into a normal teacher.
Looking down at his training session, however, Dmitri thinks he sees what Aleksander, his superior, is so concerned about. He has seen the Asset spar with grown men; has seen how the weapon refuses to hold back, even going so far as to beat his opponents half to death if they're idiotic enough to give him the chance. The man is brutal by design, his vicious strength sculpted perfectly by Hydra themselves, and Dmitri has never seen him hold back.
Until now, that is. The children watch on, awestruck, as he demonstrates fighting techniques in a slow, calm manner, making an effort not to harm his charges. It's a stark contrast to the quick ferocity of his usual training sessions, and if the metal of his arm wasn't gleaming under the harsh lights then Dmitri would assume he was someone else. He watches as the asset steps back and lets the children practice their newly learned fight moves using him as a target, and instead of taking advantage of their clumsiness to throw them on the ground, he simply lets them rail on him before holding up a hand as a signal that they should stop. Surprisingly, despite how feral the children had been when Dmitri himself had met them, they all obey and sit on the floor while the Asset demonstrates how best to block an attack.
"It seems like he… cares for them, sir," Dmitri says, hesitating at the word as if it leaves a rotten taste in his mouth. To assign emotion to the Asset seems such an alien concept, and acknowledging that he may be capable of caring opens a can of worms that he suspects neither of them want to comprehend. The Asset has been in their hands for over thirty years now and has never demonstrated anything less than absolute proficiency, and yet here he is holding back for the first time in their collective memory.
Aleksander hums in agreement, and Dmitri looks over at his superior. The man cuts a severe figure, with his black eyes fixed on the weapon in his charge with something approaching disgust, and a muscle quivering in his brow. As the man in charge of this current program, Dmitri can understand why he must be disappointed.
"If he cares for them and they know it, they will grow soft," he says finally while stepping closer to the window, possibly in the hopes of proving himself wrong. "And if the Asset feels protective of them while he's leading them on a mission then he will be compromised, won't he?"
"I suppose so, sir," Dmitri replies, despite not really knowing whether his superior expects him to. Part of him suspects that the man already knows the answer to everything he asks.
He understands now that they are having to come to terms with the fact that their perfect weapon has one obvious yet devastating weakness.
For all his brutal capabilities, the Winter Soldier cannot bring himself to hurt a child.
Aleksander sighs and turns away from the window, leaving Dmitri as the lone watcher to the Asset's training session. He watches the man spar with a young boy in such a way as to avoid touching him; watches as he patiently shows the child a better way to punch with himself as the target, and how he shows none of his characteristic defensiveness when the blow hits.
Dmitri sees the young boy look up at his teacher with something approaching adoration and agrees that this idea has gone too far.
"Wipe the Asset and put him back on ice," Aleksander orders, as if he has somehow sensed the child's expression despite looking the other way. "We'll stick to his original purpose from now on."
Dmitri can't argue with that, and goes off to alert the technicians.
Three
The soldier knows that his mission is done. Upstairs, a large monster of a man is bleeding out onto his desk, his soulless grey eyes staring at nothing. The mission had required he meet the weapons dealer under the guise of a buyer and gather information about the location of the man's weapon stash before killing him. He has done all of that. He can leave now.
Instead, however, he finds himself wandering down to the basement, his mind fixed on the dead man's boasts that he was involved in 'a little human trafficking on the side' and the grotesque smile he'd adorned while he said it. Hydra had mentioned nothing of the sort – if they know about their target's other proclivities they evidently don't deem them to be important – but the Asset supposes it will only take an extra five minutes to investigate the building for any prisoners.
It doesn't take long before he finds them. Pushing open the basement door reveals a make-shift cage, housing at least five people curled up on the floor in varying levels of cleanliness. The oldest is a girl barely older than twenty-one, who rises to her feet and places herself in front of the others in a protective stance at the sight of their visitor.
