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The Asset returns to the man's apartment three days after pulling him from the river. It unlocks the window easily and slips inside, footsteps light and soft. The apartment is silent and empty, still, and the floorboards creak as it steps down the hall, but its footsteps are soon muffled by thick carpet while stepping into the bedroom.
It's only a moment before it registers the presence inside.
The man is asleep. Open. Vulnerable. He lies on his stomach, his arms circling the pillow, where his face is half pressed inside. He wears loose clothing instead of the uniform, his shoulders rising and falling with every breath.
There are ten ways The Asset can kill him now but it simply stands and watches.
It can smell the brine of the water, the sourness of sweat and dirt on its skin and the armor it wears leaves its body feeling heavy and wanting to sag down. On the floor, on the chair, on the—
It takes clothes from the drawers and goes into the bathroom.
Minutes pass before the heaviness of the clothes, the armor are on the floor, the boots left in the corner. It does not want to be heard and so it dresses despite the filth it feels on its body.
At the facility, it was stripped bare and put away if there was no use for its presence. Now, the clothes are soft against its skin and less restricting. It leaves the bathroom and steps into the living room once more before lowering down to the sofa, sitting back against it for a few moments.
Its eyes close.
Has it ever slept before? It must have. Once.
It has to try.
*
The Asset turns and lies down, head on a scratchy throw pillow. It feels itself drift off in what seems like seconds.
*
When it wakes, the first thing The Asset is aware of is the stiffness in its body, in its neck as it struggles to come to. It feels like coming out of cryo, head heavy and thick, thoughts muzzy and body too slow.
The second thing it is aware of is a gaze fixed on it.
Eyes open, focus, blinking up at the figure standing above.
The bruise The Asset left on the helicarrier is still healing, the cut closed, the bruising faded to a faint yellow now.
"Breakfast?" The man asks. His voice is soft, like his gaze and his expression. The Asset can feel its insides twist as it tries to meet clear, bright eyes.
He didn't even question its presence.
*
Breakfast goes wrong.
The Asset's throat burns and its stomach spasms while it empties the food into the toilet, the man's warm hand remains at its back and the other pulls dirty, matted hair away from its face. The man's voice is a low, soft rumble, still rough with sleep, and his body is solid and close, his touches gentle.
It did not know it could feel hunger, not until it ate. Too much and too quickly.
When The Asset feels well enough to move, it leans against the broadness of the man and takes deep breaths in because there is nowhere else to go.
The man's arm comes around its shoulders and the long metal of The Asset's fingers wind in a pale blue shirt.
"C'mon, Buck, lemme help you." he says, but The Asset wants to tell him that that is not its name. The Asset is The Asset, it has no name, it has never been and will never be anything else.
But the man has been saying that a lot today. 'Buck' or 'Bucky'. He'd said another name a few days ago on the helicarrier, but The Asset cannot remember what it was. It's hard to remember most things right now aside from the burn in its throat, the aches moving through a sore and tired body.
So it nods, shuts its eyes and leans into the man as the nausea passes.
*
Showers feel nice, they wash the dirt from The Asset's skin and hair and ease tense muscles.
*
The man says his name is Steve, and his eyes are kind and soft and make The Asset's chest hurt when he looks over like that, when his tone is calm and gentle.
*
It sleeps on the couch once again, this time with sheets and pillows and a blanket, no matter how many times Steve offers the bed. His hand lingers on its shoulder after a squeeze and he smiles softly, almost looking as if he's holding back on another touch, or another word.
"Night," Steve says quietly, letting go and heading back to his bedroom, leaving the door halfway open.
The Asset falls asleep soon after.
And for the first time, it dreams.
*
The world around is black, and then red and stark white and cold as wind blows into bleary eyes. Blood is splattered over the snow, and there is no hand to reach out, to feel surroundings, to learn where this place is but it should be there and it's not.
There are voices, strong arms dragging away a body. The Asset has seen this before, felt the cold in its lungs and the snow clinging to its lashes, it has felt its throat thick with the helplessness of a trapped and wounded animal as it is dragged from the bank.
