The asset recognized the feel of a vehicle in motion even before he fully woke, stiffening as he realized he was lying with his head resting on someone's thigh, their hand resting on his left shoulder where metal joined flesh.
"Easy, Soldier," a familiar voice said. "Stand down." Rumlow, he remembered, but struggled to move to an upright position anyway, not liking the helpless feeling that lying down gave him.
"Morning, sleeping beauty," someone said. The driver, dark eyes glancing to meet his in the rear view mirror. This is Sam Wilson. He was never your mission. He wedged himself back into the corner where seat and door nearly met, where he could see both of the other occupants of the car at the same time.
"Next left, and then all the way to the end," Rumlow said to Wilson, then turned to look at the asset. "Hungry again?"
"Yes," he said, even as his stomach gurgled loudly at the thought of more food. He opened one of the pouches where Rumlow had put food earlier, taking out a clear plastic container that was divided into two compartments, one with crackers and one filled with a stiff brown paste. He tore it open, scraping out the paste with one thumb and then popping the sticky lump of it into his mouth, eyes half-closing in pleasure at the rich oily salt-sweet taste of it. Peanut butter, some part of him identified.
"Slowly," Rumlow ordered him. Abashed, he nibbled at the crackers, chewing each morsel carefully before swallowing. He was working his way through a second container when the car eased to a stop beside a darkened building; a small house or cottage, surrounded by trees, and beyond it a slope down to a body of water. He could see the far shore; a river, most likely, unless they'd driven a much further distance than he thought likely.
"Nice place," Wilson said as he opened his door and moved to get out.
"Not really," Rumlow said as he opened his own and did the same. "Come on, Soldier."
The asset looked at the door to his left, then opened it and got out of the car as well, feeling uneasy when he found himself standing beside Wilson.
"I'll get our luggage," Wilson said, moving away from him, walking around the nose of the car to get to the passenger side door. He stood and watched him go, then glanced at Rumlow, who seemed unconcerned by Wilson's independent activities, and decided to take his cue from his handler for now. He followed him from the car along the short walkway to the steps up to the porch. The boards were thick with wind-blown dirt and fallen leaves; it had been a while since anyone was last here. He stepped to one side, where he could watch both Rumlow and Wilson at the same time, Wilson leaning into the car on the passenger side to gather things up.
Rumlow reached up above the door frame, tugging on something there; a little loop of chain, running down into a gap between the frame and the siding. There was a key on the end of it. He used it to unlock the door, then returned it to where he'd taken it from. "Come on in," he invited, then led the way indoors. The asset gave Wilson an uncertain look, then stepped inside and swiftly moved to have his back to the wall beside the door before looking warily around.
The place was mostly one big room, with a fireplace and living area at one end and a kitchen at the other. Steep stairs – almost a ladder – led up to a small loft area over the kitchen; he guessed there was a bedroom up there. There were two doors on the opposite side, one leading into a small room tucked in beside the kitchen – pantry or bathroom, he guessed – and another leading out to a deck overlooking the river that he could glimpse though the windows on that side of the building. He liked the openness of the space; plenty of good sight-lines, and some nice heavy furniture to take cover behind if necessary.
Rumlow walked over to the kitchen area, before bending down to grasp and pull on a ring set in the floor, lifting up a hinged section of floorboards; a trap door. "I'll be right back," Rumlow said, glancing over to him. "The fuse box and pipe cutoffs are all in the cellar."
He nodded, watching as Rumlow descended a set of stairs that he couldn't see from where he stood, Uneasily he moved closer, circling the opening at a distance until he could see down into the room beneath the house. There was a series of clicking sounds, and then a light turned on down below, lighting up a small stone-walled room lined with shelves filled with supplies – cans and bottles and boxes of things.
He heard the front door open and flinched back against the cupboards, starting to reach for his weapons before he recognized that it was Wilson coming in, carrying several bags and his wing pack. Wilson froze as well, and they just stood and stared at each other for a long moment.
"I'm just going to move over into the living room and put these down," Wilson said, voice calm and tone soothing, then edged sideways away from the door, before carefully and slowly crouching down enough to set down his burdens. When he straightened up again – also slowly – he moved his hands out to the sides first, showing they were empty.
Rumlow re-emerged from the cellar, stopping when he caught sight of the asset. He leaned to one side to look around the side of the trap door at Wilson. "It's just Wilson," he said, turning to look at the asset again. "Stand down; he won't try to hurt you."
The asset looked warily back and forth between them, then remembered his decision just minutes earlier to take his cues from Rumlow for now. "Da," he muttered, forcing himself to go off alert again. He shuddered as his muscles relaxed, his eyesight going tunnel-visioned as he fought to stay upright. It was a surprise to feel himself dropping down to his knees; an unpleasant surprise, that left him feeling alarmed and frightened, even more so as he slumped forward, vision darkening. Poison? he wondered.
"Shit!" he heard Rumlow exclaim, as he dropped down into blackness again.
"Is he going to be all right?" Brock asked anxiously, watching as Wilson nervously examined James, keeping his touches as light and brief as possible.
"Maybe. He has a healing factor, right? Something like what Steve has?"
"Yeah, something like."
"Then I'd say he'll probably be fine, considering I watched the Captain recover from being gutshot in less then forty-eight hours time. Our friend here is starved, exhausted, maybe a little dehydrated, more than a little stressed out... but basically healthy, and if we can get food and water into him and let him rest, he should recover just fine. Physically, anyway, I can't even begin to guess how mentally messed up he must be."
"That end of things is probably pretty bad," Brock said, voice grim. "At least judging by what I've seen of his treatment over the years."
"Oh? Like what kind of treatment?" Wilson asked, looking up at Brock from where he was kneeling on the floor beside James. "And I'm asking out of professional curiosity, not..."
Brock made a gesture, cutting him off. "Yeah, I know, traumatized vets are your thing," he said, and turned, taking a couple of paces away before turning back, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck. "Can we move him somewhere more comfortable first? I need a couple of minutes and a good stiff drink before I'm up to speaking about any of it."
Wilson gave him an evaluative look, then nodded. "Fair enough. I think we can probably move him without waking him; he went down hard again. An hour in the car didn't even begin to take the edge off his sleep deficit, I'm guessing. Couch?"
