Hello dears! I hope this story finds you well! This is just just what my muse like to believe Steve and Bucky's home life would be like following the events of Lost. Most of it is just cute, domestic fluff with a little bit of angst and action thrown in the mix. Also, Steve may or may not smoke a cigarette at one point. Whaaaatttt?! Basically, these boy are just adorable idiots and I don't even know what to do with them anymore. There will be some Russian translation at the end but if it's not correct, please feel free to let me know (I studied Latin in college and it's pretty useless for things like this -.-*) Anyway, hope you all enjoy! :D

Disclaimer: I own nothing! =/

Bucky is gone by the time Steve wakes up the next morning. It's not a surprise really; Bucky is always gone before Steve wakes up. Just as all the mornings before, there's no note, no unlocked door, no open window, he's just gone, vanished into the thin air like an early morning fog. Steve never sees him leave either, he never hears him moving around in the sleepy silence of the apartment, he literally just disappears.

The first time it happened, the morning after Bucky appeared in his living room, lost and confused and broken, Steve had felt a stab of disappointment that nearly brought him to his knees. He'd finally found him, finally got him back after all these years, and then he was gone again like it had all been a cruel dream in an even harsher reality. Steve wanted to be angry but he wasn't angry with Bucky, he could never be angry with him. No, he was angry at himself for losing him again, for letting him walk out the door without him even knowing.

He tried to swallow down his frustration and move forward, accept that this was how it was and there was nothing he could do to change it. He just had to be patient like he was before; Bucky would come back when he was ready.

He'd met with Sam for their morning run and tried to play it off but Sam knew. No matter how much he tried to hide it, the other soldier just knew. He'd tried to talk to him while they ran, offer words of encouragement and advice ("which is really damn hard to do when you stay half a mile ahead of me, Steve!") but for all of his good intentions, it didn't help. Steve was still disappointed and it hit him like a crushing blow.

His disappointment turned to surprise, however, when he returned home that morning to find the former assassin sitting motionless on the couch, staring at the wall across from him. He looked over when Steve entered the room, eyes blank and expression unreadable. "Hey."

"Hey," Steve responded in surprise, the disbelief in his voice causing the word to come out with a bit of an upward inflection.

"You talk in your sleep," the assassin had intoned flatly and that was that. No questions, no explanations for his whereabouts, nothing to even acknowledge that he'd left. Just a statement regarding Steve's sleeping habits and that's it. That had been a little over a month ago and they had fallen into something of a pattern after that.

Every morning Steve would wake up at 4:30 and Bucky would already be gone; bed made and blankets seamless as if he'd never even been there. Steve always did a cursory check of the apartment before he left and always came up empty-handed; he knew better than anyone that Bucky would not be found unless he wanted to be. Apartment empty and former assassin still missing, he would make his way to the park to meet up with Sam for their morning run. Roughly an hour and a half later, he would return home to find Bucky sitting on the couch once again, still and quiet as if he'd never left in the first place.

He's already gone when Steve slips out of bed that morning and gets dressed, going through his morning routine methodically. He gets dressed slowly, brushes his teeth, and goes through the endless mantra of it's not 1943, it's 2014, I'm alive, Bucky's alive, he's coming back, he's coming back, he's coming back. The apartment is still empty when he leaves but he makes sure to leave a lamp on in the living room.

Sam is already in the park waiting for him, one shoulder leaning against a tree. He checks his watch with more exaggeration than necessary when he sees Steve walk up and shakes his head in mock disapproval. "4:57," he says by way of greeting when Steve gets closer. "You're getting slow, old man."

"Old man? Wow, you're really hitting below the belt this morning, aren't you?" Steve counters, accepting the barb with a small smile. "We'll see if this 'old man' still has what it takes to outrun you by the end of the morning, hm?"

"You know, one of these days I am going to beat you," Sam retaliates, settling into a jog beside Steve as they get out onto the track.

"You keep telling yourself that, Sam," Steve tells him but he keeps his pace slow enough for the other man to keep up. They jog in silence for several minutes, the sounds of early morning traffic beginning to fill the streets around the park. The morning breeze is still cool despite the approaching summer and the cool light of dawn gives the park a calm, tranquil atmosphere.

"So he was gone again this morning?" Sam asks after they've completed their fifth mile. His words come out a little breathy but they're intelligible all the same.

"Yep," Steve says with a nod, speaking easily despite the exercise.

"You ever wonder where he goes?"

"Not really," Steve tells him even though it's a lie. He does wonder about it and has ever since that first morning. He wonders where Bucky goes, what he does when he slips out of the apartment every morning. He wonders if he goes anywhere in particular and if so, why, and he wonders what urges him to leave each morning before Steve wakes up. He doesn't have any answers and, as much as he may want them, he refuses to ask.

What Bucky does in his spare time is his business and Steve doesn't want him to feel like he's intruding. It's important to him that Bucky feels like a guest and not a prisoner, that he can come and go as he pleases, do the things he wants, when he wants to, without being questioned or interrogated every time he turns around. He doesn't know how long it's been since Bucky has had any semblance of free will and he doesn't want to take that away from him by badgering him with questions each time he sees him. If Bucky didn't feel like telling him where he went in the mornings, that was fine; Steve wasn't going to push him for answers.

Sam just shrugs and keeps jogging. "Alright man; your friend, your rules." He doesn't push the matter any further but it still doesn't sit quite right with him. Steve may think the world and beyond of Bucky but Sam doesn't fully trust him yet. He hasn't done anything to cause alarm since he showed up out of the blue in Steve's apartment over a month ago but Sam doesn't let himself forget that Steve's previous encounters with the Winter Soldier left him water-logged on the banks of the Potomac and sporting a broken wrist for a few days respectively.

Steve is a good guy, one who doesn't deserve half of the crap he's been through in his life, and Sam feels just a tiny bit more protective of him since the whole surviving-the-destruction-of-S.H.I.E.L.D-and-everything-related-to-it incident a few weeks back. It doesn't help the fact that Steve doesn't possess a single self-preservation bone in his Super Soldier body and may or may not be a star-spangled Care Bear even on the worst of days. It's not a good combination and one that will more than likely get him killed before it's all over with. So Sam stays close and keeps an eye on him because he doesn't trust Steve to do it himself and someone needs to stick around to keep his patriotic ass out of trouble.

They finish their run just as the sun is beginning to peak over the horizon and heat begins to rise up from the pavement. It was relatively short this morning, only eight miles as opposed to their usual 10-15, but they got a late start and it's already starting to get hot. Steve says goodbye to Sam, promising to see him again the next morning, and leaves the park, walking in the direction of his apartment. It's a short walk, twenty minutes at most, and it's a little past 6:30 when he finally makes it back home.

Bucky is already there, sitting in the same place he is every morning. He looks over when Steve walks into the living room. "Hey."

"Hey," Steve greets back and this has become routine as well because one thing Steve has figured out is that Bucky doesn't speak much and usually only when necessary. One or two word answers were usually all he got from the other man at any given time but it was progress, no matter how small. When Bucky had first came back, he would grant Steve the bare minimum of conversation, a sentence or two here and several one word answers there. Apparently years of being treated as little more than a walking, breathing gun had rendered normal conversation all but irrelevant.

He was slowly beginning to open up though, speaking a bit more freely and allowing conversation to flow more naturally. It was a slow, gradual process, one that had taken weeks to get through, but Steve didn't mind. He's patient and he's willing to wait as long as it takes for Bucky to come back completely.

"Sleep well?" he asks casually, hanging his keys on the hook by the door.

Bucky nods once in response. "You?"

Steve nods as well. Both of them are lying through their teeth but neither are going to call the other on it. He heard the former assassin tossing and turning fitfully well into the night and he's sure Bucky heard the same from him when his own brand of nightmares crept into his mind. Bucky doesn't bring that up so neither does Steve; lying works as long as both parties agree it's for the best.

"You hungry?" Steve asks, walking into the kitchen and grabbing two bottles of water from the refrigerator. He opens one and passes the other to Bucky when he appears around the corner. The other man takes the offered water and nods wordlessly to the previous question.

Steve smiles warmly and takes a long drink of water. "Good," he says, setting the bottle to the side and retrieving a skillet from below the oven. "I'll make breakfast for us."

The expression he gets in response is not a smile, not really, but it's not a frown either; it falls somewhere right in between. It's a way to say 'thank you' without actually speaking and still maintaining a heaping pile of wariness regarding his surroundings at all times. He's starting to get more comfortable around Steve though, slowly but surely and day by day. It may not be much but Steve counts it as a victory.

OOOOO

He always leaves at least a half hour before Steve wakes up. He doesn't bother with setting alarms or looking at the clock, his body just recognizes when it's time to wake up and he obeys. It's always dark and still at first, quiet save for the slow, even breathing of the man across the room. He listens carefully for a few seconds, satisfying some deeply ingrained urge to know the other was breathing normally. He's not sure why he does it but the action feels familiar and natural, something he used to do on a nearly daily basis before the Fall. He still doesn't remember much from before, who he was before, but for some reason the sound of the other man's deep, unlabored breathing puts him at ease.

Satisfied that the other is still deeply asleep, he stands silently and slips out of the room, closing the door behind him. He knows exactly how many steps it takes to get across the room and exactly where to place his hand on the front door when he pushes it closed so it doesn't make a sound. He grabs a hooded jacket from the rack beside the door and steps out into the hallway, closing the door silently behind him.

The city is still sleeping when he steps out onto the sidewalk, the streets empty and the sky dark overhead. He doesn't pick a direction so much as he just starts walking, one foot after the other, pulling him away from the apartment. He doesn't question his body's actions anymore, doesn't wonder why he does the things he does, he just follows along voluntarily. It's become something of a routine now, a habit he adheres to everyday, and he doesn't try to stop it now. When you can't remember much of anything about your life from the past seventy years, routine becomes something to keep the panic away.

The first time it happened had been the morning after he'd gone back to Steve's apartment. He'd been lost and confused, more alone than he'd ever felt in his life, and Steve had welcomed him in without so much as a pause. He didn't understand him, even now he still doesn't, but he had taken the offer because even if he didn't remember himself, he remembered Steve on some foundational level and at the time that had been enough.

The Captain had rigged up a makeshift bed for him, little more than a mattress and a pile of pillows and blankets but it was the best he could do on such short notice. He didn't mind, it was the first time he'd slept on something resembling an actual bed in he doesn't remember how long. It had been a little awkward at first, though; he wasn't used to being around people, especially someone who may or may not have been his best friend at one point in time, and he didn't know what the protocol was for situations like this.

Steve had watched him floundering and offered a reassuring smile in exchange. "It's okay," he'd told him, voice calm and convincing. "You're safe here. I promise."

He didn't believe him at the time, he'd never been safe anywhere, but he accepted it because he was exhausted and he couldn't fight it anymore. Steve treated him like a friend, a long lost brother, and he didn't remember what it felt like to trust someone but he felt a tiny twinge of something similar when he was with Steve. He fell asleep that night, still sitting up and wary of his surroundings, but it had been the first night he'd slept without dreaming since waking up in the lab.

He feels like he could have slept on forever had it not been for the soft mumbling sound that jolted him awake around four the next morning. He'd gone from being completely asleep to instantly alert in the span of a second, eyes snapping open in the darkened room and searching for the source of the sound. They came to rest on the Captain's sleeping form across the room, the rustle and movement of blankets indicating he wasn't sleeping nearly as deeply as he should.

He'd watched silently for a few seconds, vaguely wondering what had woken him up in the first place, and then he heard it. A name, his name, repeated over and over like a mantra. He frowned and stood up, walking across the room soundlessly and watching the other man dream.

Steve was still asleep but he was mumbling his name again and again on repeat, Bucky, Bucky, Bucky, like he was somehow trying to paint him into whatever dream he was stuck in. Other words filtered in occasionally, don't, no, please, but his name remained the prominent fixture in every utterance. The words were soft, barely more than a whisper and fuzzy around the edges from the heaviness of sleep, but to him they sounded like gunshots.

He left then, walking out of the bedroom and out into the hall and then finally out to the sidewalk. He didn't know where he was going but he just walked and kept walking until the words died in his mind. He needed to get away, put some distance between himself and Steve, because in that moment, in the quiet stillness of the bedroom, Steve had been vulnerable.

He wasn't the strong, recklessly brave soldier who'd gone head-to-head with him on the helicarrier all those weeks ago. He wasn't solid and determined and courageous, a veritable superman in red, white, and blue. In that moment, tangled in the bedsheets and mumbling his name like a plea, he was human, defenceless and exposed. He left because years of conditioning and brainwashing had taught him to take advantage of any sign of weakness and to attack your opponent when he's at his most vulnerable. He left because the remains of the Winter Soldier were demanding that he finish the job he'd failed to complete all those weeks ago and kill the man before him.

But he didn't want to finish the job, he didn't want to hurt Steve; if anything, he wanted to protect him and the best way to do that, at least at that moment, was to get as far away as possible. So he left.

