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The door to the cabin swung open with a long, put upon creak, and Steve caught himself immediately making a mental note to oil its hinges once he was alone. He inwardly chided himself. Was he afraid a rogue raccoon might sneak up on him in the night? it was silly, but he didn’t know how to turn that instinctual reaction off yet. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.
You never knew when a raccoon might surprise you.
“When you said time alone, I didn’t realize you meant exile in the boonies.”
“Don’t like it?” Steve turned to look as Nick Fury stepped into the cabin behind him. He was out of his usual black leather trench coat and clothing, switching it up for a charcoal sweater and black peacoat. He didn’t look any less formidable in civilian attire, and he definitely didn’t look like he’d ever be kicking back in an upstate cabin either.
“I’m from Brooklyn, Nick. What am I gonna do out here for a minimum two months?”
“What’d you do when Barnes’ uncle brought the two of you out here as kids?” Nick asked calmly, the pointed question startling Steve. “Research. Meditate. Sketch. Paint. Fish. Long walks in the woods. Whatever you need to.”
“Maybe you didn’t notice, but Bucky’s not here. Not really the same.”
“Oh we all noticed,” Fury sighed. “Who knows what would’ve happened if Barnes hadn’t been dead and you’d been thinking more clearly in that plane. Don’t imagine you’d be here now.”
“What exactly is that supposed to mean?” The bitter anger clawing at Steve’s heart enveloped him entirely and he turned on Fury. The man seemed wholly unperturbed by his sudden aggression though.
“It means attempt yoga, for all I care, Rogers. Just get your head on straight. Work through what’s happened to you.” He pushed his hands into his pockets and walked to the window to look out into what would be a backyard. This was more large clearing with thick forest serving as a fence.
“Fate dealt you a shitty hand, and you’ve got a lot of thinking to do and decisions to make. Decide where you wanna go from here. What you wanna do with the second chance you got.”
“Is that what this is? A second chance?” It didn’t feel that way. It felt more isolated than the cabin they now stood in. It felt like a frosty version of Hell.
“That’s what you need to decide,” Fury shrugged.
After staring at Fury for a long, tense moment, Steve finally swallowed the dry, chalky feeling from his throat.
“Never was good at fishing. That was Bucky’s strong suit,” he muttered, looking away to affect some semblance of nonchalance. “Most stuff was Bucky’s strong suit, not mine.”
“Well maybe you’ll be better at it now that you can lift the pole all by yourself,” Fury smirked lightly as he turned for the door. “Hell, you can even chop your own wood now too. Look up s’mores on the internet.”
“Fury-” Steve’s lip jutted as he watched the man pause at the door to fuss with something inside his jacket. “How’d you know about Bucky’s uncle bringing us up here?”
Fury seemed to finally win the battle he was having with the inner pocket of his peacoat. He turned and tossed some pictures onto the side table.
“We know everything, Rogers. That’s what we do,” he shrugged again, then took his leave. Steve’s eyes followed him back to the SUV, then shifted to the scattered pictures on the table. He flipped through them slowly, his hands progressively shaking more with each faded image.
The old cabin.
A deer in the distance.
Bucky’s uncle.
Bucky holding up a large muskellunge he’d just caught.
Him, wading in the stream with his pants cuffed to his knees.
Him, standing close to Bucky, and smiling up at his best friend like he was the reason the sun rose every day.
“Not everything,” Steve whispered, his numbed fingers letting the other pictures fall to the floor.
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His primary objective was watch and memorize. He was to avoid detection at any cost, but if that directive fell through, he was to disable and apprehend his target. His absolute last resort was to kill the target if he could not cleanly get away and could not capture the target. From what he’d seen so far, there wasn’t much worry over that. This guy was labeled as extremely volatile and dangerous, but he wasn’t seeing any of that.
Rogers. They’d only given him a last name. Sure, he was huge, and judging by the way he’d picked up the small fishing boat to carry it down to the water, he was strong. Nothing volatile though, at least not so far. For the past three days, Rogers had walked the grounds, sat on the front porch with what looked like a sketch pad, and attempted to fish. He’d come back empty-handed, and it didn’t look like he really did much sketching. The pencil often just twitched between his fingers as he stared off. Every evening he ran, starting off at a jog and then ending up sprinting until he was stumbling back to the porch, barely able to hold himself upright. He’d then collapse onto the couch until he decided to finally drag himself to the shower and then obviously to bed, if the darkness of the cabin was a reliable indicator.
