Clint Barton (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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marvelbox2012-01-09 10:31 pm
agent_cupid) wrote in marvelbox2012-01-09 10:31 pm
Entry tags:
Flashback: Bucky's Rescue
Clint hated hospital rooms. Even ones that weren’t meant to look like a hospital room. They still had that same sterile, cold feel about them, the kind of atmosphere that just gave him the creeps. Then again, he’d landed himself in enough hospital beds over the years to justify his dislike of the place.
Fortunately for him, this wasn’t one of those times. No, he was here purely for the poor bastard lying all too still in the bed beside his chair. The man was scarred and scruffy and looked pale in the fluorescent lighting overhead. A single sheet covered his body, wrapped up in a standard-issue hospital gown. The one that let you moon the entire world when you got up if you weren’t careful. The man was hooked up to half a dozen machines clustered around the head of the bed, monitoring everything from heartbeat to temperature to the acidity of the man’s piss, for all Clint knew. The scientists had gone a little nuts when he and Natasha had brought this one in. Some high security top secret trade with Russia that Clint still didn’t understand, but it had made Tasha go tight-lipped and cold with some reaction he hadn’t been able to pester out of her yet. She knew more than she was telling, but that was typical with his partner. Tasha always kept a lot of secrets.
Still, all Clint knew about the guy he was here babysitting was that the order to retrieve him had come from the top, straight down from Nick Fury himself and when they’d shown up at the exchange location, the Russian diplomat had rolled out this giant test-tube thing with a body inside and Clint had been certain that they were getting duped out of whoever this Winter Soldier was supposed to be. Only Natasha hadn’t seemed at all surprised and went on as if everything was business as usual, so he’d followed along after her, which was normally what he was good at. He was an enforcer, the sharpshooter. He left all the political wrangling and espionage in Tasha’s very capable hands and everything usually went smoothly.
Until, of course, they got back to headquarters and Tasha got called to Fury’s office for briefing while he got sent here to babysit a corpse. Or something. He had no idea what was with the body they’d retrieve, other than the guy’s birthdate on his chart – which Clint had read in a fit of sheer boredom – made him almost as old as his grandfather. Which made no sense, since the guy looked barely older than Clint himself. Impressive genes there.
Of course, there was only so much one could do while sitting in an empty hospital room with beeping monitors and a guy that might as well be dead. The chart had been a quick read. The tiny tiles in the ceiling had taken him all of ten minutes to count. Then his imagination had started kicking in to help with the fidgety boredom and he started picturing all the things that could go terribly wrong in this situation.
Like Clint sneezing and the guy suddenly crumbling into mummy dust. Or the dude was a vampire and Clint would end up dinner at sundown. Not that Clint would mind a vampire, exactly, but if he was gonna get sucked on, he much preferred it to be a hot chick with better curves and considerably less stubble. Or… no, he was stopping there, because one of the monitors gave an alarming sort of beep that was not at all usual and Clint found himself sitting straight up in his chair with a concerned look, eying the safety restraints on the man’s arms and ankles skeptically just in case.
Fortunately for him, this wasn’t one of those times. No, he was here purely for the poor bastard lying all too still in the bed beside his chair. The man was scarred and scruffy and looked pale in the fluorescent lighting overhead. A single sheet covered his body, wrapped up in a standard-issue hospital gown. The one that let you moon the entire world when you got up if you weren’t careful. The man was hooked up to half a dozen machines clustered around the head of the bed, monitoring everything from heartbeat to temperature to the acidity of the man’s piss, for all Clint knew. The scientists had gone a little nuts when he and Natasha had brought this one in. Some high security top secret trade with Russia that Clint still didn’t understand, but it had made Tasha go tight-lipped and cold with some reaction he hadn’t been able to pester out of her yet. She knew more than she was telling, but that was typical with his partner. Tasha always kept a lot of secrets.
