Hey guys! Sorry it took so long to post the third part! To be honest, I re-wrote this entire story twice trying to make everything coincide with the events of the movie. It was very difficult and the story fought back relentlessly so I ended up just coming to the conclusion that this story and the others I've been writing for CA:TWS just exist in two entirely separate universes: the MCU version I've been using as the backdrop for the other stories and this weird little pseudo-universe I've created for this series. It could be considered an AU I suppose, one where S.H.I.E.L.D still exists and Fury hasn't traipsed off and faked his own death (although I'm still trying to figure out how to fit Sam into this universe because Falcon tho...)

Anyway! If you've been following this series it picks up almost immediately after the events of A Matter of Trust and if you've just started reading then welcome! Though it might make more sense to read the other two parts first =p That said, hope you all enjoy!

A/N: I own nothing =/

Three days after Steve is released from the hospital, James is allowed to leave the Helicarrier with him. The paperwork has been signed, arrangements made, and he's more or less a free man (save the unseen presence of constant surveillance thanks to S.H.I.E.L.D technology). They're keeping him on a short leash, no leaving the city unattended and no weapons of any kind allowed without direct supervision. He'll also be assigned a new handler and a badge that identifies him as a probationary member of S.H.I.E.L.D. It's frustrating and it makes him feel like a child but he accepts the terms without complaint. The sooner he gets off the Helicarrier and away from the scrutinous eyes of the agents onboard, the better.

They keep him under their control as long as humanly possible though, escorting both he and Steve across the tarmac of the Helicarrier to the helicopter that will take them into Brooklyn. He can feel their eyes on him as they walk, impassive and slightly suspicious of the metal-armed assassin. The last time he and Steve had been alone together, the Captain had come back with three bullet wounds and spent a good two days in the medical wing of the Carrier recovering from the resulting injuries and blood loss. Now he's (willingly) taking that same man with him to his apartment in the city and doesn't seem at all fazed by the situation.

James can tell by their expression that none of them think it's a good idea and, if he's completely honest with himself, he doesn't think it's such a good idea either. Steve had nearly gotten himself killed just a few days earlier because of him and now he's taking him into his own home like some bleeding heart good samaritan. He guesses he's not surprised in the end, the kid always did have more balls than sense.

There's a man standing next to the helicopter when they arrive, nondescript, average height, very slight smile that seems permanently engraved on his face. The smile is a ruse though; it's easy to see an extremely proficient agent behind the calm expression. It's a smile that says 'I know pressure points that will make you forget your own name and I'm not afraid to use them'. Steve seems to know him though, judging from the warm smile that spreads across his own expression when he sees him. So a mutual friend then; fair enough. It sets him slightly more at ease but not much. A man can still kill you with a smile on his face; he's knows this for a fact, he's seen it.

The man extends his hand in greeting and James notices a very slight stiffness on the left side of his body, centered around the shoulder and upper chest. Recent wound, pulling scar tissue, possible nerve damage due to some kind of traumatic injury. Judging by the height and position of the affected area, an injury that likely should have killed him. And yet here he is, alive and well and shaking his hand. Interesting.

The man identifies himself as Agent Coulson and he seems to be particularly well equipped in dealing with previously presumed-dead veterans of the Second World War. Turns out James is the second soldier from that time period that he's had the pleasure of looking after; Steve was the first. He doesn't appear all that surprised that James is more or less back from the dead when every known government record up until about two months ago had declared that he'd died back in 1943, two weeks before Steve went missing in the ice. This appears to be just another Thursday for Agent Coulson though, nothing out of the ordinary here. James supposes that working for an organization like S.H.I.E.L.D pretty much obliterates the weird factor and agents simply learn to roll with the punches and take it in stride.

Coulson informs him that he's been assigned as his new handler and will be working with him until further notice. Chandler is still under investigation after the clusterfuck in Nantes and will more than likely continue to be for an indefinite period of time until her records come back absolutely spotless and sterile. Which means that James has now been left in the more than capable hands of Agent Coulson.

A brief explanation from Steve reveals that Coulson is also the de facto handler for the current Avengers party and is the only agent Fury trusts enough to maintain simultaneous direct interaction with the team and S.H.I.E.L.D. He's Fury's right-hand man, a Grade A badass, and a glorified liaison/babysitter for Earth's Mightiest Heroes. And now he's also landed the job of playing handler to a former soviet assassin, codename: Winter Soldier. Lucky man.

Turns out Coulson also has a bit of a soft spot for Steve (idol worship, maybe?) which explains the very slight tightening of his smile when he first shakes the former assassin's hand. It's small enough that it's almost completely unnoticeable for someone not looking for it; James sees it though, the minute contractions of the muscles in his jaw that indicate the smile isn't as genuine as it's played off to be.

Coulson knows who he is and knows that he'd tried to kill Steve only a few weeks before today. He knows that Steve had been critically injured during the last mission involving him and had nearly died because of it. But he also seems to realize that not only was James not the one behind the trigger but had also very probably saved the Captain's life while waiting for the rescue team. Wary protectiveness is in his eyes but so is patience and understanding; he's there to help him and run interference when it comes down to it and that's what he's going to do.

The ride to Steve's apartment is short, less than thirty minutes from the time they leave the Helicarrier to the time they walk through the front door. The apartment is simple and spacious with a large living room connected to the kitchen and an open balcony behind a sliding glass door. They're on the third floor, midway up the building itself and with a clear view of the courtyard spanning across the open space between their building and one across from it. It's a quiet complex, mostly filled with couples and small families looking to be away from the noise and bustle of the city. Steve likes it because it's quiet, James likes it because it doesn't feel like a cage.

He sits awkwardly on the faded blue couch while Steve speaks with Coulson by the door. He does a cursory examination of the living room from where he's sitting, taking in every detail of the room and committing it to memory. Steve doesn't have a lot of furniture but he can't figure out if it's from fugality or the fact that he divides his time between here and the Stark Tower and there's just really no point in having an excess of it. There's the couch he's sitting on, a table and chairs, a television sitting on top of a small wooden table, and a mounted clock on the wall. That's it. The only reason there are curtains in the windows is probably because they came with the apartment.

Back before the war, their apartment had been equally as sparse with little more than a bed and a stove taking up the one room flat they shared. That had boiled down to lack of money and room; this just boiled down to Steve living alone and having no reason to furnish the apartment anymore than he had to.

It looks simple enough but James knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that the apartment is filled with more bugs than the underside of a rotten log. Stark had told him that the surveillance was more for his protection, to make sure that if his former handlers tried to swoop in and take him again, S.H.I.E.L.D would know about it and be able to prevent it. It makes sense but he can't help but wonder if the surveillance is for Steve's protection as well. If he up and snaps one night and decides he wants to murder Steve with his bare hands again, will S.H.I.E.L.D still swoop in and stop him or will they just shoot him and be done with it? He's not too sure that wouldn't be the better option in the end; Steve says he trusts him but he doesn't trust himself and that's a no win scenario in the end.

When Coulson leaves a few minutes later, it's suddenly just he and Steve alone in the apartment and he feels a surge of panic swell in his chest. He hasn't be alone with Steve when they weren't separated by bulletproof glass or running for their lives and he doesn't really know how to react with him outside of those contexts. They've interacted before though, he knows they have. They were best friends once, they interacted with each other as easily as breathing, it shouldn't be too hard do that again, right? Except best friends didn't typically try to kill one another based on the orders of shadowy personele with no names…

"So how does this work?" he asks when Steve sinks into the couch beside him. The younger man looks confused for a moment so he elaborates as eloquently as he can. "This. Us," he explains, gesturing between the two of them with a metal finger. "Do we just go on about our lives, taking care of the house and living together like the world's most dysfunctional roommates and pretending everything is normal?"

He tries not to glance at Steve's stomach when he says the last part, his eyes flickering over the area where the bullet wound had been. Normal wasn't getting your former best friend shot when he broke you out of a French neurology clinic run by human traffickers. Normal wasn't patching him up as best you can in a housing development and hoping for an evac team before he bled to death in what would more than likely become a picture-lined hallway in a family home. Normal wasn't anything that he was or had done. He wasn't normal so how could he pretend to be now?

Steve shrugs just slightly, the gesture nonchalant and careless like he wasn't bothered by anything that had happened in the past few weeks. "We go on like we used to," he tells him simply, blue eyes meeting his own from across the couch. "We go through, one day at a time, and just live."

The nostalgia hits him like a tidal wave and he takes a deep breath to quell it down. He'd told Steve the same thing, decades ago when they'd first gotten their own apartment together. He'd been working two jobs at the time and Steve was just barely holding down his job as a shopkeep thanks to his various medical conditions. A particularly bad week coupled with an asthma attack brought him to his knees and James could remember holding him against his chest, Steve's small, bony frame tucked inside his arms as he struggled to regulate his breathing. We'll get through this, Stevie, he'd told him, listening carefully as the ragged wheeze in Steve's breathing slowly began to level itself out. We just go through one day at a time. Just one day at a time.

"You just gotta trust me," Steve continues, nudging his knee with one hand and pushing himself off the couch with the other. James watches him go without a word, his own thoughts churning tumultuously in his head. He may not trust himself but he trusts Steve (at least he's pretty sure he does) and for now that's all he has to rely on. So if Steve thinks they can get through this, no matter how unusual the situation may be, he feels he owes it to him to at least try.

The afternoon passes by slowly and Steve takes the time to give him a long, detailed tour of the apartment complex. He shows him all of the buildings, courtyards, mailboxes, laundry rooms, the leasing office, everything that could be of interest to the newest tenant. Steve seems to be unconsciously aware of James's inherent suspicion of new places so he spends extra time showing off the parking lots and stairwells of the buildings, taking a few extra minutes to explain exit strategies and escape routes if it ever came down to it. Apparently Steve is an inherently suspicious person as well because he has very detailed and well thought out plans of escape tucked away in the corners of his mind.

There are a few random cars in the parking lot that don't seem to fit, cars that have a clear view of Steve's apartment from the parking lot on all sides. James knows without asking that they're S.H.I.E.L.D stakeout cars; nameless agents tucked away inside each of them and tasked with keeping an eye on the Captain and his newfound companion.

James flips them the bird with his metal finger on principle. If they're going to be forced to watch, they may as well get used to the obscene things he'll say and do early rather than be shocked by it later.

He follows Steve back to the apartment and goes back to sitting awkwardly in the living room while the other man disappears into the kitchen and starts fixing something for dinner. He can't offer to help because he's not allowed to touch or be anywhere near kitchen knives without a S.H.I.E.L.D agent present. He's pretty sure the same rule applies for open flames on gas stoves and any kind of electrical appliance in the kitchen that could be used as an impromptu weapon. Being on probation sucks.