Apart from that, he couldn’t speak entirely to what the man did inside the cabin. He had a single, clear view into the cabin without moving, and moving was out of the question. There was a building itch to ignore that self-established directive though. Something kept pulling at him, kept him in a strange sense of disquiet that he couldn’t tamp down. He wasn’t afraid of Rogers; targets didn’t frighten him. With one gun his hand he was invincible, or that was at least what his handlers told him. It didn’t matter. Either he would succeed, or the target would kill him. There was no in between for him. He would keep going until the target was eliminated or he was. If it was the target, business as usual and no beatings. If it was him… he was okay with that. There had to be something better on the other side of that veil than what he currently knew, even if it was nothingness.
This was not a mission that gave him any concern for his safety. Rogers was like a moping golden retriever, and how annoying was that? It made him restless, despite his talent for remaining still and quiet indefinitely as he lined up shots. His patience could be infinite with a rifle in his grip, but that patience was wearing thin this time.
It was driving him nuts because he didn’t understand it.
He eased his rifle into position so that he could gaze through its scope, hoping it would stave off what was turning into actual physical discomfort. His nerves felt as though they were sparking beneath his skin, the sensation almost painful the longer it went on. As much as he wanted to be pissed off at Rogers for this abysmal mission, there was a nagging desire to sit down next to the man… have a smoke and a drink.
Except Bucky wasn’t to smoke or drink unless he was meant to blend into a crowd.
Bucky…?
What the hell was that? That wasn’t his name. He didn’t need a name. He was an asset, nothing more than a living weapon. Weapons didn’t have names.
Except they did. Swords had names.
He wasn’t a sword though. He was a whirlwind. A terror. Barely-contained chaos. He was invincible. He was death from two miles out, and death from two feet away. He didn’t know what a Bucky was, and he didn’t care. He shouldn’t care.
But he did.
Curiosity was a terrible thing, one that left a lot of pain in its wake, but he couldn’t push it down. The series of crashes he heard inside the cabin didn’t help at all. He was only supposed to surveil, not interact, but he couldn’t passively ignore the disturbing noises inside. Someone might have tried to edge in on Rogers right under his nose.
Mine.
He froze at the strangely possessive thought. Rogers was his mark, not something he was ordered to protect. Where had that come from? Another crash, this one more substantial, and the thought practically roared through his head again. He carefully lowered himself from his perch, still mindful of his noise level, and crept toward the cabin. The sound of shattering glass didn’t agitate him quite so much when he saw a thick tumbler sailing past the window. So still alone, but certainly not having a good night. He relaxed a fraction, leaning against the wall now that he knew Rogers wasn’t in any danger from an outside source.
He was only there a few moments when he heard a broken, uneven breath. The loud thump that followed it alarmed him. It sounded like… He risked enough movement to peer through the window, not completely caring if the shadows fully concealed him. Rogers was curled into the corner where the couch met the wall, his knees drawn to his chest. His eyes were tightly shut as he pressed his forehead to a 5x7 picture frame. Around him, the room was a mess of knocked over and hurled objects.
Rogers didn’t have visitors or intruders, just demons. Ghosts that weren’t letting him be, stealing his sleep and his sanity.
He was starting to realize that he could relate when Rogers dropped his knees, let his head fall back against the wall, and let his hands fall slack to his lap. His cheeks were streaked with tears and his eyes were red and swollen. He wouldn’t have been able to tear his gaze from that face had it not been for his damned curiosity.
He looked at the frame in Rogers’ hands and instantly felt like he’d been stabbed in the chest. It was a picture of Rogers, old and tattered, standing close to a dark-haired man.
A man wearing his face.
“Bucky…” Rogers moaned softly, his voice hitching and cracking with emotion.
Bucky.
Mine.
Stevie…
The asset jerked backward, stumbling from the porch. He tripped off the last stair and hit the snowy ground hard, but was already up and sprinting from the cabin before he heard Rogers calling out into the night.
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The fingers dug into the back of his neck, forcing him to bend forward and pulling him sharply from the memories.
“I said mission report,” the gravelly voice snapped at his ear.
