Every day Steve went through the tedious process of working through Fury's security and restrictions to see Bucky, and every day he walked out with as little progress as he'd walked in with. The Winter Soldier refused to budge, but Fury was willing to compromise. After months Steve had finally convinced Fury that Bucky's memory would never return if he was kept in a prison so similar to the place where he had been brainwashed, abused, and broken. He needed to be somewhere where he could heal. It was agreed that the winter soldier would be released into Captain America's capable hands, but safety measures had to be taken.
The Winter Soldier felt naked. He felt completely helpless and exposed. He had been stripped of everything, left only with a plain white t-shirt and a pair of soft gray sweat-pants, no weapons, no tools, not even a pair of shoes. His automail arm, his greatest weapon, his most effective defense, had been taken from him. He sat in the back of a truck, surrounded by Fury's men, unaware of his destination or for what purpose he was being taken there. Was he to be killed? The notion didn't frighten him, but it caused a dull ache of disappointment in his chest. He thought it would have been different.
The truck lurched to a stop after a long haul up-hill. His guards began to shift restlessly, as though not sure if he was going to spring to action the second the door to the truck opened. The assassin had considered it, but he was weaponless, and knew he would be gunned down the second he stepped out of line; Fury had made that fact abundantly clear. The door rattled open, the bright sunlight streaming in, momentarily blinding the Winter Soldier, who was now so accustom to darkness. As his vision cleared and he was pulled from the truck, the ragged man took in his surroundings. This did not look like an execution ground. It was a house; a small, comfortable looking house set high on a mountain. Pine trees surrounded the settlement on all sides, broken only by the rough path taken by the trucks. Steve Rodgers stood in the doorway. Why hadn't he guessed? The taller man was dressed in similarly comfortable clothing, only the Winter Soldier could see the gun strapped to his hip all too clearly. What was the point of all this?
Steve smiled, his expression gentle and welcoming. "Hi Bucky." He said quietly, approaching him, his hands held open, in a non-threatening gesture. The dark-haired man stepped back, the gravel of the driveway crunching under his bare, calloused feet.
"Stay away from me." He growled, his voice threatening, but laced with fear. This whole situation, the house, the mountains, the trees, it was all so wrong! He should be locked up! He deserved to be beaten and chained. What kind of a sick mind game was this? "I'll kill you." He whispered dangerously, his hand stretched out in front of him.
Steve's expression faltered with pity, his stomach sinking at the look of animalistic fear on his old friend's face. It killed Steve to see Bucky like this. He wanted him back; he wanted him safe, happy, and healed. He wanted his friend back.
One of Fury's men approached Steve, looking apprehensively at their prisoner. "Captain…" He ventured reluctantly. "Are you sure about this?"
Steve turned, meeting the soldier's gaze evenly and giving him a reassuring smile. "Yes, I'm sure. Please tell Director Fury that everything is under control."
The soldier nodded slowly, lifting his radio to his lips. "All set," He said, voice crackling through the receiver. "Move out."
Steve granted the soldier another small smile and mouthed a quick 'thank you' before the soldier stepped away, walking back to the truck. The other men followed, every single one of them loading into the truck, leaving just Steve and the Winter Soldier alone on the mountain top.
The assassin's eye's darkened with suspicion. "Why are they leaving?" He asked an edge of panic in his voice. His body was a ball of tension, his mind whirling with confusion. This whole situation made no sense. What made even less sense was the man standing in front of him. He was open, friendly, and barely armed, when he should be aiming to gun him down at the slightest suspicious move. The dark-haired man shuffled back a step as Steve approached him, still patient, still non-threatening.
"Bucky?"
"Don't call me that." He warned softly, but Steve continued as though he hadn't spoken.
"Do you want to come inside?" He asked, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"What the hell are you trying to do?" He snarled, clenching his fist tightly. He felt lopsided, unbalanced. Without his automail arm the assassin felt completely vulnerable.
"Let's go into the house and talk there okay?" Steve suggested, turning to walk towards the small, comfortable house. Bucky hesitated. It would be all too easy to just take off into the forest and escape but something buried deep inside of him was craving answers, and so he followed Steve into the house.