Associations

6 months prior

Asset tilted his head to the side, letting the bullet fly past, feeling the air distort above his ear. He crouched behind a jut out in the wall. Breathed in. Out. Listened.

A scuff. He jerked his pistol up over the lip of the hedge and fired three shots in rapid succession, his aim proving true with the thumps of bodies hitting the ground. He could make out the sounds of others approaching, still a couple of blocks away. 

He stood, taking a cursory glance at the men strewn across the gravel, blood steadily pooling below their lifeless forms. 

His mission was to take down the group. The purpose? He did not know. The organization? He did not know. He had only been made aware of the faces of the upper echelon, memorizing the contours of them all before setting out. His mission did not hinge on information gathering. His set task was death. No hostages. No survivors. Complete annihilation. It was easy enough to go about it when the grunts continuously scurried around him, futilely attempting to guard their superiors.

He’d finished with five of the fifteen thus far, the last being a waifish man with long, yellowish hair and pale, sunken cheeks. The next in line was set to be arriving at the safe house momentarily. 

Asset stalked through the back alleys, flickering lights from nearby main streets casting only the faintest glow on his position. He didn’t go directly for the target building, instead scoping for a taller structure several hundred meters away. In range for his rifle but out of sight for the unenhanced. He spotted a large advertisement pillar, sparing it a brief glance and determining it was high enough. He rounded to the back of the post, giving a solid shake to one of the lower rungs of the ladder. It creaked ominously, flakes of rust scattering over his sleeve, but held. So he climbed, deftly making his way to the top. 

There, he stopped abruptly, eyes unblinking behind his mask as he took in the sight before him. He’d come up without a second thought, finding the structure to be a suitable perch to snipe from, but his mission now faded into the background. He didn’t bother with ducking low, nor with sticking to the shadows. He pulled himself up from the ladder, standing blatantly in front of the billboard. The air seemed to grow still around him, sound fading away with it.

Slowly, haltingly, he reached out his gloved, left hand, brushing his fingertips against the enlarged cheek of the face splayed out across the board, larger than life.

A shot rang out, and a matching white hot bolt of pain erupted in his side. He let out a soft grunt, ducking down. He whirled to face away from the display, taking quick aim and firing, no scope needed to spot the man on the ground several meters away. He downed him with the single shot.

He pressed his hand against his torso, blood slowly leaking between his fingers. His head pulsed, and he had to make a concentrated effort to not grasp at it. Images fluttered like echoes just out of sight, not in his vision but in his mind. He cast one more glance at the man plastered across the advertisement behind him. Shining, blonde hair. Blue, blue eyes. A grin, formal and polite. Not like when - 

“Gh.” He winced sharply, scrunching his eyes shut and pressing his hand tighter against his abdomen, stemming the already slowing flow of blood. He edged back over to the ladder, gripping the rail with his left hand, still clutching his side with the right, and let himself slide down at full tilt, not bothering with the rungs. Rust flaked off against the friction, tougher pieces scraping against his gloves but not piercing through the thick fabric. The air rushed past him, the sound familiar and shrieking in his ears. 

His feet thumped against the concrete. He shook his head, as if to shake the dim fuzz that’d settled over his thoughts. Another pulsing wave pushed at the edges of his consciousness. 

-

He went through the motions. Present yet not. Processing his actions yet not wholly aware that they were his own, receding to the corners of his psyche. 

The tall, hook nosed man. Bullet through the temple. Lackeys taken out with equal detachment. 

Jittery, strawberry blonde woman, freckles coating her exposed skin. A slit throat, so as to not yet alert the others of his presence. 

Greasy haired, sausage lipped man; chin rolls melding into one another. One shot to the chest, another to the head - to be sure. Two guards down alongside three witnesses.

Cane user - debilitated; several scars marring his cheeks and across his nose, eyes and lips. Neck snapped beneath metal arm. One witness taken out.

Close shaven, dark skinned man; teeth coated in gold. Two shots to the head, holes punched through passenger side’s window. Driver swerved off road - self casualty. 

Red headed man, thick mutton chops framing strong jaw. A bullet fired off under his chin. 

Asian woman, speckles of grey mixed in with glossy, black hair. Largest following; leader taken out halfway through rest. 

Bald, tanned man, no facial hair, smoothness in the place of brows. Shotgun shells to the face and neck, courtesy of a dead man’s weapon. 