The voices are in languages it cannot understand, aside from one, one word echoing through its head endlessly as it fades and fades into nothing.
"Bucky!"
Loud and echoing, scared. Cold hands ache and metal creaks and groans and snaps, leaving The Asset to fall endlessly, screaming as it reaches up for someone it cannot see, the cold worming into its lungs, mind numbing pain shooting through its limb and blood in its mouth and it's too much, too cold and bright and—
"Bucky!"
The Asset doesn't realize its screaming until it opens his eyes, until it tastes the salt on its lips and feels the arms crushing its body to Steve's chest.
Steve.
Steve is safe. Steve is different from everything and everyone else and The Asset murmurs his name again and again like a prayer, throat raw as it looks up at him from his chest, feels his warm hand cradling one side of its face.
"Yeah, yeah it's me...you're okay, Buck. I'm here, it's fine. It was a dream." he whispers quickly, but The Asset thinks it might be more than that.
It swallows hard, heart still pounding too quickly, and rests against Steve again, feeling long fingers slide through sweat soaked hair, leaving The Asset sagging, eyes shutting for a few minutes, listening to Steve's breathing, feeling the rise and fall of his chest.
"You should stay with me tonight," Steve murmurs after a little while. "Sleeping in a bed for once'll be good for you."
It is hard to say no.
*
The Asset has decided it does not like dreaming, and luckily, dreams don't come once they settle into Steve's bed, his strong arm wrapped around its waist, a leg slotted between its own while the blanket -heavy and soft and warm- lies over them. The fatigue it felt before is returning rapidly, leaving its eyes heavy and blinking slowly as eyes focus on the light coming from the window, casting over the floor, flickering as a truck drives by.
"Steve?"
Its throat still feels dry and thick.
"Mhm," he hums, and The Asset can feel the vibration of the sound against its back, which is pressed to Steve's chest. His breathing is slow and his skin is warm, and that warmth seems to bleed into its body.
"...Thank you."
*
The next morning, The Asset feels rested and wakes to the smell of food, stomach feeling hollow. When it comes into the kitchen, Steve is standing over the stove, pushing eggs and bacon onto two plates. It remembers yesterday and what happened, and remembers to move slowly, not to rush in case the nausea returns.
"Mornin'," Steve says when he notices the gaze on him. And The Asset is surprised to feel a slight perk at its own mouth.
"Morning." it says, voice rough with sleep.
Steve has never smiled this broadly. The Asset wants to see it again.
*
Over the next few days, eating become easier, and now that the sleeping arrangement has moved to Steve's bed, that's easier at well. When the nightmares come, Steve shakes The Asset awake and sometimes it wakes with its arm around Steve, face hidden in the crook of his neck, breathing in something comforting and clean.
It does not think about the room it was kept in, or the shock of waking from cryostasis because it has the option not to. The Asset has never had any other choice aside from obeying before.
Still, some things come to mind. Memories from what must be before.
Oddly, seeing a box of strawberries in the fridge reminds it.
"You shouldn't have these," The Asset says, shutting the fridge and coming back to the living room. Its voice is still rough with disuse, and this is one of the few sentences it has said since the night it snuck inside the apartment. It wears a pair of jeans and a grey henley of Steve's, a little more used to sharing clothes now. To wearing something aside from a uniform or armor.
"Huh?" Steve says, turning and fixing his gaze onto The Asset's.
"The strawberries," it clarifies, some vague thought of a closed up throat and blotchy red skin flashing through its thoughts. The thought leaves an odd, horrible lurch in its stomach. "You shouldn't eat them."
In that moment, a flurry of different emotions flit over Steve's face and he stands, coming closer as a smile pulls itself across his face.
"You remember that?" he asks, and The Asset briefly feels itself tense. It should say no. No, of course not. But it forces itself to remember that this is Steve, that he can be trusted. Remembering isn't wrong, remembering doesn't mean punishment. It doesn't mean white hot pain and the taste of plastic and fear and buzzing electricity.
