Chapter Text
The man on the bridge is nothing more than a target to him; he may as well not have another name, he may as well not have a face. It doesn’t matter that when his blonde hair catches the sun the Soldier’s heart feels like it starts up once again. He may not have felt this before, but he knows that it isn’t important to the mission. Few things are. Physical damage is only important if it is immediately life threatening or rapidly becoming so. Hunger is not. Sleep is only permitted when eyesight falters. The moon is something to be ignored, no matter the state of waxing or waning. It is never full when he wakes up from cryostasis. He always checks.
The man on the bridge is nothing more than a target to him.
Until his mask comes off during the struggle.
All of the fight leaves him in a rush as he inhales the man’s scent. It’s nothing he can ever remember smelling on another person before. He may dream of the way the scent makes him feel, in cryostasis, but even that’s an uncertainty. The man had called him ‘Bucky’ but he doesn’t know who that is. Now, pinned under the blonde man’s weight up against a vehicle, he doesn’t care. He will undertake the codename: Bucky in lieu of codename: Winter Soldier if that means he can have this man as his permanent handler. He’s gone totally limp in the man’s hold, and can see the confusion on his face when he tips forward a bit to press his nose into his neck.
“Take me with you,” Codename: Bucky tells the man. “I’ll go. I surrender.” He desperately hopes this is not another test, because he’s well aware that he’s failed it if it is. He doesn’t think that there is any amount of reconditioning that could be done to take away what the scent of this man does to him. He will not fight him; there’s no fight left.
“You will?” The man croaks, his voice unsteady. The soldier wonders why. Whatever emotions the man is working through are unnecessary. He will not resist. He will go pliantly as long as they do not try to take him away from this man. He nods against his neck. “Then let’s get out of here. Will you cover me?”
“Yes.” He answers with no hesitation. “I will make sure the path is clear. Who are the targets?”
“The men that brought you here.”
“Affirmative. Black Widow and the man driving the car?”
“No, they’re my friends.”
“Affirmative.” He pulls a gun from its holster and fires over the man’s shoulder, taking out three of his previous handlers in quick succession. His new handler seems surprised, like he didn’t anticipate him to switch sides so easily, but he holds no fond memories of HYDRA. He has no loyalties to them.
They’re overtaken, though not easily, and shoved into the back of a van. There are two guards, they have disabled his arm, and across from him sit the Widow and the man from behind the wheel of the car. The Widow has a wound and she seems like she may pass out soon. “The Widow is compromised.” He tells his new handler, still leaning against him. “The wound is rapidly becoming life threatening. Repairs needed.”
“I know, Buck.” His handler says.
“We need to put pressure on the wound,” The other man says to the guards. They don’t move. “Please. She’ll die.”
The soldier doesn’t tell him that begging is futile; it will not help him to do so. It will not make the Widow’s condition improve. If HYDRA sees fit to let her bleed out in the back of the van, she will. In a flurry of motion, the van is overtaken, he and his new handler are unchained, and they are allowed to press a shirt to the Widow’s wound so that she doesn’t die.
He doesn’t know where they’re being taken, but it’s alright, because his new handler does not leave his side and doesn’t complain when he turns his face into his neck and breathes him in deep. The Widow gives him odd looks, guarded, but he was told not to engage, so he doesn’t.
“This is Sam and Natasha,” His handler says, when they’re far away from gunfire and stitched up. He blinks as he takes in the information but does not otherwise react. His face is blank, as it always is with mission reports. “And the girl who saved our skin is Maria Hill.”
He tilts his head, running the information over in his brain. “Acknowledged.”
The handler frowns. He wonders if he has displeased him. He does not outwardly show any signs that he detests reconditioning, that he is expecting it and dreads it. He learned very quickly that new handlers were always the ones likely to show the least mercy. He never fights back. Fighting back means getting wiped prematurely.
“Do you know who I am?” His handler asks. He wants nothing more than to sag against the man, but doubts such clingy behavior would be allowed.
“Target on the bridge. Codename: Captain America. Given name not relevant. Objective: destroy. Mission parameters changed. Codename: Handler 216. Given name unknown. Objective: Protect.” He cites easily, the words mechanical and unfeeling in his mouth.
His new handler seems extremely displeased with his answer. He’s not entirely sure what emotion it is that’s showing on his face, but it looks something like what the soldier would imagine grief as. He can’t be sure; he’s never felt the emotion or actually seen it himself. He knows what the word implies, though, and he thinks his handler’s face could go beside the word in a dictionary.
“What is your name?” His handler asks next.
He hesitates. “Codename—“ He frowns. “Codename: Bucky. Previously codename: Winter Soldier.”
His handler shakes his head sadly. “No,” He says, mournful. “Your name.”