Still, all Clint knew about the guy he was here babysitting was that the order to retrieve him had come from the top, straight down from Nick Fury himself and when they’d shown up at the exchange location, the Russian diplomat had rolled out this giant test-tube thing with a body inside and Clint had been certain that they were getting duped out of whoever this Winter Soldier was supposed to be. Only Natasha hadn’t seemed at all surprised and went on as if everything was business as usual, so he’d followed along after her, which was normally what he was good at. He was an enforcer, the sharpshooter. He left all the political wrangling and espionage in Tasha’s very capable hands and everything usually went smoothly.
Until, of course, they got back to headquarters and Tasha got called to Fury’s office for briefing while he got sent here to babysit a corpse. Or something. He had no idea what was with the body they’d retrieve, other than the guy’s birthdate on his chart – which Clint had read in a fit of sheer boredom – made him almost as old as his grandfather. Which made no sense, since the guy looked barely older than Clint himself. Impressive genes there.
Of course, there was only so much one could do while sitting in an empty hospital room with beeping monitors and a guy that might as well be dead. The chart had been a quick read. The tiny tiles in the ceiling had taken him all of ten minutes to count. Then his imagination had started kicking in to help with the fidgety boredom and he started picturing all the things that could go terribly wrong in this situation.
Like Clint sneezing and the guy suddenly crumbling into mummy dust. Or the dude was a vampire and Clint would end up dinner at sundown. Not that Clint would mind a vampire, exactly, but if he was gonna get sucked on, he much preferred it to be a hot chick with better curves and considerably less stubble. Or… no, he was stopping there, because one of the monitors gave an alarming sort of beep that was not at all usual and Clint found himself sitting straight up in his chair with a concerned look, eying the safety restraints on the man’s arms and ankles skeptically just in case.
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Then he tried to shift his arms, and that was a mistake. The beeping came faster, and all his training flew out the window. What he hadn't told Steve, ever, was that he'd seen some of the operating rooms in those Hydra bases they'd knocked down, what they did to people - what they'd nearly done to him. And this - where was he? He remembered a train, and Steve, and falling...
Bucky's eyes flew open and he jerked against the restraints, obviously panicked. He was dead. He should be dead. Except you had to be alive to feel pain, and the guy beside him wasn't exactly his ideal image of an angel. Little too muscular. And male. But he wasn't exactly leering and sharpening any cutting tools, either.
Everything in the room was unfamiliar, but it was clean and not particularly threatening. Bucky took it all in wide-eyed, slowly sinking back into the bed. When he tried to make his voice work, it was hoarse from disuse. "Wh... Where am I?"
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The monitors were beeping like crazy and Clint shot them a disgusted look before glancing back to meet the man's gaze. "I know this is all confusing and strange, considering you can't be where you last remember, since you've been asleep since I first laid eyes on you. But here's a piece of advice, you might want to calm down unless you want the doctor sorts to know you're awake and come poke and prod some more."
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...Which meant he was stateside again, and he let the relief of that wash over him, his shoulders relaxing against the pillows. The beeping decreased a little. That was gonna get annoying.
"Sorry. I thought I was dead for sure back there." He gave the man a crooked smile. "So you're not a doctor or an angel or anything like that - did you save me?" Bucky murmured, brow furrowing a little. "I don't mean to be ungrateful; I usually remember that kinda thing."
The guy was right about one thing: none of this was making any sense, and the pounding in his head wasn't really making it easier.
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Clint almost offered his hand in introduction before he realized the man's hands were still secured and aborted the motion. "I'm Clint, by the way. Or Agent Barton, but I'm not as fussy as some about all the formalities."
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He didn't feel too different when he shifted a little more carefully. He was stiff, like he'd been sleeping too long, and he had a few old aches but he was pretty sure his skin hadn't peeled away or anything. He had to wonder what the Russians could have possibly wanted with him, and for how long if it was them who'd gone through the trouble of catching him.