"I'm not here to hurt you," the soldier says, although he cannot blame the girl for the distrust that flashes across her face. He's dressed in a manner that suggests he's a rich businessman in the same vein as their captor, and his dry voice is hardly a comforting one. He decides simply to cut to the chase. "I killed the man who put you here. I'm going to set you free."
That, at least, sends hope throughout the small group. The younger eyes in the cage look up to their self-appointed leader, and after looking at her charges, the girl nods.
Without another thought, the soldier walks over to the door of the cage and gives a sharp pull with his metal arm, tearing it from its hinges. The prisoners jump in surprise at his display of brute strength but waste no time in running out of the cage, following the light out of the basement and up the stairs. He wonders briefly if he should give them directions for the exit of the building, but decides that they'll likely find it on their own, and he's about to leave when he notices the cage is not yet empty.
A young girl remains curled up in the corner, stick-like arms wrapped around her knees and tears streaking down her grimy face. She's a tiny waif-like thing, around six years old, with straggly blonde hair hanging limply around her face and bright blue eyes contrasting against her pale skin. She's shivering with the cold - the only clothing she seems to have been provided being a thin slip of a dress - and the soldier feels a sense of guilt as she looks up at him in terror.
In an attempt to appear less imposing, he crouches down to her level and tries to soften his expression, which is more difficult than he expects. "Hello," he says in the softest voice he can manage, hoping that the girl can understand Russian. "What's your name?"
The girl assesses him with those intense blue eyes, before gulping and replying in a soft croak. "Merike."
"Nice to meet you, Merike," he says with a smile, ignoring the fact that he usually only uses kindness as a tool to get close to targets before he kills them. If he can provide any comfort to a young girl who needs it, he can ignore the horrors of what he's done for the moment. "Do you know where you're from?"
Merike nods, before pushing herself away from the corner and edging towards him. At the very least, he seems to be gaining her trust. "Tallinn."
Tallinn. She's Estonian then, and a long way from home. She can understand him though, which is all that matters for now.
"I'm going to help you find some people who can take you home," he promises, and the hope that appears on her face feels like a knife in his heart. "Can you trust me to do that?"
She hesitates for only a moment before nodding. He gets to his feet again and stands aside from the door, making it clear that she's free to walk out whenever she wants. Merike takes a few tentative steps towards him, as if expecting a trap to fall upon her at any moment, before finally reaching his side and taking his hand in hers.
Her hand is tiny in his own, and the trust she's placing in him is momentarily overwhelming, but he squeezes it in a comforting gesture before leading the girl out of the basement and up to the rest of the house. There's a back exit he knows he can take to avoid being spotted on the street, and they silently make their way towards it. A harsh draught rushing through the building indicates that the others have found their way out easily enough.
The back-exit leads into an alleyway, with rough concrete underfoot and cold puddles from the recent rainfall. The soldier takes one look down at the girl in her thin clothing and bare-feet, before leaning down so that they're face-to-face.
"I'm going to carry you now, is that all right?" he asks. Merike takes one look at what awaits them outside and nods enthusiastically. The soldier then takes her in his arms and rises to his feet, feeling her thin arms wrap tightly around him as she buries her face in his neck, before stepping out into the cold.
The maps he studied in his preparation for the mission showed that there is both a police station and a hospital nearby. Both will likely be adequate in helping his charge, but as he takes in her general state of malnourishment and possible hypothermia, he decides that the hospital would likely be best. He hopes that her parents have kicked up enough fuss about her disappearance back home; with any luck, it will not take too long for her to be reunited with them.
It takes ten minutes for them to reach the centre of town and see the bright lights of the sleepless hospital in front of them. He knows he cannot go inside with Merike – her sudden appearance will raise enough questions as it is without his involvement – but he takes her as close to the entrance as he can before carefully lowering her to the ground.