"Yeah," Brock agreed. With the aid of a heavy blanket, its long edges rolled up to serve as a makeshift stretcher, they managed to shift him from the kitchen floor to the couch over in the living area.
"That was easier than getting him in the car was, at least," Wilson observed, standing beside the couch and frowning down at James. "When he wakes we need to get him to eat as much real food as he can handle; some crackers and peanut butter aren't going to cut it if his healing uses up as much energy as it does with Steve. Though the peanut butter itself isn't too bad in terms of calorie and nutrient load."
Brock nodded agreement as he took out glasses and a bottle of whiskey. Not a particularly good whiskey; on the rare times when he drank, he was generally more concerned about the strength of it than the taste or the expense. He splashed equal quantities in both glasses, then held one in Wilson's direction. Wilson looked at it for a moment, then walked over to take it from him. "Thanks."
"You won't say that once you've tasted it," he said, and drank off half of his, grimacing even as he reached for the bottle to top it up again before carrying his drink into the living area and lowering himself into one of the armchairs, positioned so he could keep an eye on James. Wilson followed, having only taken a single small sip of his own drink, and took the other armchair.
Brock frowned down at the glass in his hands, organizing his thoughts, before looking at Wilson again. "I said before that he's a very well-trained attack dog. You probably know there's two kinds of dog trainers; those who train an animal by becoming friends with it and rewarding its good behaviour, and those who train through punishment and don't give a flying fuck about the dog. From what little I know of it, most of his trainers and handlers have fallen into the latter category," he said, then took another drink – not as large as the initial slug – and looked across the room at where James lay, unconscious.
"They have this... machine. There was one back at that base; it looks kind of like a dentist's chair or a hairdresser's seat. Reclines. But there's a mechanism at the head end, lots of electrical contacts. I don't know how it works, only that it's something similar to electroshock therapy, and when they use it on him... he forgets. Selectively. He keeps learned skills, things like languages and weapons use and everything like that, that's all untouched, but most of his memories of who he is, people he's known, what he's done... it pretty much all goes." He took another, larger gulp, forced himself to keep speaking, ignoring how thin and choked his voice had gone. "I was there the last time Pierce used it on him. The fucker monologued at him about how invaluable his service was to HYDRA – told him he'd shaped the century. And then wiped him. When the machine turned on, he screamed..."
He had to stop then, ignoring the faint shaking of his hand as he took a sip of his drink. "That's why he's never recognized me... they wiped him, at least once and probably more, between when he'd been recaptured and when I finally saw him again. The James I knew... he's gone, erased like he never existed, like he and I..." He had to stop again.
"That's pretty rough," Wilson said quietly when the silence began to stretch out too long. "Both for you and for him."
"Yeah. Worse for him, in my opinion. To those of HYDRA who actually know he's real, he's just... a thing. A weapon. The asset. He's a rumour to everyone else. The Winter Soldier. A ghost story. Not real. None of them see him as human."
"Except you," Wilson pointed out.
"Only because I first met him when he was actually lucid. He isn't always. I think a lot of the time he doesn't see himself as human either. A lot of the time he's just... blank. All that exists for him is his mission, and completing it satisfactorily. Nothing else matters; not damage to himself or others, nothing, just getting his target within mission parameters." He swirled his drink, staring down at it, then turned his head to look at Wilson. "He's human to only one other person I know of."
"Steve," Wilson acknowledged. "But you can add me to that list now too."
Brock gave him a crooked smile. "Good to hear. So, any recommendations on how we handle things?"
"Other than what I said earlier about food, drink, and plenty of rest? I really don't know. This is so god-damned far outside my area of expertise it might as well not even be on the same planet. But then there's probably very few people on earth with any experience with the level of trauma he's been put through, much less over the length of time it's gone on for. I honestly don't know what to expect. Though the fact that you've seen him come back from this before? At least enough to be a functioning, more-or-less normal person? I'd say that gives me hope that he can do it again. That given enough time out of HYDRA's hands and away from that machine, that he can become his own person again, and not just a weapon. Whether that person will bear any resemblance to the Bucky that Steve knew, or the James that you did... again, I can't say. Our personalities are so dependant on so many things, including our life experiences to date and our memories of them." Wilson frowned, and fiddled for a moment with his own drink, then looked across the room at where James lay sleeping. "First priority is his physical well-being. That's something concrete we can work on. His mental well-being will likely be a much more long-term project."
Brock nodded. "And not something I'm going to be able to stick around for. Once HYDRA figures out I've taken him, they're going to start hunting me down; as soon as he'll begin accepting food from someone other than myself, I need to vanish, get as far away from him as possible so I don't lead them to him."
"Steve should be back in town in two, maybe three days," Wilson said thoughtfully. "Though he'll likely be trying to contact me before then, to arrange to meet him at the airport. When he doesn't get an answer... I'm not sure what he'll do. But I doubt it'll be very long after he gets in town before he's at my place and seeing that I'm not there. After that? Well, he is an Avenger; he's got resources he can draw on even with SHIELD out of the picture."
"Stark," Brock said, grimacing.
"Among others, yeah. You know, it might make things easiest if we contact them before things go that far."
Brock shook his head. "You think that Rogers will keep his distance when he hears you're with his childhood friend? Worse, that both of you are with me? I don't see that happening, and I have no interest in being anywhere within miles of him. Our last few encounters weren't exactly what you might call cordial."
Wilson grinned briefly at him. "No, they weren't, were they. On the other hand, I think he's less likely to react badly to hearing from me than to having to try hunting me down."
Brock grimaced. "True. Okay... you said two or three days, right? Even if it's just two, it'll take time for Rogers to decide he needs to call for backup, and then more time for Stark to start turning some of his technological resources onto the problem and get any results. So once we hit the point where he's likely looking for you – then you can contact him. Hopefully either James doesn't require my presence by then, or you can buy us a little extra time."
"All right," Wilson agreed, then yawned. "And that's the sign that I'm up well past my bed time."
"You can use the bed up in the loft if you want to; I'd better stay down here so that I'm the first person he sees on waking."
