#recovered bucky barnes

[artgroves]

Bucky Barnes for @cuidadolasllamas

[underthemexicansun]

Grumpy Bucky in The Falcon and The Winter Soldier.

[bucky-obsessed]

Merry slightly late Christmas! I gift you, smiling Bucky!

[cobrafantasies]

[rolandtowen]

A Winter Soldier / Avengers Tower Recovery fic in the year of our lord 2024?

It's more likely than you think!

Read the first chapter on Ao3 or under the cut!

Tony Stark was not ready to be housing a recovering assassin, but here he was. 

The fearsome Winter Soldier had passed out beside Steve on the bank of the Potomac – and Maria Hill brought him straight to Avengers Tower. 

“Why me?” Tony griped. “Why do I have to save this guy? He’s killed dozens of people, maybe more. Whoever he used to be, he’s not Barnes anymore.”

Maria turned on her heel. “Because you have an apartment built to hold the Hulk, which should hold him. Because SHIELD just imploded and we need to keep him out of HYDRA’s hands. And,” she paused to take a cookie Pepper offered her, “because he’s the longest-held prisoner of war in global history.” She throws a stack of folders down on Tony’s desk. “Even if he’s not Barnes anymore, he’s not responsible for what he did. Read those.”

Tony did. And he threw up in the nearest trash can. 

Pepper set up an Avengers meeting for the next morning. 

Steve, Sam, and Natasha had all spent the night in the Tower, Sam staying in the guest room on Steve's floor and Natasha on her own floor. Bruce and Helen had already been living in the Tower, and both responded immediately when Pepper asked if they could provide medical attention to the Soldier. 

No one got much sleep that night. The files made it from Tony, to Steve, to Natasha, and to Sam. Steve makes it through one folder before having to excuse himself. Sam doesn’t know where he goes. 

They start the next morning with copious amounts of coffee in the conference room. 

“We finally got a sedative to work on him around three a.m.,” Bruce explains. “He's so underweight, it's a miracle he's still functional.”

Natasha lifts an eyebrow at him. “The man who attacked me on the highway was not underweight.” 

“For a normal guy, he's got a lot of muscle mass, but for an enhanced person? He's underweight compared to Steve at least. He's got almost zero body fat.” 

“And that's a problem because?” Tony drawls. 

Bruce takes a gulp of his coffee, exasperated. “Well, for one thing, his temperature regulation has got to be screwed. Humans also need body fat to regulate hormone production and nutrient absorption. No unenhanced person could be at this body fat percentage and live. Their brain would stop functioning.” 

“Oh.” Tony shuts his mouth. 

A silence falls over the table as they consider the mess they’ve gotten into. SHIELD has just been exposed as a fraud, and the Avengers find themselves in possession of the most effective assassin in the world, who happens to be a starving, brainwashed POW.

"We need to designate one person for him to interact with. Build a routine." Sam's been delving into the files they'd recovered from the HYDRA vault, and has the bags under his eyes to prove it. “HYDRA designated one person to give him orders. They called them his ‘handler’.”

"I can do it," Steve offers immediately, even as he winces at the way his ribs complain. "He recognized me on the Helicarrier." 

"He also broke nineteen of your bones," Tony deadpans. "One moment of lucidity does not a Bucky make." 

"Tony, seriously? He pulled me from the river." Tony opens his mouth for another retort, but falls silent when Natasha stands. 

"I can do it. He was wiped after the highway, yeah?" 

Tony nods. They'd captured a HYDRA technician who was singing like a canary. Incredible what secrets people will reveal to avoid going to the Raft forever. 

"Then he doesn't remember me as a target. He'll remember Sam or Steve from the Helicarriers. I'm our best bet." She pauses. Her face remains neutral but Steve can tell she's fighting to calm herself. "And I had to deprogram after the Red Room. It's not the same, but..." She trails off. 

"It's the closest experience that any of us have about what he's gone through," Bruce offers. "And it might not be a bad idea to limit his contact with men for now. When I was working on him, his vitals were off the charts, but he seemed much calmer when Helen took over."

Steve nods and Tony claps his hands together. "Alright then, how do we start?" 

Natasha gives him a weak smile. "Very, very slowly." 

***

The Soldier is warm. They had given it new clothes, ones not sopping wet from the river. The Soldier likes being dry. 

The technician, a woman with black hair pulled back into a bun, had brought the Soldier to its holding cell. She had set its flesh arm and placed it in a sling. Inexperienced, certainly. The Soldier will not need a sling in a few hours. 

