#recovering!Bucky | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rolandtowen · 1 month ago

Text

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.”