Wilson nodded, finished his drink and rose to his feet. He walked over to the kitchen area to rinse his glass and put it in the draining board, then picked up his duffle and went up to the loft. Brock nursed the remains of his own drink for a while, watching James sleep and trying to convince himself that it'd all work out well in the end.
The asset woke remembering having dreamed, something rare in his experience; both the sleeping, and the dreaming. It was a rare mission that ran long enough for him to require sleep. He opened his eyes, only mildly surprised to find himself lying on his back on something soft, looking up at exposed rough-hewn rafters, a kind of ceiling he somehow knew he'd seen more than once before. Memories followed, not just of arriving here with Rumlow and the other man the night before, but other memories, older memories, of waking up to army tents, wooden barn and sheds, cracked and stained cement, luxurious high-ceilinged rooms flooded with light, the water-stained slanted plaster ceiling of garret room, surgical lights and pain, reinforced steel walls and ceiling, the rough stone ceiling of a cave, the scum-stained curved brick interior of an ancient sewer, trees boughs and starlight and snow... a parade of locations, disjointed and unrelated.
He drew in a gasping breath, overwhelmed by the deluge of memories, jerking spasmodically as some part of him tried to flee or fight or in some other way react to the cascade. He forced himself back to stillness, steadied his breathing after that first noisy gasp to a silent even rhythm, suppressed the sounds that wanted to form in and escape from his throat to remain potential only, not anything actually voiced.
He smelled food cooking, something rich and meaty in smell that made his mouth flood with saliva and his stomach cramp painfully. A sound did escape him then, just a small one.
"You're awake," a familiar voice called from the far end of the room, the area under the loft. His handler. Rumlow. "Hungry?"
He did not answer, but sat up, looking around quickly, automatically taking inventory of his surroundings, categorizing everything in sight based on its usefulness as a weapon or shelter or both. There was no sign of the other man around, the black man, the one who flew, but a whisper of sound from the loft betrayed his position. He looked up, cocking his head slightly as he listened. Snoring, perhaps.
"Wilson's asleep in the loft," Rumlow said, voice calm. "He's no threat. Okay?"
He turned his attention to Rumlow, and stilled as another flood of memories washed over him. Rumlow at various ages, mostly dressed in combat gear; providing him backup, handing him rations and a water bottle, driving a vehicle, singing along with the radio and flashing a warm smile at the asset as he did so. A young man, blond but with dark roots and, the asset somehow knew, even darker hair trailing down his stomach and curling at the base of his cock, with Rumlow's face, but young, so young. Lying on a rumpled bed, and smiling warmly at him. The same smile as when he'd been singing, and almost the same smile as he gave the asset now as Rumlow walked across the room toward him, a laden tray in his hands. Brock. A surge of unidentifiable emotion that cut off and subsided as quickly as it had rose.
Rumlow set the tray down on one end of the heavy wood coffee table beside the couch that the asset was on, plunked himself down on the other end. "You're to eat as much of that as you can manage," he said. "And then rest some more." And made the series of sound that allowed the asset to reach hungrily for the nearest dish, a plate of toasted bread, little globules of melted butterfat glistening in the amber-gold honey it was spread with. He ate the first slice in two large bites, the second in three.
"Slower," Rumlow reminded him as he reached for the bowl on the tray. "Or you'll be sicking it all back up again."
He forced himself to slow, to sip at the thick soup in the bowl rather than gulping it down, ignoring the spoon set on the tray beside it and the shaking of his hands that threatened to slop the soup down his chin. He drank all of it, then ate the contents of a small bowl of mixed nuts, washing down the oily salty goodness of them with sips from a large glass of milk that had the odd slightly caramelized flavour that meant it had been mixed from dried powder. He felt almost uncomfortably full by then, but there was still food on the tray, a small plate with a handful of dried fruit on it, slices of apple and pear and peach, and some bright orange fruit that he didn't know the name of but could remember the taste of, the dense sour-sweet texture and slightly fuzzy wrinkled surface. He scooped up the handful of fruit, shooting a wary glance at Rumlow as he curled on his side on the couch, nibbling on a leathery apple slice. But Brock merely smiled, and carried the tray away.
He drifted for a while then, phasing in and out of consciousness, nibbling on his fruit when he was awake enough to, and when that was done, eating other things Rumlow brought him. He was eating a sandwich and more of the soup when he heard sounds from the loft, and wasn't surprised when the other man, Wilson, appeared at the top of the stairs, with the semi-aware look of someone only just awake.
"I smell food," Wilson said loudly as he descended the stairs, looking the asset over from head to toe before turning his head in the direction of the kitchen.
"There might be some left," Rumlow said.
"Is there coffee?" Wilson asked hopefully.
"There is, but if you take it white there's a choice of milk from dried, or powdered creamer."
Wilson actually stopped walking for a moment, and shuddered theatrically. "That edible oil stuff? Pass. I'll take it black."
Rumlow handed him a mug, and Wilson filled it himself, grimaced after tasting it and hastily added some sugar before trying it again. He drank some of it, then set it down on the counter and moved around finding dishes and cutlery and serving himself from the pots on the stove. "He eat?" the asset heard him ask.
"Yeah," Brock answered. "I've been getting food and drink into him every time he's awake enough for it."
"Good," Wilson said, and carried his own food and drink over to the table, sitting down and eating rapidly but neatly. "How are we on groceries?" he asked as Rumlow joined him at the table, a coffee mug of his own cradled in his hands.
"Good, on anything that can be stored long-term. I'll have to make a grocery run if we want anything fresh, though I'd prefer not to; HYDRA may already be looking for me."
The asset frowned slightly at that. He and Rumlow belonged to HYDRA; why would his handler sound worried over their owners finding them? But then he remember the scene in the cafeteria at the bunker the night before, and that Wilson was not HYDRA – was opposed to it, if anything, along with the man from the helicarrier...
Another cascade of memories, all centred on that man. Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. You've known me your whole life. This time he could not stop a sound from leaving him.
A low cry from the living room had both Sam and Rumlow on their feet. Barnes was curled up in a tight ball on the couch, shuddering and making choked-off noises of distress. They both started toward him, then Sam stopped, knowing better than to rush toward a combat-trained veteran who was having some sort of panic attack or flashback. Rumlow moved closer, but also stopped when still several long steps away from the couch.