The holding cell is...odd. 

It is not the Soldier's place to question its handlers. But why the carpet? There are no obvious drains on the floor. The carpet will only get soiled when they hose it down. 

There's furniture too. A room with a couch and a TV, a kitchen area with a table. There's two closed doors across the room. The Soldier considers these. Maintenance was performed on another floor, and the Soldier has never had weapons storage in its holding cell. 

The Soldier turns abruptly when it hears the door to the cell open. Another woman, one with red hair, strides into the room. She is wearing a black tactical uniform, her hair just brushing the shoulders of her leather jacket. This must be his handler. He's never had a woman handler before though. 

"Soldier," the woman says, a voice oddly absent of a distinct accent. "Status update." 

The Soldier stands at attention as best it can with the sling on its arm. "Bodily function: 75 percent. Mission: none. Awaiting further instructions." 

The woman eyes the Soldier for a moment, then orders: "Injury report." 

"Right arm, fractured, five hours until operational. Torso, three broken ribs, not impeding function. Hydration level, 50 percent, not impeding function. Calorie intake, 25 percent of optimal, not impeding function." 

The handler looks at the technician, who nods, saying: "that's everything we saw in the lab." The handler nods. "Thank you, Helen, you may go." 

The technician retreats from the cell, and the Soldier is left alone with its handler. 

"Soldier, describe your method of caloric intake." 

"Liquid. Through feeding tube or drinking. Optimal intake is 5,000 calories a day. Minimum required is 500." The Soldier isn't sure if it is correct to address the handler as "ma'am", so it refrains. The handler doesn't seem to notice the lack of title. 

"Thank you, Soldier. We will feed you at optimum intake. Come with me." The Soldier follows the handler as she moves through the cell. She opens the first door, a bathroom. "You may use these facilities at any time, without permission. Do you understand?" The Soldier nods. “This floor is also equipped with a computer called JARVIS. JARVIS, can you say hello?”

“Hello, Soldier,” a soothing male voice responds. “If you have any questions, you can speak my name and I can try to help.”

“Thank you, JARVIS.” The handler continues her tour as if nothing was strange about a man’s voice coming through the walls. The Soldier shakes its head. JARVIS must just be a highly advanced surveillance system. Its new buyers are clearly very powerful. 

The handler leads the Soldier to the second room. This room is larger, with a bed, a desk, and a bookshelf. The Soldier hesitates in the threshold. Are these...handler quarters? Is the Soldier going to live with its handler?

"This room is yours," the handler says softly. "You may come in here without permission. You may sleep either on the bed or the floor. No one will sleep here but you." 

The Soldier stutters forward, placing its metal hand upon the bedsheets. "Permission to speak," it croaks. 

"Granted." The handler holds its gaze. 

"What...what is my mission?" 

The handler considers for a moment, then: "Effective immediately, your mission is to obtain optimal levels of hydration, caloric intake, and sleep for at least seven continuous days. Understood?" 

The Soldier nods. This is a test of its self-sufficiency. Its new owners want to know what it functions like at peak performance. Furthermore, the Soldier suspects that its owners want it to acclimate to these luxuries. 

So they can take them all away again. 

***

Steve has a sour look on his face when Natasha enters the surveillance room. 

"Spit it out, Rogers." 

Steve glares at her. "I get that we have to go slowly, but did you really have to order him around so much?"

She sits beside him, staring at the many camera angles of the apartment holding Bucky. "To you, I'm sure it looked like a lot of orders, but to him?" She points at one feed, showing Bucky seated on the floor next to his bed, running his metal fingers over the blanket again and again. "I barely gave him any. He's had his every action controlled for seventy years. He's probably had to ask permission every time he needs to eat, sleep, and piss." She folds her arms. "Ordering him to use the bathroom and bedroom without permission? That's like giving him the fruit of Eden, Steve." 

"Free will," Steve murmurs. His eyes are locked on Bucky's prone form. “I’m sorry, I know you know what you’re doing, but it’s just awful seeing him like this.”

Natasha rests a warm hand over his. “I know, Steve. But for what it’s worth, I think he’s still in there.”

“What was it like,” Steve asks suddenly, “Clint deprogramming you?”

“He had to gain my trust. Show me that he wasn’t going to hurt me or turn me back over to the Red Room when I fucked up. And like what Sam said earlier – I needed routine in order to feel safe.”

Steve swallows. “How long did it take?”

