"The man on the bridge... I knew him." - Bucky Barnes
Chapter 1: Cold
Steven Grant Rogers woke up with a start, half-panicked for a moment before registering where he was. Sighing, he closed his eyes briefly and took a few steadying breaths. He'd been having nightmares more and more frequently since taking down SHIELD: at least one every night, if not more.
He hadn't started looking for Bucky yet, at least not really, because he and Sam hadn't been able to find any good leads. There wasn't a sign of him anywhere, not on social media, not amongst the intelligence community, not on national security footage. The only tracks he'd left were the footprints on the bank of the Potomac all those months earlier.
Steve was afraid that Bucky might have been recaptured or gone back to Hydra on his own, and he found himself growing increasingly frustrated with not knowing if that was the case. Although Sam understood, he thought Steve's frustration was amusing, and said so at every opportunity. And there were plenty of opportunities, because he'd invited Steve to stay with him so that the super soldier could stay in D.C. without spending a small fortune on rent.
Steve ran a hand through his hair, sighing and sitting up slowly. He had made a habit out of sketching after his bad nightmares, and he'd already filled several notebooks with the products of his insomnia. Swinging his legs out of bed, he flicked on his lamp and dug through the drawer of his bedside table for his sketchbook and pencils.
He flipped past some recent drawings of his teammates to a fresh page, hesitated for a moment, and then began tracing an outline of his old apartment in Brooklyn, since it had been featured rather negatively in his most recent nightmare. Strange how even after all this time he could remember the details so clearly.
He paid very little attention to how accurate the sketch was, letting his hand move mostly on his own and letting the familiar actions soothe him. Finishing the building itself, he looked at it critically, then smiled and drew the little black cat that used to come by begging for scraps. Satisfied and feeling more at ease, he set the sketchbook down on the bedside table and flicked the lights off. Then he lay back down, curling up under the blankets, and closed his eyes. He went back to sleep, this time dreaming of nothing but vague lights and colors that might have meant something to him once.
The Asset was watching the Captain. Mind in turmoil, he followed the blond, muscular man from a distance, gun always in hand. Again and again he had the perfect opportunity to take the shot, to eliminate his target, but the same voice that prompted him to save the Captain's life after the destruction of Project Insight told him not to shoot. He didn't understand why. Just because James Barnes, the weakling soldier that he'd been years ago, was friends with this man didn't mean he had to be. He couldn't afford to care. He couldn't afford to let him live. He had to kill him for the good of Hydra. But… he knew him.
It always came back to that. It was so much easier when he felt no emotion, when his handler had told him what to do and he did it. But suddenly he had memories that he didn't know how to deal with. Memories of a train, and cold, and Zola. If he went back to Hydra, they could stop the pain the memories brought. They could get rid of these terrifying emotions he was experiencing. He would be punished, yes, but he understood physical pain. Physical pain made sense, because it was never without reason. But this experience, this heartbreak and loss and confusion and why can't I remember was new, and it was pointless. He could learn nothing from it. It would not help him to be a better Asset. Why did it hurt so badly? And why couldn't anything he did make it stop?
Hydra. He wanted to go back. He did. But every time he tried to complete his mission so that he could, something stopped him. Which led him to question who the Captain was, really. He shouldn't be this reluctant to kill a target just because he knew him once, should he? He thought it over as best as he could, and came to the conclusion that the Captain must be his handler. He wasn't supposed to harm his handler, he knew that. Perhaps this was some kind of test. He didn't understand…
He watched the house, his sniper rifle within easy reach. He knew that his target – his handler? – was awake now. The light was on behind the thick curtains. Normal people weren't awake at this time of night because they needed sleep to function, whereas he usually did not. He was a weapon. Weapons didn't need sleep.
He watched until the light turned off again, then waited another hour before leaving the roof he crouched on and approaching the house. It was easy for him to crush the lock with his metal fist and go inside, ignoring the kitchen and the living room and heading upstairs, where he could find the Captain's room.