He fumbles with the remote for a moment before finding the correct button to turn on the TV. Steve has little more than basic cable which means he gets six, sometimes seven channels depending on the mood of the cable company. Once again, no point in dishing out extra money for something that hardly ever gets used. Two of the channels are in Spanish and while James is fluent in Spanish (as well as 15 other languages) he decides against it and settles on the news instead. It's the evening edition: stock market reports, weather, local news, winning lottery numbers, the works. It's mind-numbing as hell but he leaves it on. He's found over the past few weeks that he really hates silence.

Steve finishes whatever it is he's making in the kitchen and calls him to the table. It's nothing fancy or glamorous but it's good and they sit at the table and eat a meal together like some kind of Norman Rockwell painting. James eats everything on his plate without a word; he honestly can't remember the last time he ate something that wasn't in a styrofoam container or prepared in the cafeteria of the Helicarrier. It's a home-cooked meal, something he hasn't had since before he enlisted in the army. He's not sure why but for some reason it makes him feel...almost normal.

He helps Steve clear the table without touching any of the knives or forks or any kind of instrument that could be used for stabbing and finds himself back in the living room by the time it's all over. Steve joins him after he puts the dishes away and they both sit in amicable silence in front of the TV. There's some kind of comedy playing out across the screen but neither of them pay much attention to it. Steve has some kind of tablet in his lap and he's silently reading through a set of emails Stark had sent to him during the day.

James stares at the screen without watching it, his eyes fixed on a wayward stain on the wall just above the TV. He allows his eyes to unfocus and his breathing to slow; it's as relaxed as he can force himself to be will still remaining conscious. It was a technique he developed sometime after his first few missions as the Winter Soldier, a state of being somewhere between consciousness and sleep. His missions always took him to dangerous locations filled with equally dangerous people and he learned early on that letting his guard down, even for a second, could get him killed. Falling asleep on the job was almost like signing your own death certificate and he still had the scars left to remind him of that fact.

He doesn't realize how long he's been sitting there, staring at nothing, until suddenly Steve's voice is cutting through the fog. "Hey, you okay?"

"Fine," he answers instantly, blinking a few times and settling his gaze on the younger man.

"You sure?" Steve presses, frowning slightly.

"Yes." He doesn't mean to snap but the response comes out sharp and final anyway. He sighs and tries again. "I'm fine. I promise."

The Captain doesn't seem convinced but he doesn't press the issue further. He sets the tablet aside and stands slowly. "I was saying it's late and we should probably get some sleep." He looks a bit awkward for moment before continuing. "I didn't really have time to get another bed yet but you can take mine if you'd like."

James shakes his head at the offer. "No thanks. The couch is fine."

Steve worries his lip between his teeth. "You sure? It's not that comfortable and I don't mind-"

James just shakes his head again. "It's fine," he repeats, offering a faint, crooked smile in return. "I've slept on worse." It's the truth but Steve doesn't need to know that quite yet. Sleeping in haylofts and abandoned warehouses was one thing, admitting that he's also slept in open graves and in the bed of a truck filled with corpses is something else entirely.

Steve hesitates a few seconds more and James hears the sigh escape him before he ever feels it. "I'm not going to leave if that's what you're worried about."

The younger man blinks in surprise, apparently not aware that the unspoken concern was playing out all over his expression. The way his eyes darted to the door ever so briefly when James refused his offer, the slight stiffness in his shoulders that he doesn't even seem to be aware of. He's standing rigid and wary as if he expects the other man to bolt out the door the second his back is turned.

To be honest, James had thought about it; simply slipping out in the middle of the night and disappearing into the nearest large crowd, never to be seen or heard from again. But just like before, he pushes the idea away almost as soon as it comes. He's tired of running and disappearing, he's tired of living his life as a shadow and a ghost. He figures if he's going to settle down anywhere, here is as good a place as any.

Steve seems to wrestle with himself internally for a few more seconds before his shoulders finally slump in defeat and he sighs softly. "Okay," he says, the hesitation in his voice leading James to believe that Steve isn't necessarily talking to him but more to the empty void all around them. He disappears into the hallway for a moment and comes back with his arms full of a patchwork quilt and two pillows. James considers telling him not to bother, that none of those things are necessary because he doesn't plan on sleeping, but he doesn't. It seems to make Steve feel better about the whole single-bed-sleeping-on-the-couch situation so he stays quiet as the other man sets the bedding on the edge of the couch.

"Thanks," James tells him and he thinks he means it but he's not sure. He hasn't expressed gratitude in years and he's not sure if he's doing it right. The word feels meaningless and flat in his mouth but Steve nods in response, unaware of any strangeness that may have accompanied the acknowledgement.

The younger man hesitates by the edge of the couch for a few seconds more, lingering like he's not sure what to do. Finally, he reaches out hesitantly with one hand and lays it on James's shoulder. The assassin almost flinches away from the touch but forces himself to remain where he is. The touch is solid and grounding, friendly and familiar, and it tugs at his gut like a lead ball. Before the war, their friendship had been filled with playful shoves and side-armed hugs. Now...well, now James can't remember the last time someone touched him who wasn't trying to kill him or reprogram him for another mission.

Steve's hand lingers for a second more, just long enough for James to shrug it off with a half-hearted scowl. The younger man is unfazed by the scowl and simply offers a small smile in return. "See you in the morning, Buck," he says, stepping away from the couch and walking toward the hallway.

James scowls again even though no one can see it this time. His name isn't Bucky anymore, he's adamant about that. His body may have survived the fall but that name died back in 1943. If Steve is going to accept anything about this situation, it's going to be that.

James stays where he is on the couch, the TV still playing quietly across the room. He doesn't move for a long time, back rigid and hands planted on his knees. He stays still for close to an hour before he's sure that Steve has given up trying to stay awake and his breathing evens out into the slow, steady rhythm of sleep. He'd always been a heavy sleeper when they were kids, he wonders if the same holds true now.

James glances at the door, eyeing the doorknob and the deadbolt above it. S.H.I.E.L.D surveillance be damned, he could make a break for it right now and probably be halfway across town before they caught up with him. He's fast and he's agile and he's had years of training beaten into him that ensures he could make a clean getaway if he really wanted to. But he doesn't. He stays on the couch, staring at the door and wondering why he hasn't moved yet.

It finally dawns on him that he hasn't moved because he doesn't want to. Yes, he's tired of running but it's more than that. Steve trusts him, he has unwavering faith in him even when all evidence screams that he shouldn't. Steve fought for him and defended him when everyone else wrote him off as little more than a murderous headcase who didn't even know his own name when he was captured. Steve protected him, he nearly died for him just a few days earlier, and he has no doubt in his mind that he would do it all over again if it came down to it. He doesn't move because he owes it to Steve to stay, to see this through to whatever end may come. Steve trusts him and he can't bring himself to let the other man down.

He curses softly in Russian and lets his head tip back against the couch. So he's staying...great. Now he just has to figure out how to settle into a normal, suburban life with 60+ years of ruthless, Soviet training under his belt. Easy enough...right?

Steve is right, the couch isn't very comfortable and he abandons it for the floor a few seconds later. The floor doesn't suit him either and he finds himself pressing his back against the locked door, legs stretched out in front of him and arms crossed over his chest lightly. It gives him a clear view of the living room, the dining room, and the hallway leading into Steve's bedroom. It's a good vantage point for keeping an eye on at least 80% of the apartment and it sets him slightly more at ease. It gives him a sense of control in an unfamiliar situation and at this point in time, he'll take what he can get.

The TV drones on in the background and he presses his back a little more firmly against the door. He can hear the shuffle of traffic from the street outside, the hum of the air conditioner through the vents above his head. It's peaceful and quiet and soothing and he wonders how other people can stand it.

He focuses his hearing a bit more and picks up on the soft push-pull of Steve's breathing from down the hall. He listens carefully to each inhale and exhale, forcing his own respiration to match the pace of the sleeping man in the other room. He remembers doing this before the war, when they were cramped together in their little one room shack of an apartment. Steve could sleep like a rock through the night but James had always been a notoriously light sleeper, the slightest movement or noise jarring him to instant consciousness. It's amazing he ever got any sleep during the war because of it.

He counts the space between each breath, matching the speed carefully. He feels his shoulders begin relax ever so slightly, the muscles along his spine loosening minutely with each breath. His mind begins to drift and he allows it, his head tipping forward just slightly so his chin is resting against his chest.

He doesn't sleep, not really, but he allows himself to relax for the first time in what feels like years. Because it's normal to relax as the night stretches on around him. It's normal to feel safe instead of constantly looking over his shoulder in anticipation of an unseen assailant. It's normal to feel like he might finally belong somewhere. It's normal to…

OOOOO

If Steve is completely honest with himself, he's somewhat surprised to see the former assassin not only still in the apartment the next morning but sitting casually on the couch while the morning news plays out on the TV. He's also surprised by the mug of coffee in the other man's hand, a matching mug sitting on the other side of the table.

"It's going to rain today," James says casually by way of morning greeting.

"You made coffee?" Steve asks because through the shock and awe of the situation at hand, that's really the only thing his brain has caught up with at this point in time.

The assassin rolls his eyes slightly. "I know how to reprogram access codes to nuclear weapons, Rogers. Figuring out a Keurig wasn't that hard." He nudges the other mug closer to Steve with one foot, never taking his eyes off the headlines scrolling across the screen.

Steve steps forward and picks up the mug, taking an experimental sip. It's good, not that he thought it wouldn't be but his brain is still trying to catch up and process everything so he accepts it without question.

"By the way, your pal Stark sent you an email about an hour ago," James informs him, tossing the tablet Steve had been tinkering with the night before. The Captain catches it with one hand and flips it open. "Something about coming to the Tower later for a training exercise."

As stated, there's an open email from Tony on the main screen, the message short and precise and more than likely written in the middle of the night during a coffee-fueled binge. Steve's not all that surprised that the other man went through his email; hell, he's probably done more than that in the few short hours since he's been here. During the war, Bucky had been all about gathering as much information as possible about their various missions and assignments to make sure they weren't caught off guard in the middle of them. Being an assassin/spy probably just enhanced those skills.

"You can come with me if you'd like," Steve offers, setting the tablet on the kitchen table and downing the rest of his coffee in one fluid motion.

"Doubt it," James counters easily, sparing a sidelong glance at the other man. "Pretty sure your S.H.I.E.L.D buddies have something else planned for me." There's a short rap on the door and James simply points one finger toward it as an indication. "Like that."

Coulson is standing on the other side of the door, smiling placidly at Steve when he opens it. "Good morning, gentlemen," the agent greets, nodding to both of them as he steps into the apartment. "I trust last night went smoothly?"