Natasha hums. “The better part of a year, I would say. Just to deprogram. But still, after all these years…” her eyes look suddenly very far away. “I still get nightmares. I’m hypervigilant, which is great for superhero work, not so great for normal life.”

Steve nods in understanding. They sit in silence together for the better part of an hour, watching Bucky slowly fall asleep leaning against his bed. "What will you set the next mission as?" Steve asks finally. “You know, once he gets past the seven days.”

Natasha considers this. "Maybe getting him onto solid food? I know he needs a shit ton of therapy, but he's fucking emaciated. He needs to stay alive, first and foremost." 

Steve nods. "Heal the body, then the mind," he agrees. “That's why you have JARVIS addressing him as ‘Soldier”, yeah?”

“Yep. He can have an identity crisis after he puts on some weight.”

"The kitchen has a protein shake Tony formulated for me. Should have all the stuff he needs. Three a day should get him pretty close to 5,000 calories too." Steve thinks 5,000 is pretty low for an enhanced individual too.

Natasha stands. "I'm going to have sealed water bottles delivered to him as well. I didn't trust water out of a tap for almost three months after Clint found me." She suppresses a shudder. "I'll let the kitchen know to send him the shakes. You gonna stay here for a bit?" 

Steve nods, his eyes never leaving the camera feed showing Bucky. 

***

The Soldier must have fallen asleep leaning against the bed, because it startles at a soft noise from the kitchen. “There has been a food and water delivery, Soldier,” the computer in the walls tells it.

Clambering to its feet, the Soldier finds a bottle filled with a thick shake sitting on the kitchen counter, alongside a case of bottled water. A note has been left under the shake. 

Three shakes a day for optimal nutrition. Three waters a day for optimal hydration. More of both are in the fridge. Seven days starts tomorrow. Sleep well, Soldier.

The Soldier takes a sip of the shake. It had expected a foul flavor, like the meals from its previous handlers, but this one...is almost sweet. 

Vanilla, a voice in its head supplies. This flavor is called vanilla. 

The Soldier does not know what time it is, but it feels tired. It drinks, first one of the shakes, then two of the bottles of water. It does not know where the trash is, so it rinses the shake bottle and places all three of them on the counter by the sink. Perhaps the handler wants evidence of how many of each it has consumed. It could ask the computer in the walls, but it does not want to earn a punishment yet. 

Questions always earned punishment. 

It returns to the bedroom and the blanket on the bed. It cannot feel anything more than pressure with its metal hand, but something about the repetitive motion of running its fingers over the soft material is…calming. That’s the word. The Soldier does not dare to sleep on the bed. The handler said it could sleep on the floor or the bed. The Soldier knows its place. 

It sleeps on the floor, its metal hand holding the corner of the blanket like a lifeline. 

***

The first of the seven days begins with another shake and bottle of water. Its flesh arm is fully operational, and the sling comes off, neatly folded on the kitchen table. The Soldier does not know how long it slept last night. It hadn’t wanted to ask a question so soon, but its sleep is also paramount to mission success. 

“JARVIS,” it speaks into the empty air. 

“Yes, Soldier?” 

“How many hours of sleep were obtained last night?”

“Six hours, Soldier. The minimum amount of sleep for optimal functioning is seven hours.”

The Soldiers’ lip trembles. It had failed. “Thank you, sir,” it says to JARVIS. Surely the computer will report its failure to the handler, and the handler will punish it. The shake that had settled so nicely in its stomach now turns sour, and the Soldier fights the urge to vomit. That will only make its punishment worse. 

“If I may, Soldier,” the computer continues to speak. “I have been programmed with several ways to help individuals relax at nighttime. You are more than welcome to explore these this evening. Or I could tell you more about them now.”

“You are…programmed to help me?” Fuck it, the Soldier had already asked one question. It may as well ask some more.

“That is correct. Would you like further explanation?” 

“Yes, please, sir.” 

JARVIS demonstrates several noises for the Soldier, which he claims are relaxing. The Soldier feels a panic rise in its throat at the sound of rushing water and fire crackling, but it enjoys the rain sounds. “I can play the rain sounds while you sleep. It is a form of white noise that may help you sleep more deeply.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

“It is still early morning, Soldier. You could go to sleep for another hour without disturbing your circadian rhythm.” 

“The handler has…no other tasks for me today?” 

“That is correct. Your only tasks are to maintain optimal levels of hydration, calorie intake, and sleep.” 

The Soldier breathes out shakily. It had not failed completely. It could still maintain optimal sleep levels. “Could – could you play the rain, please, sir?” 

“Of course, Soldier.” 

