Chapter Text
Something always leads me back to you… it never takes too long…
“Tony, no!”
It happened so fast. One second, he was aiming his repulsor at Steve, the next, Bucky’s head is exploding because he got in the way to save Steve. He was seeing red figuratively—then literally. Because pieces of what used to be Bucky was now everywhere—on his faceplate, on Steve’s hair, face, mouth. It was gore. And it made the world stop.
But only for a second.
“B-Buck…” he heard the man on the ground gasp. His eyes met Steve’s. Glazed over with shock and disbelieve.
And then it was utter chaos. Because agents were storming everywhere, taking him by surprise. He never called for back-up, nor did he tell anyone where he was going. Ross must have tracked him somehow, his anger making him sloppy enough to not notice.
The agents immediately subdued Steve who was still on the ground. Not that they needed to do much. He was still frozen in shock, no doubt still questioning if he had witnessed what he just did or if it was just a nightmare. But it wasn’t. Tony was realizing it quickly too. He had killed Bucky. He had done what he intended to do in his anger.
He also broke Steve.
He didn’t fight when they pulled him up and handcuffed him with vibranium reinforced cuffs. He didn’t fight when they hauled him out of the bunker and into the helicraft that would bring him to the Raft. Where he would be kept in secrecy, no doubt. He didn’t fight. He just stopped fighting altogether. When they were trying his crimes in secret. When they were sentencing him for a bogus accusation. When they finally shut the door to his cell where he would stay until he’s served his sentence—or he’s fixed the Accords, which is his top priority now.
He would get Steve out. Because, dammit, now that he’s had time to calm down and think on what he has done, he knows he owes it to Steve.
They’ve all done things they didn’t want to do. Kept secrets that hurt each other. But he didn’t have to kill Bucky. It didn’t bring back his mother. It didn’t ease the pain of losing her. It only just made everything worse.
---
3 YEARS LATER…
The window to his cell opened with a heavy pound. It normally shouldn’t. But his cell—every nook and cranny—had been vibranium reinforced to make sure it would be strong enough to withstand his super strength. Not that they needed to worry about that. He had no desire to fight.
“Rogers, someone’s here to see you,” the guard called out. He grunts but doesn’t move. He has no intention of getting up from his bed. Especially when the visitor finally steps up to the bars of his cell window.
“Steve,” the familiar voice was quiet but steady. He didn’t need to look to know who it was. He also didn’t care. The man had been coming and going for 3 years, giving him updates about the Accords and his case and things he frankly gave no shit about.
He did what he usually does—he ignored the guy.
“We’ve had an outbreak with the other super soldiers,” he continued. Like he cared to listen. Like he paid any attention.
“This girl, Katarina, she doesn’t get triggered anymore. We found a way to erase the trigger words in her head.”
“Good for you,” he replied mechanically, devoid of any real emotion, before closing his eyes and pretending to sleep. By now he was used to this charade. The guy would tell him things, he’d reply his non-committal and generic response, then the guy’s steady façade would falter and soon he’d leave, his head hanging low in defeat. He wasn’t really expecting anything different this time. Except that something did.
“I worked a deal for you. We can fast-track your release,” there was no mistaking the controlled glee in his voice. Like a parent excitedly telling their kid even though it was hard, they found the toy they wanted for Christmas after all. Or a travel agent proudly exclaiming “yes! There’s still one seat in that flight you really need to take!” He didn’t buy into it. Especially after the next words he spoke.
“We need your help though—” before he could stop himself, he pounded his fist on the wall of his cell, cutting the man off and making the place reverberate. His anger came in hot and raw, like a whip that hit an open wound. The guy behind the door grimaced and stepped back, trying not to let the fear in his eyes show. But as soon as it came, it was gone. Tempered back and put away in that same old place in his head that stores all the rage he doesn’t want to deal with anymore.
“No.” Simple. Direct to the point.
The guy hesitated for a moment. He must have decided to just drop the pretense and go for it because when he spoke, his voice was laced with uncertainty and disgust—like he didn’t really want to say what he’s about to say.
“Ross says you don’t really have a choice. We need to do this so you can get out of here faster.”
“Guess I’ll just stay here forever then,” he said, the venom in his voice dripping. “Or just kill me. It’ll be easy. One shot to the head. I promise I won’t dodge.”
He couldn’t see but he knew the guy behind the door paled. He could hear the pounding of his heart in his chest and he could smell the panic about to bubble out of him. So, he turned to his side and willed himself to sleep. It was easy. He was out in seconds. Nothing would wake him up, not until he wants to wake up, effectively ending the conversation.
