A/N: This fic was written before the Civil War so it contains no spoilers for the film. It's in the same thread as all my Bucky Barnes recovering stories which means Bucky willingly sought out the Steve after the events of The Winter Soldier and is now learning how to be a human again with the team's help. This story takes place about a year after his return.

It will be five chapters in total, most of which are already written, so I'm hoping to update every few days if the stars align!

Disclaimer: I do not own Marvel, the Avengers, or any character from the Captain America series.

"Are you sure about this, Buck?" Steve asked from the passenger's seat of the incognito sedan they had borrowed from Tony for the afternoon. Steve was currently leaning over the back of his seat so he could rifle through the many grocery bags piled in the back.

Bucky huffed out a long exhale through his teeth as he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel. "Yes, Steve," he repeated for the umpteenth time. "It's good. I've had it before."

Steve pulled an overflowing brown paper bag into his lap and, after reorienting himself in his seat, began to dig through it. "It just doesn't seem like—"

Before Steve could finish his sentence, there was a harsh screeching sound followed by a thudding metallic crunch that threw them both to the left. Bucky had less than a second to process what had happened before his head smacked into the side window and a thick fog took over all cognition.

In the moments that followed, Bucky tried to make himself move but his aching brain refused to pass the impulses on to his leaden limbs. He heard disjointed sounds—screaming, crashing, spurting—all filtered through a cloudy haze as if he were back in a soundproof room. He felt warm liquid on the side of his face and, eventually, shooting pains in his ribs. He saw faded colors spinning, twirling—things his addled brain couldn't comprehend.

An unknown amount of time later, he heard a harsh metal screech which jarred him back to a semi-conscious state. Then he heard a thick ripping and felt a warm sensation on his shoulder. In his daze, Bucky could do nothing but react.

His metal arm swung up to bash the warmth and he heard another cry—this time he was cognizant enough to recognize that it had come from somewhere to his left. Now in more control of his body, he scanned the area around him to identify any possible threats. Biting back nausea as the world spun uncomfortably, he saw four men dressed entirely in black outside his open car door, three armed, the unfortunate fourth holding his face and cursing furiously. This was enough for his fight-or-flight reflex to kick in, the adrenaline bringing a much-needed edge to his blurry vision.

Bucky threw himself out of the car, staggering to stay upright on unsteady legs. Still too loopy to formulate a decent plan, he gave into years of his Soldier training and began to swing: patterns, combinations and blocks coming to him almost without conscious thought. He grabbed the barrel of the closest weapon, twisted around it, then drove it backwards, right into its owner's sternum. Bucky released the assault rifle with his left arm then swung his metal wrist in a vertical arc, smashing through the plastic visor and crushing the man's nose. As the goon dropped the weapon, his hands flying to his face, Bucky stomped on the man's foot, hearing a sickening crunch, then kicked backwards, sending the goon flying and himself stumbling in the other direction to regain his balance.

He fumbled for a split second trying to get the rifle braced against his shoulder, then fired at the other two men, who had just barely had time to readjust their sights. Both went down, unfortunately not dead; his aim had been a little off thanks to the blood dripping down his face and obscuring his view...and the fact that he belatedly realized the men were wearing Kevlar vests.

"Oh, Asset!" a cruel voice sang.

That was wrong. Names were important—names gave identity. "The Asset" was not a name: it was a title, a mantle worn by people before and after him. That wasn't who he was anymore.

"My name is Bucky!" he growled, whirling around angrily. The swift motion caused the world to tilt uncomfortably and he was forced to shift his stance wider, his feet shoulder-width apart, in order to stay upright. When his vision began to clear, his stomach dropped to around his knees, bringing about a new wave of dizziness, as his injured brain finally remembered he wasn't the only person in the car.

Even through his slightly blurry vision, he could positively identify Steve hanging limply between two masked men. His friend was completely unresponsive, blood coating almost every inch of his person, his weight being entirely supported by the two men awkwardly gripping his upper arms. A third man stood behind Rogers and rested the barrel of another assault rifle against the back of his head.

"Ready to go home?" this man sneered, motioning with his free hand to the Hydra logo emblazoned on the sleeve of his jacket.

"No," Bucky shot back with more bravado than he currently felt. He knew these men only wanted one thing: to take him back to the base, back to the chair, to wipe him, freeze him, and turn him back into a weapon.

Fear lancing through his system, he quickly scanned the situation, looking for any possible escape, but was unable to come up with a plan that got them both out safely; in his current state, there was no way he could take out the three agents before one fired and Steve was far too close to them for Bucky to take that risk.

"Well it doesn't seem like you have much of a choice," the third man replied, shoving the barrel of the rifle into the back of Steve's head with some force. His friend's head lolled forward and he let out a soft groan. "Drop your weapon," the man barked, turning his attention back to Barnes.

With curses flying through his head, Bucky slowly, cautiously, laid the rifle on the ground then straightened up.