The Soldier returns to the floor of the bedroom. This time, it feels bold enough to pull the blanket off the bed. 

It sleeps. 

***

“Captain Rogers, Agent Romanoff, Sergeant Wilson,” JARVIS greets the three of them, still curled up in the surveillance room. “I would like to report that Sergeant Barnes is now sleeping. I project he will reach nine hours of sleep today. He has also consumed one food shake and one bottle of water.” 

“Thank you, JARVIS.” Steve stands, wincing a bit at the tug on his ribs. “That was well done, having him go back to sleep.” 

“Thank you, Captain. I must report as well that Sergeant Barnes appeared quite distressed when I relayed his less than optimal sleep from last night.” 

Sam shoots Natasha a look. “He was expecting to be punished.” Sam shudders as he thinks back to the folder labeled “correction methods.” 

“But he wasn't.” Natasha sighs. “We just keep doing this, setting healthy goals, refusing to punish him, until we can figure out the next step. But I don't know who we could trust to even attempt to tackle his mental state.” Natasha waves her fingers at her head. 

“We get him through this week, and I can make some calls,” Sam offers. “This is so out of my depth, but I worked with a guy in Afghanistan who specialized in reintegration for captured soldiers. We can start there.” 

Steve nods. “As long as it's better than the shitshow Fury put on for me, I say we give it a shot.” His gaze turns back to the camera feed, where Bucky's stirring after his morning nap. “JARVIS,” Steve calls out. “Can you have some new clothes ordered for Bucky?” 

“Of course, sir. Any colors that Sergeant Barnes prefers?” 

“Blue.”

[ccappucino]

The recovered letters of Steven Grant Rogers

[fsbc-librarian]

I was hoping you could help me find a fic I've been looking for for years. It was a complete multi chapter post ca:tws story, where Bucky escapes Hydra and ends up hiding out in the woods Hatchet style. Most of the fic is him by himself, coping and healing and learning to be a person again. I remember there was a whole section of him trying to cope through gummy bears? I don't remember if it ended in stucky, or was just gen, but the romance definitely wasn't the main part. I have tried every search term on ao3 I can think of, and cannot find it. I know this isn't necessarily your specialty, but I'm desperate!

Ooh, I’ll have to see what I can find, I don’t think this is something I’ve read though.

If anyone else out there knows it, please feel free to drop a link!

Update: this could potentially be it?

Color by Numbers

gossamerthreads

Summary: The Soldier came up with the plan in his spare time, though he never actually believed he’d put it into practice. Hydra’s reach seemed too complete – too powerful – to actually consider running. But he thought about it.

And then the man stopped fighting. And he said he knew him. And the Soldier felt…felt… He knew what he felt was important.

So, he ran.

[stuckydrewx]

Idc how good Bucky looks I am NOT watching thunderbolts fuck that shit they’re gonna mischaracterise everyone. 😭

[astranix]

bucky barnes energy

this is peak retired assassin. This is like a literal hitman. look at how casual he is . Wild

[meraki-yao]

I had a 20 minute meltdown over the fact that apparently BUCKY BARNES IS A CONGRESSMAN NOW???!!!!

I just—I have so many questions

[polizwrites]

To New Beginnings

This is a fill for today’s  @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt [#FFF285 How It Begins ] as well as the @fluff-cember   alternate prompt Homecooked Meals.  

Fandom: MCU/Marvel Pairing: [none - Bucky Barnes POV]  Rating: General Tags:  Post Captain America: The Winter Soldier,  Recovering Bucky Barnes,  Jewish Bucky Barnes,  Scents,  Memories  Summary: After the fight on the helicarrier,  the Soldier goes to ground, and finds himself pursuing a familiar scent.    Word Count:  340 words 

He learned later that scents were one of the most reliable memory triggers.  Maybe that’s why Hydra had provided him only with the nourishment  he needed to stay functional during a mission:  protein bars and supplemental nutrition drinks, neither of which had much of a smell or flavor. 

After rescuing the man he’d fought and nearly killed - the man who claimed to be his best friend, someone who had known him all his life - he made his way down a shadowy alley, doing his best to stay hidden.  

Strangely familiar scents wafted past his face; a mix of rich and meaty notes that made his mouth water and his stomach rumble;  sensations that took him by surprise.  He found himself following the scent to an unmarked back door  left propped open. 