He turned back to Clint. He'd called himself an agent, but he was definitely a fighter too, more obviously than Peggy had been.
"Private James Barnes of the 107th." He replied automatically. He started raising his hand too, but the restraints jerked against them and he lowered his arm. "My friends call me Bucky. Don't suppose you could get these things off me?"
He shook his head. "I'm not going anywhere without pants, and I'll take any answers you've got to give me right now. I've never seen anything like this. Any of this." He admitted. "What's the date? I can take a guess at how long it's been. Maybe Steve'll have a better idea."
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"Well then, good morning, Bucky. Welcome to March 8th, 2010. Though if I were you, I would have slept a few more weeks. Although I suppose even Russia can boast to be colder than the Big Apple most winters..." he mused aloud as he freed the other man from his restraints.
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Once Clint freed his arms, he sat up enough to undo the leg restraints himself. He was woozy enough that he didn't think he'd try standing right away, but he could manage a few buckles just fine. Once he finished, he looked up at Clint, caught somewhere between amusement and a vague sort of dread in the pit of his stomach. "Come on, Clint, really. I'll never live it down if they won the war while I was napping in Russia."
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A look of genuine confusion flickered over Clint's face at Bucky's words, however. When he wasn't on his guard, he was usually pretty easy to read and now was no exception. He had no idea what Bucky was talking about. "War? Which war? Were you in the Middle East?"
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Only Clint wasn't kidding. He was honest to god confused, so unless he'd been living in the Middle East for the last few years...
"That's not possible." He replied slowly. Coming from someone who'd lived through the start of the second world war and everything that had come after, he thought he had a pretty broad idea of what was possible. He grabbed Clint's arm, partially to make certain that they were both entirely serious, and partially to steady himself. If he didn't feel like he'd just had all the wind sucked out of his lungs he might have pulled him down and shook him until he started making more sense. "Clint, it's 1942. That's... it hasn't been seventy years."
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"Look, I don't know what happened to you. I'm not sure I had that level of clearance before you woke up and I just... let the cat out of the bag. All I know is that the Russians had you and we were sent to retrieve you. It's 2010, man, I swear I'm not yanking your chain."
And Bucky was officially in the best shape for a 90-something old man that Clint had ever encountered. He wondered what his secret was.
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You're a soldier, Barnes, not a schoolgirl. Come on. They'd probably just asked Clint to stay until he woke up, and if he didn't even have clearance to mention the date... Well, Bucky knew how that kind of organization worked and didn't want to get him in trouble for trying to help out a total stranger.
"No it's - it's alright." He belatedly remembered to release Clint's arm, and raked his fingers through his hair. (At least he didn't think he had 70 years worth of dandruff.) "Listen, I won't tell them what you said, if that'll keep you out of trouble. I appreciate you telling me what you know about the truth."
Well, he did while he stridently refused to think about what it meant, anyway. "Who do I have to talk to about the rest of those answers?"
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He frowned slightly, looking thoughtful as he searched Bucky's face a moment. "I would guess that will be who's coming to debrief you, anyway. Although considering how top priority you are, you might even get to meet The Man himself. Nick Fury. He's the one that heads the SHIELD division. That's where you are, by the way. I can answer what I can, although I'm sure you now have about a million questions. I just can't answer ones directly involved in... well, you. Since I officially know about as much about that at the moment as you do. Sorry, dude."
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He shook his head. He'd sort of assumed that SHIELD was some advanced branch of the military he hadn't heard of yet, but with all the secrecy and what Clint was telling him, it sounded more like a bunch of spooks. Maybe it was both. "I'm just a soldier. I'm not really sure why I'd be top priority for anyone," He admitted. And Clint was right - now he just had more questions than he did answers.
"Except..." He paused, fingers curling slightly against the sheet. It was a long shot, and not even the question he should be asking, but he had to know. "You know anything about a guy named Steve Rogers? Captain America?"
