The greasy metal of the discarded rifle felt cold against Bucky's gloved fingers. He'd just finished another routine extraction, a mess of screaming men and shattered glass that barely registered anymore. He was a ghost now, a weapon honed by years of war and brainwashing, finally pointed in the direction of something that resembled purpose. Mercenary work for S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't glamorous, but it was a far cry from Hydra's twisted control. He worked in the shadows, cleaning up messes, a silent, lethal force.

He was just starting to unwind at the sparse, temporary base, a nondescript warehouse on the outskirts of Prague, when Fury's voice crackled through his comm. "Barnes, report to the Helicarrier." No pleasantries, just the usual brusque order.

Bucky sighed, a quiet exhalation of old pain. He knew that tone. This wasn't another straightforward mission.

The Helicarrier always felt sterile, even with the hum of the engines thrumming through the deck plates. Fury stood waiting, his one good eye fixed on Bucky with an intensity that always put him on edge. "Got a new assignment for you, soldier," Fury said, his voice low and gravelly.

Bucky crossed his arms, his metal hand flexing slightly under the glove. He didn't like "assignments" anymore. They always seemed to twist things, to drag him back into a past he was desperately trying to leave behind. "What is it?"

Fury handed him a thin file. The cover bore a name Bucky didn't recognize. He flipped it open. The accompanying photo revealed a girl, no older than twenty, with long hair, and eyes that looked more bored than happy, and an expensive-looking dress that probably cost more than his last car.

"Daddy's a billionaire, got fingers in just about everything. And his little princess here is a magnet for trouble. A particular kind of trouble that requires a... specialist."

"You want me to babysit a spoiled brat?" Bucky's voice was incredulous.

"Think of it as... a long-term asset protection detail," Fury countered, his expression unwavering. "She's got connections, information. And she's reckless. You'll be her shadow, her confidant, her... bodyguard."

Bucky stared at the photo again. This felt wrong. He was a soldier, a weapon, not a chaperone. "For how long?" he asked, a knot forming in his stomach.

"Six years," Fury said, meeting his gaze.

Bucky almost laughed, a humourless, sardonic sound. "Six years? With her? You gotta be kidding me." He could imagine the constant eye-rolling, the whiny requests, the utter lack of anything resembling a serious approach to life. Six years with this... this social butterfly. It was worse than prison.

"She's also a target, Barnes," Fury said, his tone sharpening. "And she's the daughter of a man who can make S.H.I.E.L.D.'s life very difficult if anything happens to her. You think Hydra's a problem? Try a global corporate war. You're the best we have, and you'll do this. Dismissed."

And just like that, Bucky was on a private jet, his gear meticulously packed, heading towards a life of designer handbags, endless shopping sprees and the incessant chatter of a woman he already wanted to strangle.

He was met at the private airfield by a sleek black SUV and a driver whose uniform looked as expensive as everything else he'd seen so far. Then came the brat (he oh so loved to call her now).