He slipped inside the building and found himself in a dark hallway crowded with boxes. Voices came from the other end, indistinct words mixed with the clang of kitchen utensils and a sizzling sound.  The smells were  even stronger - he could identify them now: sauerkraut, pastrami and chicken soup.  He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply; a cascade of memories flitting through  his mind as a sense of safety and contentment unexpectedly wrapped around him.  But it didn’t last.   

“Hey!”  He dropped into a defensive crouch on instinct, reaching for the gun he’d lost on the helicarrier.  An elderly man faced him, a fierce look on his face as he held  a butcher’s knife down at his side.  “You can’t be back here!”  Taking in his appearance, the man’s frown softened slightly.  “Looking for something to eat, eh?” 

He nodded.  “Wait here,” the man replied. “Just don’t touch anything.” 

He did as he was told, and a  moment later, the man reappeared with something wrapped in brown paper.  He held it out, along with a white cup, filled with a rich yellow broth that was still steaming. “Here - take it.  Es ist geshmak.” 

“A shaynem dank,”  Bucky found himself replying, thankful for the gift of both food and kindness.

[everythingmarvelbxm1012]

Not Normal

Summary - What do you do when you walk into your kitchen at 3 AM and a stranger is looking for supplies?

Notes - Takes place soon after the end of Captain America: The Winter Soldier, hours after the post-credit scene with Bucky in the museum. 1.1k words

*Don’t repost or translate my work without my permission. *These characters and world do not belong to me.

You were dealing with A LOT of things. For one, you were just fired from one of your jobs that morning; two, your phone had suddenly died part way through the day and for whatever reason your charger was not working; three, your grandmother had quickly called to ask when you were getting married after your sister, who was four years younger than you, had gotten engaged the day prior; and four, your groceries dumped everywhere after the bag broke at the bottom. So you were definitely not in the mood to walk into your kitchen around 3 AM to find a stranger rummaging through your cabinets and drawers.

You nearly screamed upon seeing the figure. He was covered nearly head-to-toe in dark clothing. Pants, boots, a t-shirt and hoodie, though his right arm had been removed from the sleeve and the short sleeve of the t-shirt rolled up. He had brown hair that nearly reached his shoulders. Fortunately, you had powers. You didn’t know where they came from, but you had used them enough to feel comfortable to defend yourself, so you just let yourself be angry.

“WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?!” What you hadn’t realized was that the man hadn’t really registered that you were standing there and he quickly swiveled on his heel, raising a gun.

“Who are you?”

‘What the hell kind of a question is that,’ you thought to yourself. You cleared your throat. “The person whose kitchen you just broke into!” You stated, disdain written in your voice. You stood there, looking over the small pile of first-aid things he had piled onto your island kitchen. Before you could ask any questions he was talking again.

“Don’t scream. Just need supplies. Bullet to the shoulder,” he mumbled. He mumbled it so quietly you wondered if he was just trying to reassure himself of what he was doing rather than telling you. The gun was still raised though the arm that held it almost seemed to lose some tension, if that was the right way to put that.

“What are you doing in my kitchen,” you emphasized the ‘my.’ You knew why he was in a kitchen, just unsure of why it was your’s.

He slowly lowered the gun a few inches, but it wasn’t completely facing down. You knew you could protect yourself if you needed to. “Look. I don’t want to start trouble,” he stated a little more forcefully, the muscles in his jaw tightened momentarily before loosening again.

“You started trouble when you broke into MY kitchen!” You stood there, unmoving, unfazed by his slight change in demeanor.

He lifted some gauze from the kitchen island, only staring down at it before speaking again. “Look lady, I just need to patch myself up. Then I’m gone.”

“You’re not going to do it well with one arm,” you responded. Nobody could possibly patch up a bullet wound in the shoulder with one arm. He didn’t respond, just tried to glance over at the wound, before reaching toward it with his other arm which is hidden by the sleeve of his hoodie. “No! You cannot do it with one arm,” you insisted, rolling your eyes. “If you are going to steal my things, don't waste them.” He slowly lowered the gun, though he kept finger around the trigger.

If it was a more reasonable hour you might have kicked the stranger out, but you weren’t about to let him waste the good money you spent on those items. Before he could stop you, and honestly before you were even thinking all of it though you were pulling more supplies out of your kitchen drawers before organizing them a bit more. You forcefully pointed towards the stool. “Sit.”

There is a short pause before the stranger places his gun at his hip and sits in the stool. There is another moment of silence as you wash your hands before standing by his shoulder and letting out a heavy sigh. “Have you removed the bullet?”