"I have to leave you now," he tells her, and her eyes widen with something he can't quite identify. "Don't worry. I'll keep an eye on you until I'm sure you're safe. You go inside, find a nurse or a doctor and tell them your name and where you're from, all right? If they ask what happened to you, tell them the truth. It'll make it easier for them to find your parents."
In spite of her evident fear, she seems to take in everything he's saying, and she looks over to the entrance of the hospital while chewing her lip. He thinks she's about to leave before she leaps at him and grabs him in a tight hug, showing a surprising amount of strength for one so small. He allows himself a private smile as he returns the hug, but pulls away as quickly as he can manage. He's wasted enough time as it is, and he will need to omit any details of his heroics when he reports back to his handlers.
Merike gives him a final, grateful look before running inside the building. He lets himself stay until he sees her approach a young nurse, who kneels beside her mysterious visitor and listens to her story before taking her hand and leading her away. Satisfied enough that the girl will be safe, he turns and makes his way to the rendezvous point where his handlers will be waiting.
"You took your time," is the greeting he gets when he turns into a secluded alleyway ten minutes later. He resists the urge to shrug, knowing it will be seen as a sign of inappropriate defiance, and simply utters a short apology.
His main handler studies him carefully, and he can't quite shake the feeling that he's being mentally dissected by those intense blue eyes. "Mission report."
"Target eliminated. He has a weapons stash in a warehouse north of Samara. I've retrieved maps showing the exact location."
"Anything else?"
He shakes his head. His handler continues to study him, as if suspecting that something isn't being said but unsure as to how to pry additional information from him. After what feels like hours in which he's sure he doesn't take a breath, any tension leaves his handler's face and he turns towards their van, jerking his head in a silent indication that the soldier should follow suit.
The soldier obeys without question, and lets his anxiety leave him in an exhale.
He tries not to dwell on the little girl he saved, or the way her tiny frame and bright blue eyes had seemed so distantly familiar.
Four
The world is on fire.
That's what it feels like anyway, as the heat from nearby flames licks at his face and has him tasting ash in the air. His cheek rests against the cool, rough surface of the ground and his leg is bent at an odd angle and he's so very tired…
"Why did you do that?!" A panicked, yet distant, voice calls out above him and the Asset merely hums in response. Honestly, he's not entirely sure what it is he's supposed to have done. His brain feels like it's been scrambled and everything hurts, and he doesn't have the energy to speak even if he did have a satisfactory answer. "Why the fuck would you… it was just a stupid kid!"
Ah. He remembers now.
He remembers looking on at the building in which he'd planted a Hydra bomb. He remembers watching as the targets entered one by one, with his young handler ordering him to set the timer as soon as the last of them had gone inside.
He remembers the boy on the other side of the street kicking his ball further than he anticipated and running across the empty road to fetch it; remembers how he'd run towards him instinctively despite the fact that there were barely seconds left on the timer, and how he'd wrapped himself around the child like a protective shield with his back to the building that was set to explode.
That's the last thing he remembers. If his enclosed surroundings are any indication, his handler must have dragged him to a nearby alley, but he honestly can't remember getting there. If the pain that radiates from every site of his body and the agonising heat at his back are any indication, perhaps his blackout was a good thing.
"The boy?" he croaks without meaning to, and he can finally see his handler's face looming over him; disbelief and fear written all over his features.
"Who fucking cares!" is the response he gets, before the young man yells for help into his radio and makes quick work of assessing his charge's injuries. The soldier doesn't recognise him – he must be a relatively new recruit – and he can almost feel sorry for him. His lifespan will hardly be lengthy if he lets Hydra's finest weapon die under his watch.
Incapable of doing much else, he rests his head back on the concrete and looks out at the opening of the alley. There's little to see besides the smoke plumes from the remains of the building and the remaining flames flickering amongst the rubble. The air is filled with a cacophony of screams and sirens and he closes his eyes in an attempt to shut it all out. Apparently, he isn't allowed even that simple luxury, for he can hear his handler uttering "no, no, no…" before slapping him across the cheek, and he wakes with a pained groan that sounds pitiful to his ears.