He walked for close to two hours before he ended up back at the apartment. In all that time, he didn't remember where he went or what he did, he just wound up standing in front the apartment door and debating whether or not he should go inside. It took some work (he still wasn't used to making his own decisions without someone making them for him) but he finally decided to go back inside and wait. Steve was gone, he had no idea where or how long he'd been away, but the apartment was empty when he stepped inside.

He stood motionless in the living room for a long time, staring at nothing and trying to decide what to do next. Eventually he found himself on the couch, doing the exact same thing but sitting this time. That's how Steve found him when he got back, sitting statue-still on the couch and staring at the wall. He looked over when the Captain walked into the room and felt it necessary to offer some kind of greeting. "Hey."

The Captain was surprised to see him sitting there, stunned in a way that made it clear he hadn't expected the other man to come back. "Hey," he replied, the word coming out almost as a question.

He wasn't sure why but it hurt a bit to see the surprise on the other man's face. He really didn't think he was coming back, he thought he'd disappeared in the night again, never to return. He feels like he should apologize or at least find a way to acknowledge the other man's concerns.

"You talk in your sleep," was the response that came out instead and he didn't feel the need to elaborate on the statement after that.

After that, it had become a routine for him to leave in the morning before Steve woke up, slipping out into the empty streets and walking in a large, crooked circle until he ended up back at the apartment. He doesn't go anywhere in particular and his path changes every morning but he does the same thing every single day and it makes him feel like he has a little more control in the jagged fragments of his life.

He walks slowly, hands dug deep in his pockets and hood pulled up over his head even though the sun hasn't come up yet. It's peaking on the horizon, warm rays of dawn lightening the shadows filling the streets. It's going to be hot today but he doesn't mind; he always feels cold now and a hot day is more of a welcome relief rather than a miserable annoyance. He's discovered over the years that he would rather take heat over cold any day.

Judging by the sunlight slowly beginning to creep over the edges of the city, he guesses it's close to 6 am and figures it's time to head back to the apartment. He turns a corner and follows the sidewalk silently until it leads him back to the front of the apartment building. He knows that Steve is still gone (he has his own routine and Steve has his) but he goes back inside anyway, stepping into the apartment and closing the door behind him. It's 6:12 and he waits.

About twenty minutes later, Steve walks into the apartment. His clothes are damp with sweat and his hair hangs in his face slightly but he looks happy to see him. He always looks so happy to see him.

"Hey," he greets simply when the other man steps in the room.

"Hey," Steve replies as he closes the door. The conversation more or less stops there and he's somewhat grateful for it. Steve never forces him to talk more than he wants to and he appreciates that. He's not comfortable with normal conversation yet and usually when he was forced to speak it was to answer to his handlers. Steve seems to know this, or at least has the general idea, because he never forces him to talk unless he wants to. It's not the most solid foundation for a friendship but he'll take it.

"Sleep well?" the Captain continues, hanging his keys on the hook by the door.

He nods almost instinctively even though it's not true. He's no stranger to nightmares and last night was no exception. He doesn't remember them in the morning, not fully, but he knows they're filled with blood and pain and death. Steve has his own demons to deal with as well, the dark, violent things that filter into his dreams and make him toss and turn all night. "You?"

As expected, the Captain nods as well. Neither of them talk about it but it's right there at the surface. Maybe someday they'll get there but Steve isn't going to be the first to breach the subject and neither is he.

"You hungry?" Steve asks, disappearing into the kitchen with the change of subject. He stands and follows because he's still not used to be left to his own devices. Once in the kitchen, Steve hands him a bottle of water which he accepts without a word. He nods once to the question at hand and Steve smiles.

"Good," he says, grabbing a skillet and setting it on the stove. "I'll make breakfast for us."

He doesn't smile then but the expression on his face feels lighter than a frown and he's not quite sure what that means. Before, when he first came back to the apartment, everything Steve offered was met with suspicion and a scowl. It wasn't fair to him and he wasn't doing it on purpose, it was simply a default reaction to anything that involved hospitality. His handlers before never treated him as a person, they treated him as a weapon and an asset, a thing rather than a human. And anytime that weapon looked at them like a human, he would be Wiped and the process would start all over again.

Steve never treats him like that, never looks at him like he's a murderer and an abomination (which he most certainly is; at least, he feels like he is). He treats him with care and compassion, one human to another, and it makes him feel strange inside. Almost warm but still cautious; he's always waiting for the other shoe to drop. It hasn't happened yet though and maybe he's a fool for waiting until it does but he stays anyway.

He sits down at the kitchen table, rolling the water bottle back and forth between his hands while Steve whistles softly in the kitchen while he cooks. He's never had a friend before but he wonders if this is what it feels like. Steve treats him like a friend and he stays.

OOOOO

They're almost out of apples. Steve frowns at the one remaining piece of fruit in the refrigerator and curses mildly. He thought he'd stockpiled a pretty decent supply the last time he went to the store but, then again, Bucky went through apples like a fiend so there was only a very limited window to stay ahead on the stash. Oh well, he's been meaning to go to the store anyway and this is as good an excuse as any.

He grabs a notepad and sits at the kitchen table, writing out a list of things they'll need for the apartment. It's different shopping for two instead of one now and it's definitely harder to keep the pantry stocked but Steve doesn't mind. He'd happily go to the grocery store every single day if it meant Bucky was eating.

A few weeks back, when he still watched every single movement with caution and suspicion, Bucky refused to eat anything Steve made. He would regard food in a detached, objective way that made it clear he was not only disinterested but also wary of anything placed in front of him. Steve didn't take it personally and it didn't bother him as much as it might have had Bucky not been ignoring his offers of food for over a month earlier.

Even before he started staying with him, before he came back and decided to quit running, Steve would try to tempt him with food and would be met with limited success. Cooked meals would go untouched, sealed packages would remain unopened, and nearly every attempt at trying to get him to eat would go completely unnoticed.

He liked apples though. Even when left with a plate full of food, he would choose an apple over that any day. Apples were safe and it was easy to see if it had been tampered with; food could be poisoned but, contrary to what fairytales would have you believe, it was pretty damn difficult to poison an apple. When Steve first noticed this, he went out of his way to make sure the house always had an abundant supply of apples in every color and flavor he could find. It wasn't much but it was definitely a food source and Bucky seemed to prefer that over anything else.

When he first started staying with Steve, this preference remained the same. He could subsist on apples and coffee for days without ever touching anything else in the apartment. Steve allowed it for a few days but eventually it was becoming clear that the other man was losing weight and he couldn't sit by any longer.

One night he cooked pasta, filled a plate with it, and placed it in front of the former assassin. As expected, Bucky didn't move, he just sat still and stared at the plate like it was about to pull a knife at any moment.

Steve sat across from him and watched his reaction for a few silent seconds before speaking up. "Sorry pal," he started, trying to sound equal parts apologetic and firm. "But we're out of apples. You're going to have to eat something else tonight."

The other man didn't move for another few seconds, still eyeing the plate like he'd been anticipating an attack. Finally, he shook his head slightly and pushed the plate away. "Not hungry."

Steve frowned but continued on undeterred. "Buck, come on," he tried, pushing the plate back toward his friend. "You can't live off apples alone."

The assassin eyed the plate again and shook his head. "No, thank you."

Steve let out a long sigh then, shoulders slumping a bit in frustration. "Bucky, please," he said again after a moment of silence. "Eat something."

Bucky looked at him then, a small spark of challenge glinting in his eyes. "Is that an order?"

Steve blinked and sat back so quickly his shoulders bounced against the back of the chair. An order? Jesus, was that what this was about? He'd been so brainwashed, so dehumanized by his former handlers that he refused to do anything that didn't come with a direct order. He hadn't been in control of his own decisions for a long time and this realization made Steve feel sick.

"No, God-" the words that came out had been strangled and broken, croaked out through incredulity and disbelief. Steve shook his head and tried again. "Bucky, I want you to eat because I'm worried about you, not because it's an order. You have free will now; I will never, ever force you to do something you don't want to do."

Another moment of silence passed, the assassin sitting motionless and still staring at the plate. Something had shifted in his expression a bit, Steve didn't have a name for what it was, but he didn't look nearly as rigid as he had before. "Is that all?"

Steve sighed softly and slumped back in his chair, feeling like he'd run headfirst into another brick wall. "Yeah pal, that's all."

Bucky nodded once in response. "Okay then." He reached out slowly, still a bit hesitantly, and pulled the plate toward him. It was completely empty within five minutes. He refused to meet Steve's eyes as he pushed it away from him again. "Thanks for the meal."

Steve just smiled.

That had been weeks ago and Steve had nearly gotten Bucky onto a normal eating schedule. It wasn't a perfect system yet, the assassin would still sometimes go a full day without eating, but for the most part Steve had managed to push one full meal on him each day, sometimes two if he was lucky. He was getting him to trust him, one day at a time, and if that's what it took then so be it.

The person in question appears around the corner a few seconds later, hair dripping and towel slung around his hips. He was still a bit skinny, ribs visible beneath the lean muscles of his torso, and Steve was determined to fix that if it killed him.

"Hey," he greets, looking up from the list he's still working on. "I'm going to the store for groceries. Anything you want me to add to the list?"

Bucky thinks for a second before shaking his head. Steve expected as much but figured it was worth a shot anyway. "We're almost out of apples," he continues, tapping his pen against the table. "What kind would you like?"

"Green," comes the simple response.

Steve nods and adds it to the list, folding the sheet of paper in half and slipping it into his pocket. "Do you want to go with me?"

Bucky makes some kind of face that Steve doesn't have a name for and shakes his head. The Captain smirks and shrugs. "Alright, alright, just thought I'd ask. No need to be rude."

The assassin rolls his eyes and makes a half-hearted gesture that looks an awful lot like flipping the bird before disappearing down the hall to get dressed. Steve just smirks again and grabs his keys, stepping out into the hallway and locking the door behind him.

OOOOO

He waits approximately fifteen minutes after Steve leaves before he slips out of the apartment and follows him. It's a decent enough headstart, one that will put enough distance between them so as not to arouse suspicion but one that won't put Steve too far ahead of him either. It's a delicate balance really, but one he's mastered over the past few weeks.

Sometimes he agrees to tag along whenever Steve goes out to run errands but for the most part he declines. To be honest, he doesn't like crowds all that much; too many people, too many variables, not enough room for a clean escape if he needs it. He's getting better but he still doesn't trust himself not to react violently in the middle of a large crowd and he prefers not to take that risk. That said, he doesn't necessarily care for the idea of Steve being in the middle of a large crowd either. He knows all too well the level of chaos that a large crowd can produce and the idea of Steve stuck in the middle of it sets his teeth on edge.

He started following him out of habit three days after Steve took him in. The other man had been kind to him, welcoming, but he still didn't trust him; not completely at least. He was used to checking for ulterior motives, underlying intentions and reasons, and until he knew otherwise, Steve Rogers was no exception.

Steve had left one morning to go to the bank and he followed him to his destination. The Captain never knew, never even suspected that he was being trailed, and that bothered him more than it should. Steve seemed to be a smart guy but he was severely lacking in the personal security department; he followed him for close to a half hour and Steve never caught on. He figured part of it came from his extensive experience in this sort of thing but the other part came from Steve's startling lack of spacial awareness. It bothered him and he sought to fix it.

Now he followed Steve just about everywhere, always staying out of sight and maintaining a safe distance. Steve may leave the house alone but he never actually was alone; he kept him in his sights at all times every time. It disturbed him that the Captain still hadn't noticed this or, if he had, he displayed no knowledge of it.

Steve had done a lot for him when he first came back, taken him in, fed him, gave him a safe place to stay. He feels it's only fair that he returns the favor by keeping an eye on him when Steve goes off alone because he certainly isn't doing it himself.

He walks down the sidewalk quietly, turning corners occasionally to keep away from the main walkway. He doesn't like following the same line of traffic if he doesn't have to so he alternates his path occasionally to avoid leaving a trail of his own. The grocery store appears in the distance and he slows his pace, taking even, level strides and digging his hands into his pockets. He walks casually to avoid raising suspicion but he doubts if anyone would actually confront him if it came down to it.

The grocery store is cool and crowded with mid-morning shoppers and it takes him less than a minute to locate Steve. As expected, the other man is completely oblivious to the fact that he's being watched and continues walking up and down the aisles slowly, grabbing the things he needs off the shelves.

The assassin frowns at the continued lack of self awareness and ducks into an adjacent aisle just as the Captain rounds the corner. He stays one step ahead of him, just out of his line of sight but keeping him in his at all times. He watches Steve but also keeps an eye out for any kind of threat that might appear. He doesn't know how many Hydra agents still remain in the city or how many are just waiting for the chance to take down the man who outed them but he's not going to give them that chance. Hydra used him to their advantage for a long time but he'll be damned if he lets them take a shot at Steve.

He hangs back when Steve walks to the front registers to pay, slipping out the sliding glass doors when he's distracted with bagging the groceries. When Steve leaves the store and cuts across the parking lot, he waits for roughly five minutes before he follows along behind him.