The man shook his head. You nodded, knowing it was better to leave the bullet in there than remove it, in case it lodged itself into or near a vein, or other nerve endings. “Good.” You turned on the light hanging above where the mystery man sat to get a better view, before pulling a soft washcloth from the drawer near you and before opening the bottle of saline solution already on the counter. You proceeded to get some saline solution over the cloth before beginning to clean the wound without looking away from your work.

You looked up momentarily, actually getting a better visual of his face under the light. His jaw was clenched and his blue eyes would have been more pleasant except that they were rather stern, cold, calculated, as he looked just past you. Whatever he was feeling in that moment, you would not be able to figure out. His face seemed to be absolutely blank. If he was in pain he was not showing it at that moment.

You then went back to your work, noting for the first time how it did not look horrible, making you wonder how long ago it had happened and how long he had been dodging around people’s homes and taking supplies. You finished cleaning the wound and the area before throwing the washcloth to the side. He was damned lucky to be alive, but his presence was still a bit unnerving so you chose to not mention the fortunate situation of that. You pulled some gauze and slowly wrapped the wound and the area, carefully, making sure to not wrap it too tightly. “There, done.”

You took a few steps back, not bothering to look at your work and pulling a half-full bottle of ibuprofen and Tylenol from the cabinet as he sat there, seemingly unable to move. You shoved them into his other hand, which you realized was gloved, which you thought odd but did not spend too much thinking about it. Something inside of you felt sorry for the man. All you knew was that some guy had been shot and apparently needed to sneak supplies, so maybe that should have been a red flag. What surprised you is that he actually spoke up.

“You’re not normal, are you?” His voice was completely even, face still blank.

“Depends upon how you define normal.”

There was more silence, before he spoke again. “Well, most people probably won’t patch up a guy who broke into their house, then give them medicine.”

“Maybe.” You only shrugged before deciding it was time to sleep. Okay, maybe you helped patch the guy up, but you didn’t trust him enough to let him stay on your couch. For all you knew you were harboring a fugitive. “I do need you to leave now.” He didn’t even nod, just slipped the painkillers into his pocket without another word, before exiting through the main door to your apartment leaving you with a million questions you didn’t get answers to for a few years.

[underthemexicansun]

I just want to take care of Bucky Barnes. Like I want to cook for him and do his laundry and buy him books to read and put all his pieces back together again and show him he’s deserving of love and care. But I also want to have hot, dirty sex with him and I want him to choke me and take his anger out on me. I want him to call me his good girl and ruin me for anyone else.

[lynlee494]

I'll Use You (As A Focal Point): Chapter Nine is out!

Bucky knows Steve Rogers would not hurt him, now, that once he had even loved Bucky Barnes. He knows with certainty that Steve would do everything he could to keep him out of Hydra’s grip. Whether Steve would because it is the right thing, or because he is Bucky, worries at him. Bucky isn’t who Steve remembers, he’s been a tool for the enemy whose every action since he gave in had been designed to hurt, the ripple of pain far reaching. Immeasurable.

How can he hold Steve to their whispered promise, echoing across so many memories, in the face of that? Not when Bucky isn’t sure it can survive it.

[buckys-arm-and-rios-dagger]

I've seen a lot of theories about what Bucky did to make money in Romania and I put forth:

Math tutor Bucky.

Like. Think about it. Not only did it mention he excelled in the classroom on his Smithsonian description at the end of TWS, but Bucky was a sniper, meaning he had to know a LOT of math, and I doubt that'd be something HYDRA would want to brainwash out of him seeing as he'd need that during his Winter Soldier years. He speaks Romanian so he can talk to the kids, and even though how math is taught may have changed since the 40s he can still teach them a way that gets them to the correct answer. Maybe some might find his way of doing it easier even idk.

I don't know how it would start or why parents would suddenly start trusting their kids to be around this sad hobo looking man that they're 99% sure is squatting in an apartment (in my headcanon he is), but eventually they end up trusting him and he kinda likes it. He doesn't make much money off it, but the parents pay in cash so it isn't traceable (good for someone on the run), and it pays enough that he's able to buy food, do laundry, and maybe some new clothes if he saves up. Or at least, some things from the local thrift store.

I also like to think at least one parent takes pity on the sad man that tutors their Cristian and helped bring his Calculus grade up to a C+ when he was in danger of failing before and they force ask him to stay for dinner whenever he's over for sessions and make sure to send him home with as many leftovers as he can carry

Edited to add: @stuckyfingers added this to the reblog and I loved it so much I had to mention it to the original post!!

[rolandtowen]

chapter summary: JARVIS calls for aid. Sam answers.

