Softly cooked pasta, cover thickly in a creamy white sauce steamed on Bucky's plate. The smell was tantalizing, but suspicious. Why would he be given food like this? It was certainly nothing like what he was used to. He reached down, calloused fingers wrapping around the smooth end of his fork as he tentatively speared a few of the noodles.

"It's alfredo sauce." Steve said with a small smile, from where he sat across the table, his own plate in front of him. "I thought you might like that, I mean, you always said…" He hesitated slightly, not sure whether or not suggesting old memories would arouse the assassin's anger again. He could see the coldness in his old friend's stare and he let the sentence drop. Steve didn't like having to walk on eggshells with Bucky. He wanted to laugh with him, joke around like they'd always done. He wanted to talk to him about everything and not have to be afraid of how he would react, whether or not the wrong word would send him back to that dark and angry place. The man sighed quietly, passing a hand over his forehead. This wasn't going to be easy.

"Do you want some carrots?" He asked, extending the bowl of cooked, honey-glazed carrots out to him. Bucky laid his fork down, reaching out to take the bowl from Steve's hand. He didn't understand this, but the food was the best he'd had in his memory, and he wasn't going to say no to it.

The two ate in almost completely uninterrupted silence, the only punctuation in the stillness being an occasional comment from Steve. These comments hung in the empty air, unanswered, apparently un-heard. It was maddening.

Once Steve was certain Bucky had eaten something he rose from the table, beginning to store the leftovers away. He was about to turn back when he heard the delicate clink of dishes. Steve looked over curiously, seeing Bucky standing at the sink, the dishes balanced in the palm of his one good hand. He laid them down in the basin, turning on the water and beginning to scrub them clean. There was still a definite air of coldness surrounding him, but Steve still felt as though the gesture of helpfulness was progress. He stepped over to him, hesitant, and unsure.

"Thanks Buck," He murmured, his words barely audible, as he didn't really know how he would react to the thanks. The reaction was surprisingly positive. Bucky said nothing, but held one of the dripping dishes out to him.

"Are you going to dry or not?" He asked, and Steve cracked a small smile, taking the dish from his hand. He reached over to where a dishtowel lay on the counter and snagged it, using the soft fabric to rub the dish dry.

Once the dishes were cleaned, dried, and put away, Steve turned to face Bucky, who had stepped back away from him again. His eyes were once again guarded, but no longer angry. He looked weary.

"Hey Bucky?" He asked.

"What?"

"Are you tired?"

"No."

Steve gave a pitying little laugh, glancing down again before looking back up to take in his appearance. He had been drinking in every aspect of him since he had returned, studying the curves and angles of his face, seeing how angry the set of his mouth had become, seeing how his eyes reflected his abuse like shattered glass. Now all he could see etched on the former assassin's face was weariness. He looked exhausted, and Steve hoped that after finally being treated with kindness, even just for an evening, Bucky would let himself rest.

Steve shook his head in disagreement. "You're dead on your feet Buck, you need to rest." He said simply, turning to leave the kitchen. "Come on," He called behind him, getting an uncomfortable sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Bucky reluctantly followed him, his battered body crying out for sleep.

The room that Steve led him into was open and cozy looking. There was a double bed set against the middle of the back wall. It was covered in a thick, soft blanket with two pillows placed at the head of the bed. Beside the bed sat a nightstand, in the corner, a wardrobe and a desk. The Winter Soldier frowned, uncomprehending.

"This can't be mine." He said simply, but was unable to resist the urge to wander in none the less. His rough, calloused hands snagged on the material of the soft comforter, as he gingerly touched it.

"Don't worry, it is." Steve said, smiling sadly, but Bucky got a sudden stab of adrenaline at the sight of Steve's expression. Something was wrong.

"What?" He demanded suddenly, his fist clenching beside him, feeling the panicked anger stirring in his gut again. Steve flinched slightly, his expression pained.

"Bucky I'm sorry," He started, stepping forward. "I'm so sorry, I would never choose to do this to you…."

Bucky's heart pounded in his chest, the blood rushing in his ears. Every word Steve spoke panicked him more and he stepped back, head pulled back, eyes wide, looking like a trapped animal.

Steve felt absolutely sick as he pulled the handcuffs from his back pocket. He didn't want to have to do this to his friend. Bucky wouldn't hurt him! He didn't want to have to chain him up while he slept! But it was one of the requirements Fury had pushed on him; one of the bottom-line rules that he had to abide by in order to get Fury to agree to this.

"Please, Bucky, It's just at night, and I'm sorry! I'm so sor-"

"No!" Bucky roared, trying to keep Steve at arm's length. His bare feet slid on the wooden floor and the assassin's mind tried to rely on a limb that he no longer had to keep him standing. The dark haired man crashed to the floor. He scrambled back, his balance thrown off, his mind disoriented. In his confusion he felt Steve's hand curl around his wrist, his other hand gripping tightly at his shoulder just above where his arm had been severed.

"Bucky stop!" Steve ordered, authority ringing in every note of his voice. The assassin's struggles ceased and he met Steve's gaze with a look of pure hated a betrayal. The commanding look faded from the captain's face to be replaced with a look that could only be described as agony. "You've got to understand Buck…" He said softly, his heartache evident in his voice, "The restrictions, and the perimeter…the handcuffs…It was the only way I could get you out of that cell, get you here with me…I promise I'll take off the cuffs first thing in the morning, but please…" He begged softly.

The Winter Soldier set his jaw, wrenching his wrist free from Steve's grip. He pushed himself up, his black gaze boring viciously into the other man, but he extended his wrist none-the-less.

The victory was hollow. Steve felt absolutely wrenched as he handcuffed his best friend to the bed post. He made certain that the cuffs would stay on, but left them as loose as he could. He could at least afford to make sure that he wouldn't bruise his friend's skin.

"I sorry Bucky…" He whispered miserably, and the dark haired man looked away, his gaze fixed at some point outside the bedroom window. "I'll be back," He assured him, "First thing…I promise…"