"Just stay alive, all right?" his handler begs, his voice wavering in his terror. "Just, oh god…"
The soldier can't bring himself to care. If anything, there's a sick satisfaction at the knowledge that the men in charge of breaking him can shatter so easily themselves. Besides, if he does die, at least he'll be out of Hydra's hands. He doesn't particularly care about what that will mean for the man trying desperately to keep him alive.
Finally, through half-lidded eyes, he sees something in the distance which sends relief rushing through his veins. A young paramedic sits down beside a wailing boy and wraps a blanket around his shoulders, providing comfort to one too young to understand what is going on. The child looks shaken but ultimately unharmed – a minor miracle in itself – and the Asset lets himself bask in the knowledge that he hasn't put himself through his current agony for nothing.
It's easy to sleep after that. Easy to block out the heat of the flames and the frantic cursing of his handler and the piercing screams. The boy's crying acts as a strange lullaby, and he barely feels rough hands trying to shake him into wakefulness before he surrenders to blissful unconsciousness.
Five
The Smithsonian is busier than he'd like as he wanders past the exhibits. Children scurry around him while wearied mothers try to keep up; each exhibit he goes to is accompanied by the booming voice of a narrator, and the general buzz of the crowds make him feel like he's being cornered on all sides.
He can hardly be recognisable. As far as he knows, images of the Winter Soldier have not yet been released and he's covered up by so many layers that the heat is almost overwhelming, but he still can't shake the uncomfortable feeling that he's being watched and he knows that the sooner he has the information he needs, the better.
A reluctance gnaws at him as he reaches the entrance of the Captain America exhibit. If he finds any trace of the 'James Buchanan Barnes' the captain had mentioned, he knows that it will open a can of worms about his existence that he's not entirely sure he wants to delve into. He's tired and directionless enough as it is without the added weight of another man's identity on his shoulders, and part of him wonders if it would be easier to just slip away and start a new life somewhere else.
It wouldn't be enough though. In the few days since the helicarriers fell, his sleep has been plagued by the once-forgotten moments of a man the world believes to be dead, and the captain features too heavily in them for him to simply set them aside. The knowledge that he was a person before Hydra got their hands on him makes him nauseous, but ignoring that fact will likely do him no favours.
Before he even realises he's made a decision, he finds his feet guiding him towards the displays and he resigns himself to the fact that what knowledge he takes away is likely to be painful.
It is strange at first, to be surrounded by the face of the man he tried to kill so recently. Everywhere he turns, the image of Steve Rogers follows him, and he can't even look down without seeing a child dressed up in red, white and blue or wielding a cardboard shield. The strangest image is that of the Howling Commandos, staring proudly into an unseen distance while mannequins don their uniforms, and though he can spot a face that might be his own among them, it feels so distant from the man he is now. The face painted on the wall is young and far more hopeful than he could ever dream of being, and he turns away from the display with something approaching disgust.
Not that that does any good. Turning in the other direction only brings him face-to-face with his own still reflection and a memorial erected in his memory. He wants to scoff at the date of death scrawled under the wall of text, but he can't even do that as his mind reels at the acceptance that the captain had been telling the truth. He'd apparently known the man since he was a mere child, to the point where they'd been blood brothers, but that hadn't been enough to save him from having all trace of Steve Rogers burned out of his head.
He doesn't know how long he stands before his memorial before he finally acknowledges that he is not alone. As he looks down, he sees a young girl standing beside him, her eyes trained on his face in curiosity and a familiar shield printed on her t-shirt. She must be around eight-years-old – hardly a threat - but that doesn't stop a sense of discomfort creeping down his spine.
He watches as the girl looks from him to the exhibit, and his heart seems to cease as a knowing smile crosses over her face. As if she has sensed his fear, she winks at him and puts a finger to her lips, and though he knows he shouldn't assume safety, he feels relief wash over him anyway.