"Soldier!" Rumlow snapped out in a commanding tone of voice. Barnes twitched and partially uncurled, then rolled up tight again. "Soldier, mission report!"
The distressed noises transformed into a low keen, then cut off abruptly as he went limp. Rumlow took a couple of steps closer, then his shoulders slumped. "He's out," he said.
Sam moved forward then, pausing beside Rumlow to look Barnes over before moving close enough to crouch down and check his pulse and breathing, ready to jump back if the unconscious man woke again. His skin was cool and a little clammy, his body almost bonelessly lax, and he didn't react at all, even when Sam gently thumbed his eyelids open to check his pupils.
"He okay?" Rumlow asked.
"I think so. I'm not sure what that was; bad flashbacks maybe. He's out again, though I don't think it was a physical collapse this time. Or at least not entirely physical."
"Anything we can do for him?"
Sam sighed and shook his head. "Same as before; feed him when he wakes, let him sleep as much as he can. I'll add keep him warm to that list," he said.
Rumlow nodded, and covered him with the blanket they'd used as a stretcher the night before.
"You should take a rest for a while too," Sam told him. "I'll finish my breakfast and then see about preparing some more food."
Rumlow nodded again, then moved to sit down on the nearest armchair, reclining it back. Sam returned to the kitchen, sitting down to finish his meal. By the time he'd had seconds – the food wasn't bad, for stuff from cans and boxes – Rumlow was asleep. Sam put together a tray of the leftovers, then washed up, making no effort to be quiet about it; trying to move around quietly was more likely to wake the two than 'normal' sounds would, he knew from personal experience.
He checked the contents of the fridge and cabinets, then went down into the cellar to see what was available there, checking the contents of the sizable freezer before gathering up a few cans, bags and boxes before returning upstairs, where he began preparing a meal; canned stew, to which he added things like some elderly but still usable herbs and spices, as well as a generous amount of frozen and canned vegetables. He mixed up some biscuit dough from a box, adding shredded cheese to the dough along with some herbs and dried onions that he'd reconstituted with a little hot water. Once those were baking he puttered around the kitchen cleaning up after himself, then got ambitious and started on a dessert, putting dried fruit to simmer with water and spices in another saucepan. The smell of cloves and cinnamon was just becoming noticeable when he heard movement from the living room, and looked over to see Barnes moving to sit up properly on the couch, focused at first on Rumlow sleeping nearby before suddenly turning to stare at Sam.
Sam froze; it wasn't a focused stare, more like what he'd call a thousand yard one; whatever Barnes was seeing, it wasn't necessarily him. He froze, and then slowly put his hands up and out to the side again, licking his lips nervously. "Rumlow?" he called. Barnes rose, not all the way up but into a crouch, ready to move in any direction, hands hovering near his weapons, eyes now focusing on Sam. "Hey, Rumlow!" Sam chanced calling a second time, a little louder.
Rumlow twitched, then opened his eyes and sat up a little, enough to see the tableau in front of him. "Soldier!" he immediately snapped out, as much as he could snap with a voice rough from not enough sleep. "Stand down; it's just Wilson."
Barnes looked back and forth between them, then slowly straightened. "Wilson," he said in a flat tone of voice.
"Yeah, that's right; Sam Wilson," Sam said, keeping his voice as reassuring as he could make it. "You should remember me; the one with the wings."
Barnes cocked his head a little to one side. He was standing loose and easy now, hands hanging empty at his side. "I remember your wings. I tore one off."
"That's right," Sam agreed calmly as he slowly lowered his own hands. "Though that wasn't last night. Last night we flew together."
"I remember that," Barnes said softly, a brief look of wonder crossing his face. "There were stars."
Sam couldn't help grinning at that. He'd always loved night-flying, though it was a rare mission that required it. "Yeah, they're real pretty, aren't they? Are you hungry again yet? I cooked."
Barnes turned to look at Rumlow, who was pushing himself to his feet, moving like sleeping on the recliner had left him sore and stiff. Though that just as well could have been a result of his still-healing injuries. "Smells good," Rumlow said. "Why don't you dish us up some while the Soldier and I go take a piss."
"Sure," Sam agreed, and turned away, moving to set the table, putting down a cork hotpad to place the pot of stew on and then transferring the warm biscuits to a platter to set down beside it. Rumlow and Barnes returned just as he was giving the stewed fruit a stir. Sam fought down the urge to wrinkle his nose at the unwashed stink that still hung around Barnes. Not that he and Rumlow were exactly fresh as daisies either, but they'd at least showered some time in the last day or two.
Rumlow subtly guided Barnes into sitting down at the table. Barnes looked at the food with evident hunger, but didn't reach for anything, his hands curling up in his lap.
"Mind being the host tonight?" Rumlow asked Sam, eyes flicking from Barnes to the food and back again before meeting Sam's.
"Of course," Sam said, and ladled stew into the soup plates as Rumlow handed them to him, after which he served biscuits to all three of them as well. Barnes watched the food being passed around with an anxious expression, like a starved dog watching someone else eating. He kept darting nervous looks at Rumlow, his hands remaining in his lap through they were now clenched together, fingers of his flesh hand closed tightly around the fingers of his metal one. "These are the words to say," Rumlow told Sam, as he picked up his spoon, then looked at Barnes and carefully enunciated the string of nonsense words.
Sam repeated them aloud, then they both watched as Barnes looked back and forth between them, hand starting to reach for his food and then retreating.
"It's all right, man, you're allowed to eat," Sam told him softly, and said the words again, echoed by Rumlow. This time when Barnes moved, he picked up a biscuit, taking a small bite out of it while still looking back and forth between them.
"That's right, slowly," Rumlow said approvingly, before spooning up some of his own bowl of stew.
It was a largely silent meal, Barnes just watching them nervously from behind the fall of his greasy hair as he methodically worked his way through all the food he was given, sitting motionless once his bowl was empty until Sam served him more, Sam and Brock both saying the words that signalled him that he was allowed to eat. He was starting to nod off at the table by the time he'd eaten two bowls of stew and four biscuits; Rumlow ordered him to go lie down and sleep again, which he did, seemingly asleep again almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.