It nods. Steve's smile only seems to widen, and he brings his hands up to The Asset's biceps, squeezing lightly, like he usually does.
"Only thing is, I haven't been allergic to strawberries since '41. Serum changed that and I'm kinda taking advantage of it." he says, huffing a soft laugh. The Asset knows of the serum, knows all too well. It can remember retrieving the bags of what was left of it, of who it created.
It does not know how Steve is the way he is. Does not know why he treats it the way he does.
The Asset smiles; a genuine, small one, and slides a hand over Steve's wrist, squeezing gently.
Maybe it's better to remember. Here, at least. It almost seems like something warm has dripped back into The Asset's chest.
*
It yells out in the night, tangles itself in the sheets as memories assault its mind, but Steve is always close by, just in reaching distance to shake The Asset awake, to speak in that soft rumble, to remind it where it is.
Sometimes it shivers, has numb fingers as if they're thawing from ice, and Steve presses warmth back into its body, leaves a trash can nearby for when it all becomes too much to handle.
*
The Asset continues to dream as the weeks pass by. Most are bad, but some are...some are good. Some leave a warm, heavy feeling after waking, a sense of nostalgia it cannot place.
Sometimes it dreams of Steve, but not always the Steve it knows now. One that The Asset feels like it should know even more. One with skinny arms and floppy hair, who got out of breath after running half a block. Sometimes he's young, small, voice barely beginning to crack, and sometimes he's bloodied after a fight, or wandering through a tiny apartment sleepily, the strap of his sleeveless shirt falling off of his shoulder.
The apartment is dimly lit and the radio is playing quietly, a song from a movie they've both heard too many times. There's a glass of strong brown whiskey in Steve's hand and it's only his second, but he's drunk already. Probably not the best choice but he chose it. And when he's bent over the toilet tonight, it ain't difficult to guess who's going to be right behind him.
"I dunno, maybe I'm a bad influence on you. Having your first drink at nineteen is kinda illegal."
"You're —hic— one to talk. You ain't even twenty-one yet and I've seen you drink beer like water since we were in 11th grade."
"Well, maybe I'm just tougher."
"You ain't shit, Barnes." Steve says, and he snickers as he speaks, his head leaning back, falling against Bucky's shoulder. He tilts his head, giggling against the material of his shirt before he looks up and...
And it would be so easy to just lean in, and in his tipsy state, Bucky actually does. Steve's eyes are moving slowly over his face and his mouth is dark and inviting. He looks better than the dames Bucky has been with, worth ten of the best guys he knows, and he's all he's got really. Same for Steve. With Joseph gone, Sarah gone, Bucky's the only one left looking out for his sorry ass.
Steve meets him halfway, and when they kiss it's like fireworks going off in his head, like the ones on Fourth of July he and Steve watch on the fire escape every year in the sticky summer heat. When they were kids, he'd tell him they were all for him, that everyone in Brooklyn knew it was his birthday and set them off just for him. He still says it sometimes, just to tease him.
His hands are slim and soft and wet from the glass, and he makes a weak sound into the kiss. Bucky knows Steve's never kissed anyone before, but God, the feeling of it. It's like a shiver creeping up his spine, cold water pouring over his body—
The Asset snaps back into reality as the water streaming from the shower head grows cold, heart pounding hard as the thought knocks through its mind, drowns everything out. It...it feels too vivid, too real to be a thought or a dream. And falling asleep in the shower isn't considered normal.
It's a memory, and there's no way to deny that.
The Asset turns the shower off, pushing clean, wet hair from its face and wrapping a towel around its waist, shivering now for a completely different reason. The material brushes over its length, which, The Asset now notices, presses against its stomach.
It remembers this. A primal instinct, one that has been long forgotten up until now.
"Buck, please, let me..." Steve breathes, kissing down his chest, breath sharp with the drink hand brushing over his cock through his trousers, leaving him groaning softly, tilting his head back.
The Asset grips either side of the sink, taking care not to break it, not to let the capable, metallic fingers of its hand get carried away.