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"Well, you did just time jump for seventy years, apparently," Clint pointed out. "I don't know how that works, but it sounds like something top-secrety to me. But what do I know? They keep me on for my eyes and muscles, not my brains." Which wasn't entirely true, but Clint was long used to letting people underestimate him. It made life easier and gave him more freedoms. Coulson and Natasha knew better, of course, but the three of them had also been working together a very long time.
At Bucky's question, Clint blinked, looking startled for a moment. "Of course. Who doesn't know who he is? He's a national hero. Why?" Then Clint did the math and winced slightly. "Shit. You knew him. Were you one of the ones who worked with him? Back in that war?" Suddenly things were starting to make a little more uncomfortable sense.
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"And here I thought you were gonna say it was your charm," Bucky teased, because he had a feeling Coulson wasn't the only one Clint drove crazy on a regular basis. And maybe it would be enough to distract Clint from the rest of it, because honestly he didn't even know where to start.
He couldn't even guess why any of this was happening to him, of all people, except maybe some crazy coincidence. Seventy years took some time to sink in, and he was caught somewhere between feeling overwhelmed by just the hospital room and wanting to be just about anywhere else. Where, he didn't really know.
"That sounds like Steve," Bucky agreed. He nodded at the questions, but it seemed so strange to hear someone call it that war instead of just the War.
He hadn't really thought about it at the time, but he supposed knocking down every Hydra base in Europe wearing an american flag on your chest was bound to get a guy more than a few decorations. He hoped Steve had survived the war and lived an easy life, but that was wishful thinking at best. Knowing Steve, he'd stuck his neck out until the end.
"What happened to him? How'd the war end?" He braced himself for the answer, because he knew already that the rest of the Howling Commandos had to be gone by now and Bucky... well, he was a man out of time.
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Clint gave a low whistle as he settled back a bit more comfortably on the bed. "I can't believe you actually knew Captain America. That's amazing. Man, I grew up hearing stories about him. That's just... it's weird. Really strange. And I'm sorry, I know it's gotta be even weirder for you, but still. And the war ended for us with a nightmare bomb dropped on a couple cities in Japan, but that was after most of the fighting with Germany, and the Captain himself took down Red Skull. That's... that's what happened to him. I'm a bit rusty on exact details - history was never my best subject for the times I did actually show up to school - but from what I remember, Red Skull launched an attack meant to pretty much wipe out the east coast. Your Captain stopped him, but the fight took down the plane they were both in. It crashed somewhere in Arctic Circle and as far as I know, it was never found."
Which made him wonder, now that he had higher security clearance, if that was actually the whole story.
"At least, that's what they taught in school," he amended, a thoughtful expression on his face. "That would be another question for Agent Coulson when he shows up. I admit, I've not gone digging through that particular red tape to find out of that's the whole story or not."
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He exhaled once, not quite a laugh, but there was something undeniably strange about hearing someone talk about Captain America like he was some kind of legend when he was... Steve. And he was gone. He'd taken out that Red Skull guy and saved half the country... they'd won the war. It left a kind of dull ache in his chest, not unlike a bullet. "Damnit, Steve."
His gaze was downcast for a moment more before he shut it all down, his face hollow and blank. He was a soldier. This wasn't the time for mourning. He needed to get out of here, get some air. The question was: did he take Clint with him, or knock him out and leave him for Coulson to find? It probably wouldn't endear him to SHIELD any, and they had his answers, so either way he was coming back here soon. But right now...
"All those years of skipping school teach you anything about getting out of hospitals? We'll leave a note for Coulson. Or you can stick around and explain, if you want."
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On second thought, perhaps he shouldn't have been so surprised about that request after all.
"Well, that depends," Clint drawled slowly, his mind already calculating routes, opposition, the easiest distance from here to there. If Bucky was looking to break out of here, he had the best source of information.
Ohhh, Coulson was going to have his hide for this. The thought brought a wicked smirk to his lips. If nothing else, Clint loved a challenge and a bit of mischief.
