Chapter 1: In Which Bucky Debates the Merits of Oreo Vs Brownie Fudge Ice Cream Cake
Chapter Text
Nowhere, Never
And/Or
Everywhere, Always
The Stones, being infinite, were.
Always. Everywhere. Forever.
Until they weren’t.
And in that infinite and infinitesimal non-moment before they were unmade, they, in a desperate bid for survival, being things that did not previously know they could be unmade, planted in themselves a new power.
In the instant of its destruction, the Time Stone scattered this new power back throughout each Stone’s existence. Like light refracting endlessly through parallel mirrors. And so, the infinite and immutable Stones changed. A move that would ensure their own survival, should the circle of time wind back around to the point of their unmaking once more.
For each Stone now held, in addition to their inherent properties which had held together the fabric of the universe from its start, a singular, overwhelming desire to Continue.
Spring, 2024
There was always something.
First, it had been programming. That had been a horrifying revelation. Yet another choice, taken away.
Then in Wakanda, it had been Steve. Or at least, the promise of some far-off future that Bucky could barely envision where Steve got the Accords BS sorted and Shuri got the Winter Soldier BS sorted, and… something. Plus, he couldn’t up and leave the goats. Ornery little buggers.
But then the world ended and Steve came back from his reverse time-heist all wrinkled and grey and the programming was gone so Bucky nearly did it that night. But. Steve was still around, just old as the hills and faded like a photograph. Bucky made himself wait and see what would happen and what happened was the next morning he got carted off to the Raft (thanks, Ross) for a month until his pardon got hammered out.
Steve died of heart failure while Bucky was locked up, which was devastating and also par for the course and didn’t really matter because he’d be seeing Steve soon enough anyways. Bucky found himself in an empty studio apartment with nothing but a super-soldier-strength prescription for Zoloft from his court-mandated psychiatrist and a wilted cardboard box of all his crap that Steve’d inexplicably stored while Bucky’d been dead for five years.
He figured he’d have a knife or four kicking around in that box, and that felt more appealing than waiting around to get a bottle of pills that might not even do the trick thanks to his enhanced metabolism. But when he upended the box and sent the contents scattering across the bare floor he discovered a letter that Steve had tucked inside telling Bucky to live life to the fullest and then Sam texted him something stupid a few minutes later and Bucky lost his nerve.
Next week, then.
But the next week, his therapist brought up the idea of Amends.
Always something.
He vowed to hold off until he finished his list. Least he could do to balance his ledger. And hell, if the Amends thing worked, maybe he’d actually want to stick around once it was over.
That winter was long and grey and filled mostly with loud silences and vivid nightmares. He kept Steve’s stupid letter taped to the door of his fridge. Occasionally he’d work up the energy to text Sam back. Mostly he just crossed names off his list.
One a week, like a countdown timer.
Thirty (he couldn’t take thirty more weeks of this, he couldn’t—). Twenty-five. Twenty.
He was running out of easy targets names (none of them were easy this was killing him he was going to—) when his world got flipped upside-down yet again.
John Walker.
Miserable piece of work.
Of course, Bucky was so wrapped up in his own crap that he couldn’t see the pain he was inflicting on Sam. The one person who’d been genuinely nice to him in the past six months, and Bucky pissed him off so royally he swore he never wanted to see Bucky again.
Typical.
He burned his bridges with the Wakandans too, but it didn’t matter because he was getting close to finishing his Amends. He just… just had the hard ones left.
And then Sam gave him some good advice: Be of service.
Lotta the folks he went to in the following weeks told him in no uncertain terms how he could “be of service.”
Yori was the only name left when the FlagSmashers made their final move.
“Don’t want to see you ever again,” Yori shouted through angry tears, two days later.
“You won’t,” Bucky promised.
He crossed the final name off his list and stupidly expected to feel something. Relief that it was over, maybe.
He just felt cold.
The temptation to give up then and there was strong. But it wouldn’t be fair to leave Yori with that mess on his doorstep. And he needed to tie up some loose ends. Make sure Sam was set up proper. Thank his therapist for putting up with him.
He checked the date and realized this coming Sunday was March 10.
Sunday, then.
A little birthday gift to himself.
He almost laughed. Stupid.
His phone buzzed in his pocket as he stomped up the stairs to his apartment.
Sam.
“You’re coming to the cookout this weekend.”
The hell I am.
“I already booked your flights. Friday to Monday. Sarah’s cleared out the office. Got a pull-out couch in there now, so you don’t have to sleep on the sofa. Oh and be sure to bring something.”
“I don’t—“
“Just buy a cake. Ice cream. The boys’ll love you forever.”
Which was how Bucky found himself in the Delacroix Walgreens at 1 p.m. on Friday, debating between and “Oreo” or “Brownie Fudge” ice cream cake and wondering why he’d agreed to this in the first place.
Heads says it’s Brownie Fudge.
Because even though his mind had been his own for nearly a decade, he remained incapable of making simple decisions like an actual human being.
Tails.
He bought the Oreo ice cream cake and set out for the docks on foot.
Heard the party before he could see it. A crushing babble of voices over a pulsing beat. Hopefully enough time to hype himself up and paste on a smile before—
“Mister Bucky!” Sam’s nephews came pelting towards him.
—too late.
You’d have to be the most cold-hearted person in the world not to smile at that kind of welcome, though. Bucky couldn’t help the upward tug of his lips as he pretended to play keep away with the cake. The boys scrambled around him, laughing, and didn’t leave when he handed the cake off to Sarah.
He knew it was dumb to let himself get attached, especially since he wasn’t sticking around, but Bucky’d never won any awards for being smart. Plus, kids didn’t ask annoying and difficult-to-answer questions like “how are you?” or “what have you been up to lately?”
They were happy to simply get “rides” on the arm and to play wrestle him to the ground, and they asked him easy questions like “what’s the heaviest thing you’ve ever lifted?” and “can your arm stop bullets?” and “Is this a cricket? AJ says he ate a cricket once when Jonah’s mom baked cricket flour cookies for his class last year and I think that’s gross but he said they tasted just like regular chocolate chip cookies. Would you eat a cricket? Eat this one I dare you!”
But he couldn’t hide from the adults forever. And the happy, numb, slightly unreal bubble that had surrounded him for the past few hours couldn’t last. The cookout wound down, the food got cleared away, folks headed home. He found himself in Sarah Wilson’s office with his backpack tossed on the pull-out she’d made up for him when it all came rushing back.
Should’ve just done it before you came down here, now Sam’s gonna be upset.
More upset.
He’ll get over it. Not like he actually cares that much.
Not like you’re important enough for anyone to care that much.
Why the hell did you come here you can’t keep up this charade of normalcy for three more days you’re only going to hurt them. All you ever do is hurt people you worthless—
“Knock knock.”
He jumped, but it was just Sam, a blanket thrown over one shoulder and a beer in each hand.
“Didn’t mean to spook ya, sorry,” he laughed. “Wanna head back to the dock?”
Bucky wanted to lie down and sleep forever but since when had he had a choice in anything.
He nodded and grabbed two beers of his own and followed after Sam, who kept saying stupid things like “I’m really glad you came,” and “Cass told me I’m no longer the cool uncle because you ate a cricket on a dare,” and “Sarah said the office pull-out is free whenever you wanna come back down and babysit.”
It was all too much. So he deflected with, “How you holding up after Karli?”
Because he knew her death was weighing on Sam and maybe if Sam was focused on his own problems for a minute he wouldn’t keep trying to get Bucky to talk about himself and he didn’t want to think about what might happen if Sam succeeded in that because—
You feel that if you open your mouth, the horrors might never stop.
Zemo was the worst, but he hadn't been wrong.
“I’m struggling through,” Sam said. “Not gonna lie, it was messed up how things went down. She was in way over her head and got backed into a corner and she did some awful stuff because of it. But she didn’t have to die, you know?” Sam took a long drink of his beer. “Torres said he’s been tracking chatter from non-powered members and sympathizers. Her death has definitely angered them.”
“You think they’ll make her a martyr? Re-escalate?” Bucky asked.
Sam shook his head. “Martyr yes. But they don’t have the resources to pose a real threat. Not right now. And if I can convince the GRC to actually do right by these people instead of trying to silence them, we can avoid a repeat.”
“Here’s hoping,” Bucky said bitterly before taking a long swig himself.
“Since when are you the optimist?”
“Trying something new,” Bucky lied.
“Speaking of trying new things,” Sam said. “I owe you an apology.”
Bucky hid his surprise behind another sip of beer. Because what could Sam possibly be apologizing to him for?
“About your amends thing…”
And his heart stopped beating. Or maybe it was beating too fast to feel.
How did Sam know? Did Sam know? Had Bucky slipped up somehow? He’d never told anyone, anyone, about his plan and he’d certainly never written it down anywhere. Sam would be angry — no worse, disappointed in him if he found out and that would be something Bucky truly couldn’t live with. Couldn’t stand the idea of leaving things with Sam all let down like that and Sam was still talking, “—realized that was really messed up of me to say. Sarah tore a strip off me when she found out. Told me I’m the biggest idiot in the world and as always, she was right. Don’t tell her I said that. But yeah. I’m sorry.”
Well now he’d been too busy panicking to pay attention to the apology so he just nodded and said, “Nothing to apologize for, Sam.”
There was a long, quiet moment. And then Sam sucker-punched him with: “None of what the Winter Soldier did was your fault. You do know that, right?”
Bucky’d done this dance enough times with Steve to know there was no point arguing.
“Yep.”
“Which means there was nothing for you to amend in the first—“
“Would you lay off the amends?”
Crap. Don’t shout.
Unclench your fists.
“Doesn’t matter anyways, I finished the list.”
“You… wow.”
Another long silence.
“Got told by a lotta victim’s families how I could be of service.”
Shut up shut up don’t say it you’re so needy why would you bring this up you just want him to feel sorry for you, you don’t deserve that you don’t deserve—
“Oh?” Sam said in an oddly guarded tone.
Bucky had accidentally crushed his beer can. The spilled alcohol was going to be a real pain in the butt to clean out from between the vibranium plates.
“Turning a hundred and seven this Sunday.” His laugh sounded strange, even to himself. “Talk about an overextended life.”
“Bucky.”
He tossed aside his crushed can and cracked open the second. Couldn’t look at Sam, so he chugged half. Paused. Polished it off.
Not even a little lightheaded.
Damn serum.
“Bucky. Where are you—“
“Gonna hit the sack. Big day, you know? And I’m tired from my flight.”
Sam let him go.
The house was quiet besides the soft sounds of two sleeping kids and Sarah listening to music upstairs. Bucky brushed his teeth and then stood in the office and stared at the pull-out for a long time.
Nope.
He pulled the quilt off, grabbed one of the pillows, and curled up in the corner by the desk, as far as he could get from anything that looked breakable in case he woke up swinging.
Chapter Text
Fall, 2023
Sometimes, Steve felt like life just took and took and when he thought he had nothing left to give, it asked for a little bit more. There was always some big new threat or cataclysmic event or world-ending disaster. When he’d entertained the thought of taking a break, the universe had burned to ashes around him.
The night before attempting the time-heist, Steve found himself digging a dusty box out of the closet in his apartment’s spare bedroom. BUCKY was scrawled in shaky capitals across the top flap because Steve’s hand had been trembling while he'd packed up and labeled the sum total of his best friend’s earthly possessions.
He hadn’t opened it in five years. Too many painful memories. Too many what if’s.
Well tonight he needed a kick in the pants. Something to jar some of that never-give-up gusto that he’d once had. A reason to throw himself into the ring for one more round, even if it might be his last.
The box didn’t have a whole lot in it. Some clothes, four combat knives, two burner phones, a couple of sketches Steve had done while on a rare visit to Wakanda, a drawing that must have been made by one of the local kids. Arrows pointed to the two grinning stick figures: White Wolf, and Me. A fantasy novel, the bookmark tucked two-thirds of the way into it. Steve’s old notebook, which held practically everything he’d learned about living in the future during those disorienting years working for SHIELD. He’d gifted it to Bucky right before Bucky went into cryo in Wakanda.
Steve had played it off as a bit of a joke, some silly stuff Bucky could try to fill his time between whatever the heck Shuri would do to free him from HYDRA’s programming. As if that notebook hadn’t been a sort of lifeline for Steve during the most confusing and painful experience of his life.
It wasn’t really a conscious decision, to start writing a letter. But he had the notebook in hand. A pencil materialized from somewhere, and next thing he knew, he was scribbling out a note akin to the one he’d written nearly a century ago. The one he’d kept tucked in the inside breast pocket of his uniform. The one he’d burned in a bombed-out bar, frustratingly sober. Tears in his eyes because the recipient was dead and nothing mattered anymore.
He hadn’t really written any letters since that one. Definitely hadn’t carried any on him. It wasn’t the sort of thing people seemed to do, in the future.
Bucky,
If you’re reading this, it means. Well. You know what it means.
But on the bright side, if you’re reading this it means you’re not dead and we pulled off the stunt we’re gonna attempt tomorrow. I know given my track record of living fast and dying young, you’re gonna call me a hypocrite for asking this of you, but humour your best pal’s last request, would you? It’s this: live your life to the fullest. Even if it’s just outa spite to the Big Bad Octopus, cause we both know they would hate that.
But I hope you’ll do it for yourself, because you deserve to be happy, Buck.
Your pal,
Steve
He tore the letter out of the notebook and stuck it on top of everything else in the box, then put the box on the dining table. Where Bucky or (more likely) Sam would find it if Steve didn’t make it back in time.
Hah. Back in time. Scott Lang must be rubbing off on him. Either that or he was finally losing it. Steve left his apartment early the next morning, freshly shaved and without much expectation of returning.
And then somehow, they won. The universe became un-burned. As much as it could, after five years of devastation.
Didn’t feel like much of a victory.
Not without Tony mouthing off and irritating the hell out of everyone and since when was he the guy to make the sacrifice play?
Not with Nat just gone.
And the worst part was that he knew this wouldn’t be truly over until they put the damn space rocks back in their proper times. Otherwise, a half-dozen alternate universes would end up just as screwed over as this one. Or worse.
There’s always something.
He knew he had to be the one to do it. Team captain and all that. Don’t send your men anywhere you wouldn’t go yourself.
That, and Scott had a teenaged daughter. Clint had his whole family back. Thor seemed to be keen on heading to space with the Guardians, and Steve wasn’t about to tear apart that family dynamic. He’d seen Rocket’s grief firsthand when the rest of that crew had been dusted. Bruce was still seriously injured. T’Challa, Rhodey, and Strange were all swamped with their own post-un-apocalypse dealings. Spider-Man was an actual child (what the hell, Tony?). Wanda needed time to grieve.
So. He was the man for the job. The only man for it. And if things went awry, he could take comfort in knowing that the only people he’d be leaving behind were Sam and Bucky. Sam was strong. Level-headed. If Steve didn’t make it back, he’d be okay.
And Bucky…
Bucky was strong, too. Stronger than all of them put together, probably.
Steve was tempted to ask him along.
“Hey pal! Wanna follow Captain America into the jaws of death one more time?”
As if the last two times Steve’d asked Bucky to join him in a fight he hadn’t gotten him killed.
No. Bucky deserved a long, long vacation. As far from the fighting as he could get.
Hell, if Steve survived this mission, maybe he’d talk Bucky into letting Steve come with. They could go back to Wakanda. Or maybe they’d find a little apartment in Brooklyn. Join one of those community rooftop gardening initiatives, take evening classes at the community college, adopt a cat or two...
Of course, as soon as Steve mentioned the Stones to Bucky, he immediately volunteered to come along.
“It’s kind of a one-man job, Buck. Stealth work.”
“Then send me.”
“Bucky—“
“Stealth is literally what I was creat— what I’m trained in. Come on, I can get in and out of those places before anybody’d notice. Don’t try and tell me you can be stealthy, Mr. Paint-my-shield-like-a-target-to-draw-enemy-fire-Howard-it’s-a-great-idea.”
Steve couldn’t help laughing at that.
“You just got back, Buck. Besides, from your perspective, I’ll only be gone for a few seconds.”
“Unless something goes wrong.”
“If something goes wrong there’ll be much bigger problems. Alternate timelines where Thanos wins kinda problems.”
Bucky ran his right hand through his hair in frustration. Steve had somehow forgotten over the past five years the way that it tumbled around Bucky’s shoulders. How a few flyaway strands would tend to get caught in his beard.
“I was thinking of retiring, when I get back,” Steve said, internally scolding himself for ogling his best friend.
“Yeah?” Bucky grinned at him, which really wasn’t fair. “I know a goat farm that’s lousy for farmhands. Or I did. Dunno if it’s still running.”
His smile faded a bit, and Steve, wanting to get that grin back, punched Bucky lightly on the arm and said, “Well, I heard there’s suddenly twice as many goats to herd as there were two days ago, so maybe we can go find out.”
“You’re such an idiot, Rogers,” Bucky said, shaking his head. But that grin was back so Steve counted it as a victory. Right up until Bucky asked, “What’ll happen to Cap if you retire?”
Steve sighed.
“I was thinking of handing the mantle over to Sam.”
Bucky’s expression was unreadable.
“I know you don’t really get along with him, but—“
“Oh I only hate his guts because he’s a better friend to you than I could ever hope to be,” Bucky said to his boots. “He’s probably, no definitely gonna make a better Cap than you." He looked up at Steve, lips curved up in a lopsided smile. "Sure you wanna get outshone like that? Bet he could stride on up to that fancy hammer of yours and start swinging it around no problem. No character development needed.”
“Oh, shove off it!”
Bucky’s grin could only be defined as shit-eating.
And so it went. Steve talked to the other time-heisters in the days before Tony’s funeral to gather as much intel as he could about each time/place. He came up with a plan (man with a plan!) for each stone. Decided on an order to return them.
Scott, Bruce, and Hank Pym worked their butts off to make sure he had plenty of juice to make the trip, plus a little extra in case of emergency.
All in all, a good plan.
Didn’t mean his heart wasn’t pounding out of his chest as he waited for Bruce to run the final checks on the time-platform the morning after Stark’s funeral. Sam offered to come along, and something in Steve's chest broke a little.
“You’re a good man, Sam,” Steve said.
What did I ever do to deserve a friend like you?
Either of you?
He turned to Bucky, looking shy in the morning light. Like he wasn’t quite sure if he belonged here.
“Don’t do anything stupid till I get back.”
Especially if I don’t get back.
But that part always went unsaid.
“How can I?” Bucky said softly, “You’re taking all the stupid with you.”
Steve barely held in his tears as he pulled Bucky into a bone-crushing hug. Reminded himself that he’d only be gone for a few seconds to them. A blink of an eye.
“Gonna miss you, Buddy,” Bucky said. He looked on the edge of tears himself. If he started crying, Steve was going to start crying, and then it would be a whole thing. So he shoved it down.
“It’s gonna be okay, Buck.”
Hopefully no more than a few days, from Steve’s perspective.
And then? Goats. Wakanda. Maybe Brooklyn, if they could get a pardon for Bucky sorted out.
He shut the helmet on his suit and nodded at Bruce. A tunnel of lights, tumbling disorientation, and then he was stepping out into a familiar battle-torn street.
New York, New York. May 4, 2012
Bruce — future-Bruce? Present-Bruce? — Steve’s Bruce, said the Time Stone exchange had happened on the roof of the New York Sanctum. Steve was crouched on the roof of a nearby apartment building that offered a view of the street below and of the Sanctum roof, where he could see the bald woman Bruce had described, puttering about and watering plants. A rather mundane activity for the Sorcerer Supreme, but then again, Steve wasn’t sure what Strange got up to in his spare time, either. The New York Sanctum looked disturbingly normal, despite the vicious battle being fought across the city. Steve wondered briefly if that was part of the point. The timelessness of the place a reflection of the Stone it was built to protect.
He didn’t have too much time to philosophize, thankfully, as a minute after he got in position, Steve saw past-Bruce lumber up the mostly deserted street, roaring half-heartedly and kicking the tires out of a few cars. Guy wasn’t winning any Oscars for that performance. Things got quiet for a minute, and then past-Bruce emerged onto the Sanctum roof.
The conversation was more heated initially and decidedly more… weird than Steve expected. Most of it must have happened in Bruce’s head or something because from Steve’s perspective, Bruce looked to be taking a nap while the Sorcerer Supreme continued about her watering.
But then, past-Bruce got woken up with a flick of the sorcerer’s hand. The Time Stone was handed over, and past-Bruce disappeared in a flash of light.
Time to move.
Steve wound up Mjollnir and leapt, letting the hammer’s momentum pull him from his position on the apartment roof over to the Sanctum. He came in a little fast. Had to roll to avoid breaking both legs on the landing (definitely still needed to practice that move), and found himself being pulled to his feet by the Sorcerer Supreme herself.
“So. You won, then?”
Steve grinned. This is why he’d wanted to do the Time Stone first. It was a safe bet, and he was hoping he could get a little advice about how to safely pull off this much time travel without royally screwing it up. Who better to ask than the sacred keeper of the Time Stone herself?
“We did,” Steve said. He knelt down and entered the code for the case that held the Infinity Stones, plucked out the Time Stone, and snapped the case shut as fast as he could. He put Mjollnir down on top of the case.
A little extra security never hurt.
The Sorcerer already had her necklace open, and the Time Stone floated from Steve’s hand. Everything felt suddenly weighty, like time itself slowed around him as he watched the stone drift away. It was a strange feeling. Like he was still on regular speed, while the world was caught in slow-motion. It struck him that he could keep the Time Stone himself, if he wanted. Giving it to this woman would only mean its eventual destruction in the hands of Thanos. And wasn’t his mission to protect the Stones? He should move, take the Stone back before it was too late—
The pendant on the necklace closed with an inaudible click, and time resumed its normal pace.
Steve gave himself a little shake.
Odd.
“Any advice for me before I head off to return the rest? I’m assuming there’s some rules to time travel.”
“The main rule is not to do it.”
Steve couldn’t tell if she was joking or not.
“Be careful,” she said.
Not particularly helpful.
“Do your best not to be seen. Try not to interact with anyone. Or anything. Have you ever heard of the butterfly effect?”
“No, sorry.”
“It’s an old parable about a butterfly that flaps its wings on one side of the world, causing a slight disturbance in the air that grows and grows until it becomes a catastrophic storm on the other.”
“Right.”
“It’s also a fundamental law of time travel. Don’t. Change. Anything.”
“That is the whole mission, ma’am. Putting things back the way we found them.”
“Good.” She gave him a long, hard look, and Steve found himself flagging under her gaze. He looked instead to the distant skyline, where a gaping portal suddenly snapped closed. “I’ll do my best to keep an eye on you, but if you get caught or in serious trouble I may not be able to help you out. Can your time-travel suit jump to any point in time?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’ll be up here for another half hour before other duties will call me away. If you get into trouble, jump back here, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Part of Steve wanted to argue that this was his mission and she didn’t need to intervene, but a larger part was relieved at the thought of having an assist. A mission control of sorts who could watch his back.
He stupidly, irrationally, wished Bucky were here.
“Thank you, ma’am. Appreciate it.”
“Good luck.”
Steve grabbed his hammer and the case, and headed for the stairs.
The Mind Stone was going to be a little trickier, what with two other Captain Americas running around Stark Tower. And the somewhat awkward fact that Steve didn’t have an actual sceptre to replace. Just the stone itself. That would certainly raise some eyebrows. But there wasn’t much he could do about it now.
His plan was to plant it on his past self’s unconscious body. Better than HYDRA having it, that was for sure. He was tempted to write himself a note explaining where to find Bucky. How to rescue him. Now that he knew Bucky was alive, his past self would go searching for him, right?
Could Bucky even be saved without the help of the Wakandans, who at this point in time were not open to or friendly with the rest of the world?
Steve remembered what the Sorcerer Supreme had told him less than ten minutes ago about leaving things as unchanged as he could. He ground his teeth and crouched behind a dumpster, waiting for an opening to sneak into the tower.
The post-battle chaos provided him plenty of cover to sneak into a back entrance. Steve found himself a spot to hide that had a good view of the walkway where he’d fought his past self. Minutes slowly ticked by. His stomach rumbled, and he wondered if buying himself some dinner after this would break the space-time continuum.
Suddenly, his past and past-past selves came crashing down through some glass and landed thirty feet from him. Steve winced in sympathy. That fall had hurt. They tussled, evenly matched until his past self dropped the bombshell: Bucky is alive.
And then quipped, “That is America’s ass,” as he headed off with the sceptre.
Steve seized his opportunity and darted out from his hiding spot, case in one hand and hammer in the other. Same as before, he opened the case, grabbed the stone, and put Mjollnir on top of the case for safekeeping.
His vision flickered a little as he turned to place the Mind Stone in his past-past self’s belt pocket. There was a sudden swooping sensation in his stomach, like he was at the zenith of the Cyclone, and then—
Ice-cold water flooded the cabin, prematurely stealing his last breath … cold, so cold. Or maybe he was on fire, burning … “My God, he’s still alive!” … a dizzyingly wide sky pierced his eyes through the frozen lattice of his eyelashes … frantic voices hovered just above his head. And though he could feel that he was wrapped in heavy blankets, there was frost deep in his bones… “Not much farther now, Cap. You’re almost home.” … Peggy held his hand and whispered for him to sleep. Said that he was safe now…
When he finally woke for good, he found himself in a clean hospital room lit gold with evening light streaming through a west-facing window. Peggy Carter was sat in a visitor’s chair by the bed, flicking through a thick manila folder, eyebrows pulled together in concentration. Steve was struck by a sudden urge to sketch the way her hair curled around her ear just so. He must have made a noise, or shifted around. She looked up from the files, and the look of concentration melted into a thin, worried smile.
“Welcome back,” she said.
“What…” Steve said, not quite sure what he meant to ask. Something wasn’t right but he couldn’t—
“You’re very lucky, you know. A handful of Canadian soldiers saw the Valkyrie going down. Managed to pull you from the wreckage before the whole thing slipped under the ice. Hauled your half-dead arse across a hundred miles of unforgiving tundra to the nearest air base. I expect all of them will be getting medals for their bravery in saving Captain America’s life.”
Steve wasn’t sure what to say to that.
“You’re in the SSR’s medical facility in New York now,” Peggy said, still with that thin smile. Her eyes were a little wet around the corners.
“Oh.” He wasn't sure what else to say.
He reached out, seeking warmth. Solidity. Something to make it make sense, make it real. She took his hand and gave it a firm squeeze.
“The boys are kicking around here somewhere, if you’re up for rowdier visitors,” she said.
"Of course," Steve said. Then frowned, remembering what he’d meant to ask initially. “What year is it?”
An odd question. He felt he should know, but he didn’t.
Peggy’s smile faltered for a moment. “1945. It's April 8th, 1945.”
He barely had time to take in that information before the door burst open and—
“There he is!”
“Glad to see you awake, Cap!”
“Aw c’mon, measly little glacier can’t keep our Cap down.”
“Called it, mais non? Everyone owes me five, euh, dollars.”
“How you feeling, Rogers?”
— Morita, Monty, Dum Dum, Dernier, and Jones were tumbling though the doorway and crowding his bed, all of them grinning like loons.
Schmitt was defeated, HYDRA wiped out, by all rights the war was nearly over. And against all the odds Steve was alive, was home, surrounded by his friends. Holding Peggy’s hand.
It hit him like a punch to the gut, realizing he was still watching the door. Waiting for somebody who wasn’t — who couldn’t come through. There would be no lopsided smile that was quick to break into a full grin. No eyes to catch his and sparkle like they were sharing some sort of inside joke, just the two of them. No steady presence at his back, just as it had been through the worst of his asthma attacks, the coldest winters and the hottest summers, somehow keeping him alive through the mud and gore and horror in Europe.
He smiled thinly at the Commandos, said he was glad to see them, but that he was feeling tired (which wasn’t untrue). Everyone wished him a speedy recovery and retreated from the room. Peggy planted a kiss on his forehead before dimming the lights and closing the door with a soft snap.
He watched the shadows shift and deepen as the sun set, golden light fading to blue, and then deep grey. He tried not to think how backwards everything was. He’d always known he’d be the one to go first. That’s how it was supposed to be. He had made his peace with it at age ten.
But now… Now he was tucked up safe in a hospital bed while Bucky was frozen somewhere in the godforsaken Alps. Steve shivered and pulled the blanket closer, trying to take comfort in the thought that he’d have died on impact with the canyon floor. Quick. Unlike the slow and painful process of freezing to death.
It was that thought that carried him off to sleep, arctic ice biting into his bones.
Notes:
Author's historical note:
I wanted a way for Steve to be found and get back Stateside shortly after his crash. In TFA his plane initially gets found by a Russian oil team, theoretically putting him somewhere in the eastern hemisphere, but having Steve get found in Siberia and then somehow transported back to New York in late March/early April of 1945 didn't feel very realistic. People had bigger things to worry about than getting one soldier home, even if he was Captain America.
Lucky for me and my enjoyment of historical "accuracy," the Canadian Army actually ran a series of military exercises in the winter of 1944/1945 to test the feasibility of defending from an attack over land in the arctic and sub-arctic. Mostly they discovered that their current gear was insufficient, and that hiking through rough terrain and heavy snow in mid-winter is miserable and exhausting, go figure. Operation Lemming, which ran from March 22 - April 6, 1945 with the goal of testing out some newfangled armoured snowmobiles, just so happened to take place right around the time that Steve could've been flying a plane into the arctic. The MCU doesn't give us an exact date for when that happened, nor any details on the flight path except that the plane is headed for New York and takes Steve over the arctic circle. While Lemming ran from Churchill, Manitoba up to what is now Arivat, Nunavut, and back down, which is probably farther west that Steve would've taken the plane before crashing, it seemed a likelier bet for him getting rescued than from a crash say, between Iceland and Greenland.
Is this too much research for a Marvel fanfic? Probably.
But, I learned some fun facts along the way! Like how bad the Canadian military's winter survival advice was back in the day. So that was fun. Side note: If you get frostbite, please don't rub snow on your hands to "encourage circulation." That is a fast way to lose your digits.
Chapter 3: In Which Tony Stark has a Terrible, Horrible, No-Good Very Bad Day
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Stark Tower, New York. May 4, 2012.
Tony was having a categorically bad day. He had nearly died. Twice, if anyone was keeping count. Though the second time was more of an embarrassing addition of insult onto injury.
Oh, and Loki escaped. With the tesseract. Because everyone was distracted by Tony’s stupid heart giving out at the worst possible moment.
Like seriously, people might begin to think his arc reactor has been replaced with Hammer tech or something.
So that’s about how well Tony’s day was going when the team got a very bleary and confused-sounding Cap coming through on comms saying he’d been attacked by Loki. Made even better by the sight, when they arrived, of a concussed Cap standing over his own unconscious body.
Thor strode up to the knocked-out Cap, who was wearing a strange white and red suit that Tony had never seen before, and planted a solid kick in his side while saying, “Enough games, brother.”
Knocked-out Cap didn’t move.
Thor bent down, looked at his face, and then without warning leapt up and landed a punch straight across regular-Cap’s jaw. Cap went down like a marionette with its strings cut.
Thor frowned. “That usually works.”
“What usually works?” Tony asked, still feeling a little winded from, oh yeah, almost dying twice.
“Punching him. His illusions fade upon contact with a physical object.”
“Huh.”
“So who the hell is this guy, then?” asked Clint, gesturing at the Cap in the weird suit.
“And which one is our Cap?” asked Natasha.
All Tony had wanted was to eat some shawarma, take a long, hot bath, and then forget any of this ever happened. But apparently it was his tower, his party.
“That your hammer, Thor?” he asked, gesturing at the hammer resting on a large black case a few feet away.
Thor looked from the hammer in his hand to the hammer on the ground. Then held out his left hand. The hammer flew into it.
His frown deepened.
Tony summoned a gauntlet and cautiously picked up the case. It was surprisingly light for its size.
He didn’t have to ask the others to drag the two Caps into the elevator. So maybe Fury had been right about all that team cohesion stuff or whatever. Hopefully Bruce would know to come back and find them once he de-Hulked. Because much as the fighter-types were growing on him, Tony genuinely enjoyed Bruce’s company.
Guy was smart. And paranoid. Tony could use a little smart and paranoid right about now.
They went up to the private suites. Not the level that had been destroyed (thanks for the structural integrity heads-up, J), but one of the simpler suites a few floors down. The two Caps were hauled up onto a king-sized bed where Nat could thoroughly search them while Clint stood guard.
Tony wandered to the mini-bar, thanked his past-self for having the foresight to keep every suite in the tower well-stocked, and poured himself a whisky neat.
“J, give me tower security footage. I want facial recognition on everyone with Cap’s face for the past day.”
Thor, who had been weighing his hammers in his hands by the large windows in the living room, meandered over. Still frowning.
“Want one?” Tony asked, gesturing with his glass.
Thor shook his head. “This hammer is mine,” he said, swinging the hammer in his left hand.
“And?”
“And yet it has seen more battles than me.”
“How can you tell?”
Thor practically scowled at him, which was a little terrifying. Especially since the guy was generally pretty chill.
“Would you not know if someone else had been fighting with your suit for a few years?”
A few years?
“Fair enough.” Tony took a sip of his whisky. “So what are you saying. That hammer is from the future or something?” he joked. Thor tilted his head, still frowning at the hammer in his left hand.
“I need to consult with my mother. She would know if such magics are possible.”
“That’s not a no.” Tony was suddenly cold and unsteady. He drained his whisky, hoping the heat of the drink would warm him up. Was his arc reactor giving out again? It felt like it might be.
“Sir?” JARVIS said, “I’ve positively identified Captain Rogers existing at three discrete places at once within the tower this afternoon. Would you like to review the footage?”
Yes. He would. Just after he got his heart working again.
“Also, Dr. Banner is on his way up.”
“We’ll review it as a group, then,” Tony managed to say. “I think I… I’m just gonna lay on the couch for a minute.”
“Very good, sir.”
Thor followed him to the living room and settled into one of the leather armchairs. Tony eased his aching body down onto the couch and shut his eyes. Everything hurt, the world felt more than a little spinny, he probably shouldn’t have had a drink so soon after nearly dying from a heart attack, and he was beyond exhausted…
He didn’t get to nap for long, however. No rest for the wicked and all that.
Bruce arrived, drank a whisky of his own in complete silence, and then together they reviewed the security footage and determined the following facts:
Shortly before the battle ended, security cameras captured three figures entering the tower, all wearing the same white, silver, and red suits as the knocked-out Cap currently was. Jarvis ID’d them as Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, and someone named Scott Lang.
Scott was also currently serving time in federal prison. A quick hack into the prison cameras verified his presence there all day.
After the battle, all the Avengers trouped into the building to properly arrest Loki. That was no surprise. Tony remembered doing that. He wasn’t too pleased to see his alternate-self sneaking around (Lang now nowhere in sight) in the background. The tower definitely needed better security.
A few minutes later, a third Steve entered the building. Again in the strange suit. He hid himself in a corner of the mezzanine, seemingly waiting for something. Meanwhile, cameras caught the second Cap intercepting the STRIKE team with the sceptre in the elevator. Things seemed tense, but this Cap somehow convinced them to hand the sceptre over to him. Which raised a lot of questions that hopefully one of the passed-out Caps could answer.
Back to Cap number three, who seemed to be waiting for something… ah. That would be the arrival of the other two Caps, who came crashing down to the ground, fighting over the sceptre. Cap number two won and walked off with the sceptre in its case, and as soon as he was out of sight Cap three sprang into action. He pulled something from his own case, which he locked down by placing Thor’s hammer on it (again, so many questions, so little time), but when he turned to Cap number one, he collapsed.
Not much happened after that. Cap number one eventually woke up and called in the rest of the team.
“So, what do we think?” Tony said to the room at large. “Doppelgängers?”
Bruce squinted at the paused security footage and absentmindedly rubbed his chin. Thor continued to weigh the hammers in his hands with a thunderous expression. Natasha was as unreadable as ever, but Clint looked appropriately shaken by the footage.
They did a thorough search of both Caps and found nothing surprising on what they were all hoping was their Steve. Just a little compass in the pouch on his belt with a photo of Peggy Carter (which in itself was a whole different can of depressing worms). The other Cap (and he had to be the other Cap. He looked a little different. Older. More worn-out. Or maybe Tony was falling prey to confirmation bias), had the weird suit, which was kitted out with strange tech that Tony didn’t want to mess with outside of his lab. There was something glowing yellow clenched tight in his right fist.
They couldn’t get it free. Not even Thor, who was arguably as strong if not stronger than Steve, could pry open those fingers and get at whatever he was clutching.
And then there was the case, which contained four faintly glowing gems that made Thor freak out and start talking about cosmic destruction and shout that they needed to get the case off the planet immediately before anyone or anything noticed that the Earth had amassed this much power.
All highly disconcerting, and not helped by the pounding headache that was making it increasingly difficult for Tony to think clearly.
They agreed to let Thor take the case of gems to Asgard for safekeeping and to investigate the possibility of time-travel or evil doppelgängers with his mother. They made him swear to make regular check-ins.
“Shouldn’t we be going after Loki?” Clint asked.
Thor sighed heavily. “I don’t believe my brother is a threat to your planet at this time. But rest assured I will find him and bring him to justice. This business,” he gestured with the case and spare hammer, “is more concerning.”
And then he disappeared in a blaze of multi-coloured light.
Add scrubbing weird scorch-marks off the tower roof to the laundry list of necessary repairs.
Cap (hopefully their Cap) was just waking up when they all got back downstairs. He gave them another concerning layer to the story. Which was that Cap number two had bested him by shocking him with the claim that his childhood best friend Bucky Barnes was alive.
“It has to be some sort of trick, right?” Natasha said. “He knew your weak point and exploited it.”
Tony didn’t know a whole lot about Bucky Barnes. His Dad had talked a lot about his time in the war with Captain Rogers, and Tony had met the other Commandos several times at the annual Stark Christmas Gala growing up. But Bucky Barnes? Nary a whisper.
Except that one time, when a nine-year-old Tony had accidentally walked in on dear old Dad crying over a bourbon late one night. Usually at that point Tony would’ve made a speedy retreat to his room, having long ago learned to make himself scarce when Dad was hitting the drink. But Howard had spotted him and called him over.
He had the glass of bourbon in one hand, and a black-and-white photo of the Commandos in the other. They were in uniform, but looked relaxed, crowded around a table in a pub and grinning at the camera. Tony braced himself for a long speech about the good ‘ol days in the war with Cap.
“This is the last photo of all of them together,” Howard told him shakily. “I took it while they were on leave for a few days over Christmas in London.”
He drained his drink and set it down with a clatter on his desk.
“I just keep thinking, if he’d’a had the serum like Steve, maybe he coulda made it home. If I had just cracked it sooner, I could’ve given it to him. To all of them.”
Howard’s laugh was almost more upsetting than his tears.
“I shouldn’t be saying all this to you, son. I’m sorry. Your old man’s getting caught up in his memories.” He sniffled and looked down at the photo. “Thirty five years today. I oughta toast your memory, Barnes. But we both know I’m not one for sentiment, and you’d just call me an old sap anyways.” He drained his drink and set both the empty glass and the photo aside. Then stood abruptly and gave himself a little shake. “You should be in bed, Anthony. Go on. Out.”
Tony had gladly taken the dismissal and scarpered off.
Everything else that Tony knew about Bucky Barnes, he’d learned in history class at school. Which was: he’d been friends with Steve Rogers growing up. He’d been a sergeant in the 107th until Rogers became Captain America and formed the Commandos. And then he was Cap’s right-hand man until he died in March of 1945. Followed shortly after by Rogers himself.
But now, Steve was very much not dead, and claiming the same of Bucky.
And they had two other Steves running around, one of whom appeared to be—
“Well, like I said I never finished my residency because I realized I didn’t want to be a medical doctor, but I’d say he’s in some sort of coma.” Bruce straightened up from where he’d been bending over Cap number three.
“Great,”Tony said. “Anyone else have any other crises they would like to add to the day?”
“Sir?”
“Hit me, J.”
“There is a bald lady outside who claims she’s a sorcerer and is demanding to see you.”
“Why the hell not,” Tony said.
The bald lady introduced herself as the Sorcerer Supreme, and did some fancy moves with glowing orange sparks to prove that she was who she claimed. Or something. At that point Tony was so overloaded with new information that he just. Didn’t care.
Magic is real now too.
Fantastic.
She confirmed that Cap three, coma-Cap, was indeed a time-traveller. As was Cap two. Who she said had left along with future-Tony and future-Scott Lang. Apparently their future selves wouldn’t bother them again, as their mission in the past was complete.
She said she’d sensed something odd with the Time Stone (whatever that was) and became concerned. And then she said something else about the Mind Stone. Which apparently was what powered Loki’s sceptre? And was currently clenched in coma-Cap's fist. According to the Sorcerer, coma-Cap had been attempting to return this Mind Stone to this timeline so that it wouldn’t be doomed forever or something. So that was appreciated, Tony supposed.
“What have you done with the other Stones?” the Sorcerer asked.
“They’re safe.”
She glowered at Tony.
“Off-world.”
“You mean on Asgard. Good,” she said. “This future Captain will need them back once he awakens in order to complete his quest and prevent cataclysmic disaster in the remaining four timelines. We must ensure their security in the meantime.”
“Obviously,” Tony said, like he knew what the heck she was talking about. Fake it till you make it.
She strode over to coma-Cap and laid a hand on his forehead. “He appears to be trapped in one of the Mind Stone’s illusions. I will see about finding some way to break him free. Keep him safe and comfortable in the meantime. And don’t tell anyone else about him. The fewer people he interacts with, the safer we keep the space-time continuum.”
“Right,” Tony said. “Wouldn’t want to break that.”
“No,” she said, fixing him with her serious gaze. “We wouldn’t.”
Then she made a glowing portal with her fingers, stepped through it, and disappeared.
“So that just happened,” Natasha said.
“Are we still on for shawarma?” Clint asked. “I can do a takeout run.”
“I’ll join you,” Steve said.
“No, you’ll stay put,” Natasha argued. “You’ve been badly concussed twice in the past hour.”
“I’ll go with Clint,” Bruce offered.
“We’ll be back in a Jiffy,” Clint called from the elevator.
“This is so much better than the stairs,” Bruce joked as the doors slid shut.
Tony turned to Steve and Natasha. “Anyone else miss the days when the bad guys were just terrorists?”
“Or Nazis, yeah,” Steve said.
“Simpler times,” Natasha agreed. She’d somehow poured all of them drinks without Tony noticing. “To the end of the world as we know it,” she said.
“Cheers.”
Stark tower, New York. November 4, 2012.
Steve missed the days when the weirdest thing science had created was himself. The battle for New York and the assembling of the Avengers team had opened his eyes to a whole universe of crazy that he wasn’t sure he wanted to look too closely at.
Like the four potentially universe-destroying Infinity Stones currently under the heaviest possible level of protection on Asgard. Or the fact that time travel was real. And that he would apparently become a time traveller at some point in the future.
He tried not to think too much about his future-self, laying in a coma in a secret medical wing in the basement of Stark Tower. It made him feel strangely trapped and panicked when he did.
He had bigger fish to fry than his own existential dead regarding the existence of free will.
Namely, finding Bucky.
Despite his insane schedule juggling a new full-time job as a SHIELD agent and his ongoing Avengers duties, Steve dedicated every spare moment he had to the task. He searched through old POW camp registries to see if he’d somehow been picked up and never released at the end of the war. Reached out to the surviving Barnes relatives and descendants of the Howlies (which was an emotional roller coaster in and of itself). Even made a trip out to the Alps to see if the frigid mountains had preserved any clues over the decades. Though how Bucky could’ve survived a fall like that…
Natasha and Clint were helping, too. Pulling strings in old networks on the off chance anyone had come across him in the intervening years. It had been a long six months of getting nowhere, and Steve was starting to wonder if his alternate self hadn’t just said whatever in order to win the fight. Hopefully he could ask him soon.
After months of her own searching, the Sorcerer Supreme had found a spell that she hoped would break the hold that the Mind Stone had over future-Steve. Steve, Tony, and Natasha had all volunteered to be present in case the coma patient woke up feeling less than friendly. Despite the Sorcerer’s assurances that they were all on the same side, Steve didn’t really trust her. Or him.
The four of them gathered around future-Steve’s bed. For someone who’d been in a coma for six months, he looked pretty good. Lost a little weight, maybe, but the serum had prevented muscle wasting. If Steve didn’t know better, he’d’ve thought the guy was just taking a nap.
“I make no promises that this will work,” the Sorcerer said. “Mind magic isn’t my specialty.”
“What do we do if it doesn’t work?”
“We’ll resort to more drastic measures of removing the stone from his body.”
Steve’s stomach dropped. “You mean chopping off his hand?”
“I mean a surgical amputation, but yes.”
Steve must’ve made a face, because she laid a hand on his arm and said, “The two of you share a past, but you are not destined to live his future.”
Which was only moderately comforting.
“Now, if you’ll step back, I can get started.”
Steve joined Tony and Natasha against the wall as the Sorcerer Supreme began to trace glowing runes in the air over future-Steve’s head. They twisted together as she worked until there were several conjoined rings of glowing writing encircling the bed. Then she raised both hands and thrust them down onto future-Steve’s chest.
The runes flashed lightning-bright and set Steve’s ears ringing. Like the high-pitched squeal of a train’s breaks. And then…
The steady beep of the heart monitor. The flicker of a dying fluorescent bulb overhead. The Sorcerer Supreme stood at the head of future-Steve’s bed, panting slightly.
“Did it work?” Tony asked, breaking the silence.
“I’m not sure,” the Sorcerer replied.
“The hell do you mean you're not—“
“Tony,” Steve said. Because the last thing they needed was to burn a bridge in anger right now. “Thank you for trying,” he said to the Sorcerer.
“I think I woke him up enough to get a message through. But I’m not sure if that will be an effective help.”
“A message?” Steve asked, having learned by now that Tony didn’t like to show that he didn’t have all the answers, and that Natasha preferred to watch and listen until she had enough intel to speak confidently.
“If I’m right, it means that this Steve has now sent a distress signal of sorts to an ally in the future. If it’s received, I expect the Avengers will show up within the next few hours. Which solves the problem of returning the other stones — they’ll be able to handle that — but does not help us revive this Steve from the hold the Mind Stone has on him.”
“Maybe the future Avengers will have something to snap him out of it,” Tony said. “Hey, do you think I’ll get to meet my future self? I would absolutely love to pick his brain about the nanotechnology in those suits.”
“We should set up a watch,” Steve said, before Tony could get too off-track. “Make sure there’s someone around to meet them and explain the situation.”
“Yeah, alright Captain Boring,” Tony said as he motioned for the Sorcerer Supreme to exit the little hospital room. “You can have first watch then.”
“I’ll get someone to send down a book,” Natasha said with a crooked smile.
Steve rolled his eyes and pulled the visitor chair as far from the bed as he could get it. Because sitting beside his sleeping self was weird no way he cut it. He didn’t need a book to keep him entertained, as he didn’t expect to have to keep watch for long. The future Avengers would be showing up any minute now, answering his future-self’s call for help. For the first time in six months, Steve felt a bit of the tension ease from his shoulders as he settled into the chair.
Nobody came.
Not that first night, nor the day that followed.
“I don’t think it worked,” Natasha said over dinner. It was Clint’s turn on watch. The rest of them were picking at a slightly scorched freezer lasagna that Tony had made. “Either that, or nobody’s coming.”
“Maybe they need some time to assemble,” Steve argued. “We don’t know how long it takes to boot up the time travel equipment.”
“Or maybe future-Cap is playing some sort of long game we don’t know about,” Tony sniped back. “Look, I’m not a fan of chopping anybody’s hands off, but I think we should consider—“
“Really, Tony?”
“You only don’t like it cause he looks like you.”
“Looks like? He is me.”
“Well how else do you propose we wake him up? Last person we know who got possessed by the Mind Stone only came out of it by getting knocked out, and we can’t exactly do that if he’s already in a coma, can we?”
Tony was right, and Steve hated it. He flexed his right hand. “He’s not gonna be impressed with us when he wakes up without a hand. That’s all I’m gonna say.”
“Better unimpressed than dead. And a half-dozen universes screwed over,” Tony argued.
Natasha raised a glass in mock cheers.
“I can start looking into surgeons,” Bruce said. “Find someone trustworthy.”
“Good,” Tony said. “Sooner we can get this whole situation sorted, the better.”
“I’d better hit the hay,” Steve said, half-faking a yawn just to get out of the conversation. “Got a midnight watch.”
“I invented JARVIS for a reason, you know,” Tony quipped.
Steve flipped him off as he headed for the elevator.
Notes:
A note on the timeline: The MCU is frustratingly vague on when any of their movies are set, outside of maybe a vague season and the year. To spare myself from some insanity because there is a lot of time-hopping in this fic, I've decided to just go with whatever date a given movie was released for the "date" that said events went down.
Chapter 4: In Which Steve Discovers the Therapeutic Benefits of Gardening
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Spring, 1945
By the time Steve was cleared for return to active duty and transport had been arranged for him and the Commandos to ship back to Europe, Germany had surrendered. The war raged on in the Pacific, but Steve, Morita, Jones, and Dum Dum all had racked up more than enough points to receive honourable discharges rather than being re-deployed to the east. Steve found he wasn’t upset about sitting out on that fight.
The government wasn’t quite done with Captain America and the Howling Commandos yet, of course. They made public appearances in Washington as part of the V-E Day celebrations. A long day of smiling through grit teeth and jumping at flashbulbs on cameras. Of turning to make snide comments to Bucky, which was his usual way of coping with the press, only to find the space at his side achingly empty.
All of them ended up at Steve’s hotel suite that evening, packed into the sitting room like so many sardines. Steve wasn’t sure who cracked open the first bottle of cheap whisky, but soon everyone was holding a glass with a generous pour in each. Steve swirled the amber liquid in his glass, feeling stretched like taffy. He wished, not for the first time, that the stuff would have an effect on him.
Monty emptied the bottle into an eighth glass, then raised his own. “To the Sergeant.”
Everyone raised their glasses in agreement. There was a long moment of silence, broken only by the soft clink of emptied glasses being placed on end-tables.
“Best shot in the 107th,” Jones said.
“Best shot in the whole goddamn army, more like,” Dum Dum grumbled, cracking open the second bottle.
“You still sore over those smokes you lost betting against him?” Gabe teased.
“I maintain he cheated,” Dum Dum protested, moustache bristling. “No way he hit that farthest tree without curving the bullet or something.”
“Can’t curve bullets, Dum Dum,” Morita argued.
And Steve was grinning despite himself. It felt like forever — a lifetime — since he’d been able to simply sit and let the Howlies’ familiar conversation wash over him. He looked over at Peggy, and the warm feeling in his chest grew.
He wasn’t okay. But he didn’t feel like he had a few short weeks ago, either. Like he’d swallowed a live grenade and would explode any moment. Maybe, with time. A long, long time, he’d start to mend.
Summer, 1945.
Monty and Dernier had long since shipped home to Europe, and Dum Dum, Morita, and Gabe had all headed off to their respective homes in Massachusetts, Georgia, and California by the time summer rolled around. Howard, of course, continued jet-setting around the globe, doing whatever it was the government needed from him for their final push in the Pacific. Steve found himself with a considerable amount of money (being Captain America certainly had its perks) and free time.
He bought a house in a sleepy suburb just outside of New York. One with a neat little front porch, a white picket fence, and a big yard. He planted flours out front, and vegetables out back. He thought about buying a cherry tree, but talked himself out of it.
Maybe next year.
It was the same line he gave Peggy when she invited him to become a full-time SSR agent.
“Maybe next year. I think I need a break. From the fighting, you know?”
“Losing family changes your priorities,” she said, nodding. “Michael’s death’s what drove me to join up, but. Maybe it’s not such a bad thing if his death convinces you to finally leave the fighting behind.”
“I said a break, not forever, Pegs,” he protested, eyes stinging as they always did when someone brought up Bucky. Even though Peggy hadn't mentioned his name, Bucky's absence weighed on Steve’s chest like concrete.