"Oh, God, Stevie..." his mouth is warm and slick and intoxicating, even though it's inexperienced. It doesn't even matter, Bucky's wanted this for so long he doesn't even care.
Its breath is quick, and not in a bad way. It's new, it's different. Utterly human and that's something The Asset never imagined it could be.
A few more minutes pass but it eases the want it feels, has to wash its hands and clean the mess on its thighs before moving back to the bedroom, dressing as its heart continues to pound, body strangely relaxed despite that fact.
*
It becomes harder to look at Steve once memories like that return, hard not to think about the feelings, the warmth of his skin and his lips and the way he tasted afterwards. The Asset has taken to writing things down, using an old notebook to get down the things that show up the most. It does not tell Steve about the memories. It doesn't feel right mentioning them, especially the more unsavory ones. He knows about The Asset writing them down though, and he never asks to read about them.
Memories of war, of cold winters and sharing warmth return, and things make more sense. Thoughts or things The Asset says don't feel strange. It knows Steve is from the past, its own past.
Spring turns to summer, and Steve convinces The Asset to come outside one day, and when it feels the warmth of the sun on its skin, it's like a piece of a puzzle slowly pressing back into place.
*
The Asset escaped once. Stole clothes and boarded a train to New York without knowing why, it just knew it needed to be there. Once the 2000s came, it was used more than ever. Dropped into foreign places for days and weeks at a time without cryo, with secret identities and other agents. Perhaps being out for so long woke something restless inside, inspired the urge to run. Something wasn't right, it knew it should not be where it was.
Barely a day passed before The Asset was found, and when it was brought back to the Triskelion, it knew that the punishment would be brutal. It always was, in the time it knew here.
"Were you instructed to go to New York?"
Alexander Pierce stands close by, hands clasped behind his back. The Asset can hear his shoes on the floor. The room is too bright and it is strapped down, mouthpiece between its teeth. Pierce's presence is rare, but when he feels it necessary to come down, it means trouble. It means The Asset has truly done something wrong.
It does not respond at first. Knows responding is pointless in this position, but with effort, it lifts its head, spits the plastic from its mouth, and Pierce's gaze falls on The Asset, almost challenging it to do something it knows it will regret.
"I left on my own." The Asset says through gritted teeth, struggling against the bonds, hard and metal, bruising skin. "I...had to see."
"You had to see." Pierce echoes, mocking, though his voice remains as measured, as calm as ever. "See what?"
If the streets were the same, if they smelled the same, if their building was still there. The Asset isn't sure why it wanted this but the curiosity still pulls at its insides.
"If,"
It feels like the wrong thing to say already.
"If it was still like it used to be. If I could go back, see...see him."
That hits a nerve, evidently, because the faint amusement falls from Pierce's face and is replaced with a thinly hidden anger The Asset has seen a few times. He comes closer, and fists a hand in dark hair, twisting hard.
"There is nowhere you belong." he says, voice low as he forces The Asset to look up. "You were made for this, and this only: to rid this world of the people who want to stop us from doing what's supposed to be done. And you're willing to jeopardize that, everything we've worked for, to try to find someone that's been gone for years?"
There's a silent understanding of who, of what is being spoken of, and for once, The Asset doesn't want to listen. Doesn't want to comply. Anger flares up, burning hot, and it leans forward, staring back, upper lip curled up slightly.
The Asset spits in his face, and it hasn't fought back in years, it has never fought Pierce and it feels good. Like it finally has some measure of control, even if its just for a moment.
A muscle twitches in Pierce's jaw before he wipes his face with the back of his hand, staring darkly for a few moments before walking away. The Asset watches the back of him as he slowly leaves, already knowing what's to come.
"Wipe him. Make sure there's nothing left."
It's blinding this time, electricity buzzing through The Asset's body as it screams, blood in its mouth, sweat and tears and snot running down its face as it repeats, likely in its head, a thought over and over and over again.
'Sergeant Barnes, 32557038. Barnes, James Buchanan, 32557038. James... 3255...'
'I thought you were dead.'
'I thought you were smaller.'