The door opened almost silently, and the Asset slipped in, eyeing his surroundings suspiciously. The room was modestly furnished. Everything was pale in color, and the only furniture was the dresser, the bedside table, the bed itself, and a desk with a large chair next to it. He touched nothing, simply cataloguing everything and noting advantages and disadvantages in the room. The bed was occupied by his target, who was asleep. He sat down on the floor and leaned back against the wall, waiting for the man to wake up.
Steve awoke slowly. The sun was streaming in through the curtains, and he was warm and so, so comfortable. He stretched, yawning, then turned over and dragged the comforter over his face, trying to go back to sleep. It took him a minute to sense that something was different from when he'd fallen asleep. He peered out from under the blanket and saw his door sitting slightly ajar. His half-asleep mind jolted awake, and he very slowly stretched and sat up, trying to act as if he hadn't noticed. After all, it was possible (if unlikely) that Sam had come in to check on him this morning and left the door open once he went out.
He almost didn't notice the dark figure seated by the desk, but once he did he froze. He stared at Bucky, and the Soldier stared back, silent and still. He was sitting up, ramrod straight, eyes blank and angry and confused.
Steve stayed on his bed for a moment, not wanting to provoke an attack by getting up. He watched Bucky warily, eyes darting briefly to his shield and wondering if he'd be able to reach it in time if the Soldier came after him.
Finally he swung his legs over the edge of his bed and got to his feet, moving slowly and not taking his eyes off the Soldier, whose gray eyes were following him with distrust. "What are you-" Steve cleared his throat when his voice cracked. "What are you doing here, Bucky?" he asked.
The Soldier focused on his face. "I'm here to kill you," he answered, but there was no conviction in his voice. He watched Steve uncertainly, as if hoping he'd given the right answer.
"Why?" Steve asked carefully, unconsciously holding his hands out in front of him, palms down, in a placating gesture.
"Those were my orders. You're my target," the Asset replied, his voice even less certain. Steve tried to figure out what Bucky was thinking, but his eyes were shadowed and empty.
"Those are old orders, Sergeant," he said firmly. "Hydra's been taken down. You don't have to listen to those orders anymore."
"Cut off one head, two more shall take its place." This was said with emotionless certainty. The Soldier knew Hydra. He was convinced that they weren't gone for good. Steve shook his head and walked towards his friend, taking a risk.
"Hydra's done, Bucky," he repeated. "You don't have to kill me. Pierce is dead."
The Soldier's expression was unreadable. He looked away, clearly thinking hard. Steve stood still, tense as a coiled spring, and waited.
"He was my handler." Bucky glanced at Steve. "Who is my handler now? I need to get new orders."
If Steve had actually stopped to think, he might not have said what he did next. But he'd always been impulsive. He crossed his arms and straightened. "I am. You'll take your orders from me." Almost immediately after that he grimaced, realizing that he actually had no idea what his supposed role as a handler entailed.
Bucky stared at him, not responding, eyes narrowed. Steve waited for him to do something, anything, but he didn't, so the Captain finally sighed and backed away to retrieve his shield, not taking his eyes off of Bucky. "Well, I'm going to go get some breakfast. Wanna come?"
The Soldier got up from the floor in one smooth movement and followed Steve out of the room like a shadow. Steve took out his phone and texted Sam, realizing (again, belatedly) that if someone was going to wake up to the Winter Soldier eating breakfast in their kitchen, they might want to know about it.
He walked out the door, waiting for Bucky to follow. His mind was running a hundred miles an hour, trying to decide what to do next. Beyond offering his friend a decent meal (he was painfully thin and dirty looking) he hadn't planned his next steps very well. Or at all.
Sam didn't appear to be up yet, so Steve went to the fridge and pulled out some orange juice, milk, and a pitcher of water. He turned to Bucky, who was sitting at the table, and offered a half-hearted smile. "You want something to drink?"
The Soldier frowned, but didn't answer.
"Um… Alright. I'll just get you some water and you can drink it if you want it." Steve sighed and poured two glasses of water, thinking. Asking Bucky whether he wanted things probably wasn't how a handler operated; as much as he hated the idea, he'd have to start giving the Soldier orders. He was going to have to play the role he'd assigned himself whether he wanted to or not. He set a glass in front of Bucky and went back to the fridge to get eggs, taking a sip of his own water.