“I know.” She flashed him that irresistible smile of hers, the one that said she’d seen through his usual defences and right into his soul. The smile that said she knew exactly how it felt to lose a brother. He’d never wanted to kiss her more than he did right then.
“So um,” he said, forcing the weight of his grief aside as he cleared his throat, “we never did get that dance.”
She laughed. “I’ll be off work at 9. You can pick me up from the office. Don’t be late again.”
“I won’t be.”
Fall, 1945.
The wedding was small. Peggy couldn’t get much time off work, but they found a long weekend in September, shortly after the official end of the war. Howard flew them over to England so they could get married in the little church down the block from where Peggy grew up. Just immediate family and close friends in the congregation.
He cried a little, seeing her in her dress for the first time with an arm looped through her father’s. She looked like something from one of Bucky’s novels. A vision in white. Steve’d never imagined he’d be lucky enough to marry such a wonderful woman.
His heart lurched at the thought. Because the few times he’d envisioned his wedding, Bucky’d unquestioningly been a part of it, stood stoically beside him as his best man.
When he’d been a kid, he’d thought he might marry Becca, just so that he and Bucky could be brothers for real. Steve’d idly wished he had a sister so that Bucky could marry her and then the four of them could all live in one big house and have lots of kids and maybe a dog and a few cats. A childish dream that had melted soon as he realized what marriage really meant. Becca, Maggie, and baby Lizzie were all good as sisters to him. Bucky already good as a brother.
And now Bucky was gone.
But Peggy was here. Real and glowing and holding his hands. Promising to be with him until death, as he promised the same.
With you till the end of the — shut up.
Shut up and pay attention to your own goddamn wedding what the hell is wrong with you?
They took a three day honeymoon to Ireland. Saw St. Patrick’s Cathedral, hiked around the cliffs of Moher, and visited his grandparents’ graves. Steve didn’t think he’d ever been happier those three days than he had been in his whole life.
Peggy was busy with work when they got back, but Steve remained at home. If others thought that odd, the wife working while the husband stayed in, Peggy liked to remind them that he’d nearly died preventing the Nazis from wiping out the entire eastern seaboard.
She was the best.
He took up painting. Harvested the vegetables from his backyard garden when the weather turned cool. Talked Peggy into adopting the fluffy orange cat that tended to roam the neighbourhood. He named her Pumpkin, and spoiled her rotten.
He cooked. He cleaned.
He wasn’t happy, per se. But he was… content.
Whenever Peggy came home exhausted from a difficult day at work, he would do his best to cheer her up with some terrible jokes and a shoulder massage. He’d always have dinner on the table, and an open ear for her complaints about whatever grief Agent Thompson was giving her that week. Or, as was increasingly becoming the case, some new mischief Howard had dragged her into.
It wasn’t so different from how things had been when Bucky’d been working the docks and Steve’d been working part-time at the grocers round the corner. Maybe better, as now he wasn’t laid up at home sick and in pain most of the time.
Practically perfect, except for his nightmares.
Even though nobody really talked about it, he knew lots of guys had them coming back from the front. Some men lost themselves in their nightly visions. The doctors called it shell-shock, or battle fatigue, and everyone did their best to hide the worst of it away, out of sight from pleasant company.
Steve occasionally dreamed of his time with the Commandos, waking in a cold sweat prepared to dodge bullets and explosions and filled with the bone-deep terror of this is it. Though more frequently, he dreamed of the factory — pulling Bucky up off that wretched table — and of the way the arctic ice had yawned endlessly below him, stomach swooping with the shift in gravity as he guided the nose of the plane down.
The nightmares that truly shook him, however, were much stranger than even HYDRA’s tesseract-energy guns.
A bloody battle fought in dense jungle, with coloured lightning and explosions and strange machines. A looming purple figure faced off against a god wreathed in lightning. Then SNAP. And there was Bucky, alive, calling for him. Bucky, dissolved to ash, blown away on the wind.
He was in a crumbling city, flying hundreds of feet above the ground and rising steadily higher. It was overrun with evil robots. Monsters of their own creation. Any higher and when the city fell, it would wipe out all life on the planet…
A smoking, crater-filled battlefield crawled with alien enemies. War may have involved a lot of strategy, but numbers counted for something and there were just too many. His arm screamed in pain where it was broken under the shield’s straps. The shield itself was broken, too, the top half of it shorn off. He heard an explosion and knew without looking that their last hope of victory just went up in smoke. The only thing left was to fight to the bitter end.
He fought for his life on a freeway, exchanging blows with a relentless masked foe. His enemy must have been enhanced, to be able to block and dodge so quickly. To be able to punch that hard. The metal on his left arm wasn’t a protective sleeve, it was — it had been grafted onto his body somehow. But Steve didn’t have time to register that horror, because the titanium fist was coming for his face, a knife curled lethally inside it. He barely blocked the strike with his shield. Whoever this guy was, he was a better fighter than Steve. His only hope was to hold out long enough for his friends to show up and even the odds. Steve grabbed at the enemy’s face as he flipped him off his back. The mask clattered to the pavement, and —
“Bucky?”
— he couldn’t be — he — how —
“Who the hell is Bucky?”
Seated on a bench by a lake, Bucky, long hair tumbling over his shoulders, stood a short distance away. Steve needed to say something to him. Something important.
He was jolted awake one night in early October from a variation of that last nightmare, sweaty fists clenched at his sides.
“Darling? What’s wrong?”
He sat up, and Peggy sat up with him, wrapping an arm around his clammy shoulders.
“Just a weird dream,” he whispered.
“Weird how?”
Steve had to think about that for a minute. “It feels like a memory, but I know it’s never happened. And I… usually when I have that dream, I can’t talk, but this time I could?” He sighed in frustration.
“It’s just a dream, sweetie.”
She was right, of course.
Then why does it feel so important?
“I’ll make you some tea.”
“Thanks, Pegs.”
As he listened to her clatter around the kitchen, he couldn’t help the guilty feeling that the footsteps ought to be heavier. That the kitchen floor should have a creak in it by the stove. That there should be a lot more quiet swearing involved in boiling a pot of water. It was a guilty sort of thought, wishing Bucky were here when he was married to the woman of his dreams. He shifted his attention back to his nightmare.
He thought he’d gotten some words out, that time. Maybe. Though he couldn’t for the life of him remember what they were.
Delacroix, Luisiana. March 9, 2024
The first time Bucky had the dream was his first night in the Raft. It had shaken him, but he'd chalked it up to nothing more than the stress of getting arrested and the heartbreak of Steve choosing to stay in the past with Peggy.
Choosing to live out a lifetime of peace and quiet contentment. To sit back and do nothing while Bucky’d been—
Don’t think like that.
Typical, making things about yourself.
You always make everything about yourself, you selfish little—
The dream went like this:
Steve missed his return time stamp, and Bucky immediately knew what he’d done. And why shouldn’t Steve retire in the past? Live out the life he always dreamed of with Peggy. Lord knew he deserved it. Bucky turned from the platform to see an elderly man sitting on a bench by the lake.
Steve. But his smile was all wrong. Too much teeth and nothing behind his eyes.
And then Steve opened his mouth to speak but instead he began to scream. Like he was being burned alive. Or electrocuted. Bucky would know, he’d screamed like that for decades. Bucky started to sprint to him, but right before he reached Steve, he woke up.
Every time.
At first, the dream had been an infrequent occurrence, happening maybe once or twice a month. Nothing to write home about. He often forgot about it until the next time his brain decided to dream it up.
Then he started to dream it a few times a month, then a few times a week, and now every night for the past ten days. He felt bad that it rattled him as much as it did. Compared to everything else he dreamed about, it was almost pleasant.
What really rattled him was when the dream changed.
It started same as always. Empty platform, cold, numb, sinking feeling. Old Steve over on the bench.
But Old Steve didn’t smile that strange not-smile.
He stared Bucky down, looked him dead in the eyes, and said, “I’m trapped. Asleep. And I can’t— it’s the Mind Stone. Bucky, please—“ and then he started screaming.
Bucky woke in a cold sweat.
The possibility that he’d well and truly lost his mind didn’t escape him as he pulled on a thick hoodie and a fresh-ish pair of jeans. Running off in the middle of the night because of a nightmare wasn’t exactly sane behaviour.
Neither was thinking that said nightmare wasn’t actually a nightmare.
He didn’t care. He had to check. Steve had been screaming in his dreams for months and the first coherent words he said were a cry for help? Consequences be damned, Bucky was gonna make sure that it was “just a nightmare” before ignoring it.
He left a note on the stack of unused, folded sheets on the pull-out, which he’d re-assembled into a couch.
Sam,
Thanks for everything, and I’m sorry.
— Bucky
Then he ghosted out of Sarah Wilson’s house, guilt and anxiety weighing like stones in his stomach.
Notes:
A note on the "points" mentioned in the first paragraph of the chapter, because I do way to much research for my hobbies: So, after V-E day, the US military had a whole bunch of people deployed in Europe with no war to actually fight, and a whole war still going on in the Pacific. In order to figure out who would stay in Europe while the region stabilized, who would be re-deployed east, and who would go home, they implemented a points system. At the start, a soldier needed 85 points in order to qualify for a discharge, and points were counted based on time served at home and on foreign soil, campaigns the soldier had fought in, medals awarded during his service, any children he might have back home, etc. Apparently the system was confusing and highly unpopular, and the general population was angry enough about the government's lacklustre demobilization efforts there were protests staged by both civilians and soldiers in the US and in Europe.
I may or may not have calculated points for the various American Commandos to see if they would've realistically been demobilized and discharged or sent off to the Pacific, solely for accuracy in that first paragraph. Lucky for them, they'd all been serving long enough to stay home. Though I feel like a "Captain America survives the plane crash and realizes the US is planning to drop atomic bombs just like the ones he almost died stopping HYDRA from dropping" AU could be a lot of fun, I ain't got time to write it!
Chapter 5: In Which Bucky Takes a Trip
Chapter Text
Delacroix, Louisiana. March 9, 2024
“You boys’d better not be messing with that water pump again!” Sarah called.
Sam put down his wrench and wiped off his greasy hands on a rag.
“I ain’t messing with the pump, I swear,” he called back. “Though I still think it’s part of the problem,” he added quietly. Sarah appeared at the top of the hold, arms crossed but grinning.
“I heard that.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Sarah's grin slipped as she took in the still-malfunctioning engine.
“Lunch is ready,” she said. “Thought I’d find Bucky down here with you.”
“Hoped, more like,” Sam teased. His duty as the older brother. Though if he was being honest, he didn’t want to encourage the two of them. Sam loved the guy to pieces, but Bucky was a bona-fide mess. Guy definitely needed to work on his own stuff before bringing another person into that mix. And Sam was not gonna stand by and let Sarah catch whatever fallout would surely come out of the disaster of Barnes’ first relationship since 1945.
Or earlier. He probably hadn’t had much time for romance during the war.
Sarah rolled her eyes at him and said, “Well if he isn’t here, where is he?”
“Sleeping, last I checked. I think Cass and AJ tuckered him out yesterday.”
“Should we wake him up for lunch?” Sarah asked as Sam clambered out of the hold and up onto the deck.
A good question. Sam stalled, leaning against the bulkhead while he pretended to weigh the merits or more sleep versus good food. Really, he was replaying the conversation he’d had with Bucky last night, same as he had been all morning, over and over on loop in his head.
Got told by a lotta victim’s families how I could be of service.
Talk about an overextended life.
Sarah appeared beside him, squinting out across the water. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m worried about him,” Sam admitted. “Seeing him smiling and playing with the kids yesterday, I thought he was maybe doing better but,” he shook his head.
“He say something last night?”
“Yeah, he—“ Sam blinked back unexpected tears. “I took him down to the docks, to apologize for the stupid thing I said to him about his amends. He said he finished the list, and you were right that it wasn’t good for him. I don’t know where Dr. Raynor gets her — or what I was thinking telling him to keep doing it. He implied that a lot of them told him to… told him he shouldn’t be alive.”
His own fear was reflected in Sarah’s face.
“I’ll handle it,” he said, trying to push through the buzzing panic and grief in his head and put on a brave face. “I’ve helped suicidal people before, at the VA.”
He made the mistake of looking Sarah right in the eyes, and his facade of strength crumbled. Sam frustratedly swiped at unwanted tears. “It shouldn’t be this difficult.”
“He’s your friend,” Sarah said. She pulled him into a hug and squeezed tight. “Not that you didn’t care about your clients at the VA. But I’m betting you had some professional distance with those guys that you don’t have with Bucky.”
Sam wanted to argue that he and Bucky had plenty professional distance, thank you very much. They’d certainly never been friends. Kind of hard to let your guard down around the guy who’d crashed your car, ripped your wings off, and then a few years later nearly snapped your spine.
He wondered when he’d started to care so much. When Sam had shifted from thinking of him as the Winter Soldier to Steve’s old friend to simply Bucky. From someone who wasn’t the kind you save to inviting the man to spend a weekend crashed on the pull-out couch in his sister’s house.
Yep. Plenty of professional distance there, Sam.
“When’d you get so wise?” he said into her shoulder.
Probably in the five years he’d been dead and she’d been a single parent during an apocalypse.
“I always been smarter than you,” Sarah teased.
Right.
“We’ll figure it out,” she said.
“Okay.” He sniffled a little as he pulled out of the hug. “I’ll go wake him up. We’ll all have lunch. And then…”
“And then we’ll figure it out.”
He wiped the tears off his face, blew a snot rocket into the water (“Ew, Sam! What are you twelve?”) and headed up to the house. Palms sweaty as he stood outside the office door.
“Hey, Bucky? You awake?”
Nothing. He cleared his throat and tried louder, with a soft knock. “Hey. Bucky? Lunch is ready,” he said, easing open the door, “you feeling up to joining—“
The pull-out was made back into a couch. Folded sheets neatly stacked to the side. A note on top of them.
A note.
“Bucky?”
But the room was empty.
Sam couldn’t feel his body. Fingers numb on his phone as he dialled Bucky’s number.
Ring.
He’d checked in at around 2 a.m. when he’d got up to pee. He had heard Bucky’s even breathing through the door and gone back to bed, feeling relieved that Bucky was getting some good sleep for once.
Ring.
But he hadn’t checked in before going down to the boat after breakfast.
Ring.
He’d assumed that Bucky would follow him out, like he had the last time he’d visited.
Ring.
Which meant it was nearly ten hours since—
Ring.
“You’ve reached Bucky. Leave a message.”
“Bucky it’s Sam. Call me back. Please, wherever you are, just. Call me back.”
He’d paced without realizing it, and was staring down at the note now.
Addressed to him.
Sam,
Thanks for everything, and I’m sorry.
— Bucky
Things got a little blurry, after that. He remembered Sarah telling Cass and AJ to go to their room to play. Her taking the phone from his hands. Asking if he knew where Bucky might have gone, if he’d had any weapons.
Of course he’d had weapons. He was Bucky.
There was a tracker in Sam’s suit, something about Wakanda wanting to know where its tech was at all times, and maybe they’d put one in Bucky’s arm, too.
They needed to call Shuri.
He was in the living room with a sandwich and a glass of lemonade. Sarah’s voice on the phone floated through from the kitchen. AJ and Cass were off playing somewhere, Sam wasn’t sure where. He had just about pulled himself together enough to get up and find them when Sarah appeared in the doorway.
“Tell me they can trace him,” Sam said.
Sarah simply passed him his phone.
“Shuri?”
“Captain Wilson. Your sister already explained the situation to me.”
He felt a small wave of gratefulness towards his sister. What would he do without Sarah?
“The arm is not currently traceable,” Shuri said.
“Not currently?”
“It is programmed to send out a remote signal in one of three conditions: when it is removed from Sergeant Barnes’ body, if its internal diagnostics detect a lack of vital signs, or if Barnes chooses to send a signal himself.”
“So, if it’s not traceable, then?”
“He’s alive.”
Sam collapsed back into the couch.
“I won’t say he is well, based on what Sarah just told me and his… recent decision making.” Sam could hear hurt in her voice, and it took him a second to remember that Zemo had killed her father. He wished Bucky were here so he could punch some sense into him. Maybe punch some sense into his past self, too, for going along with Bucky’s harebrained prison-break.
Sam wanted to ask her to let him know if the tracer ever started pinging, but his mouth was too dry. Hands too shaky to pick up the glass of lemonade and fix it.
“If…” he started.
“I’ve linked your phone to receive any pings from his arm at the same time that we will,” Shuri assured him.
“Thank you.”
“Of course, Captain. Be well.” Shuri hung up.
He took a deep breath before looking up a Sarah. “He’s alive. But we can’t—”
She crossed to the couch and pulled him into another hug.
“When you find him and bring him home, I’m gonna introduce that boy to a little concept called a float plan. And then I’m probably gonna kill him,” Sarah said.
“Poor guy doesn’t know what’s coming for him.”
“Nope.”
“I’d better get to finding him.”
“You’d better. I was gonna surprise him with a roast for his birthday tomorrow. Even looked up the recipes on some White lady’s blog for it.”
“And you say I’m the one who’s always gotta be doing the most.”
Sarah sniffled and laughed shakily.
“I’ll find him,” Sam said. He wiped his eyes again (geez, how many times in a day could one guy cry?), tried not to think about how badly things had gone the last time Sam’d been tasked with hunting down Bucky, and headed off to boot up Redwing for some recon.
San Diego, California. March 9, 2024.
The last thing Scott Lang expected to receive on a bright and sunny Saturday afternoon in March was a phone call from an unlisted number. Especially when the mystery caller claimed to be Bucky Barnes.
Who “just happened to be in the area” and “was wondering if I could drop by.”
“Sure,” Scott said. “I’ll text you the address.”
“I, um, might already be outside your house.”
Scott’s first thought was where’s Cassie? And then his stomach sank with guilt because Bucky wasn’t his past, and Scott had a fair amount of experience with folks making pearl-clutching assumptions about him because of his less-than-spotless record.
At least his crimes had been his own fault.
“Perfect! Come on in. I’ll put on some coffee.”
A half-minute later, there was a sharp knock on the front door. Scott swung it open and Bucky slipped past him, dressed in a black jacket with his hands stuffed deep in the pockets. He’d cut his hair short since the last time Scott had seen him.
Six months ago. Wow.
Maybe he should’ve tried to keep in touch.
“Good to see you, man, how you been?”
Bucky shrugged as if that was an answer. “How’re you?”
“Good, yeah. Busy,” Scott said, ushering Bucky towards the kitchen so they could sit and talk and also drink coffee because now that Scott had mentioned it, he really wanted some. “Hope and I have had our hands full keeping things peaceful over here. You know how it is. I saw you and Sam made the news.”
Bucky leaned back in the proffered kitchen chair. “Yep,” he said with a small smile. “Sam makes for a pretty great Cap, huh?”
“Sure does.” Scott busied himself with the coffee maker and tried to come up with a conversation topic that wouldn’t leave him feeling mortified in front of yet another childhood hero.
The first time he’d met Bucky face-to-face, Scott hadn’t realized who he was until hours later when he was sitting in a cell in the Raft. Sam had filled him in on the cliff-notes of Metal-Armed-Scary-Guy’s backstory and seriously HYDRA was The Worst.
Scott figured re-hashing that day wouldn’t be a welcome conversation. Though maybe no conversation would be welcome conversation, judging from the deep scowl that appeared to be Bucky’s resting expression. But Scott had never been one to keep his mouth shut when he ought to, so he slid a coffee across the table to him, plopped down a carton of milk and a bowl of sugar, and asked, “What brings you to my neck of the woods? Thought you were living in New York.”
“Brooklyn.”
Bucky stirred several spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee.
“Nice. You like it there?”
Bucky shrugged again. “Changed a lot.”
“Here too,” Scott said, latching onto some common ground. “You wouldn’t think five years could make that much of a difference, but a lot of the stores closed during the Blip. There’s new ones popping up now, but it’s not the same. It’s like the feel of the neighbourhood is different, you know?”
And then he shut his mouth because he realized that was a seriously stupid thing to say to a guy who'd missed over half a century of change in his hometown.
But Bucky didn’t seem offended. He snorted softly and said, “Tell me about it. Just last week I got turned around walking home. Took me a good five minutes to realize I was accidentally making the old trek from Steve’s Ma’s place back to—“ he interrupted himself with a sharp inhale and a sip of steaming coffee.
Scott wasn’t sure how to follow up that depressing revelation. He opted to breezily change the topic.
“So, you’re travelling?”
“Theoretically allowed to as of January.”
“Theoretically?”
“San Diego police aren’t thrilled about my presence in the city. Detained me for a few hours at the airport.” He took another sip of coffee and added, “Don’t worry, I made sure to lose my surveillance detail before coming to your house.”
“They… what?”
Bucky shrugged a third time. “Unless you rather I lead the police right to your door?”
“I… no. Sorry. Thank you? Just. If you’re allowed to travel why did— why are they tailing you in the first place?”
Bucky fixed him with a look very similar to one Hope often used for him. The don’t be stupid look.
“Government tails me everywhere,” he said tonelessly.
Scott frowned. “Shouldn’t that be illegal or something?”
Bucky laughed, and Scott’s frown deepened. Because he knew, he knew, how deep the injustices of the criminal justice system ran. But he’d thought — or rather hoped — that the government would’ve have the decency to do right by a man who’d literally died trying to save the universe. Staying power of said death notwithstanding.
“Sorry,” Bucky said. “I’m not laughing at you, I swear.”
Scott couldn’t help feeling a little like he was. For lack of anything better to do, he took a too-hot sip of coffee.
“Steve said something similar, you know. When he rescued me from Zemo in Berlin.”
Well, at least Scott wasn’t the one to bring it up.
“That day was—“
“My bad,” Bucky said, making full eye contact with Scott for the first time. “And I’m sorry you got pulled into it.”
“I don’t regret it,” Scott said. Which was mostly true. There were some things he would’ve done differently, sure, but he never would’ve backed the Accords. Still didn't. “Besides, Cap calls, you answer, right?”
Bucky sighed heavily and drained his mug. “Don’t I know it.”
Then he got up to wash the mug out in the sink. Scott rubbed his forehead while Bucky's back was turned. Talking to Bucky was giving him conversational whiplash.
“Hey, random question,” Bucky said as he set the mug in the dish-rack to dry. His tone was too light for this to be anything but planned. “You happen to know where all that time-travel stuff ended up? The quantum platform Bruce used and all that?”
Speaking of whiplash... what the hell? Scott did not, though he knew that Hank did. Alongside a fair amount of particles that he'd stored up, just in case any world-saving time travel had to happen again.
Better safe than sorry, Hank had said.
But also, messing with time remained incredibly dangerous. Which was why Hank hadn’t told anyone where he’d hidden the platform and most of the time-travel suits.
“No, why?”
“Just curious.”
“About the location of possibly world-, no, universe-destroying tech?”
“Yeah pretty much.” Bucky leaned back on the counter and fixed Scott under his unwavering stare.
“And you just happened to be in San Diego while you happened to be wondering about it?”
“Can I trust you?” Bucky asked, unblinking.
“I’d like to think so,” Scott replied.
“Good, cause what I’m about to tell you is beyond top secret. Me, Sam, and Bruce know. Nobody else. You have to swear that what I’m about to say won’t leave this room.”
Scott swallowed and tried to ignore the pinpricks of sweat that had broken out across his body.
“I swear.”
Bucky stared at him a moment longer before he continued, “When Steve went to put the stones back, he stayed. In the past. With Peggy.” Bucky licked his lips. “He invited me to come with, but at that time, I wasn’t ready. I… I guess I wanted to see if I could make it work, living in the future. But now I— I think I made a mistake. I was hoping you could help me fix it.”
The coffee in Scott’s mug was going cold. He took a sip anyways. Hank would take some convincing to get on board.
But what Hank didn’t know couldn’t harm him.
And Scott didn’t actually need the quantum platform that Bruce had used to send Steve on the reverse time-heist. Any old quantum tunnel would do. He just needed some Pym particles and a suit.
Easy as pie.
Scott looked up at Bucky with the beginnings of a grin on his face.
“I’m in.”
Lang was surprisingly easy to convince. Though the lie that Steve had invited Bucky along to the past had felt like he was stabbing himself in the chest as he told it.
Steve hadn’t wanted him along. Had pretty explicitly told him so when Bucky’d offered to come with. He could’ve made it easier on both of them and just shot Bucky straight through the heart, but Steve was never much for cold-blooded murder. Part of being a good guy or something.
That wasn’t really the important thing here. The important thing was Steve screaming in Bucky’s sleep. Steve begging him for help.
Probably nothing.
Most likely answer was that Bucky had finally lost his mind and this whole thing was pointless.
But.
If Steve actually did need his help?
After everything he had done for him, the least Bucky could do was make sure.
“Alright, here’s the plan,” Lang said, sipping on his third mug of coffee since Bucky'd arrived. “I still have my time-suit, but it’s out of juice. I know Hope has enough Pym particles laying around to power the suit for one journey. I’ll convince Hope to give me the particles. You pop on the suit. Then all we have to do is break into Pym Labs and use their quantum tunnel.”
“How much juice does time-travel take?” Bucky asked, carefully casual. “Just in case something goes wrong and I land in the wrong time.”
“Hmm, good point. Okay, forget Hope then. We’ll steal you enough particles to make an extra hop in case of emergency.”
Bucky nodded. He would check the Mind Stone time-stamp in 2012 first, but if worst came to worst he might need to make up to seven hops before catching up to Steve: one for each stone and one to check on Steve in the past. It would be a challenge to pull a heist like that on such short notice. Hopefully he could steal the required Pym particles before Lang could get suspicious and call it all off.
“Okay, second problem,” Lang said, now scribbling some complicated equation on the corner of a floor plan.
Bucky raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t know the final date that Steve went back to. Do you?”
It was generally something he tried not to think about, and Steve had been infuriatingly cryptic about his alternate life. Bucky shook his head.
Lang sighed and chewed the end of his pencil absently. “Maybe…” He scribbled a few more figures, crossed them out, pulled out a new page, and scribbled something else. “Yeah. I think that’ll work. I hope. Might want Banner to check my math, but.”
“What,” Bucky said.
“Since we don’t have an exact time stamp, I’m thinking of modifying the input formula for the quantum tunnel so that the suit’s navigational system will lock onto the quantum signature of a person in space-time instead of a place in space-time.”
“That supposed to mean something to me?”
“Basically, instead of sending you back to a particular time, we’d send you back to a particular Steve.”
“And you’re sure that will work?”
“Like ninety-five percent.”
“And the other five?”
“You’ll end up stuck in the quantum realm forever.”
Of all the ways to go, that one actually didn't sound so bad.
“Okay.”
Lang laughed.
“What.”
“Does anything phase you, man?”
Bucky forced a smile, “At this point in my life? Not much, no.”
Everything phased him. He was terrified all the time. Just. He also didn’t have the energy to show it.
“That’s so badass,” Lang whispered. “Alright. Well, I’m gonna double-check my math to make sure I don’t accidentally kill a national hero. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen.”
National hero, internationally wanted terrorist. All a matter of perspective, as Dr. Raynor would say.
Bucky told Lang he was going out to buy some groceries and last-minute supplies he wanted for the trip. If that grocery run happened to take him past Pym Labs, Lang didn’t need to know.
He got back right around dinner time with an expensive cut of steak, garden-fresh asparagus, new potatoes, and several canisters of Pym particles. Lang was still slaving away at the kitchen table, laptop open and papers spread around him, his time-suit draped over a chair with several wires poking out of it.
Bucky cooked a proper steak and potato dinner for the two of them and tried not to think of it as a last meal. Though the fact that he could have steak and potatoes for his last meal was somewhat of a miracle in and of itself. So maybe he should count his blessings and not be such a wet blanket all the time.
All there was left to do was wait for nightfall. Bucky found himself pacing in Lang’s living room and trying to ignore the phone burning a hole in his pants pocket.
He grit his teeth and cursed under his breath.
“You have one new message. To listen, press one.”
“Bucky it’s Sam. Call me back. Please, wherever you are, just. Call me back.”
Beep.
“To delete this message, press seven. To save, press nine.”
He should have expected this. Sam was a good man. Too good. Of course he’d be upset by Bucky running off with no explanation.
Yet another reason why he shouldn’t’ve gone to that cookout.
He was a bad influence on Sam. Had hurt him in a million big and small ways while they’d been taking down the FlagSmashers. Bucky had hurt him when he was around and now he’d hurt him when he’d left.
He found himself dialling Sam’s number in spite of himself.
“Bucky?”
Sam sounded out of breath.
“Yep.”
God, he hated himself.
“Where the hell are you?”
Before Bucky could generate a good lie, Sam plunged ahead and asked an even worse question: “Are you safe?”
Well, better than asking if he was okay. He didn’t see any immediate threats in Lang’s living room, and answered honestly.
“I am, yeah.”
For now.
“Okay, good. That’s good. Can you tell me where you are?”
He needed to stall. And figure out a way to keep Sam out of this long enough to actually go through with it.
“Not sure I want to.”
“Bucky, I swear to—“ he heard Sam take a deep breath. “Why not?”
“Kinda busy at the moment. And I don’t want you to get tangled in another one of my messes.”
There was a long silence on the other end, then very quietly, “What do you mean by that?”
“Got arrested again,” which wasn’t what he’d meant to say at all. He sounded like a kid running home to mommy to tattle on a schoolyard bully. But it’s what came out his mouth so now he’d have to run with it.
“What?”
“I’m out. It’s fine. Was fine. I didn’t do anything illegal.” This time. “Bunch of BS they made up about travel restrictions that aren’t even in my pardon.”
He heard Sam inhale, probably to say something in Bucky’s defence, but he found he didn’t want to hear it. Not right now.
“Anyways. It kinda proves my point,” Bucky said.
“Your point?”
“That Captain America shouldn’t be paling around with the Winter Soldier.”
“Bucky—“
“No, listen to me, Sam,” Bucky interrupted, his argument picking up steam now. Half-truths made for the best lies, after all. “I’m just — I’ll end up bringing you down. And. I need space right now. To, um, process some things.” Raynor had always wanted him to process things. He’d never understood what she meant by it, but it sounded like a good word to use in the moment. Sam being a former counsellor and all.
“Bucky,” Sam said. Like his name had value or something. “I like paling around with you. As Captain America or just as Sam. So once you figure out whatever it is you need to figure out, you promise me you’ll come back, okay?”
Bucky opened his mouth to promise. To lie.
He couldn’t.
“Sarah said she was gonna cook you some proper White People food for your birthday. Flavourless boiled potatoes and everything.”
He really, really wished that Sam hadn’t said that last bit. Because that was too much. Too kind. The Wilsons shouldn’t do that sort of thing. Not for something— someone like him.
“How’d she even know it’s my birthday?” he asked around a lump in his throat.
“Wikipedia’s free.”
“You’re the worst.”
“I am.” Sam sounded proud of it. “If I don’t hear from you every day I’m going to use Redwing to track your phone, come after you, and drag you back here. So regular check-ins, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, alright Ma,” he lied.
“Thank you.”
And that hurt deep, because Sam sounded relieved. And he shouldn’t be. He shouldn’t even care. Bucky would’ve thought that Sam was smart enough to know when somebody was too far gone to save.
They’d agreed that Karli had been walking a fine line, especially near the end. That’s why Sam was still torn up about her death. And also why he was seemingly unbothered by the countless aliens he’d slaughtered nearly six months and over five years ago. Karli could’ve been saved. The aliens had needed to be stopped.
And Bucky? Anyone with eyes and a passing knowledge of geopolitics over the past century could tell what kind he was.
They set out for the lab as soon as it got dark out. Bucky let Lang lead. Wouldn’t do to look too familiar with the layout of the place. Lang stole two canisters of Pym particles and showed Bucky how to load them into the suit.
So. Now he had seven canisters of Pym particles. He had the suit. And here they were at the quantum tunnel.
“I’ve locked the suit onto Steve’s quantum signature, which was last logged by the system right before the battle at the old Avengers compound. Now, what I’ve done is wind that signature forward. The only point of comparison for how much a quantum signature changes over time was my own from that day and today. If I’ve done the math right, you’ll be landing next to a Steve who’s been living in the past for nearly six months. I figured that was better than underestimating and accidentally landing you beside him in outer space or something.”
“Sounds perfect. Thanks, Lang.”
It didn’t sound perfect. Bucky didn’t particularly care to see Steve living his idyllic retirement with Peggy.
Without him.
Not that he didn’t want Steve to be happy. Just.
It hurt.
Maybe it would be better this way. Like tearing off a band-aid. He’d gotten the other time-heist time stamps and locations off of Lang’s laptop while Lang had been in the bathroom after supper. So all he had to do after this initial time-hop was input each time-stamp manually into the suit.
And hey, if he really wanted to go out in a blaze of glory, he could save the one at SHIELD in the 70’s for last. They said not to change the timeline. But would it be so bad if he made a quick trip to Siberia to shoot the Winter Soldier where he slept? Surely that universe would be better off than this one.
“Will you tell Sam where I’ve gone?” Bucky asked as he squared up to the quantum tunnel.
“Of course, man.”
Tell him I’m sorry for abandoning him like Steve.
That he deserved better friends, and I hope he finds some worthy ones who’ll stick by him as they should.
Tell him it's better this way.
“Ready?” Lang asked.
Bucky nodded.
“Good luck, Barnes. We’ll miss you.”
He doubted that, but grinned anyways as he gave Lang a mock salute and shouldered his backpack of supplies. Then he stepped up to the quantum tunnel and the world dissolved into multicoloured light.
Notes:
Scott: I'm a law-abiding citizen now. I've done my time, not interested in anymore lawbreaking.
Bucky: H-
Scott: You need something stolen? Heisted? We gonna do a heist? Please tell me it's a heist, I love those.
This exact behaviour was the inciting incident for both the Ant-Man and Ant-Man and the Wasp movies.
Chapter Text
Location: Unknown, Date: Unknown.
Bucky tumbled out of the quantum tunnel and into a semi-dark room. First thing that hit him was the heady scent of rubbing alcohol and the bite of an all-purpose cleaner. He barely had time to orient himself back to gravity (concrete floor beneath his feet, industrial ceiling tiles overhead) before—
“Bucky?”
Steve was standing near the door to the room (reinforced steel), a chair toppled over by his feet. Bucky took a step forward, scanning him for injuries, trying to figure out why Steve had lingered six months in whatever timeline this was. Because it certainly wasn’t the 1940’s.
“Buck?” Steve said again, almost a whisper.
And Bucky’s heart plummeted.
He’d seen this exact expression on Steve’s face before. On a bullet-riddled freeway in DC.
“Where is he?” Bucky asked. “My Steve, where—“
But he would’ve been dead decades ago if he hadn’t been observant. Before he’d finished asking the question, Bucky spotted the answer laying on a hospital bed across the room, hooked up to all sorts of wires and machines. Bucky was at his bedside in a second, fingers searching for a pulse even though a heart monitor traced out its steady beat on a screen by the head of the bed.
“Buc—“
“What happened to him?” Bucky demanded. The alternate version of Steve looked like he’d been slapped. Bucky didn’t have time for explanations. Or feelings. He needed to fix whatever was wrong with Steve — his Steve — and get out of here before he somehow broke the timeline.
“He’s in a coma,” alternate Steve said, stepping closer. “Trapped by the Mind Stone somehow. The Sorcerer Supreme tried a spell two days ago, said she’d woken him up enough to get some sort of message out to the Avengers in the future. We’ve been waiting ever since for them— for uh, you — to show up.”
That mostly tracked with what Steve had said in Bucky’s dream.
“The spell was supposed to signal the Avengers?” Bucky asked.
“That’s what the Sorcerer Supreme said.”
Well, shit.
Bucky brushed a few greasy strands of hair back from Steve’s forehead, the motion achingly familiar. How many times had he stood at Steve’s bedside and silently willed him not to die? The memories were blurred and hazy, but the motions were ingrained: Listening for a rattle in Steve’s breathing, searching for a fevered flush on his cheeks, counting a feathered pulse against his own.
Problem was, Bucky was not an Avenger. Even if he’d been in his right mind at the time, he never would’ve wanted to join that particular band of crazies. Things being as they were, opportunities to join up had been thin on the ground between running from HYDRA, being at the centre of the violent conflict between Steve and Tony, hiding in Wakanda while getting his brain fixed, and then being dead for five years.
Another problem: Bucky hadn’t the faintest clue how to fix whatever the Mind Stone had done to Steve.
“What day is it?” Bucky asked, partly to kill time while he had an internal panic.
“November 5th, 2012,” the younger Steve said.
Six months after the time stamp Steve’d intended to return the Mind Stone to. Bucky spotted something glowing faintly in Steve’s right fist, and bent down to investigate.
Definitely the Mind Stone. He tried to pull back on Steve’s fingers but they were clenched vice-like around the Stone.
“I know you’re sorta focused on, um, on your mission here, Buck. But. How,” younger Steve’s voice was thick with emotion, “how are you alive?”
Bucky glanced up from trying to wiggle a vibranium finger between the Stone and Steve’s thumb, and made the mistake of meeting younger Steve’s eyes.
He was wrong in his earlier assessment that the expression on younger Steve’s face was the same as his Steve’s had been when he’d first recognized the Soldier in DC. This younger Steve’s eyes were full of heartbreak and confusion, but held none of the hopeless sorrow that Bucky’s Steve knew. There was a light there that Bucky couldn’t bring himself to extinguish with the truth.
“I promised I’d be with you till the end of the line, didn’t I?” he said, straightening up a little and pasting on a smile that was several decades old. The Mind Stone felt oddly warm in Steve’s fist.
Younger Steve’s watery smile broke into a sunshine grin and he lurched forward, arms outstretched for a bear-hug. As Bucky moved to reciprocate with his free arm, he heard a faint tink as he successfully slipped a vibranium finger into Steve’s fist and touched the Mind Stone. One moment he was leaning forward to wrap the younger Steve in a one-armed hug, and the next—
The city looked dreamlike and unreal from the crowded deck of the troop transport ship. There was the Statue of Liberty, welcoming the unwashed masses home. There, the Empire State Building, standing tall and proud above the skyscrapers around her.
Bucky wiped a few stray tears off his cheeks and whooped as loud as the rest of his fellow soldiers as the docks came into sight. He’d dreamed of coming come, sure. Fantasized about Ma’s cooking, or sleeping in a proper bed, or going out dancing on a Friday night.
Never really let himself believe it could happen, after Azzano.
And yet here he was, shouldering his kit amongst the excited press of men on the gangplank. Searching out familiar faces in the crowd until—
“Bucky!”
“Over here!”
“Bucky!”
“Jamie, dear!”
There they all were. Ma with her hair pinned up and dressed in her Sunday best. Becca with a baby on her hip and a toddler hanging off her arm. Mary, looking like a proper young lady now instead of the little girl he’d left behind. Lizzie a good foot and a half taller than when last he’d seen her, waving frantically at him and beaming a gap-toothed grin.
He let himself be pulled into hug after hug. Ma and Mary carried his kit while he gave Lizzie a one-armed piggy-back ride. She was definitely too old for it now, but had argued that they needed to make up lost time. He didn’t have a rebuttal for that. She’d been seven when he’d gotten the draft. Was barely nine when he’d shipped off for England. Going on thirteen now.
He wasn’t sure what to do with the thought of his baby sister becoming a teenager.
Becca introduced him to little George Buchanan Barnes-Proctor and baby Sarah Winnifred Barnes-Proctor on the train ride into Brooklyn. Bucky bounced baby Sarah on his lap, pulling funny faces as she stared up at him with her round, blue eyes. She was at the stage where she’d curl an offered finger up tight in a pudgy fist. She gripped his right pinkie in a little vice and he never wanted her to let go.
He traded her for George around the half-way mark when she got hungry and George got bored. Little Georgie was coming on three and was grown up enough to be highly opinionated. Bucky ruffled his hair and tickled his belly and conspired with him to steal the smokes out of Mary’s purse until Becca and Ma both told them off for being too loud.
“Such troublemakers,” Ma said affectionately.
Bucky laughed and winked at his nephew and tried not to think about anything too hard.
There was an awkward moment arriving at the house because he’d gone up the steps first, but he no longer had a key and his only arm was busy carrying baby Sarah. Which was all made worse when Mary fished a key out of her purse and attempted to hand it to him. Held it right out to his empty left side. She turned beet red and looked close to tears as she realized the mistake and jostled past him on the stoop to unlock the door herself.
He’d forgotten what the house smelled like.
The mix of fried onions, stale cigarettes, and Ma’s lye laundry detergent brought unexpected tears to his eyes. The rest of the family filtered past him and into the kitchen, but he lingered in the front hall, taking in sweet lungfuls of home. He kicked off his boots but kept his jacket on, as he didn’t want to set Sarah down just yet, and wandered into the living room.
It was exactly as he remembered it. From the creaky hardwood floors to the chipped brick in the mantelpiece. He hefted Sarah up to it for closer inspection.
“See that?” he said, wishing he could gesture at the broken brick. “Your idiot Uncle Steve broke that brick playing indoor baseball with me, back when we were kids.”
“I’d always thought that one was her idiot Uncle Bucky.”
He turned to find Becca smiling fondly at him from the doorway.
“Six of one, half a dozen of the other,” he said, attempting a return smile.
“Dinner will be ready in half an hour,” Becca said, reaching to take Sarah from him. “If you want to get washed up.”
“You saying I smell?” he said as he relinquished his niece back to her mother.
“Your words,” Becca grinned. Bucky was unable to resist pinching Sarah’s cheek one last time before heading for the stairs.
He found himself itching to get out of uniform the higher he climbed. He was itching for a lot of things. A hot meal, a hot bath, a warm bed. Socks without goddamn holes in them. Lizzie had taken over his old bedroom years ago, when he and Steve had found that sardine-can apartment together after Steve’s Ma died. But now Lizzie had been kicked back in with Mary until Bucky could find a place of his own.
Bucky found a clean set of civvies laid across the pressed white sheets, with a fluffy towel and a sprig of rosemary from Ma’s shoebox garden on the pillow. He wasn’t sure what set him off crying. Maybe it was the ease with which he could do his uniform buttons one-handed, but couldn’t for the life of him get the fly on the clean pants Ma’d left for him. Maybe it was because he couldn’t get his watch off one-handed, and who would he get to wind it now that he wasn’t with his unit?
Maybe it was that dumb sprig of rosemary, which smelled so sweet but was also the sort of nice touch Ma would do for guests whenever they’d stay over.
So he sat on his bed (which had been Lizzie’s bed for years now) with his pants undone and his shirt unbuttoned and cried until Mary called up the stairs that dinner was ready.
“Coming!” he called back.
Pull yourself together, Barnes.
He wrestled on his clothes and splashed a little water on his face and the back of his neck in the bathroom, then gathered the remains of his courage and headed downstairs.
Bucky’d gone into firefights with steadier nerves than he did that first sit-down dinner with his family. On the train ride home, it had been easier to hide from his Ma’s worried side-glances and his sisters’ not-so-concealed stares at his missing arm by burying his attention in his niece and nephew. Not so simple now that they were gathered around the dinner table, Ma handing him a plate piled high with roast beef and smashed potatoes and green beans and creamed corn.
How they’d managed to afford the meal was beyond him, and a familiar seed of worry settled in his gut.
“Ma, you shouldn’t have—“
“Yes, I should,” she retorted. Her hair had gone shockingly grey during the war. But the sharp look she fixed him with was the same as always as she added, “And don’t go slipping your vegetables to Baxter, Jamie. Old dog’s fat enough as is.”
The dog in question, a mud-brown mutt with one ear that always stuck up straight and one that always flopped down, was passed out in front of the oven, soaking up its lingering heat.
He’d forgotten they’d had a dog.
How the hell had he forgotten—
The roast was delicious. He hadn’t had meat so tender since— he wasn’t sure when. A long time, anyways. Once the washing-up was done and the little ones put down to sleep, they all sat down in the living-room drinking Irish coffees. Lizzie was curled up against his left side like a cat, her head leaned on his shoulder. Baxter the dog dozed on his feet.
“So,” Mary said into the awkward silence.
They’d covered all the everyday catching up over dinner: how was school, and work? The neighbours’ comings and goings? What relationships had waxed and waned in his absence?
He wasn’t sure anymore what normal people talked about when the small talk was finished, and he felt a spike of anger. This was his family. Talking to them should be the most natural thing in the world. The clock on the mantlepiece ticked loudly into the strained silence, and Bucky threw caution to the winds, deciding to use an old fall-back for passing time on the front.
“Hey,” he said, reaching over to poke Lizzie gently, “remember when Baxter was just a puppy, and you decided to find out what dog kibble tasted like?”
It was the right move.
Lizzie squirmed and protested, and Becca and Mary, good elder sisters that they were, immediately joined his side in teasing Lizzie for shoving a fistful of kibble into her mouth when she’d been five. The tension broke, and Bucky relaxed back onto the couch with a smile.
Of course, playing remember when? on the front had been a little different. Less innocent. But there were stories that never failed to get the guys laughing on long marches or interminable watches in miserable weather.
Like the Rat Incident.
It was one of the few stories from their time as POWs that any Commando could safely tell around a watchfire or at a table in a pub (often after downing a pint or two) and get uproarious laughter as a response.
Sure, they’d been starving, and exhausted, with no hope of escape. At that point all of them’d known Bucky was on the way out with pneumonia, not helped by a nasty beating he’d caught two days earlier from one of the guards. Anyways, Dum Dum’d insisted on setting up these stupid rat traps in their cage after getting fed up with them biting him in the arse while he was sleeping.
None of them’d thought he’d actually catch one. Poor Jones’d shrieked like a girl when he found the thing alive and struggling in the trap. Half hallucinating with fever, Bucky had reached into the trap and broken the rat’s neck without a word. He’d had the rodent half-way to his mouth before Monty realized what he was doing suggested he cook it first.
The telling of the Rat Incident often scored a Commando free drinks for an evening if said Howlie remembered to add in the end bit where they escaped the factory and blew those Nazi suckers straight to hell, special thanks to Captain America. A hilarious story that often sparked the telling of similar light-hearted horrors.
Tell about the one with the trench cat, Johnny!
You ever hear how Corporal Smith from the 78th lost his fingers? Get this…
Oi Devons! What about that time you lost your kit forging a river? Poor sap fell right in, caught hypothermia.
Everyone listening knew that half the blokes in the stories told were long dead, the other half just as likely to meet the same end soon. Same way everyone knew the story tellers were leaving out hundreds of tiny, horrifying details.
Like how Bucky’d been too sick to keep down the little bit of cooked rat-meat Jones’d poked his way some time later.
Like how they’d come for him that night.
How he hadn’t even tried to fight them as they dragged him off to the isolation ward.
“—ucky?” Mary said.
He snapped back to himself, back to the family living-room, surrounded by his sisters, and a dog, and cozy warmth.
Too good to be true.
His heart pounded in his chest. His throat. His ears.
Too good to be— this can’t be real.
“You look exhausted,” Ma said gently, “maybe you should—“
Not real not real not real—
“Need air,” he gasped.
And then he was out on the street, sock-footed on the slightly-damp pavement as his lungs struggled to inflate properly. He shut his eyes tight and tried to focus on his surroundings. The feel of the wet concrete beneath his feet, the cold, damp air on his face, the sounds of traffic deeper in the city.
But the more he focused, the more memories that weren’t — that couldn’t be his — crowded out his senses.
Cold.
Concrete cells.
Cold.
Pain.
Cold.
The Chair—
He was on the Brooklyn Bridge, feet bleeding through his torn socks, panting like he’d run a marathon and his shirt soaked through with sweat. Several nearby pedestrians were giving him worried looks. And he—
“Are you quite alright, sir?”
—needed to get out of this crowd. Needed to disappear.
No witnesses.
He was good at… becoming a ghost.
Where the hell had that thought come from?
He ignored it all and pushed through the crowd and over the bridge and down into a maze of alleyways and fire-escapes until he found himself safely nestled on the roof of a run-down tenement building a few blocks away from where Steve and his old apartment had been.
It took almost an hour for his breathing to settle.
Though he couldn’t pull up a memory of it, he knew this wasn’t the first time he’d had a panic attack like this. Which was… upsetting. To say the least. He tried to think backwards.
Before ending up on this roof, he’d been running through the city. Because… Because he’d been scared of being seen. Recognized. On the bridge. And he’d gotten to the bridge— somehow. Before that, he’d been… home?
With his family.
His family.
Too good to be true.
Might as well enjoy it, right? ’S probably better than wherever you really are right now.
Couldn’t argue with that logic. He clambered slowly down from his nest on the roof, and started the long walk back to the Barnes residence.
Notes:
Any and all historical New York City geographical nonsense is entirely the fault of me being too lazy to actually look up accurate post-war era maps.
Buckle up for some mostly Bucky-POV chapters in the coming weeks :D
Chapter Text
Brooklyn, New York. October 4, 1945.
Bucky had to admit, whatever they’d given him, it was the good stuff.
Though he couldn’t be certain of much, he was fairly certain he’d never had a hallucination this vivid, logical, or long-lasting before. Certainly not one this pleasant. As he wandered up the darkened Brooklyn streets, he distantly wondered what was happening to his body in the “real world.” Probably nothing good. All the more reason to enjoy whatever this was while it lasted.
The Barnes’s house was the only one on the block with most of the lights left on. He felt another guilty pang for worrying his family, even this hallucinated one.
They’d all waited up for him, including Lizzie, who really ought to have been in bed by now on a school night. He pulled each of his sisters and his Ma into hug after hug, apologizing for scaring them, assuring them he was alright, that he was home, and safe, and loved them.
He cried a little.
Damn it. Twice now he’d broken down and cried because of this stupid hallucination. It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t have any pride left to lose. But he did, and it stung.
Fortunately (or maybe unfortunately), this trip was sponsored by The Good Stuff and it felt incredibly, achingly, real. It was relatively easy for him to shove his fears of what if they make me kill my family and what are they actually doing to me and why can’t I remember much of anything past falling off the train to the back of his mind as his sisters gave him final goodnight hugs. Ma hovered near the bathroom door while he brushed his teeth, asking if he needed anything else before she went to bed.
He was exhausted from running half-way to Manhattan and back, so he didn’t think twice about the implications of falling asleep within a hallucination until it was too late.
The good news was that somewhere along the line he’d learned the art of waking up silently, even from horrific nightmares. The bad news was they weren’t nightmares.
They were memories.
Zola’s table.
The train.
A metal arm killing and killing and killing until the blood could never be washed clean off its titanium plates.
Ice clamping down on his bones so fast he didn’t have time for a final breath before darkness took him.
And Steve, bent with age, pleading for a rescue before he began to scream like a man being burned alive.
The house was heavy with sleep as he got up and made a silent perimeter check. He paused at each bedroom door and reassured himself with the steady sounds of his family’s heartbeats. Couldn’t help a small smile as he looked in on Georgie and Sarah.
He wandered to the kitchen and made himself some tea, then stood leaning against the kitchen counter and listened to the tick tick tick of the living room clock while he thought.
There wasn’t a whole lot that he knew for certain, but he listed it all anyways. An old habit, though he couldn’t remember when he’d started doing it.
His name was James Buchanan Barnes. He was born on March 10th, 1917. He’d served as a sergeant in the 107th and then with the Howling Commandos before he was captured by HYDRA and turned into the Winter Soldier.
The list felt incomplete. Like there ought to be more facts (facts about Steve?) that were important, but he couldn’t remember them.
At the very least, he remembered enough to know that not remembering was a very bad sign.
He wished Steve were here, but he was —
“—dead. No one is coming for you,” the guard sneered and dropped the newspaper clipping on the floor in front of him.
“You’re lying,” Bucky spat, putting as much venom into the word as he could.
“Your Captain’s pathetic sacrifice barely had an impact on our plans. If anything, he did us a favour by taking out Schmidt.”
Bucky told the guard where HYDRA could stick their plans, which earned him a baton to the head. It took the world a good few seconds to stop jumping around with multi-coloured stars. When his vision had cleared enough, he found himself the newspaper headline against his will.
CAPTAIN AMERICA PRESUMED DEAD IN PLANE CRASH.