Read on Ao3 or under the cut!

chapter warnings: vomiting, panic attack

There are several prerogatives in the foundation of JARVIS’ code. Etched in carefully by Master Stark, set in stone. Prerogatives that cannot be overridden, no matter the circumstances. 

He cannot allow harm to come to the residents of the Tower, through either action or inaction. Further, he must obey orders from the Tower residents, unless those orders induce harm. 

JARVIS has been requested not to call Captain Rogers, and he must respect that request. But Bucky is clearly in distress – heart rate 120 and rising – and he is no longer responding to JARVIS. So he calls - according to his calculations - the next best thing. 

“Staff Sergeant Wilson, you are urgently needed in Bucky's quarters.” 

Sam startles awake, leaping out of bed with a soldier’s urgency. “What’s the situation?” He asks, pulling on a shirt and stumbling into a pair of sweatpants. “Do I need my med kit?”

“Bucky seems to be experiencing severe emotional distress, but is not in any physical danger,” JARVIS replies calmly. 

JARVIS can hear Sam swear something intelligible under his breath. “If he’s experiencing emotional distress, why aren’t you calling Steve?” Sam asks, shoving his feet in a pair of sneakers. 

“Bucky has specifically requested that Steve not be notified of his distress.”

Okay, weird, Sam thinks. He hesitates, then decides he’s better safe than sorry and grabs his med kit from under his bed. The elevator deposits him one floor down–Bucky’s floor–and the door to Bucky’s quarters opens without Sam lifting a finger. “Thanks, JARVIS,” he murmurs, slipping into the apartment. 

Sam’s not sure what he expected upon entering Bucky’s apartment, but it sure wasn’t Bucky sitting frozen on the floor in front of the couch, his eyes glazed over. Trauma manifests differently for everyone, he reminds himself. It makes sense, in a twisted way, that Bucky’s body would pick the “freeze” option out of fight, flight, or freeze. Fighting or fleeing were decidedly not options as the Winter Soldier. 

Sam moves slowly across the living room, dropping his med kit by the door, telegraphing his movements and trying to make enough noise that he doesn’t startle Bucky. When he finally makes it to him, he sits cross-legged in front of him, a few feet away so as to not block his exit. “Hey, Bucky, you with me?”

Bucky’s eyes don’t move at all to track his movements, nor do they flick to him when Sam finally speaks. His eyes stay fixed on something in the distance, his face lax but his breathing heavy. A thousand-yard stare. 

Sam takes a deep breath and reminds himself that this is what he does all the time – counsel veterans with PTSD. Surely the nuts and bolts remain the same, even if said veteran has been a prisoner of war for seventy years while being molded into the perfect assassin. Sure. There’s no conceivable way this goes sideways. 

“Your name is Bucky. It’s Tuesday, 3:06am. You’re in your apartment in Avengers Tower. My name is Sam Wilson. We do person-bootcamp together.” Sam thinks he sees Bucky’s lip twitch a little bit at his joke. “JARVIS called me to come help you – can you tell me where you are?”

Bucky gives the slightest shake of his head. Well, progress either way. Sam repeats his grounding sentences for a few more minutes, watching as the tension begins to settle in Bucky’s frame, his eyes coming into focus. “Let’s try again – can you tell me where you are?”

“Tower,” Bucky rasps, breathing purposefully in through his nose and out through his mouth. 

“That’s good,” Sam breathes with him. “Can you tell me who I am?”

“Sam.”

“And who are you?”

“I – I’m Sergeant Barnes.” Bucky says the words like it pains him to hear them out loud. 

Okay, technically correct, but Sam knows for certain now that Bucky’s remembering something, because they’ve all been very careful to keep from calling Bucky by his full name or by his rank to not forcefully trigger any memories. Looks like Bucky’s brain is healing itself, then. 

“How do you know that you’re Sergeant Barnes?” Sam asks gently, thinking he’ll have remembered something from the war, but – 

“Because I remember all of them. My missions,” Bucky gulps, and his head ticks to the side like he's fighting to keep still. “I remember killing Stark.”

Sam's stomach flips and he opens his mouth to call out to check on Tony, but JARVIS beats him to it. “I believe Bucky is referring to the deaths of Howard and Maria Stark. Sir is unharmed in his lab.” 

Of course. Sam remembers seeing the mission report in the files. Much of it had been redacted, but one thing was clear: The Winter Soldier had assassinated the Starks. If there was a reason why, it had been redacted too. Howard was the main intelligence behind SHIELD's technology, and maybe – maybe he'd figured out that SHIELD was compromised even then, or maybe…he'd invented something that made him dangerous. 