It's a short walk back to the apartment complex but he doesn't exactly trust Steve not to stumble headfirst into trouble between one location and the next. The Captain just has this wide-eyed labrador look about him that says he would wander into the middle of traffic if given the right incentive and he's not willing to take that chance. He has fragments and flashes of memories from a lifetime ago, busted lips and broken noses from Steve 'stumbling headfirst into trouble' and he's hoping to avoid that if at all possible.

This feels familiar to him in a way, instinctive and second nature like it's something he's done forever. He's not surprised by it really; he feels like it's always been his job to keep an eye on Steve and protect him from the cruelties of the world around them. Those memories span on forever, deeply ingrained into his physical makeup like it's part of his genetic code. They had always watched out for each other as kids, had each other's backs during the War as well. This feels natural because it is: Steve takes care of him and he takes care of Steve.

He follows him until they're less than half a block away from the apartment before he disappears into an alley to take a shortcut. The alternate route spits him out just behind their apartment building and he scales the fire escape like a cat just as Steve appear in front of the complex. Just like he knows to leave a large enough gap between himself and his target to avoid raising suspicion, he also knows when to break away to make it back to the apartment before Steve gets back.

No matter where Steve goes or how long he follows him, he always manages to make it back to the apartment before him so it looks like he never left. He'll slip in through the side window roughly five or ten minutes before Steve walks through the front door and play the innocent card for all it's worth. Steve never knows he's been followed and he doesn't know if he should be relieved or incredibly frustrated by that.

He steps in through the window, sliding it closed silently as he does so. It takes three steps to cross the room, a half turn to sit on the couch, and five seconds later, Steve opens the door.

"I'm back," the Captain announces, nudging the door open with his elbow and stepping inside. He stands quietly and walks across the room to help him with the bags. It's not until they're putting everything up in the kitchen that he notices the perplexed expression on the younger man's face.

"Something wrong?" he asks quietly, folding the paper bag and tucking it under the sink.

Steve thinks for a second and shakes his head. "It's probably nothing but do you ever feel like you're being watched?"

The assassin doesn't answer and grabs an apple from the bag.

OOOOO

Steve is completely fluent in Russian two weeks after Bucky moves in. He knew a passable amount before, enough to hold a coherent, if somewhat jerky, conversation and enough to translate some of the files and reports that still filtered in through the remnants of S.H.I.E.L.D. But he was by no means fluent. That changed in a matter of days and he forced himself to learn the language with flawless accuracy.

Because when Bucky had nightmares, he cried out in Russian. When he jerked himself awake, eyes wide and a scream dying in his throat, it was always in Russian. Steve caught on after the second night. It took him five days to completely master the language.

The nightmares don't come as often as they did in the beginning; several per night dwindling down to just two or three, then once a night, then once every other day, then only a few times per week. The police no longer show up banging on the front door in the middle of the night and Steve doesn't have to apologize to the neighbors that live up and down the hall from them everyday. It's progress, no matter how small, and he works with it to the best of his ability.

The first night it had happened, Steve had never felt more helpless in his life. Bucky had woken up screaming, loud and raw and painful, and Steve didn't think he had ever heard anything more horrible. The nightmare left him confused and disoriented, mumbling in Russian too quickly for Steve to understand. He knew just enough at that point to make out the words 'don't', 'please', and 'Red Room' and that small amount made him feel like he'd swallowed broken glass.

It had taken over an hour to calm him down and another twenty minutes to convince the DCPD that no one was being murdered in their apartment and that his best friend was just suffering from PTSD. Bucky didn't go back to sleep again that night but, then again, neither did Steve. He'd made his decision in less than five minutes and the next morning he called Natasha.

Natasha turned out to be a remarkably effective teacher and with Steve serving as both an adept pupil and an incredibly fast learner, she taught him to speak and understand fluent Russian in less than a week. She would challenge him with random phone calls or texts and emails all in Russian and Steve could respond to all of them with perfect efficiency. It was a powerful tool in his arsenal because when Bucky was gripped in the depths of nightmares, Steve could always get through to him using Russian.

Tonight wasn't as bad as some of the others had been but it was still a rough one. The nightmare hits around three in the morning and Steve is awake and flipping on the lamp before Bucky ever wakes up. He could hear him thrashing, tangled in the sheets and struggling to break free. His breathing was harsh and rapid, dark hair clinging to his forehead. The fingers of his metal hand was tangled in the sheets so tightly that the fabric had been ripped in two but he didn't seem to notice. In his dream he was struggling with someone and apparently he wasn't on the winning side.

Steve crosses the room quietly and kneels beside the mattress, keeping just out of striking distance. He'd learned pretty quickly that waking Bucky up sometimes resulted in punches being thrown and he'd been clocked by that metal hand enough times to learn his lesson.

"проснуться," he whispers softly, trying to keep his voice gentle and soothing. The thrashing lessens slightly and he tries again. "проснуться. Вы в безопасности."

There's a shuddering intake of breath and suddenly Bucky's eyes snap open and he's sitting upright instantly. His gaze darts around the room feverishly, panicked and wild. When they finally come to rest on Steve, he relaxes just a fraction and lets out a slow, shaky breath.

"Где я?" he asks quietly, his voice hesitant and unsure.

"домой," Steve tells him, watching as recognition slowly begins to dawn in the other man's eyes. "Со мной."

Bucky is silent for another few seconds, looking around the room slowly and forcing himself to get his breathing back under control. Finally, he lets out a heavy sigh and passes his flesh hand over his face, raking his hair back in one fluid motion. "Sorry," he mumbles quietly, his voice still wavering a bit as he speaks.

"It's okay," Steve tells him, shifting into a more comfortable position on the floor. The sheet is still clenched in Bucky's hand, his knuckles nearly white from the grip, and Steve frowns slightly. "Wanna talk about it?"

Bucky hesitates for a second before shaking his head slowly, releasing his death grip on the sheet. "Not really."

Steve just nods in response. He hadn't been expecting a positive answer; Bucky never spoke about his nightmares or the horrors that took place inside of them. Unfortunately, he didn't have to; he cried out in his sleep enough for Steve to get the gist of what they entailed. His nightmares were violent and depraved and Steve couldn't blame him for wanting to keep them buried.

He makes no move to get up off the floor and instead leans against the edge of the mattress carefully. He doesn't want Bucky to feel crowded but he wants him to know he's there as well. "It's still late," he says lightly, glancing at the clock across the room. "Try to go back to sleep."

The assassin doesn't move for a moment, his eyes troubled and conflicted in the yellow light of the lamp. He looks exhausted, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes and making him look even more haggard than he already could both due with a few more hours of sleep but Steve isn't planning on moving anytime soon.

Finally, Bucky sighs quietly in defeat and allows himself to drop back down on the mattress. He glances at the lamp, then at Steve, and seems to debate his next words heavily. "Don't turn off the light," he mutters after a second, the request almost inaudible even in the silence of the room.

Steve nods and gives him a small, reassuring smile. "I won't."

Satisfied with the arrangement, the assassin settles back down onto the mattress and curls inward like he's trying to make himself small. His breathing slows, his shoulders relax just a bit, and everything goes quiet again. He doesn't sleep though, not yet at least, and Steve leans back a little more so that his back is just barely touching the other man's.

Bucky doesn't like being touched now, not after everything he's been through. He shies away from casual hugs and playful shoves and generally avoids as much personal human contact as he can. On very rare occasions, he'll allow Steve to pat him on the shoulder or squeeze his arm or tousle his hair. They're all innocent gestures, nothing that can be misconstrued or deemed offensive, and they're few and far between. Steve understands this and doesn't test the boundaries, always allowing Bucky to feel like he's still in control of himself.

On nights like this though, when the nightmares strike and he's all jagged edges and raw nerves, he allows Steve a bit more leeway in the touching department. It's never a lot, a comforting hand on his shoulder or gentle fingers in his hair, but it's more than he usually tolerates and he finds actually doesn't mind it as much.

Tonight is no different and Bucky doesn't push him away when Steve presses his back against his. It's solid and grounding, a tether in a maelstrom, and it quiets some of the demons raging in his mind. He's still tense though, the muscles in his back and shoulders rigid and tight, unable to loosen completely so soon after the nightmare. Steve can feel it from where he's sitting and he begins to hum softly.

It's a soft, gentle song that Natasha taught him, a lullaby she remembered from somewhere deep in her past. It doesn't have any words and she can't remember who she learned it from, but she teaches it to Steve in the middle of their conversation one day. The melody is slow and lilting, a quiet way to fill the void left in the room. Steve hums the song softly, feeling Bucky slowly relax against him. He could seriously kiss Natasha the next time he saw her; the song was nearly unbeatable in terms of calming quality.

Eventually, Bucky's breathing evens out and he relaxes enough to fall back into a deep, (hopefully) dreamless sleep. Five minutes later Steve's phone chirps on the nightstand. He grabs it and checks the text message. Speak of the devil and she shall appear…

Apparently Natasha's fellow-Russian-badass senses were tingling and there's a new text message from her on his screen.

N: Rough night?

Steve smirks to himself and leans back again so he's just barely touching Bucky; enough to know that he's there but not enough to crowd him.

S: Not as bad as some of the others.

N: Is he asleep again?

Steve doesn't respond for a second, focusing instead on the feeling of the slow, even breathing behind him.

S: Yeah, surprisingly.

N: Good. Did you use the song?

S: Yep, worked like a charm.

N: Told you.

Natasha doesn't text again after that but Steve's not all that surprised by it. She's been keeping an extremely low profile ever since S.H.I.E.L.D was dismantled and leaving phone records, even in text form, is rather counterproductive to her plan. He figures he'll hear from her again eventually, whenever she's ready to resurface and not a moment before.

He sets his phone on the floor and settles into a more comfortable position against the mattress. Bucky sleeps on behind him, free from the nightmares if only for a little while.

OOOOO

Steve dreams of snow and ice and frozen water. He dreams of blizzards and glaciers and dark, frigid places that seep away every ounce of heat and leave nothing but a stiff, frozen husk in its place. He dreams of frost and subzero temperatures and freezing to death all over again. Steve never tells him about his dreams, he doesn't go into details, but he doesn't have to. He knows because Steve shivers every night like he's been locked in a freezer for years and he can't find his way out.

It seems strange to him at first that such a large man would shiver like that even in the middle of summer. It bounces between 80 and 90 degrees outside during the day and Steve still shivers in the middle of the night. It seems strange but then again he understands it completely; turns out he's not the only one with a monopoly on feelings of hatred for the cold. After all, Steve had spent a good portion of 70 years frozen solid in a block of ice; he has just as much reason to be adverse to the cold as anyone else.

He remembers reading about that at the Smithsonian, about Steve's heroic sacrifice and how he had taken that plane down into the water. The world called him a hero, held parades and dedicated monuments in his honor, but they didn't know the whole story. They didn't know that Steve was still alive after he went into the ice, how it took hours, maybe even days for the ice to encase him completely. They didn't know that Steve had water in his lungs when they found him because he was still alive and possibly conscious inside that plane and had inhaled mouthfuls of the icy slosh while it was sinking. They didn't know any of that but he did because he knows how to read between the lines and knows that the gruesome details are usually left out of the hero's story.

So Steve shivers every night, bundled in blankets and wrapped in long-sleeve shirts. He shivers when it's 90 degrees outside and when the sun is baking down on top of him. Steve shivers and he tries to hide it but he's never been able to hide anything from him even when he's shrugs it off like it's no big deal. He's shivering now.

He doesn't know what time it is and it doesn't really matter. There's a soft clicking sound that's just loud enough to wake him up in the darkness and he looks in the direction of the bed. The clicking is coming from Steve's bed and he recognizes it almost immediately: Steve's teeth are chattering.

He slides off the mattress soundlessly and crosses the room, standing by the edge of the other bed. There isn't much light to work with, only a dull, silvery glow drifting in through the curtains from the world outside, but there's enough for him to make out the other man's shuddering form. Steve is curled in on himself tightly, blankets drawn up around his shoulders and locking in heat from the inside. It's not enough, he's still shivering like he's buried in a snow bank.

He watches him for a few more silent seconds, frowning to himself in the darkness. This scene is uncomfortably familiar to him and he doesn't like it. It brings back faded and murky memories of a ramshackle apartment that was never warm enough and blankets that were always too thin. It brings back memories of Steve when he was much smaller, all knobs and knees and elbows, shivering convulsively in the middle of the bed. Steve was always shivering back then too but that was before the Serum and the War and before he gained eighty pounds of solid muscle to insulate his tiny frame. Steve would shiver and he would try to keep him warm because that's what he always did.

He had always been bigger, stronger, healthier than Steve and he had made it his personal mission to ensure that Steve didn't freeze to death in the middle of the night. Their apartment had been small and cramped, falling apart all around them but that's all they could afford. There was only one bed, a small, thin mattress that was pushed up against the wall in a corner far away from the windows. It never bothered him to share the bed, they'd been sleeping in the same bed since they were kids, and it helped keep Steve warm.