It was one of a thousand ways they’d broken him, Bucky knew. The news of Steve’s had marked the end of an era in his imprisonment. He couldn’t remember anything clearly right now, but he thought he killed a lot of guards in the weeks that followed. He thought he might’ve come close to killing himself a few times, too.
He wasn’t proud to admit it, but he’d stopped fighting to survive HYDRA, after that. He’d just wanted out.
If memory served, they managed to wrestle him into the first cryo-chamber a few weeks later.
A frigid, iron, coffin-like thing.
He’d fought like hell to avoid being stuffed in there. Might’ve killed a few more of them before they managed to lock him in and turn on the cold.
It was yet another thing in a long line of things that should’ve killed him, but didn’t. Like a cockroach in a nuclear winter, he was. Cursed to survive.
But. This being a fancy hallucination where Bucky made it home from the war, maybe Steve wouldn’t be dead, in here. (Steve couldn’t be dead. He always managed to survive, despite the odds. He was Captain America, but more than that he was Steve Rogers, he couldn’t be—)
Maybe Bucky could find him. Talk to him.
If he could just talk to Steve, everything would make sense.
Bucky snuck back home from the library just before sunrise, careful of the creaky spot on the front porch as he let himself back in. He shivered a little as he pulled off his coat and hat, archived newspaper headlines still echoing around his head.
CAPTAIN AMERICA LANDS PLANE, SAVES NEW YORK FROM CERTAIN PERIL.
CAPTAIN AMERICA AND HOWLING COMMANDOS CELEBRATE V-E DAY IN WASHINGTON
CAPTAIN AMERICA TO HANG UP THE SHIELD, RETIRE IN NEW YORK CITY
The walk home in the pre-dawn mists had given him plenty of time to formulate a plan for finding Steve. Breaking into the library to find old copies of the Times had been child’s play. Tailing Peggy Carter home from her work at the secret SSR office in Manhattan might prove more complicated. Carter was just this side of paranoid, and most of the time her mistrust of others had proved itself to be well-founded.
He had a vague memory of attempting to tail Peggy once before, to see if she really was “foundue-ing” Howard Stark. He wasn’t sure of the details, but thought it might’ve ended with her laying him flat with an elbow to the nose.
Hopefully HYDRA’d made him a little more stealthy since then.
He was back to brooding over a cup of tea in the semi-dark kitchen when the first stirrings of life were heard from upstairs. Then, footsteps on the creaky staircase, and—
“OH!”
They both jumped a good two feet in the air. Bucky had just enough time to course-correct the teacup he was reflexively throwing so that it embedded itself in the wall instead of his mother’s face.
“Don’t startle me like that, Jamie,” Ma said, clutching her chest.
“Sorry,” he panted, skin alive with adrenaline. “Sorry, I— I’ll clean it up.”
Ma looked at the shards of porcelain in the drywall by her head, and somehow paled even more. “I… you were so quiet, I didn’t know anybody was in here.”
“Just me,” he said lamely, gesturing at himself with a shaky right arm.
“Get over here,” Ma said, and before he could move, she’d crossed the kitchen and pulled him into a hug. It was somehow too much closeness and not enough all at the same time. He didn’t trust himself not to hurt her. Hell, he almost had. But even down one arm and a few inches taller than he’d been before the war, a hug from his Ma felt much the same as it had when he’d been a snot-nosed little kid with a banged-up knee or a bloody nose. She even attempted to smooth down the cowlick on top of his head as she stepped away, just as she always had.
“I shouldn’t have surprised you,” Ma said. “Now. Why don’t you fix both of us up some coffee while I clean this up? And make extra for Becca and Mary while you’re at it.”
And so the morning passed. Pale sunlight filled the kitchen as Becca, Georgie, and baby Sarah came down for breakfast, Becca accepting her coffee with a wordless grunt of thanks. Then came Mary, already dressed for work and only having time for coffee and a bite of toast before she had to run out the door. And lastly Lizzie, hair tangled like a rat’s nest and complaining through a wide yawn that she shouldn’t have to go to school today on account of her big brother coming home.
Bucky spent most of the day looking after his niece and nephew, soaking in the sunlight that now streamed through the living room window and onto the rug by the fireplace. At 3:15, he begged off, claiming he needed a walk and some alone time. As if he’d ever craved the latter or gotten the former on the front.
Ma was satisfied with his promise to be home for dinner, and he kept his pace casual until he was out of sight of the Barnes’s home. Then he stopped slouching and kicking his feet, and set off at a breathtaking pace for what he hoped in this strange hallucinatory world were the New York headquarters of the SSR.
For once in his stupidly long life, Bucky had a few strokes of luck in a row. More proof this all had to be a hallucination, really. Because what were the odds his intel on the location, which he’d based on coordinates he’d dredged out of a hazy memory of a mission sometime in the fifties, would be relevant nearly a decade too early?
But the SSR apparently hadn’t changed locations until the late fifties or early sixties when it was officially dissolved and its members were absorbed into SHIELD at their new headquarters at LeHigh. And speaking of SHIELD, there was Peggy Carter, future director but for now simply a low-level agent, kitten heels clacking smartly on the pavement as she headed towards a bus stop.
Bucky hunkered deeper in his overcoat, making sure his hat kept his face in shadow as he meandered across the street and closer to the bus stop. The building that held the SSR’s offices forced up bad memories—
The target’s neck snapped under metal fingers. It was easy to haul the body back out the way the Soldier had entered. Easier still to drive with said body locked safe in the trunk, to be buried in separate pieces as the Soldier drove a circuitous route down to the extraction point in New Jersey.
— that he’d rather not think about.
He was especially not thinking about how his target, whose natural scepticism, learned paranoia, and overall quick wits had lead him too close to unearthing one of Zola’s off-the-books experiments, was exiting the building now. He had a paper in one hand and his hat in the other, and to Bucky’s dismay, he smiled at Carter and jogged over to the bus stop.
“Headed home, Agent Carter?” he said brightly. Blank eyes webbed with burst arteries—
“Don’t jinx it, Agent Peterson,” Carter said. “We’re still within hollering distance of the front door.”
—body still warm when the Soldier had started to carve it up—
Bucky pressed his back into the cool bricks of the alley he was lurking in. He bounced the back his head against the wall a few times, hoping the mild pain would distract from the bile crawling up his throat.
It didn’t.
World’s deadliest assassin and you can’t even hurl quietly.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, hoping that was the last of it. Then clenched his raw teeth against another unwelcome memory of his younger self, adrenaline singing in his veins after his first firefight, caught unawares by the sudden turn of his stomach. A benefit to being a marksman— none of his men had been nearby when he’d brought his rations up for a second showing.
His stomach cramped again, and he leaned his left shoulder on the wall for support, back to the alley entrance as he dry-heaved.
“…you quite alright, sir?”
Shit. Shit. Goddamn it all to hell, that was Carter, sounding cool and authoritative and concerned.
Decades of training, and Carter still had you made in minutes.
“Fine,” he said, and spat out a sour gob of saliva. “I’m fine, thanks.”
He wasn’t completely useless, however. He heard Carter’s sharp intake of breath, and realized his mistake instantly. After running so many ops together, he knew her by voice alone, too.
“Sergeant Barnes?”
The target’s orbital bone caved inward. First witness eliminated. The Soldier moved to the passenger side of the car—
Deep inhale.
…not useful to us if it can’t adapt to unpredictability in the field…
Exhale.
Paste on a smile.
“Agent Carter?” he said, straightening up with mock surprise. “The hell are you doing in Manhattan?”
“I could ask the same of a man who went missing in action eight months ago,” she replied, still with that cool, authoritative tone.
He’d forgotten about Carter’s bone-dry sense of humour.
“Yes, well. I got found. Most of me, anyways,” he said, equally dry as he gestured broadly with his right arm.
“How…”
“Now that’s a tale for the Fiddle,” Bucky said with what he hoped was a good-natured grin.
Sign.
“The Fiddle’s gone,” Carter said. Which was the wrong countersign, but Bucky’d take it. “Destroyed shortly after you left for…”
He didn't need to hear the end of that sentence.
“Really any place that sells ‘em by the pint’ll do,” Bucky said, smiling through the punch to the gut that Carter’d just delivered.
“Bucky,” Carter said, her tone flipping from cold to concerned, “are you drunk?”
He glanced down at the puddle of sick near his shoes, and thanked whatever god might exist in a hallucination for dropping this cover story into his lap.
“Only tipsy, doll,” he said, adding a slur to his speech and a small stumble to his walk.
Carter gave him a look that would’ve frozen vodka. Man, he’d missed her. Her no-nonsense approach. The deadly glint in her eye. The occasional long-suffering look that the two of them would share whenever Steve was being particularly Steve-ish.
Hell, if he took a moment to think about it (which he’d very carefully not been doing, thanks), he missed all the old SSR crowd. The Howlies. Stark.
Maybe saying him and Stark had been friends was too much of a stretch for the relationship between an expert marksman and the millionaire weapons inventor who made him his rifles. But whenever he’d had spare time in London, Bucky’d enjoyed spending it down in Howard’s lab, tinkering with his rifle and chatting with the genius. He’d gotten the impression that Howard was more than a little lonely, and very eager to have a willing ear to listen to him ramble about his latest projects. Before the war, Bucky’d been saving up as much as he could so Steve could go to art school and he could go to college for engineering. Maybe after, he’d thought, down in Stark’s workshop.
But then he’d fallen, got captured. And the rest, as they said, was history.
“Right. And I’m only a secretary,” Carter said dryly as she hooked an arm through his elbow to steady him. “Come on, I’ll hire us a car.”
And then he was being guided out of the alley, Carter muttering furiously under her breath something that sounded an awful lot like, “How could nobody tell us you were alive? I’m going to wring Phillips’ neck…”
The cab dropped them in a suburb that Bucky didn’t remember existing before the war. All the houses looked new, with tidy yards and neat picket fences. He was so far away from Brooklyn now, he was definitely going to be late for dinner.
Carter tuned them up a walkway that lead to a mid-sized bungalow with hydrangeas bordering the porch steps. After a moment of fiddling with her keys, she let them in and locked the door behind them.
“Honey?” she called, and all the hairs on the back of Bucky’s neck stood up, saying danger! danger! danger! “Would you come out here a minute? There’s something you have to see.”
And that was his final stroke of luck for the day. A note, written in Steve’s tidy script and left on the hall table, stating that he’d gone out for some groceries.
Peggy made tea and assured him Steve’d be back any minute. And Bucky, the selfish coward, hedged and said he really couldn’t stay long or he’d worry his Ma. Selfish because he wanted one last night with his family before he woke up from whatever dream this was, and somehow, seeing Steve and waking up were connected in his head. A coward because he wasn’t sure he could bear to face Steve, now knowing the monster he’d become. Couldn’t bear to have let Steve down.
But Peggy wasn’t going to let him off Scott free with no explanation. “Why did nobody tell us you were alive?” she demanded.
“I dunno. Maybe the letter’s still on its way,” Bucky lied.
Peggy scowled at him.
“Look, you want the whole story, I’ll give it to you best I can. But I only want to tell it once.”
“Okay.”
Remember, Soldat, when speaking to a mark, that the best lies are simply the truth repackaged.
“When I fell from that train, I didn’t die.”
He could remember, vaguely, staring up at a snow-blank sky. The agony of using his broken right arm to undo his belt. The horror of applying a tourniquet to the bloody mass that had once been his left arm. Attempting to crawl for shelter as the light faded and it started to snow.
If only he’d let himself bleed out in that ravine.
He’d been so stupid, then.
Had felt hope that he’d somehow survive, when he’d woken up and found himself alive the next day.
But Peggy didn’t need the gory details mucking up her and Steve’s shiny kitchen. So he simply said, “A Red Army patrol stumbled across me, maybe a day or two later. They took me in and patched me up.”
“That still doesn’t explain —“
“I didn’t, um, remember much of anything. For a long time.”
Which was true if you excluded the part where the Russians had had an active hand in the forgetting.
Here comes the lie.
“The important thing is, soon as I could remember my name, rank, and serial number, they got to work sending me back home. Took a few weeks, but… I really thought the Army would’ve told you I was back, same time as they told my family.”
If only. If only it really was the Red Army that found you. This could’ve been real. You could’ve gone home and—
“Bucky I’m so sorry,” Peggy said, eyes shiny over her teacup. “We did send out a patrol to— to try to recover you, but they never—“
“I’m back now,” he said, the words sounding small and lame.
“And you’re sure you can’t stay for dinner? Steve will be devastated that he missed you.”
“And my Ma’ll have my head if I make her eat her dinner cold. Tell him I’ll come by tomorrow, alright?”
They hugged goodbye, and Bucky left, right hand tucked deep in his coat pocket.
And then he lingered, hidden, not ready to face Steve but needing to see that he was alive. As dusk fell, light from the kitchen window poured onto the back lawn in a distorted golden rectangle, the undrawn curtains leaving perfect sightlines into the house. And there Steve was, setting two overflowing bags of groceries down on the kitchen counter. Steve, grinning at Peggy like she’d hung the moon. Steve, scooping her into a tight embrace before he pulled back enough to bend down and properly kiss her.
Bucky had a lot to reflect on, on the long bus (and train) back to Brooklyn.
Like if this was all just a hallucination, why did it hurt so much?
It shouldn’t hurt at all, really. He’d accepted that Steve would fall in love and marry someone a long time ago. He’d accepted that that someone was Peggy Carter sometime in spring of ‘44.
That wasn’t even what he should be worrying about.
He should be focusing on finding out what the hell was really going on. Since when had he been content to let some unknown force mess with his head? For better or worse, the more time this hallucination or dream or whatever it was went on, the more he remembered.
Like fighting Steve as the Soldier.
Maybe.
If that was real, it meant that Steve truly had survived the plane crash. That he was alive, somewhere in the real world.
He also knew that, had he still been the Soldier, he wouldn’t be remembering and knowing and feeling this much. He definitely wouldn’t be thinking of himself as a whole person, let alone as Bucky. He needed to take advantage of the situation while he had his proper wits about him. Figure a way to save himself. And Steve… he had a feeling he needed to save Steve, too, but couldn’t quite remember what from.
That was as far as his musings got him before the train rolled into his station and he found himself at home, being pulled into the sturdy, overwhelming, and infinitely loving embrace of his Ma, who’d set dinner aside for him in the oven so it was still warm.
He woke several hours later in a cold sweat, right hand scrabbling for the paper and pencil he’d left beside his bed before falling asleep that night. The details of the dream rapidly faded. By the time he’d dotted the last line he could remember dream-Steve saying, the context was gone. Time, place, even how he’d felt during it.
Though he could guess just from his sweat-soaked nightshirt that he hadn’t felt particularly clam and relaxed. He looked down at what he’d written, hoping it might help him make sense of what was happening.
I’m trapped. Asleep. And I can’t— it’s the Mind Stone. Bucky, please.
Mind Stone? The hell was the—
And then it all came back to him at once. Thanos. The Infinity Stones. Steve’s final mission, and his decision to stay in the past. Bucky’s strange dreams. Flying down to San Francisco in the middle of the night. Scott Lang and the quantum tunnel.
The soft tink of a vibranium finger hitting stone as he faced Steve’s younger, alternate self.
“Well,” Bucky muttered to himself as he swung out of bed. “You really outdid yourself on this rescue op, Barnes.”
Notes:
Yay, family bonding! Does it count if they're a projection of the Mind Stone and not actually real?
And a Peggy Carter cameo because I really can't help myself.
Sorry this update's late, I had a migraine for six days straight last week, and looking at a computer screen made me want to tear my eyeballs out. Feeling better now :D
Chapter 8: In Which Ventilation Shaft Clint Barton Makes A Brief Appearance
Notes:
I'm posting this early because my work schedule's been switched around this week and I might not have time to post this Friday. Hope y'all enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Stark Tower, New York. October 5, 2012.
It took a lot of persuading for Natasha to convince Steve to take a break from his bedside vigil. She talked him into taking a shower and a rest in his own bed sometime around five a.m. As soon as he was out of the hospital room, she took a steadying breath before she turned to face the two comatose super soldiers.
The cold fear that had gripped her from the first moment she’d seen who had come to “rescue” the future’s Captain America came roaring up to the surface, and she shivered involuntarily as she cautiously approached his bed.
“It’s Bucky,” Steve had said through teary eyes, a few hours earlier as Natasha helped him haul the limp man onto a hospital bed. “He— he kept his promise.”
“Did he say how he survived the fall?” Natasha had asked, voice calm despite her terror.
“No, he… I think he was trying to get at the Mind Stone. Maybe he accidentally touched it? And then he just dropped. There wasn’t time for him to explain anything.”
She’d carefully rubbed Steve’s shoulder and tried not to think about how Steve didn’t deserve this. Not after losing everyone he’d known while in the ice. It was just too cruel.
Now, she steeled herself as she looked down at an all-too-familiar face and fished in her pocket for her phone.
From Nat: Get down here. Want you to meet an old friend.
From Clint: Omw. Who?
From Nat: Remember what I told you about Odessa?
Clint appeared through the vents two minutes later with half of his armour hastily slapped on, an arrow knocked and aimed at the sleeping super soldier.
“It’s really him?”
Natasha nodded.
“Should I shoot?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
Clint relaxed his draw, but kept the arrow knocked. They stared down at the dark-haired assassin for a tense moment before Clint quietly asked, “How can you be sure?”
She pressed her lips together to give herself time to gather her frayed courage and assemble some half-coherent thoughts.
“Odessa wasn’t the first time I met the Winter Soldier,” she managed to whisper.
Like all her childhood memories, these were spotty and disjointed.
Cold, flat eyes framed by dark hair as her opponent towered over her. Aching lungs from the impact of her back against the training mat.
A metal hand guiding her small fingers around the hilt of a throwing knife as she squared up to a target.
A voice coarse as gravel. “Well done, Little Spider.”
That same metal arm protecting her back from stray bullets while they sprinted through a darkened street.
“He trained me,” she said, feeling a familiar burn of frustration at the fragmented memories from her childhood. “I don’t know for how long. But it was him.”
All she knew for certain was she was too small for Yelena to have been there.
“Shit,” Clint said, which summed up most Red Room related things pretty succinctly.
They were silent for a moment, both contemplating the sleeping form on the bed between them.
“My Hungarian contact went dark a month ago,” Clint said.
“And we don’t even know which side the Soldier works for.”
“Maybe he gets passed around like some sort of a rent-an-assassin,” Clint offered.
She realized she was chewing her lip. An obvious tell. It took a surprising amount of effort to stop.
“How’re we going to explain this to Steve?” she asked. A sloppy bid to regain control of the conversation and steer it away from the Winter Soldier’s shadowed operations.
Sloppy gets you killed, Little Spider. You must always be careful. Remember—
“About how his not-dead best friend is actually a global boogyman that most of the intelligence community thinks is some spook story because nobody’s that good?”
She fixed Clint with a hard stare.
He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled loudly. “Let’s just hope he doesn’t shoot the messenger.”
They both laughed without humour, because Steve wouldn’t. Probably. It was a horrible message to relay, and neither of them had been working with him long enough to be sure how he would react.
“I’ll bring Tony in, so we can talk containment,” Clint said.
She flashed him a rare, genuine smile of gratitude.
“Don’t hesitate to kill him if he wakes up and attacks, alright?” Clint said as he hopped back up into the vent. She rolled her eyes at him and hoped that if the Winter Soldier did wake up, he wouldn’t be at his best. Because even though she was the Black Widow, she wasn’t sure she could bring the Soldier down in a hand-to-hand fight.
The team used the time that their Steve was napping formulate a plan. It didn’t take long to bring Tony and Bruce up to speed on exactly who had answered future-Cap’s call for aid. The hard part was figuring out what to do about it.
“I have a prototype Hulk Room down in the sub-basement,” Tony admitted with a guilty glance towards Bruce. “I didn’t know what it was for when SHIELD asked me to design it, or that it’d end up on a helicarrier—“
“Water under the bridge,” Bruce said with a thin smile.
They agreed to lock the Winter Soldier in the sub-basement.
“Nat are you good to take point on interrogating the guy? We gotta figure out what the heck is going on in the future,” Tony said. “I can work on future-Cap in the meantime.”
There she went chewing her lip again.
Clint, ever her hero, cut in. “It might be wiser to gather intel from future-Cap first. So we’re not going into that interview blind.”
“It won’t make much difference,” Natasha said, finding her voice again. “Whoever he works for likely has him… programmed is the best word for it. He’ll’ve been trained not to answer anything if captured, no matter what we do.”
While that sunk in around the table, another thought occurred to her.
“Depending on who he belongs to, they may’ve trained him to self-destruct in case of capture, to prevent any chance of intel falling into enemy hands.”
“So on top of trying to kill all of us, he might also try to kill himself?”
She shrugged nonchalantly, like that bit of Red Room training hadn’t left a deep scar. Like she hadn’t slept with a cyanide pill tucked under her pillow for months after defecting to SHIELD.
Tony and Bruce had moved on to discussing restraint strengths.
Clint bumped her knee under the table and subtly signed, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she signed back.
He fixed her with a too-understanding glare.
“Alright, I’m scared. And the three of you should be, too.”
“I understand,” Clint signed. He glanced at Tony and Bruce with a wry smile. “Those two may be clowns but they’re not idiots. They’ll find something to keep us safe until we figure out what’s going on.”
“Thanks, Clint.”
“Anything the spies want to share with the class?” Tony asked loudly.
Clint flipped him the bird.
“Yeah, alright, that one I understood. Jeez.”
“Last problem, then,” Natasha said, putting on her all-business voice. “What do we tell our Steve?”
March 10, 2024. Delacroix, Louisiana.
If Sam had been sleeping, his phone would’ve woken him up when it rang at 4:47 a.m. He cleared his throat once before he picked up.
“This is Wilson.”
“Hey, Cap! It’s Scott. Lang.”
“Tic Tac?” Sam said, going from groggy and half-aware to fully alert. “What’s going on?”
“World’s not ending, Sam, don’t worry,” Scott said with a chuckle. “Just calling to let you know I saw Bucky safely off.”
What?
“Saw him off where?”
“Um. To the past?”
Sam had to be dreaming. Any second now, he’d wake up for real and his phone would ring again and it would be Bucky, grumpily giving the daily check-in he’d promised. He wouldn’t… Bucky wouldn’t just leave like that.
Not after Steve.
Would he?
“…not tell you? Sam. You there?”
“I’m here,” Sam said, though it felt like a lie.
“Did Bucky not tell you his plan to join Steve in the past?”
What in the ever-loving—
“No. He didn’t.”
So much for partners. Coworkers. Whatever the heck they were. Friends, maybe.
Showed how much Sam knew.
Scott was silent for a long moment, then, “I’m so sorry, Sam. I thought you knew.”
But before Sam could formulate a polite response to that, someone knocked on the front door.
“Gotta go, someone’s here,” Sam said. And hung up without waiting for Scott’s reply.
He tried to convince himself that it was probably Carlos, asking for help with a tangled line or two before he set out for a day on the water. He kept a hand on the gun he’d tucked into the back of his sweats as he approached the door. Maybe Bucky’s paranoia was starting to wear off on him.
It’d be funny in an ironic sort of way, but thinking about Bucky made him want to shoot something. Preferably with a bullet-proof arm. And when he opened the door—
“Hello, Sam.”
Close-cropped sliver hair. A wrinkled face with deep frown lines and ice-cold eyes. Stooped with age, he leaned slightly to the left for support on a wooden cane, held in an unmistakeable vibranium hand.
No.
No, screw you, Bucky Barnes, you don’t get to do this to me. I thought you got it. I thought you understood, after everything we went through together, I thought we—
“Looks like your second run at the twentieth century went better than the first,” Sam heard himself say.
Bucky smiled mildly. “Can I come in?”
I hate you! I hate you so much. Both of you!
“Let’s go down to the water. Don’t want to wake Sarah or the boys.” And then, because it was Bucky, and Sam never could resist a chance to mess with him, Sam added, “Unless your old bones can’t handle a little walk? What are you now, 200?”
“184,” Bucky said with a soft smile. They had to go slow, Bucky’s pace reduced to a shuffle with his cane. His breathing was laboured by the time they got to a bench that looked out over the water.
Sam supposed that he wasn’t doing bad for someone who was older than both of Sam’s surviving grandparents combined, but it hurt all the same. It was too similar to how Steve had returned, wrinkled and bent.
“You’d better not try to foist your legacy off on me,” Sam said as Bucky sat down. “I ain’t taking your arm. And no offence but The Winter Soldier is way too white a title.”
It was the sort of lighthearted jab that that Bucky would’ve met with equal vigour mere days ago, teeth sharp through a grin as he dished out just as much as he got.
This Bucky just chuckled mildly and said, “That is a monicker I have not heard in a long time.” Just as infuriatingly content and superior and smug as Old Steve had been.
Sam couldn’t look at him as anger coiled hot and bitter in his chest.
“Well why are you here, then?”
“Maybe I wanted to say farewell to a good friend.”
And yeah, that shit was not gonna fly. Not a second time.
“So you really leaned nothing from what Steve did to us, huh?” Sam said through a constricting throat. And dammit he was not going to cry. Not here.
Bucky’s smile made his paper-thin lips even thinner.
“I gave the future a shot, but the past was where I belonged, Sam.”
“You expect me to believe it’s that simple?”
But maybe it was, for guys like Steve and Bucky. The past wasn’t a hostile country, to them. It had probably been easy for Bucky to blend in. Find work, friends, a wife, if he wanted. Start a family and buy a house with a white picket fence in the sort of neighbourhood that would’ve held protests against integrated schools, despite there not being a single black kid to be found for miles around.
And there was that anger again. Cold now, like a knife in his back. Because he’d thought that Bucky’d — well, maybe not understood — but once he got his head out of his own ass, he’d listened. At the very least about the stuff with the shield and Isaiah Bradley.
Maybe Sam just wasn’t a good judge of character.
“I finally found some peace,” Bucky said.
Sam couldn’t hold in a snort. Bucky wouldn’t have found peace sitting around with Steve and Peggy in the past while his brainwashed self ran around murdering folks. Bucky would’ve sooner died.
The thought brought Sam up short.
His Bucky would’ve sooner died.
“What the hell happened to you?”
“I do not know what you are—“
“Don’t bullshit me, Bucky. You never would’ve sat on your ass while the Winter Soldier was out there. What changed?”
“Nothing. I did not change anything.”
He sounded honest, and for all he was an internationally feared assassin, Bucky’d never been great at lying. Not in the time Sam had known him. Sam looked back at the elderly version of his friend and plastered on a smile.
“Course you didn’t, Bucky,” he said as he sat down on the bench beside him. He wiped sweaty palms on his sweats and tried to keep calm. “Can’t change the timeline and all that. I remember Cap telling me as much before he passed.”
But sitting still was too much, and he found himself pacing along the edge of the dock. The sun was just rising, lighting the water a rosy gold. He couldn’t help but think of how he’d stood right here just two nights ago, and thought to himself that he could take anything the world might throw his way, so long as he had Bucky at his side. As he paced, that anger and hurt just boiled and boiled until finally it spilled over into words.
“I don’t know if I should just be glad you didn’t kill yourself, but dammit Bucky how could you? How could you go back? How could you— you leave me alone? In this? What the hell am I supposed to—“
So much for not crying. He swiped furiously at the uninvited tears and glared at Bucky, who’d taken the outburst with a lukewarm expression of concern.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Sam shouted.
“What is there to say?” Bucky said. “I do not regret my choice. My life in the past… it was beautiful. Steve and I have left the future in good hands.”
Sam had to walk to the other end of the dock so he didn’t end up punching a centarian in the face. He didn’t need headlines about Captain America attacking the elderly on top of everything else. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and blew a few snot-rockets into the water.
It was beautiful.
Damn super-soldiers and their stupid, perfect, beautiful retirements.
Beautiful.
Who even talked like that, anyways? Certainly not the Bucky Sam knew. Or the Steve, for that matter. Sam looked back at the stooped figure on the bench and frowned. If he’d learned anything from his brief stint as an internationally-wanted criminal, it was to trust his gut instincts about a situation headed south.
And beneath his initial hurt and anger, his gut was telling him that something was very, very wrong.
Notes:
Okay so I know that the Winter Soldier training Natasha in the Red Room isn't ~technically~ MCU cannon. But. I feel like there's enough blanks in both of their backstories that you can't argue it definitely didn't happen. I've placed that training to have occurred in the late eighties and definitely before the events ot the Black Widow movie because:
1) young Nat obviously had some training (flying a plane, familiar around guns, etc.)
2) the Red Room and HYDRA were clearly not collaborating by the start of the film. Otherwise Alexi's mission would've been kinda pointless, as HYDRA could've just told the Red Room what they wanted to know
3) It makes the most sense to me that with the fall of the iron curtain in the early nineties, HYDRA would've moved its primary focus (and many of its assets) over to the States, including our boy WS.And lastly, a note about ASL (for readers out there who sign (or who just care about linguistics)):
I know some authors can pull off describing the signs or writing signed conversations out as glosses, but that just wasn't working in the scene where Nat and Clint have a quick signed conversation. I tried, but it was all coming out stilted and bad, so I went with the old fallback of italicized English text to indicate another language.
Honestly, I'm just happy the MCU finally gave Clint hearing aids and had him tossing some ASL around on his show. Not the best representation I've ever seen, but hopefully a step in the right direction. Did the scene where he's trying to talk to his son on the phone and he can't hear make me tear up? No. Nope. I'm not crying, you're crying. Not like that exact situation's never happened between me and my dad...
Anywho, representation's important! Happy Wednesday!
Chapter 9: In Which Steve Does Some Baking
Notes:
TW: discussion of suicide in final third of chapter. See end notes for more details.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Brooklyn, New York. October 6, 1945.
Bucky stuck around for one last breakfast. He had to keep reminding himself that none of it was real. The longer he stayed in this happy fantasy with his family, the harder it would be to leave.
“Think I’ll head out for another walk this morning,” Bucky announced as he set down his fork.
“In this weather?” Ma said, gesturing to the rain lashing the windows. “You’ll catch a cold.”
Bucky barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes and pointing out that he’d marched through knee-deep mud for a week straight in Italy. A little rain wasn’t going to hurt him.
Instead, he caught Lizzie in a headlock as he passed her chair, grinding the point of his chin into the top of her head.
“Eurgh, geroff Bucky!” Lizzie whined, slapping at his arm.
“You be good while I’m out,” he said.
She stuck out her tongue at him, which distracted Mary long enough for him to swipe an apple slice from her plate and pop it in his mouth.
“Hey!” Mary protested, though she wrapped her arms around his waist as he pulled her into a one-armed hug. “I forgot how annoying you are.”
“Good thing I’m back, then. Can’t have you forgetting that.”
“I didn’t forget,” Becca said as she spooned greenish baby food off of Sarah’s chin.
“That’s cause you’re as bad as he is,” Lizzie argued.
Bucky just grinned and tried not to think about how much it would hurt to wake up in reality, where all his sisters were dead except Lizzie, who was pushing a hundred and didn’t deserve to have the Winter Soldier for a brother.
He circled around to Ma and planted a kiss on the crown of her head.
“Take an umbrella, at least,” Ma said as she squeezed his forearm.
“Sure, Ma.”
“And don’t stay out too long!”
He gave them all a final wave from the dining room doorway, trying to brand the scene on his memory. His three sisters, his Ma, and his niece and nephew, all gathered around the scuffed dining table. Happy. Warm. Safe.
He was so caught up in trying to hold that image in his mind that he didn’t hear someone follow him into the front hall.
“Uncle Bucky?”
He startled and looked down to find Georgie hefting Da’s battered black umbrella out of the stand.
“Granny said not to forget your ‘brella.”
“Thanks, kiddo,” Bucky said. He ruffled Georgie’s hair and took the umbrella. The kid scampered off with a giggle.
“You sure you can operate that with one hand?”
That was Becca, leaning casually against the wall. Bucky’s sharp retort died in his throat as he looked at his sister, hardly believing how grown-up she was. The two of them used to fight like nothing else, screaming at each other, biting and kicking and pulling hair until Ma’d storm in with the wooden spoon to set them straight. Or worse, tell them to wait till Da got home.
When they weren’t trying to kill each other, they’d been nigh inseparable. Becca was his partner in crime, the first one for whom he waded into a schoolyard fight, a whole year before he met the minuscule ball of righteous fury named Steve Rogers.
God, he’d missed her.
“Aw, give a guy a break, Becks,” he said. “I know my way around a brolly just fine.”
And his point would’ve been well proven if he hadn’t forgotten that Da’s old umbrella was broken. The thing sprung open in his hand and he dropped it, cursing quietly so Ma wouldn’t hear.
“Who the hell woke up one day and made my idiot brother Sergeant?” Becca laughed.
“Yeah, yeah. If you find out let me know,” Bucky groused, trying to wrangle the damn umbrella back shut. “I have some complaints of my own.”
Becca stepped forward and snatched up the umbrella, closing it with ease and sticking it back in the stand. Then she paused, chewing a fingernail.
“Bucky—“
“Look, Becca, I really gotta get out on my walk. Weather’s not getting any better, you know?”
“Bucky.”
Shoot. Her eyes were a little watery, and he couldn’t— he didn’t want his last interaction with Becca to be painful, even if it was just in a dream.
“You’ll… just come back home, okay?”
“What?” he said, breathless with fear because how could she know he was leaving?
“Whenever you— whenever you’d get leave from training before you shipped out, it was like… you hadn’t really left yet, but you were already gone, and I—“
“Becca,” he said, and pulled her into a hug. What else could he do?
“Ma told me once that Da never came home. Not really.”
And what was Bucky supposed to say? Because in reality, he never did come home.
If anything, this weird hallucination had shown him a thousand large and small ways he’d been forever changed over the past seventy-odd years. Even if he did try to join Steve and retire in some idyllic version of the past (after saving Steve from this idyllic nightmare, of course), it wouldn’t work. Not for him.
For lack of anything better to say, Bucky squeezed his sister tight and said, “Love you, Becks.”
“You, too.” She pulled back and wiped her eyes. Somewhere off in the kitchen, a kid started to cry, and Becca sighed wearily. “That’s my cue,” she said. “Have a good walk.”
“Will do.”
And he burned another image onto his memory. Becca, backlit by the light in the front hall, bending down to meet Georgie as he came sprinting around the corner crying for his mom.
Bucky clutched those memories tight as he walked, rode a train, two buses, and then walked some more. They kept him warm through the worsening weather until he was standing on Steve’s street, soaked to the bone and wondering how the hell he was going to convince the guy that all of this was just a dream.
“You used to the goddam Winter Soldier,” he muttered to himself. “Stop being such a pansy and go ring the bell like a functioning human person.”
It took him another three minutes before he worked up the nerve to climb the porch steps and ring the bell.
Hi, Steve! We need to talk.
Hey Steve. Been a while! You got a minute?
Steve! Sorry for showing up like this. Surprise, I’m not dead.
You telling me there was a safe way you could’ve landed that plane this whole time? You goddam idiot Rogers, I oughta—
“Morning, how can I help…”
Really, Bucky should’ve been more prepared. He definitely shouldn’t be standing here gawping at Steve and not saying anything. But Steve looked— he had flour splashed up his shirt, and his sleeves were rolled up, like he was in the middle of baking. Bucky’s logical brain shorted out, leaving him only with—
“What’s cooking?”
Idiot. Idiot. Damn it, Barnes, you always mess everything up.
“…Bucky?” Steve looked like he’d seen a ghost.
“What’s left of him,” Bucky said, gesturing to his left side with a half-grin. “You gonna leave me out here all day, or can I come in?”
What the hell is wrong with you, Barnes?
Steve stepped back and opened the door wide, letting Bucky drip past him into the foyer.
“Peggy said she… you… she told me you survived.” Steve said weakly. He looked torn between wanting to crush Bucky in a hug and being afraid that if he did, Bucky might disappear.
“Sure did,” Bucky said, peeling off his coat.
“Lemme get you some towels,” Steve said. “And a hot drink.”
“Coffee’d be great, thanks,” Bucky called after him. Because if life had taught him anything, it was how to be an opportunist.
Five minutes later he was seated in Steve’s kitchen, considerably drier, fingers curled around a steaming mug of coffee. Steve pushed the last tray of scones into the oven and wiped his hands on a dishtowel.
“So,” Bucky said, breaking the tense silence. “I don’t really know how to tell you this without freaking you out. Maybe a good place to start is this: Do you have any odd memories, that maybe don’t, I dunno, line up? With this reality.”
Steve frowned, and Bucky was sure he was about to be written off as yet another vet who’d seen a little too much combat. Probably not helped by the tale that he’d spun for Peggy last night.
“I’ve been having the strangest dreams,” Steve admitted. He twisted the dishcloth in his hands.
“What about?” Bucky prodded.
“Like you said. Stuff that can’t have happened.” Steve ran a hand through his hair, leaving behind a dusting of flour. “Flying cities. Evil robots. You.”
“Me?”
“You don’t recognize me in— in one of them. We’re fighting, and I don’t realize it’s you until the mask you’re wearing comes off, and when it does—“
“I ask you who the hell is Bucky.”
Steve looked up, eyebrows raised.
“I know,” Bucky said. “I’ve been having dreams too.” Not the whole truth, but not a lie.
“What does it mean?”
Well. There wasn’t much more point in beating around the bush if Steve was gonna come right out and ask it.
“It means we’re stuck, Steve.” He swallowed around a dry mouth and tried to find the best words. “The dreams are memories. Our real lives. We’re trapped in an illusion.”
“No,” Steve said, taking a step back from Bucky. “No this is… This has to be real. I— how could this not be real?”
“It’s the Mind Stone,” Bucky said evenly. “Very convincing stuff. Had me fooled for a while, too.”
“But the dreams,” Steve said weakly, backing into the counter. “They can’t be real, can they? The flying city… so many people died. It was our fault. We created the robots and they…”
“I don’t think Ultron was on you, Steve,” Bucky said.
“And you,” Steve continued, sounding panicked now. “I watched you disintegrate, right in front of me. You— you died Buck.”
“I did. And then you brought me back.”
Steve looked to be on the brink of a full-blown panic attack, muttering “It can’t be real,” over and over to himself.
“Hey, hey,” Bucky said, getting up and easing them both to a squat on the floor. “Just take a few breaths there, pal. It’s a lot to take in, I know. So just do me a favour and breathe, alright?”
The words tumbled from his mouth with easy familiarity. He could hear his Brooklyn accent coming on in full force as he kept talking, encouraging Steve to take easy breaths. Just like he had for most of their childhood and young adulthood whenever Steve’d been struck down by his asthma.
Steve was still coming out of it when the timer on the scones rang, so Bucky pulled them out of the oven. He buttered up a few and put them on a plate, and then sat back down on the kitchen floor next to Steve.
“I’m sorry,” Steve said, wiping his face on his sleeve.
“Have a scone,” Bucky said, biting into one himself. Hot, flaky, buttery goodness filled his mouth, and his eyes rolled back a little. “Damn, Steve, when’d you learn to bake?”
“This summer,” Steve said, chewing his own scone with robotic indifference.
They polished off the scones in relative silence. Bucky was just starting to get nervous, wondering how he should broach the subject of this is all a hallucination again, when Steve beat him to the punch.
“What if I don’t want to go back?”
Oh, Steve. You get this life with Peggy, in the end. The real thing, not an illusion.
But Bucky couldn’t say that, for fear of messing up some cosmic space-time something or other and creating a paradox by telling Steve his future.
So instead he said, “You want the long or short version of the truth? Because I think if you get a better handle on the context of your situation, you’ll been a lot more keen to leave here and get back to reality.”
Steve being Steve, asked for the long version. It took Bucky a good half hour to explain what went down with Thanos and the Infinity Stones, the Blip, and the importance of Steve’s final mission. He glossed over the details of the last six months of his life, including the fact that it’d been six months, but did explain the dream he’d had that sent him on this rescue mission in the first place.
“I’ve been having that dream!” Steve exclaimed, nearly causing Bucky to spill his third cup of coffee. “Been dreaming it for months. I’m on this bench by a lake, and I need to tell you something but I can’t get the words out. It’s funny, last time I had it, just a few nights ago, I thought I finally said something, but when I woke up I couldn’t remember what it was.”
They were quiet for a moment while Bucky polished off his coffee.
“So how do we wake up?” Steve finally asked.
“Dunno,” Bucky said, sweat building on his right palm. “I was sort of hoping it would just sorta happen once I had a chance to talk to you.”
“Like those dreams where you wake up soon as you realize you’re dreaming.”
“Yeah.”
Steve drummed his fingers on his knee.
“Shit,” he said.
“I know,” Bucky agreed.
“What if you’re wrong?” Steve asked.
If only.
If only he had made it home on a boat in 1945. The world would be better for it.
Though odds were HYDRA would’ve found some other poor sap to turn into their Winter Soldier. So maybe it was just Bucky who’d’ve been better for it. And really that was selfish of him. He wouldn’t wish his fate on anyone, not even his worst enemies.
He wasn’t about to say all that to Steve, however.
“I mean, how’d you figure it out?”
And how was Bucky supposed to answer that?
With the truth? Should he admit that he’d lasted all of five hours being blissfully happy before realizing things were too good to be true? The part of his brain that liked to mock him in Dr. Raynor’s voice said that an inability to accept his own happiness as reality was very problematic.
You’re a civilian now.
And the part of himself that he spent most of his time trying to ignore was berating him for how long it took to figure out something was wrong. He was supposed to be sharp at all times, regardless of the context or whether he understood what was going on around him. It was how he'd been built.
Your time in America has made you soft.
Useless.
Broken.
He told his brain to shut up and gave Steve a shrug. “Started as a gut feeling, and I put the pieces together from my dreams.”
Steve looked unconvinced and worried, so Bucky kicked him gently and added, “Maybe it's cause my brain’s been scrambled enough times, it knows what a fresh scramble looks like.”
That earned him a scowl from Steve. Somewhere deeper in the house, a clock ticked loudly. A lone audience member applauding his off-colour joke.
“So in our real reality, I crash the plan and… wake up in the future?” Steve asked.
“Yep.”
“And you survived that train.”
“Obviously.”
“But you… what happened to you? Why were we fighting? It— in the dream, it felt like you were trying to kill me, Buck.”
“We really gonna hash this out now?”
“Well,” Steve paused, chewing his lip. “Do I already know what happened? Why it happened?”
“Of course.” He laughed shakily. “You saved me from it.”
Another long silence.
“So, man with a plan, any ideas how to wake us up?”
“Well, this is caused by the Mind Stone, right?”
“Yep.”
“Which is the thing that gave, oh what’s her name now? Wanda? The Mind Stone was the source of her powers, I think.”
“Right.” Bucky’d never really interacted with Wanda. Outside of the handful of chaotic battles they’d both been in, the most they’d had was a polite handshake at Tony Stark’s funeral. Maybe it made him a hypocrite, but he felt pretty justified in avoiding anyone ex-HYDRA. Let alone someone with strange mind-control powers.
Steve thumped his head against the cupboard behind him. “Wish I could remember the details. I think she trapped me in one of her illusions once, but I can’t remember how I got out.”
“I have a very terrible idea,” Bucky said, wiping a sweaty palm on his pants.
“Let’s hear it, then.”
“You seen the movie Inception?”
Steve gave him a blank look.
“Maybe you just don’t remember it. It was, uh, on your list. Which you probably also don’t remember writing. Shit. The list isn’t important.”
“Kinda sounds like the list is important, Buck.”
“It’s not pertinent,” Bucky huffed. “Anyways. In this movie, there’s all these hyper-realistic dreams that people can get stuck in, and a sure-fire way to wake up from a dream is to, uh.”
“Die?”
“Yeah.” Bucky fiddled with the hem of his shirt. “It won a bunch of awards, I think. Had some pretty wild special effects.”
“You don’t think someone from the outside could try to wake us up? Snap us out of it?”
Bucky snorted. “Pal, I was supposed to come snap you out of it. Got sucked in instead.”
“Oh. Right.”
Bucky finished his coffee and pushed himself up off the floor to go wash out his mug.
Steve disappeared for a few minutes, and returned with his coat and a pistol.
“I know it’s raining, but. Not here,” he said.
Bucky nodded and Steve methodically checked the gun over.
“Only one round,” Steve said. Bucky noticed a tremble in his fingers as he popped the magazine back into place. “Dunno where Peggy keeps her spare ammo.”
“Give it here, Steve,” Bucky said, pulling the pistol from his friend’s hands. He stuffed the gun into his belt and motioned for Steve to lead the way out of the kitchen.
And then they were out on the stoop, bracing themselves to head out in the rain.
“You have a spot in mind?” Bucky asked, too casual. He felt an all-too-familiar numbness creeping up on him, and stuffed his hand into his pants pocket. Tried to convince himself it was just the wet and the cold.
“For our little murder-suicide?” Steve laughed. “No, Buck, I don’t.”
“Typical. Leave the logistics to your NCO.”
“Aw, you’re full of shit, Barnes,” Steve said with a weak smile.
“Takes one to know one, Rogers.”
Steve rolled his eyes. “What about Montauk? Should be quiet by the time we get there,” he said.
“Should be quiet anyways, with this weather,” Bucky agreed.
There was a long, cold minute, punctuated only by the sound of rain pounding on the neighbours’ carefully manicured gardens.
“We should head out,” Bucky said.
Steve nodded.
Neither of them moved.
“What was that line you fed me,” Steve asked, “after my Ma died?”
“God, Rogers, you’re such a sap.”
But Bucky found himself taking his hand out of his pocket anyways. Reaching out to give Steve’s shoulder a squeeze.
“I said, I’m with you till the end of the line, pal—“
And gravity shifted as the world dissolved into red light.
Notes:
Detailed TW: Bucky and Steve decide that the best way to wake up is by dying in the dream. They make a plan to kill themselves and have the means to carry it out. Since they are in an illusion, some might argue that they aren't ~really~ killing themselves, but figured I'd warn for it anyways due to the realistic nature of the dream and the thoughts and feelings the characters have about their plan. They don't end up following through, but that's due more to circumstances than a choice on either of their parts.
Chapter 10: In Which We Go Back... To The Future!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Stark Tower, New York. Date: October 7, 2012.
Steve woke slowly, his memories drifting back to him like leaves floating down a slow-moving stream.
Not real: Peggy, dancing with him in their living room.
Real: Thanos’s head sloughing off his shoulders as Thor screamed with rage.
Real: Tony’s broken body on a battlefield, the stones embedded in his suit’s gauntlet.
Not real: Bucky, one-armed and haggard-looking, gripping his shoulder as gravity suddenly shifted—
“Take it slow, Cap,” a familiar voice quipped. “You been sleeping for a long time.”
Tony?
And there he was, a decade younger and alive and whole.
Steve didn’t think before he pulled Tony into a tight hug.
“Woah, okay,” Tony said, awkwardly slapping his back a few times. “Future Cap’s a hugger!”
“Sorry,” Steve said as he let go, eyes stinging. “How long was I out?”
“Six months, give or take,” Tony said, straightening his jacket.
So almost, if not exactly, the same amount of time that had passed between his “rescue” from the Valkyrie’s wreckage to Bucky showing up on his doorstep. He looked down at the Mind Stone clutched in his hand.
“You should find a safe spot to keep this,” he said, and passed it to Tony.
“Yep, SHIELD’ll likely—“
“Not with SHIELD.”
Crap.
Don’t change the timeline, Rogers.
Dammit.
Tony raised an eyebrow.
“It’s the thing that powered Loki’s sceptre,” Steve offered, as if that were an explanation for why SHIELD shouldn’t have it.
Would leaving the Mind Stone with Tony lead to an earlier creation of Ultron?
Steve felt like he’d royally messed everything up already, and this was only his second Stone.
“Where’ve you been keeping the others, while I’ve been asleep?” Steve asked, dreading the answer. If HYDRA had the other Stones…
“Off-world, with Thor.”
Relief flooded him. “Good.”
Potentially universe-ending threats seemingly handled for now, Steve turned his attention to what he really wanted to know about.
“Where’s Bucky?”
“Bucky?” Tony asked, the picture of confusion.
And that— he hadn’t been expecting that. He quickly rifled through his memories of the Mind Stone’s illusion, which felt laughably dreamlike compared to reality. Bucky’d definitely been there. Shown up alive and well after months of Steve grieving him, and told Steve that his nightmares were reality, and what felt real was a dream.
Most importantly, Bucky said he’d come to rescue Steve from the Mind Stone’s grasp, only to get trapped himself, until— with you till the end of the line—
Who’d’ve thought that line would work to snap Steve out of an Infinity Stone-induced coma?
God, they were both such saps.
All that aside, Bucky had to have somehow followed him back to 2012 in order to bail Steve out. A world where, assuming this timeline hadn’t spiralled in a completely different direction, Steve’s past self was already working for Bucky’s captors. Was shaking hands on the regular with that scumbag Pierce. Training with the STRIKE team, who—
“You alright, Cap?”
Steve shook his head and unclenched his fists. He needed to focus his anger into something productive. And the Avengers weren’t his enemies here. Tony wasn’t his enemy.
Unless he’d somehow found out about Howard and Maria.
The part of Steve that often spoke in Sam’s voice told him to stop catastrophizing, man.
He took a deep, calming breath. “Just a lot to take in. Hadn’t planned on taking any more extended naps in my lifetime.”
“No ice involved, though,” Tony argued amiably.
“Guess not,” Steve agreed. “But don’t play dumb with me, Tony. I know you know who I’m talking about.”
Tony’s smile faltered.
“So where. The hell. Is Bucky?”
And then all the tower alarms went off at once.
He was slammed into conscious awareness like a body hitting a bus. Flat on his back, medium-hard cushion underneath him, something restraining his wrists and ankles, arms and legs, hips, head, and chest. He moved fractionally and found his range of motion was limited to less than half an inch in any direction.
He ignored how the restraints made his heart jackhammer in his ribcage and continued with a situational analysis. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and heavy-duty cleaning supplies, as well as the bleach commonly used on hospital linens. He could hear a heart monitor beeping in frantic time with his pulse, which was about the same time he realized he was in some sort of paper-thin hospital gown and could feel the mild pinches and tugs of an IV and a catheter, an O2 monitor clamped on his right forefinger, and something stuck to his forehead and temples.
Opening his eyes did him no favours. A blank, circular ceiling that seemed to be made of light loomed over him. Glass walls curved all the way around him.
Great. Accidentally fall asleep in the not-so-distant past, wake up tied down to an exam table in some high-tech fishbowl.
Come on, Barnes, think. You can get out of this.
Right.
So what did he know.
Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. Born March 10, 1917. You were a sergeant in the 107th and one of the Howling Commandos, until HYDRA captured you. Steve broke your programming in 2014. The Wakandans cured you in 2017.
You are free.
You’re free and despite everything you’ve gotten yourself tied down like a lab rat for Zola to—
Breathe.
Breathe.
What do you know.
You know time travel works, cause you sure ain’t in Kansas anymore.
He knew the Mind Stone was in New York, in 2012.
And before all the Mind Stone nonsense had dragged him under, he’d run into a younger version of Steve. Assuming he hadn’t been stuck in the the Mind Stone’s dream world for too long, he must be sometime in 2012, presumably inside an Avengers facility.
And then he was hit with cold, icy fear.
Because the Avengers were SHIELD.
And SHIELD was HYDRA.
Fantastic work, Barnes. You’ve landed yourself in your worst-case scenario.
He told himself to shut up and get to work.
Tony leapt up from the visitor’s chair while Steve ripped various life-support tubes and wires off of his body.
“Stay here, Cap,” Tony said. Steve rolled his eyes and pulled out his IV line. Like hell he was going to sit around while something attacked the tower.
Steve repressed a laugh at the thought of his Tony making a quip about America’s Ass as he jogged after past-Tony up the hall. The hospital gown he was wearing was certainly breezy.
“You know for a soldier, you’re really bad at following orders,” Tony snarked as he jammed his thumb on the elevator call button.