"It depends on where you want to go. Technically, this is SHIELD headquarters, not a hospital. You're in one of the most secure buildings in the country at the moment. If you're just looking for a bit of fresh air and some privacy, there's plenty of places here I can show you. If you want to get out out, I can probably manage that too, it's just a bit trickier. Either way, I'd be a very irresponsible babysitter if I let you wander off on your own with no idea where you're headed. SHIELD would be pissed at me if I managed to lose you after all the trouble they went through to find you in the first place."
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"Definitely out," Bucky replied. "I'm not running anywhere. I need to know what's going on, and right now you guys are the only ones who can tell me anything about that but... I need to see..." He swallowed once. "I just need to be out for a while. Can you really do that?"
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"Worst we can do is try it and find out. Luckily the three people most likely to stop us are probably still locked in a conference room debriefing about what to do with you," he added with a shrug and a chuckle. "Might as well take advantage of their distraction. It'll be risky though. I don't mind if you're sure you're up for it," Clint offered, holding his hand out to the other man.
"Although damn. You're not going to get far without pants."
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But he felt like he could trust Clint, at least for this, though he couldn't really say why. It wasn't like he had a lot of other choices... and besides, the guy was sticking his neck out for him here. What did he have to lose?
He took Clint's hand and let him pull him to his feet, but it was a little too fast of a movement and he ended up gripping Clint's hand much tighter while he fought back a wave of vertigo. It wasn't as bad as when he'd woken up though. He'd managed through worse.
"You'd be surprised," Bucky returned automatically, releasing him as he steadied. "But. Yeah. Pants would be nice."
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"Alright, you stay here, get your feet back under you and keep quiet. I'll find you some clothes. Having you blend in should make it easier to slip you out. Give me ten, I'll be right back," he added, giving Bucky's shoulder a squeeze before he was up and out of the room.
He was back in seven, slipping into Bucky's room on silent feet and turning with a grin, a handful of clothing grasped in his left hand.
"Here you go, Agent... Thomas," he read off the patch on the shoulder before tossing the uniform to Bucky. "This'll do till we're clear of the building. Although someone's going to be in for an unhappy surprise when they get out of the shower."
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"Thanks," He took the clothes from Clint and managed a grin before he shucked the hospital gown and started pulling on the borrowed uniform. "You're really not gonna get fired for all this?"
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"Doubt it's any consolation, but it's nothing personal. I'm just hoping you're the best liar I've ever met." His gaze dropped to his hands as he finished the last of the buttons. The hint of a smile that touched his lips didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'm not sure I could anyway."
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“Can’t say, I’ve no idea who else you might have met,” Clint quipped, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “Or what I’m supposed to be lying about, for that matter. But I appreciate you not trying all the same, it could get awkward.”
As Bucky finished buttoning up his shirt, Clint pushed off the windowsill and motioned the other man to follow him as he aimed for the door. “Just stick close to me, look like you’re a soldier who’s exactly where you’re supposed to be, and let me do all the talking,” he added with a devilish grin, anticipation bright in his eyes at this latest challenge.
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As for looking like a soldier...
"I think I can manage that," He replied evenly. "You're really enjoying this, aren't you?" He wasn't sure if he should be worried about that.
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Breaking out of SHIELD headquarters with their newest acquisition was far simpler than it should have been and Clint was going to have to have a few words with Coulson about some of their security staff after this little adventure. Which would only make this mildly more difficult if he needed to do this again in the future, but there were things that definitely needed to be noted about the most secure building in the country.
Namely, the guards on the thirty-third floor needed to be shot. Or fired. Possibly both. It was a pity he'd left his bow behind.
Still, despite the running tally of idiocy he was mentally notching as they made their escape, Clint got them both out of the building with only a few close brushes with discovery and in the new record of fifteen minutes. As the pair of them strolled out the front door, Clint stretched his arms above his head and made a disgusted sound.
