Bucky Barnes X Reader One Shots

7. Assassins (Part 2) |requested|

**Rated Mature for Language** **AU**

It had been six weeks since you were given the Rogers assignment. You were in the weapons room of the underground "compound" (prison was more the word you'd use) where you, The Winter Soldier and Deadpool were all being kept until deployment. You were practicing your archery with a target you'd set up on the far wall when you heard heavy boots thump into the room behind you.

Slowly, you inhaled, ignoring the Winter Soldier's movements behind you. You focused on the target, wriggling your index and middle fingers before wrapping your hand around the arch of the bow. You pulled the string back toward your face so the arrow was level with your eyes, and as you were about to release, you felt a strong hand grasp your right shoulder. Dropping the weapon into a relaxed position by your side, with both hands still on the tool, you turned and faced the Winter Soldier.

"You're doing that wrong." He said, his blue eyes on yours. His dark hair fell in his face and he made no movement to fix it.

"How do you know? I thought you were only martial arts with big knives and machine guns and bazookas."

"Not only." A small smirk upturned the corner of his mouth before fading a mere instant later. He turned and moved across the room, lifting a crossbow from where it sat.

"And if you really want to practice archery, this weapon would be best," He presented it to you. "Not that Medieval thing."

"You know, there's an Avenger who uses a bow and arrow,"

When he didn't reply, you looked at him, studying his features. He was a ghost, a mystery. You still wondered who he was, as you had the very first day you met. It had been six weeks since, and you felt that you hadn't learned a single thing about him, except his fighting style. Your gaze wandered down to his arm, the pale, jagged scars revealed from under his clothes. You wondered what was so wrong with his arms that he felt he had to hide them under long sleeves.

The Soldier shifted uncomfortably, and your gaze snapped back to his face. You took the crossbow and gave him the bow and the half empty quiver that had been strapped around your torso.

"Thanks. I'll give it a try."

The crossbow felt foreign in your hands. You'd never even held one before. You glanced at the Winter Soldier, unsure how to handle the weapon. He watched you, the dark circles under his eyes contrasting their bright cyan hue. You inhaled deeply and turned toward the target, hoisting the crossbow so the already inserted arrow was level with your gaze. You took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger, eyes widening in surprise as the arrow embedded itself in the center of the target. You looked over at the soldier next to you, a smirk threatening to lift the corner of his mouth.

******

That night, you were holed up in your room of the compound. The space was quiet, the stillness broken only by the absentminded tapping of your fingertips on the keyboard of the laptop you'd managed to smuggle in.

Being in that concrete prison was like a horrible camping retreat, all training and schedules and sleep at last light and wake at first and absolutely no electronics, including blow dryers. Not that you did your hair, but it would be nice to not have to sleep on a wet pillow each night after your shower. And the compound was cold. Being underground and all, the temperatures of each room would drop significantly each night, to where you were shivering atop a thin mattress and under even thinner sheets.

But it wasn't all bad. If you ignored Deadpool's bad mouth and ceaseless potty jokes, he could be sort of funny. But he did this thing where he would look off at a random wall and say something about a man named Ryan Reynolds, or say how horny he was, or just act like he was talking to someone who simply wasn't there. Like he thought he was in a movie and was trying to be clever by breaking the fourth wall. You began to wonder if he was schizophrenic or something.

However, the Winter Soldier, occasionally called 'Barnes' by Evie, was a nice enough companion to have around. He was quiet, though, and didn't say much about anything. Especially when you'd ask about his past. You did so once, and he'd turned his head and stared blankly at a wall before simply, and silently, walking away. You never brought it up again. But he was encouraging, and though obviously much more skilled at hand-to-hand assassination (your weapon of choice was a sniper rifle, always had been) than you, he offered up sparring rounds and lessons on handguns or knives to help you. His smiles were far and few, and usually disappeared as quickly as they were revealed. But whenever he flashed one at you, your knees went weak.

Sometimes, when you were just getting up in the morning, he was just stepping out of the shower and was heading to bed, as if he'd been up the entire night. And he always wore long-sleeve shirts or sweaters and black gloves, like he was hiding something. You never had to nerve to ask, however.

And Evie... Well, she was something else. You tried to not think about her a lot.

But despite the limited company, you really didn't mind being in the prison. At least you weren't there alone. If you'd been hired on your own to kill the infamous Captain America, it would've been done, and you wouldn't be in that compound in the first place, but you weren't hired by yourself. So at least you weren't there alone.

Your fingers tapped the keyboard of your laptop as you tried to come up with something to search. You didn't know where to start. You thought of maybe searching up Wade Wilson or Deadpool, but then again, you didn't care enough about him to find out more of his past. Your fingers had their own minds as they typed "captain america" into the search bar. Millions of results came up, most of them from newspaper or magazine articles. You ignored them all and clicked onto his Wikipedia page.

As you scrolled through it, noting that he was born in the 1910's and still hadn't died (and looked really damn good for being 90), a subheading caught your eye. It read, The Howling Commandos, all in bold lettering. You extended the drop-down, and your eyes landed on a picture of the Winter Soldier. At first, you weren't sure if it was him, as his hair was cut short, his jaw was shaved, and a smile cut across half of his face, but no, you'd recognize those eyes anywhere. You read what was written about him; that he was born in 1917, he was Steve Rogers' best friend since childhood, and he was dead.

Dead? You stared at the photograph of James Buchanan Barnes. That couldn't be right. He was very much alive. He was in the bedroom next to yours. And he was helping you train. And he had been hired to kill his best friend, Steve Rogers.

And you had to stop him.