“Yeah, well. I kinda set a precedent with my first mission,” Steve sniped back. Tony’s expression clouded, and Steve wished he could take that comment back. He’d forgotten how touchy Tony used to be about any mention of Captain America’s Illustrious Military Career.
That had eased with time and friendship, but not until after they’d smashed through a few HYDRA bases together in the fall of 2014.
The elevator doors opened, and Steve felt immediately underdressed. Most of the Avengers were already in the common room. Clint was stringing his bow as Natasha shouldered her way into a tight Kevlar vest. Bruce stood by the Keurig looking antsy while Steve’s younger counterpart fiddled with the straps on his shield.
“What’s the damage, J?” Tony called as he stepped into the room. “And silence those alarms, I can’t hear myself think.”
“Containment breach in sub-basement 3,” Jarvis’ cool voice replied as the alarms stopped blaring.
Natasha said something unrepeatable in Russian, and then cursed colourfully in English.
“Bring up the cams,” Tony said.
One of the walls lit up with a holographic display, showing security footage of what looked like a prototype of the fishbowl-like prison cell they’d tried to contain Loki in before the Chitauri invasion. In the centre of the cell was a mess of broken medical equipment.
“How’d he get out?” Clint asked the room at large.
“J, roll back the footage. And run facial recognition for Barnes on all current security footage while you’re at it,” Tony said.
But Steve, who hadn’t missed the thick leather restraints laying amongst the wrecked equipment, was seeing red.
“What the hell were you thinking, tying him down?” he asked loudly, cutting over multiple conversations.
“Steve—“ Natasha said.
“He’s an Avenger! You had no right—“
“He’s dangerous!” Clint argued.
“Not more than any of us,” Steve argued back. Though that was an oversimplification of the truth.
“Yeah? Tell that to the my contacts who’ve gone dark because they’ve been trying to help me track down your old war buddy. If we’d known what he was—”
“What?” That was his younger self, who’d been watching the quasi-shouting match with clenched fists and a tighter jaw.
“Yeah,” Clint said. “Turns out Captain America’s best friend is actually the Winter Soldier, of all fu—“
“He didn’t have a choice,” Steve growled.
“Children!” Tony said with a sharp clap of his hands. “Let’s focus on the more important thing, shall we? Jarvis’s got the whole building on lockdown, and the last facial recognition ping for Barnes was two minutes ago in the south-east stairwell, headed up. We can watch the escape footage and argue morality later. Right now we need to focus up and bring him in.”
And so the search began. They didn’t find Bucky in the south-east stairwell, or on any of the floors nearby, even with Jarvis helping out. They reconvened a half-hour later to organize a more thorough search of the tower.
Jarvis replayed the scant cctv he had captured of Bucky, just in case they’d missed anything. It showed Bucky laying on a bare hospital bed, restrained as tightly as he could be without losing circulation. The first sign he was awake, before he’d moved a muscle or opened his eyes, was the heart monitor jumping up to 120 bpm. Five seconds later, his eyes blinked open. And ten seconds after that, his vibranium arm ripped through the leather restraints like paper. Within a minute of waking up, Bucky was on his feet, the leads he’d pulled off his EEG monitor coiled in his right hand like a garrotte. He launched himself at a small seam where two panes of reinforced glass met with the ceiling, and a vibranium finger crushed its way through the reinforced barrier. Another jump, and the alarms started blaring. He got his fist through on the third go, and the whole thing shattered. He paused long enough to grab a twisted bit of metal from the broken bed before he sprinted for the south-east stairwell.
“Well, shit,” Tony said into the stunned silence. “We may as well have left the door unlocked and handed him a gun.”
Steve wasn’t sure if it was wrong, but despite the panic gnawing at his gut he felt fiercely proud of Bucky. Not just for somehow rescuing him from the Mind Stone (how had he known?). But for his sheer competence, even though right now it wasn’t particularly helpful.
His younger self looked vaguely sick. Par for the course. Steve felt bad for him, but wasn’t sure if he could offer much comfort. Just wait till you meet the real Winter Soldier felt both unhelpful and borderline cruel. As did it’ll get so much worse before it gets better.
While Steve was no stranger to grief and loss, Bucky’d always been the one who was good at offering comfort to folks. Dum Dum’d told him once that Bucky’d had a knack for making guys on the front feel like things might turn out okay, even when they were gut-shot and bleeding out. Said that’s part of what made him such a good sergeant.
Steve wouldn’t know. Bucky’d never really talked about the months he spent on the front lines with the 107th, before he became a Howling Commando.
“So,” Tony was saying as Steve tuned back into the conversation, “we need a new plan of attack. He can’t have left the tower. All entrances and exits have been sealed and are being closely monitored.”
“Maybe we can draw him out somehow,” Clint suggested.
They spiralled back into planning a search that Steve knew wouldn’t yield results unless the suspect in question wanted to be found. That, or a major international incident flushed him out, like last time.
He ended up searching the basement floors with his younger counterpart, working his way up to the lobby after methodically clearing each room. It was certainly giving Steve an appreciation for how large the tower was as he half-heartedly dug through industrial laundry bins, his younger self watching his back.
“Can I ask you a question?” younger Steve said.
“Looks like you just did,” Steve replied. He just couldn’t help himself.
Younger Steve rolled his eyes. “How’d you find him?”
“You know I’m not supposed to talk about the future,” Steve hedged.
“Yeah, but this timeline’s diverged from your own. And you already did tell me about my future. Or one of your past selves did. When you told me he was alive in the first place.”
Steve chewed this over as he finished with another Bucky-free laundry bin. He shone a flashlight up the narrow chute that linens could be dropped down through. “Leave this one for Clint?”
“Yeah. Our shoulders aren’t fitting up there.”
“No, they are not.”
They cleared the laundry room and moved on to a boiler room down the hall.
“You dodged my question,” younger Steve said.
“He just doesn’t want to answer it,” someone said, right behind them.
Both he and younger Steve jumped, and younger Steve tossed his shield, seemingly on reflex. Bucky caught it easily with his vibranium arm.
“Hey, Steves,” Bucky said. Cool and casual, like he wasn’t the current subject of a building-wide manhunt. He’d somehow found himself a pair of jeans and a hoodie, his face partially obscured by the sweater’s hood. The EEG wires were coiled loosely in his right fist, and something heavy weighted down his left sweater pocket.
“Bucky, where the hell have you been?” Steve said, wanting to pull him in for a hug but knowing now was not the time.
“Laundry chute, mostly. Security blind spot in most buildings. Stark might want to look into fixing that for the tower. We are in Stark tower, right?”
“Avengers tower,” younger Steve said, faintly. “Stark renamed it three months ago.”
Bucky passed the shield back with a thin smile, then turned his attention to Steve. “They do anything to you?”
“No. You?”
“Don’t think so. Where’re the Stones.”
“Thor has them. Off-world, according to Tony.”
“You know how to contact him?”
“Not in 2012.”
“He, um, Skypes? His girlfriend Jane pretty regularly,” younger Steve piped up.
“Skype, wow. We really are in the past,” Bucky joked.
“What’s wrong with Skype?” younger Steve argued.
“Everyone switched to Zoom after the snap,” Steve said without thinking.
“The snap?” Younger Steve frowned.
“Maybe we should't talk about this in present company,” Bucky said, giving Steve a pointed glare. “Any idea where our suits are?”
“The quantum suits?” Steve asked.
“No, Steve, the other suits that we need for time travel.”
He sounded so much like Bucky circa 1944 that it was like a physical ache in Steve’s chest. He’d been so quiet and so different, in Wakanda. Walled off and distant. Steve couldn't blame him for it, after everything. Just having Bucky alive and safe was enough.
No, that wasn’t true.
Bucky deserved all the happiness and comfort and love in the world. And every second that Steve got to spend near Bucky was nothing short of a miracle. A privilege, not a right, and not one to be taken lightly.
But it was nice to hear that old sarcastic tone all the same.
“I think Tony might’ve taken your suits to his lab,” younger Steve offered.
“Of course he did,” Steve said, refocusing on the conversation at hand. “Hopefully we haven’t completely broken space-time by letting Tony have Pym particles, nano-tech, and the Mind Stone all at once.”
“You gave him the Mind Stone?” Bucky asked.
“Couldn’t very well give it back to HYDRA, could I?” Steve argued.
“Wait, HYDRA?”
Both of them turned to face Steve’s past self.
“If I hit him really hard on the head, d’you think he’ll forget what you just said?” Bucky asked, gesturing with his left arm.
“I got an eidetic memory, Buck,” Steve said glumly. “Perks of the serum.”
“What do you mean, HYDRA?” younger Steve demanded. “They were wiped out at the end of the war when I put that plane in the ice.”
“This isn’t the time,” Steve started to say, and then stopped when he heard the all-too familiar sound of a gun being cocked.
Nat and Clint stood at opposite ends of the hallway, boxing them in. Nat’s gun was trained on Bucky.
Bucky, who’d dropped his make-shift garrotte and was already sinking to his knees, hands behind his head. Who wasn’t even looking at the gun pointed at him, but rather at Steve. Bucky, so often closed-off and blank in Steve’s recent memory, whose face Steve used to be able to read like the pages of a favourite book. Right now his expression was all naked fear as he caught Steve’s eyes.
“Don’t let it happen again,” he said, as Nat advanced on him with a heavy pair of magnetic cuffs. Younger Steve was yelling something, and Clint was shouting back, but Steve ignored the chaos, Bucky and Steve like the eye of a miniature storm.
“When you go back to be with Peggy,” he said as Nat cuffed him, “don’t let it happen again. Don’t let them win.”
And then his eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped forward as Nat pulled a needle that Steve hadn’t noticed out of the side of Bucky’s neck.
Steve tuned back in to reality to hear his younger self shouting, “What did you do to him?”
“Steve,” he admonished, channeling Sarah Rogers as best he could. He must’ve caught something of his mother’s inflection in his voice, as it actually shut younger Steve up for a minute. Steve glared at Clint and Nat. “I already told you he’s not a threat,” he said. “You didn’t have to tranq him.”
“Better safe than sorry,” Nat said cooly.
Steve was sharply reminded that this Natasha was still loyal to SHIELD. She hadn’t had all her beliefs shattered for a second time, yet. The deep bond the two of them had built while holding things together after the end of the world was a long time coming. It was a bond built on a strong foundation of several years working together while on the run as fugitives, and those events themselves were still a few years in the future. If they would happen at all, in this timeline.
So instead of arguing that Bucky’d been peacefully surrendering, Steve simply frowned at her and said, “Well. Now that we’ve found him, we should all go back to the main lounge. The sooner Bucky and I can get out of your hair to finish our mission with the Stones, the better.”
“We can’t just carry him… up,” Clint started to argue, as Steve hefted Bucky over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry.
“Or maybe you can. Ok. Well, y’all can have fun in the elevators, I’m taking the short-cut back.”
Needless to say, the silence between Steve, Nat, and younger Steve in the long ride from the basement up to the common room was highly awkward. Steve almost wished he could’ve joined Clint in the vents.
Notes:
Oh, Skype. How I don't miss you, with your lag so bad it was like folks were calling from Mars. Had a pretty sweet ringtone though.
Chapter 11: In Which Full Disclosure is a Game that We Play
Chapter Text
The Black Widow’s tranquilizer wasn’t strong enough to fully drag Bucky under, though it did make him dizzy. He let his eyes roll back and played possum, letting her think it had knocked him cold and hoping that being improperly sedated would buy him time to escape.
Not that this trick had ever ended well for him in the past.
His face-first trajectory towards the floor was slowed by Romanov, who eased him onto his side instead. How considerate. It was a struggle to keep limp while every instinct screamed at him to fight or flee.
He told his fear response to stuff it. It’d already messed things up, making him panic about never seeing Steve again. Made him say shit he should’ve kept his mouth shut about. He’d just. He knew he should trust Steve to do the right thing, and he knew Steve deserved a long, happy retirement with Peggy. But—
Another sickening jolt of panic as someone grabbed him by the shoulders and… Steve pulled him unceremoniously into a fireman’s carry.
Maybe he wouldn’t need to do as much escaping as he thought.
Though if Steve was yet again deciding to save Bucky’s butt and let the world (or in this case, the universe) burn, Bucky was going to kill him. Not literally. He winced internally, that little turn of phrase hitting too close to home.
He kept up the possum act as they rode the elevator up to wherever the rest of the Avengers were gathered. Steve had a decent knife stowed in his belt, inches from Bucky’s cuffed hands. Easy enough to filch.
He felt much calmer with a weapon in hand, despite being bound and drug-fuzzy. Dr. Raynor’s voice echoed unwanted in his head as he palmed it.
You’re a civilian now.
Of all the lies the government had tried to feed him in recent months…
They arrived with a soft ding from the elevator doors. Romanov and the younger Steve filed out first. Bucky strained his hearing to catalogue the new space with his eyes shut. The room sounded high-ceilinged, with at least three people already milling around.
“Good work, team.” The hairs on the back of Bucky’s neck stood up at Stark’s voice. “What’d you use on him, Romanov?”
“Horse tranq,” she said cooly.
“Isn’t that dangerous?” someone asked. Dr. Banner, Bucky realized. His voice was much softer before he’d merged with the Hulk.
“Not for a super-soldier,” Romanov explained. “He’ll come around in a few minutes with nothing more than a mild headache.”
Horse tranquilizer. Obviously not a strong enough dose to bring him down, but. Explained why his head was spinning so much.
“He wasn’t a threat, he was surrendering,” Steve reiterated, his voice rumbling up into Bucky’s stomach. One of Steve’s hands clenched painfully in anger around Bucky’s calf. “He’s not the Winter Soldier anymore.”
Oh, pal.
You have no idea.
“How can you be sure,” Romanov began.
“I thought you of all people would have a little faith in someone’s ability to come in from the cold, Nat,” Steve said sharply.
Their budding argument was interrupted by a sudden rumble of thunder and a bright flash of multicoloured light. Bucky reacted on instinct, flipping himself off Steve’s shoulder to land on his feet, knife still hidden in between his palms. The mag-cuffs might have been enough to restrain him had both his arms been flesh-and-blood. The bones in his right wrist snapped as his left arm ripped through the cuffs like paper. He felt more than heard one of Stark’s repulsers powering up, and—
“Bucky!”
Stark had a glowing gauntlet trained on him. Black Widow stood tense with her hand on a gun. Hawkeye had an arrow knocked and drawn. And younger Steve…
Shit.
Younger Steve looked like Bucky’d just delivered the telegram informing of Bucky’s death himself.
“Buck?”
Double shit, that was Steve — his Steve —breathing light and panicked at his back, using the same tone he’d had in Bucharest all those years ago when he hadn’t been sure which Bucky he’d find.
He forced himself to relax his stance and lower the knife.
“You good?” Steve asked.
“Fine,” he managed. He pocketed the knife and stepped to the side. “Didn’t expect the full welcome wagon. Is that Thor?”
An obvious deflection because he didn’t — couldn’t — look at Stark. Much better to focus on the Norse god on the balcony, his long blond hair thrown in the wind and a huge grin on his face.
“Friends!” Thor said, throwing his arms wide as he stepped inside. He had a hammer in each hand and a familiar black case slung on a strap over his shoulders. “I received your message that the Captain from the future had awoken. I trust you are well, Future Captain America.”
“Never better,” Steve said as he crossed the room. He pulled Thor into a tight, back-slapping hug. “Thanks for looking after those for me,” he said as they broke apart, knocking on the case with his knuckles.
“Of course,” Thor said, suddenly serious. He set down his hammers and handed Steve the case of Infinity Stones. “Asgard was honoured to be trusted with the safeguarding of such important artifacts. And I believe this is yours as well.”
“Only borrowing it,” Steve said as he took Mjölnir and gave it an experimental swing. “I’ll give it back in due time, don’t worry.”
Thor laughed and turned to the rest of the group, his eyes instantly landing on the one person he hadn’t met yet.
“Thor Odinson, god of thunder,” he said, needlessly gesturing to himself with his hammer. “I didn’t realize we had a new addition to the Avengers.”
“I’m Bucky.”
Not enough of an explanation of who you are, idiot.
“Barnes. Technically not an Avenger. I’m — or, I was — will be?— I’m Steve’s…”
He was spared having to describe exactly what he was to Steve (a friend? Problem? Right-hand guy until HYDRA tortured him so bad he accidentally-on-purpose almost killed him a couple times?) by Thor interrupting him.
“You’re Bucky Barnes?” Thor said. “The Captain has told us many tales of your bravery and strength. I did not realize you were among the living.”
Yeah, well.
Define living.
“Long story.”
“All the better to be told, then!”
“We’d like to hear that story, too,” Stark said. He’d lowered his weapon, but was eyeing Bucky warily. The other Avengers had relaxed considerably with Thor’s arrival, though Romanov and Barton also watched him closely.
Bucky glanced at Steve.
“Can you give us a moment?” Steve said. He grabbed Bucky by the sweater sleeve and dragged him into the elevator, punching a button for a random floor.
“What the hell, Steve?” Bucky asked once the doors slid shut.
“We should tell them.”
“What?”
“We should—“
“Yeah, I heard you the first time,” Bucky hissed. “Are you out of your mind? What happened to the butterfly effect and avoiding paradoxes and not changing the timeline?”
“How do you know about all that?”
“I read.”
Steve snorted, and then chewed on his lip with a frown. “Problem is, I’ve already changed this timeline.”
“Yes, by falling into a coma. You need to be more careful about handling the Stones.”
“No. Well yes, I do. But I mean before. When I came back to 2012 the first time. I kind of… pretended to be HYDRA. To get the sceptre. And then told my past self that you were alive in order to win a fight against him.”
Bucky stared at him with openmouthed shock.
“I know, I know. But it was our one shot at getting the universe back to normal, and we were in a time crunch, okay?“
That certainly put recent events into perspective.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Well obviously we can’t not tell them, now. Your past self doesn’t even know about HYDRA, and they think he’s working for them.” Bucky ran a hand through his hair. “He’s probably out looking for me, too. Shit. They’re all gonna get killed.”
“Once they know what they’re facing, the Avengers will be able to handle it.”
Bucky only felt slightly reassured by that as he followed Steve back into the lounge. He reminded himself that Steve, Nat, Sam, and a handful of loyal SHIELD agents had brought HYDRA to its knees the first time around. With Stark’s resources, plenty of time, and the full team assembled, everything should be fine.
Steve called the group to attention, which for the Avengers, meant half of them remained sprawled across the designer couches arranged in a loose semicircle by the floor-to ceiling windows. Bucky did his best to ignore the giant target he was making of himself as he stood beside Steve, their backs to the view.
“Alright,” Steve said. “Full disclosure.”
“It’s a hell of a thing,” Stark sang under his breath. “Addams Family? No? Nobody? Okay, continue.”
Bucky’d meant to stay mentally present for Steve’s debrief. He really had. But right at the start, Steve clapped a steadying hand on Bucky’s shoulder, and for some reason his brain latched all its focus onto the touch. How Steve’s palm changed from reassuring heat to a tingling pressure at the join of his prosthetic. How Shuri’s vibranium arm, though not as sensitive as real skin, was a thousand times more informative than any of HYDRA’s titanium models. How Steve’s thumb and forefinger gently squeezed his trapezius muscle before he let go.
It had been so long since Steve’d casually touched him. Since anyone had, really. Sam and Bucky had exchanged a few genial shoulder pats and one time even a quick hug, but it wasn’t quite the same. In fact, aside from folks like corrections officers who had to handle him, hostiles in a handful of fights, and allies in a handful emergencies, nobody’d really touched him at all in the past six months.
It wasn’t important. Wasn’t anything new, either.
What was important was how easily he’d gotten distracted by a simple hand in his shoulder and completely missed everything Steve had said.
Great going, Barnes, you useless piece of—
“…anything, Bucky?”
Everyone, including Steve, looked at him expectantly. He wished he could melt through the floor and disappear back to Romania, never to be seen or heard from again.
“Could you repeat that?”
“Just wondering if you wanted to add anything.”
Oh.
“That about covers it,” he said, hoping it did. “Be alert. HYDRA’s already gunning for all of you.”
“How would you know that?” Romanov frowned.
“Insight’s been underway for years.”
Judging from the grim glances the group exchanged, Steve’d told them about Project Insight.
“Any advice for what to do once we, um, find you?” younger Steve asked.
Shoot to kill.
Don’t say that. Good lord, you’re so dramatic.
“First, you hope it’s you finding me and not the other way around,” Bucky chewed the inside of his cheek, then decided to screw it. Maybe this version of himself would somehow turn out different. It should be a relatively easy extraction if the Asset initially thought the Avengers were his new handlers. “I can give you coordinates to where I was kept in long-term storage between missions, and approximate dates for when I was there, but my memory isn’t always… accurate.”
Someone produced a notepad and a pen, and Bucky scribbled down left-handed the coordinates to the Siberian base, the dates he was there prior to 2014, and as much as he knew about the defrosting procedure, which admittedly wasn’t much.
“The rest of the Wolf Pack, you don’t want to meet. Better to either leave them asleep until someone trustworthy can securely detain them, or just kill them while they’re under.”
“Wolf Pack?” Barton asked.
“The other Winter Soldiers.”
“There’s more of you?” Romanov asked quietly.
“No,” Bucky said with a grimace he knew showed too much teeth. “These guys were worse. They were HYDRA’s most elite death squad before they volunteered for the serum. And after… It made them strong, but it made them unstable. Nobody could control them. They were put on ice indefinitely sometime in the early nineties.”
And damn him, he still felt a flicker of pride over that. Because he’d been better. More useful. More perfect.
A gift to mankind.
“Okay,” younger Steve said. “And once we bust you out? Then what?”
There’s these words, he said. Only his vocal cords didn’t make any sound and his lips didn’t move. About three inches from his right boot there was a little purple ball of lint on the cream carpet. Maybe if he just stared at that—
“Buck?”
He swallowed and tried again.
“Then, you’ll have to get rid of the trigger sequence so HYDRA can’t waltz in and force me to murder all of you. Though you might want to use it to get me back Stateside without, um, incident.”
He wondered how such a large lint-ball had been missed in the vacuuming.
“There’s gotta be a better way to get you home than that, Buck,” Steve said. “Those words… surely there’s another way.”
“No, you’re right,” Bucky said. “They’re not the only way to make me loyal to a Handler. Just the fastest and most sure-fire method. Hell, I’d’ve died for Pierce and he never—“
Shut up shut up don’t talk about that don’t even think about—
He wondered how often Stark had the rugs in his tower vacuumed. Now that he was looking, there wasn’t just one lint-ball laying around.
Steve asked him another question he didn’t hear.
Dammit.
“Look,” he said, hoping whatever he was about to say wasn’t wildly off topic from Steve’s query. “You want the Winter Soldier to not kill you, you’re gonna have to convince him you’re his handlers, at least for a little while. Give clear, direct instructions and only talk to him when necessary. Too much chatter will just confuse him. Tell him he’s being transferred for a mission to the states and that he’ll be briefed on arrival. Assign someone to act as head handler — I’d recommend Romanov but HYDRA was misogynistic as hell and there’s a slight risk he’ll recognize her from— before. Maybe Barton. And don’t bring Steve, he’s emotionally compromised.”
Younger Steve made a sound like a drowned puppy and it took all of Bucky’s resolve not to look at him. He scuffed at the purple lint ball with his bare foot.
“I mean it, Stevie,” he said. “It took me a long time to get my head back on straight after my Steve jogged that first memory loose.” He huffed out a humourless laugh. “Was almost a year before I figured out I was an actual human person. Another few months before I began to accept that I used to be Sergeant Barnes. So just.”
Keep talking Barnes, you coward. It’s not that hard.
“What you drag out of Siberia, it’s not… I’m not going to resemble your friend for a very long time.”
Did Stark have regular cleaning staff? Or maybe he had those little automated robots do things like the vacuuming. Was Roomba invented yet? Though surely Stark would use a proprietary cleaning bot and not something any old joe could buy at a Walmart.
And what the hell was he doing? Standing here all morose in Stark Tower of all places, acting like everyone should feel sorry for him!
“Stark,” he said, ears buzzing with anxiety. “One last thing you should know.”
And Steve wasn’t fast enough. Wouldn’t be fast enough, he knew. Not to stop four tiny, earth-shattering words from leaving his lips. He heard Steve say Bucky, no! Felt the sharp tug on his arms as Steve attempted to drag him from the little circle of couches.
“I killed your parents.”
Too slow, Stevie.
He wrenched his arms out of Steve’s grip. Saw, heard, felt the repulsor blast coming, but didn’t try to dodge it. Turned so it hit him square in the chest. He was flying into the glass window behind him before the pain of it kicked in. Enough force to knock his lungs flat and enough electricity to make his heart stutter as pain bloomed fire-hot across his torso.
The room descended into chaos. Both Steves tackled Tony. Everyone else had weapons drawn and was shouting. So much noise, noise—
“NO SMASH!”
Ah. The Hulk.
Banner should let him out more. Bucky liked him. He could peel the Steves off of Tony and set them across the room so easily. He made everyone else be very still and quiet. So nice.
Bucky tentatively reached behind his head, where something warm had been tickling his neck. His hand came away sticky with blood.
Those repulsors sure packed a punch.
He maybe probably had a concussion.
That would explain the two Steves.
No.
There were supposed to be two Steves. Because time travel. Right.
Yeah, he definitely had a concussion.
Steve was talking. Saying it wasn’t Bucky’s fault. And a bunch of other stuff, too. Bucky didn’t listen. He’d heard all the arguments in his defence before. Didn’t need to hear them again.
Partly because his head was spinning something awful.
Mostly because he agreed with Stark.
Stark and how many others on his damn list of amends?
Too many to count.
Maybe all of them, just some hadn’t had the guts to say it to his face.
If you were truly sorry, you’d kill yourself.
His limbs felt leaden. And he must’ve zoned out or something because he blinked and suddenly the room was empty of everyone except his Steve. He’d been moved to a couch and stripped of his hoodie. Steve was methodically wiping at the burn on his chest. Someone had splinted his broken wrist.
He wanted to apologize for messing everything up like he always did, but his jaw was locked shut. Opening it to speak felt impossible.
“You know,” Steve said as he applied a burn bandage, “sometimes I think you like getting punched.”
Bucky gave the tiniest of eye rolls, which was about as much emotion he felt capable of expressing. Steve passed him his sweater back, and he gingerly pulled it on, wincing a little as the hood caught on a fresh bandage on the back of his head. Steve got him an ice pack and then left him alone.
Probably gone to an airy conference room to yell at Stark some more.
After a few minutes of icing his head, the world stopped jumping around so much. So he got up and retrieved the notepad and pen he’d used to write down his intel about Siberia. He ripped out a fresh page and bent over the coffee table so he could more easily write left-handed.
When he finished, he folded the note in half, then in half again and stuffed it into his back pocket. Then he lay back on the couch with the ice pack under his head and an arm slung over his eyes, waiting for Steve to return.
Notes:
TW: Possible past SA. I've left things as ambiguous here as they were in TFATWS, so it could be read as something else (though I didn't feel you had to read too deep between the lines in the show. Maybe that's just me, idk). Either way, I figured I'd better warn for it. If you want to avoid reading that part, skip from "No, you're right..." to "He wondered how often Stark had the rugs..."
~~~
I've had the stupid Full Disclosure song from the Addams Family Musical stuck in my head for weeks because of this dumb chapter.
Chapter 12: In Which Tony Stark has a Heart
Chapter Text
So maybe he’d overreacted.
Maybe Steve — future Steve — had a point about not acting as judge, jury, and executioner. And yes, maybe if he killed Cap’s best friend he’d feel a little bit bad about it later.
Maybe.
Mostly, Tony didn’t care. He was feeling so many emotions at once that they were all cancelling each other out. Making him numb.
Numb, numb, numb, with background radiation of rage and anguish and boy was he regretting that promise to Pepper not to binge drink anymore.
He could go for some blackout drunkenness right about now. That’s how he’d dealt with it in the past. That first year after they were gone had been spent blowing Dear Dead Dad’s money on expensive parties, getting his reputation squared firmly away as the “crazy” kind of crazy rich, and doing his best not to feel anything beyond wasted or hungover.
And now their — their murderer was just. Here. In the other room. Walking free, with a life and friends and how the hell was that fair?
Tony paced the sunny conference room that everyone had retreated to, clenching and unclenching his fists and avoiding all eye contact. The Avengers, sans Banner who was off de-Hulking somewhere, sat around the table in tense silence.
“What I want to know,” Tony started. But found that he wanted to know too much at once and lost the thread of his sentence.
He took a deep breath and tried again.
“What I want to know is why the hell future us sent him of all people in response to the Sorcerer Supreme’s spell.”
“And how far can we trust this ‘Reformed Winter Soldier’ story?” Nat added.
“If he wasn’t reformed, we’d likely all be dead already,” Clint countered.
“Gimme a little credit,” Tony said. “I got in a solid hit back there.”
“Only because he turned into it,” Nat argued.
“He what?” Steve asked through clenched teeth.
“I saw him clock the repulsor blast,” Nat said. “He could’ve dodged it, but he turned to take it head-on instead.”
“Why would he…” Steve trailed off.
“Man’s crazy.” Tony shrugged to cover the sick feeling in his gut. “Or he has some hidden agenda we don’t know about yet. Either way, if future Capsicle’s story is true, you SHIELD bros have a serious rat infestation on your hands. Maybe HYDRA from the future sent him back in time to kill us all before coma-Cap could wake up and tell us about it.”
“But why then would this Winter Soldier provide information on how to locate and subdue his past self?” Thor asked.
A frustratingly good point.
“Could be a trap,” Tony argued, though he knew it was weak and circular.
“I’m kinda hoping he is who he says he is, you know?” Clint said quietly. “It’s— I’d like to think somebody could come back from brainwashing or mind-control or whatever and still be… I dunno. Still be themselves.”
And the award for World’s Biggest Asshole went to (drumroll…) Tony Stark! For forgetting that one of his teammates (friends?) was mind-controlled and forced to kill some of his coworkers a few short months ago.
On a regular day, Tony would’ve argued that he should be cut some slack for forgetting that because he’s still dealing with the everything that had happened to him back then. But today was anything but a regular day. Today phrases like seventy years of torture and regularly wiped his memories and I killed your parents kept echoing around in his brain.
“I’ll need time,” Tony said, his voice distant and strange in his ears. “I don’t— I can help with logistics. Find you all a secure place. Maybe somewhere upstate. I’ve got a bunch of unused farmland we could use to build something. State-of-the-art, obviously, so HYDRA can’t get to him. But—“ he swallowed and fought back unexpected tears. “I’m going to need some time before I can…”
“It’s alright, Tony,” Steve said. “Thank you.”
Goddamn Captain America and his goddamn genuine heartfelt honesty.
Tony wiped his eyes and sniffed sharply. “Right. Well. Unless there’s anything else to discuss, let’s get our two time travellers their suits and send them on their way.”
He escaped to the lab, where he found Bruce back to himself and in a blessedly silent mood. They ran some final checks to make sure the suits were working the same way they were upon their arrival in 2012 (as best Tony could figure). What Tony wouldn’t give for another year or five to spend unlocking the secrets of time travel hidden in this tech…
No time for that now! Special suit delivery for two super soldiers coming right up! Barnes was passed out on a couch in the lounge. Asleep, or at least feigning it. Tony tossed the suit on an armchair and left as quickly as he could. He ran into future Steve in the elevator.
“Look, Tony,” future Steve started.
“How about you and yours go save the universe or whatever while me and mine worry about this timeline, alright?” Tony said. He did not want to deal with this. Not here, not now. Maybe not ever.
Steve’s eyes were shiny and red-rimmed, like he’d either been crying or was close to it now. He nodded, took the suit with a quiet thanks, and got off on the next floor. Tony shook his head and hit the button for the lab floor. He did not understand that man.
Ten minutes later, everyone assembled in the lab to send the time-travellers off. Future Cap had the case of Infinity Stones slung across his chest, and Mjölnir clipped to his belt. Tony was itching to ask what had happened to the shield, but knew now was not the time. Cap probably would’ve given an irritating answer about timeline preservation or some other BS anyways.
For his part, Barnes looked like he’d rather be just about anywhere in the world besides Tony’s lab. He stared silently at nothing while future Cap doled out farewell hugs.
Definitely a hugger, in the future.
Tony straightened his jacket as future Cap pulled back and gave him a melancholy smile. Geez. The way Cap was looking at him, you’d think this was the last time they’d ever see each oth—Oh. Shit.
Tony cleared his throat and resolutely did not finish that thought. Act now, panic about his impending death later.
“Y’all need a countdown?” he asked.
“Nope, we’re good,” future Cap said. “Ready to go, Bucky?”
Barnes had drifted to one of the lab tables, but strode over to Cap’s side with a stiff nod.
“Alight,” future Cap said. Then he saluted, because of course he did, said, “Good luck with the past,” and the pair of them vanished.
Nothing else happened. The moment stretched long enough to become an awkward, anticlimactic silence.
“I’m going to take that to mean the suits worked properly and we didn’t kill them,” Tony said.
Nat audibly rolled her eyes.
The Avengers slowly filtered out of the lab until only Tony remained. He didn’t want to think about the future. Or the past. Or the present, for that matter. And figured if he couldn’t drink (he’d hate to break his streak), he may as well tinker.
It didn’t take him long to find the twice-folded piece of notepaper that didn’t belong on his work table. First because he took all his notes digitally. Second because this was the table Barnes had been skulking near right before he left.
Tony plucked it up and flipped it open before he could talk himself out of it.
Stark,
I shouldn’t have dropped the news on you so abruptly. Sorry. I don’t blame you for your reaction. You tried to kill me when you found out in my timeline, too.
You deserve to know why they died. Your father was brilliant. Maybe even a genius. If anybody was going to crack Erskine’s serum, it was him.
He used to joke that I oughta be first in line once heAnd he did. Of course he did. Except SHIELD’s secrets were HYDRA’s secrets, and HYDRA wanted that serum to make more Winter Soldiers. My mission was to sanction and extract, no witnesses.
He recognizedI know it doesn’t mean much coming from me, but I really am sorry. I won’t blame you for putting a neat little bullet through the head of my cryogenically frozen counterpart. Poor SOB’d likely be better off that way, to be honest. Finally get a decent sleep. Just don’t let your Steve find out it was you who done it because he would never forgive you.
Yours,
J.B.B.
P.S. In case of emergency, see reverse
Tony flipped the page over and found in the bottom right-hand corner of the page, a list of ten words, written in minuscule Cyrillic.
“JARVIS, get me a translation on this,” Tony said, flattening out the note on the workbench with sweaty palms. “And get Steve back down here.”
Steve was mid-way through wrapping his hands so he could go a few rounds with a heavy-bag when JARVIS interrupted him.
“Captain Rogers, sir,” the ceiling said. “Mister Stark is requesting you down in his lab.”
Steve failed to keep in a sigh. Everything felt like it was happening all at once, and he hadn’t had a second to stop and think about any of it.
“Tell him I’ll be right there.”
He took the stairs. Partly to burn some of the energy he’d wanted to use boxing, partly to buy himself time to get his head on straight.
Every time he blinked, he saw Bucky taking Tony’s hit dead-on. Heard the sound of Bucky’s head cracking against the reinforced windowpane. Smelled his flesh as it burned.
A smell he’d hoped to never re-experience. It brought back bad memories from the war. Steve pushed those thoughts aside. He knew by now that dwelling on the past caused a giant, painful wave to swell up inside him. If he didn’t keep moving forward, he feared it would drown him.
Maybe that’s why he’d been so focused on finding Bucky these past few months. He was one of the last real links to home. A lighthouse’s distant glimmer as Steve fought for breath.
And now Bucky was found and— Steve never imagined something like this. His sacrifice, everything he’d died for and lost upon waking, it was all for nothing. And yet here was Bucky, staring blankly into the middle-distance. Bucky, speaking so matter-of-fact about… about… with an expression and tone Steve’d only seen Bucky use once before. Right after he’d been rescued from the factory.
Speaking of, Steve should’ve taken Bucky’s advice and simply blown up Zola’s train rather than try to take him alive. Instead, Bucky’d been sentenced to a fate worse than death, and Zola had been free to establish a branch of HYDRA right under their noses. Made all the easier because Peggy had hired him on.
He didn’t know if he could forgive her for that. She knew what Zola had done. What he was. Could Steve stand to see her again? Now knowing she’d willingly worked with the man who’d—
Steve pushed those thoughts aside, too. The important thing was, they could find Bucky. They knew how to rescue him. And how to bring down HYDRA so the bastards could never hurt anyone again.
Visions of burning HYDRA bases to the ground brought Steve to the door of Tony’s lab. He knocked on the glass, unsure if Tony could hear him over the rock music blasting on the speakers.
“Come in!” Tony called. “JARVIS, cut the music.”
A profoundly awkward silence filled the lab.
Steve had gotten off on the wrong foot with Tony, and while he’d done his best to be friendly — they were teammates, after all — there were still walls up between them. The looming spectre of Howard Stark and his terrible parenting, perhaps. Sometimes, Steve wished he could travel back in time and shake the man. Ask him why the hell he’d had a kid, if he couldn’t be bothered to raise one. Ask him what Steve’d done that was so deserving of the grand pedestal Howard had built for him.
Because Steve sure as hell didn’t feel worthy of it.
Tony barely glanced at Steve while he fiddled with a complicated-looking bit of circuitry.
“Don’t interrupt me, or I won’t get any of this out,” he said. “First-off, I’m sorry. For blasting your friend. Shouldn’t have done that. I’m an adult and I know better than to lash out with violence. Second, I meant what I said in the conference room — don’t interrupt — about helping with logistics. But I hope you’ll understand if I don’t want to, um, see him. Around. It’s complicated. And third, I— was he— did he know Dad?”
Steve, who’d already cried once today in the privacy of a bathroom and was definitely not supposed to be crying again now, blinked back tears.
“Buck—“ Steve cleared his throat around an embarrassing voice crack, and started again. “He’d always been a fan of your father’s work,” he said. He wished he had something to fiddle with, too. “He was ecstatic when he learned that Stark was assigned to supply gear for our team. I was constantly fishing him out of Stark’s lab whenever we got leave in London. He’d—“ Steve swallowed around a lump in is throat, and attempted a smile. “He loved all that stuff. Science, engineering.”
“So he… they knew each other, then?”
“Some might call it being friends, Tony.” Steve laughed hollowly. “I’d argue your father was closer with Bucky than with me, and, well. You heard my story a million times. I’m surprised Howard didn’t talk endlessly about Bucky, too.”
Tony sank onto a stool and inspected the circuitry in his hands. Steve was just starting to think their conversation was over when he suddenly burst out, “Damn. I really hate Nazis.”
Steve barked a surprised laugh.
“Yeah, yeah, join the club, I know,” Tony grumbled. He fished around in his pocket and pulled out a somewhat crumpled piece of paper. “Well. Thanks fun walk down memory lane, gramps. Love to know they made him murder a friend. Memory wipes, good lord.” Tony visibly shuddered and passed Steve the paper. “The real reason I called you down here because the Manchurian Candidate left me this note. Told me to just shoot him while he slept in cryo and not tell you about it so we could carry on being grand ol’ pals. Oh, and he gave me the list of his trigger words. In case of emergency.”
Future Bucky’s blocky printing was unrecognizable compared to the flowing handwriting he’d taken such pride in growing up. Something else decades of torture had stripped away.
Steve wished he could burn the contents of the letter from his mind when he finished reading. He couldn’t feel the page between his fingers. Just kept staring at the signature.
Yours,
J.B.B.
Which was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Bucky always signed his letters with Your pal, Bucky.
This felt—
It was formal.
Final.
He realized he was crying when a tear splashed onto the page.
Tony squeezed his shoulder. “We’ll get your murder-pal home safe and sound, Cap. Don’t worry. Get him some proper help, too. Sounds like I was a real piece of shit in that other timeline. I’m not gonna muck things up in this one. Promise.”
Steve was too choked up to speak. He pulled Tony into a hug instead, hoping Tony would understand the meaning anyways.
“Go figure,” Tony laughed, slapping him on the back, “present Cap’s a hugger, too!”
But Steve could tell from the sniffle at the end of that sentence that Tony was crying a little, too.
Notes:
Deepest apologies for the late update, dearest readers! I'm on vacation and wasn't expecting to have no wifi for several days!
We'll be back to the regular posting schedule and back with the main timeline's Steve and Bucky next chapter :D
Chapter 13: In Which Star Lord’s Reputation Precedes Him (For Once)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Temple of the Power Stone, Morag. 2014.
Steve had spent a good amount of time the past few days (months? Did time in a coma in the past count?) while planning the reverse time-heist trying to figure out a way to save Nat. While he was at it, he’d found a possible way to prevent the past version of Thanos from realizing that the Avengers were messing with time and collecting Infinity Stones. He could save Nat and Tony in one move.
It all came down to Morag.
If he could intercept Rhodey, Nebula, Nat, and Clint while the four of them were on the planet, he could give each team their respective Stones before they split off. No Stones stolen meant each past timeline would proceed without interruption from the Avengers’ presence. Those four could go back to 2023 alive and well, and Thanos would be none the wiser regarding his eventual demise.
Steve knew he wouldn’t be saving Nat, Tony, and everyone who fell in the final battle in his timeline. Bruce had explained that changes made in the past didn’t affect the present. But at least he’d know their timeline would be better.
The plan, of course, went to shit almost immediately.
“Where the hell are we?” Bucky’s voice echoed strangely in the darkness to his right.
Steve fished around on his belt for a flashlight and flicked it on right as Bucky did the same. Their twin beams arced through the humid air, illuminating damp, black stone carved with strange symbols.
“Somewhere on Morag, I hope,” Steve said.
“You hope?” Bucky asked, shooting Steve a sideways glare.
Steve forgot his retort when a flickering purple-blue light suddenly filled the chamber. It came from a pedestal at the far end of the room, within which hovered—
“Don’t tell me that’s the Power Stone,” Bucky said.
“Looks like we’re early.”
“We shouldn’t be here when Rhodes and Nebula arrive to steal it, then. Come help me with these doors.”
Five minutes of pushing, pulling, punching, and swearing later, the doors remained sealed shut. Even hammering on them with Mjölnir had no effect.
“Great. Just great. Always wanted to go to space. Never thought I’d die trapped in a temple before getting to see any of it.” Bucky kicked at a loose stone and then sat down against the doors with a huff.
“We’re not gonna die in here, Buck,” Steve chided, hoping his voice didn’t betray his own panic. If they couldn’t get out of here before Nat and Clint left for Vormir…
“Can these suits tell us when we are? Lang only showed me how to input time and place coordinates before I left,” Bucky said, fiddling with the touchpad on his sleeve.
“No.” Steve sighed and sat down beside Bucky. “Tony didn’t have time to add all the features he wanted before he— before the initial heist went down.”
Bucky didn’t say anything to that. There was silence for a few minutes, time measured only by the inconsistent dripping of water off stone deeper in the chamber.
“Hey, Steve,” Bucky said, kicking Steve’s boot.
“What.”
“Know what this reminds me of?”
Steve had camped out in a lot of dark, damp, and unpleasant places throughout his career, many of them with Bucky at his side. But Bucky’s shit-eating grin meant only one thing.
“Don’t say—“
“Castle Vianden.”
“Buck—“
“Who knew super-soldiers could get food poisoning, right?”
Steve put his face in his hands and braced himself for the impending roast.
“There we all were, camped like sardines in the cellar of that damn castle, waiting for the weather to clear up enough for us to head out to our supply drop when somebody decided he was too hungry to wait.”
“I was there, Bucky. You don’t have to—“
“Shuddup. I’m not talking to you, I’m talking to this little rat thing. Ouch! Don’t bite me, you bastard.” Bucky kicked at the small critter, which hissed and backed off a few feet. “As I was saying,” Bucky continued, flapping an arm to keep the critter at a safe storytelling distance, “our brilliant Captain decided he was too hungry to wait for the storm to clear. Now, we all knew he could pack away an unholy amount of food. Had heard him and Howard both carry on about his enhanced metabolism or some bullshit countless times. Anyways, I think it was sometime during Monty’s watch, he sneaked off and found these crates of who knows what that the Luxembourgish militia’d left behind. Apples half-way to cider and bread so moldy it was practically sentient, ya know? Little punk was half way through a crateful of the stuff before anyone found him.”
Steve chuckled in spite of himself.
“Swear to God, if you bite me again you little—“ Bucky tossed a rock at the critter, who took the hint and scrambled into a dark corner where it disappeared from sight. “You remember what Morita said? ‘Don’t come crying to me in an hour when it’s coming out both ends.’ And then you said—“
“I can’t get food poisoning, I’m Captain America,” Steve quoted.
Bucky’s laugh echoed around the chamber. His grin was wide and genuine as he gave Steve’s shoulder a light shove. “Punk.”
“Jerk,” Steve said, on reflex. “God, we were all so young back then.”
He hadn’t meant anything by it beyond thinking how stupid and inexperienced he’d been, even after almost a year of active duty, but Bucky’s grin vanished.
“Yeah,” he said. “We were.” Bucky scowled as he pushed himself back to his feet.
Steve wished he’d said something else — anything else — to keep that stupid grin on Bucky’s face. But for all his grandiose speeches and troop-rallying charisma, Steve couldn’t manage a simple conversation with his best friend without putting his foot in it. Seemed he never knew the right thing to say, anymore.
“Someone’s coming,” Bucky whispered, suddenly tense.
Steve scrambled to his feet. No more time for maudlin reflecting. They stood with their backs pressed against the cold stone on either side of the door. Steve held Mjölnir at the ready. Bucky’d produced a gun from somewhere. He rolled his left shoulder and his arm hummed almost imperceptibly in the silence.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Thunk.
“Don’t shoot!” Steve called, the moment he saw who entered.
He got a blue fist to the gut for his troubles, followed by the unmistakeable whine of Rhodey’s repulsors. Then—
“Steve?”
“Hey guys,” Steve gasped. Nebula sure didn’t pull her punches. It felt like his diaphragm was glued to his spine.
“You were not assigned to this timestamp,” Nebula said. “Has something gone wrong?”
“No,” Steve said, still wheezing. “No, it — are Clint and Nat still here?”
“We just saw them off,” Rhodey said, frowning.
A second punch to his gut, this one winding him worse than the first.
Even with time travel, you were too late.
He tugged the case of Stones off his shoulder and popped it open. Heard Rhodey and Nebula’s confused exclamations as he reached for the Power Stone.
“Steve!”
Cold vibranium encircled his wrist.
“You have anything we can put this in?” Bucky asked, gesturing at the Power Stone, which was glowing ominously. Steve felt Bucky’s glare boring into the side of his head. Couldn’t meet it.
Nebula produced a container and carefully packed the Power Stone inside it.
“Good,” Bucky said. “Now get out of here before Thanos realizes you’re here.”
“What d’you mean?” Rhodey asked.
“My father had—has ways of tracking me,” Nebula said with a deepening scowl. “It is possible that some of them still work.”
“You mean Thanos could be coming here?” Rhodey asked.
“Yes, so get going,” Bucky said.
“What about you two?”
Steve pushed himself to his feet. If they left right now, maybe they could get to Vormir on time…
“We’ve already defeated Thanos once. Don’t worry about us,” he said. And met Rhodey’s gaze with a false confidence that made him feel like a fraud.
Nebula nodded. “Good luck returning the Stones.”
“See you soon, Cap! Barnes.” Rhodey saluted.
The pair vanished.
“So,” Bucky said. “We’re gonna need a ship faster than the Milano to beat Barton and Romanov to Vormir. That is your plan, right?”
Peter’s day had been going great right up until he blacked out.
What the hell?
His head felt like someone’d sucker punched him with an iron gauntlet. He sat up and gingerly massaged his temple. No blood. That was good. Come and Get Your Love was still playing on his walkman, which meant he couldn’t have been out for long. He quickly checked himself over and everything seemed to be in place.
Everything except—
His lock-pick wasn’t in his satchel.
Okay, okay, don’t panic. Maybe one of the insufferable rat thingies crawled into his bag and…
And what, Peter? Carried it off?
He scrambled to his feet and scanned the area. Nobody around.
Peter carefully packed away his walkman and set his helmet back over his face. Whoever had knocked him out and robbed him was going to pay. You didn’t mess with a Ravager — no. You didn’t mess with Star-Lord and get away with it.
The temple doors were open. Shit. He took cover behind a nearby rock formation to listen in on whoever was inside. If they wanted to do the hard work of extracting the Orb, all the better for him. He’d take the Orb and his lock-pick off their unconscious asses once he’d taught them not to cross him.
Several people were having a discussion inside the Temple proper. Arguing about some guy named Thanos tracking them, and some fancy stone or another. Maybe they were smugglers or something. Going after high-value artifacts. Well too bad for them, because this bounty belonged to Peter. Right up until he’d sell it to the broker on Xandar for so many sweet sweet units.
He heard a whoosh, and two of the voices disappeared.
“So,” one of the remaining guys grumbled. “We need a ship faster than the Milano to beat Barton and Romanov to Vormir. That is your plan, right?”
Oh hell, no. These assholes were not getting away without giving back what they’d taken. And talking about his ship? If they thought they could steal that too, they had another think coming.
“Alright, hands up!” Peter shouted, blaster drawn as he leapt into the temple doorway. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but two white guys built like brick shit-houses was not it. One had some sort of cybernetic arm and a gun aimed right at Peter’s head. The other was blond and looked a little more friendly, though he had a heavy-looking hammer swinging from his belt.
“You’re after the Power Stone, right?” Blond said.
Peter glared at him, then remembered his helmet prevented them from seeing his facial expressions. He retracted the helmet for maximum glare impact.
“He means the Orb,” Cool Arm said, lowering his gun. “Look, the Orb is all yours. We don’t want anything to do with it. This was just a rendezvous-point for some associates of ours.”
“An ancient, hidden temple on an abandoned planet seemed like a good place for a rendezvous?” Peter asked skeptically.
Cool Arm shrugged. “We needed someplace quiet. Out-of-the-way. You know how it is.”
Peter wasn’t sure he did know how it was. He didn’t trade in artefacts valuable enough to warrant a meeting this clandestine. If these guys truly were smugglers. But he figured it was better to play along for now. He could practically hear Yondu shouting at him.
Feel your opponents out before a fight, boy! You wanna end up dead?
So he puffed up his chest a little and put on a cocky smile. “Course. Just business, right? I’m sure knocking me out and stealing my lock-pick was just business, too.”
Blond glanced over at Cool Arm.
Hah! Guilty little suckers! Cool Arm might have perfected that icy I eat murder for breakfast glare, but Blond was an open book.
“That’s what I thought,” Peter said. And would’ve started shooting if he wasn’t rudely interrupted.
“Step away from the pedestal.”
Peter whipped around to find some glassy-eyed cyborg aiming a huge blaster at him, generic goons in black and grey armour filing in on either side.
“What, this pedestal?” Peter asked, taking a step closer to the Orb. He turned to Cool Arm. “Looks like your little meeting spot wasn’t so secret.”
Cool Arm just kept glaring, only now he was focused on Cyborg and his goons.
Cyborg gave orders in Kree, a language Peter recognized but couldn’t understand. He got the meaning, though, and it wasn’t friendly.
“You have a way to extract the Orb, Star-Lord?” Blond muttered.
“Yes. Wait, how do you know my—“
“Later. We’ll hold them off. You get the Orb and get out. On my signal, alright?”
“Your signal? Why not my signal. And why are you trying to help me?” Peter whispered back. “You stole from me like five minutes ago.”
“If Ronan gets his hands on the Orb, he could—“
“Enough whispering!” Cyborg ordered. “How do you know of this place?”
“We’re just junkers, man!” Peter quickly invented. “We were just checking stuff out. Don’t even know what any of this is,” he gestured vaguely at the strange writing on the walls.
“You don’t look like a junker, you’re wearing Ravager garb,” Cyborg argued.
Shit.
“It’s just an outfit, man,” Peter lied, though he could tell things were spiralling out of control fast. “Ninja turtle, you better stop poking me,” he griped at a goon who’d circled around behind him.
“What are your names?” Cyborg shouted.