"That was pathetic. Coulson's gonna be pissed and I doubt it will even be at me. What a waste," he scoffed before casting a glance over his shoulder at Bucky. "Well. Here you are. New York City, 2010. Welcome to the future, my man."
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New York had grown in seventy years. He'd never thought of it as anything small or quiet. It was a big city full of broadway shows and back alley brawls and jazz clubs that poured music into the streets well into the night.
But this was... This was like walking into the Stark Expo and seeing all those big dreams change your world all at once. It was big and bright and loud - and it stank pretty bad, too. It was the future they'd all been fighting for, on paper.
But what he'd been fighting for all that time wasn't really this, if he was going to be honest. It was home. And it was Steve. The same thing, in more ways than one.
He knew Clint was still there. He should say something clever about the lack of flying cars and the way people drove these days, just brush it off. Instead, he took another slow step forward, and the most eloquent thing that came to mind was shit.
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Needless to say, Nick Fury was a busy man. Far too busy to be pleased when the heart monitor on the latest addition to SHIELD's resources suddenly flat-lined mid-meeting. And wouldn't he know it, the man in question couldn't even do him the courtesy of being conveniently dead in his hospital bed where they could revive him. No, both the body and the bodyguard were just up and gone. Poof. Magicians everywhere would be jealous.
A mental review of the situation gave Fury an idea of just where to look for the missing pair of men, and enough confidence to take a leisurely elevator ride instead of the stairs. They were just more variables, like Clint's personal style for disobeying orders, and the shock any man had to feel after a seventy-year long nap. So right about the time Bucky was staring at the reality of the new century, Nick was giving orders for his men to hold off rushing Times Square in favor of making a less intrusive appearance for the sake of the general public.
"Decide to go for a Monday afternoon stroll, gentlemen?" Fury's held his hands together behind his back, the picture of easy confidence as he strolled not from the building they'd just escaped from, but across the street: one step ahead. One of those silent reminders Clint sometimes needed that while he could have his fun, business always came first. "The weather's good for it, though you'll probably get cold without a thicker coat."
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"The med room was a little stuffy, to be honest, sir," he drawled, letting his hands drop to clasp behind him in a soldier's relaxed posture of respect to the Director. "Barnes here needed some air. He wasn't looking so good. Claustrophobic, I think. Agent Coulson tasked me with keeping an eye on him," he reminded the man, even though he was sure Nick Fury was already aware of that.
Nick Fury was aware of fucking everything. Clint was half convinced the man was a psychic or a mutant or something. Had to be.
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He straightened up but stopped just short of mimicking Clint's posture. He almost had to remind himself that this man wasn't his superior in any way because the air of authority he carried was nearly tangible, and that was just the first thing Bucky noticed about him.
"You must be Fury." It was an educated guess. Unless a whole lot had changed about the future, he didn't think this was Natasha. "Clint did his job. He's a good man." He thought he probably owed Clint an apology when they weren't standing in front of his boss.
"I just had to see..." He started, but the explanation faltered, and he wasn't the one who owed them anyway. He looked up at Fury, his gaze sharp, but not hostile. "Why am I here?"
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The single eye stayed on Hawkeye a moment longer, before Fury turned his side to both men in favor of watching the cars pass by. "Although I'll give credit where it's due. You at least brought him out before rush hour." Clint was one of his most capable agents to be sure, but the last thing Nick needed was to explain to the World Security Council just how such a costly acquisition got crunched under a taxi trying to get some cranky lower level executive home three minutes faster. Fewer cars on the road did lessen the chance of it.
"No one is arguing that, Private Barnes. But I wouldn't be a very good Director if I let all my agents skirt their way around our directives." And Barton would have known the debriefing process waiting for Barnes, even if he couldn't label all the specifics. Throwing him into the middle of Times Square before the creases in his hospital sheets had faded? Not in the plan.