Rumlow helped with washing up from the meal, the stew going back on the stove on the simmer element while the leftover biscuits were wrapped in a clean towel and put aside for later.
"Dessert now or later?" Rumlow asked as he dried and put away the last dish.
Sam couldn't help but grin at the hopeful note in the man's voice. "How about later? I think we have the ingredients for me to make some gingerbread to go with the stewed fruit."
Rumlow looked surprised, then managed a brief smile. "Definitely later then," he said. "I think there might be some ice cream in the freezer that we could have with it as well."
"Maybe save that for later. Listen, any chance we can get him cleaned up some? Not to put too fine a point on it, but he reeks, badly enough for me to be worrying a little about the possibility of sores under all that armour. Not to mention whatever passengers he might have picked up while wandering around."
Rumlow grimaced. "Might be doable, but I can't guarantee how calmly he'll take it; as far as I know, mostly he just gets hosed down with cold water before they stick him back in the cryofreezer. I think the chances of him having had a proper bath or shower since back when he lived with me are slim to none."
Sam paused, staring at him for a long moment. "That's fucked up," he said firmly. "I guess about all we can do is try. Try it next time he wakes? A little food, get him cleaned up as much as we can, then more food and right back to bed."
"We can try," Rumlow agreed. "I've got some clothing upstairs, should be something that'll fit him."
Bathing the Winter Soldier went surprisingly easily. There was a couple of false starts, while they worked out whether he needed help getting cleaned or could wash himself (the former), and once that was sorted out, whether he preferred just Rumlow in the bathroom with him or wanted them both where he could see them (the latter).
Rumlow did the lion's share of scrubbing him down, shampooing him, and shaving away the incipient beard, while Sam passed him things and kept up an easy flow of quiet chatter, more talking at the two men than anything like a real conversation, Barnes remaining entirely silent the whole time and Rumlow being too busy and distracted to talk much.
Barnes was clearly nervous and more than a little twitchy at first, and startled backwards, wide-eyed, when they first turned on the shower, but once he'd held out his flesh hand to feel the warmth of the running water his eyes went to a look more of wide-eyed wonder than fear, and he allowed Rumlow to direct him into standing under the flow of it. It took a couple rounds of soaping up and rinsing off before they were satisfied that he was clean, after which Rumlow got him to sit on the edge of the tub so he could lather up his face and neck and shave him. Barnes sat very still during that, eyes looking a little white around the edges and breathing a little fast at first, but slowly relaxing as nothing bad happened to him.
Sam took the opportunity of the bath to give Barnes a visual going-over, looking for signs of injury or infection. There were a few areas under his armour where his skin looked a little irritated, either from pressure and friction or possibly bacterial build-up, and a lot of old scars, especially around where his metal arm attached to his torso, but nothing obviously wrong with him. The arm, on the other hand, was clearly damaged, its interlocking plates warped out of shape in a couple of areas, preventing it from moving as smoothly as it should have.
As Rumlow had said about Barnes before, he cleaned up really well, once the scruff was scraped off. Handsome, if you didn't mind them long-haired and wild-eyed. Dressed in a loose-fitting pair of faded black sweat pants and a long-sleeved white tshirt, damp hair combed back from his face, he looked oddly vulnerable, though that might have been in part due to his body language. Not the confident swagger with which Sam remembered him striding into battle, but instead drawn in on himself, with shoulders hunched, head lowered and back curved as if he was trying to curl up a little, to hide himself, to protect his vulnerable areas now that he was out of his armour. He followed them back out to the main room meekly enough, resuming his seat on the couch.
"I'll get that gingerbread made," Sam said, retreating to the kitchen and leaving Barnes' care to Rumlow again.
The asset lay on the couch, not sleeping but with eyes half-closed, drifting a little again. He felt good, better than he had in days. Clean, and with a full stomach, a bowl with another chunk of spicy gingerbread covered in stewed fruit resting within reach for when he was hungry again, with permission to eat it when he was ready to. His handler had given him back most of his weapons,and even though he'd only been able to strap on a few of them, just having them back in reach made him feel much better, even if he still felt under-dressed.
His armour was currently all taken apart, the washable parts currently being washed and the rest sitting in a neat pile, waiting for either himself or Rumlow to clean by hand. Though since he hadn't been given an order to do so yet, and wasn't feeling agitated enough to need something to do with his hands, he was happy enough to just lie down and rest, keeping a wary eye on Wilson.
Rumlow had gone upstairs to rest, after telling him several times that Wilson would stay with him and that he was not to hurt him. He knew that was the kind of order he didn't really have to obey; one he had sometimes purposefully disobeyed at times in the past, killing people without orders or even on rare occasion against them, only sometimes earning punishment for it. But he didn't feel any need or desire to kill Wilson; Wilson was good about staying where he could see him, about moving slowly, about not coming too close to him or trying to touch him. He talked enough that the asset didn't forget that he was there, but didn't talk so much as to be irritating, and the things he talked about were mostly innocuous subjects; his wings and flying, music, the book he was reading, food. He had a pleasant voice, soothing, and smiled a lot; the sort of smile that reached his eyes, more than just a movement of his lips.
The asset sat up after a while and picked up his bowl of dessert, not feeling any particular hunger any more, but pleased to have the choice of eating it whenever he wanted to. He spooned up only a little of the stewed fruit and gingerbread, enjoying the mix of flavours in it, the spices and sugars and the rich butter-laden cake. Wilson looked up from his book at the movement, and smiled again. "Way you've been going through it, I think you'll have that entire pan of gingerbread finished by tomorrow."
That made the asset pause, wondering if that was a good thing or a bad thing, and what sort of punishment might be due him if it was bad. He stared at his bowl of dessert, then looked toward the kitchen where the pan sat on the counter, covered with plastic film.
"I can make more," Wilson said quietly, then shifted in his seat, to a more upright position, closing and setting aside his tablet. "Maybe make something else. I make a mean gingerbread but I think more than one pan of it in a day might be pushing things." He rose then, and walked over to the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards. "I could try making apple cake, though I'm not sure how well it'd work with dried apples. No eggs, so sponge or angelfood is out... oh, we have chocolate, maybe I'll make brownies – do you like chocolate, Barnes?"