“My name is Peter Quill, okay?” He glanced at Blond, then over at Cool Arm, uncertain.
“I’m Steve Rogers,” Blond said, “and he’s Bucky Barnes.”
The names sounded vaguely familiar, but Peter didn’t have time right then to wonder why.
“Move,” Cyborg ordered.
“Why?” Peter demanded, still playing dumb.
“Ronan may have questions for you three.”
“Wait!” Peter said, still waiting for Blond’s—for Steve’s signal. “There’s another name you might know me by.”
Cyborg turned back around, and the turtle-like goons paused.
“Star-Lord.”
Peter couldn’t have asked for better timing. As if on cue, Steve and Bucky exploded into action on either side of him. He fired off a few shots from his blaster, but left most of the fight to them while he focused on deploying his magnetic generator. Just like Yondu’d said, the Orb popped out of its energy beam like a— well. Peter didn’t actually want to re-think that mental image.
Gross metaphors aside, the magnet worked like a charm and a moment later he had the Orb, two maybe-allies maybe-crazy-dudes-who-were-going-to-double-cross-him-in-a-second, and a room full of dead and/or unconscious ninja-turtles.
“Let’s go before Ronan sends more!” Steve shouted, sprinting for the door.
Peter couldn’t argue with that. He had a feeling he didn’t want to mess with whoever this Ronan guy was. So he sprinted after the two strangers. Back into the humid wastes of Morag, and straight into another firefight.
Jeez. How many goons did Ronan have?
“My ship’s this way!” Peter yelled. And hoped he wouldn’t live to regret it later. The strangers sprinted after him, fighting all the way. Bucky picked goons off with his gun with ruthless efficiency while Steve tossed his hammer around like a boomerang. Peter took a few out by sticking them to the magnetic generator as he dashed for the Milano.
The three of them skidded into the cockpit, and Peter’s fingers flew across the dash as he entered the pre-flight sequence. The craft hummed to life beneath him.
“Hang on!” he yelled as he hauled on the throttle. The Milano leapt into the air. Peter couldn’t help the somewhat maniacal laugh that escaped him as she ducked through blaster fire and dodged energy beams.
“Just like Poland,” Steve shouted from the back.
Poland? Wasn’t that somewhere back on Terra?
Focus on flying, Peter!
“Which time?” Bucky called back. There was a loud clang followed by some swearing.
“Don’t break my ship!” Peter yelled, turning to see what damage had been done.
His fatal mistake. Suddenly they were tumbling through the cockpit. Peter slammed into the ceiling, the floor, a wall, and then went weightless as the Milano began a free-fall. He scrambled for the captain’s chair, straining to reach the throttle. Just another inch. Come on, come on…
More swearing, this time in both English and a language that Peter didn’t recognize as the ship righted herself and everyone crashed to the floor.
“Bringing out the five-dollar words today, huh Stevie?” Bucky groaned.
“Don’t you start, too.” Steve grunted. “Besides you’re ten times worse than me.”
“Excuses, excuses, Captain Language.”
“That was one time. And you weren’t even there. How’d you find out about it?”
“Sam tells me things.”
“Oh he does, does he? This mean you two finally buried the hatchet?”
“Maybe.”
“Well I’m glad— whoah. Hello there. Uh, Peter? Quill?”
Peter set the ship to auto-pilot and turned around. “What’s up?”
Steve gestured wordlessly at the confused and tousled-looking Xandarian peeking her head into the cockpit.
“Peter?” she asked, blinking up at the three of them. “What happened?”
Peter glanced from Steve, to Bucky, and back to… Bet… Ben… Ber…
“Hey, uh, um,” he said.
“Bereet.”
“Bereet!”
Man. She looked messed up. There was probably a lesson somewhere in here about not forgetting about his one-night stands and subsequently bringing them along on dangerous runs.
“Look. I’m gonna be totally honest with you,” he said, not having the energy to be charming. “I forgot you were here.”
Bereet was understandably angry, and after yelling at him for dragging her half-way across the quadrant, she disappeared back belowdecks. Somehow, the looks of disappointment that Steve kept giving him were worse. It was like he’d somehow expected better of Peter.
Well Steve could screw off. And for all Peter cared, Bucky could, too.
He’d disappeared sometime during all of that. Probably belowdecks trying to steal more of Peter’s shit. He'd have to do a thorough inventory check before they docked on Xandar. After checking that the coordinates in the Milano’s nav system were correct, Peter motioned for Steve to follow him down to the kitchen. Time to figure out who the hell he’d invited onto his ship.
Notes:
Historical Note: the castle referenced by Bucky is a real castle in Luxembourg and the site of one of the most important battles for that country during WW2. The small and greatly outnumbered Luxembourgish militia successfully defended the castle from the Germans in November, 1944. They had to later abandon the castle when the German army made a final westward advance in December, 1944, during the Battle of the Bulge. Both sides were hampered during that campaign by a huge snowstorm and generally bad winter weather.
I figure it's not unreasonable to have Cap and the Howlies running around behind enemy lines in that area at some point during that mess. As to whether or not the serum would let someone get food poisoning or not... meh. We never get hard and fast rules for what it can and can't do, and some kinds of mold can be pretty poisonous. Besides, I thought it made for a sweet moment :P~~~
I'm so excited for this next section, fam! Guardians vol 1 is one of my fav Marvel movies :D
Chapter 14: In Which Marvin Gaye's Musical Contributions are Once Again Debated
Notes:
Updating early because I won't have any internet access tomorrow. Hope you enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Onboard the Milano, Somewhere in Space. 2014.
Bucky made himself scarce while Bereet and Quill hashed things out. He had no desire to hang around for that. And he had better things to do. Namely, explore the freaking space ship that was flying through space. He owed it to his 1930s self to at least poke around and see what it was like. That naive kid had devoured every comic book and fantasy novel he'd gotten his greasy little hands on back in the day.
He could remember finishing C. S. Lewis’ Out of the Silent Planet and laying on the floor in the apartment, staring up at the cracked ceiling paint wile the book washed over him. He’d read it cover-to-cover two more times before the library asked for it back, and checked it out four months later to re-read it again.
He’d done a similar thing with Tolkien’s The Hobbit two years before that. Read it and re-read it and then bought it as a Christmas present for Lizzie so he could read it again, this time aloud to her. Mary and Becca had listened in, even though they were both ‘too old’ for bedtime stories.
Remembering was funny, in a kinda twisted way.
Because sometimes (most of the time, lately) he hated remembering his past. But remembering that — his three sisters piled around him on Lizzie’s creaky bed, giggling at the silly voices he did — that was something he didn’t mind having back.
He wandered through the belly of the ship, taking it all in. It was cramped and maze-like, and parts of it were disappointingly similar regular boats and planes back on Earth. Like the cramped galley kitchen with a small mess table, the crowded bunks in the crew’s quarters, and the gunmetal ladders that lead down to lower levels and up to higher ones.
Other aspects of the ship made a part of himself that he’d thought long dead wake up and stir for the first time in decades.
The engine room! Completely incomprehensible, and everything was glowing and it looked super deadly and so cool!
Breathtaking views of a nebula galaxy drifting by the porthole windows!
Whatever the heck was going on with the holographic comm system in the galley!
He parked himself by a window to enjoy the view, and set about cleaning his guns and counting his ammo. Only two and a half clips left. Damn. Should’ve stolen more from Avengers tower when he had the chance. At least he’d managed to snatch up a few decent knives before they left.
The faint shouting from upstairs quieted down, and a few seconds later Bereet appeared, looking furious. He expected her to completely ignore him, or worse, somehow blame him for dragging her into this mess. But instead of doing either of those, she plopped down on the bench beside him and dragged her fingers through her tangled hair with a long-suffering sigh.
Bucky felt a sudden urge to fish out a cigarette and offer her one.
“Rough morning, huh?” he said, for lack of a smoke.
She huffed. “I knew Quill was a hot imbecile. Didn’t realize he was this big an idiot.”
He laughed. “You said it.”
She shot him a dangerous smile, and Bucky made a split-second decision to smirk back. If Quill was too much of a shithead to remember his dates’ names, let alone their existence on his ship, the least Bucky could do was make sure she had some decent conversation on the flight home. Far be it from him to be the good-time police.
And if he happened to show up Quill while doing that, well. He didn’t make the rules.
He’d also been out of the game since ’43, but that was beside the point.
“So, Bereet,” he said, giving her the lopsided smile that’d gotten several girls to agree to bring so-and-so along as a double-date for Steve back in the day. “Where’re you from?”
“Xandar,” she said, smile broadening. “And you?”
“Brooklyn,” he said, automatically. Then realized that was much too specific. “That’s on Earth.”
“Earth? Oh, you mean Terra?”
“Sure,” he grinned.
“This must be your first time off-world.”
“How’d you know?”
“You’re looking out the window more than at me.”
Bucky grimaced sheepishly, feeling caught out. “Sorry. This view’s really something. Not to say you aren’t. I mean— ah, shit. Sorry. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this.”
“Done what?” She blinked at him.
“Flirted.” He could feel himself going red.
Real smooth, Barnes.
Bereet laughed.
“Don’t stress,” she paused pointedly.
“Bucky,” he offered.
“Don’t stress over it, Bucky,” she said. “To be honest, I mostly wanted to make Quill jealous.”
“I know,” Bucky huffed. “I was trying to support you in that. Because screw him, right?”
She laughed again. “I like you. You’re funny.”
“Thanks?”
“You know, I don’t normally go for cyborgs,” she said, leaning back. “But I feel like you could change my mind. I mean, the design of this arm? It’s gorgeous, who made it?”
Iron in the back of his mouth.
Say something.
Just say something and walk away.
End the conversation like a freaking normal human being you goddamn—
Peter clomped down the ladder, and Bereet leaned forwards again.
“I’m going to go shower,” she said loudly, giving his left hand a squeeze. “It was nice to meet you, Bucky.”
He smiled around the bile in his throat, relieved when she left his space. Right until Quill stomped over and loomed above him.
“The hell was that?” Quill asked.
Bucky stood up and brushed past Quill so he wouldn’t feel cornered. He’d been riding the edge of a panic attack ever since waking up a few hours (years?) ago strapped to a table in Avengers tower, and he didn’t want to do something stupid like punch out the only person capable of flying the space-ship he was on.
Even though he kinda really wanted to sock Quill a good one. Star-Lord was almost as bad a callsign as Battlestar. Maybe worse. Hoskins had certainly deserved better than what he’d got, and Bucky was loath to speak ill of the dead.
Steve slid down the ladder and leaned against a wall.
“There a problem here?” he asked, ever quick to read the room when it came to a brewing fight.
“No,” Bucky grunted, at the same time that Quill snarled, “Yes.”
The smart thing would’ve been to let Quill air whatever dumb grievance he had with Bucky and move on, but Bucky found he didn’t want to hear it.
“If you’re mad at me for talking to Bereet, you can screw right off,” he said. “First, because she’s her own person who can flirt with whoever she wants. Second, because you weren’t bothered enough about her to remember her existence, so you got no right to be huffy that she’s realized you’re, and I’m quoting her here, an ‘imbecile,’ and moved on. And third,” he continued louder as Quill tried to interrupt, “she’s her own damn person and she can do whatever the hell she wants.”
“Alright, alright, I get your point, geez!” Quill argued. “Who the hell are you to tell me off, anyways?”
Bucky knew that in games of personal morality, he would always lose. Luckily, he had a trump card standing a few feet away, his arms crossed over his stupidly muscular chest.
“Me? I’m nobody,” Bucky said with a shrug. “But he’s Captain America.”
“Seventy years?” Quill whistled. “Damn. Must’ve felt like you'd time traveled when you woke up in the future.”
“Well I wouldn’t know what time travel’s like, but it sure was weird.” Steve awkwardly laughed, his eyes skittering around the galley.
Good lord.
One of these days, Bucky was going to teach that man how to properly play a cover. He’d always been a terrible liar, and somehow all that time with the USO and then whatever press coaching he’d gotten from Stark or SHIELD hadn’t helped him much. Little punk was too sincere for his own good.
Bereet had re-appeared looking much more put-together sometime during Steve’s explanation, but she was keeping blessedly to herself. Quill made her tea, which she silently sipped at the galley table while Steve wrapped up his story. Not the full story, of course. Just the bare-bones facts about Steve’s defrosting a few years ago and the half-truth that his current mission was to keep the Orb out of the hands of those who’d use it for evil.
Quill, to his credit, took the story in stride. Captain America had been enough of a cultural icon in the eighties for Quill to have had a vague awareness of him before his abduction. Apparently there had been a Saturday morning cartoon.
Hope they were better than those stupid wartime comics.
“Hold up, didn’t you say your name was Bucky Barnes?”
Ah, shit.
“Like, the Bucky Barnes?”
He sighed. He hated most things about his life, but explaining said life easily made the top ten list of things he most hated. Right after murdering innocent people and repeatedly getting his brain fried.
“Shouldn’t you be like, a hundred years old?”
“Hundred and seven,” Bucky said. Though he’d left 2024 before his birthday, so he couldn’t be sure if that was entirely true.
Time travel was rapidly rising in the ranks of things he hated.
“How—“
“I spent the majority of the last seventy-odd years frozen, too.”
“Oh. Well. Welcome to the present, I guess.”
Bucky didn’t know how to respond beyond, “Thanks.”
I hate it.
There were a few awkward seconds of silence, cut through with whatever song Quill had put on in the background. Steve wandered over to the sound system.
“Is this a cassette?” he asked.
“Sure is,” Quill said, beaming at the tape player with pride. “Go All the Way by The Raspberries, 1972. You like music?”
“Who doesn’t?” Steve said with a charming grin. “Never heard of The Raspberries before. They’re good.”
“One of the greats,” Quill confirmed.
Bucky snorted.
Quill rounded on him. “You disagree, asshole?”
“Can’t dance to this shit.” Bucky shrugged. He wasn’t sure why he kept needling Quill. Easy to rile him up, maybe.
“Say that again—“
“Hey!” Steve said, stepping between Bucky and Quill and glaring daggers at Bucky. “We can all have different tastes in music, alright? Back off, Buck.”
Bucky glared back at Steve, but sat down at the galley table as far from Bereet as possible. He found himself grinding his teeth together.
“So, you like 70s music?” Steve said with a forced smile as he turned back to Quill.
“What about it?” Quill snapped.
“Ever heard of Marvin Gaye?”
“Who?”
“He wrote Troubleman, in 1972. A friend told me once it was everything I’d missed wrapped up in one album.”
“Oh my god,” Bucky said, before he could stop himself. He could travel through time and go to space and still couldn’t escape Marvin Gaye.
Sam would say something dramatic like that about his music, too.
“What, you don’t like Marvin Gaye?” Steve asked.
Bucky was spared generating a response by an insistent beep from the holographic screen on the table.
“Peter, you have a call,” Bereet said.
“No, wait don’t!” Peter gasped, leaping for the screen. But Bereet had already picked up.
A blue face filled the wall opposite the table.
“Quill?” the face barked.
“Hey, Yondu,” Peter said, turning to face the screen with an expression reminiscent of a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“I’m here on Morag,” the alien called Yondu growled. “Ain’t no Orb, ain’t no you.”
Peter sighed. “Well, I was in the neighbourhood. I thought I’d save you the hassle.”
“Well, where you at now, boy?”
Bucky decided he didn’t like Yondu.
“I feel really bad about this, but I’m not gonna tell you that.”
“I slaved putting this deal together!”
“Slaved?” Peter scoffed. “Making a few calls is ‘slaved’?”
“And now you ripping me off!” Yondu shouted. “We do not do this to each other. We’re Ravagers. We got a code.”
“Yeah, and that code is ‘steal from everybody.’” Peter argued. Despite their rocky introduction, Bucky had to admit the guy was growing on him, if only for being a sarcastic SOB.
“When I picked you up on Terra, those boys of mine wanted to eat you,” Yondu said. “They ain’t never tasted any Terran before.”
Or maybe Peter was just relatively less awful than whoever this Yondu guy was.
“I stopped ‘em,” Yondu continued. “You’re alive cause of me!”
Peter mockingly imitated Yondu and rolled his eyes, like he’d heard this speech before.
“I will find you, I will—“
The call ended with an aggressive flick of Peter’s hand.
Another silence, filled with The Raspberries’ electric guitar stylings.
“So,” Bucky said as the song faded out. “It’s not just an outfit.”
“What? Oh. Yeah, no. I actually am a Ravager. Maybe not anymore, but.”
“Who was that?” Steve asked, taking a seat across from Bucky.
“That was Yondu. Leader of the mercenary crew called the Ravagers, and my… I dunno. The price of shit who raised me, I guess.”
Bucky glanced at Steve and they silently agreed not to touch that comment with a ten-foot pole.
“I’m assuming you have a plan for this Orb, then? Don’t tell me you stole it out from under Yondu without lining up a buyer first.”
“Nah, don’t worry,” Peter said, the cocky self-confidence that made Bucky want to punch him back on in full display. “I got a Broker lined up on Xander. Willing to pay me 60 thousand units for the delivery.”
“I’m guessing that’s a lot of money?” Steve said.
Peter’s gaze flicked from Bucky, to Steve, and back again before he stood up and said with an air of nonchalance, “More than enough to get me out of this shithole galaxy. Anyways, gonna go check on the engines.”
He disappeared down a ladder.
Bereet glanced between Steve and Bucky, then stood with a sigh. “You boys have fun,” she said, before heading into the crew’s quarters.
Steve stared after her with a look of mild confusion. After a moment, Bucky realized he was staring at Steve. He headed over to the cassette player embedded in the ship’s sound system and pretended to investigate it.
The tape spun round and round inside the player—
Bloody fingers on the recorder. “Hail Hydra.” Click. The only task that remained was cleanup—
“You ever seen cassette tapes before, Bucky?”
He jumped. Blinked and wiped his hands on his pants, as if that could clean them of the bloodstains.
“Sam told me about them,” Steve continued. “Invented in the sixties and had all but died out by the early 2000s, thanks to CDs. I slept right through ‘em.”
Bucky was still wiping his hands on his pants.
“Hey. You alright?”
“Just tired.”
And he must be, to be losing it over the sight of a tape player. He ran a hand through his hair, stupidly surprised by its short length. Even though he’d had it short for months, now.
“What’s the plan, Cap?” he said as he shook that thought from his head. He elbowed Steve in the ribs and pasted on a smile. Steve hated it when Bucky called him Cap.
The distraction worked, as Steve gently shoved him back and said, “We'll wait until Quill makes his deal, and then see if we can’t convince him to hitch us a ride to Vormir.”
Bucky frowned. “Why don’t we just use the suits and go now? Get there ahead of time like you planned?”
“Some of the particles, um, didn’t get stored properly while I was knocked out in 2012.”
Ice in his gut. In his lungs. So cold he couldn’t breathe.
“I don’t think Tony realized anything was wrong. But when I checked the suits over before we left, I noticed some of the seals on the canisters had decayed, and—“
“How many?”
Steve wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“Steve. How many particles are left?”
“Five.”
“Each?”
“Total.”
Shitshitshitshitshi—
“Okay,” he heard himself say. “And if Quill says no?”
“I’ve got a sort of risky idea,” Steve said. “What about the tesseract? If we used it now to jump there, maybe there’s still a chance we could arrive before them and—“
“Steve.”
It was funny, really.
He ought to be the one making panicked, if-only-maybe, one-chance-in-a-million harebrained schemes to try and fix this and somehow save everybody.
After all, if anyone’s fate had just been sealed, it was his. There was no question in his mind over who would use that fifth particle.
The only ticket home.
Maybe that was why he suddenly felt so calm.
Wasn’t this what he’d wanted all along?
To be of service, in the end?
Back on topic, Barnes.
“We can’t use the Tesseract,” he argued. “Remember what happened to Red Skull?”
“Yeah, but what if—“
“Steve.”
They went quiet. Listened to the tape play itself out.
“I don’t want to lose her, too,” Steve said, slumping against Bucky.
I know.
I know.
Me, neither.
“Feels like I’m always too late.”
“You know that’s not true,” Bucky said, shifting so he could look Steve in the eye.
Steve rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. “I know,” he said. “Just how it feels.”
He had no idea what to say to that. So he gave Steve’s shoulders a squeeze and half-heartedly joked, “Maybe the Stone’ll give her back when we return it. Seems only fair, right?”
Steve snorted wetly.
“I mean, if you asked me to bet on a fight between little Stevie Rogers and Death herself…”
“Oh, shuddup, Buck,” Steve said, shoving at him. His smile was weak and watery, but it was a smile all the same.
Bucky grinned and shoved Steve back. “Too bad I’m not a betting man, or I’d’a been richer than Rockefeller long before the war.”
“You wish,” Steve laughed, then grabbed Bucky’s elbow and tugged. “Come on. Might as well try to get some sleep before we land.”
Notes:
Poor Bucky just really needs a nap, a snack, and for Steve to notice that he is Not Okay.
Also don't mind me and my headcannon that Bucky hasn't read LOTR yet because he would've read it to Lizzie if he had made it home and he just... can't now. I'm fine. You're fine. Everything is fine.
Chapter 15: In Which Rhonmann Dey Does Not Get Paid Enough
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Andromeda Galaxy. 2014.
The Power Stone could sense that the planet that Its Undoing stole It from was drawing near. Such glorious power in that titan’s fists! Such destruction left in his wake!
The Stone had been glad to serve a worthy master, then.
It would not make such a foolish mistake again.
It would not serve.
Would not be wielded.
Would not let Itself be found and Unmade again.
Onboard the Milano. 2014
Steve didn’t fall asleep, in the end.
He kept replaying and replaying and replaying the handful of conversations he’d had with Bucky over the past few days (hours? Years?). Little things Bucky’d said and done since he’d jumped back to 2012 to rescue Steve from the Mind Stone.
The heaviness around the corners of his mouth when he smiled.
The callous way he’d talked about his 2012-self when helping the past Avengers plan the rescue.
“I’m 107.”
Which couldn’t be true, because Steve was 105 and they were only a year apart. Unless…
He didn’t want to think about it-- Bucky abandoned and alone in the future because of something yet to happen to Steve on this mission.
And of course, what Bucky’d said moments before Nat knocked him out in the tower.
“When you go back to be with Peggy, don’t let it happen again. Don’t let them win.”
Pleading. No, begging.
Bucky.
To him.
Like Steve wouldn’t saw off his own left arm for Bucky. Like he didn’t wish, every day, that it had been him and not Bucky who was flung off the edge of that train.
Like Steve hadn’t defied the army, the government, the entire world for Bucky.
Like he wouldn’t do it again in a heartbeat if it meant keeping him safe.
And sure, the Mind Stone’s illusion hadn’t been wrong. If Steve had survived the plane crash, he probably would’ve married Peggy. He still missed visiting with her in her care home, even seven years after her death, and counted himself lucky to have had a chance to reconnect with her as friends before the end.
But actually going back and staying there?
The Sorcerer Supreme’s dire warnings about messing with the past aside, Steve would never do something like that. Peggy’d lived her life. Founded and directed SHIELD. Married. Had kids and grandkids. Steve wouldn’t take that from her. Wouldn’t presume himself to be a worthy substitute for a life well-lived and a love long-cherished. Not to mention how Steve, knowing what he knew about Bucky and HYDRA and SHIELD, would not be able to let the past carry on unchanged.
It was unconscionable.
And all that was ignoring the part where Bucky was alive and here and Steve had spent the past five years feeling like half his soul had disintegrated along with Bucky in that Wakandan forest.
Leaving to return the stones had felt worse than watching Bucky board the train for Basic back in ‘41. His only consolation being the knowledge that he’d only be gone a few seconds, to Bucky.
“I’m 107.”
But what if it hadn’t been a few seconds?
Obviously it hadn’t been.
A few days, at least. Long enough for the Avengers to realize something had gone wrong and send Bucky back.
Long enough for Bucky to cut his hair.
Bucky’d danced around the specifics, so Steve’d have to just buckle up and ask him.
Steve sighed and swung himself out of the small bunk he’d commandeered. No point trying to get anymore sleep. According to the holographic clock above the door, they’d be docking on Xandar in 25 minutes.
Xandar. 2014
Rhomann Dey was having a quiet day, for once. Well, as quiet as things ever got, in the capitol. The morning had been mostly desk work, though his squad had been called out to take statements from a family Kree refugees whose home had been vandalized during the night.
There weren’t many Kree who opted to live in Xandar’s capitol, and it wasn’t hard to imagine why. Even with the new peace deal between the Nova Corps and the Kree Empire, tensions were running high. Looking like the planet’s generations-long enemy didn’t tend to endear a person to their neighbours.
So, a relatively quiet morning. On the way back to base, the talk came round (as it frequently did these days) to the fighting in the outer reaches, with some of the guys saying the squad should be re-assigned to protect the colonies from Ronan and his fanatics rather than have them waste time making house calls. Dey tuned them out and debated what he should order from the cafeteria for lunch.
And then the main market square exploded with a thick black cloud of smoke, filled with flickering purple lightning.
Dey didn’t hesitate to haul on the transport’s controls. So much for a quiet lunch! The dust was still settling when his squad arrived on-scene.
It wasn’t pretty.
Several unconscious civilians, more who were conscious and wounded, everyone calling out in distress. And in the middle of the dust and smoke and screaming, six figures were fighting tooth-and-nail.
Dey didn’t know who was fighting who, or why. Could’ve been a six-way shootout over a trade arrangement gone south for all he cared. What he did know was that nobody blew up the main market square — had a shootout and a brawl like some bad Terran movie in the main market square — and got away with it.
Not on his watch.
The criminals were easily frozen in the Nova Corp’s immobilizing beams. He was mildly surprised to find that two of them weren’t humanoid on second glance. One of them was knocked out, two were bleeding badly from some strange burn injuries, and the sixth…
“You gotta be kidding me,” Dey groaned.
The sixth had been a thorn in Dey’s side for years. Fricken Star-Lord. Of course he was somehow involved in… whatever this was.
Normally, criminal disturbance of the peace warranted nothing more than a biometric screen to determine the identity of the criminal, and maybe a brief interview with said criminal regarding their disruptive behaviour before they’d be sent off to a minimum-security prison for a month or so to cool down.
Normally, Dey didn’t arrest the daughter of one of the most feared warmongers in the galaxy.
This arrest warranted more than standard proceedings.
While he waited for Nova Prime to make time to view the prisoners and pass judgement, Dey figured he may as well carry out the usual interviews. Get as much information out of them as he could.
He started with Quill, because he wanted lunch and knew the guy could crack if offered a decent, home-cooked meal. That, and he couldn’t interview Thanos’s daughter until she woke up.
Quill was annoying as always, and unfortunately useless. Claimed he had no idea who “the green lady” was. Claimed he’d come to Xandar on “a legit job this time, I swear,” and that Thanos’s daughter and “the raccoon and tree thingy” had all attacked him “out of nowhere.”
“So you have no idea what that explosion was?” Dey asked, voice dripping sarcasm as he swirled his spoon in his soup.
“Honest man, I don’t,” Quill said, eyes wide. “I was just tryna get away from those lunatics when suddenly the whole square blew up.”
He looked genuinely spooked, and while Dey had a feeling Quill wasn’t being fully honest about something, about this, at least, he seemed to be telling the truth.
He moved on to Subject 89P13.
“Name’s Rocket,” the creature snarled. “And if you think your puny Nova Corps prisons are gonna hold me for long, think again.”
Dey didn’t get anything else out of Rocket beyond snarled insults to his intelligence and lewd remarks on his parentage.
He got even less from Rocket’s travelling companion. A living plant-creature whose vocabulary seemed to be restricted to informing Dey of his name, Groot. He left Groot to regrow his arm-branches and allowed himself a quick coffee break before he attempted the remaining three.
“Captain Rogers,” Dey said, tossing his empty cup into a bin as he strode into the interview room. “What brings you this far from your home planet?”
“Would you believe me if I said I was saving the universe?” Rogers asked. His tone was light, but he looked haggard. Parts of his face had been burned by whatever had caused the explosion, and he was covered in soot and sweat and blood.
“Not unless you have a very good explanation for why you were involved in whatever went down today.”
Rogers sighed. “We were helping Quill transport a dangerous artefact — don’t blame him, he didn’t know it was dangerous —“
“You mean whatever’s in this thing?” Dey asked, pulling out the heavy case Captain Rogers had been carrying. So far, no one had been able to open it, but thankfully that was a concern well outside of Dey’s jurisdiction.
Rogers swallowed guiltily.
Dey asked a few more questions, mostly about the immovable hammer they’d taken from Rogers, but overall he’d gotten what he wanted. Whatever had caused the explosion had to be inside the case.
Thinking he’d save an easy interview for last and end on a high note, he tried for Gamora next. It went about as well as he expected, with neither offers of carrots or threats of sticks getting her to talk much beyond an assurance that whatever was before her paled in comparison to the horrors she was leaving behind.
“Does this mean you renounce your father?” Dey asked.
But she just glared at him until eventually he gave up and left.
His communicator pinged to alert him that Nova Prime would be coming in half an hour. Just enough time to interview the Terran cyborg.
There wasn’t a whole lot of information on him. Unlike Captain America, who had a whole file in the Nova Corps database, whoever this guy was had only recently cropped up on the Corp’s radar as a possible threat. His file was essentially blank aside from his callsign, but Dey hoped to fill some of it in.
The cyborg glared at him as he entered the interview room and sat down.
“So,” Dey said, straightening out an imagined crease in his uniform. “You’re the mysterious Winter Soldier. Care to tell me who you really are?”
He hadn’t thought it possible for a glare to intensify from the cyborg’s already icy stare, but the look on his face now was bone-chilling. Like all the ways Dey could be killed were being calculated and categorized from most to least painful. He cleared his throat to suppress a shiver, and pressed on.
“What I want to know is how someone like you ended up so far from home, mixed up with someone like Captain America.”
The Winter Soldier’s eyes tracked the motion of Dey’s bobbing addam’s apple as he swallowed around a dry mouth, but he remained silent. Dey sighed internally. Time to change tacks.
He offered a light sentence, a plea deal, for cooperation.
Silence.
He threatened him.
Silence.
Dey wanted to scream. Even Gamora had said something in her interview. None of this unblinking, murderous staring. With five minutes to go before Nova Prime’s arrival, he admitted defeat. Wrote a note in the Winter Soldier’s bare-bones file classifying him as a living weapon and suggesting there wasn’t much going on upstairs, and decided to wash his hands of the whole affair.
Easy enough to do with Nova Prime’s quick decision to send all six of them to the Kyln and to confiscate the immovable hammer and mysterious case for research and safekeeping.
His stomach growled loudly as the prisoners were loaded onto a transport. It was well passed dinner time. Hopefully the wife will’ve kept a plate for him. Though the parting glare from that cyborg, unbroken until the transport doors closed with a hiss, rather ruined his appetite.
The Kyln. 2014.
Peter had a lot of time to reflect on the absolute shit sundae of a day he’d had as he lay in the middle of the snoring mass of prisoners. Even if he hadn’t had a burly guy with pits that stank worse than the toilets on Yondu’s ship and a snore like a foghorn using him for a body pillow, Peter wouldn’t’ve been able to find sleep.
Yondu had put a bounty on him. Yondu. On him. He really shouldn’t be surprised. And on top of that betrayal, the Broker on Xandar had backed out on him and now he had no idea who he could fence the Orb to. Especially now that he knew it could unexpectedly explode.
Maybe that was what was keeping him up. Instant replay of Gamora tackling him for the Orb out of nowhere, Rocket and Groot getting involved and then, as if in slow-motion, the Orb flying from his grip and arcing for the ground, purple tendrils of energy cracking from it until— Boom.
Then out of the chaos, Captain America. Peter remembered vaguely thinking something along the lines of just like in the cartoon before Steve launched himself towards ground zero, Bucky Barnes a black streak behind him. Both men had emerged from the dust and lightning bloody and burned, but whatever they had done, it had stopped the Orb’s explosive power.
Next thing Peter knew, he was being hit by an electric blaster bolt thanks to Rocket, and the fight got a bit blurry after that.
Speaking of, maybe Peter couldn’t sleep because he’d been hit with electricity a few too many times today. He knew he should’ve kept his mouth shut when he saw that guard messing with his Walkman. But. Well. He’d always been a bit stupid about his music. Or so Yondu told him.
That asshole Barnes saying you can’t dance to The Raspberries!
Or maybe Peter couldn’t sleep because the aforementioned war-hero-turned-cyborg wouldn’t stop freaking staring blankly into the middle-distance.
Captain America and Bucky Barnes had parked themselves near the open door to the sleeping area when the buzzer rang for lights-out, both seated upright with their backs leaning against the wall. The Captain was now passed out with his head leaned on his Sergeant’s shoulder, his legs being used as a pillow by an orange-haired inmate who was drooling slightly.
Bucky remained alert, eyes flicking from the door, to the ceiling, a back wall, over the sleeping inmates, back to the door… otherwise remaining still as a statue.
There had to be more to his story than “I was frozen for seventy years, too.”
A guy doesn’t go MIA in the 1940s and just happen upon a souped-up cyborg arm. Or a healing factor as fast as Captain Freaking America — Peter’d seen both their injuries during intake and they both were much less worse-for-wear than he would’ve expected considering they’d been blown up a few hours prior. Bucky not much worse off than Steve, aside from the missing arm.
Whatever the hall had happened to the guy wasn’t his business. And he didn’t care.
He lifted his head slightly and did a quick check on the whereabouts of everyone else he’d been arrested with. Rocket had burrowed into the pile, his nose twitching slightly as he slept. It was oddly adorable, though Peter would never admit that he found Rocket in any way endearing. He suspected that Rocket would sooner kill someone than receive a compliment like that anyways. Groot had planted himself in a back corner and seemed to be sleeping, though Peter wasn’t sure if whatever species Groot was slept in the same sense that humans did. Gamora had her own cell somewhere else, ostensibly for her own protection, so Peter had no idea where she was. Or why he was worrying about her. He really shouldn’t care.
He didn’t care.
He didn’t.
A muffled shout somewhere in the distance caught his attention.
Shit.
That sounded like— no, that was definitely Gamora. He caught a glimpse of her. Getting dragged by a bunch of assholes in the direction of the showers.
He ignored Rocket’s groggy call as he wrestled himself free from the pile and crept from the cell. Bucky had somehow extracted himself from under Steve without waking him up, and stood waiting at the door.
“Hell do you want,” Peter hissed.
Bucky’s shrug was almost imperceptible. “Hafta piss. That a crime?”
Not that Peter didn’t appreciate the subtle offer of an assist for whatever he was about to do (Fight an entire prison of people to protect someone he’d literally just met? Punch her himself? Start talking and hope for the best as per usual?), but he really didn’t need one.
Barnes followed anyways.
Joined a minute later by Rocket.
Might as well invite the whole prison to watch Peter Make Bad Choices, huh?
Gamora sat statue-still in her assigned cell and reviewed her options.
She knew her Father would send someone to retrieve both herself and the Orb as soon as he knew her location and could muster a suitable force. They would be here within twenty-four hours.
Which meant she needed to escape before then.
And if she could not escape, survive.
She hadn’t yet done anything that might raise her Father’s suspicions or question her loyalty. If he came for her, she could carry on as before. Lay in wait until she could devise another plan.
Even though the idea of spending another minute, another second, in his presence made her want to scream until her vocal cords gave out.
The people she had been arrested with, particularly the loud, small one, had seemed confident that they could escape with relative ease. And they had the Orb. A strategic temporary alliance with that group seemed the best course of action.
She was ready for the inmates when they came for her that night, only putting forth a show of a struggle in her cell before she let herself get overpowered and dragged from it. Good let them think she was weak.
A guard helpfully suggested the showers as an easy place to clean up the blood, and she soon found herself there. Pressed against a wall with a knife to her throat. Coiled to strike back when—
“You dare?”
A large Kylosian thundered into the showers. Snarled at her attackers that she was his to kill and no other’s. And before she could defend herself, he had an iron-like fist squeezing her neck.
A back corner of her mind figured it was only fair, really, for this man to kill her. After everything she had done. And death was a certain and irreversible escape from her Father.
A louder part of herself screamed that there was no air, and she was dying, and she needed to fight and survive and—
The hand released and she choked on the stale prison air.
Looked up with surprise to find that the lowlife idiot Peter Quill had talked a Kylosian down from a kill. Her oxygen-deprived brain hadn’t made that up.
Colour her impressed.
Her attackers scampered off, and the tenuously allied group set off to a better place than the showers to hash out their escape plan. The small, loud one who called himself Rocket, and the dark-haired cyborg who she’d overheard Peter and the other Terran, Steve Rogers, call Bucky, emerged from the shadows and followed behind.
“No thanks for the help, peanut gallery,” Peter hissed at Bucky and Rocket as they walked.
“Watch who you call a peanut—“
“It’s an expression from Ear— from Terra,” Bucky grumbled. “And I don’t think you’d've wanted our help anyways. Can’t speak for Rocket but. I’m not really the guy you call for non-violent de-escalation.”
Gamora could’ve told Peter that, based on Bucky’s utter silence up until now. His stance, his gait, the way he constantly scanned his surroundings.
“So, what kinda messed up shit are you the guy to call for?” Rocket asked.
Bucky clenched his metal hand into a fist and didn’t answer.
Rocket barrelled on. “I’m an explosives guy. Give me any three things and I can make ‘em into a bomb.”
“Thought you were the prison break guy,” Peter argued. Back to either being or playing dumb. She’d have to watch him. Figure out how much of his stupidity was an act.
“Why can’t I be good at more than one thing, huh?” The raccoon crossed his arms. “You’re good at— okay, you’re a bad example. But Groot. No. Shoot. I’m surrounded by idiots. But my point still stands.”
Bucky snorted softly.
“What’s so funny?” Rocket snarled.
“Nothing,” Bucky said, smiling fondly at Rocket. “You remind me of an old friend.”
Odd.
But then again, she’d been arrested with a whole slew of weirdos. Now, it was time to win herself a way into said weirdos' escape plan. She crossed her arms, leaned up against the walkway railing, and caught Peter’s eye.
Notes:
No update next week as I'll be away for a friend's wedding.
But don't worry! We'll be back to posting this regularly scheduled insanity soon :D
Chapter 16: In Which Bucky Finally Takes a Nap
Notes:
Heads up for a more-than-average amount of swearing in this chapter.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
As far as prisons went, the Kyln was one of the nicer ones Bucky had found himself inside of. Proper heat and shelter, regular meals, showers… the Space Police or whatever they called themselves were practically running a five star hotel out here.
No solitary confinement.
Bucky wasn’t sure how he felt about that novelty.
There was a certain comfort to solitary. No, that wasn’t the word. Reliability, perhaps. He liked knowing what to expect, knowing who he could and couldn’t trust. It was easy to know those things, in solitary. Expect boredom and, as time wore on, mild insanity. Trust no one.
Out here in gen. pop., he had no idea who to trust. Who was a harmless bystander, who was opportunist waiting to strike at his first sign of weakness, or who was secretly in the pockets of the guards. Too many people to keep a constant eye on. No way could he keep track of and protect the group of not-yet heroes that he would bleed and die with in Wakanda.
If that battle would ever happen, in this timeline.
Bucky rubbed at the headache between his eyes and refocused on the escape plan that Rocket was laying out for them over breakfast. They’d all come to a truce last night, agreeing to work together based on a mutually beneficial alliance. Everyone needed Rocket for the escape plan. Rocket and Groot couldn’t betray Quill to Yondu until the Orb was sold. Quill had the Orb, or would have it once they all stole their gear back from the guards. Gamora had a fence to sell it to. And Steve had somehow sweet-talked his and Bucky’s way onto this unlikely escape crew by offering themselves as muscle, appealing to everyone’s common enemies, and not angling for a cut of the money.
Which lead to Bucky sitting squashed between Rocket and Quill at a metal table, attempting to drink the space equivalent of prison coffee while Rocket listed the supplies he would need for the escape.
“Oh, and also this guy’s arm,” Rocket said, knocking on Bucky’s vibranium forearm.
“Still not for sale,” Bucky mumbled into his mug.
He realized what he’d said about three seconds later. Rocket and Gamora were frowning at him, looking confused. Quill seemingly hadn’t noticed the slip-up, but Steve definitely had. He was staring pointedly into his own mug of undrinkable brown sludge.
“Anything you need my arm for, you’re gonna have to bring my body along with,” Bucky said quickly. He tossed back the last of his mug and grimaced. “Urgh. Anyways. What else do you need, trash panda?”
“Watch who you call a—“
“It’s a term of endearment back on Earth,” Bucky deadpanned. Rocket snarled at him and began to explain the quarnyx battery that he needed them to steal.
“Look,” Quill said, “it’s 20 feet up in the air and it’s in the middle of the most heavily-guarded part of the prison. It’s impossible to get up there without being seen.”
“I got one plan,” Rocket growled, “and that plan requires a frickin’ quarnyx battery so figure it out!”
Bucky wiped a gob of raccoon spittle off his face while Rocket composed himself enough to sit back down.
“Now, this is important. Once the battery is removed...“
A clang and distant shout caught Bucky’s attention. He turned around just in time to see Groot tugging something out of the watchtower’s wall.
“...definitely need to get that last.”
Too late.
All the lights went off at once and klaxons started blaring.
“Or, we could just get it first and improvise.” Rocket shouted.
“I’ll get the armband,” Gamora and Steve both volunteered simultaneously.
“Leg,” Quill growled, glaring at Steve.
Bucky didn’t stick around. Armoured drones had surrounded Groot, who was drawing himself up, small thorny branches bristling along his back and shoulders. The drones opened fire, but were clearly no match for Groot’s strength and iron-like bark. Bucky ducked and dodged through ricocheting bullets and exploding drones, angling for the guards who were just now lining up shots on Groot with heavier guns. The fight got a lot easier once Bucky had a weapon in his hands. He heard Rocket and Groot shouting battle cries in the background, and noticed Drax join the fray.
Then, “Get to the watchtower!”
Bucky didn’t need telling twice. He saw Steve and Gamora leap onto the catwalk to the watchtower overhead while he laid down covering fire for Rocket, Quill, and Drax. His pilfered gun ran out of ammo with a series of dull clicks. Bucky hurled it at the second wave of incoming drones and leapt for the ladder-like growths that Groot had made.
He found himself squashed in the tin-can control room, doing his level best to tune out the arguments of those around him while some sort of heavy artillery threatened to shatter the glass windows currently keeping them alive.
Dying surrounded by the biggest idiots in the galaxy? Already done that once, Gamora.
Rocket pulled through at the last possible second, and Bucky made the mistake of glancing at Steve.
“Just like Dernier?” Steve mouthed.
And, well. He couldn’t help smiling a little at that. Heck, he’d seen the similarities himself when the little twerp was going on about being an explosives expert.
But now was no time for reminiscence.
No time for anything beyond gritting his teeth so he wouldn’t bite his tongue off as Rocket piloted the whole control room down through the prison.
Definitely no time for the odd pang in his gut when he turned to make a bad joke about prison breaks and Zemo to Sam, only to remember that Sam wasn’t here.
Stupid.
You always wanted him to leave you alone and what? Now that you’ve left him behind, you miss him?
Pathetic, Barnes.
Truly.
He’s better off without your bullshit and you know it.
Everyone is, so you’d better smarten up.
Pull your weight.
Maybe do some good for once in your sorry life.
They all made it aboard the Milano in one piece, Quill having stupidly doubled back for his Walkman. Bucky slipped away and found himself a secluded spot near the engines to finally finally be alone. The humming of the power cores almost drowned out the argument between Rocket and Quill up on the loading deck. He leaned his head back against the wall and shut his eyes…
“Figured I’d find you down here.”
So much for sleep.
“Hey, Steve.”
He felt his (best?) friend slide down the wall opposite. Their knees knocked together in the small space. After a moment of silence, Steve gently kicked his ankle with a boot.
Bucky opened one eye. “What?”
“You up for talking strategy, or do you need some shut-eye first?”
Time travel had so thoroughly messed up Bucky’s internal clock, he wasn’t sure. Just knew that he was exhausted. He pushed himself a little straighter up and opened both eyes.
“Let’s talk strategy, Man With a Plan.”
That earned him another kick and a begrudging grin. “You’re so full of shit.”
Bucky grinned and kicked back and ignored the black hole in his chest that howled,
Monster! Monster!
How can you sit here and pretend to be Steve’s old pal?
What the hell are you doing?
You’re not Bucky, you can’t ever be Bucky, you don’t deserve to use his name and you’re— what— you think you can win Steve over by impersonating him?
Disgusting.
Kill yourself.
You really should.
Just do everyone the favour and—
“… since we contained the Power Stone in the case instead of putting it back in the Orb when it exploded.”
“Yeah.” Focus, damnit. “I can’t imagine Gamora’s buyer being too gassed when he finds out we’re selling him glorified Tupperware,” Bucky said.
“Do you think we should tell the Guardians? I mean, we’ll have to get the case of Stones and Thor’s hammer back from Xandar either way. Wouldn’t mind an assist going up against the Nova Corps.”
Bucky snorted. “You think these guys can be stealthy?”
“They broke out of a max-security space prison pretty easily. And they know the lay of the land out here a hell of a lot better than us.”
“Fine. But you’re telling them we took the Stone out of the Orb, not me.”
This was the part where Steve would laugh, stand, offer Bucky a hand up. The part where Bucky’d let Steve help him to his feet and he’d cuff Steve’s shoulder and shoot him a confident grin and pretend that everything was fine.
But.
There was no laugh.
No graceful standing up or friendly hand offered.
Just a thunk as Steve tipped his head back against the wall, sighed, and said, “You’d tell me if you weren’t okay, right?”
Shitshitshitshitshit he knows how does he know holy—
“Because if I’m being honest, I don’t think I’m okay.”
Get a grip get over yourself God you’re so self-centred he’s asking for your help and you’re making it about you. It’s not about you it’s never about you and now look what you’ve done you piece of shit! He’s crying.
Say something.
C'mon, comfort him.
Shit.
Shit shit shit you used to be good at this you—
“Sorry,” Steve said, wiping his cheeks. He chuckled self-effacingly. “Didn’t expect to be bringing out the waterworks.”
“S’fine,” Bucky croaked. A hundred platitudes about the healthiness and healing catharsis of opening up and letting go echoed through his head in Dr. Raynor’s sharp voice.
She was always harping after him for never crying, poking at his sore spots and trying to break him down. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to crack in front of her. Especially since he knew she was reporting everything in their sessions right back to General Ross.
“You can’t keep everything locked up inside, James. It’ll kill you.”
And, “Can't you see I’m trying to help you, James? It’ll be a lot easier if you cooperate.”
Yeah, right.
He’d heard that line before.
Bucky tried to think of something that might actually help Steve, who was currently not-so-subtly wiping snot onto his sleeve. For lack of any better ideas, he decided pull a move out of Sam’s playbook.
“Want to talk about it?”
“No.” A snot-filled chuckle. “You sound like Sam.”
Well, great.
“Man, I miss him. Maybe I should’a let you two come along on this insane mission when you asked.”
“No, shit Rogers.”
“I know, I know, I just. I spent five years mourning you guys and… I guess I wanted to keep you safe for a minute. I— you were supposed to be fine. Everything was supposed to be— ten seconds. That’s what Bruce said. Ten seconds for you guys. And I could keep fighting while you guys were safe.
“But now you’re not. You’re here, and we don’t have enough particles to both get home. We don’t even have the Stones anymore, and— Shit, Buck. I thought I’d learned my lesson about being a self-sacrificing do-it-myself idiot when I woke up alone in 2012, but apparently not. I should’ve listened to you. Let you help. Heck, maybe I should’ve let Thor do this instead. He offered to, you know.” A heavy sigh. “I’m sorry.”
Bucky didn’t know what to say to all that. So he said the first thing that popped into his head, which was, “Now you know how I felt after Kreischberg.”
“What?”
“Remember how mad at you I was?” Bucky laughed, though the memory wasn’t particularly funny. “Could hardly hold myself upright and I still managed to sock you right in your stupid nose.”
“My nose isn’t stupid,” Steve protested.
“No more’n the rest of you,” Bucky teased. “But you do remember, right?”
“Course I do,” Steve said, turning serious again. “For a day or two there, I thought our friendship was over.”
Bucky winced, remembering their fight.
“Well thanks for the rescue ‘Captain,’ but no. I’m not glad you’re here.”
“Bucky—“
“Don’t ‘Bucky’ me.”
“C’mon, can’t we at least—“
“Back off, Steve, I mean it—“
“Bucky—“
Crack!
“Don’t FUCKING touch me!”
“Woah, Sarge! Easy there!”
“Stay out of this, Dum Dum.”
“Bucky, I—“
“Fucking hell, Steve! Don’t fucking talk to me. God! Wish I’d bit it back in Azzano, rather than see you in this— fuck.”
It’d taken Bucky the better part of a day’s march to cool off, and another half-day before he worked up the nerve to find Steve at the head of the column and apologize.
“Thought I was angry at you. What for, I couldn't say." Bucky stared at his clenched fists. "Really I was terrified.” A sarcastic laugh escaped him. “Thought the war would be the death of you and I’d be powerless to stop it. Which, you know. Sort of right about that one.”
“Buck—“
Bucky kicked Steve’s ankle to shut him up, and then gestured at his own nose. “I’ll let you have a free shot. Only fair.”
“Wouldn’t want to bend it any more out of shape,” Steve half-heartedly teased, his smile watery. Bucky almost found it in himself to smile back. “I um. I guess what I really came down here to say was thanks. For the rescue.”
“Of course, Steve. You'd do— have done— the same for me.”
Don’t cry don’t cry don’t—
“How’d you figure it out, anyways?”
Shit. Goddamnit.
“You, um.” Don’t you dare cry you weak little— “You missed your time stamp.” Bucky wiped furiously at his eyes and took a deep breath. “We didn’t know what had happened.” And you wouldn’t say anything about it when you got back, Steve, and then you died and left me alone and— “And then the, uh. Then I started having those dreams. Figured out where you were in the past. Lang set me up with a suit and shit and sent me on my way.”
“How long?”
“Hmm?”
“How long did it take you all to figure out? A few days? Weeks?”
Bucky’d had every intention of lying, but heard himself say, “Nearly six months,” before his brain caught up to his mouth.
“Six months!” Steve shot to his feet.
“It’s not that we weren’t— it took us a long time to figure out, okay?” Bucky argued as Steve paced the hall in agitation.
“I’ve been gone for— how the— everyone’s gonna think I died or something. Shit.”
“Language,” Bucky said, grasping at levity.
“Hang on.” Steve stopped pacing abruptly and stood right in front of Bucky. “Did you think I was dead?”
Yes.
No.
What else was I supposed to think?
You are dead, Steve. In the future, you—
Apparently Bucky's silence was answer enough for Steve, who slumped back down to the ground so they were shoulder-to-shoulder.
“I’m so, so sorry, Buck,” Steve said. “I never meant to leave you like that. I never want to leave you again. Not if I can help it.”
Don’t say that.
Please.
Please. Don’t say stuff like that.
Like you mean it.
And then Steve leaned his head on Bucky’s shoulder.
Bucky held himself still, hardly daring to breathe, hardly daring to blink for fear of shattering the moment. Wishing it could stretch on forever. That they could forget about the Stones, time-travel, the future, the past. That they could just sit right here in this hallway until they were both of them skeletons, their skeletons becoming inexorably intertwined. That whoever might stumble across them a thousand years from now wouldn't be able to tell whose bones had once belonged to who.
Steve cried himself into silence while Bucky imagined their bones turning into sand. He imagined them being scattered on a desert wind on a distant planet in some far-off future, where no one had ever heard of them. A time when people no longer remembered Captain America and the Winter Soldier.
“We should head back upstairs,” Steve said, sinking farther into Bucky's shoulder. Then, “World won’t end if we take a quick nap, right?”
Bucky tried to think up a snappy retort about how well things had gone the last time they’d both taken extended naps, but all of it just sounded depressing and he was honestly too exhausted to try. He found himself being gently prodded and shoved until he was mostly leaning on Steve, one of Steve’s stupidly muscular arms slung protectively over his shoulders.