The question is unnecessary, they all know the surveillance equipment captured every minute of the previous evening down to the last detail. It doesn't stop Steve from nodding in agreement. "Everything was fine."

"Peachy," James chimes in, pushing himself off the couch and standing up to his full height. He's marginally taller than Coulson, the agent having to look up just slightly to meet his eyes. It doesn't seem to bother him in the least; the agent meets his gaze with a level one all his own. "So I guess you're here to whisk me away back to the Helicarrier and teach me how to be a S.H.I.E.L.D agent?"

Coulson smiles faintly and shrugs one shoulder. "Something like that. We're more interested in keeping you on as a liaison rather than a full time agent; you are a free man after all."

"Hmm, freedom under a microscope," James muses, walking toward the kitchen and setting his mug in the sink. "It's like 1984 but Big Brother has been replaced by S.H.I.E.L.D. George Orwell must be spinning in his grave right about now."

Coulson shrugs off the slight easily. "Well, we did get some of our ideas from him so I suppose you are right in some regard. Besides, we prefer to think of it as keeping an eye on the general well being of humanity rather than surveillance." The agent turns his attention back to Steve. "We'll bring him back this afternoon," he reassures him, reading the hesitation on the soldier's face. "Fury just wants to evaluate some of his skills."

Steve doesn't say anything at first, he simply turns to attention to James and meets his eye. "Your call," he says, leaving the option open for flat out refusal if he felt like it.

James just shrugs. "Sure, why not? Beats sitting here all day." He grabs his jacket from the arm of the couch and shrugs it on. "Lead the way, Phil," he says, following the agent through the door and out into the hallway. "Catch ya later, Cap," he calls over his shoulder as both Steve and the apartment disappear behind them.

Coulson nods him in the direction of one of the non-descript stakeout vehicles in the parking lot and James complies wordlessly. He still doesn't trust this man and his motives but it's not the same distrust he had for Renault and his operation. This distrust comes more from the fact that he can't quite figure Coulson out. He comes across so ordinary, so plain, someone you might pass a hundred times in one day and never think twice. He's probably also just as good, if not better than James himself in the fine art of ass kicking. James honestly doesn't know if that should be impressive or disturbing.

The car takes them to a small runway just outside the city and they're transferred to a S.H.I.E.L.D appointed helicopter that will take them to the helicarrier. Coulson settles into the seat across from him, gazing placidly out the window as they lift off the runway. "You are allowed to ask questions, you know," the agent tells him without looking away from the window, his tone calm and inviting like this is the most normal thing in the world.

"How did you get stuck with a job like this?" James asks finally, unable to contain the question that's been gnawing at him since the day before. "Of every agent they have available on that ship, how did you get shafted into being my new handler."

Coulson shrugs one shoulder slightly (his right shoulder, not the left, never the left, James notices) and smiles. "Just lucky I guess."

"I'm serious."

"So am I," the agent does turn to him then, his expression still as calm and impassive as before. "I didn't get stuck with the job, it was offered to me. I had the choice to turn it down and I very well could have but I chose to take it because I wanted to; no one forced my hand in the matter."

His gaze levels with the man across from him and he offers a small, secretive smile. "And they came to me because they know I'm particularly well equipped to handle any kind of psychological or emotional meltdown that may affect the men and women under my care."

James resists the urge to laugh and settles with a smirk instead. "I think you may have gotten in over your head taking me on, pal. This up here," he points to his own head for emphasis. "Is less emotional stress and psychological tension and more a carnival of madness on the best of days."

Coulson shrugs again and leans back against his seat. "We'll see. Trust me, being around you guys is a cakewalk compared to my old job."

The assassin smirks again and eyes the other man skeptically. "Oh, really? And what was your old job? FBI? CIA? Homeland Security?"

Another small smile tugs at the agent's lips as the helicopter begins to descend onto the open deck of the Helicarrier. "High school principal."

James does huff out a laugh this time. "Bullshit."

"God's truth," Coulson says, raising one hand like he's swearing an oath in court. "Five years in some of the largest and most crowded high schools in the city. If being surrounded by a couple thousand emotionally strung out teenagers who are one second away from snapping at all times doesn't prepare me for this line of work, nothing will."

Another handful of agents is waiting for them when they step onto the flight deck, flanking them on either side as they walk across the deck to the main entrance. They fall into formation without being signaled and close ranks all around them like secret service agents following after a member of the White House cabinet. James quirks an eyebrow at the entourage; he's not sure if it's for his benefit or Coulson's. Maybe both, maybe neither at all; maybe this is just what S.H.I.E.L.D agents did in their spare time. If that's the case, James is more than willing to throw himself over the side of the Helicarrier and force himself to drown.

Coulson leads him down a long hallway to an elevator that takes them to the lower decks of the ship. Another agent is waiting for them outside the doors, his expression expectant like he's been waiting for them to arrive.

"James, this is Agent Henry Allen," Coulson tells him, nodding to the other man in indication. "He's S.H.I.E.L.D's top weapons and combat instructor; he'll be in charge of overseeing your evaluation. I have to leave for a meeting with Director Fury but for now I'll leave you in Allen's more than capable hands."

James slides his gaze from Coulson to the other agent, Allen, standing in front of him. The man looks to be about mid-forties with salt-and-pepper hair cut short in a style that very nearly a buzz cut. There's a thick, ropey scar running across one side of his jaw and several more disappearing into his hairline. His eyes are the color of gunmetal and the hard set of his jaw indicates that his toleration for bullshit is next to none. The assassin feels the smallest hint of a smirk tug at his lips; this should be interesting at least.

"Gentlemen," Coulson nods to both of them in farewell and turns back toward the elevator. "Oh," he calls over his shoulder, turning back to face them. "And try not to go too hard on him."

"Which one?" James asks, his eyes never leaving Allen's face. The other man meets his gaze without so much as a twitch.

"Both of you," Coulson clarifies just as the elevator doors slide closed and obscure him from view.

As soon as Coulson disappears from view, Allen turns and begins walking down the hall in the opposite direction. "Follow me," he says simply, the words cutting through the silence of the hallway like a blade.

James doesn't move. "Mind telling me where we're going?"

"Gun range," Allen answers, not bothering to look back at the other man. "Marksmanship and accuracy evaluation."

That catches his attention. S.H.I.E.L.D was willing letting him be anywhere near a gun? An interesting turn of events if nothing else. He shrugs slightly and follows along behind the man.

OOOOO

"You realize this is completely unnecessary, right?" He mutters as Allen steps behind the bullet-proof glass door that separates the instructor and the student from the shooting range. There are at least thirty targets spaced out evenly across the range, some as close at ten feet away and others further back to twenty-five or thirty feet. It's almost insulting, really.

"If S.H.I.E.L.D's records really are up to date, then they should know that I can shoot a hole through a speck of dust from the top of the Empire State building," James continues, assembling the handgun deftly without ever really looking at it, his attention focused on the agent behind the glass door. "Blindfolded."

"It's mandatory," Allen tells him simply, his voice gruff and sharp as he speaks. "Everyone does it."

"Really? And here I was thinking I was special." He shoves the clip in and looks back over his shoulder. "You really know how to take the wind out of a guy's sails, Allen."

The agent's eyes narrow and his jaw sets a bit tighter. "Shoot," he growls through clenched teeth, his eyes sharp with challenge.

James laughs softly and shakes his head. "All you had to do was ask," he tells him, his eyes still locked with Allen's as he fires ten precise shots at the furthest target. He drops the gun onto the nearest table and presses the button to retrieve the target. A perfect smiley face made of bullet holes grins back at him as he plucks it from the holder. He holds it up for Allen, smiling crookedly beside it in a parody of the grinning face on the target. "I can make one for you too if you'd like."

Allen's expression is unreadable, his grey eyes cold and piercing as he stares at the man on the other side of the glass. He says nothing for several seconds, turning his attention to the evaluation form in his hands. He jots down a few notes and looks back up at the other man. "Next test," he says finally, sparing another cold glare in James's direction before turning and walking out of the room.

James rolls his eyes and follows, leaving the smiling target hanging on the range as he steps out of the booth, the face grinning at his back as he follows after the other man.

OOOOO

"If you're trying to get me to take you guys seriously," James mutters, flipping another agent over his shoulder and flinging him across the room with little more than a flick of his wrist. "I'm sad to say it's not working."

Another group launches an attack all at once, three in the front, two in the back, one on either side. Standard strike formation; solid, 90% effective, and predictable as hell. James takes down three of them before they can even get close and two more fall in rapid succession to the first set. One manages to strike a hard blow to the ribs and James rewards him for his efforts by cleaning dislocating his shoulder, elbow, wrist, and three fingers. The last agent hesitates for just a split second too long and almost instantly finds himself face down on the floor, a knee digging into his spine with enough force to snap it in half if the assassin decided to shift his weight by a fraction of an inch.

James holds his position and looks back at Allen, who's been standing motionless and silent on the other side of the room. The agent meets his gaze coolly and James grits his teeth in response. "This is pointless," he mutters, more to himself than anyone else in the room. He pushes himself off the pinned agent on the ground and stands, leveling a glare at Allen. "Tell Fury that if he really wants to evaluate me, he needs to step up his game."

He walks away from the pile of agents sprawled all around the room from the hand-to-hand training exercise. Several of them are unconscious, many others incapacitated, and some are still too stunned and dazed to move.

James steps over one of the agents and jerks his thumb over his shoulder toward him as he continues to walk away. "That one has a punctured lung," he calls out to no one in particular as he steps out of the room and into the hallway.

Almost instantly, he's surrounded by a small army of S.H.I.E.L.D agents and escorted away from the training room. It's not a surprise; really the only surprise is that it hasn't happened sooner. Unlike the agents he just worked his way through in the training room, these agents are heavily armed and prepared to use force if necessary. He goes along quietly, too irritated to do more than walk along through the hallways with the agents flanking him on either side.

They lead him to the upper decks and down a long hallway to an unmarked office door. Coulson is the only one in the room, sitting behind a large mahogany desk with a thick folder spread out in front of him. He looks up when James enters the room and slumps into the chair in front of the desk. "I take it the evaluation went well?"

James resists the urge to roll his eyes. "No offense, Phil, but if that was supposed to be some kind of test back there, I'm pretty sure I failed. Or passed with flying colors. I don't know how you guys rate this kind of thing. Either way, I'm pretty sure your pal Allen isn't one of my biggest fans."

Coulson smiles softly and shuffles a few of the papers into a small pile. "If it makes you feel any better, Allen doesn't like much of anyone." He straightens the papers and looks at the man across from him. "And, like I said, this wasn't so much a test as it was an evaluation. You see, some of our highest ranking agents have a rather violent past under their belt and evaluations like this are necessary to determine their skill sets and experience in order to place them with assignments and missions most suited for their qualifications. Unfortunately in this line of work, the best resumes are often the bloodiest and we need to see first hand what we're dealing with when we take on a new agent."