He frowns. He doesn’t understand. “I have no name other than the aliases given to me by my handlers. They once called me ‘the American’, but I do not think that is mission relevant.”
“What is your mission?”
“Previously: Eliminate the man, codename: Captain America. Currently: protect handler. Standard protocol during downtime between active missions allowable.”
“What does standard protocol entail?” The widow—Natasha asks, as it seems that his handler is emotionally compromised. He doesn’t think this man is going to be a good handler. He is far too emotional. Bucky will have no one else despite this; he expects the change of pace will be nice.
“Eat. Sleep. Submit for repairs. Mission report. Disclose any physical abnormalities. Train new recruits. Upkeep personal hygiene to functional levels. Submit to testing. Submit to orders given by handler without question. Recalibration. Cryostasis.” He answers, giving a general overview of what happens after mission completion. The process takes less than a day, usually, unless they keep him awake longer to train recruits. They have not had many recruits recently. He can’t say he would remember if they did.
“Why did you go against mission parameters on the bridge while engaging your target?” Natasha asks, voice cold. His face twitches involuntarily in what would have, at one time, been a grimace.
“Mission parameters changed.”
“Why?” She demands.
“The Captain,” He begins, mouth clicking shut as the man himself turns to interrupt.
“Steve,” The Captain says. “My name is Steve. You can—you can call me that. Steven Grant Rogers,” He’s got an odd look on his face, like Bucky will take something from this other than at face value. He does not.
“Steve,” He corrects himself, once it’s clear the man is done talking, eyes focused back on Natasha. “Is a target that cannot be engaged.”
Her brow creases in confusion at this, the first look that isn’t steely that has crossed her features. “You engaged him fine before your mask was taken.” She points out. It’s not a question; Bucky remains silent. “What if Steve were to tell you to engage him?” She asks. “To kill him. Would you complete the mission given to you by your handler?”
Bucky turns to look at the man in question. He thinks about this. Orders are usually cut and dry, but he has never been used as a tool for assisted suicide. He turns the imaginative order over in his head for several seconds while watching his new handler. He seems very intent on the answer and is staring back at him.
“No.” He answers, finally. “An order as such would go against core conditioning.”
“Is that all?” She says.
“Steven Grant Rogers is a target that—“
“Cannot be engaged, I heard you.” Natasha snaps.
“Nat,” Steve says, quietly. Bucky can smell his distress. It’s soured his scent. He wants to fix it. “Be careful with him.”
“He’s not a child, Steve.”
“He’s been brainwashed.”
“He’s a highly trained assassin and this could be an elaborate trap.”
“It’s not.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“He went completely limp while we were fighting. He recognized me. That’s why I’m a target he can’t engage. Some part of him remembers me.”
Bucky has no memories of this handler. He doesn’t mention this. They can draw their own conclusions as long as he is allowed to stay with Steve. Natasha makes a frustrated noise, throws her hands in the air, and storms off muttering angry Russian curse words. “Steve?” Bucky asks, now alone with the man.
“Yeah, Buck?” Steve has his head in his hands and has taken a position sitting on the floor, against a wall.
“I request you not give me an order to harm you.” Bucky is not practiced in asking for things. Steve motions him over, so Bucky sits next to him, shoulder to hip. Steve’s scent lifts a bit.
“I won’t, Buck, promise.” He’s quiet for several seconds, brow creased in thought. “Did… You didn’t shift, when we fought.” Bucky’s entire body goes cold and he goes both white as a sheet and stiff as a board simultaneously. Steve notices immediately, turning to wrap his arms around him. “Hey, no, it’s okay. It’s okay, Buck, I swear. I won’t tell.”
“Previous handlers have always been… unaware of my condition.” He whispers, forehead pressed to Steve’s collarbone. “The moon has never been full while out of cryostasis. Handlers attribute accelerated healing to a version of the serum injected twice daily. A shift has never been completed, rather full or partial, in front of any handlers or technicians. Heightened senses are sometimes used on missions.”
Steve rubs his hand over the back of his neck. Bucky yearns to keen into the touch, starved for more touches so tender. “It’s okay, Buck, you can shift whenever you need to. You’re not going back into cryo. You’re not going to get any—any more recalibrations,” Steve spits the word as if it tastes bad to him. Bucky’s lips pull up at the corners for the first time in what feels like centuries. The word tastes like rust in his mouth, too.
“No new handlers?” He asks, hopeful.
“I’m not your handler, Buck,” Steve says, quiet. Bucky’s good arm curls into a fist in the fabric of Steve’s shirt, unwilling to let him go. He will accept no other handlers. “You—you’re your own handler, I’m just—your friend.”