At the time, when Steve was still all long limbs and visible bones, he found the best way to keep him warm was the wedge him against the wall and wrap himself around him from behind. It was an intimate position, skin-to-skin contact with little room for movement, but Steve seemed to shiver less and that was good enough for him.

He remembers half-hearted arguments, Steve protesting that they were too old to share a bed and that people might start to talk if they found out. He didn't care what people thought or what they might say; all he cared about was keeping Steve warm through the night. In the end, they never got another bed and they stayed huddled together under the thin, threadbare pile of blankets they'd accumulated over the years.

He remembers all of this and watches Steve shiver for another moment or two before he steps away. He's crossed the room before his brain can account for the movement, the comforter from his own bed clutched in his hand. He knows it probably won't do much good, this cold is mental more than physical, but it may provide some relief.

He spreads the extra blanket over the shivering soldier carefully and waits to see if it works. The shivering lessens after a minute but doesn't stop completely, small tremors still coursing through his body even beneath the added layer. He frowns at the failed attempt and tries to think of a better solution.

Coming up with nothing, he reaches out and gently presses his flesh hand against Steve's forehead. He doesn't know if this will work either; all he knows is that his hand is warm and Steve is shivering and it's worth a shot. The effect isn't immediate but within a minute or two, the shivering lessens even more to the point of almost stopping completely. After another minute, the shivering does stop and Steve seems to be sleeping more peacefully.

He doesn't move his hand right away, opting instead to leave it there a little longer. He's not exactly sure why he doesn't move it but he doesn't think about it too much. Steve's not shivering anymore and that's good enough for him.

OOOOO

Bucky is standing in front of him with a pair of scissors and a straight razor and Steve temporarily forgets how to speak. His gaze flits between the sharp edge of the razor and the pointed ends of the scissors and he very briefly wonders if he should fear for his life.

"Uhhh…" is the only semi-intelligent sentence he can form in the wake of sharp metal objects in his general vicinity and he continues to stare at the instruments in Bucky's hands.

The assassin rolls his eyes slightly and presses the tools into Steve's hands. Relieved of them, he gestures to his hair vaguely. "It's too long," he says simply, turning and walking into the kitchen and pulling out a chair from under the table. He sits down and doesn't move, waiting for Steve to catch the hint.

It takes another second for Steve's confusion addled brain to catch up to the implication and he hesitates a moment before walking into the kitchen. The floors were tile so the clean up wouldn't be an issue but this was the first time that Bucky was not only trusting Steve to be around him with the aforementioned sharp objects but actually requesting it as well. He frowns and walks into the kitchen slowly.

"You sure about this, Buck?" he asks, setting the scissors and razor down on the kitchen table carefully. He keeps them a good distance away from Bucky and keeps his hand off of them as well to prove he doesn't intend to use them for any other purpose.

The assassin nods, leaning back against the chair. "I don't trust anyone else to do it," he mutters and he doesn't quite meet Steve's eyes when he speaks. He looks away like the admission is something he should be embarrassed about.

Steve understands and smiles softly. "Okay," he says, walking into the kitchen and grabbing a dish towel from a drawer. "How short do you want it?"

Bucky shrugs like the thought hadn't occurred to him and picks idly at the hem of his shirt, still refusing to meet Steve's eyes. "I don't care. Just shorter."

Steve nods and spreads the dish towel on the ground beneath the chair. He steps out of the kitchen briefly, walking down the hall to the bathroom and grabbing a comb. He's by no means a professional but he has enough experience from their childhood to at least be decently comfortable with the process. They could never afford to go to a barber when they were younger so many of their haircuts were done in the living room of their apartment with a pair of rusty scissors or a dull razor. It may have been a few years since then but he's pretty sure he can do at least a halfway decent job.

He fills a small bowl with water, dipping the comb a few times before sliding it through Bucky's hair carefully. It's grown quite a bit since their first encounter and now brushes just over to the tops of his shoulders when it's down. It's longer than Steve's ever seen it and it hangs over his eyes like he's trying to hide himself from the world. Steve combs it away from his face gently, keeping his movements slow and steady.

"You tell me if you start to get uncomfortable," he says, grabbing the scissors and waiting for Bucky to nod in agreement before he starts. The nod he receives is small and a bit hesitant but there nonetheless. Steve takes the cue and begins carefully clipping away at the thick layers of dark hair.

He works slowly, sliding the comb through Bucky's hair almost constantly to make sure he's cutting straight. When they were younger and Steve would trim his hair, Bucky was always talking and moving, making an even cut damn near impossible. Layers would be uneven, hair shorter on one side than the other, and it would always fall on their neighbor across the hall to help even up the cut. He doesn't have that problem now though and he's not sure if he should be disappointed by that.

The whole time he works, Bucky sits absolutely motionless in the chair, back rigid and staring straight ahead. He doesn't laugh, doesn't joke, doesn't move; he just sits quietly and lets Steve work. Steve is a little disheartened by that but takes solace in the fact that Bucky trusts him enough to let him do it in the first place so he doesn't complain.

He doesn't take off much in the end, a little more than an inch and half so the hair is no longer touching Bucky's shoulders but roughly level with his jawline. He abandons the comb and cards his fingers through the silky, dark strands a few times, letting Bucky's hair fall into a more natural style.

"How's that?" he asks, stepping away from the chair and setting the scissors back on the table.

Bucky runs his own fingers through his hair deftly and nods slightly in approval. "Good, thanks."

Steve nods in response and dusts his hands off on his pants. "Anytime, pal." He glances back at the table, his eyes landing on the straight razor next to the scissors. Bucky obviously handed him both for a reason but he wonders if he should pursue the offer any further. The haircut was serious enough in terms of trust; he wonders if factoring in the razor will be pushing the boundaries too far. He debates this for a few silent seconds before figuring there's only one way to know for sure.

"Think you're up for a shave as well?" he asks lightly, leaving the offer open for flat out refusal if it came to it.

Bucky doesn't answer for a second, contemplating the question silently. Finally, he gives a very small nod of approval before going still again.

Steve stays where he is, glancing at the straight razor once more. Cutting hair was one thing but it was a different matter entirely to approach Bucky with a blade. He may be fine right now but there was no telling what might happen if he felt threatened at all. This is tricky territory and he knows it so he leaves the decision in Bucky's hands. "Do you want me to do it?"

The assassin is silent again, worrying his lip slightly as he thinks. There's an obvious wariness in his eyes, a stiffness in his body that indicates he seriously debating whether to stay at the table or jump up and run. He looks nervous in a way Steve hasn't seen before and it causes him to frown.

"Buck, you don't have to if you don't-"

"No," Bucky cuts him off, decision made in that moment. "It's okay. You can do it."

Steve watches him carefully for a moment before moving. "Are you sure?"

The nod he receives is small but sure. "Yes."

Steve accepts the answer and walks across to the table slowly. "Okay, but if you change your mind-"

"I'm sure." That essentially ends the conversation for the moment and Steve lets it go. He picks up the razor from the table and examines the blade, finding it already clean and sharpened. He has no doubt that Bucky already figured out where the strop and the whetstone were in the bathroom and had taken it upon himself to prep the razor before bringing it in. Apparently he'd been mulling over this decision for a while now.

Steve places the razor on the counter and refills his bowl with warm water. He turns the faucet on hot and soaks a towel in the sink, wringing out the excess water thoroughly. Rather than doing it himself, he hands the towel to Bucky; he wants him to feel like he still has control of the situation. "Here, Buck. Hold this against your face for a few minutes."

Bucky takes the towel and does as he's told, placing it over his mouth and wrapping it below his jaw. Steve remembers the mask he'd been wearing when he first saw him, hard and black, almost like a muzzle. He wonders briefly if having the towel wrapped around his face will trigger some kind of reaction but Bucky doesn't seem all that fazed by it. Satisfied with this, Steve steps out of the kitchen and walks down the hall to the bathroom.

In between alien invasions and sundry national crises, Tony had tried to sell him on the merits of disposable and electric razors. He showed him the elite brands, the best that money could by, razors that had five and six blades at once. It wasn't the same though; nothing beat the kind of shave you got from a straight razor. That had been how he learned to shave as a kid and it was still his preferred method.

He grabs the mug, brush, and shaving soap from the cabinet and walks back to the kitchen, laying everything out on the table. Bucky still has the towel wrapped around his face but he watches him silently, eyes following every move Steve makes.

Steve grabs the bowl and soaks the brush for a few seconds before flicking off the excess water and swirling it in the mug. Once he's satisfied with the lather, he pulls the towel away and brings the brush up, carefully spreading the foam over Bucky's skin. The other man sits perfectly still through the application, back pressed against the chair and staring straight ahead.

Steve picks up the razor and positions it in his hand. "You ready?"

The other man just nods in acknowledgement and Steve steps forward. He cups Bucky's face gently, pulling the skin taut and guiding the razor in short, careful strokes. He maneuvers the blade with expert precision, dragging it over the other man's skin with just enough pressure to be effective without being painful. He's had plenty of practice with this as well, years of perfecting the art of a good, clean shave even though he never had much facial hair to speak of as a kid.

He knew the best kind of razor to use, the right angle to hold it, the number of passes needed to achieve the closest shave possible. He'd helped Bucky shave on more than one occasion when they were younger and he was the only one Bucky trusted enough to get close to his face with a sharpened blade. Good to know some thing hadn't changed.

"Do you remember when you hurt your arm working at the docks?" Steve asks idly, tilting the other man's head gently to get a better angle.

Bucky is silent for a moment, either contemplating the question or ignoring it entirely, Steve's not sure. Finally, he gives the barest hint of a nod. "I broke my wrist," he answers quietly, somewhat unsure of the answer but absolutely certain of it at the same time.

Steve smiles and nods in affirmation. "Yeah, you told me a crate fell on it or something like that. Anyway, you couldn't use your arm for over a month and I had to help you shave every morning."

Bucky is silent again, mulling through the information in his head like he's trying to locate the correct memories. "Must have been a hassle."

"Nah," Steve tells him, wiping the razor on a towel deftly. "I didn't mind it so much. You were the only one of us who ever grew any kind of decent facial hair so it wasn't quite such an issue. Saved us an awful lot of money on shaving soap."

He tilts Bucky's head back so his throat is exposed. The assassin stiffens almost instantly. Steve's gazes softens and he passes his fingers through the newly cut hair lightly. "Hey, I'm not going to hurt you," he tells him quietly, laying the razor on the table to prove his point. "I will never hurt you, Buck. I swear it on my life. You're safe here."

It takes a second but finally the other man gives a small nod in acknowledgement, releasing a breath slowly. Taking the cue, Steve picks up the razor again and very carefully slides the blade along the column of his throat.

"Rest your head against me," Steve tells him softly, moving on to another patch of skin. "It will take some of the strain off of your neck."

Bucky does as he's told, letting his head drop back so it's resting against Steve's chest. He doesn't quite relax but he closes his eyes after a moment, sitting quietly while Steve works. "Did you take care of me a lot when we were kids?" he asks after a second, his voice soft and quiet.

Steve pauses for a second before he answers. "We took care of each other," he tells him, guiding the razor beneath Bucky's chin. "We didn't have anyone else, really. It was always you and me against the world, Buck. Always the two of us." There's something sad in Steve's voice that the other man doesn't have a name for but then it's gone almost as soon as it appears. "Although with all my health problems, I think you took care of me more than I took care of you."

Steve smirks a bit and wipes off the razor again. "I helped you out where I could though; kept you well groomed and clean shaven. I figured if I couldn't do much else, I could at least learn how to use a razor and help you keep up your reputation as a lady's man."

He gets rid of the last bit of stubble and sets the razor to the side, peering at the finished product for a second. Satisfied, he grabs a hand mirror and passes it to Bucky. "What do you think?"

The assassin take the offered mirror and stares at his reflection in the center. He reaches up with his flesh hand, combing his fingers through his hair carefully before moving his hand down to touch his face. His fingers brush over smooth, untarnished skin slowly, careful and tentative like he's trying to remember what his own skin feels like.

Finally, he nods and sets the mirror down carefully. "Better," he says quietly, looking back up at Steve once he's done. And then he smiles. And honest to God smile. Not a full on grin or an open expression, but it's a smile all the same. Small, quiet, grateful and a little sheepish. Bucky smiles and suddenly Steve can't remember how to speak again. "Thanks."

The words come back after that and Steve smiles back warmly. "Anytime, pal."

OOOOO

There's a Hydra agent running toward the roof. He knows because he can see him racing up the stairwell from his position on the roof of the building across the street. The windows peeking into the stairwell are staggered to every other floor so it's easy to time the distance the man clears between one landing and the next. It's impressive to be honest, he's maintaining remarkable speed for someone who's been running up at least ten flights of stairs by now.

He sees Steve and his small, misfit band of S.H.I.E.L.D agents clear the landing roughly 5-7 seconds behind the man they're pursuing. The Hydra agent had a headstart, the element of surprise giving him enough clearance to stay just ahead of the people chasing him. He's hoping for a clean escape on the roof, that's the only explanation for him going up there. He doesn't know he's being watched through the scope of a gun across the street.