“Rogers is no threat,” he breathed, his eyes focused upon the floor.
“Elaborate.”
The bite of Rumlow’s fingers didn’t hurt, but they were on a pressure point that was making his vision tunnel. He didn’t like the sensation, how it made him start to feel enclosed and vulnerable. It seemed like they should know this about him already.
“He might be dangerous if he stops bawling like a bitch,” he growled, not fully sure why he was lying except that the urge of needing to protect Rogers was now twice as bad as it had been since it bloomed inside his chest at the cabin. Seemed like he'd heard something along the same sentiment from Rumlow in the past, so there was no reason to think it would be unappreciated by the soldier or his team. “Didn’t happen while I was there.”
Rumlow snorted and released him, which was a blessing since he had been just seconds from dislocating Rumlow’s arm. That didn’t seem like a first time thing either…
“Yeah, he’s big and strong as fuck, but he’s also a sentimental pansy when it comes down to it,” Rumlow scoffed. “He could be a great asset if we could wipe that outta him.”
Wipe wasn’t a word he wanted to hear, especially in conjunction with Steve.
“Why’re you back, asset? You were supposed to stay there and keep watching until we called you back in.”
“Bucky,” he muttered, annoyance roiling through his gut.
“What?”
He squared his shoulders and turned to fully face Rumlow, his voice hardening as his eyes narrowed.
“My name is Bucky.”
“Fuck me.” Rumlow’s eyes widened only slightly as his poker face slid into place. Those same eyes flicked to the side and he nodded subtly. There was a sharp pain at the base of Bucky’s neck, then the tunnel vision started in again. He staggered sideways and lashed out, but the swing was uncoordinated as the vertigo hit him. He only grazed Rumlow as he went down, his chest hitting the floor hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs.
“Let Pierce know that we’ll need different protocols before we try sending him after Rogers again. He didn’t even talk to him and the programming failed. I’m not going anywhere near it until this is fixed.”
No fixing... need Steve... protect Stevie... Bucky thought as he tried to fight off the darkness closing in on him. He thought he saw a scrawny blonde boy walking toward him before his eyes fell shut.
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The RPG raised toward him just beyond the man he was fighting. Fuck. He leapt for the safety of the car to avoid the blast. He was circling around to flank the redhead when Rumlow suddenly showed up with his team to take the three into custody.
Which made no sense since he was supposed to take them all out.
Except he’d hesitated, and that was a cardinal sin for an assassin. Maybe they were taking them in to do the job he’d failed at. For some reason that upset him on a different level. He needed to know why the man he’d fought had called him that; why it had made his ears buzz suddenly and one word shoot through his brain.
Mine.
A piss-on soldier approached him warily. “Director Pierce wants you back at base, asset. Report immediately.”
“Who is Bucky?” he asked the soldier, but even as he did, he realized the kid might not know… but he did. “I knew him.”
“Bucky... Barnes? You knew Bucky Barnes?”
“No!” He’d meant the man but that name, now saddled with a surname, caused ice to ripple through his veins. A cold sweat broke out over his skin and he shuddered violently.
The kid’s eyes bugged.
And then there was nothing except the fleeting image of the pavement rushing up to meet his face.
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He might have injured some techs. Seems like that might have happened before.
The myriad of fuzzy images flipping through his mind was confusing enough without worrying about anything going on around him. Seems like they should know better than to get near him when there was such a pretty young man trying to talk to him in between all of those random scenes he didn’t understand. The kid looked like an angel with his soft blonde hair and big blue eyes. He needed to not be bothered so he could hear the words coming from those lips.
The IV in his hand itched, and the fluid was cold flowing into his vein. He knew it was a sedative. Seems like it was always a sedative when he woke in the chair like this. He smelled the nasty odor of newly-welded metal and soldered connections. He tasted blood in his mouth, though he couldn’t be sure from what. None of it mattered. It was just background sensation distracting him from his frail little angel. His angel.
A blow to his face brought him out of his reverie, sending the angel away. Memories of the man from the mission returned.
“Mission report, now.”
He hadn’t even heard Pierce come in; hadn’t heard the initial command. It was okay though. Pierce was here now, and he would give him the answers he needed. He would clear the confusion away for the asset. He just needed to ask about the man on the bridge.