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His mission is asleep.
The asset knows this because his mission is lying beside him on a hard mattress, eyes shut tightly to the point where his eyelashes touch his cheeks and his lips parted loosely. His mission has striking dirty blonde hair that’s spun like the finest of threads, fanned out behind him; the asset thinks it might even glow in the darkness. His skin is light and pale, too pale and covered in bruises. The asset drags the bag of apples he stole earlier closer to the bed. They’re his mission’s favourite kind.
He doesn’t know how he knows that. Not really. He knows that his mission was his friend and that his mission is in all his memories but he doesn’t know how.
When his mission stirs, the asset hastily grabs another blanket and throws it over him. His hands shake a little when he straightens it out, tucking his mission in. He needs him to be the perfect temperature, warm and not cold but not too warm. His mission isn’t delicate, but an itch at the bottom of the asset’s chest says he could be, and that thought alone enough for the asset to worry about. His metal arm whirrs as he suppresses it, forcing the quivering to stop and the plates to settle.
His mission presses his cheek into the worn-out pillow the asset had found for him. It’s ugly, tattered at the back, and entirely undeserving of having his mission’s beautiful head on it. He has to get another, later, a better one to keep his mission comfortable.
Slowly, he reaches out. The fingertips of his hand (the real one, the human one, not the machine) ghost over his mission’s forehead. There’s the smallest wrinkle in the middle and he wants to smooth it out. His mission shouldn’t be worried, not when the asset is there. The asset knows his own capabilities. He knows about all the people he’s killed, all the people he could and would kill for his mission.
His mission, Steve Rogers, wasn’t officially appointed. It’s not a mission like the other ones. None of his handlers told him Protect Steve Rogers at all costs but that is his mission now. But the asset has never failed a mission, and so making it one guarantees its success.
He presses his fingers down to his mission’s forehead and tries to smooth out the crease, but it only creates more. They’re horrible ridges underneath his touch and he jerks back, his hand curling in and,
and his mission opens his eyes, bright baby blues that leave him feeling winded. The asset keeps his face calm, lips pressed together, eyebrows shaped downwards, but he’s entranced by the way that his mission’s pupils dilate.
“Bucky?” His mission croaks, voice hoarse. He props himself up on his elbows and the asset instantly pushes him back down, metal hand to his chest, before jerking back.
The asset doesn’t answer. He knows he’s Bucky, but he isn’t Bucky, not the way the mission thinks he is, and he doesn’t want to give him false hope. He can keep his mission safe and protected, but giving him hope isn’t something he’s trained for.
“Bucky, what—" His mission looks down at the mass of blankets on him and the food piled beside the bed. The asset didn’t work hard for those, but it pleases him to see his mission surprised. “What is this…? What—Where are we?”
“Safe,” the asset murmurs, avoiding his mission’s eyes, those precious blue eyes that the asset hasn’t stopped thinking about since they fought on the helicarrier.
(They were dilated then too, big and determined and passionate and scared, only one of which the asset has ever experienced.
They looked through him, through the asset’s punches. He had seen thousands of people but never anyone with such a gaze.)
“Natasha, and—Sam—”
“Safe,” he repeats, aggravated.
He knows Natasha (Natalia, he thinks) and Sam. They are his mission’s best friends. But the asset is his mission’s best friend. He makes something like a grunt, looking over the side of the bed and grabbing a package of cookies.
“Eat.” He lifts his head and holds them out for his mission.
His mission gapes at him for a moment and the asset can see his tongue. It’s a pretty, pink tongue. He’s never paid attention to people’s tongues before. His mission’s lips are swollen from cuts and red. He wants to fix them, but he doesn’t know how. He has pearly white teeth. He must have a nice smile, whatever ‘nice’ was.
“Okay,” his mission takes a deep breath and takes the cookies. “Um. Bucky?”
The asset grunts again. It’s supposed to mean What but it means more like Please don’t talk just eat.
“I’m safe,” his mission continues, each syllable pressed out slow and carefully. The asset can instantly tell that his mission has expertise in talking people down. He would be good at it; his voice is soothing, his face gentle and open. “But are you safe?”
The asset wants to say Yes obviously I’m safe and you’re safe but the asset is never truly safe, especially not now.
“Now, yes.”
His mission looks at him apprehensively, picking a cookie from the tray and rubbing it in between his fingers, never bringing it near his mouth.
“I—I was worried for you.”
The asset knows this too. It’s written all over his mission’s face, from the glances he gives him, to his sunken shoulders, to their fight that he’ll never be able to forget.
“I’m here,” the asset replies simply, and his mission smiles.
It’s a dazzling, spectacular thing. The asset didn’t want to look but he ends up staring like a deer caught in headlights, fixated on his mission’s lips, curved upwards. He has dimples, the asset notes. He can feel the effect of it rising through his body, coursing like a wave. It takes all his energy not to shake, even just for a second.
“You saved me.”
The asset nods. That is true.
“You must’ve carried me from the water to here.”
He nods again.
“You couldn’t kill me. Because we’re friends.”
He isn’t sure about that one.
The asset is his mission’s best friend. But his mission also has two other best friends. His mission loves Bucky but the asset isn’t Bucky, he’s the asset.
“Buck?” his mission says softly.
The asset sighs, digging the tips of his metal fingers into the mattress. He doesn’t even know what that word means, friend. It feels weird and foreign and the asset doesn’t like being uncertain.
“Bucky or Buck,” he asks instead.
His mission laughs, a light chuckle from deep in his chest, and yet another action that the asset will never be able to remove from his memory. “Bucky or Buck,” he hums. “Either works. Usually I say Bucky, but sometimes we mix it up. Buck and Stevie.”
“Stevie,” the asset repeats. “Stevie.” It’s a play on words of his mission’s name. It sounds like something that’s supposed to be affectionate, but the asset doesn’t have any affection.
He has lots of food, though. He hands his mission one of the apples to shut him up.
His mission’s breath hitches and the asset’s first instinct is to punch the air, because usually people are surprised when there’s a fight. But there’s no fight here.
“Um,” his mission looks startled, but then smiles. It’s startled this time, but no less stunning. “Uh. How did you know this was my favourite type?”
“Just knew. Stevie.”
And again, it’s the truth.
“Thanks, Buck,” his mission says warmly. He places the cookie beside the asset’s leg and bites into the apple instead.
He eats in silence while the asset watches. He can see every movement of his mission’s jaw; he can see how the food passes through his esophagus. There’s lots of good nutrients in apples. His mission will be strong again, he tells himself.
His mission will ask him, soon, if he wants to come with him. The asset can’t come with him, because his mission’s handlers want him dead, and he needs to stay alive for his mission.
But, until then, they will be here, and his mission will be safe.