"Yes," he said, and then froze, startled to realize he'd responded to something the other man had said when he wasn't even his handler, and wondering for a moment what chocolate even was, and how he knew he liked it, before another cascade of memories flooded his mind. His sister's chocolate birthday cake (a sister?) the year that his father had been making good money working down at the docks, the bitter flavour of the fragments of so-called-chocolate shaved off his D Ration,biting into a chocolate chip cookie still warm from the oven as a much younger Rumlow gave him a pleased smile, licking a spill of chocolate sauce off his thumb, noisily sipping the last of a chocolate milkshake through a straw in a soda joint as he made eyes across the room at a girl that he was pretty sure would let him fuck her later, splitting a 1-cent bar after school with... with... He could see the kid in his memories, shorter than him, with hair bleached almost white from the sun, nose dusted with a scattering of freckles, blue eyes huge in that too-thin face, but the name wouldn't come.
"Want to help?" Wilson asked, looking over from where he was lining up ingredients on the counter.
He didn't answer, but stood up and walked over, stopping a couple of feet away, fists knotting in the hem of his shirt, and looked from the ingredients on the counter to the man. Sam counted out squares of chocolate onto a small cutting board, then slid it along the counter towards him. "Think you can chop that up for me? Big chunks is fine. Use one of the kitchen knives," he added, gesturing at a nearby knife block. "Don't know where yours have been."
Part of him wanted to protest that he wouldn't have used one of his own well-sharpened knives for such a menial purpose, but he stayed quiet and reached for a knife in the block, a good-sized knife, testing the edge and then arranging the squares in a row before he began chopping, rocking the knife up and down along it's curved edge, walking it along the board toward him with each cut, while Wilson unwrapped the remains of a block of butter, cutting it into chunks and dropping them into a metal bowl.
"I better get some more butter out of the freezer, or we won't have any to use for making breakfast tomorrow," Sam said, and leaned close to the asset for a moment, watching him chop. "Good work, looks like you know your way around a kitchen," he added approvingly, and then walked away to lift the trapdoor and disappear down into the cellar.
The asset continued chopping; this was something he knew how to do, though the flood of memories was almost gentle this time, less emotionally charged; standing at counters, with different knives and different foods. Scraping and slicing carrots while he stood on a step-stool to be tall enough to help his... his mother? Grandmother? Some woman, anyway, bigger than him and with grey in her dark hair. Sweetening up the landlady by chopping up potatoes, carrots, celery, and other things, while she added them to a big pot steaming on the stove, telling her saucy stories while she smiled and laughed, flapped her apron at him and told him he was a very bad boy in her thick – Polish? Lithuanian? – accent. Squatting on the ground near a campfire, cigarette hanging out one corner of his mouth while cutting up some vegetables he and Morita had scavenged from an abandoned garden earlier that day, while Frenchie muttered to himself and plucked and cut up a scrawny chicken he'd procured from somewhere, the first real meat they'd seen in days. Steve's too-big hands deftly cutting an apple into slices, handing half of them to him, laughing at something Bucky had just said before popping a slice into his own mouth...
He froze, then, and somehow forced his mind away from that moment, knowing an avalanche lay in that direction. Knives. Think about knives. No, not that either, another trap just as dark and three times as dangerous...
"Barnes? You okay?"
He looked up, saw Wilson standing in the mouth of the trapdoor, halfway up the stairs, carrying some things in his hands. He forced his breathing to even out, made himself look at them, read their labels, think only of them. Butter. Vanilla ice cream. A frost-coated flat package that he thought was likely some kind of meat. He managed a shaky breath, nodded, and resumed chopping the chocolate, thinking only of the task itself.
Sam leaned against the door of the fridge, watching while Barnes stirred the pot of chicken stew. "Should we make dumplings to go with it?" he asked, and smiled when Barnes nodded, seeing it as a good sign that Barnes was willing to acknowledge and respond to him, even if so far his communication had mostly been shakes and nods and only a few rare monosyllabic replies. But he was responding, and engaging in harmless activities, and that gave Sam a really good feeling. There was someone inside that head, someone who was acting more human and less like a weapon with every passing minute. Barnes was still hyper-vigilant and twitchy enough that Sam wouldn't have wanted to take him out into anywhere uncontrolled and public, but here, in the quiet isolation of the river-side cottage, he was doing okay.
Sam was getting together the ingredients for the dumplings when there was faint sounds up above them in the loft; Rumlow waking up again. He came down the stairs a minute later, looking around worriedly at first and then showing surprise once he caught sight of Barnes in the kitchen with Sam. Then he smiled. "Smells good," he said. "There coffee?"
"Coffee maker is set up," Sam told him, nodding toward it.
Rumlow nodded and walked over to hit the switch, then looked around the kitchen and took a deep, appreciative sniff of the air. "Smells good," he said. "You cook?"
Sam answered the unasked question. "We both did. Barnes here makes a good scullery maid; knows his way around a kitchen."
Rumlow smiled warmly at Barnes for a moment. "I remember that," he agreed, then looked out the windows, where midday sun was sparking off the river. "This sleeping at odd hours has me all twisted around. I'm wanting breakfast, and by the look of it you two have made dinner."
"There's still gingerbread and stewed fruit left if you want something sweet for breakfast," Sam pointed out. He'd had some earlier while the brownies were baking in the oven and the chicken thawing in the microwave, and tried to get Barnes to take more too, but the man hadn't been willing to eat without permission from Rumlow. Though he'd at least eaten the last of the snack packs of crackers and things retrieved from his gear. And hadn't needed any further naps yet; it looked like he'd moved beyond being in a state of near-collapse, and was recovering swiftly now that he'd rested and eaten properly, his cheeks already looking less gaunt, his skintone better.
"I smell something chocolate," Rumlow said.
Sam grinned. "We made brownies. But that's for later, after the gingerbread is finished off. Why don't you and Barnes take care of that while I get the dumplings made?"
Rumlow nodded, catching what Sam was saying – start get Barnes properly fed again – and served up the last of the gingerbread and stewed fruit for the two of them, Barnes trailing him docilely over to the kitchen table to sit and eat. Rumlow looked pointedly at Sam as he said the nonsense words, Sam obediently echoing him.