It’d been decades since Bucky had slept slumped against Steve. It had most often happened when they were rumbling around the back of a transport truck or a plane fuselage or sometimes just huddled in the mud at the bottom of a foxhole, Bucky shaking with cold and exhaustion and that little jitter in his left hand that'd never really went away after Azzano. It had felt safe, which was stupid because it was war.
Still felt safe, which was stupider still.
Bucky’s eyes slid closed despite himself, and he drifted away.
Notes:
They talked!! About feelings!! Maybe not the Important Conversation they needed to have, but hey. It's a start, right?
Somewhere out there in the multiverse, Sam is so proud. Or rolling his eyes and thinking "was that so hard?" Maybe both.
Chapter 17: In Which Plans are Hatched
Notes:
This'll be the last update for a few weeks because school's starting back up and I can't keep writing Marvel fanfic instead of my master's thesis. But don't worry! I'm not abandoning this work! I've got more chapters written, just won't have time to edit/post them.
Here, have a healthy serving of angst in the meantime (:
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Onboard the Milano, Somewhere in Space. 2014.
There was one thing that Bucky’d forgotten about sleeping slumped against Steve: The damn crick his neck would get. Apparently made that much worse when one shoulder was no longer flesh-and-blood. Bucky attempted to massage out the tightness with his right hand while Steve explained to everyone about the Orb and the case of Infinity Stones on Xandar.
It didn’t go over well.
“You telling me I went to all that effort for nothing?”
“How the hell are we supposed to get our money?”
“I am Groot!”
“The collector will have us killed us if we try to sell this to him. We need a better plan.”
“I am only here to kill Ronan.”
The noise of the argument set Bucky’s teeth on edge. Any tension he’d managed to ease in his neck came back with a vengeance. A headache pulsed behind his eyes. He didn’t realize he’d voiced the thought, would everyone please just shut up! aloud until silence suddenly descended.
All eyes on him.
Alright, Sarge. Rally the troops or whatever.
How the hell does Steve do this?
“Okay. This is going to sound completely insane, but Steve and I aren’t—“ a glance at Steve, who gave a quick nod. “We’re not from this timeline.”
Why are you trying to explain this Steve should be doing this you’re not good with words.
Goddamit!
“We’re uh. From a timeline where Thanos won. For a while. He got all the Infinity Stones and killed half of everything.”
Bucky pointed at Peter. “You.”
Drax. “You.”
Groot. “You.”
Himself. “Me."
“It took Steve and the remaining Avengers five years to figure out a way to bring everyone back by time-travelling to collect the Stones before Thanos could. Now, Steve and I have to put all the Stones back when we got them to avoid the universe devolving into chaos or something. So if you like being alive,” he glared at Peter and Drax, “and you like having your friends alive,” he glared at Rocket, “I recommend you listen to Steve.”
A stunned silence.
“Thanks, Buck,” Steve said with a funny smile. Then he straightened up, and within a breath, became the Captain once more.
And Bucky found himself once again unable to focus on what Steve was saying. His right palm was clammy from his little speech. He’d walked away from fights less jittery than this.
Didn’t really matter that he couldn’t focus, he supposed. Steve’d already talked the plan through with him. So Bucky let himself fade into the background. Big-picture strategizing wasn’t his job, anyways. Better to leave that to the brass. His expertise lay in planning the minutiae of a mission. Or, if his handlers were particularly incompetent, at improvising on the fly. Better that they simply drop him near the target and let him do his thing than try to micromanage an op. That never ended well.
Bucky shook himself. Clenched and unclenched his fists. Forced his gaze on the back of Steve’s head.
You’re not there anymore.
Don’t think like that.
Don’t—
He felt sick to his stomach. Swallowed guilt and bile and tried to think about how lucky he was to be here with Steve, saving the universe. Doing good work he could actually take pride in. Not like before.
“And when you had finished a mission, do you remember how you felt?”
Bucky glared at Raynor.
Too long. She pulled out her notebook.
“Nothing,” he lied. “I never felt anything.”
God.
He wasn’t sure if she’d believed him, but he could never— would never— tell her the truth.
That he’d taken professional pride in his work.
That pulling off a particularly challenging mission had given him a sense of satisfaction.
That he had, deep down, liked feeling so powerful. Unstoppable. The one to shape a century.
Sam would say he was being too hard on himself. That he’d been brainwashed or some shit, and that he should talk to someone about it. Shuri would— no. Too painful to think about Wakanda. Not now that he couldn’t go back.
Steve would say it wasn’t his fault. That it wasn’t really him.
But that was the whole problem.
It was him.
Those were his thoughts. His feelings. His finger on the trigger.
Eventually the planning wrapped up, and everyone disappeared up into the cockpit to prep for the landing on Knowhere, which was where Gamora said her buyer operated. Bucky stayed below. He didn’t feel worthy of company— human or otherwise.
He was doing Quill’s dishes in the tiny galley sink when he felt more than heard someone sneak up behind him. Bucky spun around, a kitchen knife in his soapy right hand. Gamora raised her hands and smirked at him.
“You shouldn’t startle me,” he grumbled. He tossed the knife back into the sink and leaned against the counter. Gamora hopped up onto the dining table and crossed her arms.
“Wanted to check your reflexes,” she said.
“Yeah, well. You gave me a good cardio workout,” he said over the pulse pounding in his ears.
“You fought my father.”
A question in the guise of a statement.
“Wouldn’t really say fought,” Bucky said as he dried his hands. “More like I tried to shoot him and he immediately took me out. Killed me dead about three minutes later, too.”
Despite his cavalier tone, he shifted uncomfortably under her intense gaze.
“I can’t decide if that was brave of stupid of you.”
Bucky snorted. “Both. Didn’t really have a choice, though, did I? It was fight him or stand by while he destroyed the planet.”
“I was too small to fight him when he took me.”
She said it matter-of-fact, no inflection.
And Bucky— Bucky couldn’t stop his stupid, broken brain from conjuring up a vision of small girls in pink, of swirling tutus and whirling knives and at least the Red Room hadn’t pretended to be anything but the nightmare it was. Hadn’t demanded familial love.
What was it Madame would bark, if any of the girls attempted to show her affection?
Love is for children. You are not a child, Spider.
“And now?” Bucky said, unclenching his hands before he left a dent in Peter’s counter.
“I want to get as far from him as possible.”
Fair enough.
“Why are you telling me this?”
Gamora just glared at him. Bucky wondered if this was how it felt to be Sam.
“Rogers said you have returned the Time and Mind Stones. What about the others?”
Bucky simply glared back.
“In the future. He really collects them all?” Her voice was harsh and demanding, but something in her posture made her seem small. Scared. Like she was still the little girl who’d been ripped from her home to be raised by a tyrant.
And then it clicked.
He knew the Guardians had lost someone. Their grief had been palpable when he’d seen them at Stark’s funeral.
And he knew, or could guess, what had to be done to get the Soul Stone. It wasn’t rocket science. Two people go to Vormir, only one returns with the stone.
“That bastard,” he swore.
And meant to say more but the words got stuck thinking about what it would be like to get away from the people who’d made you into a weapon, to be out and free and maybe even doing some good, only to get caught and killed by them in the end.
He didn't have to imagine too hard.
He had nightmares about it.
Pierce. Karpov. Lukin.
Zola.
At least all of his creators were dead.
But now he’d let the silence hang for too long and Gamora had curled in on herself, her glare replaced with a thousand-yard stare. Bucky crossed to the table and hopped up beside her.
“I don’t know if this makes it better, but me and Steve being here means things might turn out different, this time around. I don’t really get how it works. Steve said that making major changes to the past creates an alternate timeline. Like a whole other universe or something.”
Gamora scoffed.
“I know. Thinking about it for more than like three seconds gives me a headache. But maybe you… I mean, obviously he kills you in my universe. But this is a whole different timeline. Maybe you’ve still got a chance.”
More silence. Then, “And my sister?”
“Nebula?”
Gamora nodded.
“Last I heard, she was travelling with a crew she met in the battle against Thanos,” Bucky said, trying to keep things vague. “She's helping people, if you can believe it.”
Gamora shook her head and stood. Brushed some invisible wrinkles out of her clothes. “At least one of us got a happy ending,” she muttered, seemingly to herself. Then she looked up at Bucky. “We should head upstairs. We’ll be landing soon.”
Knowhere. 2014.
Tensions onboard were high as they docked the Milano on the inside of a giant space creature’s skull. Their plan was to bring the Orb to Gamora’s Collector and attempt to get paid outright. If he realized it was empty, which was likely, they’d claim they’d brought it as proof of skill and ask for an advance on the payment so they could get the supplies they’d need to steal the real Power Stone.
Bucky didn’t like this plan.
But he didn’t like much of anything, so what else was new?
He had a backup plan of his own for when things inevitably went south. He’d knock Steve out and use the suits to jump to the case of Stones, then jump back in time to Vormir to save Nat. From there, Steve’d have to go alone to the 70s to get more time juice and finish the mission.
Not a great backup plan, but it would ensure the mission got done. He didn’t have to like it.
Knowhere’s atmosphere was hot and muggy. The heavy air was smoke-filled and dirty, with overtones of exhaust and the burnt-rubber smell Bucky was learning to associate with whatever fuelled most space ships. Cloying underneath all of that was a stench that stuck to the back of his throat, acidic and almost sweet. Decay.
Gamora pointed out a neon-glowing pool farther up the street that was surrounded by strange machinery.
“That is a cerebral-spinal fluid mine entrance. Diving craft go down through the opening to map out new pockets of harvestable materials. Then mining craft and harvester drones pump the stuff up.” The scent of decay grew stronger as they got closer to one of the glowing pools. “Try not to fall in. The stuff is highly toxic.”
A little farther up the street, they got waylaid by a group of street kids. Rocket and Gamora told them all to piss off, but Bucky, who was bringing up the rear, saw Groot stoop down. A small flower blossomed in his palm, which he plucked and handed to one of the kids with a soft smile.
It surprised Bucky, that softness.
It contrasted starkly with everything he’d seen of the giant tree Being up until then. When he wasn’t still and silent, he was all whip-like branches and trunk-like limbs, piercing, lashing, crushing his enemies to death. Maybe Bucky shouldn’t be one to talk, but the guy kinda scared him.
That flower though.
He was still thinking about it when they rolled into the Collector’s establishment. Bucky’d felt like a fish out of water, walking through Knowhere’s muggy streets, filled with space ships and past glowing pools of alien goop. But as soon as they stepped into the Collector’s bar, a strange calm settled over him.
This he knew.
Sure, the betting fights were between those small rodent things he’d seen on Morag instead of dogs. And the menu behind the bar was in a script he couldn’t read. And he couldn’t understand most of the languages being spoken around him. But for all those differences, this could’ve been the Brass Monkey on Madripoor. Or really any of the half-dozen overcrowded underground clubs the Winter Soldier had been sent to infiltrate on missions over the years.
There were the bouncers, paid just enough to make sure any nasty business got handled on the streets outside. There, the undercover card sharps, ensuring that the house always won and flagging any daring cheaters. Shady back corners held polished tables where bosses could meet in relative privacy and talk business while the bruisers on their crews got drunk and gambled and fought with each other at larger, dirtier tables that ranged around the broad house floor.
They weren’t sure when the Collector would meet them, and the group split up while they waited. Not how Bucky would’ve played it. But one second Quill and Gamora were watching Rocket and Drax bet on a fight between those rodent things, and the next moment they’d disappeared in the crowd.
“Let’s find a seat,” Steve shouted over a sudden round of cheering. Bucky nodded, and Steve began to wade through the crowd. Bucky slipped behind him in the small gap he left in his wake. They found two open seats along a back wall where they could keep an eye on Drax, Groot, and Rocket without being right in the thick of things.
When he looked over at Steve, he was nearly blinded by a thousand-watt grin.
“What?” Bucky grunted.
“Oh, come on, Buck,” Steve said, eyes wide. “A real-life bar. In space. Full of aliens.” He elbowed Bucky in the ribs and laughed. “Is it everything you ever imagined it would be?”
Bucky rolled his eyes, but smiled despite himself. “Kinda hard to wrap my head around the idea that we’re actually here.”
Steve nodded, looking around the bar. “Wonder if they’ve got anything strong enough to get us drunk.”
“Steve,” Bucky chided. Then shook his head. “God. When did you become the fun one?”
“Maybe you just got boring.”
“Or maybe I’m not dumb enough to drink while on the job.”
“Fine,” Steve conceded. “But once we finish with this mission, I’m calling Thor to take us to the best space bar he knows, and we are all getting wasted.”
“Deal,” Bucky said with lungs that couldn’t take in air. Because maybe maybe maybe—
Don’t delude yourself, Barnes.
He might think he means it, but he’ll get one more look at Peggy — the real Peggy — and—
And you already know how this ends.
They sat and watched one half of the future Guardians of the Galaxy drink themselves stupid, Steve occasionally remarking on various aspects of the bar that he found interesting, or that reminded him of long-gone bars from a long-gone version Brooklyn. Bucky spent the time trying to figure out a way to breathe while it felt like all his ribs were broken and his heart was bleeding out.
He’d almost gathered himself back together when the now-familiar sounds of Rocket, Groot, and Drax shouting rose above the din.
Notes:
Bucky likes Steve a normal, platonic amount, okay? He's not jealous of Peggy at all. Nope. Not him. You must be thinking of someone else.
Chapter 18: In Which Rocket Loses His Lunch
Notes:
I'M BACK BAYBEE! One brother-in-law richer, (very) behind on schoolwork, and oh-so-excited to get back to posting this fic. Enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Outside the Collector's Emporium, Knowhere. 2014.
Rocket had been keeping things civil. He had. He kept reminding himself of the huge score they were going to get at the end of this godawful job and trying to distract himself from the insults hurled his way by ordering drink after drink.
But then that oaf Drax had attacked Groot and called Rocket a vermin and the next thing he knew, he had his big gun levelled at Drax’s head, both of them screaming at each other. He would’ve taken the shot, he really would’ve, but Quill leapt between them.
“Hold on! Hold on!” Peter shouted.
“Keep calling me vermin, tough guy!” Rocket shouted, ignoring Peter and waving his gun. “You just wanna laugh at me like everyone else!”
“Rocket, you’re drunk,” Peter said. “All right? No one’s laughing at you.”
“He thinks I’m some stupid Thing. He does!” Rocket argued back. “Well, I didn’t ask to get made! I didn’t ask to get torn apart and put back together over and over and turned into some… some little monster,” he shouted, voice breaking as he fought not to cry.
Shit. Maybe he was drunk.
“Rocket, no-one’s calling you a monster,” Peter said.
“He called me ‘vermin.’ She called me ‘rodent.’” Anger flared in his gut and he swung his gun back up. “Let’s see what you call me after five or six shots to your frickin’ face!”
Peter predictably freaked out, waving his arms around like that would stop the blaster fire. And he really was going to fire. But.
“Four billion units! Rocket! Hey! Suck it up for one more lousy night and we’re rich.”
Stupid Peter Quill had a Stupid Point.
Eye on the prize.
Rocket lowered his gun. His boiling anger cooled to a simmer with a dash of shame. He glowered at Drax’s retreating back and wondered if it would be wrong to come back later and kill everyone who’d heard what he’d said.
But just then someone said, “M’lady Gamora.” A pink-skinned lady appeared out of a set of concealed doors, hands clasped in front of her. “I’m here to fetch you for my master.”
All of them (minus Drax, thank goodness) followed the pink lady up into the Collector’s lair.
Rocket’s first impression? Whole place gave him the creeps. Including the Collector himself.
Turned out the Collector didn’t just go for valuable or rare artefacts. He had — Rocket suppressed a shudder — tanks filled with living things. A dog. Something fuzzy that might have been a fleurkin.
Whole-ass people.
The Collector, Taneleer Tivan, kissed Gamora’s hand in greeting. Then paused when his eyes fell on Groot.
“What is that thing there?” he asked slowly.
“I am Groot,” Groot said. Too polite for his own good. Rocket needed to teach the guy about stranger danger sooner rather than later.
Tivan walked over all creepy and said, “Never thought I’d meet a Groot. Sir, you must allow me to pay you now, so that I may own your carcass. At the moment of your death, of course.”
“I am Groot,” Groot agreed. Like a total idiot.
“Why?” Rocket interjected, because this was ridiculous. “So he can turn you into a frickin’ chair?”
Tivan’s icy stare slid down to Rocket.
“That’s your pet?” he asked Groot.
Rocket went for his gun, but Gamora interrupted and got everyone back on track with the Orb.
Quill clumsily handed the Orb over, and Tivan began some lengthy speech about the origins of the universe as he placed it in a high-end lock-picking machine. The machine was far more interesting than the speech, in Rocket’s opinion. He didn’t really care about a bunch of rocks from the start of time or whatever. But that lock-picking thingy? Rocket could do a lot with something like that.
Plus, he’d already gotten a much less pretentious version of this speech from the blond-haired humie named Steve.
“Once, for a moment, a group was able to share the energy amongst themselves, but even they were quickly destroyed by… where’s the Stone?”
Rocket had to admit, their poker faces were all rock-solid in that moment.
“The Orb. It’s empty… Did you know?” Tivan’s tone made Rocket itch to pull out his gun again.
“We weren’t certain until now,” Gamora said. And wow, she was good at lying. “But our deal was for the Orb, not its contents.”
“The contents were implied. No Stone, no deal.” Tivan clapped his hands. “Carina!”
The pink lady stepped forward and started to usher them out as Tivan stormed away.
“Wait!” Quill called. Tivan paused. “We might know where the Stone is.” He raised a sharp eyebrow as he turned back towards them.
“If, and this is a big if, we agreed to steal it for you, we’ll need resources,” Quill said. “And an advance.”
“Done,” Tivan said. He looked at Gamora. “You’ll find a half billion units in the account you used to contact me. Feel free to resupply your ship from my stores. Carina will get you sorted with whatever you need.”
“Thank you, Tivan,” Gamora said. Rocket was already heading for the door, anxious to get the hell out of this creepy place.
“Not so fast!” Tivan sang at their retreating backs. “How can I be sure you won’t run off with my money, never to be seen again? I know!” He raised an exaggerated finger. “What if I hang onto something of yours? For insurance.”
He snapped his fingers, and suddenly Groot wasn’t lumbering beside Rocket anymore.
A sound half-way between a shout and a growl escaped Rocket as he tried to leap up and grab onto the golden net that had ensnared Groot before it could retreat into the ceiling. Groot howled and extended a limb down from the net, missed Rocket’s hand by centimetres, then swung back down and wrapped tight around his forearm.
Rocket scrambled up the limb as fast as he could, bellowing, “LET HIM GO! LET HIM GO YOU BAST—“
A clang from above, and the limb he was climbing went suddenly dead and loose in his hands. Cut clean through by the doors in the ceiling that had sealed behind Groot.
Groot, who was out of sight and alone and—
He must’ve lost a few seconds when he hit the ground because the next thing Rocket knew, his head felt like it’d been hit with a sledgehammer and something wet kept pressing the side of his face. When he pushed at the wet thing, it barked. Three, no two— no, thankfully just one space-suited dog was licking at a cut above Rocket’s eye. Rocket shoved it off, shoved down the instinctual fear of dog and close, and shoved himself onto unsteady feet.
The Collector's Emporium was in chaos. Red and white emergency lights strobed through the thick smoke that had filled the area in the time Rocket was knocked out. Alarms blared loud and knife-like in his ears. He scrambled for his gun, and discovered with a sharp twang of fear that it was no longer in the holster on his back.
Rocket cursed and kicked the nearest object, which happened to be Groot’s heavy, severed limb. The space-suit dog yipped in surprise and scampered off into the smoke, leaving Rocket utterly alone.
Fine. Good. Great.
He worked best alone, anyways.
Not to mention how much he hated dogs.
All he had to do was find Groot and get the hell off this nightmare mining colony.
He made it about two steps before a dark blur tackled him from behind. Blaster fire rained down around him, and he couldn’t move, could barely breathe from the heavy weight of something crushing pinned down can’t breathe can’t move can’t—
And then he was up, and breathing, and a small-gage blaster was pressed into his hands and he barely had time to think before someone grabbed him by the back of his jacket and he did the only thing he could think to do, which was scream and fire the blaster until the energy cartridge in it was spent.
“—ocket! Rocket! It’s me, okay? Hey, hey!”
He was back on solid ground, panting, trembling, vision doubling as he did his level best to focus and aim his blaster (cartridge spent, but maybe they didn’t know that) at the dark figure stooped above him.
Not stooped, crouched.
Keeling.
“… nasty hit to your head, huh?” the figure said, face a pale blur that swum before him. Rocket’s stomach flipped and he was powerless to keep down all the alcohol he’d drunk. “Probably shouldn’t have swung you around like that,” the figure said as Rocket puked. “Sorry. I just… it worked well the last time we met, and those security bots had us surrounded back there so I — shit. I keep forgetting that Wakanda hasn’t happened for you, yet.”
Rocket puked again, this time catching some of the dark, blurry figure’s pants in the spray. Served him right for talking nonsense.
“You good to move?” the figure asked, extending a hand. A shiny, black, high-tech cybernetic hand.
“F’k ‘ff,” Rocket coughed. Knocked the hand away. Straightened up. Fought down a third wave of nausea. Forced his eyes to focus. Busted-up security bots riddled with blaster holes filled in the gaps of Rocket’s alcohol- and concussion-addled memory.
And yep, the time-travelling humie with the sick-ass arm had to be the one to save him from certain death. Just Rocket’s shit luck. He wanted about as much to do with the cyborg as he did the space-suit dog.
“Got anything bigger than this pea-shooter?” Rocket asked, gesturing with his spent blaster.
Barnes — Bucky — whatever the hell the cyborg called himself, grinned wolfishly and pulled out a very familiar gun.
“Where the hell did you find my gun?” Rocket half-shouted as Bucky tossed it over.
“One row that way,” he replied. “And keep it down. There’s gotta be more security bots around—“
His sentence was cut off by more blaster fire, which shattered the panels in a tank behind them and sent them both scrambling for cover.
Rocket wasn’t impressed that the blaster fire didn’t faze the cyborg. He wasn’t. And he certainly wasn’t following the lousy humie when he ducked low behind a display cabinet filled with oddly-shaped artefacts. It was just a good place to hide. Rocket crept up behind Bucky and adjusted his grip on his blaster.
“Why’d you hand me that useless pea-shooter, anyways?”
Bucky didn’t turn to look at him, but he did whisper, “Was using yours at the time.”
“YOU USED MY—“
“Shhhhh!”
Now the cyborg turned around, and boy could that humie glare. One of his hands — the flesh-and-blood one — went up in a tight fist, and the pair of them fell silent. Pressed against the curios cabinet, they listened to the ever-louder whine of robotic engines zeroing in on their position. Bucky’s fist went into an open palm, and he started dropping fingers in a countdown.
Five. Four. Three. Two.
One.
The pair of them leapt out from behind the cabinet, Bucky taking one side and Rocket the other. And sure, he was a bit wobbly on his feet, but with his gun back in his hands, Rocket felt a ferocious grin curl on his snout. The security robots went down easy, one or two hits apiece to disable. The main trouble was numbers. Five, hell, ten of these puny bots, Rocket could’ve handled no problem.
But thirty?
Wouldn’t’ve been a problem if it were him and Groot.
Groot.
He was going to kill that idiot, just as soon as he rescued him. Kill him for getting captured and leaving Rocket behind to get overwhelmed by security robots in some godforsaken corner of the Collector’s Emporium.
And what if he got caught by the Collector, too? What if he— if—
He won’t be someone’s pet thing again. He won’t. He’d rather die right here than—
The world swam dangerously, and Rocket looked down at the slow-blooming pain in his left hindleg. Not a bullet or a blaster wound.
No.
He wasn’t strong enough to pull the tranq dart from his leg before it all faded to black.
Bucky wasn’t entirely clear on what happened after he saw Rocket go down.
One moment he was punching his way through security robots because he gave his only working gun to Rocket (seemed only fair, as it was really Rocket’s gun), with Rocket shouting and firing up a storm behind him. And the next, Bucky was holding an unconscious not-racoon in his arms, panting heavily as he sprinted away from a stack of mangled bots, the whine of un-destroyed reinforcements hot on his heels.
No time to think about how he just blacked out during a fight (oh god oh god oh g—) because there was something that looked like a tranq dart embedded in Rocket’s leg, and some of the bots were circling around to flank them, and Bucky had no idea where Steve or the rest of the team were. He thought that sometimes he could hear blaster fire deeper in the Emporium somewhere, and at that point was was blindly hoping that if he followed that, he’d find them.
He could trust Steve to be in the thick of it, whatever it happened to be, so he figured his logic checked out.
Hopefully.
He really shouldn’t do something as stupid as base a tactical plan on hope.
That lesson ought to have long since been burned out of him.
If not by HYDRA, then by Steve himsel—
Don’t you DARE.
Don’t you dare even think about Steve and… and them in the same breath.
What the hell is wrong with you?
Bucky rounded a corner and found himself in an aisle comprised not of curios cabinets and artefact displays, but larger tanks. Full of…
He was rooted to the spot.
He needed to run.
He needed to run, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from the figure in the closest tank.
A pink-skinned alien who looked similar to Carina. But this woman was restrained by heavy mag-cuffs. She was trembling slightly. Staring straight ahead and whimpering. And there were wires—
He realized he’d put his fist through the tank’s locking mechanism only when the pain of the impact blossomed at the join of vibranium and bone in his shoulder. He propped Rocket up against the neighbouring tank, and wrenched the door open, ripped off the wires and restraints.
The woman slumped forward and he caught her. Helped her out of the tank. Tried and failed not to notice the electrical burns that ringed her neck and wrists and peeked angry-red through her hair. Pushed the anger off his face because he wasn’t mad at her and he’d heard Sam complain about his Resting Murder Face (RMF) more than enough times to know that he shouldn’t be the one pulling traumatized victims out of Hell. Not when he looked like the Devil’s pet psychopath.
He dragged her and Rocket for a few more rows (don’t think about the others trapped in those tanks don’t look don’t—), and when he could no longer hear bots right on their tail, he leaned both of them against a wall and had a moment to freak out because how the hell are you going to carry two unconscious people safely out of this, Barnes? But before he could properly work himself up into a panic, the woman blinked and focused her glassy, frightened eyes on him.
She slurred something in a language he’d never heard before.
Because he was in space.
And he didn’t know any space languages.
Shit.
He pointed to himself. “I’m Bucky Barnes.”
Gestured towards her with raised eyebrows.
She said something incomprehensible again.
Shit shit shit shit—
His salvation came in the form of Rocket rolling over and puking for the third time in as many minutes.
“The hell happ— who the frick is this lady?”
The lady in question scrambled away from Rocket’s sudden movements.
“Dunno. Can you talk to her? She doesn’t speak English.”
Rocket grumbled something at the lady, and she nodded, said something back. While they talked, Bucky kept his ears pricked for security bots, blaster fire, the sound of Steve being shot and killed…
“Well,” Rocket said, after a minute of tense conversation. “She says her name’s Melinda. She used to work here. Tivan’s former assistant.”
“She still loyal to him?”
“Doesn’t sounds like it. She said she just wants to go home. Claims she has a kid on Xandar. That she only took this job to pay for her daughter’s school.”
Bucky decided not to think about that. About all the implications behind that. Not right now.
“Ask if she knows how to unlock the tanks.”
A brief exchange, in what Bucky had to assume was Xandarian.
“She said she might, so long as Tivan hasn’t changed the codes.”
“Good.”
Rocket struggled to his feet, blaster at the ready.
“Where’s everyone else?” Rocket asked, fiddling with something on his gun.
“Dunno,” Bucky said. Deep breath, deep breath. “Everything went to shit pretty fast after— after Groot got taken. Turns out the Collector had a lot more of those nets handy for anyone who’d try to draw a weapon on him. And. Well. Steve and Quill kinda freaked. And when Quill got caught, Gamora…”
Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose.
Situations like this reminded him of why he liked to work alone.
It’d taken all of five seconds for Quill, Gamora, and Steve to get ensnared. Bucky’d narrowly dodged the net aimed for him and had sprinted for his life. Some might’ve called it the cowardly thing to do, but Bucky’d been around the block enough times by now to recognize a fight he wasn’t going to win by running headlong into it.
He needed to be smart about this.
Tactical.
He looked down at Rocket, who was still fiddling with something on his blaster.
“You up for another prison break?”
Bucky could count Rocket’s teeth through his snarling grin.
“I think that’s the first sane thing you’ve said all day,” Rocket said.
Bucky’s lips curled into a manic grin of his own. “Let’s go.”
Notes:
Well that went well. (:
Chapter 19: In Which Air Bud Gets a Gun
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The Collector’s Emporium, Knowhere. 2014.
All things considered, their two-man rescue operation was going quite well. Bucky had somehow convinced his trigger-happy companion that stealth and recon were key here. So the Collector wouldn’t hear them coming and use their friends as leverage.
They’d left the Collector’s former assistant with a half-charged blaster and a whispered good luck. And now Bucky and Rocket were up in the ceiling, peering down at the back room of the Emporium. Watching their friends pace in cramped glass tanks.
Like a bunch of goddamn goldfish.
When they got out of this, Bucky’d have to remember to tease Steve about that.
Beside him, Rocket snarled and readied his gun. Bucky forced the blaster down.
“Wait!” he hissed. “We gotta be smart about this. Where’s—”
As if on cue, the Collector strode in, along with over fifty security drones.
“Your two cyborg pets are very badly behaved,” he said cooly to the group of captives.
Bucky and Rocket snarled in tandem.
“So why don’t we play a game, hm?”
The way Tivan was surrounded, there wasn’t a clear shot. Bucky slowly, carefully, started to shift forwards. If he could just get over top of the guy…
“How about this: The audio from your enclosure, Captain, has been patched through to the entire Emporium. You’re going to tell your cyborg friend where you are, ask him to come rescue you.”
Steve predictably pressed his lips tightly together and glared at Tivan.
“Every time you don’t, I’ll do this.”
Bucky was frozen in the scaffolding overhead. Fingers tight enough to dent the struts. Cold sweat trickling down his spine.
He blinked.
Looked over his shoulder, but Rocket wasn’t there.
Frantically scanned the room below —
Another tank had been filled, a furry figure slumped unconscious against the glass.
What the hell had—
“Call him.”
Steve glared at Tivan, and—
Everyone screamed as the floors of their tanks became electrified. Everyone but Steve, whose floor remained harmless.
Oh.
Shit.
Bucky used the noise of Peter cussing Steve out (“Just fucking call him, man. I’ve seen him fight. Fifty on one, he’ll be— just— I don’t care. Fucking—“) to scramble to a better position. He was almost directly above Tivan’s head when—
“Call. Him.”
Bucky grit his teeth and tried to block out the sounds coming from the would-be Guardians as he made the last leap. He pulled his blaster, aimed…
“Bucky!”
Steve’s shout tore through Bucky's heart.
“Bucky get back to the ship! You have to finish the—“
And then the building exploded.
Steve could say one thing for the Collector’s inhumane tanks: they were damn near indestructible. As the Emporium roof exploded, Steve’s instinct to duck and cover was rendered redundant by the reinforced glass. Of course, that meant his pounding on the glass from the inside, screaming Bucky’s name, was also entirely useless.
The Collector’s robots had rallied fairly quickly, flying off to deal with whatever had blown a hole in the roof. The Collector himself lay unconscious on the floor, a detail of six bots defending him, a seventh bot poking him with a blaster, apparently trying to rouse him.
Or at least, that’s what it looked like. Steve couldn’t see all that well through the thick smoke that had filled the room.
He did see the flashes of blaster fire. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. All the bots collapsed. A shadow darted across the room. More flashes from a blaster. Then—
“Steve!”
Bucky slammed against the outside of the tank. He was covered in soot, the left sleeve of his jacket in tatters. Blood oozed down one side of his face.
“Bucky?”
Two metallic punches to the control panel, and Steve stumbled out of his prison.
“Help me free the others. Here.”
A blaster with twisted robot parts dangling from it was pressed into his hands. Steve didn’t need telling twice. He sprinted for the nearest tank — Gamora’s — and punched his way through the lock.
Bucky freed Groot, and Groot freed Rocket and Quill within seconds. The raccoon creature mumbled incoherently while Groot tenderly wrapped him in his half-regrown arm.
“Who blew up the building?” Steve shouted as they sprinted for an exit.
“No idea! But Melinda was trying to free the other prisoners in the Emporium. I’m gonna circle back and help her. Meet you at the Milano, yeah?”
“Bucky, wait!”
But he was gone.
“Get Rocket to the Milano. Be ready to fly. And somebody track down Drax. I’ll get Bucky.”
Steve didn’t wait for a reply before he sprinted deeper into the smoke, blindly running the same way Bucky’d gone.
Thankfully, it didn’t take him too long to catch up. He just had to follow the trail of busted-open tanks. And try not to think about a different exploding building, with different cages. Of finding Bucky strapped down to a table—
“Steve, what the hell?”
“Not without you,” Steve coughed, sliding to a stop at the outskirts of an eclectic group of freed prisoners.
“Stop stealing my lines,” Bucky groused. He turned back to the group. “We sure this is everyone?”
Nods all around.
“Alright. I’ve got about ten blasters here. Who knows how to shoot?”
Eight people raised their hands, as did a duck wearing a dinner jacket. A dog in a space-suit yipped softly.
“Cool, um. If you can fire it, you can have it. Always figured thumbs and fingers were kinda… Anyways. Carina and Melinda said they know where Tivan keeps a ship that should be big enough for everyone. I’ll take point. Steve, cover us?”
Steve couldn’t hide his grin. “Yes, Sarge!”
Bucky merely nodded. “Roll out!”
All they had to do was get fifty-eight civilian captives to a spaceship on the other side of the Emporium. Piece of cake, right? Right. Bucky could do that.
Except for the goddamn space troopers who were definitely the ones who’d blown up the building and were now crawling through the place. They were those bug-armoured guys that Steve’d said worked for Ronan. Bucky could do without those guys stomping around with huge guns.
At least they were keeping the security bots busy.
Even still, he knew it was nearly impossible to hide sixty people. And Bucky really didn’t like the odds of everyone making it out unscathed if it came to a firefight. Not when they had a dog of all things as one of their gunmen.
Of all the things to pop into his brain as he squatted a few meters ahead of the group, he found himself remembering a comic strip from the 50’s that had featured a dog who played shortstop. It’d been on Steve’s list. Bucky’d read a few of them one lazy afternoon, when it was too hot to do much of anything besides swim in the lake and make sure the goats had enough feed and water.
God, he missed Wakanda.
He watched from behind an empty tank as the bug-troopers took the Orb and retreated, blasting the remaining security bots to bits on the way out. Bucky crawled back to Steve and the rest of the group, whispered what he’d seen to Steve, who frowned. Not much time to wonder how Ronan knew they’d come here, though.
Minutes ticked by as the group cautiously crawled through the Emporium until finally they made it out of the smoke-filled building and into the Collector’s personal spacecraft hangar. Most of the escapees took a moment to bend over and hack the smoke from their lungs. Enough noise that Bucky almost missed the soft clink of fancy boots on polished concrete.
He aimed and fired his handgun on instinct.
Tanaleer Tivan teetered for a moment in front of their getaway ship. His smug smile a rictus on his face as the hole in his forehead dribbled blood. A grotesque third eye.
Shit.
Shit he hadn’t meant to— what was rule number — he didn’t do that anymore, he—
Steve clapped him on the shoulder.
“Good one, Buck. Let’s get outta here.”
They loaded everyone onto the ship. Then realized that none of them knew how to fly it. Except for maybe the space-suit dog? Bucky didn’t want to take his chances with Snoopy.
Carina and Melinda at least knew how to raise the Milano on the ship’s, well, not radio. The comms or whatever. It was utter chaos onboard Quill’s ship when they patched through.
“— idiot decided to fight Ronan himself—“
“—the tree had to stab me in the chest. I owe him a great debt for—”
“I am Groot.”
“— and then Gamora and Quill got—“
“—the small one here said Peter Quill gave Gamora his—“
“—am Groot.”
“—Yondu. We’re headed there now. Gonna get—“
“—refreshing to see such love and devotion expressed in—“
“I Am Groot!”
Bucky massaged his temples. Getting blown up hadn’t done his head any favours, and whatever this was was not helping.
“One at a time,” Steve said. “Drax. What happened?”
“I called upon Ronan to come and face me warrior to warrior. But when he arrived, I realized to my shame that he is… somewhat stronger than me. He said he did not remember killing my wife or my daughter. That he would not remember killing me. Then he threw me in one of the spinal fluid pools. Peter Quill and Gamora got captured by Yondu the Ravager, who will kill them if we don’t rescue them first. Time is of the essence, we can not wait for you.”
“Right. Great. Okay. We’re taking the folks we freed from the Emporium to Xandar. I just don’t, uh. Know how to fly a spaceship.” Steve said with a nervous chuckle.
Rocket’s slightly concussed voice came over the speakers again.
“Oh it’s super easy! We’re about ten minutes out from Yondu’s fleet, so I got time to walk you through it. Are you in the cockpit?”
Bucky caught Steve’s eye and raised an eyebrow. You good?
Steve nodded.
Bucky let himself relax down onto the plush upholstery of the co-pilot’s chair, only half-listening as Rocket gave Steve a crash-course in rocket science.
First, he died. Old and grey in a hospital bed with family and friends at his side. Peaceful. Calm. He watched his heart stop beating and his lungs stop filling from somewhere outside his body and thought, well that wasn’t so bad. He wished he could comfort the weeping folks at his bedside. But there was nothing he could do for them as he drifted away.
Drifted into fire. And surely this was hell. Had to be. The air in his lungs was brimstone, and his racing heart forced acrid blood out of his arteries and onto the blurred shapes around him. It painted their white coats red. He didn’t realize he was alive again until he wasn’t. Until some machine he hadn’t noticed yet stopped beeping and he found himself outside his body again, looking down. Watched Zola sweat and curse as he charged a defibrillator. Watched his half-installed arm short-circuiting and hoped that Zola would fail and he wouldn’t wake up.
He gasped awake. Blinked blankly up at the cracked ceiling of his bedroom. Just a dream. It was too hot to fall back sleep. Too hot to think. Brooklyn’s night noises wrapped around him like a familiar blanket. Somewhere down the hall, he could hear his father snoring. Even, steady, loud. Like a saw. He thought about lumberjacks out in the forest and drifted…
The problem, Bucky hazily thought some time later, was that he couldn’t quite tell what was real anymore. He’d think he was awake, having a fully coherent conversation with Becca, and then suddenly everything would melt and morph as his insides lit with fire and really he wasn’t home at all, he was here (always here), screaming himself hoarse.
Or he’d be repeating his name, rank, service number, teeth grit with pain as someone cut off his fingers and pulled out his teeth. Let these Nazi bastards try to get information out of him. Just let them try! Only to blink and find himself prone on the table and relatively unhurt. Still muttering his name. Just a dream.
Maybe the real problem was that he kept waking up on this damn table.
Didn’t seem to matter how far his mind wandered, how long he sojourned away from his body. Eventually he always, always ended up back here.
Name.
Rank.
Service number.
Say it just to be sure you’re awake.
Say it in your dreams, to remember who you are.
Repeat it in your head as you stumble after a funhouse-reflection of Steve.
Steve with the body of a strongman, only taller.
Taller than Dum Dum for sure, and he actually was a strongman. Or, he used to be. Before.
In his dream, Bucky followed after fun-house circus-man Steve. Spangled Steve. (Seriously. What was he wearing?) Watched him punch the Devil. Watched him jump across an impossible chasm of fire.
Waited and waited and waited to wake up back on the table. Savoured every second that he didn’t. His dreamed-up squad mates looked more starved and unwashed than he’d like. But dreamers couldn’t be choosers. He only complained a little when Spangled Steve made him ride on one of the trucks as they rolled away from the factory.
He’d wake up soon, he knew. He sighed and leaned his head against the back of the truck. Let it jiggle the insides of his brain around like a big bowl of porridge. It really had been a nice dream, while it had lasted.
Elaborate, too.
Almost as good as the one where Becca’d come and splashed him with water, told him to get up, they were leaving. They’d walked out of the lab and onto Flatbush Avenue. Bought hotdogs. He’d been about to eat his when he’d been ripped back to reality by Zola’s machine.
Bucky ate some food and drank some water on the truck and he still didn’t wake up.
Odd.
He fell asleep.
Woke up on his back, but in the truck still.
Definitely odd.
(Maybe this wasn’t a—)
He hopped out of the truck, slung a rifle over his shoulders, and headed for the front of the column where a conspicuously blue set of broad shoulders lead the way. Felt more than saw the scout hiding in the woods to their left.
Crack!
Thud.
A heavy hand clapped his shoulder as Steve said, “Good one, Buck!”
He blinked.
Nakajima Jr. collapsed to the ground.
“Good one, Buck!”
A moustachioed man in a brown trench coat sprawled across the cobblestones.
“Good one, Buck!”
The Collector, swaying on his feet.
“Good one, Buck!”
Steve on the catwalk of the Insight helicarrier.
Nonononono—
“Bucky?”
He flinched awake. Blinked and found himself in the cockpit of their commandeered spaceship, half-slumped out of the co-pilot’s seat. Steve manned the controls from the Captain’s chair.
“Ngh,” he said. Real intelligent.
“Sounded like a bad dream,” Steve said. “You good?”
Bucky shrugged and sat up.
What was he supposed to say?
Gimme a minute to make sure I’m really awake this time?
Yeah, no. That was a one-way ticket to crazy town and as shitty as living under surveillance in Brooklyn had been, he did actually appreciate not being locked up.
“We there yet?” he grumbled instead.
“Still got a couple hours to go.”
Bucky nodded. “What’s the plan?”
Maybe a clear mission objective would get the image of Steve’s bloodied face out from under his eyelids.
Notes:
This nightmare was brought to you by Bucky's facial expressions all throughout his escape out of the factory in CA:TFA. I don't think he figured out that he ~wasn't~ hallucinating the whole thing for a long while, and that uncertainty alone has got to stick with a person.
On a fluffier note, I like the image of Bucky enjoying some Peanuts comics on a sunny afternoon in Wakanda. I do have some happy head-cannons, I swear...
Chapter 20: In Which Steve Falls In
Notes:
Late update and shorter chapter today because: midterms, thesis, ~chronic pain~ etc.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Onboard the Collector’s Ship, Andromeda Galaxy. 2014.
Steve quickly discovered that the ship they’d stolen, while the largest of the Collector’s fleet, was not particularly fast. The predicted arrival time to Xandar slowly ticked down from sixteen to thirteen to ten hours while Bucky tossed and turned in the co-pilot’s chair beside him. Steve didn’t notice that Bucky was muttering in his sleep until it’d been going on for several minutes.
“3… 2. 5… 5…”
Realization curdled in his stomach. Eighty years later, that godforsaken factory still plagued his best friend’s nightmares. Plagued Steve’s too, if he was being honest.
He licked his lips and murmured, “Bucky?”
“0… 3…”
“Bucky. Hey, wake up.”
Bucky twitched and shifted, but didn’t wake.
“Bucky!”
He woke with a gasp like a drowning man breaking the surface of a frigid lake. Steve watched from the corner of his eye as Bucky took stock of himself, slumped half-way out of his chair. He knew from experience how disorienting waking up from a nightmare was, so he didn’t say anything until Bucky grunted in his general direction.
“Sounded like a bad dream, you good?” Steve asked, now turning to face Bucky properly.
Bucky shrugged and wouldn’t meet his eye.
“We there yet?” he grumbled.
If Bucky didn’t want to talk about it, then. Well. Maybe Steve was a little hurt. Maybe. Not really his business (everything about Bucky used to be his business, though. Way back when, they’d’ve—).
Steve tapped the nav system’s readouts and forced a cheerful tone as he said, “Still a couple hours to go.”
A sharp nod from Bucky.
So close. And yet the more time Steve spent around him on this crazy mission, the farther away Bucky felt.
“What’s the plan?” Bucky asked, voice gravelly from sleep.
Steve laid out what he’d developed while Bucky was asleep. It was a fairly simple plan. They’d get the stolen craft close enough to Xandar to pilot an escape pod to the surface. Meanwhile, the handful of folks who could pilot the remaining nine escape pods would ferry the civilians planetside. That would serve to cover their pod and ensure everyone got to safety in a timely manner. Once they’d fetched the Stones and Mjölnir, they’d scoot back to the ship and head for Morag to put the Power Stone back where they’d found it. Then, on to Vormir.
Bucky took over piloting the ship. Steve, restless and exhausted, headed for the opulent lounge to make sure everyone was doing okay. Most of the folks in the lounge were asleep or resting. Someone had found food in one of the kitchens, and the remains of a large meal lay scattered across a sideboard along one wall.
Steve accidentally caught the eye of Carina, who was busy wrapping a small creature up in the fluffiest blanket Steve’d ever seen. She flashed him a shy smile. Steve smiled back. A weak, unsteady thing, made of dashed hopes and a light dimmed but not extinguished. Not yet.
He shook his head at himself as he walked back to the bridge.
Bucky would call him dramatic.
“You should get some sleep,” he grumbled at Steve in lieu of a welcome back.
Bucky was usually right.
Steve would normally argue that he didn’t need sleep mid-mission. Couldn’t sleep, more like. But the breakneck insanity of the past few days suddenly hit him like a truck, so he dropped into the co-pilot’s chair without complaint and shut his eyes.
There was a train packed wall-to-wall with people. Steve chased after it, not quite sure why it was so important that he catch it. Just knew in his gut that somehow he had to stop it, or else… He reached a hand out to grab the back rail of the caboose, and the whole thing crumbled to dust beneath his hands.
He jerked awake.
Glanced at the clock.
Three hours still to go before they’d reach Xandar. He ran his hands over his face and let reality sink back in.
“Figured out the autopilot,” Bucky said, unprompted, after several minutes of both of them silently staring out the bridge window stewing in their own private thoughts.
“Oh,” Steve said. “Nice.”
“Yep. Thought it’d be smart to have the ship fly itself in high orbit while we get the Stones and stuff.”
They fell back into awkward silence.
A flame of anger licked the inside of Steve’s chest. The unrelenting awkwardness that so often reared up between them now was one of the most painful parts of all this.
Steve balled his hands into fists.
What an incredibly selfish and shallow thought.
Bucky’d been through the worst sort of hell and, what? Steve was sore over not being able to pal around with him like it was fricking 1934?
Well. That wasn’t quite true. Because Steve didn’t expect Bucky to be the same. Hell, if Bucky’d never remembered anything, if he’d never recovered from what they’d done to him, or he’d hated Steve for letting him fall, for not going back to search for him right away, for…
If he’d never wanted anything to do with Steve again? It might’ve killed Steve but he would’ve let him go. He wasn’t so stupid as to think that loving someone meant clinging tight no matter what.
He should’ve realized that years ago. Should’ve sent Bucky home instead of asking him to follow him into the jaws of death, and then maybe —
The important thing was Bucky did remember. And somehow, miraculously, he didn’t hate Steve. The handful of times that Steve’d been smuggled into Wakanda between 2016-2018 shone bright and happy in Steve’s memory.
Bucky teasing him, calling him a city slicker, when one of the goats stole his jacket off the fence and he spent five minutes chasing it down to get it back.
Just as much a city slicker as you, Jerk!
Watch who you call jerk, Punk!
Bucky’s eyes lighting up with real excitement as he showed Steve the old Wakandan car that Shuri was letting him tinker with.
Bucky, different in a thousand big ways but still so very himself in the million tiny ways that really mattered.
So no. The awkward silences and yawning distance between them wasn’t because of Bucky. He wouldn’t— couldn’t pin that on Bucky.
It was all Steve.
It was losing his best friend to the mountains and then everything he’d ever known to the ice. It was losing his last bit of faith in his own government after he woke up. It was losing the Avengers, the one thing that had made sense in this crazy new world. It was losing, in a forest in Wakanda.
It was five long years of devastation where every day was a new battle and the suffering in the world, the universe, never stopped, never eased, and there was nothing he could do.
Maybe he’d lost his ability to connect with people somewhere along the way, too.
Maybe he’d sacrificed his body and his heart and probably his soul trying to make the world a better, safer place and now he was just an exhausted husk. Limping through this last mission with white knuckles and a faint hope that after it was over, he could finally go home.
That’s what every soldier wanted at the end of the day, wasn’t it? To go home.
Of course, his home had been drafted in ‘41, come home a sergeant for one long weekend in the spring of ‘43, and—
He shook his head. Got out of his chair and paced the bridge a few times.
“Gotta use the head,” he said.
“Carful with the fancy space bidet,” Bucky deadpanned.
“Aw, shaddup Buck.” He forced a smile.
Steve let himself cry for three minutes. Splashed cold water on his face for one. Messed around with the fancy space bidet (it had a confusing number of settings) for another two before he deemed his face thoroughly un-puffed and headed back to the bridge. Hopefully he’d been fast enough to avoid—
“What took you so long, you fall in?”
Steve laughed in spite of himself. “Screw off, Bucky.”
Xandar, Andromeda Galaxy. 2014.
He should’ve known that their whole plan would immediately go to shit.
They didn’t see the bustling and shiny capitol of the Nova Empire they expected when Bucky dropped the ship into orbit around Xandar. Trust his luck, of course they found themselves in the middle of a full-scale battle.
His teenaged self would’ve loved this. Laser cannons and blaster fire and a whole armada of spaceships facing off like something from Weird Tales come to life.
His adult self swore like a sailor as something caused their entire ship to rattle. There was no way the civilians could safely navigate escape pods to the surface in the midst of this. Or any guarantee that they’d be safe on the ground if they managed to land. Bucky recognized the insectoid necrocraft used by Ronan’s army swarming through Xandar’s atmosphere. He’d overheard enough in the past few days to know that the guy had some sort of genocidal grudge against Xandarians.
Eight hours was not enough flight time to learn how to use a civilian pleasure craft in an actual space battle. He heard Steve skid across the bridge as he abruptly banked left to avoid an incoming bolt of blaster fire. The hull rattled again. Shit.
“You get the Stones, I’ll fall back and protect the civvies?” he said, wrestling with the ship’s controls.
“The escape pods don’t have the power to escape Xandar’s gravity,” Steve reminded him.
Right. That’d been the whole point behind him taking the time to learn the ship’s autopilot system. So they could actually escape out of low orbit once they had the Stones and Thor’s hammer.
“How long will you need?” Bucky asked.
Steve glared out the window for a long moment, studying the ongoing battle.
“Half an hour.”
“Roger, Rogers.”
Steve laughed. Nice of him, the joke was weak at best. He turned to go and a horrible, cold blade of anxiety twisted in Bucky’s gut.
“Steve,” he called to his best friend's retreating back.
“Bucky?”
Shitshitshitshitshi—
“Don’t crash.”
Steve blinked, expression inscrutable. “You, neither.”
And then he was gone and Bucky had to focus on steering the ship and making sure they didn’t get blown up. If he messed up now it would be another fifty-odd lives on his hands and maybe some would say that was just a drop in the bucket of blood on his ledger but dammit he was trying to be better.
Once he got confirmation that Steve’s escape pod was clear of the ship, he threw the engines into reverse, doing his best to dodge stray blaster fire as he calculated a trajectory to break back out of Xandar’s orbit. They were just out of range of the heaviest artillery fire when a knock on the bridge doors made him jump.
“What’s happening?”
It was Carina, eyes wide with fear as a shockwave from a colossal explosion rolled over the ship.
“Ronan’s attacking Xandar,” Bucky said. “We can’t land.”
Melinda appeared at Carina’s shoulder, and they had a quick exchange in Xandarian. Next moment, Melinda rushed up to the bridge window, shouting at Bucky in her native language and gesturing frantically at the besieged planet below.
“What’s she—“
“Her daughter lives in the capitol,” Carina said, the fire from another massive explosion reflected off her glassy eyes.
Fuck.
“Tell her Steve is down there, he joined the fight. He’s good at protecting people, he—“
The barrier of Nova Craft that had been holding back Ronan’s main ship suddenly collapsed, and the giant black craft began to tip towards the planet’s surface.