-

He paused. There was one woman left. Thin nose, long blonde hair, petite frame. He did not yet proceed. He peered down at his palm, blood dried and stiff against his fingers and below his nails. Some was his own. Some was not. The flesh above his wound had sealed shut, but he felt the bullet itself shift inside him with his movements, grinding against sinew. 

He sat on the park bench, the area deserted and dark. Nearing four, before dawn. He lifted his top, exposing the still pink flesh of his injury to the night air, and unsheathed a knife from the sleeve at his wrist. The blade was thinner than most, but no less sharp. 

He didn’t concern himself with time to hesitate, pressing the blade into the new skin, blood bubbling up around it. He blinked slowly, hand steady as he gouged back into the freshly sealed wound, pushing in until the metal tip clinked near inaudibly against the lead of the bullet. He breathed again, letting his eyes fall closed for a moment as he set the knife down at his side. He slipped the glove off his right hand, shirt staying hiked up from where it was bunched under his bicep. He raised his index finger to the puncture, and forced it into his side, blood dribbling down his wrist. He found the bullet quickly enough, curling his digit around it and pulling it back out in a swift movement, letting the piece roll to the center of his palm. It sat there innocuously, gleaming gold and scarlet in the faint light of the moon. The slug looked whole, unshattered. A boon. 

He set it into his chest pocket, lowering his hand back down and pinching the skin on either side of his reopened lesion. It crusted over within minutes, skin holding firm to itself after he let his grip slacken. He pulled a rag from the pouch on his thigh, wiping away the still wet remnants of blood from his torso and hand. 

Still, he didn’t rise. His bones felt weary, unwilling to physically center him on his mission. One more, he absently tried to convince, letting his jacket fall back over his front. The blonde woman. He drifted, swaying slightly. The blonde. 

Short and sickly. Tall and healthy. Strong jaw, fierce brows. Deep voice. A knowing grin and piercing blue eyes -

His head dropped forward before snapping back, as if he’d nearly fallen asleep while sitting upright. He breathed in jerkily, lungs stuttering as he exhaled. His eyes were wide behind his bifocals. He took them off. The lenses bent and cracked under his harsh grip, frame snapping easily and knuckles whitened. He stared emptily.

He stood.

-

Thin nosed, blon-, petite frame. Bullet to the back of the head.

The tracker’s miniscule, red light blinked rhythmically. It lay, bare to see, next to the already cooling body of the last of his mission.

He swiped the excess blood off the back of his neck, face twitching at the uncomfortable sensation of the liquid dripping down his back. It’d been easy enough to get the device out; even without feeling the slight, raised bump of it under his skin. He could discern its presence, just as he could the bullet.

He pushed the panel of his metal arm back down, crushing a small menagerie of wiretaps and trackers in his other fist and scattering them across the ground. He rolled his sleeve back to his wrist and turned away, steps crunching over destroyed remnants of technology. His to use but not to own. Traces that would lead back to him if kept.

He took off his mask.

-

3 months prior

He let out a heavy exhale through his nose, resting his head back against the wall of the alleyway. He smelled heavily of sweat and brine; he’d have to stop by a laundromat soon. 

He’d helped out at the docks for the past eight hours, grueling work that he struggled to make look as difficult as it clearly was for the rest. He’d kept his jacket and gloves on despite the near sweltering heat, simply rolling his eyes or shrugging his shoulders when the other men goaded at him nearby with tees soaked in sweat or thrown off completely, bare chested. 

The pay was decent, at least, and the docks were always in need of an extra set of hands, so they didn’t ask many questions. He just had to give a name, and he got the cash. It was easy enough. He had a different name for every job, unless they were related, so the paper trail from any ledgers would be difficult to trace. He doubted it’d come to that, though. None of his jobs were steady, and he kept it that way. Having a routine was trouble.

As for his own name, his real name… he wasn’t really sure. Thinking about himself as Asset made his teeth grind together and a snarl form on his lips, but the name Bucky seemed forced, a lie to both himself and others. He settled on Barnes, eventually. Still a name he was tied to but with less familiarity compared to the one others had known him by and not as casual as going by the first name it came with. A compromise. An accepting of the truth of his identity but a rejection of it being wholly him.

He closed his eyes, internally wincing at the sensation of sweat cooling and forming a tacky, salty layer over his skin. The sounds of city life flowed around out on the street, people walking past at brisk paces, eager to get home seeing that it was already after dark. 