Bucky frowns hard, breathing Steve’s scent in deep. He’d heard no lie in the beating of this man’s heart, but he doesn’t understand. He voices as much to Steve. “You can make your own choices, now. Whatever you want, you can do that. If you wanna come with me, you can, but I’m not your handler. I’ll help you as much as I can, but you don’t have to listen to anything I say if it’s something you don’t want to do.”
Bucky’s feeling a little overwhelmed, and sort of like his brain just short circuited. He doesn’t understand. This goes against all mission parameters. He’s a weapon. He doesn’t get opinions, or options, or choices. He follows orders and that’s all. “I… I don’t understand.” He chokes out, feeling broken. They’ve patched up his injuries, all of which have already healed, but he feels like breathing is suddenly something he has to think about. It’s overwhelming.
“That’s okay, bud, we’ll work on it, okay?”
“Okay, Steve.” He says, obedient. Steve makes a sad noise, but doesn’t complain about the fact that the soldier is virtually in his lap, and he hasn’t stopped rubbing comforting circles between his shoulder blades either.
“Let’s go home, huh?” Steve says, quiet. Bucky nods even though he has no home. “We’ll rest tonight, then we’ll go, okay?”
They rest. Steve doesn’t like when Bucky tries to stay a constant vigil beside his bed. Eventually he convinces Bucky to sleep, though only when he says that it’s okay to sleep next to him. Bucky crowds Steve up against the wall, turns so his own body is facing the entrance to their room even though he wants nothing more than to crawl under to covers and suffocate himself against Steve’s side. He takes comfort in the steady thumping of his heartbeat, instead.
He falls into a very light sleep, wakes up when Steve wraps his arms around him in his slumber but doesn’t protest this aside from taking his arm out from under him and laying it on top of Steve’s, instead, in case he needs to use it. Handlers do not touch him this way. Handlers do not even permit him in the same room with them as they sleep, most of the time. There had been one, he thinks, who tried to touch him outside of what was permitted. He does not recall what he did to the man. He thinks it involved dismemberment, and he doesn’t regret if it does. He knows that there had been new regulations put into place afterword, and no less than three wipes in quick succession.
He doesn’t have the urge to dismember Steve. If anything, he welcomes his touch. Steve is unendingly gentle with him. Bucky thinks this is unnecessary but he appreciates it despite that. He leans back against Steve’s chest and the small, content, sleepy noise Steve makes is worth it. This time when Bucky does sleep, it’s a bit deeper.
All of his memories come rushing back to him. It’s pure luck that he doesn’t wake up screaming, or thrashing, or any number of other things that would’ve woken Steve up. Instead, he wakes up sweating, only starting to breathe a little hard. He slips from Steve’s arms and the bed. His arm is deactivated, but he remembers how to reactivate it now. He does so, removes the three different trackers that were in it and crushes them into warped metal. He debates leaving Steve a note, since he’s decided that he definitely has to leave, but he decides against it. Steve would follow him, try to find him. It’s better if he thinks that he’s turned back into the Winter Soldier and goes on a HYDRA manhunt. He was already doing that, anyway.
He does wander on silent feet back into the room, though. He brushes Steve’s hair out of his face gently, runs his fingertips lightly over his features. Steve doesn’t stir, except when his fingers drift down over his jaw, and he cups the side of his face in his palm. Even then, Steve only turns his face into Bucky’s hand, he doesn’t wake up. Bucky smiles softly at him. He wants nothing more than to crawl back into the bed and burrow into Steve and never, ever leave, but he knows he has to. There are triggers in him, he knows it; he can feel them, even if he isn’t sure what they are. His sense of smell kept him from killing Steve before, but he’s not sure if it’ll work a second time, not if override triggers have been given to him.
So he presses his forehead to Steve’s, just once, just for a few seconds, and then makes sure Steve is asleep when he slips out the window.
Natasha stops him before he’s able to escape. Her eyes are cold and her pistol is eye level with him. “Natalia.” He says by way of greeting. She narrows her eyes further.
“Mission report,” She demands of him.
“No missions.” He says, face contorting in disgust. “Fuck missions. I’m leaving because I’ve got shit I’ve gotta work on and Steve’s not going to be safe until I do.” He pauses. “Do not tell him that.” He says in Russian, switching over to the tongue easily. “I can’t have his dumb ass coming after me before I’m… better.”
She lowers her gun. “You’re going to break his heart.” She tells him. It’s not a question.
“I know. I’ll make up for it eventually. Don’t tell him anything, Natalia. He cannot find me before I’m… Better.”
She nods. “I understand. If you become the Winter Soldier again…” She trails off.
“Do what you have to. You’re the only one I can trust to. Steve’s too soft. He’d let me beat him to death, thinking the whole time that if he just hung on another second I’d remember him.”
“If it comes to that.” She nods. “Go.”
He does.