Chapter Text
The Asset lays flat on a brownstone in the suburbs of D.C., knapsack of recently acquired supplies next to him, night vision binoculars locked onto a neighboring window.
He’s been scouting her out for the week. Maybe, he’s not sure. He seemed to have lost a lot of time after he left Lewis’s deli.
He hasn’t gone back. Too distracting. Too many voices. Too domestic for a wild animal to enjoy.
So, he’s mission focused. Zeroed in. He’s going to finish what he started.
The HYDRA woman is good at blending in. He wonders if she’s higher level than his original intel suggested.
You gonna hit a woman, Sarge?
If the woman’s a Nazi scum? Sure thing, Cap.
You always knew the sweetest words. No matter what anybody else says, you’re a real mensch. And trust me— they say a lot.
Recalibrate. Recalibrate.
He smacks himself enough times that he hears ringing in his ears.
Too casual. Not focused. Zero in. One hostile, two potential witnesses.
Innocents, Buck, not witnesses.
Innocents, the Asset agrees.
Focus. One hostile, two innocents, no anticipated collateral damage. No, no, no collateral damage allowed. At all.
Potential second hostile: husband, out of country, based in Austria. Has been for three years. Could be HYDRA. It’s likely. Could be innocent. CIA doesn’t know. Neither does the Asset.
This first, that second. Or something. Hasn’t gotten that far.
The Asset waits for it to go dark.
He watches her tuck in her kids. She kisses them. His stomach roils. She turns out their light. Goes to her room. Lays down. Reads book. Turns out light.
Quick. Efficient. Ghost. He slides off the roof and rolls his landing on the grass lawn. Silent in his approach.
Eyes and metal arm painted dark navy under a dark navy long sleeve, black gloves, mask on; he knows he’s invisible as darts through the street.
Security already disabled. His doing, remote deactivation. No messing this up. Innocents involved. Climbs through a first floor window round back. Easy.
Geez, Buck, you ever tried knockin’?
Say, did I catch a fella tryin’ to knock one out? I’ll cover my eyes, let ya finish up. Scout’s honor I won’t peek.
You are— there’s somethin’ not right about you, Barnes.
I am what they made me, Stevie.
And you’re my friend, Buck.
Recalibrate. But a smack would cause a noise. Shit.
He grabs a knife from his belt and pokes himself on the arm. Barely a wound but enough pain to focus. It heals instantly. Back to it.
Rope, zip ties from the bag. Three more knives on belt, two in his boots. Perfect.
Up the stairs, no noise, ghost.
Innocents’ position confirmed. 2 sets of breathing in second story bedroom. Ties handle to another handle across the hall with wire. No exits, no witnesses, no collateral damage. Perfect.
To the third floor. Office first, evidence first.
First thing he knows? This lady’s good at hiding her secrets. Second thing? The Asset is better at finding them.
A hidden bottom to a thin drawer with a complicated locking mechanism connected to a live bomb, packed with enough C4 to take out half the block. Child’s play. Disabled.
Three flash drives. Paper documentation of HYDRA involvement with KBG and SHIELD fraternization plans. Perfect. Too easy? Look at the C4. Maybe just easy enough.
Some accounts tied up in Austria and Siberia. Paperwork pocketed. Package secure. Onto mission target.
Bedroom on fourth floor. Excessively tall home. Keeps innocents at safer distance.
She’s awake the moment he opens the door. She’s lunging at him before he realizes what’s happening and when he does realize what’s happening?
Shit. A widow. Intel wasn’t good. Irritating but not unmanageable.
She’s as silent as he is, no screaming or crying or begging like the others. Cold detachment as she throws blow after blow at him, eyes dark and unreadable.
She pulls knives from every discernible hiding spot. He dodges most but not all, a scrape on his right cheekbone, deep gash in his left pectoral and a broken nose.