Except that it didn’t end. Because several days later, he was being hauled out of his cell by a platoon of agents, all equipped to the teeth by powerful but unnecessary weapons—enough to subdue him. Unnecessary because he had no plans of escaping or fighting back. But it helped calm the agents because lame or not, truth is he could kill them all easily if he wanted to. But that’s the thing. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to do anything anymore.
The travel from the Raft to the secret lab took close to 18 hours, with a lot of transfers and blindfolds and sound suppression helmets. They took a great deal of care not to give away anything, may it be the location, or the way to get there. He rolled his eyes. Again, not needed. Because he doesn’t care. And also, pointless. Regardless of how many twists and turns they come up with, his brain has already mapped everything out.
The lobby of the building they entered is bland. Gray walls, gray tiles, gray furniture and a middle-aged lady who seems to have a permanent scowl on her face greet their entourage. It was only when they get here that he was allowed his sight and hearing back. Not that he cared.
After a series of high-level clearances and whatnots he was ushered to the back of the building, presumably to where the project he’s needed is taking place. They passed by several rooms: several other undertakings ongoing. People in lab coats were everywhere, walking down hallways, talking inside rooms with glass doors and windows, running with some equipment of some sort from here to there. The lab was in full swing.
Which was a direct contrast to the room he was pulled into at the end of a long hallway. This one was quiet, with only the whirring of machines and quiet whispers filling the air. There was a chair in the middle of the room, with straps and cuffs meant to hold down whoever is sitting there. And right now, a young woman occupied it.
She was a mousy little thing. The way her shoulders were hunched down, the way she was trembling—it looks as if she’s trying to make herself smaller than she already is. And succeeding. She looked like a wet dog, eyes wide with grief and unshed tears. She looked pathetic and weak and—it shook him to his core, looking at her eyes. This look that was oh so familiar, despite the years. The look that haunted his dreams, right before it abruptly turns into a nightmare with blood spraying everywhere, getting into his mouth and drowning him.
It was easy to mistake this girl as harmless. But the toned muscles on her arms, the calculated movement she makes, even under duress, and the depth of her eyes are all familiar tells of a fighter.
Beside her is a scientist, holding a chart, quietly studying the girl. To his side is a small table with what looks to be a gun but is currently covered by a piece of cloth.
He turned to the scientist, his anger was curling off him and his hands quickly curl into fists. He heard rather than saw the agents assume position, ready to take him out at any moment. Smart move. Still not enough.
“Why am I here?” he asked, his voice low and threatening. It was Tony who answered. Tony who apparently was in the room but didn’t register—rather, was ignored.
“This is Katarina, one of the super soldiers we’ve rescued. We’ve been working with her for the last year, trying to flush the brainwashing out—”
“Why am I here?” He repeated, cutting him off, his voice now dangerously low.
“You’re still an active target,” Tony replied, the words burning in his mouth. He also couldn’t look at him.
He laughed maniacally.
“Oh this is so good! You want to know if you’ve really done your job by using me as a test subject. If she’s not going to come after me.”
“I didn’t want to, but this was Ross’ bargain—”
“Sure, let’s do this. Let’s get this over with.” He walked towards the center of the room where the girl is currently twitching in her seat.
“Where do you want me? Here?”
“Steve—you don’t have to do this—”
“Are you fucking kidding me? You’ve already brought me here, right?” He saw Tony take a deep breath before walking towards him. He kept some distance though, not sure if it was out of fear or disgust or whatever.
“I only even considered this because I know you can take her down if it turns out she’s not well yet.” He said, his voice soft and full of apology and desperation.
“And you only have to do this once—then you’re free. You get to walk.”
“And the others?”
“You all get to walk.”
He looked at the smaller man with such intensity the guy flinched and immediately looked away.
“It’s not like I have a choice anyway. Like I said, let’s just get this over with.”
He went back to the center of the room, across the girl. The scientist holding the chart starts whispering in her ears the trigger words. He watched as the girl’s face contorted a million different ways—a whole spectrum of emotions washing over her as her mind is forced to bend one way but pulled back another. He watched her shake her head in fury, then in pain, then in fear and guilt and disgust and then back to fury again, over and over, never letting up as the conflict in her mind rips her apart physically. Then the scientist starts speaking.
“Do you know who that is?” gesturing towards him.
“C-captain America,” her voice was raw from perhaps screaming earlier.
“What are you supposed to do to him?”
“E-eliminate him,” she drawls out.
“And are you going to do that?”
The girl started shaking her head. But in a snap, she screamed—guttural and soul shattering like something inside her was being ripped open and burned shut at the same time. She looked him in the eye as she struggled to keep her body from leaping at him—her instinct and rationale in a battle that might soon knock her out if it keeps up.