"3255703—"
Bed. Night. It's late, there's a siren somewhere outside and Steve sleeps on silently. It gasps, heaving in deep breaths, the numbers sticking in its mind.
The name sticking in its mind.
The Asset has a name.
It has a name and his name is Bucky.
*
Sleep doesn't come.
Too many thoughts race through a frayed mind as pieces start to form together. It's a slow process and it's almost painful as he lies on his side, facing the wall as his heart rattles against his ribcage.
He.
He is not a possession, not a...a thing created in one of their labs. He has a name, he had a life and it was taken and now all he can feel is hatred, anger, stirring deep inside him. They took him from a world he was welcome into, turned him into a weapon and turned his mind to mush.
Bucky isn't sure when he drifts off again, but his sleep is restless, leaves him waking again and again. He shouldn't wake Steve, shouldn't drag him into this yet.
*
The next morning, Bucky wakes against Steve's chest, and it feels different now. Memories are coming to him easier now that the most important, obviously, has been restored. Flowing in, leaving everything falling into place,
He lifts his head and looks, really looks at him.
The truth is, it's been seventy years since he did last.
Steve always looks the same when he's asleep. Face slack, dark lashes against his cheeks. He looks younger, like he did when they were in their little apartment, with the train that would rumble by every morning and wake them up, shake the whole damn building.
He gingerly brings a hand to his cheek, smoothing his thumb over his cheekbone. He's been close, touched him over these past couple of months but there hasn't been any heat, any hidden meanings behind any of them. Especially Steve. Anyone else would have tried...tried something, wanted to reignite the flame, but Steve wouldn't do that if Bucky wasn't sure of exactly what they were.
It's been two months, and he wishes he remembered sooner.
He gently brushes his lips against his cheek, breathing him in and Christ, he still smells the same somehow. Like plain soap and detergent and cotton and Bucky can feel his throat close as he shuts his eyes, rests his forehead against his jaw for a few long moments, trying to steel himself, to stop the sudden tremor that starts at his hands, moves through the rest of his body.
"Buck?" Steve breathes, suddenly pulling Bucky from his thoughts. "You okay?"
He's always been a light sleeper, even more so when they were in the war. It's something that lingers now, he supposes.
Bucky lifts his head, opening his eyes, which are a little too hot, and he finds his gaze, a deep twist in his chest that only deepens as he keeps his eyes on Steve's, tired and blue and concerned. There are shadows under his eyes, because Bucky's been waking him up every damn night yelling and thrashing.
"I..." he croaks, and Steve immediately looks more awake, pulling Bucky closer and fuck, has he missed that, missed his touches and the worry that crease between his brows. It leaves his chest swelling and twisting as he swallows thickly.
"I'm just real glad to see you."
Bucky isn't sure how, but somehow Steve understands, a hundred emotions flickering over his face as he leans up a little, bringing a hand to cup his neck, and a small, almost hesitant smile pulls over his lips.
"...Bucky?" he says, his voice barely above a whisper.
The last time he heard that, they were on the bridge, and it only took hearing that to unravel every thread HYDRA had stitched into his mind.
A watery smile pulls at Bucky's mouth. It hasn't been said to him since '44, not since the train, and now that he hears it, he can't stop the thing that pulls itself from his chest, something like a laugh and a sob and a sigh of relief all rolled into one.
"Hey, Stevie." he says, voice a rough mess but he doesn't care, because the sunny smile that broadens on the blond's face is worth it.
When Steve presses their lips together, crushes Bucky to his chest, Bucky's never held onto him so tight. Like he's going to fade away at any moment.
It's not a nice morning, it doesn't fit the scene. It's dark and grey and pouring but it's utterly calming, and strangely, Bucky falls asleep again later, Steve following close by.
When he drifts off, it's the best sleep he's ever had.
*
The days that pass are, well, a lot of getting to know each other again.