"I thought we agreed that I'm not working for you," James counters smoothly, his eyes drifting over the documents spread out across the agent's desk. They're all from his file, every mission, every target, every kill. The file itself is filled to the brim with information and a supplemental file had to be added in order to keep all of the information together.

Coulson nods and continues to organize the papers. "You're not. Not really, at least. But you are considered an asset and a liaison to S.H.I.E.L.D. As such, you're not technically affiliated with S.H.I.E.L.D but you do have clearance to be contacted for assignments and operations that requires someone with your skills." Coulson pauses what he's doing to level an even gaze at the man across from him. "Director Fury knows all about you, James, he knows you're one of the absolute best at what you do. Any assignment you're offered will be Level 6 or above clearance; not grunt work or clean up duty."

James cocks an eyebrow smoothly. "So what was that back there? Evaluation for me or for the other agents?"

"Both," Coulson tells him, his expression unreadable. "Evaluations like that are not conducted simply to assess your strengths but also to determine your weaknesses. Every agent has a weakness, something that makes them hesitate in the heat of a fire fight. Some are physical, some are psychological; it's our job to determine what it is during the evaluation process. The faster we can uncover these weaknesses, the easier it is for us to understand an agent's motivation."

James smirks just slightly. "And your agents in the other room? Did they discover any of my weaknesses?"

Coulson smiles coolly and shakes his head. "Physical weaknesses? No, I think you using them as your own personal crash test dummies made that pretty clear. But you do have a weakness and, as far as I can tell, only one."

James's eyes flicker down to the papers spread out across the desk, his gaze landing on a single black and white photograph in the center. It's the same photo Dr. Chandler had shown him when he'd first been brought in, the photo of he and Steve with their arms looped around each other's shoulder in companionable affection. His smirk fades a bit and his eyes harden, a warning glare settling on Coulson. "It's really not a smart idea to threaten me, Coulson."

The agent meets his gaze without so much as a flinch. "It's not a threat, James. I'm simply trying to prepare you for what you might face in the time to come. Regaining your memories can be both a blessing and a curse; the more you remember, the more dangerous it may become. To the best of our knowledge, some of your former handlers are still alive and well and just waiting for the chance to strike again. And if they can find you, they can find Steve and you and I both know that's not something that can happen."

James remains silent, the fingers of his metal hand curling into a tight fist without his knowledge. He may not remember everything yet, and it's possible he never will, but he remembers enough of his old life to know that no one, absolutely no one, would touch Steve so long as he was around.

"So what are my options, then?" He asks quietly, flexing his fingers out of the fist and forcing them to remain straightened instead of curled tightly against his palm.

Coulson leans back in his chair a bit and regards the contents of the file spread out before him with mild interest. "For now? Work with us," he tells him simply, catching the guarded look on the assassin's face and continuing. "Like I said, you're not working for us but rather working with us. Let us train you, help you recover your memories. You want to keep Steve safe, I understand that, but let us help you in the process."

James is silent for several seconds, weighing the suggestions in his mind. In reality, he knows he could easily refuse and let S.H.I.E.L.D find a new plaything to poke and prod at but he doesn't. He knows Coulson has a point: he was still a target and that meant Steve was a target as well. Maybe agreeing to the training would give him an advantage in the end, an upper hand his handlers didn't have. An agency approved kill order for anyone who threatened Captain America might come in handy in the end.

He sighs heavily and slumps back in the chair. "Fine," he mutters, drumming metal fingers across the top of the table. "But if I agree to this 'training'," he continues, making an exaggerated use of the air quotes. "Then you have got to do better than what I was up against today. That out there was just downright pathetic."

Coulson smiles faintly and nods down toward the files on the table. "I'll see what we can come up with."

James nods and stands, not waiting for the agent to dismiss him. He's done with the helicarrier and the agents and everything S.H.I.E.L.D related for the day; he's ready to go back to the apartment Steve lives in and try to adjust to suburban life again.

He's just reaching for the door when he stops and looks back over his shoulder. "And Coulson?"

The agent looks up in response, giving him his full attention.

"If anyone comes after Steve, I will kill them with my bare hands. Understand?"

Coulson nods once like he'd never expected anything different. "Understood."

OOOOO

It's just past 5:30 that afternoon when Steve nudges his way into the apartment, arms full of grocery bags. The living room is empty, TV turned off and couch abandoned, but he knows James is here. His presence is unmistakable and always has been. He's just not exactly sure where "here" is…

He sets the bags down in the kitchen and searches the apartment, finally stumbling upon the subject of his search sitting on the balcony connected to the living room. The sliding glass door is closed, the curtains drawn over the panes, but he can just barely make out the other man's silhouette through the shadows bleeding into the living room. He walks across the room and slides the door open, stepping out onto the balcony.

James doesn't look over when he drops down onto the cool concrete beside him but he nods in acknowledgement of the other man's presence. The assassin has his legs woven through the bars of the railing, his feet dangling into open air and his metal shoulder leaning against another section of bars that connects to the wall. There's a pack of cigarettes next to his leg, open and half empty. A small ashtray made out of an old soda can sits beside the pack, a book of matches balanced on top. A lit cigarette is tucked into one corner of his mouth, the fingers of his flesh hand reaching up and plucking it away just long enough to discard the ashes from the end before it resumes its original place.

Steve frowns slightly at the cigarette butts tucked into the soda can. He was no stranger to his friend smoking; when they were younger, it wasn't uncommon for Bucky to slip outside to the back alley to smoke a cigarette he'd managed to bum off one of the other guys who worked on the dock. They were few and far between, no money coupled with staggering tobacco prices making things like cigarettes damn near a luxury item, and Steve never disapproved of the habit because his friend genuinely seemed to enjoy it.

No, he was frowning because the last time he had seen his friend smoke like this, one cigarette right after the other, was after Steve had pulled him from the Hydra base. He knew they had experimented on him while he was being held captive, done God only knows what to him in that dungeon-like laboratory. Bucky never told him about it, he never talked about it, but there was something in his eyes that had changed after Steve had rescued him. He was anxious and tense, strung tight and rigid at all times. Nicotine seemed to be the only thing that provided even an ounce of relaxation for him. He smoked like a chimney after Steve got him out and it had always worried him to watch his friend spiral like this.

"Rough day?" He asks quietly, dropping a spent cigarette into the opening of the soda can.

James does look over at him then, a quick glance from the corner of his eye. He looks tired and little lost, an expression Steve is more than used to now, but he doesn't look any worse for wear than the last time he'd seen him. That's something at least.

"Nah," he mumbles back finally, snuffing out the cigarette in his hand and dropping it into the soda can as well. "Got to go on a field trip to the helicarrier, played meet-and-greet with a bunch agents whose names were forgotten the second they left the room, hospitalized a few of them." He shrugs one shoulder looks out across the expanse of the apartment complex. "Not a bad day, really."

"You hospitalized a few of them?" Steve repeats in surprise.

"Only two," Jame informs him casually, waving the question away like lingering cigarette smoke. "Maybe three." He shrugs again and leans back a bit. "So what's up with your pal, Coulson? You know he actually volunteered for this?"

Steve copies his posture and threads one leg through the railing. "Coulson is a good guy," he says, his gaze drifting out to the fading sunlight setting over the parking lot. "He helped me out a lot when I first woke up. Filled me in on all the details of the new millenium, offered advice and information when I needed it. He's a good friend."

James is silent for a moment, letting the words sink in. He still doesn't know if he trusts him or not, it's something that will take longer than a day to gain. But Steve trusts him and Steve says he's a good guy so he figures he can take his word for it. After all, Steve is really the only person he does trust at this point in time.

"So he regularly steps in and plays Team Dad then?"

The Captain smiles a little and nods. "Yeah, something like that."

James smirks crookedly and lights another cigarette. "Hell, beats an office job, I guess."

Steve watches quietly as James takes a long drag from the cigarette, blowing the smoke out deftly. Back before the Serum, Bucky never smoked around him for fear of setting off his asthma. Even after the Serum, when his lungs had healed and he didn't get sick anymore and could break into a dead sprint without feeling like he was going to pass out, Bucky still refused to smoke in front of him. Maybe it was out of habit or maybe it was out of guilt but he always isolated himself when he would work his way through a cigarette. Not now though; now he's smoking right out in the open with Steve sitting right beside him. The Captain feels his concern spike again.

"Something wrong?" He asks, trying to catch the other man's eye and failing miserably. Whatever is going on in the assassin's head, he's lost in it and he's not coming back out until he's good and ready.

When he finally does emerge, he speaks as if asking a rhetorical question, one he already knows the answer to but feels he should voice regardless. "You ever stop to think that being with me could be hazardous to your health, Rogers?"

Shit, we're back to Rogers again? Not a good sign. The Captain frowns again and shakes his head. "What do you mean?"

James rolls his eyes slightly and gives him a withering look. "Don't play stupid, Cap. You know what I'm talking about." He takes another drag and exhales in a tight, constricted way that makes Steve wonder what exactly happened on the helicarrier today.

"You know I'm a target," he continues fluidly. "The bounty on my head alone has probably reached lottery level proportions by now. I have people from all over the world who have been gunning for me years, probably even decades. People who make Vlad the Impaler look like a guidance counselor. People who would have no problem rending you limb from limb to get to me. The bullet you took to the stomach a few days ago? Barely even a scratch compared to what some of these people are capable of."

He sets his gaze on Steve then, unwavering and solid. "Not only that, I'm dangerous. There are at least seven things on this balcony that I could fashion into a weapon in under a minute and use to incapacitate you before you could ever raise a hand to stop me." He blinks once, his gaze still locked on Steve. "Now tell me how the arrangement we have here could possibly be in your best interest."

Steve doesn't answer right away, letting the sound of traffic fill the void between them for a moment. When he finally does speak, his voice is quiet and the words are meant only for him. "If our roles were reversed," he begins, catching the other man's eye briefly. "And I was the one with a bounty on my head and a little black book filled with people wanting to kill me, would you throw me out onto the street?"

The former assassin scowls darkly and fixes him with a dirty look. "It's not the same and you know it."

"No, actually, it is the same," Steve counters fluidly, leveling his gaze with other man's. "I want you to be honest with me. If our roles were reversed and I was the one in your position, would you abandon me for your own self interest?"

The assassin looks like he wants to protest but in the end he knows he can't. He may still be new to this whole 'best friends' thing but he knows he would never willingly abandon Steve if the younger man was in danger. He could have easily left him after he'd been shot in France but he stayed behind because...well...it was Steve. All of his logic and reasoning and instinct was fundamentally different when it came to Steve. It had been that way since he was a kid and it looks like it's starting to revert back to that way now. It's stupidly unfair to be honest.