Steve had been called out without warning earlier that evening, a short, clipped message coming through a disposable cell phone that couldn't be traced. He didn't explain and he didn't give a reason, just apologized and grabbed his shield. He wonders if Steve was trying to protect him by not telling him where he was going; maybe he worried that Hydra would try to recapture him if they saw an opportunity.

A cute sentiment, really, but completely unnecessary. Steve may know a lot of things about him, may remember more of his past than he does, but there are still some things Steve doesn't know. Like the fact that he keeps a cache of guns and ammunition less than a block away from the apartment and the fact that he always has at least one blade hidden on him at all times. He has absolutely no intention of getting captured again; if Hydra wants him back, they better be prepared to lose several of their agents in the process.

He gives Steve a five minute head start before he slips out after him, retrieving one of the guns from his mini armory and tracking him across town. He sees the pursuit taking place, watches as the Hydra agent bails out of the car once his tires are shot out and duck into the office building.

He'll give credit where credit is due: the man is insanely fast; fast enough that he doesn't have time to line up a decent shot before he's already in the building. Oh well, two can play at that game. He catches a glimpse of Steve just as the agent dashes through the stairwell doors. Going upstairs is stupid; if he really wanted a clean getaway he'd have much better luck on the street, but maybe he's counting on the tight walls and steep stairs to provide a formidable obstacle for his pursuers. He darts up the stairs and Steve and the other agents follow him.

He makes it to the roof of his own building roughly 20 seconds before the Hydra agent in the building across the street makes it to the last landing. He can hear gunshots echoing through the stairwell across the street but Steve and his tagalong agents are still in hot pursuit so apparently the Hydra agent is a really shitty shot. He takes his position on the other roof, Hydra agent in his scope and gun balanced in his hands. Now for the shot…

The Hydra agent tumbles out onto the roof just as Steve's shield catches him in the back. Apparently the stairwell did provide him with an advantage in that Steve couldn't sling his shield after him without running the risk of injuring the members of his own party. He can throw it now though and he's definitely taking the opportunity.

The agent goes down but not hard enough to keep him there. He tumbles, rolls to one knee, turns and fires just as Steve's shield comes sailing back to him. The first bullet misses, bouncing off the side of the shield harmlessly, but the second bullet goes wide and catches the agent behind Steve in the throat. He staggers and falls and the distraction provides just enough confusion that Steve drops his guard and catches the next bullet in the arm.

He sees all of this take place through the lense of his scope, watches the agent go down and Steve turn to his aid. He sees the bullet slice through his outer arm, sees the material of his suit rip and instantly begin to stain with blood. He sees all of this and the he sees red. Steve is injured, Steve is bleeding. This is unacceptable.

Steve throws his shield again but between the bullet in his arm and the confusion going on behind him, the angle is too wide and the Hydra agent manages to dodge out of the way. He misses but the Winter Soldier doesn't.

There's a single gunshot, loud and piercing like the crack of a whip, and the Hydra agent slumps to the roof bonelessly. For a moment, Steve and the other agents stand motionless, unsure of what just happened or what to do next. Then one of them is screaming and everyone is crowding around their fallen comrade and the Hydra agent is all but forgotten.

It's too late for the S.H.I.E.L.D agent and he knows it; the arterial spray across the gravel on the rooftop and the bright, glossy pool beneath his head were enough to prove that. They're all still crowded around trying to save him though, calling for help and backup. It's a shame really; the agent looked young. He doesn't dwell on this fact for long; death had always been part of his job. He gathers his gun and makes his way to the edge of the building.

He doesn't hang around and wait for Steve to leave the building, doesn't follow him back to the apartment like he usually does. He leaves him there because Steve just lost a member of his team and he's taking responsibility for it. Steve has a different approach to death than he does, he still tries to prevent it at all costs and accepts the blame heavily when it can't be avoided. It's worse when it's men under his own command and tonight is no different. Steve will bear the burden of the agent's death on his own shoulders and he gives him the space to do that.

He's sitting on the fire escape smoking a cigarette when Steve makes it back to the apartment. He hears him walking around inside, hears him prop his shield up against the wall and walk toward the fire escape. A few seconds later, he joins him on the landing, back pressed against the brick wall and legs stretched out in front of him.

He says nothing for a minute and the assassin doesn't push; silence really is the best course of action sometimes. Finally, Steve lets out a slow breath and allows his head tip forward wearily. "Thanks for your help tonight," he says quietly, his voice heavy with fatigue and defeat.

The assassin just nods in response, taking another drag from his cigarette. He looks down at Steve's arm, taking in the ripped, bloodstained material quietly. It makes something clench in his stomach, something dark and twisted and murderous. He sees the blood and he wants to shoot something again. "You're bleeding," he says simply, hoping the shortness of the sentence will hide the tightness in his voice.

"It's not that bad," Steve tells him quietly, glancing at the wound with an air of detachment. "It's healing."

He nods slightly, marginally appeased by the information. "How's the kid?" he asks even though he already knows the answer.

Steve just shakes his head in response.

The assassin nods again, confirmation of what he already knew. "Sorry."

Steve shrugs slightly and sighs. "Nothing we could do. He bled out too quick."

Once again, confirmation of what he already knows. A wound like that usually ends with a toe tag no matter how good the medical care. He knows from experience; he's delivered wounds like that before. It's different to watch someone die like that though.

Steve has a smear of blood beneath his eye but it's probably not his own. He probably doesn't even know it's there. Steve has blood on his face and that bothers him. The assassin stares it for a second before he reaches out and swipes his thumb over the stain, removing it from his skin.

Steve lets him do it, he doesn't react when the other man touches his face, but his expression is unreadable. His eyes are conflicted like he's trying to figure something out but he can't put it into words yet. When he finally does speak, his voice is soft, almost questioning. "You've been following me for a while, haven't you?"

Well, well, well, apparently Steve's not quite as oblivious of his surroundings as he lets on. The assassin doesn't answer and simply passes him a cigarette from the pack in his lap. Steve takes it.

OOOOO

Steve wakes up to the sound of screaming. It's loud and ragged and piercing and it cuts right to his soul. He's up and across the room in a split second, dropping to his knees beside the other bed.

"Bucky," he calls softly, ducking as a metal arm nearly catches him in the face. "Bucky, wake up. Come on, pal, wake up."

He tries to keep his voice soft and soothing but it appears to have absolutely no effect. Bucky thrashes and kicks, struggles and cries out in his sleep, stuck in the middle of whatever horrors are filling his nightmares. His metal arm swings out, colliding with the wall and punching a hole clean through the drywall. Steve reacts without thinking and grabs Bucky's arm, trying to keep him from hurting himself.

That turns out to be a mistake and earns him a solid punch in the jaw from the flailing assassin. The force is enough to knock him backward a few feet and he tastes blood from a split lip.

Bucky is wide awake then, crouched and tense in the middle of the mattress. His eyes are wild and frantic, a little unfocused but full of fear. To be honest, Steve's not really sure if he's actually awake or not. He's seen this expression before, decades ago when they were kids. Bucky always had problems with sleepwalking when they were younger; he'd get up in the middle of the night and wander all over the place until Steve finally coaxed him back to bed. He knew better than to try to wake him during his unconscious wanderings too; he'd made that mistake once before and had gotten a busted lip in the process. Much like the one he's sporting now.

Steve watches him carefully, hands raised to show he doesn't intend to hurt him. If Bucky is sleepwalking now, it's taken on an extra violent edge. He's glaring at Steve like he's debating whether to kill him or bolt from the room.

"Who are you?" he demands fiercely, eyes narrowing dangerously at the other man. "And where the hell am I?"

Steve feels his stomach drop. Sleepwalking or not, this wasn't right. "What? Bucky...it's me...it's Steve."

His eyes narrow even further and he stands slowly, glaring at the man across the room. "I don't know anyone named Steve," he growls, metal fingers clenching into a fist. "And I'm not going to ask again. Now tell me where we are."

Steve frowns, his mind racing over the questions. It suddenly occurs to him that Bucky isn't speaking in Russian like he usually does when he comes out of a nightmare. He's speaking in clear, clipped English and his words have a razor's edge to them. He's not sure what this means but he knows it can't be anything good.

"Bucky, please-"

"That's not my name!" the other man roars furiously, lunging across the room and grabbing a fistful of Steve's shirt. Steve has just over a second to process what's happening before he's slammed into the wall hard enough to make his teeth rattle. "Answer me!"

Steve struggles against the iron-tight grip pinning him to the wall but it's useless. "We're in the apartment," he gasps, wincing as the metal fingers dig into his skin. He tries to remember all the things he used to say whenever he would find Bucky wandering around in the middle of the night. Go lay back down, you're safe, I'm right here, go back to sleep. "We're home. You're safe, I promise!"

"Liar!" The accusation comes out sharp and biting, filled with rage and disgust. He twists his wrist and sends Steve crashing to the floor painfully. Steve gasps as the air is knocked out of his lungs but he forces himself to his knees just as Bucky bolts through the bedroom door.

"Bucky, no!" he yells after him, following in close pursuit down the hall toward the living room. He can't let him leave; in the state he's in right now, confused and completely disoriented, he might never come back.

He catches the assassin around the waist just as he reaches the front door and tackles him to the floor. "Bucky, stop! You're safe! Wake up!"

"Get off!" the other man growls fiercely, elbowing Steve in the jaw and struggling violently in a desperate attempt to break free.

"No!" Steve grinds back, tightening his arms around him. "I'm not letting you go!"

This is not the right thing to say, apparently, because Bucky immediately begins to fight back more forcefully. He manages to twist out of Steve's grip and kick in him the chest, putting some distance between the two of them. Steve crashes through the coffee table, flipping it over onto its side. He grunts in pain, coughing out a mouthful of blood, but he doesn't have a chance to recover before Bucky is suddenly on top of him, metal hand wrapped around his throat and pinning him to the floor.

"Bucky...stop…" Steve gasps, gripping his wrist tightly.

The grip on his throat only tightens in response. "I'm not going back," the man above him growls and it's no longer Bucky speaking; this is the Winter Soldier. "I'm never going back."

Steve grits his teeth and struggles again. He needs to get through to him, break past whatever mental block was triggered by the nightmares and get him to listen. He really has no other option; he's dead if he doesn't.

He has enough strength to twist his body to one side, bringing his knee up and catching Bucky in the ribs. It's hard enough to knock the other man off balance and Steve uses it to his advantage, breaking his grip and using that momentum to push him off completely. The distraction doesn't last long and Bucky is already lunging at him again, eyes dark with murderous rage.

Steve dodges and grabs him by one arm, twisting it behind his back and slamming him into the wall. He pins him there with all his weight, leaning close so he's right beside the other man's ear. "Bucky, listen to me! Please!"

The assassin continues to struggle, still completely detached from the world around him. Steve grits his teeth and frowns. He had really hoped to avoid such extreme measures but nothing else was working and at this rate, either the apartment would be destroyed or he'd be dead. Possibly both. He steels himself for what he has to do and takes a deep breath. Cognitive recalibration worked well enough for Natasha; time to see if he'd have the same luck.

Before Bucky has a chance to break free again, Steve spins him around and lands a solid, staggering punch to the other man's jaw. The assassin stumbles and sags against the wall, sliding down to one knee and pressing a hand to his aching jaw. All the fight leaves him almost instantly and he sits there on the ground, stunned and silent.

Steve stands rigid and tense, ready to take defensive action if need be. "Bucky?" he asks hesitantly after another second or two of silence. "Are you back with me now?"

For a long, tense moment, Bucky doesn't move. He doesn't speak, doesn't react in any way; he stays slumped in a crouch like a puppet with its strings cut. Finally, he glances up at Steve, dark hair falling across his eyes. "Steve?" he asks quietly, his voice wavering a bit as he speaks. He sounds lost and confused, almost like he's coming out of a dream, but he's most definitely Bucky again and not the Winter Soldier.

Steve sags a bit in relief and lets out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Oh, thank God," he sighs, dropping down to a crouch in front of the other man. "Hey pal, you okay?"

Bucky frowns, still a bit dazed from everything that had just happened. "You hit me…" he mumbles and it's less a question and more a statement of fact.

"Uh, yeah," Steve admits sheepishly, swiping a hand over his lip and leaving a bloody streak along his wrist. "Sorry about that. I wasn't really getting through to you any other way."

Bucky looks up at him then, his eyes widening slightly in horror as he takes in the busted lip and bloody nose, the bruises beginning to form across his throat in the shape of a hand. "Did I do that?"

Steve shakes his head even though it's impossible to hide the evidence. "It wasn't your fault; you were dreaming."

Bucky nods once like the explanation confirms something he already knew and then he's standing wordlessly and stepping past Steve toward the door. Steve notices his direction of choice and stands to follow. "Bucky-"

"Leave me alone, Steve," he snaps, keeping his back to the other man and walking toward the door.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm leaving," he tells him simply, stepping over a shattered lamp on the floor. "It's not safe for you to be around me."

