Chapter Text
No one had expected the floor to collapse- least of all Bucky.
The expanding Avengers team had been a little occupied during their brief inner conflict to notice that while they were hunting down the former Winter Soldier or Zemo, Hydra agents still lurked in the shadows. Hiding, but quietly reorganizing.
By the time T’challa realized his mistake and Tony was lying on the cold floor in Syberia- Cap walking away with the unconscious soldier- Hydra’s remaining members were dispersing throughout the globe.
Apparently deciding it best to lay low and inject their poisonous influence from a distance.
However small, they were still a threat to national security. As such, the government needed the Avengers to clean up the remainder of Hydra.
Tony and his side agreed to work with the others again, but Steve had one condition.
The Accords were torn to shreds.
And after Tony endured weeks of intense self reflection (aka Pepper lovingly knocked some sense into him), he realized that he couldn’t completely blame Bucky for his parents murder.
But he didn’t have to be warm and fuzzy to the assassin.
Bucky was welcomed into Stark Tower; a vast improvement over the dilapidated apartments he’d been staying in for the past year. Because when he had drug Steve from the river, Helicarriers falling from the sky, something cracked in his damaged mind.
He was James Buchanan Barnes; and the man he almost killed was Steve Rogers. Memories of his past started seeping through the fissures and he’d spent the past year isolated, fearing the Winter Soldiers return.
Fearing this little sliver of freedom would be destroyed.
Once The Accords were trashed, T'challa promised Bucky a visit to see his sister in Wakanda. An enormous gesture in more ways than one; but no matter how important it was to extract Hydra’s influence from Bucky, the trip would have to wait.
The new king needed to return to his people and settle the unrest caused by the power disruption.
And the others had to hold up their end of the bargain- put out the smoldering embers of Hydra.
A mission that had brought them to this ghost town somewhere along the Kazakhstan-Russia border. The lead they were following pointed to a stone structure nestled between two rows of dilapidated buildings.
The tall compositions made of rotting lumber and brick seemed to lean towards the dirt street. The stone standing out at the end of the path.
Meaning that while Sam was guarding Stark Towers and Scarlet Witch was taking out the multitude of small groups trying to blend in with European society with Vision- Bucky, Steve, Tony, Natasha, and Clint were wearing four layers of thermal underpants and still shaking as they dispersed to prepare for Steve’s plan to be executed.
But despite his metal arm, the cold didn’t reach Bucky’s bones or trigger his muscles to shiver.
His body didn’t react unless a superior allowed him to- or more recently, until he told it to.
As the others peel away, sneaking to the three story building, Steve gives him one last look. A question written in his eyes and a promise.
He can’t see Bucky’s face through the hair covering his face like the midnight veil of a widow, but he knows his friend understands.
Bucky gave the slightest of nods, face emotionless, as he turned away to find his post.
His training made him aware of the blue eyes lingering on his retreating form with worry. Sure they had been taking out Hydra cells for weeks, but this particular one was special.
The intel Tony had received contained a list of names. The last of Bucky's old handlers.
The men responsible for the monster he had become, for creating the his daily nightmares, for taking his humanity.
The men responsible for killing Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.
The promise written in Steve's eyes had said he would make them pay. Today’s targets would not die quickly.
The thought settles nicely in his mind as Bucky climbs one of the partially demolished wooden buildings whose roof supposedly had a prime view of the stone building.
He wanted to go in with the others but given that he’s as good with a sniper rifle as Clint with a bow, and the uncertainty from Banner that he wouldn’t be triggered by seeing the men who had tortured him, the idea was put down quickly.
He allowed his trained instincts to recon, bringing back information that he organized with precision capable only by a refined killer.
Possible escape routes, the lingering scent of sulfur, structural integrity. The last had him the most worried. Although he was ascending the wooden stairs without a sound, he knew it was only due to his feet knowing exactly how to distribute his mass.
Only after another ‘scan’ of his surroundings was he certain no one was hiding in the building, and he took the next two steps as a normal human would.
They groaned and cracked under the immense weight of the assassin. Structural Integrity...poor.
Once on the flat roof, occupied only by termite looking bugs, Bucky gracefully lowers himself and points the gun directly ahead.
He looks through the scope, releases a breath to steady his body, holds a finger over the trigger and waits.
Still as a corpse, he listens.
Surveying the area he steals a quick glance at the far off snow capped mountains. Just like Siberia’s.
Bucky tries not to think of how many times he’d been stationed exactly like this. It's a wonder his hand of flesh wasn’t permanently stained red.
How many innocents had he killed with the hands holding this gun; a position more familiar than breathing?
Sure he remembers every kill- each dying breath or strangled scream- but he had never put a number to them.
Sam, in a rare moment of seriousness, had put on his VA Counselor hat and told Bucky the kills weren’t his fault- that it wasn’t him. So had Steve more than a million times.
But if it wasn’t him that spilled all that blood, then why does he know the pulse of a dying heartbeat from beneath his hands, or know the sound of a broken neck?
Why are the backs of his eyelids stained red?
He shakes his head quickly and refocus on the mission at hand.
A low voice speaks through the device in his ear. It calms the storm of his thoughts and he’s pulled back into reality.
“Move in now,” Steve whispers.
Stark must have finished hacking the systems to lower the alarms.
The others should be closing in from different corners of the building. They have the bastards surrounded.
But something’s wrong.
Something in his mind blares, telling him to listen. His head swivels, instincts directing him towards the building across the street.