Nothing major, keep pushing. She dodges most of his hits, not all, he lands a brutal punch to her rib cage and she smacks into the vanity. The noise is loud. She’s back on her feet.
Hit, dodge, parry, new knife, smack, duck.
It’s clinical. It’s practiced. He’s probably fought her before.
She stabs at his torso and pulls the blade up his sternum, cutting a deep line of red down his shirt. Shit. He kicks at her chest and sends her flying. She’s back up as quick as she goes down.
She stabs his left arm with a knife and it bends as the sound of metal on metal rings out and it’s the first time emotion finds her face: terror.
“Winter Soldier?” she says like she doesn’t mean to, the Russian thick in her throat.
Then she’s back at him with renewed force but her fear makes her too fast, losing control, and he knows the fight is over before it really is.
He grabs her by the arm as she swings it at him and pulls it behind her, feeling the joint dislocate, and puts a boot to the back of her knees. She stills doesn’t stop scrapping. It reminds him of somebody.
All of this fight to protect HYDRA? Widows aren’t usually this politically motivated. This fighting is personal.
The Asset follows her gaze, reruns the fight through his head, the she angled her attacks. Anything to keep him away from going downstairs.
Widows aren’t usually this emotionally motivated. Neither are Winter Soldiers. Brainwashing isn’t always effective. Something to consider.
“They live,” he says though he doesn’t mean to, the Russian is familiar in his mouth, “The children are safe.”
The widow goes limp as if her marionette ties were cut.
There you go with the metaphors again.
Not the time, Cap.
Touchy.
He zip ties her wrist and ankles, but pops her shoulder back in place before he does it. She doesn’t react as he does this, doesn’t react as he piles her into her own SUV that he hot wires and begins his drive through D.C., doesn’t react as he calls 911 on his burner phone to send rescue services for the kids.
Her face is blank but her eyes are… defeated? Relieved? A wild animal grateful to be put down.
He can relate.
“I am not going to kill you,” he says anyway. She doesn’t answer.
Doesn’t believe him, most likely. Or maybe doesn’t care.
He takes her to the FBI building, hat over his head and paint chipping off his arm with a flash drive taped to her forehead and throws her through the front door still tied up, hops back in the SUV.
It’s unceremonious, crude, but the Asset thinks he may be dying from blood loss.
He doesn’t remember all the steps his body takes to get him there but he had long since ditched the SUV and now he’s scaling an apartment complex in Columbia Heights, probably smearing blood all over the place.
The widow had sliced him deep. He had tied his overshirt tight over his sternum to keep the organs in.
What a great first impression.
Look at all this schmutz, meschmendrik! What are we going to do with you?
He thinks of what to say back to his Ma. There’s nothing.
He thinks of what to do. What is he doing? Behind enemy lines, that’s how he feels. But he’s probably gonna die and he wants to see Steve. Why? He’s not sure.
Heya, Stevie, I know I wear your dead fella’s face an’ all, but would you mind being a pal and letting me crash on your couch? I swear I’ll mop up the blood!
Oh, that’s just swell, Buck! Not macabre at all.
Macabre? Since when did you know half dollar words?
Recalibrate. He smacks himself with flesh hand so the metal one doesn’t let go of the protruding brick. Recalibrate. Focus. New mission: don’t die yet.
He’s in the building, steps heavier than normal but still silent.
He knocks. Target engaged. Waits. Sits on the floor when his vision blurs. Shit. Mission compromised, how can he talk to Steve when he’s—
“Bucky?” An incredulous, soft, angry, sweet voice asks above him.
He sounds nothing like the little shit for brains that won’t stop yappin’ in his head.
The Asset blinks up at him with bleary focus and wait, what was the plan? What had he been meanin’ to say? Storming blue eyes are wide and lacking their usual raging thunder as they look down at him, right in his crosshairs.
Focus. Recalibrate.
“Compromised, pal,” he slurs out, hands twitching where they press against his sternum. “It’s swell.”
And he passes out on the floor.