His eyes follow the short video on the interactive table which has grabbed the girl's attention, and he feels a jolt in his chest as he sees himself, whole and happy and laughing beside his oldest friend. He hadn't even known he could smile like that. Part of him wishes he could remember the details of what was being said, the silent footage taunting him like a spectre, but perhaps that would only make him mourn the past even more.
The girl is looking at him again, only now her eyes seem sad. Either she's incredibly perceptive or he is just that obvious.
"Amelia?" The girl's head turns at the call, and he looks up to see a blonde, strict-looking woman beckoning her child. The girl slumps in obvious disappointment, but leans close to him before obeying her mother, lowering her voice to a whisper.
"I'm glad you're not dead."
She's off before he can react, grabbing her mother's hand as she's led towards the exits, and a small disbelieving laugh leaves him before he can stop it.
He can't remember the last time he smiled, but he starts to think it might not be so difficult after all.
+ One
It's been a week since a helicopter landed on the grounds of the Wakandan palace, bringing with it yet more guests to their haven.
It turns out that the intelligence agencies back home are especially keen on getting every last member of the rogue Avengers back on American soil to face trial, and though it has taken them a while, they've finally identified Scott Lang as a member of their exclusive group. While Clint has the luxury of having his family kept under the radar, and therefore safe from constant interrogation, Scott's family don't have that privilege, and as soon as Natasha had heard through the grapevine that there were plans to bring them in for questioning, T'Challa had arranged their safe transport to Wakanda.
Enough false seeds have been planted so that any intelligence operatives trying to track them down will be able to assume that they've gone on a pleasant vacation to Spain for three weeks - coincidentally only a day before they were supposed to be brought in - and hopefully the story is tight enough that even if foul play is suspected, it can't be proven. Besides, Bucky suspects that Scott will endure whatever dramatic circumstances it takes just to see his daughter again.
From what Bucky has heard, Maggie Lang and her new boyfriend Jim seem rather perturbed at having to leave their home, no matter how many promises they get that their relocation to Wakanda is merely temporary.
Cassie Lang, however, is delighted.
From the instant she touched down on the grounds, she has been exploring the wonders of the palace like a kid in a candy store; watching in awe as the Dora Milaje train in their court, following T'Challa everywhere as he indulges her in rich stories of his culture and alter-ego, and begging Sam to take her with him next time he flies. Apparently she's also been enamoured with Steve and Wanda and Clint – the heroes she's only been able to see in the news before now – and Bucky even finds her being taught the best way to punch by an amused Natasha at one point.
It's a surprise, however, when she finally wanders over to him as he sits by the stream flowing through the palace grounds. He often comes here simply to indulge in the quiet; he can close his eyes and focus on the trickling water and the heat of the sun and forget the painful circumstances that brought him here. He knows he's getting better – he's been working with Wanda and Natasha to help break through his programming, and thanks to T'Challa's engineers he has a new prosthetic arm – but the worry that he'll revert to the dangerous creature he knows he's capable of being can still claw at him. When it does, he finds it helpful to just come out here and sit by himself, enjoying the sounds of a world that stubbornly keeps on turning.
His reverie is broken by a soft 'ooph' as a visitor settles down on the grass beside him, and he opens his eyes to find Scott's daughter looking at his arm with innocent curiosity. Her pet, a frankly massive ant that Bucky can't decide whether he finds grotesque or adorable, sits beside her and croaks happily as she strokes its head.
"Your arm is really cool," she says, almost shyly despite the fact that she must have introduced herself to the entire palace by now. Bucky wonders if she knows exactly who he is, but he supposes she wouldn't have dared come near him if she did. "Can I touch it?"
He laughs, before holding the metal arm out to her. She reaches out a tentative hand and grips the smooth metal, entranced. Her eyes follow the prosthetic up to his shoulder, her eyes narrowing at the sight of the twisted scars surrounding it.