One set of footsteps came to a halt. 

Barnes tensed but kept his outward appearance lax, hat tipped low and eyes slitting open to glance at the figure in his peripheral. 

It was a kid - teen, probably - shifting from foot to foot at the entrance of the alleyway. He kept it up for several moments before seeming to resolve himself, striding forward with an air of confidence that he clearly didn’t feel, seeing how quickly it withered away as he approached. 

He stopped about a meter away, scratching at the back of his neck with one hand and clutching at a paper bag with his other. “Um, excuse me, sir,” he called softly.

Barnes tilted his head in acknowledgement.

The kid took to the silent response as encouragement and hastily continued, opening up the bag and pulling out a sandwich, extending his hand out but not yet coming closer. “I’ve got an extra,” he explained simply.

Barnes’ shadowed eyes flicked up from the extended offering to the kid’s eyes, wide and earnest, hesitant yet open. “Why.” he rasped.

The kid let out a little laugh, the sound more surprised and almost happy than patronizing or anything of the sort. He shrugged. “Why not?”

Barnes stared at him for several moments longer, and the kid waited patiently, arm remaining held out for Barnes to reach. And he did. He took the still warm sandwich in his hands, just grasping it for a beat before beginning to unwrap it, head tilted down. 

The kid smiled, taking a couple of steps back. “I gotta get home, but I hope you like it!” he called, waving and turning around with a little spin, bounding back out the alley and around the corner, leaving Barnes to stare into the now otherwise empty alley, absently picking up the fresh meal. He glanced down at it.

“Huh.”

-

The second time they met was less than a week later. Barnes hadn’t been to that particular alley before the last time, and he hadn’t thought he’d visit again, but he found himself seated against a door stoop in it some five days after, the sun having set a couple of hours ago. 

Unlike what the kid probably thought, he wasn’t homeless. He made enough money that he could probably scrounge up enough to afford a studio apartment, but his actual place was less… legally attained. It was one of the units in a ramshackle sort of apartment building, the tenants being less than stellar members of society and the owner not bothering to maintain the rooms in disuse. Including the one Barnes now resided in. 

And he was pretty content with it, really. As content as he could be with being an amnesiac, more than ninety year old man whose only real skill set was assassination and who was currently on the run from an international terrorist organization. 

But when he wasn’t working a job, it killed him to just sit around in the moldy apartment. In just a handful of minutes, his leg would be jumping up and down against the carpet and he’d be all on edge, nerves fraying at the thought of having to stay cooped up in the unit where the walls felt like they grew ever narrower and he couldn’t scope out possible attacks or infiltrations from outside. So he’d taken to staying out when he was doing practically anything but sleeping or occasionally eating. He walked, mostly. Usually through backstreets and alleys so as to avoid having even a partial of his face caught on cams. 

It was during one of his walks, where he’d sat down for a moment in the alley, that the kid came across him that first time. 

And now Barnes was sitting in the same spot, waiting but unsure if he really knew for what.

He kept his eye on the entrance of the alleyway this time, so he noticed immediately when the kid stopped in front of it, taking in how his eyes widened before lighting up and how he bounded down the alley towards Barnes. “You’re here!” the kid exclaimed.

“...I am.”

The bag was in the kid’s hand again, and this time he pulled out two sandwiches, stacked on top of one another, and held them both out.

Barnes shook his head preemptively, but the boy interrupted him. “I’ve got three!”

He still hesitated for a moment, but gave in, taking both from the kid. “Thanks.”

The younger nodded emphatically, pulling out the third sandwich and dithering for a couple of seconds. “You mind if I join?”

‘Yes,’ was already on the tip of his tongue, but it died before it could escape his lips. He shrugged instead, unwrapping the first sandwich and hunching slightly, further submerging his face in shadows. 

The kid readily took the acceptance for what it was, pulling down a piece of cardboard from where it’d been propped against the wall and taking a seat on it, starting on his own sandwich.

Barnes chewed slowly, savoring the crunch of pickles and the savory mix of cheese and ham. He didn’t eat a lot of fresh meals, mostly sticking to bulk packages of granolas, protein bars, and the likes. Not like he could drop in on public spots often.

The kid cleared his throat. “What’s you’re name?” he asked, taking another bite.

The food in Barnes’ mouth turned to ash, and he struggled to swallow it and settle his nerves. “Not gonna introduce yourself first?” he observed wryly.