It was so small he was pretty sure no one else would catch it. But there it was—a sign. A silent plea.
“Please.” So quiet it could have been a dream.
But it wasn’t a dream. It was real. As real as the one Bucky made when his memories first came back. In unforgiving waves. A plea to stop it. Because these are not the memories you would want to remember. Being able to forget them is but a small mercy, but even then, is unworthy.
Who would want to wake up and realize you’ve not only lost your life, but have taken countless others, with nary a say in it?
And to realize you’ve been doing this for years. Your family is gone. Everyone you know is gone. Even the families of those you’ve killed are gone.
There’s no else to ask forgiveness from.
No one to atone for.
Bucky was lucky because he had him. He had someone to pull him out of that darkness. To assure him he is nothing but a victim as well. To tell him he is worth saving.
But this girl has no one. And he saw it in her eyes. The recognition that no matter, the nightmares are never going to stop. And she would keep on carrying that burden like an anchor around her neck.
Please.
And he knew what it was she was asking for.
Before anyone knew what was going on, he jumped towards the table, grabbed the gun, and shot the girl point blank.
The effect was instant. Red dots covered him immediately but before any shots were fired the small man stood in front of him. He quickly dropped the gun and raised his hands.
“She deserves death.” Because she did. She deserves to finally find some peace. Because only in death will she find the quiet. Only in death will it truly be over.
He sees the shocked expression on the smaller man’s face. He smirked at him as if saying I dare you to say otherwise.
Of course, he doesn’t say anything. So he spoke again.
“Run back to Ross like the little lapdog you are and tell him to release the others.”
And then he sat down and waited for someone, anyone to move him. He’d done his part. The others will be free and that’s all that matters.
A week later, he was released. Nat, Sam, Lang and Wanda were released several days ahead of him. Because he was the main attraction of this circus, it made sense for Ross to prolong his agony. But he couldn’t be more wrong. Because the truth is, he was fine staying inside the Raft. It made things less complicated for him. He was told what to do, he didn’t have to think of anything. There was no pressure to be anyone but a washed-up superhero who failed. He thought it was going to be hard but surprisingly, accepting his fate was easier than he imagined.
When you have no one and nowhere to go, acceptance is the only way. It’s not like he didn’t contribute to the outcome of his fate anyway. He was, after all, captain of his own ship. He was the one who steered his own life into a fucking iceberg, crashing everything into the bottom of the ocean. He was the one who told lies, never mind that he thought he was doing what was best for his team. He was the one who made bad decisions, irrevocable ones that cost friendship and lives. He did what he thought he had to do—and this is the price of his decision.
He really, really wants to serve his full sentence.
Maybe then he can assuage even just a fraction of the guilt that’s latched onto him since Bucky died.
Not surprisingly, it is Tony waiting for him at the docks when he landed via helicopter from the Raft.
Once upon time, he thought he had a home to go home to, a family to be a part of. How long has it been since that time? Felt like ages ago. That was a good memory. Good while it lasted. But not enough that he can explain Tony’s continued presence in his life. He knew most of it was guilt. But he’s as guilty of everything that happened too. Unlike Tony, he never wants to see any of them again.
But he doesn’t tell Tony any of this. He doesn’t speak to Tony. If he was expecting some kind of gratitude, he doesn’t have any for him.
He watched as the smaller man tentatively moved towards him. When he was close enough, he handed Steve two bags, a clutch and a duffle.
“Your stuff,” Tony said. And they were. His clothes, his old sketchbook, his passport and atm and bank book. Everything that tied him to his old life.
“Do you have 2 grand?” the other man blinked at him.
“What?”
“2 thousand dollars?”
“Yes,” his tone, cautious. “But why do you need it? We can just stop by an ATM—”
“I need it now.”
Whatever hesitation he had, the younger man swallowed it. Instead, he pulled out his money clip and handed the taller guy 2 thousand dollars.
“Do you need more?”
He shook his head.
“I’ll pay you back when I can,” he said before chucking out his duffle bag, his sketchbook, passport, ATM and bank book. And then he was walking away.
“Steve!”
He doesn’t stop or even acknowledge.
“Steve, stop!”
He’s now gained some distance. He heard Tony enter his car and drive until he’s crawling right beside him.
“At least let me give you a ride,” he pleaded.
But he’s really not in the mood so instead, he looked Tony in the eye, and as casually as he could, spoke.
“Every time I look at you, all I can see is brains—exploding.”
There’s really no coming back from that. So he didn’t say anything. He didn’t do anything except watch Steve walk away, having no idea where it’s all gonna go or if, heaven permits, things could still be fixed.