Steve is on his feet a split second later, clearing the distance between them and grabbing the other man's arm. "Bucky, wait-"

"Let go!" the other man snarls, trying to jerk his arm free.

"No," Steve says firmly, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around the other man tightly. He pins Bucky's arms to his sides, holding him in one place and refusing to let go.

"Dammit, Steve! Let go!"

"No," Steve says again, tightening his hold for emphasis.

Bucky growls in frustration and tries to break free but to no avail. Steve's arms are like steel bars around him and the only way to get him to release his hold would involve possibly breaking a bone. He doesn't resort to that quite yet. Steve tightens his hold and Bucky growls even more.

"I don't want to hurt you, you idiot!" he snaps angrily, still trying to break free. "I'm dangerous! Now let go!"

"No."

"Stop being so fucking stubborn!"

"No."

"Steve!"

Steve doesn't answer this time and simply sits down in the middle of the floor, dragging Bucky down with him. The change in gravity is sudden enough that the assassin doesn't even have time to catch himself as he falls; he lands in a haphazard heap in Steve's lap. The Captain, for his part, just tightens his hold again.

"I meant what I said earlier," Steve tells him quietly even though he's pretty sure the other man has no idea what he's talking about. "I'm not letting you go. Not if it means losing you again."

"I could have killed you," Bucky grinds out, struggling uselessly in Steve's arms.

"I don't care," Steve retorts, letting his head tip forward so his forehead is resting against Bucky's shoulder. "You can threaten me all you want, Buck. You can push me away and lash out and try to convince me that you're a monster but I'm not going anywhere and I'm not letting you go either. You don't have to run anymore, you don't have to be alone. I'm not losing you again."

Bucky lets out a frustrated huff and tries one last time to break free. "You're a Goddamn idiot, you know that?" he snarls but he stops struggling quite as much and his efforts to break loose are more half-hearted.

"That makes two of us, pal," Steve murmurs into the side of his neck, his arms loosening just a fraction so his hold is more like an embrace rather than a restraint. Bucky slumps against him a little, still rigid and tense but not nearly as desperate to get free anymore. He's wadded in Steve's lap like a pissed off, feral cat, and Steve is determined to hold on no matter how deep the claws dig in.

"Let go," Bucky mutters again after a few minutes of silence has passed.

"No," Steve responds in kind, his chin resting against the top of Bucky's shoulder, his cheek flush against the other man's throat. They sit like that for a long time, hours maybe, and Steve holds on tight the entire time.

Bucky's voice is soft and flat with exhaustion when he speaks again. "Let go."

Steve holds on tight as he falls asleep. "No."

OOOOO

Sam flinches. There's a gun leveled at his forehead and a very deadly, very pissed off former assassin with his finger on the trigger. To be fair, he probably shouldn't have barged into the apartment without knocking but Steve hadn't shown up at the park that morning for their usual run and his absence was enough to spike Sam's concern levels. When he didn't answer his phone or the intercom call from the apartment, his concern levels immediately went from maybe-he-overslept to holy-shit-Steve-is-dead. Kicking in the front door probably hadn't been his brightest idea and he realizes that now with a gun pointed at his head.

"Whoa," he breathes out, hands coming up slowly to show that he's not holding any weapons. "Easy, man. We're friends, remember? You destroyed my car and tried to kill me a few weeks ago. Good times, right?"

The assassin keeps glaring but the gun drops just a bit. "What are you doing here?" he growls, his eyes narrowed and dangerous as he glares at the other man.

Sam keeps his hands raised as he speaks. "I came to check on Steve. He never showed up this morning and I got worried." He lowers his arms just a bit, his movements slow and careful to avoid angering the man with the gun. "Mind putting the gun away? I'd rather not get shot in the hallway if it's all the same to you."

The gun stays raised for a few more seconds before it finally lowers to the floor. The assassin steps to the side slightly as a silent invitation to enter. Sam nods in thanks and steps into the apartment past him.

The living room is a disaster, broken lamps and dented walls everywhere. There are a few drops of something that looks suspiciously like blood on the carpet and a rather sizable hole in the wall where something obviously heavy had crashed into. Sam feels his stomach clench slightly as the sight.

"Steve's in the shower," the assassin tells him, seeming to understand how the situation appears and providing the missing soldier's location to alleviate some of the concern.

Sam continues to stare at the wrecked living room in disbelief. "What the hell happened here?"

The assassin glances around the room at the destruction and lets out a quiet sigh. He steps over a broken lamp and slumps down onto the couch. "I happened here," he tells him quietly, raking a hand through his hair absently as he looks around the room.

"It looks like a tornado rolled through."

"Nope. Just me." He nudges the splintered and overturned coffee table with one foot. "Last night was bad, apparently; I don't really know since I don't remember most of it." He shrugs one shoulder sluggishly. "But I remember enough to know I did all of this."

Sam looks from the hole in the wall down to the stains on the carpet. "Is this blood?"

The other man nods once in response. "Yep. Some of it is mine, some of it is Steve's. Hard to tell which is which."

Sam wants to be angry at the admission but something in the assassin's expression stops him. The other man looks tired and ragged, somewhat deflated as he sits in the middle of the destroyed living room, but most of all he looks ashamed. There's guilt in his eyes, stark and vibrant like a neon sign. True, he was just held at gunpoint in the hallway, but the man sitting on the couch in front of him is completely different than the cold, remorseless killer they encountered on the bridge. Sam feels his initial anger ebb away a bit more.

He steps a little further into the wrecked living room, keeping a good distance between himself and the assassin. He might be ashamed of the destruction he'd caused in the room but Sam was still very much aware that he was armed with a deadly weapon. Best to keep a safe distance for the time being.

"So I'm assuming no one called the police on you two," he says lightly, taking in the depth of the hole in the wall. It was deep enough that it definitely should have woken up the neighbors at some point.

The assassin shakes his head and follows his line of sight. "No. I guess they're used to it by now."

Sam nods and steps over a pile of plaster in the floor. He can hear the shower running down the hall so at least the part about Steve's whereabouts is true. He doesn't know what kind of shape he's in but judging from the amount of damage done to the living room, he's guessing Steve didn't walk away unscathed either.

He notices the dark, ugly bruise on the assassin's jaw and winces in spite of himself. "Looks like you two were trying to kill each other."

The assassin makes a face and grits his teeth, metal hand clenching into a fist at his side. "He wasn't but I was." His fingers uncurl and then curl again reflexively. "I don't remember what happened but I'm pretty sure I tried to kill him."

He's up off the couch then, pacing back and forth behind the flipped coffee table like an animal in a cage. "He doesn't get it," he growls to himself more than to Sam. "He doesn't understand that I'm not safe to be around. I almost killed him with my bare hands last night and I don't even remember doing it. I'm dangerous and he's too stupid to realize it."

Sam watches him carefully, feeling a bit more familiar with the situation as it unfolds. He's dealt with reactions like this before, not exactly like this but close enough that he recognizes the signs. Violent outbursts, episodes of physical violence, lapses in memory; he's worked with several of the vets in the support group who have experienced these kinds of problems. Now it's just a matter of approaching the subject.

"I've seen this before, you know," Sam tells him, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning one shoulder against the wall. When the assassin gives him a blank, measured look, he elaborates. "This reaction. You think that pushing him away will keep him safe; that by removing yourself from the equation you can keep him from getting hurt."

The other man scowls in spite of the truth in the statement. "And what would you know about it?" he snarls, leveling a dark glare from across the room.

"More than you think," Sam continues fluidly, keeping his voice calm and even. "I see this in a lot of the veterans I work with. Something will trigger them, a memory or a sound, and they'll lash out at the people closest to them. Sometimes it's just words; sometimes it's more than that."

Sam shrugs casually, feeling the other man's eyes boring into him from across the room. "They don't mean for it to happen and most of the time they don't even realize it's happened until it's over. Their first reaction is always the same though: leave. Get as far away as possible. Get away and stay away because that's the only way to keep their loved ones safe. They're a loose cannon, after all; how can they keep their friends and families safe if they're the one putting them in danger?"

The assassin's eyes narrow and his fist clenches tightly at his side. Sam's words have struck a chord and he knows it. He continues on undeterred. "I get it, man, I really do. You're worried about hurting Steve. You're worried that one day you might lose control and Steve is going to pay the price and, I'll be honest with you, I'm worried that might happen too. But despite all that, I'm here to tell you that leaving is probably the worst thing you can do."

This catches the other man off guard and a small frown of confusion crosses his expression. Seeing this, Sam continues. "Listen, I know it sounds crazy but in my experience, with something like this, running away is just going to make things worse. Like I said, I've seen this a lot and every family is determined to be strong and supportive for their loved ones no matter how much they push them away. The difference between their situation and yours, however, is that I've never met anyone in my life more hard-headed than Steve Rogers. If you keep push him away, he's just going to keep coming back. He's sticking with you whether you like it or not."

"And what if sticking with me gets him killed?" the assassin asks darkly. "What if the next relapse I have lands him in the hospital or worse? What then?"

Sam is silent for a moment, contemplating the question. "Do you want to hurt him?"

"No!" the other man snaps, his eyes flashing dangerously.

"Then don't run."

The assassin opens his mouth to protest but nothing comes out. Sam chuckles softly and shakes his head. "Steve is stubborn, you know that better than anyone, and I don't think that kid knows the meaning of the words 'give up.' You run and he's going to follow and I can almost guarantee he's not going to stop until he finds you. But you see, the problem is that when Steve is following you, he ignores everything else. He doesn't think about the danger or his own safety; hell, I'd be surprised if he has an ounce of self-preservation in his star-spangled body."

"The point is," Sam continues, catching the other man's eye from across the room. "Something about you makes Steve reckless, more so than usual. He doesn't put in even half the consideration for the danger he's in on a daily basis and he'd put in even less if it stood between him and you. You're his Achilles Heel, man, and what little caution Steve does take would be completely thrown to the wind if it meant getting you back."

The other man doesn't answer, his expression dark and unreadable as he continues to stare at the wreckage of the room.

"I get it, you know," Sam says after a minute, leaning against the wall a bit more. "I understand where he's coming from. We all have that one friend that we'd willingly take a bullet for and that kind of devotion doesn't just disappear when things get tough. I may not know everything about your past but I know enough to know that Steve isn't going to give up on you just because you push him away."

"Getting you back? After thinking you've been dead for the past seventy years?" Sam shakes his head slowly like the answer is absurdly obvious. "Nah, man, he's not letting you go again."

The other man stays silent for a long time, curling and uncurling his metal fingers absently. When he finally does speak, his voice is soft and quiet, almost like he's speaking to himself. "If I stay I could hurt him again…"

Sam shrugs slightly, considering the statement carefully. "That's true. But I can assure you it would hurt him a lot more if you left."

The other man shakes his head in defeat and laughs bitterly. "This is all such a fucking mess."

Sam smirks a little and nods. "Yeah, it is. But that's the way life works sometimes and the best thing you can do is to just roll with it."

The shower shuts off down the hall and Sam can hear Steve shuffling around in the bathroom to get dressed. "Listen man," he starts again, turning back to face the former assassin. "I know you have your demons and I'm not going to sit here and pretend to know how to fix them for you. All I know is that that guy down there," he says, gesturing down the hall toward the bathroom. "Is willing to die for you and I'm pretty sure you would do the same if it ever came down to it. If you want to do what's best for Steve then don't run away. If you stay for no other reason, do it for him."

Sam pushes himself off the wall easily just as the assassin, no, Bucky, looks up at him. "He lost a lot when he lost you the first time. I don't think he can do it again."

The conversation is cut short when Steve comes down the hall from the bathroom, hair still damp from the shower. He's sporting his own fair share of bruises and scrapes and the busted lip looks pretty painful but overall he seems well enough. He blinks in surprise when he sees Sam standing in the living room.

"Hey Sam, what are you doing here?" he asks casually, seemingly completely oblivious to the destroyed living room.

"Came by to check on you, Cap," Sam tells him honestly with a small shrug. "Old guy like you, I figured maybe you'd had a senior moment and forgot how to get to the park."

Steve smirks and rolls his eyes. "Haha. I'll keep that in mind tomorrow when I'm running laps around you." He looks over at Bucky, still hunched and uncomfortable on the couch, and his smile softens a bit. "We just had a rough night. That's all."

"Yeah, I gathered as much," Sam says, stepping away from the wall and making his way to the door. "I won't keep you; just thought I'd stop by to make sure everything was alright."

Steve walks him to the door and glances back at the other man one more time. Something about his expression has changed in the past few minutes; he doesn't appear quite as cagey and desperate to run out of the room and never come back. In fact, he seems almost content to stay where he is on the couch in the middle of the wrecked living room. At least for the time being. Steve smiles again. "Yeah, we're fine."

"Good," Sam says with an affirmative nod as he opens the door. "Now you two play nice and stop trying to kill each other or the next person who kicks in your front door with be a scary redheaded ninja chick who will happily kick both of your asses for you."