The kid flushed, waving his hands around in front of him and sending a mayo covered pickle slice flying out of his sandwich and landing on the ground with a wet splat. He turned cherry red. “Sorry,” he squeaked, hiding his face behind his food. “I’m Peter. Peter Parker,” he introduced sheepishly.

Too trusting, Barnes noted, taking another bite of his sandwich. 

The kid - Peter - waited for several seconds before prompting, “And you are…”

Barnes wavered, a dozen possible names coming to mind but all of them sounding hollow and sending an off-centering ache through his chest. So he just shrugged, focusing his attention back on eating. 

If the kid was bothered by it, it didn’t show. He only hummed, nibbling at the corner of his sandwich. “Mind if I call you Joe?”

The question nearly surprised a laugh out of Barnes, the sound coming out as a punchy breath. He’d agreed with a simple, "Why not?" huffing through his nose at the beaming smile he got in response. 

-

Present

He was well aware that whatever he had going on - companionship, friendship, whatever - with the kid should never have happened. It wasn’t a question of the matter, it was a statement of the fact. Nobody should be close to him. Nobody had been close to him. He’d been out for half a year, and he had no doubts that agents were crawling all over the country, looking for him. And here he was, putting some random kid who was too friendly for his own good in harm’s way.

Their conversation just now was proof enough that it was a bad idea. Pete’d touched on a sore subject for him - his identity - and he’d clearly realized it. Hard not to with how he’d reacted. Not to mention how he’d never given the kid his name. Or any personal information, really.

He kept his head tilted down as he walked, pausing and waiting at the terminal alongside a few tired looking workers. The bus squealed to a stop in front of them. 

A few hours spent hunched in an uncomfortable, plastic seat later, he got off, alighting in Washington D.C. 

It was completely dark out, and most people had already gone home. He found an empty alley easily enough, and settled for the night. He doubted he’d be able to sleep, with his mind pinging constantly with anxieties, old and new, and his unfamiliarity with the location in comparison to his ‘residency’ in Queens. He would settle, though. He couldn’t visit until tomorrow.

He’d come across the place on his way to New York. It hadn’t been a coincidence, no. It’d been a part of his planned path since shortly after he’d gotten out of California - after the fateful mission where he’d thrown away all that he knew, however little it truly was, and clung to the thought of more. 

After the first couple of weeks, he’d gone to a local library in some small town with a population of less than a hundred, slipping past the single librarian, unnoticed. He looked up the name that’d been attached to the face on the billboard - blue, blue eyes - ‘Captain America.’ 

It was almost like déjà vu, looking at the guy’s mug. Not as in he’d seen the face on the advert kind of stuff. No, he knew him. Somehow, he knew him. 

He hadn’t spent much time researching after that, glancing upon an article stating where more information could be found and deciding that was enough for now, that he wasn’t far enough away to have the luxury to keep dithering around in hopes of stumbling across something that would send another arcing spark of familiarity across the synapses in his brain.

So, when he finally got to D.C., one month after having deserted, he went to the one place he’d had in mind. The Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum. 

He’d been expecting to learn about this Captain America - this Steve Rogers. Details that could help him piece together on his own how they might’ve met. Known of one another. If he was an ally or an enemy. A mission, a target. Both or neither. He hadn’t expected to be met with a face that he was far too familiar with. In the sense that it was none other than his own. The hair was shorter, scruff more neatly trimmed; eyes brighter and smile easy. Yet it was unmistakably him. ‘James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes.’ ‘Best friend of Captain America.’ ‘Sergeant of the Howling Commandos.’ ‘Only fatality among its members.’ 

He’d left quickly after that, the names, both his own and those of his apparent allies, swirling around in his head, and advanced straight for New York, deciding that - his past, his future, goals, plans, revelations -  was a matter for another time. For after he’d had a moment to process. To settle. To hope that his escape was more successful than the constant paranoia under his skin led him to believe. 

-

He walked up the steps to the museum shortly after it opened, ten o’clock. There was already a sizable gathering of patrons around, so it was easy enough to get in without much attention. 

He meandered over to the only area he had in mind, the one dedicated to Captain America and the Howling Commandos, and gazed up at the poster of Steve Rogers, the face of the man who both comforted and confounded him. Someone he knew intrinsically that he told every secret to and confided with all his problems, even without having read their history.

“What’m I gonna do, Steve?” he murmured, unheard below the steady hum of voices nearby.