Sam was used to weird stuff by now. His roommate was a genetically-enhanced super soldier. He and his best friend had spent several years using man-made wings to fly missions for the U.S. military. Just a few years ago, the planet had been attacked by actual, real-life aliens.
But waking up to a text saying that a nationally-infamous assassin who'd tried to kill him was downstairs eating breakfast?
That was a whole new level of crazy.
He grabbed his handgun and tucked it into the waistband of his sweatpants, stretching and swearing softly. A part of him was thankful Steve had found Bucky (or vice versa, probably), but a part of him was concerned because super-powered terrorists were not the kind of people he usually invited to breakfast.
As he arrived downstairs, the only sounds in the kitchen were of eggs frying and Steve humming tunelessly under his breath. The Winter Soldier was sitting at the table, holding a glass of water in his metal hand, but it appeared that he hadn't actually drunk anything yet. Sam quietly walked into the kitchen, leaning nonchalantly against the counter.
"Morning, Steve," he finally said, nodding. He noted that the Soldier was staring at him warily, and gave him a forced smile.
"Hey." Steve grinned sheepishly, carefully flipping over an egg. "Sorry about... this."
"This saves us a lot of effort looking for him," Sam said, shrugging. "I'm sure we can handle it."
"I know. Another thing, Sam, I may have… I'm his handler."
Sam sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Okay. We can work with that. It's fine." It was probably actually good that Steve had established himself as an authority figure. Otherwise there was no telling what the Soldier would do, left to his own devices.
He couldn't help but snort, amused, at the look on Steve's face. It was a I-don't-know-what-to-do-I'm-scared-please-help look that reminded him of a puppy confronted with a larger, more aggressive dog. And it was even funnier because the Captain didn't realize he was doing it. "We'll work it out, Cap. Whatcha making?"
"Just fried eggs, with salt and pepper," Steve answered, removing the finished eggs from the pan and breaking two more into it. "I'm gonna make some bacon too."
"I'll make pancakes." Sam straightened and strode over to the cabinets, rifling through them for the ingredients he needed. "He want any?"
Steve hesitated, looked over at the assassin, then sighed and nodded "Yeah."
"Okay." Sam opened the fridge to grab some blueberries, milk, and syrup. "Hey, you want some?" he asked, proffering the carton of blueberries to Bucky. He wasn't sure what he expected. Maybe a harsh refusal and a scowl, maybe a quick grab at the carton and a mistrustful look. Definitely not the blank silence the Bucky was giving him. He glanced at Steve once, then looked back at Bucky. Then Sam sighed and offered the carton to Steve, who took some of the fruit. "So he doesn't make his own decisions," he said quietly.
"I don't think he was allowed to." Steve shrugged. "So we have to phrase things like orders."
"Makes a disturbing amount of sense."
"Yeah, I guess."
Sam poured himself a glass of orange juice. He was good at helping people with trauma and recovery and PTSD, but frankly, looking at Bucky, he wasn't sure this was going to be something he could manage. For now, though, he needed to focus on the positive. Which, in this case, included making pancakes.
He got out another frying pan and started heating the stove while mixing the batter. He'd just finished that when Steve offered him a plateful of eggs and bacon. "Here's your breakfast." Sam accepted it gratefully, chuckling at the huge helpings Steve heaped on his own and Bucky's plates.
Damn, bacon was good.
The Winter Soldier stared dubiously at his plateful of food as if he thought it was going to jump up and bite him. If the situation hadn't been so delicate, Sam might've laughed at his expression. "That's for you, Soldier," Steve said firmly. Bucky started eating slowly, casting the occasional uncertain glance at Steve. The bacon, however, made his eyes widen slightly with enjoyment for a moment. Then his mask of indifference was back in place.
Sam put down his plate, shaking his head, to finish making the pancakes. This was going to be interesting, to say the least.
A/N: Alright, so this is my attempt at a Bucky recovery fic. We'll see how this goes... If you read this and enjoy it, please follow and review and let me know what you think. Suggestions and constructive criticism always welcome!
Edited/rewritten as of May 28, 2016.