Once the dumpling dough had been spooned into the pot and the lid placed back on, Sam carried the carafe and coffee and some mugs over to the table. "It'll be fifteen or twenty minutes for the dumplings to steam, I'm going to go jump in the shower," he said as he put them down.
Rumlow nodded acknowledgement as he reached for the coffee. "Okay, and thanks."
Brock stood at the counter drying the dishes, watching as Wilson fed James brownies a single piece at a time. Sam would hold out a square – he'd cut the pan into very small pieces – and say the release words. James would look at the brownie, and then look at Brock, and once Brock also said the words, take the piece and eat it, and then sit looking hopefully at the pan again. They'd gone through almost half the pan – including the pieces Sam and Brock had eaten – when James took a piece without waiting for Brock to also okay it. He didn't eat it – he froze, and darted a frankly frightened look at James – but he did take it. Brock smiled warmly at him. "That's right, you can eat things Wilson gives you," he said approvingly, and spoke the release words again.
James just sat there, staring at the piece of brownie in his shaking hand, then suddenly dropped it, rose to his feet and stalked off to the far end of the room, where he began pacing agitatedly back and forth in front of the fireplace. Wilson and Brock exchanged looks.
"Just leave him to it," Sam said quietly. "I would think his conditioning starting to break down would be very confusing and even frightening to him."
Brock finished drying the dishes and put them away, then poured the last of the coffee into his mug and set up the machine for a fresh pot. "Coffee?" he asked, finger on the switch.
Wilson shook his head. "Nah, I'm good," he said. "I'm going to need to crash soon. It's already been a long day for me."
Rumlow nodded, then walked over to sit down and snag some more brownies for himself. Wilson was leaning back in his own chair, arms crossed and head tilted back, looking like he might drift off to sleep right there. Rumlow was just taking a third brownie when James suddenly returned to the table, his movements as quiet as the ghost he was sometimes labelled as. He sat down, picked up the brownie he'd dropped earlier, and ate it, darting looks back and forth between the two of them as he took little mouse-nibbles from it.
Wilson, who'd lifted his head to watch him when he returned, smiled warmly at him. "Good," he said, and when James looked at the pan offered him another piece. This time James took it as soon as Sam said the release words, though he watched Rumlow warily for a moment before taking a very small bite of it.
"Good," Brock said as well, feeling relieved that it had worked; relief, and a bit of sadness, since it meant his parting from James was all that much closer.
Wilson fed James several more brownies, and only once James stopped looking expectantly at the pan, finally full, did he push back from the table, rising to his feet and stretching. "Bedtime for me," he said firmly, and headed over to the stairs.
James covered the brownie pan and put them aside for later. "Want to watch a movie?" he asked James. "I have a bunch on DVD." James just watched him, uncomprehendingly. He changed the question to a statement. "We're watching a movie. Come on."
James followed him to the living room, and watched as Brock selected a movie and slid the disk into the machine. Choosing one turned out to be harder than he'd thought it would be, most of his collection being action and horror movies, neither of which he thought would be a wise subject choice at the moment. But he had a handful of more light-hearted movies, and threw in something with a young Tom Hanks in it that seemed innocuous enough, only remembering after he'd sat down on the couch that the only reason he'd ever purchased the extended edition DVD when he'd seen it on sale was that it was a movie he and James had seen in theatre together, one of the rare times they'd gone out on what was more or less a date. It lessened his enjoyment little, wondering if James would ever be able to remember that time.
James started off watching the movie with a more serious expression than the light-hearted comedy probably deserved, and at first seemed puzzled by the content, tilting his head and frowning slightly, but eventually seemed to recognize that the over-the-top plot was humorous, and by the end seemed to be enjoying it. He gave Brock an expectant look when it ended, much the same look he'd given the pan of brownies earlier.
"Want to watch another?" Brock asked, and had to smile at the hopeful look on James' face. "Why don't you choose another while I get us snacks and drinks?" he offered, gesturing at the shelves of DVDs. James stared at the colourful cases, biting his lip, then rose to his feet, looking dubiously at Brock as he took a step towards the shelves and then stopped. "It's all right, choose whatever you want," Brock urged him. "If you can't make up your mind, I'll help you when I get back." James walked the rest of the way over, staring at the cases and after a moment turning his head sideways to read the titles.
Brock left him to it, heading to the kitchen to make sandwiches for them – out of bread, cheese, and lunch meat that had all been taken out of the freezer earlier in the day – which he brought back along with a plate of more brownies and glasses of orange juice for them.
James was sitting cross-legged on the floor, several DVD cases scattered around him, frowning just slightly as he read the back of a case. "Found one you want to watch yet?" Brock asked. James looked up, then held out the one in his hand. "The Hunt for Red October?" Okay, so maybe he hadn't thought things through before offering James the option of choosing a movie on his own. Cold war era US-Soviet espionage might be a triggery subject matter, though he could hardly refuse now. He slipped it into the machine, then the two of them returned to the couch.
To his relief the movie went by without James doing anything more noteworthy then scowling and muttering to himself in Russian a number of times, and laughing in the middle of an otherwise serious scene, apparently because of some particularly badly mispronounced not-quite-Russian. Overall he seemed to enjoy it, and when Brock asked if he wanted to watch a third movie, nodded enthusiastically and headed over to select another DVD without further prompting.
The surface of the bed dipped, waking Sam up. He opened his eyes, then flinched backwards as he realized that the Winter Soldier was crouched on the bed right beside him, balancing on his toes with folded arms resting on his knees and looking down at him. "Jesus...!" he exclaimed, which drew a snort and an amused smile from the man; that alone was enough to calm his racing heart a little, since it wasn't the sort of expression that went along with something like a sudden urge to kill someone. At least e didn't think it did.
"You need something?" Sam asked quietly, rolling over onto his back and pushing himself into a more upright position against the cushions. The sound of a TV playing quietly could be heard from the living room below.
Barnes stared at him, chewing on his lower lip, then lowered his head, turning it a little so that he was looking sideways at Sam through the fall of his hair. "You were with him on the helicarriers. Helping him."
"Steve? Yeah, I was helping him," Sam agreed.