"You are here because some very important people decided you might appreciate waking up in the United States of America as opposed to what you knew as the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics." Among other reasons, but Fury would get to those. Unlike some, he saw the good in using baby steps from time to time.
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Instead, he took a step back, letting Fury talk to Bucky, since he was the real matter of interest here anyway.
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"For what it's worth, sir, I didn't leave him much of a choice," He admitted. Not that he really knew anything about Clint's capabilities either, but he would have lost, if they fought, regardless of who was still standing. There weren't a lot of reasons for Clint to help him out if he knew that, and in light of that he had to say something.
It was also the simplest thing to address because that nausea seemed to be coming back with a vengeance now, twisting a hard knot in the pit of his stomach.
"That's something to be grateful for," He replied slowly. "But it doesn't really explain why I'm not dead, because if you brought me here to find out... I don't have a clue. I fell out of a train car seventy years ago and woke up here." He realized belatedly that his voice had risen, his hands clenched tight at his sides. Keep it together, James. "With all due respect, sir, I'd like to know what the hell is going on."
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Good things usually didn't happen when Nick Fury was wrong about someone.
Clint could read the situation better, which was to be expected. He acknowledged the man's surrender with a slight nod. For all his rebellious traits (good and bad), the man usually knew when to relent. They could come back to the situation behind closed doors, after this mess was settled.
"I already know why you aren't dead. Part miracle, part military strategy. And I know why you woke up here." Fury took another step so he stood directly in front of Bucky, fixing his single eye on the soldier. Yet what started off as a stern expression faded, Fury's near-grimace relaxing instead into a grin. "The Russians found you after you fell and thought you might be useful down the line, so they put you on ice--literally. But the best ideas always need funding, and the branch in charge of you just didn't have it. So you and who knows what other projects all get left in cold storage due to an over-stretched budget. Lucky for you they kept up with the electric bill.
"Then times and politics changed, and some Russian bureaucrat in charge of cleaning out the closet found your cryogenic sleep capsule and thought you might earn him some points in what amounts to a political garage sale. So a trade happens, and you end up bright eyed and busy tailed in New York, circa March 2010. There's a bit of debate over which side got the better part of the deal, but I'd like to think we did. That, however, depends entirely on you, Private James Barnes of the 107th."
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It seemed like there wasn't a whole lot Fury didn't know about, but the answers he got didn't leave him feeling any more grounded. Someone guy in Russia had thrown him in a freezer and forgotten about him until now, and that was it.
He'd been lucky. As hard as that idea was to swallow, it didn't make it any less true considering the alternatives were being blacked out in a sleep capsule, dead, or... useful. And he'd seen enough of Hydra bases to know how definitions of that last one could vary. So he was lucky. He just had to keep telling himself that.
The tension drained out of him slowly, leaving him tired, numb all over. He dropped his gaze, but there wasn't really anywhere to look except Fury's coat, so he met the man's eye as best he could. "I suppose it does," He offered. "Either way, no refunds, right?"
Because he sure as hell didn't know what he was supposed to do with this, but he'd rather not be in Russia again either.
"You know I'm just a soldier. Why'd you do all of this?" It was honest curiosity. Weary, but honest. It went without saying that there was no shortage of other options, most of which didn't need to be defrosted first.
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"Seventy years ago, you were just a soldier hand picked by Captain America himself for some of the most dangerous missions the man faced. That team turned the tide of the European theater, not to mention the entire war. You were part of a small, elite force that helped save the world. You even risked your life--almost lost it, in fact. A normal guy whose friends call him Bucky. Just a soldier, like you said.
"And that's why I want you, today." Fury smiled again, grinning wide in a way that made him look like a kid ready to burst with some good news. "You still see yourself like that, after everything you've done. That tells me that for you, it wasn't about fame or glory. It was about doing what was right, and people still need that. Even with how much of the world has changed, the world still needs it. Maybe even more now than it did back then. You're capable, you're dedicated, and you have the spirit to help protect your country, and your world."