He sighs heavily, glaring out at the parking lot. "No," he mutters quietly, the word barely more than a whisper.

Steve nods in satisfaction at the admission. "Then you should know I would never do that you either. The entire Russian army could show up at our doorstep and they would still have to fight me to even get close to you." He shakes his head and follows the other man's gaze out across the parking lot. "I'm not abandoning you, pal, no matter who shows up. If they want to get to you, they'll have to go through me first."

He smirks slightly and nudges James's shoulder with his own. "Face it, bud. You're stuck with me whether you like it or not."

The assassin growls in frustration and rolls his eyes. "Дурак," he mutters quietly, taking another drag on this cigarette. Steve really was an incurable idiot...

"Love you too, Buck," Steve retaliates, using the other man as leverage to push himself up off the balcony. "I'm going to start dinner," he says over his shoulder, stepping back toward the sliding glass door. "Come back in whenever you're ready."

James waves him off and hears Steve chuckle quietly as he closes the door behind him. He doesn't move for several more minutes, staring out at the parking lot as the sunlight begins to fade. So Steve is still his one weakness and the younger man is still too stubborn/stupid to realize how dangerous that is for him. Just like old times.

He sighs and finishes his cigarette, dropping it into the can and standing up. He tucks the remaining cigarettes and the matches back in his pocket and steps back inside, sliding the door closed behind him.

OOOOO

They fall into something of a routine after that. It takes about a week or two for James to stop sleeping by the front door and to begin feeling slightly more comfortable in the apartment. It's still new and awkward for him, a foreign feeling that should be completely normal for anyone else. But then he hasn't been normal for a long time so he doesn't take it too personally.

Steve manages to find an extra bed and sets it up in the bedroom but James never sleeps in it. He appreciates the effort, really he does, but he's woken up one too many times with scream dying in his throat and his metal fist lodged into the wall to trust himself to sleep in an actual bed just yet. He worries that one night the nightmares might be too vivid or Steve might get too close and then all hell will break loose.

Instead he sleeps on the floor, back pressed against the wall and arms crossed tightly over his chest. Steve tries diligently for the first few nights to convince him to sleep in the bed but to no avail. The floor is solid and firm and he feels more grounded with his body pressed flat against the soft beige carpet and the bedroom wall.

He helps Steve around the apartment where he can, putting away dishes and folding laundry when they're both sitting in the living room in the evenings. It's a mindless, repetitive task but he finds he doesn't mind it so much. It keeps his hands busy and it feels kind of nice to be using them for something other than inflicting bodily harm. Coulson had mentioned taking up knitting in passing one day and while James had initially shrugged off the suggestion, he was starting to think it might not be such a bad idea. Then again, it involved very long needles and yarn that could be fashioned into a makeshift noose so maybe it was still off the table for now.

For the time being, he busies himself folding and re-folding socks while he and Steve sit in the living room at night. The television is always on even though neither of them really watch it; it serves as a soft drone of background noise more than anything else. Steve will sit across from him on the couch, sketching quietly or reading a book, and James will sit on the other end of the sofa, a basket full of socks in his lap. He slowly but surely works his way through the entire basket as the evening progresses, grouping the socks by size and color and then folding them into neat, compact little balls. It's soothing in its simplicity, a calming kind of monotony that helps settle his nerves and ease the stress of being on high alert for so long. Funny how something like socks could make him feel more human after all these years.

Their daily routines are a little different but stable all the same. Both Steve and Coulson seem to realize that stability and routine are the best ways to help James adjust so they try to adhere to the same schedule each day.

Every morning Steve leaves the apartment to go attend to the sundry duties of being an Avenger and every morning James is whisked away to the helicarrier to get trained in the fine art of not hospitalizing every agent he goes up against. It takes a several days to get used to not using extreme measures to get the upper hand but eventually he's only sending one or two agents to the infirmary per week. He's still unmatched in both marksmanship and hand-to-hand combat and it comes from a combination of years of expertise and a notably conditioned fear response many of the other agents have developed when it comes to facing him one-on-one.

Some of the younger agents, the ones too desperate and eager for approval, will get cocky sometimes and think they'll be the first to take down the former assassin. They're usually the ones who end up in the infirmary by the end of the match.

One morning, he notices something different about the usual training set up. Allen isn't there when he arrives, odd considering the senior agent is always present in the training room, and the room is nearly completely empty when he walks out onto the floor. It's unusual to see it so empty; usually it's filled with at least 20-30 agents all practicing various forms of hand-to-hand training. None of them are there though, the room completely empty save for one woman standing in the middle of the floor.

She's dressed in much the same way the other agents would be, grey sweatpants and a matching t-shirt enveloping her slender frame. She's barefoot on the mats, dark blue toenail polish nearly blending in with the floor beneath her. Her bright red hair is tied back in a ponytail and she has her arms crossed over her chest like she's been waiting for him to show up and is irritated that he took his damn time. There's something about her, though, that makes it clear she's miles beyond the other agents he's trained with over the past few weeks. He's been waiting for a challenge and he thinks maybe he's finally found one.

As he gets closer, he realizes that this will be a challenge for more than one reason. Her face is familiar, older and a bit harder than he lasted remembered it being, but familiar all the same. He remembers her as a child, a tiny wisp of a girl no older than seven, plucked from a dark, violent hell and thrust into one even darker. She had been fierce and angry and brutal back then, sloppy and careless in her hatred but showing remarkable potential as well. He knows her because he trained her and she had been the best and deadliest pupil he'd ever had.

He studies her face briefly, a smirk of recognition tugging at his mouth. "Natalya," he greets, watching as the redhead's eyes flicker over his face as well. They're still just as sharp and calculating as they were when she was a child, taking in every detail and committing it to memory.

"Yasha," she greets back cooly, using the name he'd briefly adopted several years ago.

"You've grown up," he remarks casually and it's hard for his eyes not to travel over the way the clothing clings just enough to hint at the curves of her body.

"You've stayed the same," she counters just as casually, her eyes traveling up and down his body as well. She was right; he hadn't changed very much at all since she'd last seen him and that had been at least twenty years earlier. He'd trained her, been thrust back into stasis, and, as it always did, time went on without him. Now she's here, standing in front of him like a memory revisited, and he briefly wonders if he should feel nostalgic or not.

"S.H.I.E.L.D is getting a little tired of you breaking their field agents," she says casually, uncrossing her arms and walking across the padded floor slowly. Her steps don't make a sound as she walks. "So they contacted me instead. They figured maybe you needed a real challenge on the floor."

He smirks faintly and cocks his head to one side. "And you think you're the challenge I need?"

He's on his back before he realizes she's moved, feet swept out from under him in one fluid motion. Damn, he forgot how quick she was.

"Yeah, I think so," she says lightly, appearing above him a second later.

He makes a grab for her ankles but she back springs over him, bouncing across the mats gracefully like she's made of rubber. He's on his feet a split second after she lands, clearing the space between them with remarkable speed. It does him little good, though; for all his speed and agility, she moves like water, slipping away from him easily and leaping lightly out of the way like a cat.

"I thought this was supposed to be a challenge," she mocks lightly, springing around on the mats while keeping her gaze locked on him at all times. "You're going to have to do a lot better than that if you want to keep up that reputation of yours."

He smirks darkly, waiting for just the right moment. She may be fast and she may be slippery as an eel slicked with cooking oil but he did train her after all. She still has her patterns and tells when she spars, ones she probably doesn't even realize she's displaying. He's more than happy to point them out.

Predictably, her next step takes her to the left and he moves before she's planted her feet on the ground again. He catches her around the waist, flipping her easily and pinning her to the floor with her face pressed into the mat. He wrenches one arm behind her back and pins it with his knee. "What was that about keeping my reputation?"

She shifts just enough to free her other arm and jab the bony point of her elbow into his kidney. Using the momentum of her thrust, she rolls with him until she has him flat on his back again, driving a closed fist into his stomach to make him release his hold. Temporarily freed, she bounces out of distance and crouches into a fighting stance.

"Only that the more you build something up, the easier it is to tear it down," she shoots back coolly, watching as he slowly straightens from the mat. "Don't let arrogance rule you in a fight," she continues, running across the mats and dodging his intended strikes. "You taught me that and you should know that better than anyone."

She's on him then, tackling him around the waist and latching onto his back, using her weight to drive them both to the ground. He allows it and rolls with her, locking his legs around her waist and snaking one arm around her throat and pinning her in a chokehold.

"And you should know better than to think you have the upper hand in this," he counters easily, tightening his hold just enough to cause her to cough.

"I don't...think I have the...upper hand…" she gasps, her face flushed with exertion. She arches back suddenly, knocking her head against the center of his chest and kicking one leg high into the air, high enough to catch him in the face. There's an explosion of stars and he tastes blood from a split lip upon impact. "I know I have the upper hand."

She wrenches his arm to the side, throwing him off balance and breaking out of his grasp. She springs away lightly, hopping on the balls of her feet and keeping just out of reach. "You were a good teacher, I'll give you that," she allows, blowing a wayward tendril of hair away from her face. "But only trained me for a short time."

"See, while you were hibernating in a cryogenics chamber, I was making a name for myself. You don't make it to #4 on S.H.I.E.L.D's Blacklist for nothing. And in doing so, I managed to pick up a few tricks along the way; things you never even dreamed of teaching me."

He smirks again, swiping the back of his hand over his bleeding lip. "Am I supposed to be impressed?"

"No," she declines casually. "Just informed. The agents you've been sparring with for the past few weeks? Most of them are fresh out of training, six months out of high school and so wet behind the ears they should be dripping when they walk. I'm nothing like them." Her eyes lock on him and there's a sharp flash in them like light reflecting off of a razorblade. "Unlike them, I've done my fair share of killing, most of it without remorse. And unlike them, I can hold my own against you. It wouldn't be in your best interest to underestimate me."

He watches her silently for a moment, taking in her sharp eyes and squared shoulders. She looks like she should be on a runway in Paris but he knows she could just easily slip off a pair of stilettos and disembowel someone with the heel. She's a killer but, then again, so is he; a challenge for one and practice for the other although he's not sure which of them falls into which category.

Her point made, she pads across the room quietly and retrieves her shoes. He watches her with careful interest. "Are we done for the day?" he asks because he's really not sure when their training actually began or ended.

She pulls her ponytail out and shakes her head, loose red curls framing her face. "Yeah, we're done," she tells him, slipping the elastic band over one wrist. "I have an appointment this afternoon and my companion is not the most patient man."

She starts to walk past him but stops, taking a half step back so they're face-to-face. "Best friend or not, you should know," she says quietly, her voice laced with promise and certainty. "That if you ever hurt Steve, I'll put a bullet between your eyes."