OOOOO

Steve frowns when Bucky winces again. It's not a prominent expression, more of a minute tightening of his jaw, but Steve knows him well enough to recognize it for what it is. He doesn't say anything at first, choosing instead to watch the other man for a few moments to be sure. Bucky has his back to him, adjusting a frame on the wall, and Steve is sitting cross-legged in the middle of the floor assembling a new coffee table.

It had been just over a week since the epic throwdown in the living room and they were just starting the get the furniture back in order. It had taken a few more days than expected to fix the sundry holes and dents in the wall and after that it just came down to salvaging what they could with the remains of the furniture. Most of it was still usable; some of it was beyond repair. The coffee table was a prime example.

Bucky winces again, very slightly, and Steve doesn't let it go this time. "You okay?" he asks casually, tightening the screws in the legs of the new coffee table.

"I'm fine," he answers quickly, not putting much thought into the response. He continues adjusting the frame, pointedly keeping his back to Steve. He doesn't show weakness, doesn't show any kind of vulnerability if he can help it. Steve isn't fooled for an instant.

"You have a tell, you know," Steve tells him, testing the leg of the table for stability. Bucky turns to him then, quirking an eyebrow in response. Steve obliges and continues. "You have this little muscle in your jaw right here," he says, tapping his own jaw with the screwdriver right below his ear. "It tightens up whenever you're hiding something."

He looks up from the table, catching Bucky's eyes. "So what is it?"

The other man scowls briefly and shakes his head. "It's nothing."

"It's something," Steve insists, noticing the way the metal arm hangs a bit more stiffly at Bucky's side. "Your arm's bothering you, isn't it?"

Bucky rolls his shoulder unconsciously and shakes his head. "It's nothing," he says again, flexing his arm a bit. "The joints are stiff. That's all."

"Does it hurt?"

Bucky shakes his head again. "No, it's just harder to move it now. To be honest, this is the longest I've gone without some kind of constant maintenance on it."

He frowns slightly and taps the corner of the picture frame. "There was always a team of scientists there to run diagnostics and conduct repairs when I was brought out of stasis. Even then I was never awake long enough for the joints to deteriorate or degrade; I was only ever out of stasis for a few days or weeks at a time."

He looks at the arm, curling and uncurling his fingers slowly as he does. "I don't really understand the technology or I would fix it myself. I understand it on a basic level, yeah, but the inside just looks like a bucket of bolts to me so any kind of workable repairs are lost on me."

Steve watches him quietly for a moment, screwdriver still balanced in one hand. "You know, I have a friend who might be able to help you with that if you want. He's got a bit of a mouth on him but he's one of the best mechanics I've ever met; he works with metal limbs and armor all the time." Steve shrugs casually as he speaks, leaving the offer in Bucky's hands. "He could probably fix up your arm for you."

Bucky is silent for a moment, eyeing the levelness of the frame. "This friend of yours," he says finally, stepping away from the wall. "He have a name?"

Steve smirks a bit and goes back to assembling the coffee table in front of him. "You remember Howard Stark? The inventor from the World's Fair?"

"The guy with the flying car?"

"Yeah, that one."

Something akin to recognition and something else unidentifiable passes through the other man's eyes but it's gone almost as quickly as it appears. "Yeah," he says quietly, glancing at his hand again. "I remember him."

"Well," Steve says, tightening another screw into the table leg. "He had a son, Tony; took up his father's empire in his footsteps. He proudly holds the title of the biggest billionaire, playboy, philanthropist this side of Staten Island and, don't tell him this because I'll never, ever be able to live it down, he's probably one of the smartest guys I know."

Bucky frowns slightly in confusion. "No offense, Steve, but he doesn't really seem like the type of guy you'd rub elbows with. How'd you meet this guy?"

Steve shrugs casually at the remark. "We, uh, kinda worked together to save the world a couple months back. Fury approached me and told me about this team called the Avengers; I met them when we were trying to stop a homicidal Norse god from taking over the world."

Bucky almost smiles at the response and glances back at Steve. "You been out there making friends without me, Steve?"

Steve smirks and glances up from the table. "Why, you jealous?"

Bucky immediately turns back to the wall and begins inspecting the picture frame again. "No," he snaps sharply, the denial harsh and biting.

The Captain smiles sadly and shakes his head. "To be honest I wasn't friends with any of them at first," he says quietly and even though Bucky's back is to him again, he knows he's listening. "When I first met them, I'd only been out of the ice for about three weeks. Everything was still new and painful; it had been over seventy years but for me it felt like it had only been a few days. It felt like I had just spoken to Peggy, just saw Colonel Phillips." His voice drops a bit as he speaks, the screwdriver gripped a bit more tightly in his hand. "It still felt like you had just died."

He shakes himself out of his thoughts and continues working on the table. "At the time I was so angry and bitter that I really didn't even want to work with them, let alone be friends. But then after I got to know them all a little better, worked with them and fought with them," he shrugs as he tightens the last screw. "I don't know. It was like I didn't mind it so much anymore. It wasn't the same as working with the Howling Commandos but it felt good to work with a team again, you know?"

Bucky nods slightly and makes his way across the room to the couch. He sinks down onto the cushion beside Steve. "I guess I get that."

Steve nods in agreement and sets his screwdriver down. "Anyway, Tony and I didn't get off to the best start but he's actually not a bad guy once you get to know him. Cocky and arrogant as they come but a good guy all the same." He glances at Bucky and looks at his arm again. "I could ask him to take a look at it if you want."

The other man weighs the offer quietly for a minute before sighing heavily. "I don't know, Steve. I don't exactly play well with others," he mutters, gesturing around the room at the various repairs from their last fight. "I'd hate to snap and break one of your new friends."

Steve just smirks and shakes his head. "Believe me, I don't think you have to worry about breaking Tony. The man took on a missile and walked away without a scratch. I think he'll be okay."

Bucky sighs again in defeat and slides down further on the couch. "Fine," he mumbles, closing his eyes and letting out a slow breath. "But I can't be held responsible for any sudden inflicted bodily harm. You know the risks." And with that he turns to the side just slightly and stretches out across the couch, propping his head in Steve's lap and crossing his arms over his chest.

Steve freezes, momentarily caught off guard by the sudden contact. Ever since he came back, Bucky wasn't exactly keen on physical contact; he allowed it from Steve occasionally but for the most part he preferred to avoid as much touching as possible. This was new though, closer to the old Bucky and the way he would hang all over Steve if he felt like the younger man wasn't paying enough attention to him.

He's still keeping to himself in a way, arms crossed over his chest tightly and eyes closed like he's trying to block out the world. But he's touching Steve, he's leaning against him and letting down his guard just the slightest bit. It's definitely progress.

Steve smiles and gently rests his hand on Bucky's forehead. The other man doesn't push him away so he keeps it there. "Duly noted, pal."

OOOOO

He meets the Avengers by accident.

The morning had started off quiet enough and he had allowed Steve to drag him onto the Amtrack that would take them into New York. Steve had made arrangements with his inventor friend the night before and they were scheduled to meet up with him later that afternoon. It was a long trip, nearly four hours one way, but Steve was convinced Stark could help him so he went along with the persistence.

He'd closed his eyes for a while on the train, feigning sleep while the train bounced along on its track. Steve had been sitting next to him, reading quietly with a book resting on his knee. He tried not to think about the last time he was on a train, about the cold and the snow and the frozen valley he'd fallen into. He focused instead on warm solidity of Steve's shoulder pressed against his own, stable and grounding in the gentle swaying of the car.

He's found that he doesn't mind physical contact as much anymore. Before, he would have broken someone's hand for simply touching him without warning. But now...now he doesn't flinch every time Steve comes near him. Maybe it's because when Steve touches him, it's warm and caring rather than cold and detached. Maybe it's because after so many years of being treated like nothing more than a walking weapon, it's nice to feel a familiar, friendly presence at his side again. And maybe it's because when Steve touches him, he remembers what it feels like to be someone he used to be decades ago.

The train ambled along, stopping occasionally to let off and take on more passengers, and he kept his eyes closed and thought. They were going to see a man named Stark, the son of a man he once knew. The name nags at other parts of his memories though, memories that are too fuzzy and polluted to understand. He remembers the name Stark but he's not sure why. The more he tries to remember, the hazier the memories seem to become and it starts to give him a headache. Stark...he knows that name but why?

His thoughts were interrupted a short time later as the train pulled into their stop. He followed Steve off the platform and through the station, exiting out onto the street. From there it was only a few blocks away from their destination. He knew because he could already see the tower in the distance.

They were about a block away, close enough to make out the parking lot of the tower, when the call came through. There's a jingling chirp at Steve's hip and he glances down, pulling the phone out of his pocket. Almost immediately, another man's face fills the screen.

"Tony?" Steve asks, pausing in the middle of sidewalk to look down at his phone.

"Hey Cap," the man on the screen greets back and there's something that sounds suspiciously like an explosion in the background. "We might have to take a rain check on our little meet-and-greet today." Another explosion echoes through the speakers and the screen appears murky as a cloud of dust drifts through.

Steve frowns at the screen. "What's going on, Tony?" he asks the man on the screen, concern bleeding into his voice.

There's a shuffle of movement and the camera angle gets flipped to the floor briefly.

"Tony!" Steve shouts, glancing up from his phone to the tower in the distance.

The camera angle flips back the right way but it's shaky and jerky like whoever is holding it is moving really fast. "No need to shout, darling, I'm right here."

"What's happening?" Steve asks again, already walking in the direction of the tower. The assassin follows along silently beside him.

The man on the other screen curses softly as something crashes behind him. "You ever see the movie The Terminator, Cap?"

"No."

The man on the screen rolls his eyes and lets out a huff. "I have got to get you caught up on modern pop culture references." He sighs as another crash echoes behind him. "Long story short, there's a small army of homicidal robots currently laying siege to the Tower. I'm afraid if you dropped by right now, I wouldn't be the most gracious host what with the whole fleeing in terror and trying not to die thing."

"We're right around the corner," Steve says, catching the assassin's eye as they break into a jog toward the tower. "Just hang on."

"Trying to, Cap," the other man mumbles as more crashing echoes behind him. "But we're at a bit of a disadvantage here. The terminators set up camp in my lab and hacked JARVIS so I can't even call my suit to me. Hulk and Thor managed to slow some of them down but they're more persistent than...well...you just really need to see The Terminator, Steve."

"Movie references later, Tony," Steve mutters, cutting across an intersection with the former assassin right beside him.

"Damn, and I had so many good Skynet jokes," the inventor laments as another loud bang rattles through the speakers. "Well, the good news is that they haven't figured out how to get out of the Tower yet."

There's a loud explosion followed by the sound of shattering glass and both men look up just in time to see a small waterfall of metallic figures tumbling out of the upper windows of the Tower. People on the street start screaming, shattered glass rains down like glittering water droplets, and suddenly the sidewalk is filled with the metallic figures.

"Let me rephrase that," the man on the screen mutters. "The bad news is that they just figured out how to get out of the Tower."

"Yeah, we noticed," Steve shoots back, hanging up and tucking the phone back into his pocket just as the metal soldiers notice them. There's about ten of them, each standing about six and a half feet tall. They're vaguely human shaped, bipedal with a head, torso, arms, and legs, but they appear to be made completely out of metal. Optic lenses lock onto the two men standing on the sidewalk across the street and they begin their advance.

Bucky moves on instinct, stepping closer to Steve and covering his back. Steve is right behind him, watching the metallic humanoids approach slowly. He doesn't have his shield, of all the days not to have it, and both are left essentially weaponless. Definitely not the worst situation he's ever found himself in but certainly not favorable either.

"Stay close to me," Steve mumbles quietly, squaring his shoulders and keeping his eyes locked on the advancing metallic soldiers. Bucky just nods and clenches his metal fingers; if he knows one thing at all, it's that he'd rather die than let one of these things get close to Steve.

The soldiers rush them suddenly, lurching forward in a burst of speed. The two men barely have enough time to react before the metallic men are right on top of them. There's a hail of metal fists from every direction, punching, grabbing, clawing. The element of surprise works in their favor for about a minute before the window of opportunity opens up for their victims to fight back.

One of them pauses just long enough for the assassin to deliver an uppercut with his own metal arm, catching the robot in the face and sending it flying backward. The distraction allows Steve to grab hold of the metal figure closest to him and use it as a battering ram for the others. He throws the robot into the three others flanking it and all four go tumbling to the ground.

There are five still standing, moving in for the next wave of attack, and Steve doesn't wait around for it to happen. He grabs Bucky by the wrist and drags him forward, cutting across the street and weaving through traffic as he does. There are still too many people on the street, too many civilians who could end up as casualties and collateral damage in middle of this fight. People are running, children are crying, women are screaming; there's too many and they both know they need to draw the metal soldiers away from the crowds and closer to them.