"Push it away," the third man ordered.

Bucky reluctantly nudged the rifle out of arm's reach with his foot, awkwardly shifting forward in order to stay completely upright. Then he heard a loud clink, the sound driving knives through his temples, and slowly looked down to see a pair of reinforced handcuffs, at least a foot long, drop at his feet.

"Put them on."

A wealth of painfully clear, unwanted memories of what had happened to him when he'd previously worn the cuffs flashed through Bucky's throbbing brain. "No," he said before he'd even realized his mouth was open.

Thankfully, no weapons were discharged, but the man did press the barrel of the gun into the side of Steve's neck, his finger tightening ever so slightly on the trigger. "Put. Them. On."

Barely breathing, Bucky knelt, his hands slowly reaching for the cuffs.

"You miss your old place?" the man taunted but Bucky blocked him out and focused on Steve. From his position on the ground, he had a better look at Steve's face which was swollen, bloody, and gushing. He could also see more so than hear the very slight movement to Steve's chest, signalling that his friend was indeed still alive.

As if sensing he was being watched, at that exact moment Steve's eyes slipped open and the corners of his mouth lifted.

Bucky instantly knew this wasn't some random gesture: Steve wanted him to know he had a plan. With all the variables in play, said plan could only be one of two things, both of which were very dangerous and likely to get Steve killed in the process. It wasn't a risk his friend should be taking, even if it meant Bucky ended up back in cryo, but unfortunately Barnes didn't have the luxury of trying to talk his friend out of it. Besides, Steve would go through with the plan without him so Bucky knew he could either agree and do his best to ensure they both survived, or do nothing and watch his friend die trying.

It really wasn't a choice.

He swallowed hard then gave Steve a barely perceptible nod as a ice cold fear shot through his system, both for his friend's safety and his own.

"Well, get going Asset," the third man said, jamming the gun into Steve's neck again.

Rogers screwed his eyes closed and for a painfully long second he didn't breathe. Then, without warning, he threw his arms forward, crying out in pain as he dropped out of the two agents' grips. As soon as he hit the ground, he reared back and kicked at the legs of the two that had been holding him. In that same second, Bucky dove forward, grabbed the rifle he'd been forced to abandon and fired three times.

The Hydra agents crumpled, screaming, as Bucky's bullets flew true.

Bucky had only a second to glance at his friend before more men began pouring from the back of the vehicle that had hit them. Bucky sprang to his feet, automatically laying down suppression fire while Steve grabbed the third man's assault rifle and used it to leverage himself upright. Rogers only staggered once before he regained his balance and started shooting left-handed, using his right to support the barrel.

Bucky heard a sound behind them and saw two of the men he'd taken out earlier reaching for their weapons. Now that his vision was much clearer, he delivered kill shots without a second thought. He spun around to fire again at the oncoming mob and heard an empty click. Not knowing where additional ammo was, he threw himself at the Hydra agents, punching, kicking, clawing and disarming as many as he could, literally fighting for his life. Behind him, he heard Steve's gun click empty before he saw his friend throw himself into the fray as well.

The Hydra goons attacked in a horde, not at all like the fight scenes in those cheesy movies Steve loved, every one of them out for a piece of Captain America and the (former) Winter Soldier. In the beginning, the fight was fairly evenly matched, Steve and Bucky managing to take down the goons with relative ease, but then Steve's momentary burst of adrenaline began to wane and he began to favor the right side of his body, barely putting any weight on that leg and tucking the same arm close to his body whenever possible.

Bucky could hardly blame him considering Rogers' side of the car had taken the full brunt of the collision. Honestly, he was more than a little surprised his friend was still upright. Barnes just set his shoulders and took up the slack, ignoring the aches in his own body and giving himself over to instinct, to years of training, hoping that would be enough to get them out of this alive.

Eventually, one of the soldiers seemed to notice Steve's lopsided posture and went to kick at his good leg but Bucky threw out his arm, almost falling over in the process, and just managed to stop the Hydra agent's blow from connecting.

"Thanks," Steve mumbled, knocking the man out with a sweeping elbow.

Bucky didn't have a chance to respond as he was charged by a goon wielding what looked like a cattle prod. He quickly and efficiently separated the man's shoulder, despite the fire racing through his own as he did so, and tossed the prod to Steve, who began wielding it with almost deadly accuracy.

They had almost completely taken out the second wave of Hydra agents when a gunshot rang out.

Bucky kept fighting, assuming Steve had found a new weapon, until he heard an evil cackle that stopped him dead in his tracks: it was a sound he'd heard many times back at Hydra, one the mind wipes had never managed to erase, one that preceded pain, agony and torture.

It was a sound he would never forget.

Dread shooting through his body, he punched another Hydra agent with enough force to shatter his jaw and did a quick inventory. Realizing he hadn't been injured, he whirled around just in time to see the shocked expression on Steve's face and the blood gushing from a hole in his upper left chest.