He smirks humorlessly and shakes his head. "дорогая, if that happens, I'll do it myself." He's not too sure she won't try to break his thumb for the pet name but he doesn't really care.

She gives him a small smile and pats him on his metal shoulder. "Good to know." And then she walks out without a word, leaving him with a split lip and the memories of a little girl who had been crafted into a perfect child soldier.

OOOOO

His first mission is to bring in a German spy. The orders come in the middle of the afternoon and he's whisked away before he can ask any questions. It wouldn't help if he did; the agents who escort him to the S.H.I.E.L.D provided helicopter don't give give him any additional information and it's likely they know just as much as he does. The only thing he's given is a plain white folder containing a location, coordinates, a name, and an emphasized order not to kill the spy in question. The Do Not Kill order is highlighted, underlined, italicized, and filled out in bold, black ink. Apparently, S.H.I.E.L.D really wanted to stress the significance of not killing this man. Funny, his orders usually stressed the exact opposite.

He's escorted by a small battalion of heavily armed agents dressed in thick, black tactical gear. He's not sure if they're with him because the mission requires more than one person to complete it or if S.H.I.E.L.D doesn't trust him not to run off and disappear at the first opportunity. He wants to point out that if he had wanted to leave, he would have done so weeks ago and no collection of agents could stop him. He doesn't though; he simply closes his eyes and listens to the roar of helicopter blades above them.

He briefly wonders what or if S.H.I.E.L.D will tell Steve when he finds out he's gone. The folder did not include a timeline of completion so for all he knows it could take hours or it could take weeks to complete. Would Coulson step in an divulge that information if Steve asked? He's not sure; what he is sure of it that Steve will ask and he hopes they give him something better to go on other than 'currently on a covert mission'.

He has no idea what time it is when the helicopter finally touches down at its designated location and it takes a few minutes to organize the agents. James is already prepared before they ever touch down and the frustration of waiting for the other agents sets his teeth on edge. He wants to get this done quickly because for some reason leaving without saying anything to Steve just feels wrong.

The coordinates lead them to a high rise office building that matches the location given in the file. It takes less than ten minutes to climb the stairwell to the correct floor and the element of surprise plays into their favor. There's a small group of men inside the designated room, roughly 6-8 crowded around a long wooden table like they're in the middle of a meeting. They're surrounded before they can react, an armed agent locked on each man in the room.

The man at the head of the table appears calm and unfazed by this development; he simply raises his hands and remains silent while the S.H.I.E.L.D agents scream at him not to move. James ignores them and walks across the room, gun still very visible in his hand.

"Benjamin Fletcher," he says as he approaches the man and it's not a question so much as a statement of fact. The man nods once in acknowledgement and that's all the confirmation he needs. He pulls him away from the table, secures both arms behind his back, and drags him out of the room while the remaining agents apprehend the other men inside.

"Any particular reason you deemed it necessary to interrupt my meeting?" the man asks quietly as he's dragged along the tarmac toward the helicopter. He seems completely unconcerned with the fact that he's essentially being kidnapped by a metal-armed man dressed all in black and more bothered that his meeting was disturbed.

"Orders," James says simply before looping a black hood over his head and shoving him into the back of the helicopter where another group of agents quickly apprehend him. The other men from the meeting are led across the tarmac in equal fashion and similarly loaded into the back of the helicopter.

All together, it takes less than an hour to complete the assignment and then they're loading back onto the helicopter and leaving just as quickly as they arrived. James doesn't bother to ask for any details about their newly acquired prisoners; frankly he doesn't care. Orders were orders and he had a long history of following them through.

Coulson is waiting for them on the deck of the Helicarrier when they touchdown. He watches quietly as the captured men are unloaded from the back of the helicopter and gives a few minimal instructions of where to take them to the agents escorting them off the tarmac. He looks over as James crosses the distance between them and offers a small smile. "Good to be back in the field?"

James watches as the agents and their prisoners disappear into one of the stairwells leading away from the deck. "Didn't seem necessary to bring that many agents along," he replies, speaking a bit louder to be heard over the dying whir of the helicopter blades.

Coulson huffs out a small laugh, his expression quietly bemused. "Trust me, if you knew what those men were guilty of, you'd know that all those agents were completely necessary." He nods toward nearest stairwell, indicating that James follow him. Seeing nothing better to do on the empty flight deck, James obeys and follows him inside.

"Look," he begins once they've cleared the first landing. "Not that I really care what he's done but why all the black ops and covert mission to take down one guy and his buddies? Seems you guys could have saved a lot of time and money just passing those coordinates off to the local police."

Coulson shakes his head slowly and keeps walking. "Local law enforcement can't touch those men with a ten foot pole; the number of loopholes and bureaucratic red tape involved would cripple their departments for months if they tried to arrest any of them." He glances over his shoulder at James as they continue walking. "Most of the men you just captured have enough diplomatic immunity to weasel their way out of any courtroom in the world without ever so much as batting an eye."

"And S.H.I.E.L.D has the golden shears necessary to cut through this bureaucratic red tape because…?"

Coulson smirks faintly, walking through a door that leads to a long, narrow hallway. "Just think of S.H.I.E.L.D as having the ultimate veto power over technicalities like that. These men were a threat to both national and global security," he continues, walking down the hall slowly.

The walls are lined with holding cells, similar to the one he was held in when he was first brought in only smaller. With their locked doors and small windows, they look more like interrogation rooms. "Someone needed to take them down and local law enforcement couldn't even put their foot in the door without violating diplomatic bylaws. So we were called in instead."

He stops in front of the only holding cell that's currently occupied. Inside is the man James had apprehended personally, Benjamin Fletcher. He doesn't look like the kind of a man that would warrant an entire SWAT team of S.H.I.E.L.D agents taking him into custody; hell, he barely even looks intimidating. He's a small man with dark eyes and sandy brown hair, a small moustache framing an equally small mouth. He looks to be in his mid-40s, small wrinkles appearing around the corners of his eyes, and all together he looks entirely non-descript.

"That man right there," Coulson begins, nodding in indication toward the holding cell. "Is an international terrorist. He's bought and sold military secrets from nearly every country in Europe and over half of the countries in Asia. He has enough blackmail and dirty laundry on high-ranking politicians to topple entire governments with little more than a phone call. He makes his money through extortion, bribery, and murder and he's been on our radar for years now."

Coulson crosses his arms over his chest, watching the man in the room carefully for a few moments. "He's always managed to stay just out of our reach, one step ahead of us at all times. We had our first stroke of luck with those coordinates and the confirmation that his meeting was taking place in that building. That's why I brought you in; we needed this mission to be executed flawlessly to prevent him from slipping away again."

James stares at the man silently from outside the room. "You're telling me that this guy is responsible for keeping most of Europe under his thumb and no one has been able to get close enough to take him down yet?" He shakes his head slowly, his eyes never leaving the man on the other side of the glass. "No offense, Coulson, but he doesn't exactly look like the monster under the bed; he looks like someone working toward tenure."

Coulson just offers another small smile and shakes his head. "That meeting you interrupted earlier? He was selling launch codes to the highest bidder; $2.5 million and a metropolitan area the size of San Francisco could be decimated with the flick of a switch. Last month he personally supplied a rebel militia in Somalia with enough guns and ammunition to take over a small country." He glances over at James, catching his eyes briefly. "Not every monster looks like something that crawled out of the Black Lagoon. Sometimes they look exactly like your neighbors."

He steps forward then, pushing open the door quietly and stepping inside. James doesn't wait for an invitation and follows him inside. Fletcher looks up at them as they enter the room, a small smile tugging at his lips. His wrists are shackled to the table, his ankles similarly bound to the floor, and there's another restraint wrapped around his waist and hooked into the chair as well. He doesn't appear bothered by his imprisonment, he just appears quietly bemused like he's humoring a couple of children.

"I hope this won't take all night," he says as Coulson comes around to the other side of the table. "I promised my wife I would be home in time for dinner."

"Well, it looks like she's going to be pretty disappointed because you're not going anywhere for a long time," Coulson informs him calmly, sliding into the chair opposite from him. "It took us a long time to catch up to you, Mr. Fletcher. Or should I call you Mr. Anderson? Or Mr. Maddox? Which alias are you going by these days?"

"Fletcher is fine," the man responds easily, the bemused expression still lingering on his face. "I've grown rather accustomed to it these past few months." His smiles becomes just a little bit darker, a little colder like a shadow passing over a glacier. "Interesting how a name can hold so much power and yet be entirely dismissible when the opportunity presents itself."

He turns his attention over his shoulder then, looking back at James standing beside the door. "Wouldn't you agree?"

James levels him with a cold stare for several seconds. "Am I supposed to remember you?"

Fletcher smiles like a wolf and leans back in his chair. "No, I don't suppose you would. After all, we only met twice and both times were very brief; little more than a passing exchange of information and a list of names."

His smile looks like broken glass and razor blades and sharp, deadly things hidden in the dark. "We worked together for a time, you and I. Although at the time I wasn't known as Benjamin Fletcher. No, he would come much later; back then I was known as Dietrich Weiss."

The name strikes some deep, long-forgotten chord he'd buried years ago. It brings back memories, dark and deadly and shining with blood. He remembers that man and his plain face and his smile like a shark's. He had been one of his employers for a brief period of time and he had been one of the cruelest and most malignant men James had ever encountered. He was a force of nature unto himself, remorseless and destructive like the battering winds of a hurricane. He cared nothing for the death orchestrated or the destruction he wrought. Even at his absolute worst, James intrinsically knew he was only a fraction as brutal as the man sitting in this room with them.

"Ah yes, you're remembering it now aren't you?" Fletcher continues, his dark eyes dancing with an even darker glee. "You remember the things I hired you to do, the people I ordered you to kill."

"That's enough, Fletcher," Coulson orders sharply, turning his attention to the former assassin. "James, step outside, please."

Fletcher laughs quietly like this is all some kind of wonderful joke. "Working for a government agency now, I see. Tell me, do they know I ordered you to assassinate a prime minister at his daughter's wedding? Or have they asked about the bomb you planted for me under the engine of a private plane transporting an ambassador and his wife to a conference in Morocco? What about the massacre in Vienna? The flames that engulfed a house full of women and children? Have they asked about that or do they already know?"

James is across the room before he can account for the movement, looming over the table and glaring at Fletcher coldly. "Say one more word and I'll rip your tongue out with my bare hands."

"James," Coulson says again, his voice sharp and clipped from the other side of the table. "Leave. Now."

"I've always wondered," Fletcher continues, completely unfazed by the threat. "Did you enjoy it? I know I certainly did. Did you enjoy pulling the trigger, feeling like God as you snuffed out the lives of the people I hired you to kill? Did you enjoy watching the flames climb higher as they consumed that house in Vienna, the one where the children were still upstairs in their bedrooms?"