As far as Bucky knows, Steve hasn't gotten any since they were last together and now that they're together, able to touch, it feels right. It feels like they're picking up where they left off. Bucky still knows the rhythm of Steve's body, what he likes, what makes him sigh and what makes him moan, and evidently, Steve is about the same. They change the sheets three times in those few days, and it's like his body is finally beginning to unwind.
Now, Steve explains a bit more about his own life, tells him about the Avengers, about what happened to S.H.I.E.L.D., to HYDRA. Hearing about the death of most of them sates something within him. But the other part of him, an animal part that wormed in since he left for the war, is disappointed because it means he won't get to track them down, to make them suffer the way he did at their hands.
No one know about him being here, that's something he learned when he first showed up. If they did, they would be searching for him. For now, no one knows where the Winter Soldier is aside from Steve.
And that's how things will stay for as long as needed.
*
July comes, and it brings dry heat. Bucky realizes he's only left the apartment once in the months he's been here, and when they go out, he pulls his hair up into a bun.
It surprises him when Steve laces their fingers together. Despite being around a bit in these past few years, he doesn't know a lot about the things the future has erased over time. Luckily, Steve does. And he knows that there's still things he needs to learn, remember.
Things aren't perfect. Bucky still has weak spots when it comes to memory, still wakes from nightmares trying to rid himself of the sensation of electricity crawling over his skin. He leaves a bruise on Steve's arm, and even though it fades quickly, it's hard to forgive himself, because he can still hurt him, even with everything coming back.
Now, he stands alone in the bathroom, feeling and hearing the snip of scissors through his ponytail, and when it comes loose, still held together by the hair tie, he drops it into the trash, setting the scissors down and sliding his fingers through the fresh hair, thick and almost new. It's almost like a weight has dropped from him, and when he looks in the mirror, he can recognize himself.
He steps out of the bathroom, deciding to let his hair dry naturally before he dresses. Luckily, Steve isn't back yet, and he still has a bit of time to get what he wants done.
The sky is darkening now, enough that all around them, the show will begin. The door to the rooftop is open, and outside, he's set up a small table, a few boxes of takeout on it. It's become a weakness lately, all Steve's damn fault, really.
'Come up on the roof.' he sends, seeing the dots that shows Steve is replying after a few moments.
They went out and bought him a phone a few days ago, and it didn't take long for Bucky to learn how to use it. He's not completely useless.
It's not long before Steve is coming up, and when he does, a crooked smile breaks over his face, turning to surprise when his eyes fall on Bucky. He comes close, running his fingers through the freshly cut hair, huffing a soft laugh.
"When the hell...?" he starts, finding his gaze.
"Couldn't afford a gift, so you got this, and this," he nods to the table, settling his hands at his hips and squeezing gently.
Steve seals their lips together sweetly, and lately, whenever he does, it makes things feel a little more real. A little more concrete. Bucky has his moments when all this feels too good to be true, but Steve reminds him that it is.
"C'mon." Bucky says, guiding him to sit down on the ledge of the building, swiping the two beers from the table and then sitting down beside him, their knees bumping together.
All around, fireworks begin to flare up, from every area of the city, and it's like nothing Bucky has ever seen.
"See that, Stevie? They're all up there for you." he says. Steve is twelve, and he's looking up at the fireworks as Bucky talks, colors illuminating his face as he watches, then he looks over to Bucky, laughing at him like he's ridiculous.
It's probably strange, feeling the way he does, but nobody looks like he does, no one looks at Bucky like that aside from his Ma.
"Are not." Steve says, and even in the dark, Bucky can see the color on his cheeks.
"Are too. Have I ever lied to you 'bout anything?"
"Happy Birthday, doll." Bucky says quietly, fireworks whizzing up around them, and he squeezes Steve's knee, pressing his lips to his cheek, nosing there gently.
"Thanks, Buck." Steve says, keeping his arm around Bucky's waist, constantly keeping him close.
He'd never imagined being here again, being close like this again, and now the buildings around them have gotten taller, the world has changed and they're in a place he'd only read about in old sci-fi novels but right now, things are good.
He rests his head against Steve's shoulder, feeling a warm breeze ghost over his face, and it feels like he's home again.