"Steve," Barnes said slowly, as if trying out the name. Then, more emphatically, "Steve."
"Do you remember Steve?" Sam asked quietly.
"Sometimes," Barnes said. "A little."
"He's looking for you. Or at least, he was planning to," Sam said, and then when Barnes looked a little panicked at that, added in a softer tone. "He's your friend. He's worried about you; he wants to help you."
"He said that," Barnes said, metal hand reaching up to squeeze at him own right shoulder. "He said... he said..." He started trembling, then lowered his head, clamping his hands to either side of it, fingers digging into his scalp. "He said. Friends. Weapons don't have friends." And then something in Russian, which Sam couldn't even hope to guess the meaning of, though the tone sounded pretty anguished.
"You're a man, not a weapon. When he said he was your friend, he meant it," Sam said. "Steve Rogers is the most honest guy I've ever met. And on the rare occasion when he tries, well, he's a real crappy liar."
That startled a bark of laughter out of Barnes. He froze then, lifting his head to stare in the direction of the loft railing and the living room below, then when there was no change in sound from below, turned back to Sam, asking quietly. "Why are you helping the handler?"
"Rumlow? Because of you, and Steve. Steve would want me to help you in any way I could, so when Rumlow asked me to help him to rescue you from HYDRA, I could hardly turn him down. And even if neither of them were around, and I met you? I'd still try my best to help you anyway. It's kind of my thing, helping fellow soldiers."
Barnes looked surprised, and said something questioning in Russian, then stopped himself and asked again in English. "You were a soldier?"
"Sort of. 58th Pararescue. Most of the combat I saw was while I was getting wounded soldiers out of it. I suppose saying helping fellow military personnel would be a more accurate phrasing."
"Pararescue... I have heard of this, I think," Barnes said. "These things we do, that others may live."
Sam found himself grinning. "That's the motto, all right. Goes all the way back to the Korean and Vietnam Wars. After I got out, I went to work at the VA – the Department of Veteran's Affairs – as a counsellor. I help vets adjust to life back Stateside. Help them deal with all the adjustments and issues they face, whether social, medical, psychological, or whatever else. Finding housing, jobs, medical care, more specialized counselling if they need it, anything. So, you being a vet? You'd have my help, for as long as you needed and wanted it, no matter what your past was, or who your friends were. Or your enemies, for that matter."
Barnes looked directly at him then, tossing his hair back out of his eyes and just staring silently, and then finally nodded, slowly. "Okay."
"Okay. Good. What the hell time is it, anyway?" Sam asked, looking around to check the time on the clock-radio on the bedside table. "Crap. I hate stupid o-clock in the morning. You hungry? I think I saw bacon in the freezer and I know there's boxes of pancake mix downstairs. We could make bacon and pancakes for breakfast."
Barnes nodded. The guy really was a bottomless pit for food, but having seen the way Cap ate while healing up, Sam wasn't entirely surprised. He rolled out of bed, scratching at his stomach, and pulled on his jeans and a clean tshirt, making note that he'd need to do a laundry soon, having only packed a couple days worth of clothing. He didn't bother with socks or shoes, seeing as Barnes wasn't wearing any either.
Rumlow was asleep on the couch, a DVD menu showing on the TV; something called 'Three Kings', which Sam hadn't bothered seeing since he wasn't a fan of George Clooney. Also, he'd had his own all-too-real desert war, he wasn't particularly interested in watching a fictionalized version of someone else's. "You guys finish off all the brownies?" he asked, spotting a plate dotted with dark crumbs on the coffee table before he turned away to head for the kitchen.
"Yes," Barnes agreed.
"Damn. I was looking forward to one with my morning coffee," he said, as he started up the machine, then headed down to the cellar to find the bacon. Barnes followed him down, rather to his surprise, and wandered around looking at the canned goods on the shelves. Sam dug around in the freezer for a moment, digging out the package he'd seen earlier – which turned out to the the top package of a whole stack of them – and saw that Barnes had stopped in front of one shelf, staring fixedly at the cans and bottles in front of him. "See something you want?"
Barnes didn't reply verbally, but he reached out and lightly touched a can, before snatching his hand back as if it had burned him. Sam walked over, looking to see what it was. A can of black cherries. "It's okay to want things," he told Barnes, and picked it up. "Come on, back upstairs," he said, making a shooing motion towards the steps. Barnes gave him an amused look. "Yeah, I know, there's no way I can make you go anywhere you don't want to. But you want breakfast, don't you?"
Barnes led the way back to the kitchen, where the coffee drip was making noises. As Sam put the bacon in the microwave to defrost, Barnes got out coffee mugs and set them on the counter by the machine, then stood and watched the water trickling into the filter. He was definitely showing a lot more independence and initiative, both of which were good signs for his eventual recovery from whatever HYDRA had done to him.
"So do you have a name you'd prefer I call you by? I've been thinking of you as 'Barnes', but I know Steve calls you 'Bucky' and Rumlow knew you as 'James'. You can call me Sam, by the way, or if that's too casual for you, Wilson will do. And while I'll answer to it if necessary, I'd prefer Sam to 'hey you'."
That made Barnes stare at him again, a blank expression on his face. And then he ducked his head, the smallest of smiles on his lips. "Barnes is okay. James too, I guess."
Sam grinned at him. "Great. Pleased to meet you, James."
Rumlow woke while they were busy frying pancakes, and came over to claim a mug of coffee for himself before disappearing into the washroom for a shower and shave.
James ate his pancakes with black cherries spooned over top, once Sam had given him the release words, while Sam drowned his own in real maple syrup from a tin. Rumlow, once he re-emerged from the bathroom, spread his with peanut butter, eating them with his fingers as if they were open-face sandwiches. James watched him curiously, and tried that with one of his own, then had one with both cherries and peanut butter on it, which resulted in cherry juice running down his arm since it couldn't soak into the pancake, making Sam laugh and Rumlow look amused, while James muttered curses in several different languages and resumed eating with knife and fork instead of fingers once he'd wiped up the mess.
Rumlow was just getting up from the table to fetch the coffee carafe when there was an odd sound from the loft, a series of shrill electronic tones, muted by distance and intervening material but still clearly audible. Sam froze as Rumlow and James both went for their weapons.