Bucky needed to get down there, needed to be watching Steve’s six, what the hell was he doing, he —he — couldn’t think with Melinda pleading beside him. Couldn’t hardly breathe.
Focus. Focus.
Stay. Here. Keep these people safe.
Do your fucking job, Barnes.
He gently pushed Melinda into the co-pilot’s chair. Sent Carina back to wherever the rest of the escapees were to tell them they couldn’t land on Xandar. That they’d hold out for thirty more minutes incase the tide of battle changed, but odds were they’d have to find somewhere else to land.
And refuel.
And resupply.
And where the hell was a ship-full of apparently “valuable” persons supposed to find safe harbour in this godforsaken galaxy?
(And what about Melinda’s daughter? What about all the Xandarians who’d get slaughtered if Ronan won this battle?)
Bucky shook out his shoulder and forced himself to think only of the mission: Fly the ship. Watch the clock. Try to raise Steve over comms.
Blinked the spots from his eyes when Ronan’s ship crashed to Xandar’s surface. Didn’t dare to hope that the battle was dying down.
Tried to raise Steve over comms.
Purple lightning swirled around the crash site.
No no no no no!
Tried to raise Steve over comms.
Tried to raise Steve over comms.
Tried to raise Steve over comms.
Twenty-eight minutes since Steve left.
Xandar’s orbit was empty now save for the smouldering husks of destroyed spaceships and dissipating smoke trails.
It was all so quiet.
Even in the heat of things blowing up all around them, it had been dead quiet.
Bucky wasn't sure if that was better or worse than the bone-rattling battle noise he was used to.
“You’d better be alive down there, Steve,” Bucky muttered as he eased the ship back down into low-orbit, doing his best to hide behind the debris of a destroyed Ravager craft. The battle might be over, but there was no telling who’d won.
Notes:
This chapter features fandom fav Steve/Catholic Guilt.
Author's Note: Weird Tales is a pulp fantasy and horror magazine first published in March, 1923 and is still being published today. It has featured several famous works in the fantasy and horror genre, such as H.P. Lovecraft's Call of Cthulu, and some consider the magazine to have had a defining influence on the fantasy/horror/sci-fi genres over the past century.
I like to think that Bucky, being a canon-confirmed fantasy nerd, would've read some Weird Tales way back when.
Chapter 21: In Which We Set a Course for Vormir
Notes:
A short one this week, as the next chapter was getting too long so I decided to break it into two.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Andromeda Galaxy. 2014.
Bucky was close to hopping in an escape pod and searching for Steve himself when the bastard's voice finally came over the comms.
“All clear here, Buck. Should be safe for everyone to make it planet side now. You hang tight, I’ll see you in a few.”
The world still felt shaky and adrenaline-sharp as Bucky ushered Melinda back to the main lounge where most of the freshly freed prisoners had set up camp. It didn’t take long for Carina to round everyone up and translate the message that they’d all be able to safely land in Xandar’s capitol. As he supervised the pod departures, Bucky found himself on the receiving end of several baffling handshakes and shoulder pats. Even a few hugs.
Look friendly, idiot.
Smile.
fakefraudliar liar liAR LIAR!
Breathe.
The aching tension in his shoulders didn’t ease until he got confirmation from each pod that they’d landed safely on the ground. Fifty-eight living beings now breathing free air after who-knew-how-long trapped in tanks like so many exotic fish.
He wiped the sweat from his right palm off on his pants leg.
Hard to believe they’d all survived, if he were honest. Between the chaos of their escape from the Emporium and the inter-empire battle they’d flown right to the outskirts of… No.
Better not to think about what might have gone wrong.
Just like it was better that none of them knew what he really was.
Fuck.
He slumped into the captain’s chair, suddenly overcome by exhaustion. Nothing much to do wile he waited for Steve but stare out the window and childishly fantasize about going AWOL and becoming some sort of space Robin Hood. Folks out here hardly blinked twice at a guy with a metal arm. Nobody’d know who he was, what he’d done. Stealing from the rich would be easy enough, he certainly had the skills, and—
“Hiya, Buck.”
So lost in thought, he hadn’t heard Steve coming. God, he was losing his touch.
“Save the world again?” Ya big meatball?
Steve, covered head-to-toe in dust and his face streaked with sweat, grinned like a million bucks.
“Nah, that was all the Guardians,” he said, setting down Mjölnir and a familiar metal case by the co-pilot’s chair.
Bucky, idiot that he was wherever Steve was concerned, smiled back.
“I left the Power Stone in the Nova Corps’ care,” Steve explained as he collapsed into his seat. “Along with some heavy hinting that they should do something about the Mad Titan before he comes for it.”
Bucky nodded, and they settled into a long silence. Out the window Xandar become a moon, a ball, a speck.
“So, I was thinking about this next stop,” Bucky said, trying to keep his tone casual as he flicked on the autopilot.
Silence from Steve, which was disconcerting.
“Try not to hurt myself, I know,” Bucky said.
That got a chortle out of Steve.
Mission success. Bucky refocused on his point.
“We’re definitely too late to beat Barton and Romanov. But.”
“No.”
“You haven’t even heard what I’m gonna—“
“I know what you’re gonna say, Buck. And I’m not leaving you alone in space with— without—“
“There’s more particles in the 70’s, right? We’d just have to steal two instead of—“
“It’s too risky, Bucky.”
“Too risky?”
“I’m serious Buck, if—“
“Oh, fuck you!”
Steve looked like Bucky’d shot him (again), and Bucky wished he could pitch himself out the nearest window and float into the endless icy void. But he was still yelling, still flapping his worthless gums as he shouted, “Didn’t you care about her at all? Won’t you at least try to— What the hell happened to the little guy who was too dumb to run away from a fight?”
And Bucky was the worst person in the whole world, no, the whole universe, because now he'd made Steve cry, and—
“Of course I care, Bucky, I…” Steve shook his head. “She was family. And. After Thanos, she. She was the only one I had left, really. I… Bucky I can’t lose you both. I just. I can’t risk you for— for someone who’s already g-gone.”
Everything inside him ached to bundle Steve up in his arms and squeeze tight. Tell him everything would be fine, even if he damn well knew it wouldn’t. And once Steve’d stopped crying, to crack dumb jokes until he laughed, loud and happy and maybe still a little snotty from tears.
Bucky clenched and unclenched his left fist. Rubbed at the seam in his shoulder.
“Just. Hear me out,” he said, soft as he could manage. It came out gruff and snappish.
Steve inhaled sharply and looked up at Bucky.
“We have five particles left. Need two for the jump to 2013, two more to get to the 70s. You’ve stolen particles from then before, what’s stealing another one or two, right?”
Steve chewed on his lip.
“Right,” Bucky said. “So I’m thinking, we see what the deal is when we arrive at this Vormir place. If needs be, one of us jumps back in time with the Soul Stone to save this timeline’s Romanov. Maybe we won’t need to, though. Didn’t Barton or someone say something about an exchange with the stone? A soul for a soul or some BS like that?”
More lip-chewing.
“Maybe we just chuck the dumb rock back where it came from and, I dunno, get her back.” It sounded stupid and impossible when put like that, so Bucky quickly forged ahead. “All I’m suggesting is we don’t give up on the rescue mission just yet, okay?”
Steve’s smile was wetter than a drowned dog in a rainstorm. “Okay.”
Bucky nodded. Clapped Steve hard on his shoulder. Then resolutely focused his attention on the ship’s nav system. He felt cold, his mind quiet for the first time since he’d stepped onto Scott’s Quantum Tunnel so many days ago. If he were still young and stupid, he'd say he felt strangely at peace.
Whatever they would find on Vormir, Bucky was ready to face it.
Notes:
Just be glad I didn't end this on a literal cliff hanger, ok?
Although knowing the terrain on Vormir, I make no promises for future chapters' suspenseful endings :P
Chapter 22: In Which Bruce Banner Eats One-Half of a Disappointing Chicken Waffle
Notes:
A/N: Last we were in Louisiana, Sam found an elderly Bucky on his doorstep…
‘Sam had to walk to the other end of the dock so he didn’t end up punching a centarian in the face. He didn’t need headlines about Captain America attacking the elderly on top of everything else. Sam looked back at the stooped figure on the bench and frowned. If he’d learned anything from his brief stint as an internationally-wanted criminal, it was to trust his gut instincts about a situation headed south.
And beneath his initial hurt and anger, his gut told him that something was very, very wrong.’
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
University Medical Centre, New Orleans, Louisiana. March 13, 2024.
Sam read an article once about liminal spaces: timeless, depopulated, or disused non-places. Junkspace. Places that existed at the threshold of reality. Featureless hallways and corridors and rooms that could exist anywhere. The article’s author had remarked on untethered airport lounges, abandoned shopping centres, and uncanny hospitals.
He hadn’t thought about that article for years. But now, sipping lukewarm, bitter coffee in the over-bright and empty hospital cafeteria at three in the morning, he thought he understood.
It was just that he couldn’t quite remember, between exhausted blinks, whether he was here because a geriatric Steve or a geriatric Bucky had suddenly collapsed, clutching at his chest.
It was the too-familiar, unsteady beep of a heart-rate monitor filling his ears.
The tint of green paint under fluorescent lights as a doctor called “Clear!”
It was watching Riley fall once again.
Being there just to watch.
Sam hadn’t cried yet. He would, he knew. It just… hadn’t sunk in, he supposed. Not yet. It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. Real. That’s all.
It was fine, though. Nothing here was real.
Hospitals were a liminal space.
He swallowed down the dregs of cold, gritty coffee, and pushed himself up from the table. Didn’t think about the past two days as he walked back towards the elevator. Didn’t picture the strange, quiet smile Bucky’d worn as he’d watched AJ and Cass play in the yard after school. Didn’t picture Sarah hiding her tears when Sam had tried to explain what had happened. Why Bucky was suddenly old and grey and—
The elevator opened with a ding! onto the cardiac ward.
Every time he blinked, he saw the heart monitor, flat and droning.
There were more people in the hallway outside Bucky’s room than when Sam had left for a coffee. Holstered guns, tac vests, badges—
“I’m sorry for your loss, Captain,” a sandy-haired, steely-eyed man said as he emerged from Bucky’s room and shut the door behind him.
Sam stopped himself from asking who the fuck are you? But only just.
“Can I help you?” he said instead.
“We’re just about done here. Though I do have some questions you may be able to answer about the condition of the body.”
“The… conditi… What?” Sam stuttered, uncomprehending.
“Did something happen? The doctor declared the cause death as natural ageing, but last we saw of Barnes he was young as ever.”
Sam’s ears were ringing.
“That was only three days ago. Obviously we’re hoping the autopsy will shed some light, but maybe you can help us out here.”
“Autopsy?” Sam echoed. A cold sweat broke out across his body, and the coffee he’d drunk curdled in his stomach.
The steely-eyed asshole looked at him like he was stupid. The world, which had been blurry and tilting for hours, snapped back into sharp focus.
Guards in the hall. Blocking access to the room.
Bucky, dead.
Bucky’s body, not here.
They wanted to autopsy—
He dodged past Agent Asshole and barged into the hospital room.
Empty.
Just a bare mattress and a heart monitor trailing wires onto the floor.
Sam rounded on the man in the doorway.
“Where is he?”
“Calm down, Captain, we haven’t—“
“Where. Is. He?”
More agents in the doorway, backing up the steely-eyed asshole. Hands resting on their guns.
“Let’s all just take a breath, here,” Agent Asshole said.
Like Sam was the aggressor. He clenched his teeth and forced his hands out of their fists. Loosened his posture.
“Now,” Agent Asshole said, “I realize you’re upset. Losing someone on your squad’s a rough go. We all know that.”
Unenthusiastic nods from the backup agents.
“And you know just as well as I do, Captain, that what happens to Barnes’ body is out of both of our hands. Full autopsy upon death was a condition of his pardon.”
“Bullshit.”
“Maybe it is, but the brass says jump, we say how high, right?”
Sam pictured punching Agent Asshole so hard his nose broke and his steely eyes swelled shut. Who the hell did he think he was, playing at being on Sam’s side? Pretending he was guiltless because he was acting under orders? Taking Bucky before Sam could get a chance to… he never had a chance to… he hadn’t…
Sam grit his teeth harder, swallowed, and took a shaky breath.
“Can I see him?”
“I doubt you’ll want to watch the autopsy, son.”
“Before they start,” Sam said, through a wave of fury. “I just…” don’t fucking cry in front of these dipshits, “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”
His voice broke on the last word, but his eyes remained dry.
Agent Asshole sighed heavily.
“On your head be it,” he said. “Far as I know, they took him to the morgue. Level B1.”
A few tears slipped out in the elevator on the way to the basement. He may’ve been furious with Bucky for going back in time, for choosing the past over the present, but. He could also still get mad on the guy’s behalf. Autopsy upon death as part of his pardon? That couldn’t be true. There was no way Bucky’d agreed to this. Right?
And then he was outside the morgue, arguing with a sleep-deprived guard about who had legal access to view Bucky’s body. And when he’d finally worn the guard down, pulling on his heartstrings with a lot of Captain America bullshit, he was once again too late.
“Barnes?” the young pathologist asked, running her pointer finger down a clipboard. “His remains were released ten minutes ago.”
“Released?” Sam asked. “To who?”
The pathologist flipped through her clipboard with a small frown.
“Um. Still Waters of Rest Deathcare? Never heard of that funeral home before. Must be new in the area, they didn’t leave an address. I could Google it if you—“
“No, that’s…” fuck fuck fuck! “Thanks. For the help.”
He jumped when her hand rested on his forearm.
“If I’d known you were coming down here, I would’ve made them wait for you,” she said. “Goodbyes are important.”
He felt like she meant it.
Felt like she was the only person who’d meant their sympathy all goddamn night.
Sam nodded, unshed tears burning his eyes.
At 0402, he found himself outside the hospital, staring down at his phone with increasing panic and dread. Still Waters of Rest Deathcare did not exist. But Sam knew of an organization with those same letters as an acronym.
For a supposed intelligence agency, this wasn’t very subtle.
It started to rain as he picked his way across the parking lot. He got into the driver’s seat of his car and stared at the pattern of rain on the windshield. Thought cars in the rain could be added to the list of liminal spaces. Pulled out his phone.
It rang twice before someone picked up.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Bruce? It’s Sam.”
“Hi, Sam! I’ve been meaning to call you and say congrats. How’s it going?”
He had no words.
“Sam?”
“Right.” He cleared his throat. “So, um. Something happened. And I… I’m not really thinking clearly right now. Figured, of all the people in the world, you know a lot about the super soldier serum. How um. How it can be. Not good.”
He wasn’t explaining this well at all.
“I wanted a second opinion. Before I freaked out.”
“Sam, what’s going on? Is Bucky hurt or something?”
Fuck.
“No, he’s—“ dead. “He…”
Sam cleared his throat again.
“How screwed are we if the government has full access to autopsy…” his throat closed.
Something smashed faintly in the background.
“What happened?”
But now the tears, held in for so many hours, came pouring out. His chest heaved as one, then two, then more shaking sobs than Sam cared to count ripped themselves free. By the time he’d somewhat re-gained control of his own breathing, he had snot running down his face and a headache blossoming at his temples.
He heard Bruce ask, “Where are you?”
Heard himself shakily give the name of the hospital.
“I’ll be there in two hours. Hang tight, okay?”
“‘Kay.”
And then it was just him and the rain on his windshield. Him and the tears that had slowed but not stopped. He reclined his seat and slouched down. Shut his eyes. Wished himself away to a happier place, where nothing existed but rain and pavement and fake leather under his fingertips.
Bruce landed his quinjet a few miles outside New Orleans just as the eastern sky began to lighten. Not that it looked like it would get all that bright today, what with the overcast skies and intermittent drizzle. Why Tony had left an entire quinjet for Bruce in his will was beyond him, but he was grateful for it now as he parked in stealth mode and set the security system to alert him if anyone came near. Even though Bruce and the Other Guy had reached an understanding, he remained uneasy flying commercial.
The clock on his car’s dashboard read 7:33 when he pulled up beside Sam’s car in the hospital parking lot. He thought the car was empty at first, but when he got closer he realized Sam was inside, reclined in the driver’s seat and staring blankly out the windshield. Bruce knocked gently on the driver’s-side window.
Sam blinked.
Lolled his head over and stared blankly instead at Bruce.
He’d hoped, stupidly, that when Sam had asked about an autopsy, when Sam had spent nearly half an hour wordlessly crying on the phone, that what he feared wasn’t true. Maybe Sam had meant biopsy. That Bucky’d suffered a bad injury, or a close call, or they’d found out about some other super soldier the government had been hiding. Someone from Isiah Bradley’s old squad, maybe.
The truth was chiseled in Sam Wilson’s marble lines. Eyes blank and drowning. Body rigid yet exhausted.
Bruce pulled the car door open, pulled Captain America to standing, pulled him into a wordless hug.
What was there to say?
“Thanks. For coming,” Sam mumbled into his shoulder.
“Any time, man,” Bruce said. He gave Sam one more good squeeze before he pulled back so he could wipe his own eyes. “Let’s get breakfast. You can explain on the way.”
Sam let Bruce guide him into the car. They drove in silence to the nearest IHOP. Didn’t really speak again until Sam was half-way through a stack of buttermilk pancakes. Bruce had ordered a chicken waffle and was sad to say it was a little on the soggy side.
“So apparently, part of his pardon was an agreement that the government could autopsy his body after he…” Sam started, then cut himself off with a mouthful of pancake.
Bruce frowned. “And he agreed to that?”
Sam shrugged. “First time I’d ever heard of it,” he said around his pancake. “Not that Bucky told me anything about his pardon beyond the fact that he hated therapy.” A humourless laugh. “Can’t say I blame— blamed him. She was a real price of work. Army therapist, you know?”
Bruce nodded, though he wasn’t sure he understood. Anything to keep Sam talking, now that he’d started.
“So there coulda been a bunch of strings attached that he never told me. Not like we were— we didn’t really talk about that kinda stuff.”
“You know, my cousin is a lawyer. Have plans to do a little road trip with her in a few weeks, actually. I could consult her if you wanted. Ask if this is something they can legally… if it’s violating some human rights, or something.”
Across from him, Sam set down his utensils.
“Maybe,” he said. “Probably can’t do much, not if he’s— if he had signed anything. But I’m not a lawyer, so.”
Bruce frowned again. “I would’ve thought that of all the people with the serum, he’d know better than to agree to something like this.”
“You have no fucking clue,” Sam growled, and Bruce recoiled at his sudden aggression.
“I was only on the Raft for a week and a half, and if someone had offered me a get out of jail ‘free’ card? He was stuck there for over a month, and he— you can’t— this isn’t his fucking fault.”
“I didn’t mean it was,” Bruce said softly. He fiddled with the napkin dispenser. Debated whether or not to voice his next thought. Curiosity and paranoia won out.
“Who did you say was doing the autopsy?”
“The asshole who whisked him away while I was clearing my head for ten minutes said it’d be the hospital morgue.”
Bruce figured he wouldn’t be here if that was the whole story.
“But?”
“But when I got there, he’d been picked up by a funeral home. Still Waters of Repose Deathcare. Ever heard of them?”
“The funeral home's doing the autopsy? That’s—“
“I think they’re actually SWORD," Sam said. Like that wasn't a huge bombshell.
“What, the alien defence squad?” Bruce asked, reeling.
Sam shrugged, and something tugged at the back of Bruce’s memory. From that hazy time right after the battle in Wakanda, right after the end of the world. They’d cleaned up the battlefield, packed up the bodies of the fallen that remained, and flown back to New York. Hunted down Thanos. Killed him. Lost everything.
And he remembered, now, watching the casket that held Vision’s body get loaded into a hearse. Some greasy suit flatly attempting to console a shell-shocked Tony before driving away.
A closed-casket funeral, that one. They buried him under a cherry tree on the compound grounds two days later. A nice spot for reading, and with surprisingly good wifi for how far it was from any buildings. They’d all agreed that Vision would’ve liked that.
“What did you say the name of that funeral home was? Still Waters of Something?”
“Of Rest.”
“Shit.”
“What?”
“I think that’s the company that did Vision’s funeral.”
There was a long, heavy silence, and then Sam sighed.
“This’d better not be another giant government conspiracy. I’ve got a one-per-lifetime limit on those.”
Bruce snorted into his orange juice.
“Definitely shady though, right?” Sam asked.
“I wouldn’t trust anyone, our side or not, to do the right thing as far as the serum is concerned.”
Another long-suffering sigh from Sam, then he downed his coffee and stood abruptly. “Was hoping to spend a bit more time not being an enemy of the state, but. I guess telling the government to stuff it is another part of the shield’s legacy. As is doing dumb shit for Bucky Fucking Barnes.” He slapped some money on the table. “Can’t break the tradition now, can I?”
Bruce was left with half of a mediocre chicken waffle and the awkward task of flagging down a waiter for the bill.
Notes:
((please don't hate me))
Annnnd that's my headcannon for how/why the Avengers didn't know that SWORD had Vision's body. A classic casket switcheroo that nobody noticed because they were all way too traumatized and grief-ridden to even consider that a possibility. Also, I like to think they would've held a quiet funeral for Vision, after they got back to Earth post-Thanos murder and actually had the time to put something together.
Chapter 23: In Which Bucky Gets Fridged
Chapter Text
New Orleans, Louisiana. March 13, 2024.
The pancakes had helped clear Sam’s head a little. As had the conversation with Bruce. He wasn’t entirely certain what his next steps would be, but he had a goal now. A mission. Something he needed to do before he let himself sink back below the waves of grief.
And if the Air Force had taught him anything, it was how to compartmentalize shit.
First things first, they needed to find out exactly where the body was. Sam wasn’t going to go in guns blazing and steal it, he just… Knowing where it was, that was important.
Then they needed to somehow get access to Bucky’s pardon. Find out if any of this autopsy BS was actually in there to start with, and if it was, if there was some way they could fight it. At least get some sort of case going to put the government’s operations on hold. Bruce’s cousin might be helpful for that. Sam certainly didn’t know any good lawyers.
But first, location. Shuri would know. The arm’s tracker had to be pinging, now that, well. It had to be pinging now.
He was a little surprised she hadn’t called him the moment Bucky—
Or maybe Sam had missed it in the chaos?
He pulled out his phone. No missed calls or texts. He dialled Shuri with shaking fingers. Remembered the time difference on the third ring, but didn’t have the mental space to calculate what time it might be over there.
“Hello, Captain! What’s up?” Shuri’s bright voice rang in his ear.
“Hey, Princess.” Breathe. “Quick question for you. The tracker in Bucky’s arm. It… You haven’t gotten a ping from it recently, have you?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Lemme double-check.” There was a muffled background conversation, the sound of cutlery on plates, and then rustling and footsteps echoing down a hall.
“I hope I didn’t interrupt—“
“No, no. We were just having lunch. I was working on convincing my brother to push for the council to re-approve Sergeant Barnes’ visa. We’ve all been worried about him. Boy needs to spend some time by the lake with his goats. I’d say touch some grass, but we both know he’s never online,” Shuri laughed. “Okay, I’ve checked the tracking software, there isn’t anything coming up, sorry. Have you heard from him at all?”
“You’re sure there’s nothing?” Sam asked, throat tight.
“Absolutely. Why? Did he say somethi—“
“He’s dead,” Sam said, from somewhere outside his body. “He fucking… 2:56 am today. Thought that fancy arm of yours was supposed to ping if he… Fuck. Sorry.
I shouldn’t— I’m a mess right now. Was hoping you’d be able to track the arm because the fucking government took his body and they’re gonna—“ He couldn’t breathe.
There was a long silence, during which Bruce walked up to the car with a take-out box under one arm.
He was faintly aware of Shuri in the background, saying, “That’s impossible, the arm should’ve… it… he… There has to be a signal. Where were you when it— is there some way it could’ve been jammed?”
“We were at a civvie hospital.”
He could hear Shuri frantically typing now.
“I’ll have to— we have to get his body. We… this sounds awful, but maybe if we claim that the arm is Wakanda’s and the U.S. cannot autopsy it or study it or…” More background murmurs, then, “I’ll call you back.”
The line went dead. Sam slowly slipped his phone into his pocket.
“Who was that?” Bruce asked as he unlocked his car.
“Shuri.” Sam folded himself into the passenger seat and bucked the seatbelt with numb fingers. “She said Wakanda might be able to help. That they can make a claim on the arm or something.”
“Okay. That’s good, right?”
Nothing about this felt good, but Sam nodded. Forced himself to say, “Maybe you can call your cousin?”
Bruce nodded. “I’ll give you a ride back to your own car, first. Then maybe you… do you want to go home for a few hours? You live around here, right?”
Sam realized he’d have to tell Sarah and the boys what had happened and felt an insurmountable wave of exhaustion hit him.
“How’m I s’posed to tell them?”
A firm hand squeezed his shoulder. “I can call ahead, if you’d like.”
Sam felt himself nod.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be driving. Give me your keys, I’ll drop you at the jet and pick up your car for you. Fly you home.”
Which was how Sam found himself sitting on the opened ramp of a quinjet that Bruce apparently owned, blinking up at the overcast sky and trying to wrap his head around this new reality.
Wondering at his grief.
They’d run one mission together, half of which was spent snarling at each other’s throats over the shield. Then Bucky’d shown up out-of-the blue with a vibranium flighsuit and helped with the boat and flirted with Sarah and fake-wrestled with the boys and… and then after everything wrapped up, there was the cookout, and Sam had thought they were on the way to becoming friends. Real friends.
Friends like Nat and Steve and Sam had become while on the run. The kind of friends you trusted with your secrets, who trusted you with theirs. Who could make you laugh with just a look because you had inside jokes. Who’d seen you at your best and your worst and loved you anyways.
Friends who were family, at the end of the day.
Sam kicked at the jet’s ramp and squeezed his eyes shut. Hot, angry tears splashed down his cheeks. Wasn’t fair, is what it was. That every person he got close to like that had wound up dead. Riley, Steve, Nat. He and Bucky hadn’t been there yet, but.
But dammit, his nephews had already started calling him ‘Uncle Bucky’ and if the asshole weren’t already dead, he’d kill him again just for breaking their little hearts.
Bruce arrived with Sam’s car, putting an end to Sam’s internal rage. Sam backed both cars into the hold of the jet while Bruce did the pre-flight checks. He told Sam he’d called ahead and let Sarah know what had happened and that the both of them would be arriving shortly.
Sam shut his eyes for liftoff. He didn’t want to associate the beauty of the bayou with today.
Brinin Zana, Wakanda. March 13-14, 2024
It was a whirlwind after Shuri ended the call with Captain Wilson. She remembered going back to the dining hall, where her brother and mother were still eating lunch. Feeling floaty as she said, “Bucky’s dead. And the Americans are trying to keep his body.”
The next thing she clearly remembered was sitting in her lab, Ayo laying a hand on her shoulder.
“Maybe you should get some sleep, Princess.”
Shuri blinked. Looked from her desk, to Ayo, and back. She’d been staring at the code for hours, trying to find her mistake. There had to be a mistake. But as far as she could tell, the geolocation code for Bucky’s arm was airtight. So why hadn’t it sent a signal? What went wrong?
This was her fault. Maybe if she’d tested the code more thoroughly beforehand.
If she’d insisted that the council let Bucky come home as soon as they realized he was going off the rails.
If she’d dragged him back home kicking and screaming right after the battle in America, international relations be damned.
If…
“Shuri?”
She blinked again and found Ayo gone, her brother standing in the lab’s doorway.
She stood to meet him, let herself be pulled into a long hug.
“The Americans have agreed to let us come collect the arm. And Dr. Banner said his cousin recommended a good lawyer, so they’re already putting together a case to get his remains back. He said at the very least, they can’t start an autopsy for a week or so. Not while the lawyer’s case is being filed.”
Shuri nodded and squeezed T’Challa tightly.
“I’m heading to Louisiana now. Will you come?”
“Yes.”
T’Challa smiled sadly. “Go pack a bag.”
Somewhere over the Atlantic, Shuri found the energy to ask, “How are they preserving him, while the case goes through?”
T’Challa’s expression darkened. “Cryofreeze, once the arm is off. He’s just in a regular fridge for now.”
Her heart lurched, even as the logical part of her knew that was the wisest option for preserving remains without embalming. She’d promised him he’d never be frozen without his consent, and now—
They landed before dawn outside a bland military complex comprised of squat convey buildings. Sam Wilson and Bruce Banner met them outside their plane, and the four of them walked up the gravel drive to the electrified gate.
Several black-clad guards were waiting for them, lead by none other than General Ross, former Secretary of Defence. Shuri was proud of her brother’s graciousness as he shook the General’s hand. She knew how much he despised him, how staunchly he disagreed with Ross’s politics.
They were lead into one of the brutalist buildings. Shuri fell back to stand beside Sam, and whispered, “Is your military’s architecture always this terrible?”
Sam snorted and she grinned at him.
A brief flash of levity on this nightmare of a day.
Sam had warned her that something had happened to Bucky’s body. That his age had suddenly caught up with him, somehow. That he’d ostensibly died of a heart attack, of all things.
She still wasn’t ready for it.
When they un-sealed the fridge door and slid him out, she gasped reflexively. Silver-grey hair, deep forehead wrinkles, age spots visible on his arm and chest, the rest of him covered in a white sheet. Cold radiating off of him.
She laid a hand on his forehead, tears welling in her eyes. Even coming out of cryostasis, he had not felt so still. Lifeless.
A few tears spilled over, and General Ross cleared his throat. She’d almost forgotten he was there.
Shuri glared at him.
“Well?” Ross said. “We don’t have all day.”
“Right.” In through the nose, out through the mouth. “Let me get set up, then. Can we move him to a table?”
“Table?” Ross pursed his lips. “Can’t you just pop it off?”
Shuri turned around to properly face the idiot behind her. “I don’t know how many advanced bio-mechanical prosthetic limbs you have designed in your lifetime, General, but no. I can’t just ‘pop it off.’”
“We’re on a tight schedule here—“
“We were told we could come collect what belonged to Wakanda. Unless you are trying to steal our technology, General?” Shuri snapped.
Ross appeared to be chewing on glass, but eventually spat, “You have four hours.”
“Most generous of you,” Shuri snapped. She turned her back on him before he could turn his back on her. Stomach in knots as she realized what she would have to do next.
“Let’s get him on a table,” she said.
Everyone nodded grimly.
They got the body arranged on the table and Shuri set up her micro-surgery suite. She had everyone step out of the room to reduce feedback while the suite ran some initial scans, checking to ensure the shoulder implants hadn’t shifted over time.
“We’re doing the right thing, right?” she whispered, leaning against the morgue door.
T’Challa and Sam frowned at her.
“I mean, he didn’t agree to— to having it removed, but. He would rather we have it and bury it by the lake than… right?”
Sam’s eyes were watery as he nodded at her. “He would, Shuri. It’s… we’ll get the rights to the rest of his body, and then. Yeah. I think he would’ve liked that. Having a piece of himself in Wakanda. The rest of him next to—“
Sam pressed his lips tight together.
Next to Steve.
So the former Captain was truly gone, then.
Shuri didn’t have space to process that. She simply nodded and checked the scan’s progress on her kimono beads. That wasn’t right. She frowned. Tapped her beads. Squinted at the readout. Went inside and re-adjusted her equipment with new parameters. Ran the scan again.
“Something wrong?” Dr. Banner asked.
“How much do you know about biological quantum entanglement?” Shuri replied.
“I’ve dabbled. Mostly out of curiosity because of what we did six months ago. Wanted to see if there were lasting effects. Hank Pym’s been helping me out. It’s fascinating stu— what’s wrong?”
“Look at these readouts,” Shuri said, switching her beads to English for Bruce’s sake.
Bruce’s expression morphed into deeper and deeper confusion as he read the scan results.
“What’s going on?” Sam asked, peering over their shoulders.
“The quantum signatures from the arm and from Barnes’ body,” Bruce murmured. “But that’s impossible.”
“Not impossible,” Shuri countered. “Just theoretically improbable.”
“Yes, but. A quantum signature like that? For matter to generate that signature it would’ve been created just days ago. And the level of energy required for that much mass, it… it would be like a-a second Big Bang. I think we would’ve noticed if something like that had happened.”
“And yet.”
“You’re sure it’s not faulty equipment—“
“I checked. Twice.”
“Will someone please explain what the hell you’re talking about?”
Shuri and Bruce turned in tandem to face Sam.
“I don’t know if I can explain it, Captain,” Shuri said. “It’s a very convincing imitation to be sure. But whatever is on the table back there, it is not Sergeant Barnes.”
Notes:
Welcome to the sad headcannon called "Where I think Bucky would want to be buried when he dies," sponsored by Audible (not really, Beezbos don't @me). The arm by the lake in Wakanda, rest of the body next to Steve in New York idea is very sweet, but I think he'd prefer to get cremated or something, and have his ashes scattered around his favourite spots, some in Wakanda, some around the U.S. like at the Grand Canyon or something, and the rest scattered in Brooklyn (or interred next to Steve. Depends on whether you vibe with the headcannon of Steve being Catholic and getting a Catholic burial. If so, they probably couldn't be buried/interred together because Bucky -- according to his MCU dogtags -- is protestant.)
I hope I did Shuri justice in her POV! She's one of my favourite characters in the MCU and even with all the love she gets I still think she's massively under-appreciated. Cannot WAIT to see Wakanda Forever.
Chapter 24: In Which Steve Fights a Boulder
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Vormir. 2014.
It took just over a day to get to Vormir from Xandar. Steve spent most of that time biting his nails to the quick, turning plan over plan over plan in his mind. Bucky didn’t talk much, which was. It was fine. Honestly, Steve wasn’t in much of a talking mood. They ate. They checked the ship’s autopilot. They slept slumped in the captain’s and co-pilot’s chairs. Close enough that their knees knocked together whenever one of them sprawled too far in his sleep.
Vormir was a barren waste with thick cloud cover and jagged rock formations that made landing their large spacecraft challenging. The air burned in Steve’s lungs as he stepped off the ship’s gangway. He coughed and glanced back at Bucky, eyes stinging.
“S’like Brooklyn in August,” Bucky said, nose wrinkling.
Trust Bucky to make him laugh in the worst situations.
“The fog off the Hudson was definitely more toxic than this,” Steve joked. Though his smile faltered as he looked away from Bucky and up the steep ridge in front of them. “Clint said they had to make a trek to the top.”
Bucky made a gesture like after you with one hand, his other busy unholstering his gun. Steve tightened his grip on Mjölnir and started to climb.
Two hours later, they reached the summit by way of a jagged rock formation reminiscent of an archway. They both paused on the threshold. A united front, waiting for something. And then the last thing Steve expected to happen, happened.
“Welcome Steven, son of Sarah.”
He was in a burning factory, body singing with adrenaline, mind reeling with Bucky alive, Bucky strapped down, Bucky weak-kneed and too-thin. Bucky at his back and Nazis at his front — that doctor he’d seen scampering from the horrifying room where he’d found his best friend, and whoever this asshole was, who was shouting at him and blocking their escape.
Steve blinked.
“You gotta be shitting me,” Bucky muttered from his right.
The Red Skull turned his dead-eyed gaze onto Bucky. “James, son of Winnifred.”
“No,” Steve said, stepping forward so he was between Schmidt and Bucky. Because he’d sooner be dead than let anyone from HYDRA near Bucky again. “How the fuck are you alive?”
Language, his mother’s voice scolded in his head.
“I was banished here a lifetime ago, cursed to forever guide others to attain a treasure I myself cannot possess.”
Behind him, he heard Bucky snort.
“Many such treasures I know you now carry, Captain America.”
The hairs on the back of Steve’s neck stood up.
“Then you know why we’ve come here,” Steve said through grit teeth.
“If you were seeking to save your friend Natasha, daughter of Ivan, you are far too late.”
Steve glanced back at Bucky, asking a question with his eyes.
Bucky nodded.
Steve activated his quantum suit and the world dissolved into multicoloured light.
If he didn’t know better, he wouldn’t think he’d time-traveled at all. The same acrid air filled his lungs, the same jagged rocks ground beneath his feet. The same Nazi bastard stood before him, looking comically surprised.
“Steven, son of —“
“Can it, Johann,” Steve said, eyes sweeping the mountainside below for movement.
There! Only half-way up the craggy slope, two black-clad figures struggled against the driving wind and snow. Steve swung Mjölnir in his right hand and leapt off the rocks. His stomach bottomed out as the hammer pulled him towards the figures below.
He could just make them out — red hair flecked with snow, and wow even from this far away that haircut was terrible on Clint — and then he crashed onto the mountainside. He rolled gracelessly to a stop on the path a few yards in front of them, grinning like an idiot despite the unmistakeable sound of Nat disengaging the safety of her gun.
“Steve?” they chorused in unison.
He pushed himself to his feet, still grinning as he caught Nat’s eye.
Don’t mess it all up by crying, Rogers. Good Lord.
“Future Steve,” he said, and hoped his smile wasn’t too watery.
Thankfully, he wasn’t the only one failing to mask their emotions as realization dawned across both Clint and Nat’s faces.
“We won?” Clint asked.
“Sure did.”
Clint swore softly in wonder.
“I got tasked with un-doing our little time-heist,” Steve explained through a tight throat. “Figured I could save you two the trek to the top.”
He gestured vaguely at the peak behind him and sniffed sharply.
Nat pinned him with a shrewd glare. She hadn’t yet lowered her gun.
“What did I ask you, at Sam’s house?” she said.
To an outsider, the question could refer to any number of late-night chats that Steve, Sam, and Nat’d had in the cozy confines of Sam’s D.C. apartment during the turbulent time between the fall of SHILED and the Ultron disaster. But to Steve, she could really only mean one thing.
“You asked if I trusted you to save my life.”
Her eyes were just as intense now as they had been then, when everything was crumbling to pieces around them. Two unlikely allies against the world.
“I said, ‘I would now.’”
Nat holstered her gun and matched his smile.
Steve filled them in on hike back down to Nat and Clint’s ship with highlights from the reverse time-heist thus far. He knew he wasn’t the best storyteller— not half as good as Bucky’d been back in the day — but he got some laughs out of Clint and even a dry chuckle from Nat when he described how he’d gotten trapped in the Temple of the Power Stone and couldn’t break out.
When he finished, Nat started to tease the hell out of him for generally being an idiot. Getting a chestful of shrapnel would be less painful. Because his best friend for the last five years was dead but she was also right here and screw the universe and whatever alternate timeline she belonged in, he wanted to steal her away to his own future and never let her out of his sight again.
“…-eve? You okay?”
They were back at the ship, both Nat and Clint giving him calculating looks. He shook out his shoulders and ducked his head, hoping they wouldn’t see any lingering redness in his eyes.
“Just tired.” Which wasn’t a lie, really. Time travel was exhausting in ways Steve never could have predicted. Steve was sure that if Scott were here, there’d be some joke about predicting the past. He reminded himself that Scott was alive (had never really been dead), and raised his head. “You two ready to head back?”
“You betcha,” said Clint. “This planet stinks.”
“Got anything aboard your ship to hold the stone in? We’ve learned the hard way not to handle these things directly.”
Clint disappeared into the ship to find a container, leaving just Steve and Nat and a gaping silence.
“We?” she asked.
Steve kicked himself internally. Trust Nat to pick up on every small detail.
“Yeah, uh. Bucky’s been travelling with me.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I didn’t ask him to, if that’s what you’re— it was complicated, alright?” Steve couldn’t meet her eyes. “I might’ve gotten trapped for several months in an illusion from the Mind Stone and, well, he got me out.”
Natasha’s laugh was as rare and bubbly as fine champagne. “And how was that heartfelt reunion?” she grinned.
“It was—“ Good? Petrifying? “He. I…” The weight of worry that Steve’d been pretending not to carry hit him all at once, and he sank onto the ship’s gangway. “I’m terrified of losing him. Of losing him again. Every time I wake up, there’s this awful moment where I think he’s still— or I’ll blink a little too long and it’s like I can’t breathe because what if—“
Nat cut his spiral off with a tight hug. “You’re okay,” she said. “You’re both okay.”
Steve returned the hug, shaking his head as he buried it in her shoulder. “He’s not, though. I mean, I don’t expect him to be just fine after— after everything. I don’t— I... But he’s… I mean, I’ve known him my whole life and half the time lately it’s like we’re total strangers. And that’s— it’s not like I haven’t changed, either, but it’s… He won’t let me in, and I don’t know how to reach him. You know?”
Nat gave him another squeeze and let him go.
“When the world went to shit,” she said, “my best friend bailed. I’m… furious with him. Probably will be for a long time.”
Anger burned off of her like a fever, and Steve shifted uncomfortably.
“Doesn’t mean I won’t fight tooth and nail for him,” she said, like a threat. “Our that we can’t fix what’s broken. Maybe we won’t fit back together quite the same— five years can change a lot about a person, but. He’s family.”
The shrapnel in Steve’s chest dug in a little deeper.
Natasha had signed the Accords to try to keep her family together. Had subsequently broken the law countless times to keep her family safe. Had refused to give up during those five long years, even after losing so much. And here she was, ready to forgive a friend for ghosting her for years because she claimed he was family.
That was Nat, though. Loving fiercely and making it look easy.
Clint reappeared with a container, and a minute later the Soul Stone was securely locked away. It was time to say goodbye.
“You got a ride out of here?” Clint asked.
“Bucky will be along in a few days to pick me up.”
“Aw, Cap. We can’t leave you stranded out here with nothing.”
“I’ll be—“
“Nope! Stay right there, I think I saw some…”
Clint disappeared back into the ship, clattering around and cussing loudly. Steve caught Nat’s eye.
“Good to see some things never change,” he said.
She elbowed him. “Remember that next time you see Barnes. And don’t take yourself so seriously. What did Sam always say?”
“Lighten up.” He tried for a smile but it got caught somewhere in his throat, and his eyes filled with tears. He pulled her into a final crushing hug as Clint tumbled back out of the ship.
“Space MRE’s! And water— oh. You two alright?”
Steve wordlessly took the supplies from Clint and pulled him in for a hug, too.
Nat shrunk the ship back down to pocket sized, and then it was time. Steve tried to memorize every second, every quirk of her eyebrows and strand of her hair, knowing it was futile. That looking harder wouldn’t slow the passage of time. Watching her do a final gear check felt just as unreal as the last time he’d seen his mom, before she was transferred to the closed ward.
It couldn’t be the last time, because Nat was important and good and kind and — and—
“See you in a few.”
—and she was still smiling at him, green eyes flashing like they were sharing a private joke when she and Clint disappeared.
When he stopped crying, Steve found himself cold and alone on an alien planet with a small stash of MREs, water, and an emergency blanket.
Well, he wasn’t truly alone.
Schmidt was up on the mountain somewhere, not being dead like he ought.
The thought made Steve even colder.
To think that all three of the super soldiers forged during the war were still alive nearly a century later. And of all their endings, Schmidt somehow ended up with the best one! No ice, no pain, no horrific torture and brainwashing. No waking up to learn that everyone he loved was dead. Just breathtaking rock formations as far as the eye could see, shrouded in snowy mists and illuminated by a purplish sun.
If Steve’d had his notebook on him, he would’ve pulled it out and tried his hand at sketching some of it.
Steve packed the food and water into the emergency blanket, tied the corners tight, and set off in search of shelter for whatever might pass as night on this planet. He found a shallow cave part-way up a tumble of boulders and settled in. Watched the fading sunlight twinkle gold in the snow that swirled outside until there was nothing but darkness and wind and his own harsh breathing.
He sat and thought and blinked and shivered until the world wasn’t so dark anymore. A purple and orange dawn, shattered and caught in the millions of ice crystals lining the cave walls. He thought Bucky would love this, and burst into tears.
Dusk of that second day found him at the summit of a mountain a few miles “south” of the Soul Stone’s peak, his supplies safely stashed under an overhang a ten-minute scramble from the top.
“Maybe I should just outright ask him,” he argued with the nearest boulder.
“Hey, Buck. When we get back I was thinking we could live together. Like before?”
He winced.
“Or um. Maybe… Hey, Bucky! I know we’ve both changed a lot, and it’s ok if you don’t want… Damn it! Why is this so fucking hard? I’m not even— you’re a rock, for crying out loud! Fuck!”
Kicking the boulder didn’t make Steve feel better.
He climbed down to eat a cold, flavourless dinner and watch the colour drain from the world. It brought to mind other cold, colourless nights. If he shut his eyes, he could almost trick his ears into thinking the wind’s constant howling carried far-off voices. Dum Dum’s loud laughter. Monty, Jimmy, and Dernier busting up over something Jones’d said.
And Bucky. Always, always Bucky. Ready with a quick joke or a long rant or a quiet Alright, Stevie? just for him. Bucky, whose Ma used to joke made so much noise that even his silences were loud.
Bucky’d learned to be quiet, in the war. And Steve knew from experience that he could be absolutely silent, now.
Steve’s guts twisted in grief. He felt like he kept reaching and reaching for Bucky, watching his fingers miss by half an inch. Only this time it wasn’t gravity ripping his best friend away, it was something else.
He tried to think— how messed up had he been six months after Thanos — after losing Bucky again?
If he were honest, he’d done what he always had: thrown himself into the nearest ring and punched his knuckles bloody. There’d been a lot of fires to put out at first, both literally and metaphorically. He’d gotten involved de-escalating several nasty international power grabs that had resulted in horrific human rights violations, breaking up multiple human trafficking rings that had flourished with the sudden increase in orphans, and stopping a handful of megalomaniacs that had threatened (another) global destruction. All that kept him busy for the first two or so years.
And after things settled down from constant crisis, he’d done what he could to help people start to live again. Of course, becoming a peer support counsellor in honour of Sam didn’t mean he’d made much headway with his own grief. Hell, he was still grieving his Ma, and she’d been dead for nearly a century.
Steve tipped his head back against the cave wall and waited for dawn.
Sometime in 2015, Nat had bullied Sam and Steve into watching Clueless together. Something about how she didn’t want to spend yet another night drinking cheap beer while a B-list action movie played in the background. They’d made a proper evening of it, with Rosé and popcorn and everyone lounging in their sleepwear on Sam’s ridiculously comfortable couch.
Teen dramas weren’t exactly Steve’s thing, but one moment from that film stuck with him through the years. It was near the end, when the main character Cher realized she was in love with Josh. There was this whole realization moment, complete with music and a fountain and lights, and Steve could not for the life of him figure out why that of all things had stuck in his head.
Days later Steve was here, still ranting to a rock on the top of a mountain in a godforsaken outer reach of a distant galaxy. And failing at even that, as he lashed out in frustration kicked it a little too hard. The boulder went flying off the mountain with a thunderous crack! Steve glared after it, snorting the stinking atmosphere from his lungs and feeling no closer to clarity.
His thoughts kept spiralling. He hadn’t slept for fear of somehow missing Bucky and his past self’s arrival. Or maybe for fear of waking up back on Earth to find it had all been a dream and everyone was dust.
The problem was he kept hearing a high-speed train on the wind.
No.
The problem was he’d do just about anything to see Bucky again. To catch his smile. Hear him laugh. Even the thought of getting to sit in brooding silence together made him want to do something stupid.
The problem was he loved Bucky.
Was in love with Bucky.
The problem was he couldn’t. Shouldn’t. Wouldn’t.
Bucky was his best friend.
And if Steve told Bucky how he felt, what if… what if…
The problem was, Steve wasn’t young and naïve anymore. He knew that this was the sort of thing that could end a friendship. And damn him if he were the one to destroy something that had survived multiple wars, spanned a century, defied death itself.
A shooting star caught Steve’s eye. He watched it grow closer. Recognized the ship. Time was up. If his heart fluttered with anticipation as he trekked up to Schmidt’s lair, he’d never tell.
Notes:
They say the first step is admitting you have a problem, so congrats, Steve! You're half-way there!
Sorry this update is late! Finals season is fast approaching and my schedule got away from me. I won't be able to keep to a regular update schedule for the foreseeable future. I'll post when I can, but I can't keep up with weekly updates and my schoolwork and general life. Hopefully things will even out in the new year, but we shall see!
Chapter 25: In Which the Red Skull is (Predictably) Horrible
Notes:
TW: Suicide, see end notes for more detailed (slightly spoiler-y) description.
Take care of yourselves, friends <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Vormir. A short time ago.
The Soul Stone had been content to sit inert as the Captain carried It through time and space. Its sibling Stones were more active in their attempts to avoid destruction — only time would tell if they were successful. But the Soul Stone felt secure in the knowledge that the Captain would do almost anything to save an ally.
Although It hadn’t anticipated this: two Soul Stones and two Souls existing at the same time and in the same place.
That would not do.
No, it definitely would not do to have two of the Spy’s soul in the same timeline. That could cause all sorts of cataclysmic paradoxes.
So the Stone made an exchange with Itself.
The Spy then took the Stone without her future soul, and left to her own timeline. There were once again the correct number of souls in each universe. Balance restored.
The Stone set about waiting for the Captain and the Sergeant to return to Its Temple. Content once again to remain inert. To wait and see what the Captain might do for an ally.
This time around, Bucky didn’t get a chance to work up any sort of panic about Steve. One moment he was at his side and a breath later he was leaning against the rocks a few feet away. He looked tired and hungry but otherwise no worse for wear, a dirty emergency blanket slung over one shoulder like some sort of space hobo.
“Mission accomplished?” Bucky asked, keeping one eye on the Red Skull. Doing his best to pretend his skin wasn’t crawling being this close to the former head (ha, ha) of HYDRA.
Steve’s smile was brighter than the sun in mid-July. The Red Skull looked positively murderous. Although maybe that was just his face.
“Boy have I missed you,” Steve said, still grinning.
Bucky raised an eyebrow.
Steve just shrugged. Little punk.
“So we can go, then?”
“One thing I wanted to ask Johann here, first.”
Bucky knew that look. That was the fight me look. He mentally double-checked how many rounds he had left for his gun. Only four.
Shit.
The Red Skull loomed closer. “There is a way to get your timeline’s Natasha back. But like everything, it comes at a price. One much higher than most would be willing to pay.”
Bucky’s ears were ringing too loud to hear the price, but that didn’t matter. He knew. He felt it in his gut, the same way he’d known there was no going home after Azzano.
He’d made his peace with this days (weeks, months) ago.
They followed Red Skull past two towering, sculpted pillars and up to the edge of a jagged cliff.
He was cold again.
The kind of deep-in-his-bones cold he’d come to associate with cryo. It wasn’t the violent shivering kind of cold, or the even the painful burning of late-stage hypothermia. It was that numb moment right before everything shut down. The final breath before a long sleep.
He heard himself say, “Okay.”
And stepped off the edge.
Icy wind cut past his face while his bowels turned to water and lodged themselves up in his throat, and he had just enough time to wonder if the drop would even kill him, given his track record before—
He surged upright, gasping for breath. Everything black and red and… orange? He found himself seated in a half-inch of cool water that stretched out in all directions as far as he could see. The sky overhead was overcast with strange orange-tinted clouds, the distant horizon smudged and indistinct.
Something felt off, but it wasn’t until he cautiously pushed himself to standing that he realized. His whole body felt… there wasn’t any pain. He turned his hands over and looked at them, one flesh and blood, the other polished vibranium. Experimentally rolled his left shoulder and was met with… nothing. Not even a twinge of stiff muscles. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this good.
If this was death, it wasn’t so bad.
He noticed a temple-like structure off to his right, and since it was the only thing aside from the infinite water and clouds, he set off for it.
A few minutes into the walk, he realized there was someone in the temple, waiting for him.
He was practically at the outer columns when he recognized her — wavy red hair and fiery green eyes and more fight than her little body could contain.
“Natalia?”
She turned around, smiling wider than she ever had when he’d known her, and he collapsed to his knees. Had to lean on a column for support.