He concentrates intensely and a faint yet consistent sound travels through the stale air towards him.
Ticking
But the warning is too late. A bomb- most likely a defense mechanism that Stark missed- detonates.
All at once the building implodes, explosion propelling shrapnel at the already crumbling walls of his perch. In that moment he has two options: jump or fall.
He doesn’t have to look down to know even he couldn't survive a jump from this far up. A voice in his head tells him that’s what he deserves, but stubborn survival instincts take over.
Unable to withstand the blast, his building collapses. Time slows as he falls. Each floor compacting onto one another like a stack of paper beneath him.
The roof mixing with walls and dust, making it impossible to know when he’ll collide with the piling destruction.
Chunks of debris cascade past him in a deadly waterfall. Over the deafening cry of the structure, a scream tears through the ear piece.
Steve
As the world around him crumbles, Bucky reaches for his comm unit, desperately needing to tell Steve it’s alright. Everything will be okay.
Relief washes over him despite the chaos when he can feel the comm’s button. He opens his mouth to speak when a slab of wall connects with his skull.
And the chaos turns to darkness.
“Bucky! Buck where are you?!”
That voice...recognize...need to answer...answer
He tries to open his mouth, to scream. He doesn’t know where he is or what’s happening, all he knows is that voice needs him.
But the darkness consumes him.
The roaring of a jet engine surrounds him as he fades in and out of consciousness.
“No major damage but a severe concussion. Won’t know the damage until he wakes up. I’m sorry I can’t do more until he regains consciousness.”
“It’s alright Bruce, thanks.”
“Hey why don’t we put him in his room, he’d probably freak out waking up in the medbay...”
That voice again…help…what’s happening? help...please...
But the darkness drowns him again.
“Steve, you’ve been standing here for hours, why don’t we let him rest. Come get some food?”
“No thanks Nat, I can’t leave hi-”
“What would he say to you not taking care of yourself after a mission?”
“He’d cuss me out…”
“Exactly. Let’s go, super soldier.”
Something tells him the voices have left and that the exit is closed.
Ok just...open your eyes
His lids obey but the edges of his vision flicker and dance, playing with the light streaming through the window. He closes them unable to stop the dizzying trick.
After taking a deep breath he tries again, slower this time.
He takes in his surroundings. Recognizing the dull grey interior with a feeling of distaste. This place is familiar...it’s my bedroom. And I’m in my bed…Why am I in bed?
He looks down to the clock on the floor- 10:00 am.
Why the hell am I still in bed at 10?
He swings his legs off the bed and makes to stand, but stumbles and falls back onto the mattress. Catching himself with...a metal hand??
He staggers over to the bathroom and finds a black sheet covering the mirror. That’s weird.
Tearing the fabric from the pane, he steps back with a gasp. The person staring back does the same.
It has long tangled hair, black as the pants and long sleeve shirt constraining the bulging muscles beneath. The beginnings of a beard cover his lower jaw and he rubs a hand over the stubble.
The figure brings it’s flesh hand up to graze the growth without thought. Light reflects off of the metal hand and he lifts the hem of the shirt to reveal metal plated skin.
Experimentally he twists the limb while wiggling the fingers.
Something in his mind recognizes this as normal so he shrugs and removes the shirt completely, walking back to the bedroom to get something less suffocating.
He opens the dresser and frowns at the selection; the drawer looks like a black void. Dark cloth with long legs and sleeves.
Digging through till he almost reaches the bottom, he removes a shirt with triumph.
He smiles at the prize and gets dressed, returning to the bathroom.
After cleaning up a bit and gathering up the black cloth, he walks out to go find some food, throwing the fabric in the trash along the way.
“So how’s he doing?” Sam asks, piling hot food on a plate. Clint had made breakfast for everyone. A tradition he’d started for after missions.
A tradition Sam could get behind.
Steve swallows a bite of pancake, eyes missing their usual spark. Natasha knows how much Bucky means to Steve, they all do, and she hopes desperately for him to be alright.
She glances to Clint who nods in silent agreement.
“Not sure till he wakes up. Bruce did everything he could for now though; says he’s stable.”
“In fact,” Tony projects as he strides into the kitchen, “he’s down in the lab right now putting together some brain scanning stuff. I was gonna help but…”
Natasha notices how Steve doesn’t chide Tony for his tone. Tony had made it very clear that he didn’t owe the Winter Soldier any favors. He had an air of ‘I’m only pretending to care because he is a part of the team and I’m obligated to’ which made her want to strangle him.
But instead of getting into it, Steve just pushed around his food, lost in thought.
Suddenly the elevator dinged, the door opening as someone stepped out.
“Morning everyone,” the man said with a warm smile.
The room froze. Sam’s plate sliding out of his grip and crashing to the floor. But nobody flinches at the noise; everyone wide eyed with open mouths.
The Winter Soldier, expert gunsman, legendary assassin, was standing before them clean shaven with brushed hair tied into a bun; scars exposed and peaking through the white tank top and light blue running shorts; metal arm on display.
Steve is the first to break the spell that had them all.
“You...feeling alright, Buck?”
Bucky’s brows contort in confusion and he looks to the others, questioning Steve’s weird behavior, but four sets of eyes stare back. They’re looking at him like he’s lost his mind.
Steve gets up and takes a cautious step forward like Bucky was a butterfly that might fly away.
“What’s the last thing you remember?”