Back to Barnes // the winter soldier

1: full-time babysitter

"Captain Rogers, if you could please heed the warning and back away," I spun around, my back to the entrance of the cell. Steve had followed me all the way to the passcoded door, begging for me to let him see my most recent captive. "You know I would, but Fury has ordered against it. If only for the time being, I am the only person allowed with him. This one's especially hostile."

Steve glanced at the floor, his lips pursed. "Yeah, sorry. I know he is."

I turned to the keypad, about to scan my ID when he placed a hand on my shoulder. I shrugged his hand off and turned to look at him, waiting for him to speak. "Yes?"

"His name is Bucky. Bucky Barnes, okay?" He said, sadness in his eyes. I'd be sympathetic if it didn't make me wholly uncomfortable.

I gave him a curt smile. "Got it, Captain Rogers." I turned back to the keypad and scanned my ID, stepping through the now opened doors.

The captive sat in the center of the cell, his head bowed, hands cuffed behind him, and feet sprawled on the floor. If it weren't for the anchor of his hands behind the bench, his almost unconscious form would be slumped on the floor.

I slid my ID back into my pocket, setting the first aid bag on the floor to bend over the switchboard. I glanced at the captive, my lips drawing into a thin line. Sighing, I punched in another code to open the cell, grabbing the bag again. I stepped into the cell, eyeing him once again.

Humming to myself as I opened the first aid bag, I pulled out alcohol pads. As I unwrapped one, I steadied for a second. How am I supposed to clean the wounds on his chest if his armor is still on? I could either attempt to cut or rip it off myself or wake him and run the chance of him trying to slaughter me. Obviously he was under restraint, but I had no desire for dealing with a grumpy assassin at the moment. Or any of the moments previously with any other captive I'd had. So I proceeded as if it was nothing, unbuckling the mask from his neck, unstrapping the holsters from his upper body, and undoing every closing on his armored torso until I was left with just the tight spandex shirt plastered to his skin by velvet stains. He had a lot more damage than what I inflicted on him. If I didn't loathe the ground this ancient murderer strutted on, I'd feel for him.

With scissors in hand, I cut away the fabric from his shoulders and unfolded the alcohol pad, pressing it again his burned, dark skin. Once the dried blood was away from the wound, I was able the clean and bandage the gash on his right shoulder. I cleaned the scrapes under his chin, along his jaw, and around his collar bone. I found it particularly frustrating trying to meticulously tear the shirt away from his metal arm, but I got it after a solid two minutes, then able to thoroughly clean the scrapes along his ribs. It took me a good hour to complete the process and he ended with bandages everywhere, but he looked less . . . dying.

I stepped back, bending over to put the trash into the side pocket of the bag and zip it up. I was shocked out of my silence by the grunts of restraint. Looking up, I smirked. "Hey, Winter." I greeted, his eyes not meeting mine. He simply grunted and yanked on the chains holding his arms back. "We may need to get you into big boy chains soon," I mumbled mostly to myself, still packing away the first aid kit.

After more grunts, sharp inhales, and panicked exhales, he gave up. "Where am I?" His voice was rough and gravelly as if it hadn't been used to do anything but yell for quite some time.

"New York. Hovering over it, really. Big flying ship." I muttered, standing up with the bag around my shoulder. I shifted in my heels, watching him intently. His chest was rising and falling painfully, his head down and dirty hair covering his eyes.

"Why am I here?"

"Because you're a threat and a weapon in the hands of America's enemies. Any more questions?" I asked, talking to him as you would a child.

"Who are you?" Of course. He finally looked up, his shocking blue eyes locking with mine, his pained and angst-y look present.

"Agent Maisie Brookes, formerly Corporal of the USMC, currently SHIELD extraction officer and prisoner caretaker. Right now, your babysitter." I listed, walking towards the door.

He yanked on his chains again, grunting. "Let me out."

"Maybe tomorrow, man." I winked, shutting the doors to the glass cell.

His grimace never left my person until I was out the doors again. As expected, Steve was right on the other side.

"Agent Brookes, please. How was he?" He pleaded, catching up with me as I quickly walked away.

I kept my gaze ahead, stalking down the halls and down the stairs. "He's fine. Lots of questions."

"Is he injured?" Worry was in his usually steady voice as he came alongside me.

I walked into the storage room and dropped the bag on a shelf, pulling the trash out of the pocket. I turned to him, feeling like a mother dealing with another persistent child. A wannabe abusive mother. "Slightly. A few cuts and bruises."

"How? You said he passed out before you had to beat him up."

I squared my jaw, feeling like I shouldn't say exactly how. "Because my men dropped him a few times. 'Kay, buddy? All good? I have more work to do."

He watched helplessly as I walked away, already on my earpiece, updating Director Fury.