As expected, the metal soldiers watch their retreat and follow in pursuit across the street. They're fast, clearing the distance in only a few steps and leaping over cars with no effort. They'll be right on top of them again in no time but if it gets them away from the fleeing civilians they don't care. Steve continues to run, drawing them away as much as possible, and Bucky follows.

They're just clearing the parking lot of the tower when a sharp, piercing whistle fills the air. They both recognize that sound; months spent in trenches during WWII made it impossible not to.

"Get down!" Steve shouts, jerking Bucky backward and shielding him with his body just as the missile strikes the car directly in front of them.

The concussive blast is enough to knock them off their feet, scattering them across the parking lot like crash test dummies. Bucky bounces off the hood of a car and lands heavily on his metal arm, wincing as the impact jars the joints. He can't see anything, there's too much smoke and dust in the air, and his ears are ringing like he's stuck inside of a bell. He's dizzy and disoriented, shaky from the impact of the blast, and it takes him nearly a full minute to get to his knees.

His disorientation slides into cold, hard dread, however, when he realizes that Steve is nowhere near him. The blast had been powerful enough to separate them but now he can't find the other man anywhere. He gets to his feet, eyes stinging from smoke and dust, and begins looking around the destroyed parking lot frantically.

He had to find him, he had to. Steve was gone, Steve was missing, this was unacceptable. He had to find him because he doesn't know what he'll do if he doesn't. Steve was everything, he was all he had, and if there was no Steve then there was no him.

His hearing comes back slowly and he can just make out the sound of metal colliding on metal in the distance. He runs toward it, not because it's a smart idea but because he knows that sound; he'd heard it hundreds of times during the War and it can only mean one thing.

The smoke clears a bit as he gets closer and he can just make out Steve's silhouette in the haziness, clutching the crumpled hood of a car in one arm and using it as a shield to fend off the metallic soldiers. It's an improvised weapon, imperfect and wearing out quickly, but it's preventing any of the robot's blows from landing on their mark. Steve always had been one to think on his feet and that's probably what saved him in this situation.

He glances over for a split second, just long enough to catch Bucky's eyes. Relief floods his expression but it's quickly erased when one of the metal figures lands a brutal blow to the makeshift shield, punching through the dented metal and catching Steve in the side. The Captain staggers and falls, catching himself on one knee just as the other metal soldiers close in.

Bucky doesn't remember moving, he doesn't remember clearing the space between them in a matter of seconds and literally ripping the arms off of the metal figure closest to Steve. He doesn't remember if they hit him or if the sound of twisting metal is coming from them or his own arm. All he knows is that one minute he's too far away, watching as the metal soldiers surround Steve on all sides, and the next he's standing over Steve, a pile of the broken robots laying crumpled and mangled beyond repair at his feet.

Bucky turns and helps Steve to his feet, relieved to see that, aside from being a bit winded by the blow, the younger man doesn't appear that injured. He's dusty and his clothes are covered in pieces of safety glass from broken car windows but he seems relatively unscathed following the explosion. He supposes the lack of injury has something to do with the Serum and the bastardized version of it in his body from when he was captured during the War. He doesn't question it; they're still alive and that's all the matters at the moment.

Another wave of the metal soldiers seems to materialize in the haziness of smoke and dust, looming like steel skeletons in the gloom. They start to advance toward them again and Bucky unconsciously moves so he's standing in front of Steve.

Somewhere above them, high in the clouds, a deep rumble of thunder vibrates the air around them like a warning. Bucky resists the urge to roll his eyes because seriously, what else could go wrong?

Beside him, Steve just smiles. "Here comes reinforcements."

The air sizzles with electricity and there's a flash of red and gold up ahead. Through the smoke, Bucky can just make out the figure of another man, tall and broad and wielding what looks like a giant hammer. The atmosphere literally seems to spark around him, tiny bolts of electricity arcing up from the hammer in his hand. He grips it tightly, walking toward the nearest group of metal soldiers and swinging it in a wide arc. The soldiers go flying and the man keeps walking forward until he's only a few feet away from them.

In spite of his intimidating demeanor, the large man's face splits into a wide grin when he sees Steve. "Greetings Captain!" he exclaims, his voice booming like low rolling thunder. "I trust you and your companion are unharmed?"

Steve grins in return. "Nothing we couldn't handle."

The man laughs at the response, loud and booming, and the air itself seems to vibrate around him. "Marvelous!"

There's loud crash from behind and all three turn to see another wave of metal figures approaching. The man with the hammer grins again, blue eyes bright with excitement like a child enjoying his favorite game. "Come, Captain," he encourages with a smile, the hammer spinning effortlessly in his hand. "The battle rages on!"

And with that he charges forward, swinging his weapon and taking down handfuls of the metal soldiers with each pass. Bucky watches in stunned silence. "Who the hell-?"

"Heads up!" another voice shouts from above and he turns just as one of the metal figures crumples to the ground, a gleaming, black arrow punching clean through its head. Another arrow slices through the air behind the first, catching a second metallic soldier in the neck and popping the head off like a cork. The second figure topples to the ground just like the first and a man with a bow slung over his shoulder appears out of the smoke.

"Oh man! Check out that one!" he laughs to himself, nudging the disembodied head with one foot. "Knocked it clean off. Hey, Nat, I'm calling ten points on this one!"

The man seems to realizes he's not alone then and looks up, catching sight of Steve and Bucky. "Oh, hey Cap! Who's your friend? Is that a metal arm?"

Before either of them can respond, a redheaded woman backflips over the burning car beside them and lands near the two destroyed metal soldiers gracefully. She glances down at them, taking in the arrows sticking out of both, and shakes her head. "Nope. One point each, that was our agreement."

"Oh, come on!" the archer cries in disbelief. "I decapitated one with one arrow! That has to count double at least!"

The redhead isn't impressed. "Clint, I blinded on with with a broken toothbrush upstairs and you don't hear me bragging."

"No, because you can MacGuyver a weapon out of anything within arm's reach. It's not fair," the archer counters, tugging the arrows out of the crumpled metal figures.

The redhead sighs dramatically, fires her pistol into the head of another metallic soldier that pops up over the side of the burning car without turning, and rolls her eyes. "Fine. Just this once I'll let you have double." She jams another clip into her gun and mumbles below her breath, "I'm still beating you by seven."

"I heard that," the archer quips, reloading his bow and firing at the next group of robots. He manages to hit two and takes off after them, leaving the redhead alone with Steve and Bucky.

He recognizes her from the fight on the bridge but he remembers her for another reason as well. He's not sure why but he feels like he's seen her before then, several years ago on a separate mission. He doesn't have time to dwell on the memory as the remaining fraction of metallic soldiers surges forward toward them.

The redhead dodges one way and he and Steve go the other, drawing their own troop of murderous robots their way. The soldiers surround them quickly, their metal frames gleaming silver and deadly in the dull sunlight overhead. Steve still doesn't have a weapon but then neither does he. It doesn't matter, they've face worse odds than this before.

They don't wait for the soldiers to attack first this time and immediately take the offensive, charging into the middle of their ranks and bringing them down one at a time as they go. He rips the leg off of one and tosses it to Steve, watching as the Captain uses it as a club to take down three of the others. It takes some work to make them fall but once they go down, they don't get back up. He and Steve are back-to-back, fighting side by side and taking on the world the way it's always been. He still doesn't remember much from his old life but he remembers this and it just feels right.

Only a handful of the metal soldiers remain and he's almost convinced himself that they've won when he hears the roar. It's a loud, deafening sound that shakes the ground and rattles the few remaining car windows. The ground trembles beneath their feet, vibrating with each thunderous footstep that comes toward them.

Through the settling dust, an enormous creature lumbers into view. He's massive, taller than the man with the hammer and sporting twice as many muscles. His skin is a dark, vivid green and his teeth are bared like he's a split second from going on a rage bender at all times. His eyes lock onto the few remaining metal soldiers and he stalks forward angrily.

Bucky sees him approaching, knows that going up against the infuriated giant with no weapon will more than likely end with him crushed into the pavement, but he doesn't care. His job is to protect Steve; that's always been his job. He knows that now as an absolute certainty even if he had forgotten it for a while before.

"Steve, get behind me," he mutters, low and quiet in hopes that the approaching giant won't hear him.

Steve looks surprised. "What? Bucky, no, that's-"

He doesn't have a chance to finish his sentence because in that moment, the remaining metal soldiers attack and the green giant charges.

"Get behind me, now!" he growls, reaching out and grabbing a fistful of Steve's shirt with his metal hand. Steve makes some kind of protest but Bucky isn't listening as he literally picks him up with one hand and plants his ass behind him, creating a physical barrier between himself and the green giant. He braces himself for the fight, fists clenched, but for the moment the giant doesn't seem interested in them.

The green giant crushes two of the metal soldiers with his bare hands, breaking another in half and swatting two more across the parking lot like they're nothing more than annoying insects. The remaining two move in to attack but they're blasted apart by something from above, leaving nothing but scraps of metal in their wake.

The giant notices them then, moving forward purposefully with his teeth clenched tightly. He looks furious but Bucky honestly can't tell if it's an emotion or a permanent expression on his face. It doesn't matter; he's still coming toward them and he's still a threat.

He lunges forward before the creature can reach them, hoping the element of surprise will work in his favor and give Steve enough time to get away.

"Bucky, no!" Steve shouts from behind him but it's too late and he's already made his choice. For a very brief moment, the green giant looks surprised by the smaller man's attack. But then a metal fist crashes into his jaw and sends him tumbling to the ground and the the surprise is gone. Now he's just pissed.

The giant is on his feet before the assassin can reach him, a thunderous roar splitting the air around them. He's charging back at the smaller man, green fists clenched tightly, but suddenly Steve is right between them, catching the giant's fists in his hands and sliding backward from the momentum of catching him mid-run.

"Hulk!" he shouts, gritting his teeth as the giant continues trying to rage forward. "Stop!"

"Steve, get back!" Bucky snarls, trying to figure out a way to get the green creature away from him before it decides to break him in half like a pencil.

"Bucky, no!" Steve grinds back, still struggling against the massive green creature. "He's one of us! He's not dangerous!"

Bucky really wants to question Steve's definition of 'dangerous' considering all the damage the giant had just done but Steve doesn't seem afraid of him so he backs down as well.

The giant doesn't seem too ready to give up though and struggles to get past Steve again. The Captain refuses to budge. "Hulk, stop!" he shouts again, putting as much authority into his voice as he can. "He's a friend! Not an enemy, a friend!"

The struggling lessens a bit and the giant's gaze flickers between Steve and the metal-armed man behind him. He growls out a warning and finally stops fighting, taking a step back while still maintaining a glare at the assassin that would cause any lesser man to cower in fear. Bucky glares right back at him.

There's a glimmer of red and gold from above and another metal figure drops down to the ground beside them. This one is different from the others though, it's design is more elaborate and the limbs appears stronger than the metal soldiers they'd faced only moments before. More importantly, there's an actual human body inside the metal casing, a thinking, rational person piloting the gleaming suit of armor.

The visor flips up and the man's face becomes visible, the same one from the cell phone screen. He surveys the damaged parking lot with a low whistle. "Wow, my insurance agent is going to have an aneurysm when she hears about all of this."
He turns to face them, taking in the piles of destroyed metal soldiers scattered all around the parking lot. "Remind me to take my name off of Skynet's monthly newsletter," he mutters, nudging a metal leg with one armored foot.

"What the hell were these things?" Steve asks, still standing between Bucky and the thing called Hulk in case the two tried to go at each other again.

"Dude, I don't even know," the man in the armored suit answers, looking up at the broken windows from the upper floors of the Tower. "The boxes were dropped off sometime this morning, and of course no one saw who left them here, and the next thing I know the whole Tower is swarming with knockoff Terminators."

"Shouldn't really come as a surprise though," he mumbles with a sigh. "This is sort of like a typical Tuesday for us now. Morning coffee and mass destruction; just the way I like my mayhem."

He seems to notice Bucky for the first time then and turns to face him fully. "So you're the guy Steve wouldn't shut up about," he says, and it's not so much a question as a bemused statement of fact. "Sorry for the whole trial-by-fire thing but it looks like you held your own pretty well." He smirks and nudges the green giant with his elbow. "Hell, anyone who can level Hulk with one punch to the jaw has to be worth something, right?"

The Hulk growls low in his throat in response.

Bucky frowns and glances at Steve. "Who the hell is this? And what is he going on about?"

"Ah, sorry about that. Where are my manners?" The man walks over to them and extends his hand with a grin. He has dark hair and bright, intelligent eyes. He looks almost exactly like Howard. "Tony Stark," he says by way of greeting, shaking Bucky's hand firmly. "And you must be the long lost James Buchanan Barnes."

Tony releases his hand and looks him up and down once more, smirking slightly to himself. "Since Fury's not here to give you the official invitation, I guess I'll just have to do it in his place. Mr. Barnes, I'd like to talk to you about the Avenger's Initiative."

Russian Translation:

проснуться- wake up
Вы в безопасности- you are safe
Где я?- where am I?
домой. Со мной- home, with me

Thanks for reading guys! Hope you all liked it! :D