James reacts without thinking and reaches out, grabbing one of Fletcher's shackled wrists with his metal hand and shattering the bones with barely more than a squeeze. The other man hardly even flinches.

"You want to know if I enjoyed it?" he growls dangerously, tightening his grip so he can feel the shift and prod of shattered bone beneath his fingers. "The answer is no, I never enjoyed it. But I'm enjoying this." He grins darkly and twists, finally eliciting the smallest of winces from Fletcher. "I want to watch you suffer and squirm and beg because of things you ordered me to do. I did your dirty work, I pulled the trigger for you, but I never enjoyed it. I'm not a monster like you."

Fletcher gives him a tight, painful smile. "No, my friend, you very much are. See, a monster is something that doesn't have a name, doesn't have a purpose other than to wrought death and despair upon those around it. Unlike you, I always had a name. What did you have? A gun and a mask, nothing more. Who is the real monster in this scenario?"

A handful of agents appear in the room then, grabbing James and physically hauling him out of the room. "That's enough for today," he hears Coulson mutter just before the door slams behind them, leaving both Fletcher and the agent behind.

It's not until they're almost to the end of the hallway that James finally stops struggling and allows himself to be led out quietly. It takes a staggering amount of effort but he quells the urge to break loose and go back into the room and rip the other man apart with his bare hands.

The agents lead him back to the upper deck of the Helicarrier, somewhat unsure of what to do with him once they make it this far. James knows what he wants to do and that's to go home and get as far away from this man and his vicious, sordid past as possible.

The agents seem hesitant to let him leave after his outburst but a lone female agent steps forward and authorizes the request in Coulson's place. Her nametag reads Maria Hill and James is nearly certain he's met her at least once before but right now him mind is so addled he honestly can't be sure.

She approves his decision and allows him to be released into the agents' custody. They take him back to the flight deck and escort him to another helicopter, this one taking them into the city to an airport closer to the apartment he and Steve share.

James doesn't really pay attention to the trip back nor does he pay attention to the consignment of agents that escort him all the way back to the apartment. His brain feels raw and ragged, ripped and torn by the man's presence and the memories he caused to resurface. He wants to forget, wants to pretend that it was all a nightmare and that he'd never committed any of the atrocities Fletcher accused him of. It's horribly, brutally true though and he can't deny it. He had been Fletcher's hired gun for a while and he was responsible for the deaths of dozens of people under his control. The memories settle like a lead ball in his gut and he feels his jaws clench tightly.

Steve is still gone by the time he returns, a handwritten note on the coffee table indicating that he would be back sometime the next morning due to a project Stark was working on. The note was dated from the night before and it was now just past 4:30 am; Steve could be back in an hour or he could be back in five, there was really no telling. Just as well to be honest; he needs to be alone for a little while anyway.

The apartment is quiet and empty, a single lamp left on in the living room providing the only source of light. He turns on the TV as he walks by and turns the volume up loud. He needs something to break the silence, something to distract him screams and cries that echo in his mind.

Metal and flesh fingers tangle in his hair and he presses his back against the nearest wall hard. His breathing is ragged and uneven, fingers clenching tightly against his skull with just enough pressure to be painful. He remembers Fletcher and his orders and the blood on his hands and he doesn't want to. The memories are vile and depraved and repulsive and worst of all they're real.

Fletcher, or Weiss as he'd been known then, had hired and contracted him back in the early 80s to carry out a few dirtier deeds he didn't feel like soiling his hands with. Most of the killings had been political in nature, politicians and public figureheads that Weiss had targeted personally. He never asked questions and he never hesitated to carry out the orders given to him; a job was a job and for the time being, Weiss had been his employer. He carried out each order with deadly efficiency but then one came through that was different than the others.

The assignment had been to assassinate an Italian diplomat and several other prominent government officials who had gathered for a dinner party at a private estate was large and spacious and many of the men in attendance had brought their families along to enjoy the beautiful gardens that surrounded the home.

His orders were simple: get in, complete the assignment, leave; only the men on the list were the ones to be killed that night. It should have been easy but then Weiss had changed his mind and ordered that every man, woman, and child on the property be executed. Weiss took the time to inform him of this change five minutes after he entered the home and killed the men in question. Something strange happened then: he hesitated.

He had never hesitated before and he had never hesitated since until Steve came along. But this assignment caused him to pause; not because he suddenly developed a conscience while standing in a room full of the bodies of the politicians he'd originally been hired to kill but because the other killings were unnecessary. He was a cold-blooded killer, that was an absolute certainty, but there needed to be a reason behind the deaths he caused. Taking out political figures was one thing but murdering children, some who were too young to even walk on their own, seemed heartless even by his standards.

Weiss had joined him in the room then, admiring his handiwork and nodding in approval. He was unmoved by the assassin's newfound sense of ethics and had calmly informed him that his orders still stood and the job wasn't done until every person in the house was dead. When he still refused to budge, Weiss had simply shrugged and walked out of the room, mocking his sudden change of a heart and calling him a disgrace. It didn't bother him, he'd rather be viewed as a disgrace than agree to the things Weiss was asking of him.

His train of thought had been cut short then due to the arrival of several heavily armed guards. At some point a silent alarm had been tripped and a small army of military-trained guards appeared on the scene just a little too late to do anything productive. It was in the middle of all of this, while he was busy killing or incapacitating every guard who came through the door, that he heard the gunshots from upstairs. There were screams and cries, women begging for their lives and children weeping for their mothers. It didn't take a genius to know what had happened.

When the last guard fell, his neck twisted to an unnatural angle, the assassin looked up to see Weiss standing in the hallway, his shirt speckled with blood and a pistol clutched in one hand. He'd walked past him calmly, shoving the gun into the other man's chest as he passed. "You know what they say," he chided as he walked toward the front door. "If you want something done right…"

He glanced toward the main atrium, catching sight of grand staircase and the body of one woman sprawled bonelessly along the steps. There was a smaller figure on the second floor landing, slumped against the banister like a ragdoll, her shiny chestnut hair streaked with blood. He didn't hear anything from upstairs, no moans or cries or pleas for help. A few moments of violence and chaos and then, in an instant, the house was eerily, utterly silent. He had done what he had been assigned to do and Weiss had taken care of the rest.

Weiss was standing outside on the front lawn when he came out of the house, a cigar clamped between his teeth. He was covered in blood, his face speckled and streaked with red, and he looked absolutely delighted.

"Can't leave a mess behind, can we?" he asked to no one in particular, flipping an unlit match between his fingers absently. It was only then that the assassin noticed the front porch of the house had been soaked in gasoline. He stepped off the porch just as Weiss tossed the match, the entire front of the house erupting into bright, blistering flames.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Weiss asked, watching as the flames climbed higher. "Such beauty from such misery; truly a work of art." He glanced over at him then, flicking the ash off the end of his cigar idly. "A pity you suddenly developed a sense of morality during our little endeavour. Disappointing really, I expected much more from you."

He didn't remember moving but suddenly he was across the yard and slamming Weiss into the immaculately manicured lawn. The ground was hard and unforgiving beneath them and he pressed his weight into the smaller man, pinning him to the cold earth like a moth in a case.

"Give me one good reason not to slash your throat right down to the bone," he growled dangerously, the gleaming tip of a blade pressed painfully into Weiss' throat.

Weiss wasn't at all concerned by the threat; in fact, he laughed. "A reason, you ask? You would like a reason?" His expression hardened, dark eyes reflecting like oil in the flickering light of the flames. "You are a weapon, a tool, a means to an end. Nothing more. You are made to be used, to be wielded and controlled and then used again. You want a reason and this is it: your actions are not your's to commit, they're mine."

The blade remained pressed into his skin and Weiss offered a twisted smile in return. "I own you, every piece of you, and until I grow tired of you, I will continue to use you as I see fit. You are my property, my possession, nothing more than a tool in my arsenal and you will not think or do or say anything that I do not approve of first."

The blade pressed just deep enough to draw blood and Weiss bared his teeth in a sadistic grin. "You haven't killed me because I haven't ordered you to and you are nothing without my orders. After all, a weapon is only as good as the person who wields it, and I'm very, very good at manipulating my weapons. And that's all you are, isn't it? In the end you're nothing but a walking, breathing weapon. What a sad, pointless existence you must have. Wouldn't you agree, James?"

His hand tightened on the blade, pressing harder. He wanted it to dig in, to cut deep and down and devastating. He wanted that knife to drag through flesh and cartilage and muscle, not stopping until it scraped against the rigid stub of bone and vertebrae. He wanted to kill this man, destroy him, throw him into the flames of the house behind him. But he didn't and he wasn't sure why. Weiss deserved a slow, agonizing death, but he didn't deliver in that moment. He didn't know why…

"James?" Weiss said again, his voice mocking and condescending like a parent speaking down to a child.

He shook his head, the knife pressing in a bit more. All it would take was one swipe, one quick flick of the wrist and it would all be over. So why didn't he do it?

"James," Weiss said again but this time it didn't sound like his voice. This voice sounded familiar, warm and safe and wholly different from the cold, acidic words Weiss filtered into his memory. His brain latches onto the voice, clings to it in a desperate attempt to escape the dark, poisonous memories circulating through his head. He clings to the voice and he follows it back.

He blinks and for a moment he wonders what all the yelling is about. He's aware of guns pointed at him, unfamiliar voices shouting orders that he can't exactly make sense of. He's aware of lights and noise and a body pinned to the floor beneath him. He's aware that someone is saying his name over and over again. He's aware that Steve is under him, pinned to the floor with the assassin hovering over him. He's aware that Steve is speaking to him even though everyone else in the room is yelling and for some reason all he can hear is his voice. He's aware that he has a sharp, jagged piece of broken porcelain pressed against Steve's throat hard enough to draw blood.

The realization hits him like a gunshot and he scrambles backward quickly, pressing his back up against the wall and flinging the broken porcelain across the room. There are armed S.H.I.E.L.D agents everywhere, their guns trained on him and waiting for a split second of incentive to pull the trigger.

Steve pushes himself to his elbows, his eyes fixed on him the whole time. He does look afraid or angry or even bothered by the fact that he just nearly had his throat slashed. He looks worried, legitimately concerned for the other man's well-being. "James," he says again and this time it's not Weiss' voice he hears but Steve's. "Bucky...are you with me now?"