He stepped back, turned away from Bucky and Clint with a hand on his hip. A moment later, Fury raised a hand, a single finger raised as if he suddenly remembered something.
"Oh, right. You're also a living legend. Not that you see it that way, but you've inspired a lot of people over the past seventy years. That benefits SHIELD more than it does you, but I thought I'd mention it. Anyway, it's up to you how that legend goes on, now that you've gotten a chance to keep it going."
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But it gave him something, that they'd made a difference in the end. Most of the time Captain America's Howling Commandos felt like a bunch of lunatics in the woods with a real keen appreciation for explosives and more Hydra bases ahead of them than there were single dames in New York.
"Huh. Layin it on a little thick there, sir." Living legend, Christ. How did Steve put up with this stuff? Somehow he didn't think he could pull off the blushing I'm just a kid from Brooklyn shtick - though that was all he was, really, more so than Captain America. It made sense though, and that was what he'd been asking for. A good reason.
"I dunno about legends. Steve's the one with the outfit. He's - he was good at inspiring people, long as I've known him. I'm not like that. And I'm not being modest here, I'm not. You want a legend, go find him, and call me when you do because he always needs someone to drag his stupid ass home." Bucky rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his palm wondering how someone who slept for seventy years could feel so damn worn out.
"If the country needs a soldier or a sharpshooter, fine, I signed up for that a long time ago. But this legend stuff..." He shook his head. "That started and ended with Steve. I don't look good in tights."
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"True or not, that's how you're going to be seen. You might want to get used to the idea, since just giving out your name is going to earn you a few looks from the resident history buffs." He took a step closer, letting his voice lower as if he were about to let Bucky in on some global level secret. "But I personally don't give a damn if you want to wear shiny tights, an over-embelished cape, or your underwear on your head. It doesn't take a fancy outfit to finish a mission, or to be a hero. Doesn't even take superpowers. You can ask Agent Barton here if you doubt me. We've got plenty of regular human beings under our roof, and they make a difference.
"And it sounds like you just agreed to be one of them." Fury held his right hand out at chest level, offering it to Barnes. "If that's right, then I'd like to officially welcome you aboard."
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After all, some things hadn't changed: there were still bullies, and people who needed help. That, at least, he knew how to deal with. Besides, his credentials were a little outdated for anything else.
"Alright." He glanced at Fury's hand, exhaled slowly, and reached out to grasp it in his own. "Alright, just... give me some time."
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Fury's handshake was firm, as one would expect, given his position. With his free hand he clapped Bucky on the shoulder, flashing him that winning grin. "Don't worry. You'll have plenty of time to learn the ropes. And I don't suppose you'd mind being officially in charge of that, Agent Barton?"
No Clint, Fury hadn't forgotten your presence. He looked back at the senior agent. "Since you've already established a rapport, it seems like a good idea to me. Just don't let Barnes here talk you into any more compromising situations."
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"I'll do my best to keep us out of trouble, sir."
And he even managed that with a mostly-straight face and no telling glance at the other soldier at his side as he tipped his head in deference to Fury.
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Bucky met the director's firm grip with his own. When he committed to something, he didn't do it halfway, and having Clint show him the ropes wasn't exactly a bad prospect. He didn't glance over at Clint's reply, but it was tempting. He could already tell he and trouble were old friends.
Bucky made no additional promises, just nodded once and hoped that Clint didn't mind getting roped into babysitting duty too much.
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"And now you've seen Clint's next bad habit: thinking he'll get away with lying to the Director's face." Though Fury knew Clint meant well, he hadn't been born yesterday. "Just know that if you keep it up, I'm taking Coulson's medical bills out of your salary.
"Speaking of, I think the man might appreciate a little face-to-face of his own. But feel free to get something to eat first. I'll place a call so they'll make you waffles despite it being mid-afternoon."