Sam is snapped back to the present as Bucky curls over to one side and retches. “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,” the former assassin repeats over and over like a prayer. “I knew him, but I killed him – they made me kill him. He knew me and I still killed him.” Sam reaches out slowly, rubbing Bucky's back in what he hopes is a comforting and grounding gesture, and Bucky alternates between sobbing apologies and gagging. 

“Bucky, Bucky – you gotta breathe, man, it's alright. C'mon, breathe with me, you're okay. No one's gonna hurt you, you're safe here.” Sam repeats himself until Bucky stops shaking and pleading. “That's it, there you go. Just breathe.” 

It could've been minutes or hours, but when Sam is satisfied that Bucky's stable enough to breathe on his own, he stands, grabbing a glass of water from the kitchen. “Drink,” he sets the glass on the coffee table in front of Bucky. “I'll be right back.” 

He cleans up the bile off of the hardwood with a roll of paper towels, then stands, scanning the apartment for something helpful. His eyes land on the fleece blanket thrown over the back of the couch, and he throws it in the dryer for a few minutes. One of his typical grounding tools after a panic attack is to hold an ice cube, or to splash cold water on his face, but he knows Bucky won’t respond well to the cold. He’ll have to put a heating pad on the ever-growing list of things to introduce to Bucky. 

When Sam returns with the toasty blanket, the glass of water has been drained, and Bucky's staring into the middle distance again, albeit breathing normally. “Here,” Sam wraps the warmed blanket around Bucky's shoulders before plopping on the floor next to him. Bucky's flesh fingers grip the edges of the blanket, pulling it tighter around him, and he looks to Sam, confusion clear on his face. 

“Gift,” he says tremulous, “why?” 

Sam sighs, spreading his legs out in front of him. He has a feeling they're going to be a while. “Not a gift – a coping mechanism. A tool. It's…necessary. Not earned. Does it help?” 

Bucky nods, burrowing deeper into the fabric by way of answer. 

“Has Rebecca told you about flashbacks? Or panic attacks?” Bucky shakes his head. “Well, I think what happened was you had a flashback – you remembered something. Were you asleep or awake?” 

“Asleep,” comes the muffled reply. 

“Well, that makes sense. Our brains process a lot of information when we sleep. So, you had a nightmare, and woke up. I'm guessing that's when JARVIS called me?” Another nod. “Can you tell me why you asked him not to call Steve?” 

“He can't know,” Bucky says seriously, locking Sam in place with a desperate stare. “I killed his friend, my friend. He'll hate me, and then – then I'll have to leave. Please, please don't tell him, don't make me leave, I can be good –”

“Hey, hey,” Sam gentles Bucky's growing panic with a hand to his shoulder, firm pressure grounding him in space and time. “We know already, okay? We got your files from the Vault, and everyone either read them or got briefed on them. Trust me,” Sam emphasizes each word. “Steve doesn't hate you. Neither does Tony. No one is going to make you leave. Okay?” Bucky gives a tiny nod. “We know it wasn't your fault. The Chair, the trigger words – everything. You didn't sign up for that, Bucky, we know that.” 

Finally, finally, some semblance of calm washes over Bucky's face and he sits back, gripping the blanket firmly again. “Do you want to try and go back to sleep?” Sam asks, and Bucky shakes his head emphatically no. “Alright, well I'm gonna get us some more water, and we can just hang out.” 

Sam really doesn't want to leave Bucky unattended so soon after such a potent panic attack, so he grabs some more water and shakes, and then asks JARVIS to turn on the latest season of Planet Earth. They sit on the floor together, Bucky's eyes locked on the television screen as the sun slowly begins to rise. 

“I need a pen,” Bucky says after three hours of silence, in the middle of an episode about cuttlefish. “And paper.” 

“What for?” Sam’s already standing, looking around for Bucky’s journal and pen. Maybe Rebecca has told him to record his dreams and memories. He finds the journal on the kitchen table, passing it to Bucky, who turns to a new page. “Gotta write down the dream?”

“No,” Bucky starts writing furiously before looking up at Sam with a determined gleam in his eye. “I remember everything they did to me. Where they did it. Who did it.” He swallows, and points to what he’s scribbling on the page. Sam leans in to look and – he’s writing names. Locations. Even GPS coordinates. “We can burn HYDRA to the ground.”

Sam smirks. “Damn right.”