"Does it hurt?"
Bucky shrugs, not knowing how much he'd feel comfortable telling an eight-year-old. "My old one did a little. It felt really heavy sometimes and that could hurt. This one's lighter though so it's not as bad."
Cassie nods, before continuing her silent assessment of his arm. With her tongue sticking unconsciously out of her mouth, she pokes at his shoulder as if silently testing a hypothesis. "Can you feel anything with it or does it just move?"
"It's difficult to explain," he starts, but she meets his eyes with the strongest 'try me' expression he's ever seen on a child. Between her dark hair and intense brown eyes, he realises that she reminds him strongly of Becca and his heart stings a little.
"Well, if I close my eyes and you squeeze my wrist as hard as you can," which she promptly does, "I know that something is touching me. I can sense the pressure of your hand. What I can't tell you is whether your hand is warm or cold. And if you were to punch me…" At his implied suggestion, she laughs and gives him a light nudge on the shoulder. "I just felt you do that, but it didn't hurt."
He opens his eyes again, squinting against the light. He holds out his arm and waves the fingers around, watching the sun bounce off the shining metal. "It's not quite as good as a real arm, but it's much better than nothing. And it makes me look cooler, so that's a plus."
She smiles, enchanted, before following his gaze out to the horizon. It's nearly afternoon – it won't be long before the sun is unbearably hot and everyone moves to find shade – but for now it's still pleasant enough that they feel they can stay. The peaceful atmosphere makes him so content that he doesn't even care when it's finally broken.
"You used to have a star," Cassie says, and he turns to see her fixated on the blank space on his shoulder where the old marking had been. "Right there."
"That was my old one," he explains, deciding that it's probably best that he doesn't tell her exactly what the star had represented. "They're thinking of painting this one differently though, to make it look more like a normal arm."
Her face screws up at the thought and he laughs. "That'll be so boring!"
"I know," he says, giving a small shrug. "It'll help me blend in better though."
"I guess," Cassie says, trying to hide her disappointment despite the fact that Bucky can see it painted on her features as clear as day. She looks back up to the empty spot on his shoulder and traces a light circle where the star had been. Through the mechanical nerve endings, Bucky can vaguely feel the slight pressure of the touch.
"You should paint a shield there instead," she says finally, her eyes widening as she takes pride in her sudden idea. "It's not fair that Cap gets one and you don't when you're always together!"
Bucky can't stop the grin from spreading across his face at that. As much as part of him craves the idea of the arm being painted to resemble flesh, and how it would remove the feeling of having a giant signpost hanging from his shoulder, Cassie's bright puppy-dog eyes seem like they'd convince the stoniest of men. Once again, he is reminded of his little sister and how no matter what she did, it was impossible to stay mad at her when she gave him those wide, sad eyes.
If she is still alive somewhere, he knows he will have to visit her no matter how painful such a reunion promises to be.
The bells in the nearby city are ringing out to signal midday when a distant woman's voice starts calling Cassie's name, and they both turn to find Maggie waving over to them. Cassie groans as she gets to her feet, rubbing the head of her ant to wake it from its stupor and tell it to follow her. She gives Bucky a final sheepish look, surprising him with her evident reluctance to leave, before running towards her mother with her giant pet in tow, calling out "Bye Bucky!" behind her.
He watches as the two walk into the palace before returning his attention to the peace of the stream and the blinding heat of the sun. It strikes him that this is the first time in a long while that he has interacted with someone without having a sneaking suspicion that deep down they must be terrified of him. Perhaps Cassie simply does not know about his past, or maybe she is naïve enough to believe that he is in no way dangerous. Either way, he is grateful. If he is worthy of gaining anyone's trust, then that has to be a sign that he is stepping in the right direction.
He looks down at the empty space on his shoulder where the girl had traced a circle, and smiles privately to himself.
A shield, huh? Perhaps Cassie was onto something.