As Steve's knees buckled, Bucky forgot about everything going on around him and sprang forward, catching his friend before he hit the ground. He dropped to his own knees, pulling Steve's head into his lap and applying pressure to the entry wound with his left hand.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man clad in solid black body armor with a white "X" spray-painted on the front of it jump out of the van and land lithely on the ground, a smoking rifle in hand.

"Hello Asset," the man—Rumlow—said gleefully, training the weapon on both of them.

"Shut up you son of a bitch!" Bucky shouted as he pressed both hands harder against Steve's pectoral. The bullet had (probably) missed Steve's heart—it was more a prayer than a statement—but had definitely pierced his left lung, judging by the way his friend was struggling to bring in air, his breaths more pained gasps than life-sustaining inhales.

"Stay with me, Steve!" Bucky ordered as years of Hydra-mandated first-aid training began to kick in; after all, an asset was no good in the field if he bled out from every minor injury.

He had just pulled his right shoulder back, ready to shrug off his jacket, when he felt a warm circle burning against the back of his skull. "Get up," Rumlow demanded.

"Not until he's okay," Bucky shot back, his voice somehow strong in this time of panic. Beneath him, Steve groaned loudly and began to thrash, trying to get away from the pressure on his chest.

"You've seen that wound before," Rumlow replied evenly. "Inflicted it, I'm sure. You know he doesn't have long."

As if on some sort of macabre cue, Steve coughed harshly, spewing blood into the air, lines of pain etching themselves around his mouth and lungs. "Don't...Buck!" he sputtered, his pupils dancing around, unable to focus. He choked again, his body curling in on itself as the harsh motion tugged on his new wound.

"Save his life and I'll come with you," Bucky found himself saying, without hesitation. It would be worth it, as long as Steve survived. He was the one the world needed anyway; as far as the public was concerned, they'd all get along much better without the Winter Soldier.

Bucky could almost feel Rumlow's surprise in the way the barrel slid slightly across the back of his head. "Willingly?" the Hydra agent asked, tightening his grip on the weapon.

"No…" Steve gasped, scarlet staining his teeth, as his eyes fluttered closed, though his chest continued to rise and fall at an uneven cadence.

Barnes gritted his teeth as more of Steve's blood bubbled through the plates on his hand and his friend fought to bring in another breath. "Willingly," he ground out.

The metal disappeared from his scalp and he heard Rumlow take a step back. "We're watching you," the man warned, another agent coming around in front of Bucky and training a shotgun on the prone Rogers.

Bucky hurriedly peeled off his jacket and pressed it hard into the wound, eliciting a small groan from Steve. "He needs an ambulance. Let me call S.H.I.E.L.D."

"No."

"He's dying you bastard! Our deal only works if he lives."

There was a moment of silence while Rumlow considered this, far too slowly for Bucky who was painfully aware of every irregular breath Steve took, hoping it wouldn't be his last. "Fine," Rumlow finally agreed.

Within that same second, Bucky leaned forward so he was pressing his left forearm against the entry wound and pulled his phone out of his pocket with his right hand. He tapped the emergency button and swiped through the second number, leaving a thick trail of blood across the screen.

"What's up Bucky?" Natasha asked after the second ring, not bothering with the pleasantries, a fact today for which Bucky was incredibly thankful.

"Steve's been shot," Bucky glanced around and quickly gave her the cross streets. "It's bad. Hurry!"

"Barnes, what are—"

Suddenly , the phone was ripped away from his ear. "That's enough," Rumlow roared, smashing the device into the ground and stomping on it with a combat boot. "Let's go."

"We have to wait—" Bucky was reaching for the hem of Steve's shirt to rip it into strips so he could secure the jacket until Natasha got here when he felt a sharp pain in the side of his neck and the world went fuzzy. Whatever they'd given him wasn't quite enough to knock him out completely, but it was enough to make him lose conscious control of his body.

From there on, he only got disjoint images and sounds: sirens, moving, cold things around his arms, pain in the back of his head, cursing, then running. Why the hell were they running?

The next thing he knew he was being jostled into an upright position. He saw a flash of red, heard a woman's voice, saw a silver glint facing him. The sensation of being at the business end of a weapon jolted some adrenaline into his brain, focusing his cognition just for a moment.

Natasha was pointing a Glock at him. Well, not at him, persay—he felt something cold and metal against his head and a rough grip around his shoulder, like a hug, but without the warmth or happiness a hug from his friends usually brought—at the person behind him.

He saw Nat's lips moving but heard no sound. He focused with his remaining strength and managed to make out her saying, "Put. The gun. Down."

"You won't shoot him." Rumlow seemed so sure.

Bucky knew better.

A thin smile came to his lips and he might have even huffed out a small laugh. He saw Natasha smirk and knew his message had been received, seconds before he felt a hot white pain in his abdomen and his world faded to black.