For a moment, James doesn't answer. He looks at the blood trickling into the hollow of Steve's throat, watches the shiny, crimson rivulets streaks down his skin and stain the collar of his shirt. The leftover wound is small and superficial but it's positioned directly over Steve's carotid. A little more pressure and…

"I almost killed you," he hears himself mutter and suddenly it doesn't feel like there are enough guns in the room. The S.H.I.E.L.D agents are treating him as a threat and they're right, he is a threat. They're all right, Weiss was right...he is a monster…

The agents tense in anticipation when he stands, ready to shoot in an instant if it comes down to him. None of them move though, not even Steve, when James straightens slowly and rakes a hand through his too-long hair like he's not sure what to do with it. He glances at Steve then and offers a thin, water-color smile. An apology. Remorse and regret and an acknowledgement that everything Weiss had said about him was true.

He turns quietly, walks down the hallway to the nearest bathroom, and very politely vomits in bathtub.

OOOOO

"Bucky, come on," Steve tries again, still getting nothing in response from the other man. "You can't ignore me forever."

He wants to point out that yes, in fact, he can and that he did a pretty damn good job of it for the first several weeks that S.H.I.E.L.D held him captive when they first found him. He had ignored Steve with everything he had but in the end he had been weak and given in to temptation. He's beginning to wonder if remembering him was such a good thing after all.

Steve is undeterred and slides down the other side of the glass wall slowly, pressing his back against the cool, clear panes. He could wait out there all night if he wanted; James wasn't going back with him, wasn't going to risk putting him in danger again, and that was a fact.

After the incident in the apartment, James had willingly handed himself over to the armed agents crowded in their living room. Steve had protested but James didn't; he all but pleaded for them to take him away. He couldn't stand the sight of the destroyed living room and the broken lamp and the shard of porcelain he'd nearly torn Steve's throat out with. He was dangerous and deadly, a rapid dog let loose on the population, and he needed to be contained. He needed to be locked away behind bullet-proof glass and metal bars so he could never hurt him again.

Steve, for all his wide-eyed optimism, treated the attack like it was nothing. He was apparently completely oblivious to the fact that his former best friend had nearly killed him (again) and was doing his level best to convince the other man that the attack wasn't his fault.

"I don't blame you," Steve says from the other side of the glass, glancing back over his shoulder into the cell. "You know that, right?"

James doesn't answer, he just continues pacing the floor of the cell anxiously like a cornered animal. He'd made them take away the metal arm, lock it away somewhere until they figured out what to do with him. He knew he couldn't break out of the cell even with the arm but he didn't care; he wanted it gone because it was lethal and deadly just like him.

"Who were you seeing?" Steve asks quietly, still looking over his shoulder. "Back in the apartment? That look in your eyes...whoever it was must have done something pretty terrible to get that look. Who was it?"

He doesn't tell him although he's nearly certain Steve already knows. Coulson had snagged him out of the hallway as soon as they'd boarded the Helicarrier and he's pretty sure if he still had any dirty little secrets kept hidden, Steve is well aware of them now. Still, the Captain is giving him the benefit of the doubt and asking him about it rather than assuming. He doesn't know whether to be grateful or infuriated.

"You should leave, Rogers," he mutters quietly, refusing to look over and meet the other man's eyes. He's afraid if he looks back he'll be suckered in again, allow himself to believe Steve when he says that everything will be alright. It won't be, he knows that; Steve may be unfazed by the attack but James certainly isn't and the realization of what he nearly did is enough to make him sick.

Steve is better than anything he ever deserved; he's kind and patient and understanding and has proven remarkably determined to remain by the other man's side. Steve was the only decent thing in his wayward existence right now and he'd repaid his kindness by trying to kill him. He couldn't go back, not if it meant he might hurt Steve again. If that meant staying behind bullet-proof glass for the rest of his life, then so be it.

"I'm not going anywhere," Steve replies easily, leaning back against the glass like he had done all the previous times he'd come to see him. The situation brings back an odd sense of deja vu: him frustrated and pacing behind the glass and Steve on the other side, speaking calmly and trying to get through to him. Even though it could very well get him killed, Steve still refuses to give up. It's maddening and he's pretty sure if he were on the other side of the glass he'd be tempted to whack the younger man upside the head and hopefully knock some damn sense into him.

"It wasn't your fault," Steve tells him and this time James really does lose it. He growls in frustration and slams his right hand against the glass. Steve barely even flinches.

"Stop saying that!" he snarls fiercely, glaring at Steve through the glass. "Stop acting like everything is okay! I tried to kill you, Rogers! Does that even register for you?!"

Steve is on his feet then, wheeling around to face him with a glare of equal ferocity. "And you think this is a healthy method of dealing with that?" he shoots back, searching the other man's face for an answer. "You think locking yourself away and being a prisoner is going to help you get through all of this?"

James growls in frustration and raps his fist against the glass wall.

Steve sighs heavily and shakes his head. "James," he shakes his head and tries again. "Bucky, I want to help you. I want nothing more in the world than to help you through this but it's impossible if you keep shutting me out." He indicates the glass with one hand. "There is literally a physical barrier between us right now."

James steps back from the glass and shakes his head. "That's the way it has to be."

Steve's eyes narrow a bit in frustration. "This isn't solving anything."

"It's solving everything."

"How?!"

"Because it keeps me away from you!" James snaps angrily and the wounded look on Steve's face feel like a punch in the gut. He closes his eyes and shakes his head again, passing his hand through his hair. "You really don't get it, do you?" he asks, speaking more to himself than to Steve. He laughs humorlessly and continues. "And I thought you were supposed to be the smart one…"

Steve doesn't say anything, he just continues to stare at the other man through the glass, his expression equal parts confusion and frustrated sorrow.

"I've done a lot of terrible shit in my life, Cap," he continues, actively avoiding the other man's eyes. Even though he knows Steve has read the reports, he still can't look him in the eyes as he admits to his crimes.

"Kidnapping, torture, murder; you name it and I've done it. I've killed more people than I can remember, played an active role in the disintegration of governments and political regimes, and been an instrument of destruction nearly everywhere I've gone. It never bothered me to be a killer, to do the awful things that I've done."

He stops and looks at Steve then, really look at him and tries to get him to understand. "But it matters now. Because hurting you, nearly killing you…" He shakes his head and looks away in disgust. "That's the worst thing I've ever done."

He knows as soon as he says it that it's true, all the way down to his core. He could live with being a murderer, the monster in the shadows and the name that struck fear into the hearts of lesser men. He could live with the body count and the crime scene photos and countless bounties on his head. He could live with all of that but the one thing he absolutely could not live with was hurting Steve.

There was some deep, foundational doctrine built in to his very genetic makeup that said hurting Steve was not fucking allowed and he had nearly trampled all over that. What he did remember from his previous life, before Hydra and the Soviets and the killer he had become, was that Steve was one of the only good things in his life and he would rather die than risk destroying that.

The anger fades from Steve's eyes and he steps forward, pressing his hands against the glass in a futile effort to reach out to the other man again. "Bucky, listen to me...I know you're afraid of hurting me but there has to be a better way. I can't help you if you're in there."

James smiles sadly, his eyes still dark and conflicted. "And I can't hurt you if I'm in here." Steve's shoulders slump a bit at the response and he has to resist the urge to reach out and touch the glass where Steve's hands are. "And trust me when I say that hurting you is the last thing I'll ever do. Because if that happens, if I cross that line, then there's nothing left for me to stay for. Really the only thing that's stopped me from brushing my teeth with a pistol is the fact that you're still breathing."

He sighs and shakes his head slowly. "I'm sorry pal...but this is for the best."

Steve seems to physically deflate in defeat, tipping forward and resting his forehead against the glass lightly. He closes his eyes and takes a slow, measured breath before opening them again. "So what now?"

He's been dreading this question because he already knows the answer. It hurts, seeing Steve so dejected and crestfallen on the other side of the glass, but he knows this might be his only option. "I think I should go away for a while."

Steve just nods like he had been expecting as much. "For how long?" he asks quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

"A couple weeks," James answers, walking back toward the glass that separates them and leaning his shoulder against it. Just like before, they're inches away and yet miles apart. "Maybe a month or two."

Steve just nods again, stiff and mechanical like the movement has been programmed. "Coulson?"

James copies his gestures and nods. "Yeah, Coulson. He offered me another mission before this last one. S.H.I.E.L.D is sending in a team to infiltrate and do recon on a ring of illegal weapons dealers. Not exactly the high stakes assignment like the one yesterday but they need as many experienced agents as they can get. He said it might take a month or better to break down all of the sects in the ring."

Steve is silent for a moment, weighing the words in his head before he speaks. "Is this what you want?"

James doesn't know how to answer that. What he wants isn't exactly possible at this point in time. The selfish part of him wants to stay, wants to attempt to live something of a normal life. He wants to stay with Steve and feel like he finally has a place to come home to. But the logical part of his brain knows that he can't do that, at least not now. Not when he's still volatile and unstable and dangerous. He can't go back until he's sure he won't hurt Steve again.

"I think it would help," he tells him honestly after a minute. "It would give me some more time to clear my head, work through some of the shit rattling around up there," he mutters, pointing at his head for emphasis. "It would probably be a safer option for both of us."

"Will you come back?" Steve asks quietly, his expression troubled in anticipation at the response.

James hesitates briefly before answering. He does want to come back, in reality he doesn't want to leave in the first place, but he doesn't know how long it will take. It could take months, possibly even years before he feels safe enough to be around. But, once again, if it kept Steve safe he would stay away for as long as it would take.

"Yes," he answers finally and there's the barest hint of relief in Steve's eyes. "But it might be a while. Until I know I won't hurt you again I have to stay away."

Steve goes silent again, troubled and brooding on the other side of the glass. "I don't suppose there's anything I can say or do to stop you."

James just shakes his head sadly. "I've made up my mind, Steve. Believe me, this is for the best."

Steve just sighs and slides down the glass, dropping down to sit on the floor and press his back against the smooth panes again. James follows his actions and once again they're sitting back-to-back against the glass wall that separates them.

"You're a real jerk, you know that?" Steve mumbles after another moment of silence passes between them. His voice is quiet and a bit shaky, his walls comes down in spite of the one against his back. He's trying to be strong, to put on a brave face, but he's always had a weakness and it was the man on the other side of the glass. Funny, James could say the same thing.

James nods in acknowledgement and lets his head tip back against the wall. Sitting this close, with Steve pressed against the glass behind his back, he can almost convince himself that he can feel the other man's body heat, feel the strength and warmth and determination all but bleeding through him. He can nearly feel all of this and that's the exact reason why he needs to leave for a while. Because he needs to protect Steve, he needs to keep him safe and whole and warm and glowing because without him...there's nothing. Without Steve there's nothing left for him to live for and he's not ready to give that up just yet. And it's normal to want to protect your best friend. It's the most natural thing in the world.

"I know, punk," he allows quietly, closing his eyes and pressing back against the glass a bit more. "I know."

Russian Translations:

Дурак- fool/idiot

дорогая- sweetheart

Thanks for reading guys! :D