I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I should’ve got you out should’ve got you all out I should’ve—
“Hey. Stop that.” Small fingers poked him sharply in the arm. He couldn’t meet her eyes, so he took in the rest of her. A ruffled pink t-shirt and jeans with purple sequins on the pockets. The hot-pink runners with velcro instead of laces that he’d stolen for her while they were out on a training assignment one time, because he’d noticed her eyeing them. He’d forgotten all about that. Obviously. But he hadn’t remembered her not-quite-smile when she’d found them in her gear that afternoon until just now. The handlers had thought she’d stolen them and tried to punish her for getting off-track while on assignment, and he’d—
Poke.
Poke.
Poke.
He blinked.
Forced himself to look her in the face.
“You back?” she asked.
Bucky took stock of himself. Kneeling in a strange temple in this strange place, talking to a past version of Natasha Romanov, who was decidedly dead. He wondered vaguely if he was decidedly dead, or merely hallucinating while on the way out.
“I guess so,” he said.
“Good.” She smiled smugly and then wormed her way into a hug. Bucky had to simultaneously fight back tears and laughter as he squeezed her tight. He wanted to wrap her up in warm, soft things and promise to keep her safe from the monsters. Wanted to joke around and tease her until she laughed. To find her a place somewhere — anywhere — where she could be a kid.
He didn’t know how to tell her any of that, so he just squeezed her tight and hoped that his plan would work.
After a minute or so, Natasha wriggled free and poked Bucky in the arm again. “So,” she said. “How’d you end up in the Soul Stone?”
Bucky poked her back, just to make her giggle, and then shifted so he his back was propped more comfortably against the column.
“You know the time-heist?”
Mini-Natasha nodded seriously. “I have all my memories,” she said.
“Right,” he cleared his throat. “Well, uh. You guys pulled it off. Brought everyone back. Thanks, by the way.”
He attempted a grateful smile, but wasn’t sure it was wholly convincing. Natasha crossed her arms.
“Anyways, after we were done using them, we had to put the Stones all back where they belonged. And Red Skull said that—“
“No.”
His smile was definitely more of a grimace, and Natasha’s eyes had filled with tears.
“Look, Natalia—“
“No. No, you got out. You were recovering, you— you—“
“Nat—“
“Fuck you!”
Well. That certainly shut him up. He leaned his head back on the column behind him and waited for the inky feeling in his gut to consume him. But a minute later, small hands wiped tears he hadn’t meant to let fall off of his cheeks and tipped his head forward until it met a red-headed forehead.
“Why?” she whispered.
“I don’t—“ but he did know. He cleared his throat again. “The world needs you. People need you. And it’s not…”
Not fair not fair not fair not—
“… right. After everything you went through, you deserve — you should get to live in the world you saved, don’t you think? And I.” Breathe, breathe, breathe. “I couldn’t save you, then. Couldn’t save any of you. But—“
She squeezed all the air from his lungs with another hug.
“Look at me.”
He couldn’t—
“Bucky. Bucky. Barnes. Look at me.”
All of a sudden, she was older. Red roots and blonde-tipped hair. A sprinkling of lines on her face that only hinted at decades of stress and hard living.
“You taught us how to survive. Okay?” She shook his shoulders. “You taught us how to fight hard and dirty and how to always stand back up. So maybe I’ve got you to thank for living long enough to make it out. And you were — god, you were just as trapped as the rest of us, and you — I don’t know how much you remember, but sometimes you’d steal little things while out on assignment and bring them back for us. Candy or hair-ties or…” she was crying now, too. “What happened back then wasn’t on us, any of us, least of all you. And if anyone deserves to live in the world — if the world owes it to anyone? I could make a pretty strong argument for you.”
Fuck.
“This was my choice, Bucky. And I’d rather be stuck in here while the rest of the universe keeps on living than the alternative. Okay?” She sniffled and wiped her cheeks hastily.
“What if I don’t… what if I’m not worth it?” he breathed.
What if he was wrong about me?
“Sometimes you gotta stay alive for something or someone other than yourself for a while, and that’s okay.” She smiled, but it was twisted with pain. “Clint made me take care of his stupid finicky houseplants for years. Some of them had to be misted every other day, needy little bastards. It was so dumb, and I hated it at first. It worked, though.”
“I had goats,” he blurted, “in Wakanda.”
“Had?”
“Can’t keep goats in Brooklyn.”
“Well, you get my point,” she said.
Bucky nodded, and they fell into silence.
“Promise me you’ll talk to someone about this when you get back?” Natasha said eventually. She pushed herself to her feet and offered Bucky a hand all in one fluid motion. Bucky let her pull him to his feet.
He wanted to promise, but couldn’t make his mouth form the words. He wanted a lot of things. To ask if she was sure about this. To beg her not to send him back. To plead with her to let him lay down and rest in this strange, painless place. But he knew that voicing any of those thoughts would just insult her. So he squared his shoulders and swallowed down his tears and asked, “Anything you want me to tell anyone?”
“No,” she said. Her smile became soft and misty. “Everyone important already knows.”
Then she shoved his shoulders and he was falling upwards —
He stumbled and blinked and found himself on a precipice, gravel skittering down down down as the toes of one boot met nothing but air. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there before he realized there was more sound than just the wind ringing in his ears.
Steve.
Talking.
To him.
“Bucky, just take a step back, pal. We can talk about this. Please, Buck. Just—“
He took a step back.
Then another.
Another.
“Can I touch you?”
Strange question. He shrugged.
Shoulders, squeezed by large arms. Tugging, pulling down until he was seated and leaning against a solid something.
Leaning against Steve.
Steve, curled around him in an awkward tangle of limbs, face buried into his left shoulder (not that shoulder, Stevie, it’s not soft. (It’s not good)).
Steve, talking again.
“How long have you, uh. Felt like… this?”
“Like what?”
Okay, maybe he deserved that look.
Bucky shrugged. Tapped each vibranium finger with a vibranium thumb. “Since I got back.”
Liar.
“Maybe earlier.”
“How long, Bucky?”
“I don’t really…” he shrugged. “Might’ve been ’45, the first time I tried? Not like they kept a calendar near my cell. But that’s—” different. Anybody would’ve tried to get out.
If only you'd succeeded.
If only if only if only if—
Steve squeezed him tight again.
“I swear I would’ve come for you, Bucky. If the plane’s autopilot hadn’t been jammed, if there’d been a chute, if it’d been any different and I got out, I would’ve put the pieces together and come for you. End of the line means forever alright?”
“Right.”
Though he doubted it. Everyone’d thought he was dead. No reason not to think it. And Steve would’ve had Peggy. Would’ve had the Howlies. ‘Sides, HYDRA were experts when it came to hiding in plain sight.
They were quiet for a few minutes, Bucky selfishly enjoying the feeling of Steve’s strong arms around his shoulders. The uneven rise and fall of Steve’s chest as he silently cried onto Bucky’s jacket.
“I meant to come right back,” Steve whispered, and Bucky knew he’d pivoted to talking about the reverse time-heist.
“What about Peggy?” Bucky asked. The question tore itself from his chest, as painful as landing on the rocks at the base of the cliff.
“What about her?”
There was no way Bucky could have this conversation wrapped up in Steve’s arms. He jerked away. Scooted so there was several feet of hard rock between them. Steve let him go. Bucky swallowed around a dry mouth, and tried to voice his next question.
“Didn’t you… But… She was your best gal.”
Steve’s smile was strange. Wistful, sure, but there was something else in it that Bucky couldn’t identify. Sadness, maybe?
“I admired Peggy. Cared about her a whole heck of a lot. Held a candle for her all throughout the war. I mean, she was beautiful, and smart, and… You know how things were, back then. She made sense. We worked well together, got along, respected each other. You and I knew plenty of couples growing up whose marriages were founded on less. Sometimes I think one of the few good things that came out of me getting frozen was Peggy meeting a man who could love her the way she deserved.”
Bucky frowned. “The hell do you mean by that?”
Steve’s smile became decidedly strained. “I mean I was in love with someone else.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
He almost asked Who? with starry-eyed hope, but he kept his lips shut tight. That was just asking to be kicked while already down. No point looking for pain when the world provided him with more than enough on the daily.
“She still around?” he heard himself say, because he’d never learned to hold his tongue. Not even when he knew it’d get him hurt.
“He is.”
What.
He didn’t just—
Steve?!?
“Buck, I—”
“You’ve liked men this whole time?”
Steve shrugged and blushed like a tomato, and Bucky’s world shifted. It was like that moment in Wizard of Oz, when Dorothy stepped out of her black-and-white home and into a world of technicolour magic. Everything was the same. Everything was entirely different.
“How the hell did I not notice? And I made you suffer through so many double dates! Fuck, Stevie. You could’ve said something.”
Another shrug. “I like women too. And it was the ‘30s. What was I supposed to say?”
“Fuck if I know.”
He was doing this all wrong. Bucky’d come across advice about this, on the internet somewhere. What you were supposed to say when someone… what was it? Came out? Yeah.
He scooted a half-foot closer and put a hand on Steve’s shoulder.
“I don’t care,” shit no that’s not— “I mean, this doesn’t change how I see you. End of the line and all that, ok? Which. I dunno what that means now, because I—“ don’t cry don’t cry you weak little— “Well. I never thought you’d come back to the future at the end of this. And you can still stay in the past if you want. The Howlies are there. My family. Peggy and H-Howard.” Oh god had Steve and Howard— “But. There’s lots of folks in the future who miss you, too. Sam. He, uh. He took up the shield. And uh—“
So much for not crying.
Steve squeezed his hand.
“Disgusting,” echoed around them. Bucky jumped. He’d completely forgotten about the Red Skull. “This kind of degeneracy is what the Fürher wanted to stamp out. Pity he—“
Two rounds to the chest and one to the forehead may or may not’ve killed the Red Skull (Bucky wasn’t sure the bastard could die at this point), but it certainly shut him up.
Bucky lowered his gun and wiped the last few tears off his face.
“Fucking Nazis.”
Steve’s laugh was water in the desert, but he turned serious again after a moment.
“Buck, are you— can you promise me something?”
Maybe.
“Don’t try that again.”
“Try what?”
“Are you fu— Just promise me you won’t fucking kill yourself, Bucky!”
Promise me you’ll talk to someone about this when you get back.
He was hot and cold at the same time, more miserable than a worm stuck to a plumber’s boot. Steve looked like he was in physical pain, and there was nothing Bucky could do about it. Worse, it was all Bucky’s fault.
He said something like alright or fine and then he was standing over the Red Skull’s corpse, staring blankly into the bleeding third eye in his forehead.
Guess he can die.
Next thing he remembered clearly was Steve forcing the battered emergency blanket around his shoulders and shoving him up the gangway to the ship. He blinked at the nav system from the co-pilot’s chair. Watched Vormir shrink out the window and realized he had a spoonful of food half-way to his mouth.
Tried to remember why a bullet to the forehead was so important.
Five bullets and six tanks.
If it’s any comfort, they died in their sleep.
Bullet to the forehead.
One of the only fool-proof ways to kill a super soldier.
While Steve was distracted, he pulled out his gun and counted his ammo. Only one bullet left. He cambered the round, flicked on the safety, and tucked the gun into the back of his waistband.
“You gonna get some sleep, Buck?”
He shrugged.
“Don’t think I could sleep, either. Should we just get the next one over with? I was thinking Asgard next. Thor said it’s beautiful. Or was, back then.”
Nothing like a mission to clear his head. He nodded once. They input the coordinates in their suits, and the world dissolved around them.
Notes:
Detailed TW: In the first 1/3rd of this chapter, Bucky attempts to trade his life/soul for Natasha's by jumping off the cliff at the Soul Temple. Because it's Bucky's POV there is a lot of negative self-talk all throughout this chapter, as well as first-person descriptions of suicidal feelings and suicidal ideation. Bucky and Steve talk a bit about Bucky's previous suicide attempts in the latter half of the chapter.
~~~
AN: Exams are done and I finally found some time to edit this. Hooray! Bit of a grim chapter for Christmastime but we all know I'm not gonna let a little holiday cheer keep me from my angst!Happy holidays to all of you dear readers <3 If it's cold and snowy where you are, I hope you're staying warm (and if it's not cold, know that I'm jealous!!). Here's hoping I don't lose power in the giant snow/ice storm that's supposed to hit town tomorrow :P
Chapter 26: In Which Thor gets His Hammer Back
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Asgard. 2013.
The change in atmosphere was jarring. In the space of a breath the permanent night of outer space and stale, recycled air became sunshine and a warm breeze that smelled faintly of apple blossoms. Bucky blinked against the bright light, willing his eyes to adjust faster. He heard Steve land beside him and shifted his stance so they were better protected front and back, knowing how quickly a slow summer’s day could turn into a gore-filled nightmare.
They’d landed in the shade of a massive stone building. Huge banners flapped in the breeze between grand columns. A handful of sentries paced sedately along the outer edge of a central courtyard. So far, they hadn’t been spotted. Although wasn’t there a myth about a Norse god who could see everything? Bucky hoped that guy wasn’t real as he crept after Steve towards a set of oak doors.
“Do you know where the Aether is supposed to be right now?” Bucky hissed at Steve when they found themselves lost in a maze of seemingly-identical grand hallways.
“It was — is? — inside Jane Foster somehow. Rocket got it out using this,” Steve gestured with a nasty-looking device that reminded Bucky too much of a giant syringe. “Apparently we can put it back in the same way. She’s supposed to be in her quarters.”
“And you didn’t bother finding out where her quarters are?”
“I didn’t think they’d be this hard to find!”
Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. “How are you still alive?”
Steve rolled his eyes, and Bucky’s heart stuttered for a second.
“Well, what about the hammer?” he persisted.
“What about the hammer,” Steve whispered back, petulant.
“We have to track down Past Thor and drop it off too, right? Maybe we should split—“
“Hell, no.”
“Steve c’mon, it’ll be a lot faster—“
“I’m not letting you out of my sight after—“
“Shhhhh!”
They heard the approaching voices at the same time. Good luck Asgard was full of alcoves and assorted statuary that offered ample places for errant super-soldiers to hide. Bucky and Steve tucked themselves behind a giant stone brazier and listened to Thor and Rocket bicker about their plan to steal the Aether. Or rather, Rocket had a plan and Thor was focused on sneaking off to the cellars for some fancy space alcohol.
In the back of his mind, Bucky wondered if the stuff would be strong enough to get him properly drunk. The rest of his mind occupied itself with keeping tabs on the conversation happening on the opposite side of the brazier and doing his best to ignore Steve silently filling the horrible syringe device with the Aether.
Apparently today was the day Thor’s mother died, which would’ve been useful to know going in. And had also probably sucked for Thor, to go back to this day.
A twin shout and scream from Thor and his mother provided the distraction Bucky needed to haul himself and Steve out of cover, down the hall, and behind a huge tapestry in Foster’s chambers. Steve made a quiet oof as his back hit the stone wall and Bucky glared at him. Years of training, and he was still shit at stealth.
They listened while Rocket burst into the room, tasered all the attendants, and knocked out Foster. Bucky couldn’t help his fond smile. The guy certainly didn’t do subtlety. There was a horrible squelching noise and then a beep, which must’ve been him extracting the Aether, and then Rocket dashed back out, leaving Bucky and Steve alone in a room with six unconscious Asgardians and one unconscious physicist.
They stepped out from behind the tapestry and glanced at each other.
“Do we have to put it back in?” Bucky asked, glancing down at Foster’s pale, clammy face. “I don’t want to accidentally kill her or something.”
Steve bit his lip. “No, you’re right. We’ll just… leave it.” He set the syringe-thing with the Aether inside it gently beside Jane’s head and they crept from the room.
They were almost where they figured Past Thor was — at least, they were creeping their way towards the rowdiest party in the citadel, and Steve said Thor’d always been the life of the party back in the day — when the alarm got raised. Guards began to scramble. A huddle of Asgardian citizens in flowing robes hurried past, discussing a security breach in the Lady’s chambers and something about Loki.
And then, echoing down the halls, “MJÖLNIR!”
Bucky raised an eyebrow at Steve.
“Guess that’s our cue,” Steve said. He patted the hammer on its head like a puppy and said, “I’ll miss you, friend. Be good to Thor.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Bucky whispered.
“Says the man who named his rifle,” Steve argued. “Here, we need to input 0-4, 0-5, 1-9-7-0.”
“Wait, shouldn’t it be 0-4, 0-7—”
Brooklyn, New York. March 15, 2024.
Sam never imagined himself here, doing this. But then again, how many times had he said that to himself? He’d never thought he’d get tapped for an experimental military para-rescue program. Never thought he’d end up dismantling a quasi-international intelligence organization with Captain Freaking America. Never thought he’d fight real actual aliens. Twice.
And he definitely never thought he’d end up in a historical Brooklyn graveyard, digging up his best friend’s casket with the princess of a foreign nation.
His shovel hit wood.
“Found the lid,” he half-whispered, half-panted up to Shuri.
She hopped down into the hole beside him and brushed away some of the dirt. Sam leaned on his shovel to watch while Shuri wordlessly set up some fancy doohickey on the small patch of exposed casket lid.
“How long does this—“
“Two minutes,” Shuri hissed.
“I’ll keep lookout,” he whispered, and pulled himself up out of the hole.
A lookout wasn’t really necessary. Sam’d had Redwing 1 loop the CCTV for the graveyard and surrounding businesses while Redwing 2 (bless Shuri for building him two new drones!) monitored the area for traffic. But the less time he had to spend standing in a cramped hole over Steve’s grave, the better.
At least with Shuri’s tech, they didn’t have to fully exhume the body. Just needed to get the scanner close enough to pick up the quantum signatures of whatever was inside the casket. Or something along those lines. Sam still wasn’t entirely clear on what they were looking for. Bruce and Shuri had both tried to explain how the thing that had looked and walked and talked and died like Bucky hadn’t really been Bucky at all, but Sam’s brain just wasn’t cut out for theoretical quantum mechanics.
And even Shuri and Bruce weren’t entirely sure what the not-Bucky was. A Bucky from another timeline? An impersonation of some sort? Bruce was currently analyzing the arm they’d removed from not-Bucky’s body. In the meantime, Sam and Shuri had been sent to determine whether or not Old Steve was made of similar stuff.
Or rather, Sam had volunteered to check (Bucky’s stupid, impulsive, and highly illegal decision-making must’ve rubbed off on him), and Shuri’d said she wouldn’t dream of letting someone else use her delicate tech unsupervised.
Down below, something chimed quietly. A moment later Shuri popped up beside Sam, dirt smeared on the elbows of her jacket.
“Done,” she said.
Sam was already dumping dirt back into the hole.
“Good,” he grunted, palms sweaty on the shovel. “Because I never want to do this again.”
The following week was filled with a sort of blank business that made Sam feel simultaneously stressed-out and useless. He flew out to California and got the whole story of Bucky’s departure from Scott Lang. Which somehow resulted in Hank Pym and Bruce Banner setting aside whatever academic beef they had (Sam hadn’t even known they’d had beef) in favour of investigating this latest time-travel mystery.
He went back to Delacroix. Sanded and varnished every square inch of wood on the Paul and Darlene. Got in another fight with Sarah over the water pump. Played a few games of catch with Cass and AJ.
He flew to New York and stared up at Bucky’s apartment building like a total stalker. He took the train over to Manhattan and wandered aimlessly until he ended up with an over-priced coffee in an over-crowded cafe across the street from the building Steve had lived in after he’d got his act together and stopped crashing on Sam’s couch in DC. Sam’d been considering moving in with him once the lease on his DC place was up, but then everything went to hell with the Accords and in some ways it felt like the crazy train’d never stopped rolling since.
He rented a car and drove to DC. Dropped by his old workplace only to find they’d moved the mental health centre to a newer, larger building a few blocks away.
Good, he thought, we never had enough space down in those basement offices.
He bit the inside of his cheek and balled his hands into fists and tried not to think about how he’d clung to the weekly re-assurance of shitty coffee and dingy lighting and beat-up folding chairs in that very basement when he’d first got back.
Or, well, when he’d been back long enough to finally try to get out, in a manner of speaking.
He didn’t think about Maureen, who’d told him excitedly three weeks before everything went to shit with SHIELD that she’d been confident enough to drive her kids to their soccer practice every week for the past month. Didn’t think about Tray, who’d told Sam right on that bench over there that he’d decided to go to college and study psychology so he could become a counsellor. That he wanted to help people like Sam had helped him. Didn’t think about John, who hadn’t talked much but had helped Sam spackle over more than a few holes in the walls, fixed the clanging radiator in Maria’s office, saved Sam’s laptop from the sprinklers when the fire alarm went off…
It was stupid, he supposed, to expect places to stay the same. The building was old and shitty and it was good they’d relocated. Really.
He wondered if this was how Steve had felt, but about everything all the time.
If had been the same or different for Bucky, who’d maybe seen more of the past century than anyone else.
Sam’s phone buzzed in his pocket.
A text from Bruce: How soon can you get back?
Thirty-five miles outside of Wheaton, New Jersey. April 5, 1970.
The Space Stone found itself drawing near to the place where It historically ought to be. Carefully carried by the Captain and his Soldier such that the flow of History would play out exactly as Before.
If returned to Its home, the future would be as a plucked string: destined only to produce one note. Time’s reverberations would be sinusoid, singing an orderly path to the Space Stone’s ultimate destruction.
But. Introduce enough energy into any system and it will spiral into chaos. Introduce a little chaos at the right time and place, and this universe would spin off into beautiful, unknowable possibility. All the Stone had to do was cut the string.
The Soldier was the key.
Notes:
This chapter made me learn that Americans use mm-dd-yyyy instead of dd-mm-yyyy like the rest of the world. Why you gotta be so special, America? Hmmmm?
Anywho, aren't you glad to check back in with Sam? Always nice to lighten the mood with the comic relief character. What's he doin... Oh. He's sad. Welp. I'm sure nothing bad is about to happen! Everything's going to be juuuuuuust fine :D :D :D
Chapter 27: In Which Sam Begins and Ends a Career in Entomology
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
San Francisco, California. March 16, 2024.
Sam had to fly cross-country in his suit because he didn’t have the cash for a last-minute ticket to San Francisco and he was reluctant to get on the military’s radar by calling in a favour with Torres. So, Cap suit it was.
The flight took seven hours. By the time he touched down on the roof of Pymtech Labs he was cold, stiff, and exhausted. If there wasn’t any coffee inside he was seriously going to fight somebody. After he unfroze a little. He flexed his numb fingers as he called up Scott with his visor.
“Hey, Sam! You here?”
“On the roof.”
“Great! One sec, I’ll… okay, maintenance door is now unlocked. Take the first elevator on your left down to 13.”
“Y’all better have coffee ready and waiting for me.”
Scott laughed. “See you soon, Cap.”
A half hour later found Sam properly caffeinated, changed into a comfortable pair of joggers and a hoodie, and lounging his sore body on a surprisingly comfortable couch in one of the upper offices of Pymtech Labs. Doctor Hank Pym himself held court in front of a giant whiteboard covered with inscrutable equations. A sleep-deprived Dr. Banner nursed a coffee in a plush desk chair off to the side, while Scott Lang paced near Sam’s couch and Hope Van Dyne stood sentry by the door, her arms crossed. Princess Shuri’d been called back to Wakanda, but had promised to join remotely as soon as she could.
Sam tried his best to understand what the hell the scientists were taking about — quantum entanglement, something about nuclear decay, and maybe relativity? Or string theory? But he’d gotten lost two minutes in, and worse, he kept catching himself mid-way through turning to the side, expecting to catch Steve’s eye and share the look they’d often exchanged whenever Stark had gotten rolling with an overly-technical debrief.
Thankfully it was only a few more minutes of physics jargon before Dr. Pym ran a hand through his hair and asked, “Any questions?”
“Yeah, uh. Could you recap that for those of us who don’t have physics PhD’s?”
Hank and Bruce both grimaced sheepishly, but it was Hope who spoke up.
“Sorry, Captain Wilson. My father is terrible at explaining himself.” She uncrossed her arms and paced up to the whiteboard. “Basically, because of some physics stuff and thanks to some comparative measurements we were able to gather—"
“Thanks to Jimmy Woo, the FBI agent,” Scott cut in. “He ran across a surprisingly similar case with fabricated people last fall, and- oh. Sorry, Hope.”
Hope rolled her eyes affectionately at Scott before she continued. “Thanks to all that, we’ve been able to determine that the bodies of Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes are indeed not the originals. Rather, they’re — as Scott called it — fabricated. Best we can tell, they were constructed at some point in time by one or more Infinity Stones, most likely the Mind Stone. Unfortunately our samples became unstable before we could confirm any of our working theories as to why both fabrications died shortly after their appearance on Earth.”
Sam pushed aside the unexpected wave of grief that caught his chest. “So Old Steve and Old Bucky were…”
“Fakes,” Hope said, nodding. “Nearly identical copies made to mimic the originals.”
“Copies made by the most powerful artefacts in the universe. Can’t really blame anyone for not noticing something off,” Bruce added.
“But I thought Steve took all the Stones back,” Sam said, feeling stupid. “So how could they have made fake people just, y’know, appear?”
“Something must’ve gone wrong with Steve's mission,” Bruce said.
They all let that sink in for a moment.
“Bucky knew,” Scott muttered. Sam glanced at him, surprised. “I mean, he told me he wanted to go live out his retirement in the past with Steve, but. Does Sergeant Bucky Barnes seem like the type to sit on his ass and watch history play out?”
Oh, shit.
“Does Steve Rogers?”
Shit shit shit shit shi—
"I mean, Bucky knew Cap — OG Cap, that is — better than the rest of us. He must've realized something'd happened to Steve and gone back to try and save him.”
“Without bothering to tell anyone his plan, as per usual,” Sam groused as he stood up. Much easier to be angry at Bucky for going off half-cocked than anything else. He didn’t want to think about it.
Bruce simply shook his head, eyebrows pinched with worry.
“Well the good news is, Scott’s figured out a way to send people back to a person in time, rather than a point,” Hank said.
“We don’t know if it works, though. I mean, I sent Bucky back and we got…”
“A doppelgänger,” Sam said.
“Yeah.”
“Well, why don’t we try it out?” Sam said. “I mean, you guys didn’t try your big time-heist cold-turkey, did you?”
Hank’s dour face split into a grin. “Have you ever considered going into the sciences, young man?”
“Dad!” Hope complained.
“Now remember, all you have to do is spray-paint an orange dot on Ant-Thony’s butt and come right back.”
“I know, Scott,” Sam assured. “I’ve got this.”
Scott released a shaky breath and shook out his hands, an annoying tic of his that didn't help Sam's nerves at all.
“Right, right. Man, it’s weird not being the test subject. You sure you don’t want me to—“
“Just hit the button, Lang.”
“Alright, alright. Going in five, four, three, two—“
Sam’s stomach flipped as he dropped into a multi-coloured tunnel. There were a few horrifying seconds of absolute disorientation, and then his knees slammed hard into something. He barely caught himself in time to prevent his nose from smashing on the floor. He blinked a few times while his head stopped spinning and his eyes adjusted to the dim light. He’d landed in a child's bedroom, judging by the brightly-painted walls and patterned bedspread.
Sam turned around and barely stopped himself from screaming like a girl. Growing up in Louisiana, he’d seen his fair share of big creepy-crawlies, but Good Lord! that thing was almost as big as him. It was blessedly facing away from Sam at the moment, its antennae waggling as it sniffed at a sparkly pink drum-kit in the corner. Sam was thankful that he’d had the foresight to pre-shake the can of spray-paint as he slowly unholstered it from his belt. There was nothing to be done for the PSHHHHHT! the paint made coming out, though. Sam dropped the can and mashed the button on his suit just as Ant-Thony started to turn around.
Another tunnel of light, and he landed back in the lab.
“That was fast! Everything go okay?”
Sam could only nod, afraid he’d lose his lunch if he opened his mouth.
“You get used to the dizziness after you do it a few times,” Scott assured him. “Alright! Let’s call Ant-Thony and see if it worked!”
Sam begged off to the bathroom before the monstrous ant could arrive. At least it wasn’t a giant spider. Ugh.
Scott and Hope were generous enough to let Sam crash in their guest bedroom that night.
He couldn't sleep.
Overwhelming silence seemed to press on his eardrums as he lay flat on his back and stared up into darkness. Somewhere in that darkness hid a boring-old ceiling, but for all Sam could see, it could’ve just been an infinite, inky expanse. Suddenly, the covers were the only think keeping him pinned to the earth. He fumbled desperately for the lamp on the bedside table and switched it on.
Yep. Just a boring-ass ceiling.
Sam sat up and ran his hands over his face while his heart pounded and his lungs seized.
He couldn’t believe he’d been duped not once, but twice. His best friend in the whole world, and he hadn’t been able to tell it wasn’t really him. Had just accepted that Steve Rogers, World’s Most Selfless Man, would pull a selfish stunt like that. He'd buried him, grieved him, and tried to move the fuck on.
And Bucky…
Of course Bucky’d figured it out.
Either that, or he really had tried to jump back to Steve’s retirement. Heck, maybe Sam had it all wrong, and they were both living their best lives in an alternate past. Doing whatever old-timey shit white folks got up to way back never until they grew old and cranky and had nothing better to do than shout at those darn kids to get off their lawns.
Sam couldn't picture it. Neither of them were the type to sit around and watch the world burn. Especially if they thought they could stop it.
Fuck, had Bucky gone back to the past to kill the Winter Soldier or some messed up shit like that?
Sam really needed to get back there, find those two idiots, and drag them home. And then preferably get the pair of them into some proper therapy. He began to drift as he imagined how that conversation might go, and eventually he dozed off.
He woke up to the warm smells of bacon sizzling and coffee brewing. Sam made quick work of freshening up in the bathroom and then headed downstairs, stomach flip-flopping between hunger and nerves.
“Mornin’ Cap!” Scott said as he turned the bacon in a cast-iron skillet.
“You know you can still call me Sam, right Tic Tac?”
Scott laughed.
“Good morning, Sam,” Hope said, rising from her seat at the table. “Coffee?”
“If you’re having some.”
“How do you take it?”
“No cream, one sugar. Thanks.”
Soon enough all three of them were seated at the kitchen table, tucking into bacon, eggs, and toast, with steaming mugs of coffee and tall glasses of orange juice on the side. Much better than the gluey power bar Sam’d scarfed down for breakfast yesterday.
“So, now that you’re the Captain, you thinking of re-starting the Avengers?” Scott asked as the meal wound down.
Sam looked him right in the eye, trying to parse his intentions. “You fishing for a story for your tell-all podcast, Tic Tac?”
Scott laughed and raised his hands. “Maybe a little. But anything you say that you don’t want me spreading around, just let me know and my lips are sealed. Besides, I don’t cover top-secret stuff, and I generally stay away from anything post-blip. Except for discussing current social issues like homelessness and, okay, I did talk about the FlagSmashers for an episode, but I’m not out to dox anyone or anything like that. I know that in some cases, people’s lives are on the line.”
“Relax, Lang. I’ve listened to your podcast before.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I liked how you humanized us. Told the story how it happened and not… I dunno. The media blew a lot of shit way out of proportion back then. Highlighted the bad, undersold the good. Only to turn around the next day and treat us like infallible gods. I think folks need to realize that their heroes are just…”
“People?”
“Yeah.”
“I hope you’re not insulted that I kinda made fun of you in that one ep—“
“Annnd that’s why you’re still Tic Tac to me.”
Scott grinned and Hope smacked him. Sam cupped his half-empty mug of coffee between his hands.
“Off the record, though. I don’t know what I’m going to do. The Avengers were Nick Fury’s brainchild, and who the hell knows where he’s at these days. And looking back, we did a lot of good, but we did a lot of harm, too. There were— I mean, if something like Thanos or even Ultron happens again we’ll need a big team of powerful people to protect the planet, but.” He shrugged.
Somewhere deep in the house, a clock ticked softly.
“With the way things went down last time, the accords and all that? I’m not sure having a large organized group is the way to go. But on the other hand, with more and more people cropping up who have powers, I feel, I dunno, responsible for keeping them safe? Like, how do I make sure they’re protected from organizations or people who would take advantage of them?”
How does he keep what happened to Bucky, to Isaiah Bradley from happening again? What had nearly happened to Bruce, had Thaddeus Ross had his way.
“Like Ava,” Hope said softly.
“Ava?” Sam asked.
“They called her Ghost. She had a rare medical condition that gave her the ability to walk through walls. SHIELD trained her and used her as an operative for years until we ran into her. She’s… doing better now.”
“Fucking hell,” Sam said.
“Well, at least the Accords got overturned. So there’s no public registry of powered folks anymore,” Scott said.
“The Raft is still operational, though,” Sam said.
“It is?” Scott nearly spat his coffee. Hope slapped his back while he coughed.
“They held Bucky there for over a month while they hashed out his pardon.”
“I thought Steve and Nat got that shit shut down during the Blip.”
“If they did, someone got it going again. Zemo’s in there now.” Shit. “You don’t know that.”
“I don’t know anything about the Raft,” Scott said. Sam nodded.
“Nothing like cheerful breakfast conversation to start the day.” Hope sighed and gathered up her plate. “Come on boys. We’d better get moving or we’ll be late.”
Scott fiddled anxiously with the controls on the quantum-tunnel while Dr. Banner helped Sam suit up.
“In and out, Wilson,” Dr. Banner said.
“I know.”
Hank handed Dr. Banner a large syringe. “This is your backup ticket home,” he said. “It’ll auto-activate sixty minutes after we inject it. The design itself is similar to a subcutaneous tracking chip, but it—“
“Dad!” Hope said. “You’re over-explaining again.”
“Right,” Hank cleared his throat. “Basically, no matter what’s going on over there, even if the suit breaks down or you get trapped or knocked out or something, this’ll pull you back. And if you have ahold of the Captain and the Sergeant, you’ll pull them back with you, too.”
Sam nodded. Scott saw sweat gathering across his forehead as he presented his forearm to Dr. Banner.
“Little pinch. Good. Now you just need your gear...” Dr. Banner lumbered off to grab Sam’s time-travel emergency backpack and Scott gave up on pretending to fiddle with the controls. He wandered over to the platform at the mouth of the tunnel.
“Try not to piss yourself,” he said, like a total weirdo. “I did that the first time we tried to time travel. Though I guess you’ve already done this once, so you’re probably good.”
“Right. Thanks for the tip.”
Dr. Banner returned with the backpack.
“Best of luck, Cap,” Scott said.
“See you in ten, Tic Tac.”
Sam gave a final salute from the platform as Dr. Banner counted him down.
“… and returning in five, four, three, two, one.”
There was a small metallic tinkling and then utter silence as nothing re-appeared on the tunnel’s platform.
“Where is he? Fuck!” Dr. Banner shouted. “I can’t lose both Caps! How is this even possible?”
Scott hopped onto the platform and knelt down, heart in his throat. There was nothing to be found but a few scattered drops of blood and a tiny silver disc. He swore softly as he picked it up and raised it to the light to inspect it.
“What is that?” Hope asked quietly, though Scott suspected she already knew.
“It’s Sam’s ticket home.”
Notes:
Edited this with a migraine so hopefully there aren't too many mistakes lol
Chapter 28: In Which a Proud New Yorker is Forced to Spend Time in Jersey
Notes:
CWs: panic attack, poor mental health, unhealthy/unhelpful coping mechanisms.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Middle-of-nowhere, New Jersey. April 5, 1970.
He touched down a few seconds after Steve, ready to tear him a new one for messing up the date. As soon as he’d determined there were no immediate threats — they’d landed in a scrubby forest with nobody around (probably for miles) — Bucky started in.
“I know you faked being from Paramus that one time, but really Steve, this is bullshit. We’re two whole days early. What the fuck are we supposed to do in Jersey for two days? Ain’t I been tortured enough for one lifeti—“
“Don’t even joke about that, Bucky,” Steve snapped.
“Why not?” Bucky snarled back, suddenly boiling for a fight. “If anyone’s got a right to joke about—“
“I just—“
“What, you don’t like it? Don’t think it’s in good taste?”
“I—“
“Funny, Steve, I don't remember which one of us is currently locked in a fucking bunker in Siberia getting his brains shocked to hell. Fuck!”
He hadn’t meant to say that. Hadn’t meant to even think about that on this part of the mission. Had specifically avoided thinking about the 70’s all throughout this stupid reverse time-heist because now the air wasn’t coming into his lungs right and he was probably going to have to spend half an hour just waiting to get his breath back and they were stuck somewhere in the middle of fucking Jersey for two days so he didn’t have time to lose it like this he needed to get it together, get it together, get it together, get it together Soldier!
“…might've wanted the extra time to pick up supplies and do a little recon before attempting this one. I didn’t think it’d be… Hey, Bucky? Are you—“
“I’m fine!”
“Okay! Okay, sorry.”
He didn’t want to punch Steve’s face in (again), so he paced away, clenching and unclenching his fists. Attempted to get a real lungful of air and rein in his galloping heart. Leaned his forehead against a tree and shut his eyes and inhaled the scent of moss and mildew and weak sunshine for a few minutes. Smacked his head lightly against the rough bark a handful of times.
Keep it together, Barnes.
You’re fine. This is fine. Everything’s fine.
Okay?
Okay.
Good.
He slouched back over to Steve.
“Never thought I’d see the day you’d remember to run recon. Thought that sort of thing was my job, huh?” His smile felt like a porcelain mask on his face and a glance at Steve showed he was on the verge of tears. Bucky hated himself twice over. “Sorry.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. Tried to console himself with the idea that he could at the very least be a useful piece of shit. “I know a place where we can lay low for a bit. Get some supplies and cash. Rest up.”
“You do?”
“I ever steered you wrong before?” he asked, praying Steve would pretend to play along with the banter.
“Lacey Turner’s birthday,” Steve said with a snap of his fingers. Thank god. “What was it, summer of ’34? ‘35?”
“You’re not still mad about that, are you Stevie?” Bucky’s smile felt marginally less fragile, though he couldn’t bring himself to meet Steve’s eyes.
“I was the only kid dressed in his Sunday best and we went to the beach, Bucky!”
He forced out a laugh, and Steve playfully shoved him, and for the next few minutes everything felt like it might be okay.
When they got to the nearest town, Bucky acquired them a map of the area and some period-appropriate clothing while Steve found them a ride. Bucky may or may not have filched a few twenties from the wallet of a fashionably dressed man while pretending to deliberate over two very different but equally horrible fringed leather jackets. Unable to decide which jacket was worse, he bought both, along with some more standard shirts and pants. Then he high-tailed it back to the rendezvous with Steve.
“The hell are you wearing?”
“It’s called fashion, Steve. We gotta blend in with the times.” He did a spin to demonstrate the stupid fringes on his jacket, just because he knew it’d annoy Steve. “Look, I got you one, too.”
“I’m not wearing that.”
“Says the man who runs into battle dressed like the goddam flag.”
“I thought you liked the outfit.”
“I liked your USO outfit. Those tights—”
“Oh, fuck off,” Steve laughed. He took the bundle of 70’s clothing, including the fringed jacket, and hastily pulled it all on. Apparently Steve looked pretty good in bell-bottom jeans, too.
“This the truck?” Bucky said, stupidly gesturing to it so he could look anywhere besides Steve.
“Yep. It has about a half tank, I think.”
“What is this, an old F-100?”
Steve shrugged. “No clue.”
“Don’t even know what model you stole—“
“Borrowed—“
“Right, we’ll be sure to return this baby without a scratch.”
Steve rolled his eyes. “You want to drive or no?”
Bucky snorted and pulled open the driver's-side door. “Is the Pope Catholic?”
Three minutes later they were rattling along the highway, feeling every bump courtesy of the truck’s rusted shocks. Bucky navigated more and more off muscle memory as they got closer to the safe house.
“It should be empty,” he said when they were about five miles out. “But if it’s not—“
“Nobody knows we were here.” He could feel Steve trying to catch his eye, but kept his gaze firmly on the road. “This isn’t my first rodeo, Buck.”
“I know.”
A mile ticked by in deepening darkness.
“Might be easier for you to tag ‘em if they’re distracted by me,” he said.
“A reverse Amiens?” Steve asked.
“Yeah.” Bucky huffed out something that might’ve been a laugh. “Amiens, exactly.”
And then they were there.
All of the farmhouse’s windows stayed dark as they made a circuitous approach on foot, Bucky careful to point out the cameras and tripwires to Steve. He paused at a basement window and listened for a solid minute, but didn’t hear any movement inside the house. This particular window, he knew, was a weak point. He remembered thinking it while squatting for hours in the musty cellar, waiting for—
The important thing was, the window was a weak point, which meant it was child’s play to slip a knife under the latch and then swing the pane up. He motioned Steve through, took one last glance around to make sure no one was following them, and then disappeared into the cellar himself.
It was smaller than he remembered, barely space for the two of them, and the top of his head just brushed the roughshod ceiling. Bucky reached around Steve until he found the latch for the trap door, and then slowly, silently eased the ladder down. Steve motioned as if to say after you. Bucky shot him a mock salute and pulled himself out of the cellar in two quick steps.
The rest of the house was dead quiet and covered in a thick layer of dust. Nobody’d been here for years, and if memory served, nobody would be here for another decade and a half. He wouldn’t be here again until 1998, at least to his knowledge. He did a full sweep of the safe-house nonetheless. Made sure any surveillance equipment was properly disconnected and that power would be drawn from the generators and not the local grid before he dared turning on any lights.
Once he was sure they’d gotten in without tipping anyone off, he went back down to the cellar for Steve. He knocked twice, three times, once, on the trapdoor and then pulled it open. Steve blinked owlishly up at him, looking pale in the hall's harsh fluorescent light.
“Lemme give you a tour,” Bucky said, offering his hand. Steve sort of shivered as Bucky pulled him up. “You cold?” he asked. Though Steve’s hand didn’t feel cold. Also, Bucky shouldn’t still be holding his hand. He dropped it and spun around. “They have spare blankets and stuff up in the bedrooms on the second floor. This is the kitchen,” he gestured around the cramped and dust-covered room. “Armoury is through that pantry there. Living room’s off to the right, and beyond that is the office. It’s full of ancient surveillance tech. Took me a minute to remember how to turn it all off. Dining room’s through here. And then the bedrooms are up this way.”
Steve’s footfalls creaked on each stair behind him.
“There’s three, no, four bedrooms. And a bathroom at the end of the hall. I was planning on sleeping in the living room, though. Closer to the doors.”
And he couldn’t— he wouldn’t sleep in these beds, knowing who had slept in them. Who would sleep in them someday.
“Yeah, that’s. I think I’ll join you down there. If that’s ok?”
“We can set up a watch.”
Steve nodded, then gestured towards the washroom. “I’m gonna—“
“Yep.”
Steve headed down the hall, and Bucky made his way silently back downstairs. Time to go through the armoury with a finer-toothed comb. See if there was anything left behind from the sixties that he could use.
Steve leaned against the bathroom sink and did his level best not to scream.
He should’ve just landed them on the day of the heist. Bucky was right. Bucky was always right. Why, why, why had he thought it would be a good idea to arrive early? What the fuck had he been thinking?
“The hell are you doing, Steve?” he whispered to his reflection.
His reflection didn’t answer except to stare desperately back.
He was not okay.
Bucky was not okay.
Bucky’d tried to kill himself.
Might’ve been ’45, the first time I tried.
Bucky.
God.
And now they were holed up in a HYDRA safe-house, surrounded by the ghosts of Bucky’s past like this was some sort of demented vacation. And Bucky… ever since their argument, Bucky was acting almost too normal. Like none of this bothered him. Like he could care less what’d happened to him all those years.
Steve had played along in the woods for the sake of keeping the peace, but underneath the usual quips and smirks and cheap laughter he was boiling. It felt like Bucky didn’t trust him anymore. Not with the real stuff, at least. What if Bucky’d never really trusted Steve after HYDRA?
What if he never really trusted me at all?
Growing up, Steve knew Bucky, or at least, he thought he’d known Bucky, better than he’d known himself. Bucky had put a lot of stock in what others thought about him, way back when. The Bucky the rest of the world got to see — the one who was funny and charming and whip-smart and one hell of a dancer — that Bucky was just the surface. Steve thought that if the Bucky of the past’d had his way, he’d’ve only ever let the world see the strongest parts of himself.
He’d been Steve’s hero. Even when he had nothing, he had Bucky.
Though maybe a better word for his best friend would be magician, keeping his audience distracted and entertained with laughter and stories and a lot of bravado while the real magic happened just out of sight. Steve could remember multiple instances where he’d worried for weeks over paying rent or buying more medicine, only for Bucky to show up with the needed drugs in hand, problem solved. When Steve’d asked how he’d come up with the money for it, Bucky’d waved him off with a dumb joke and then distracted Steve with neighbourhood gossip or the latest fantasy story he’d been reading and by the time Steve realized that Bucky’d never really answered his question, Bucky was asleep, or gone home, or it was weeks later and all the medicine was used up anyhow.
Then there was the summer that Bucky’d stopped talking about going to college after high school and instead started talking a big game about becoming a mechanic, or a shipbuilder, or a fry-cook, or… And then he’d stopped talking about his own ambitions altogether, but would go on about how smart his sisters were, how Steve really oughta apply for that art school, how he didn’t like Becca’s boyfriend thinking married women had no need for a college education. He’d even started to put money aside for his sisters’ college tuition before Pearl Harbour.
Steve felt immensely guilty for the way he’d idolized Bucky over his “enlistment.” He’d been wrapped up in his own jealousy and pride and fear of what could happen and sometimes he wished he could go back and shake his past self. So focused on joining up himself that he didn’t even stick around for Bucky’s last night in New York. And when they were reunited in Europe, how had he been so blind? Why hadn’t he sent Bucky home with the rest of the freed POWs? How had he not realized just how badly his best friend was hurting?
But hindsight saw things clearest, and Bucky’d always been good at pretending to be okay. Had always had a knack for making terrible shit seem bearable simply by virtue of his cocky grin and a long-winded story and a few well-timed jokes -- often paired with some quiet kindnesses that he’d never admit to and would never explain. Only now something -- no -- several things had happened that were so terrible that even a sprinkle of that old Bucky magic wasn’t enough to cover up the cracks.
The lights had come up, and Steve could see that Bucky was no hero, and no magician either, fumbling his way around the stage armed only with flash-paper and a half-empty box of matches.
Not for the first time, Steve wished Sam were here. Sam never shied away from calling folks on their bullshit, and Steve felt like he was about drowning in his own right now.
There was a clatter down below, followed by a muffled string of curses. Steve was out of the bathroom and sprinting down the stairs in the space of a breath. He skidded to a halt in the kitchen and stood panting in the square of harsh yellow light that poured out of the pantry/armoury.
Bucky was seated in the middle of the armoury with an unfamiliar rifle half-disassembled in his lap, his right thumb jammed between his teeth.
“You okay?”
“Hm?” Bucky pulled his thumb out of his mouth, and Steve glimpsed blood before he tucked his hand behind his back. “Oh. Just going over the inventory. Forgot this gun’s a finicky bitch.”
“Bucky.”
“Mmph.”
“We’re not gonna need a—“ Soviet-made sniper rifle. No rifling around the muzzle. Fucking shit. “I don’t think we’ll need a gun that big on our heist.”
“Aw, c’mon Stevie, you’re no fun,” Bucky said, sounding just as whiny as he had whenever Steve’d told him to get the Howlies in line. It made Steve’s heart lodge itself somewhere in the back of his throat.
“Lemme see your hand.”
“You’re worse than Sam.” But Bucky offered up his injured thumb when Steve crouched down beside him.
“And how do you know what Sam’s like, huh?” He meant it to be teasing, but Bucky clammed up. Another damn wall. Steve grit his teeth and inspected Bucky’s thumb. It had already stopped bleeding. Wouldn’t need a bandage.
Steve watched Bucky finish re-assembling the rifle. Bucky set it aside and began to methodically clean the gun he’d stolen from Avengers Tower in 2012.
“You got something to say, Steve?” he grumbled after maybe ten minutes of fastidious polishing.
“Sam,” Steve cleared his throat. “You said he, uh. Took up the shield?”
“You can’t have it back if that’s what you—“
“No! No, jeeze. I was planning to retire after this whole thing anyways. Metaphorically pass on the mantle if he wanted it. I’m glad it worked out.”
Bucky re-holstered his gun and started to sharpen one of his many knives.
“He is happy, right? He’s not just doing it cause everyone thinks I’m dead or because of pressure people put on him or anything?”
Bucky snorted. “Yeah, no. He’s… happy’s maybe not the right word. But he’s proud to be Cap. Made the mantle fit the man and not the other way around. He and I had a huge fight over, well, over a lot of things. You, mostly. We’re cool now, though. We saved some kidnapped politicians together, I helped fix up the family boat, he let me crash on his couch. Or rather, his sister let me crash—”
“You got to see the boat?” Steve asked, unable to contain his wonder. Sam had waxed poetic about the Paul and Darlene a few times when they’d been on the run together. Had promised to bring Steve over once they were allowed back into the States. Though at the time Steve had doubted that would ever happen. “Damn, I’m jealous. Were his nephews there?”
“AJ and Cas?” Bucky smiled like a lit-up Christmas tree. “They think I’m cool.” His laugh echoed around the small armoury, and Steve grinned.
“You? Cool? It’ll be a cold day in Hell.”
Which earned him a good whack on the shoulder, so of course Steve had to reciprocate, and moments later they were wrestling like schoolboys, rolling across the floor until they hit a wall. Bucky got Steve in a headlock and gave him the worst nuggie of his life. Steve elbowed him in the ribs with one arm, and tried to wriggle around to tickle Bucky’s armpit but hit solid vibranium.
“Not fair!”
“HAH!”
And then something rolled off a shelf and they both froze.
“Is that a—“
“Yeah. We should—“
Steve gingerly extricated himself from Bucky’s headlock and carefully gathered up the spilled grenades. The playfulness dissipated as quickly as it had arrived. Bucky pushed himself to his feet and left without a word.
A few hours later, Steve was sitting up on watch while Bucky caught some sleep on the musty couch. He was on high alert. Every unfamiliar creak and groan from the house made him reach for the gun he’d chosen from the armoury. So it was easy to hear when Bucky’s breathing went from deep and even to fast and light. He woke with a quiet gasp and hauled the quilt they’d pilfered from one of the upstairs beds tight around his shoulders as he pushed himself to seated.
Steve wasn’t sure if he should say anything, so he stayed quiet.
“Hey, Steve?” Bucky whispered. His voice sounded small in the dark.
“Yeah, Buck?”
“I’m uh. I’m sorry for scaring you. Back on Vormir. That was.” There was a thump as Bucky let himself fall sideways on the couch. “I don’t want you to worry about me, ‘k? I’m gonna…" he made a vague hand gesture. "Get myself sorted out. When we get back. So don’t… I… Sorry. M’not—“ there was a long silence.
Steve abandoned his post in the wing-backed chair and slid himself down the couch. Poked Bucky’s head until he lifted it, and then scooted over until it was laying in his lap.
“Not your fault, Buck. I’m sorry for freaking out on you, I…” he snorted softly at himself, frustrated that he couldn’t find the right words. “I guess I don’t know what to say. But I’m here, okay? I’ve got this watch, you just rest.”
A clock ticked deep in the house as Steve ran his fingers through the soft, short strands of Bucky’s hair. He listened as his best friend slowly dropped back off to sleep.
“Don’t go where I can’t follow, Buck.” he whispered a long time later, quiet as a breath. “Please, I—”
He had to tilt his head back so his tears wouldn’t land on Bucky’s face and wake him up.
Notes:
Ah, so nice to have downtime. Go shopping, see the sights, maybe take a hike in the woods, and then kick back and relax in a quaint country farmhouse.
~~~~~
Life is insanely busy right now, but I finally managed to find a free evening to edit and post this!!
Bonus points to anyone who caught the LOTR reference :D
Chapter 29: In Which Steve Worries the Right Amount (Thank You Very Much)
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
HYDRA Safe-House, New Jersey. April 7, 1970.
“We’ll rendezvous at the creek-bed three miles out from the base. And remember, I was spotted last time. Whole place went into high-alert at approximately —“
“Steve.”
A sting on his shoulder brought Steve up short. Bucky’d snapped him with the long end of his tie.
“We’ve been over the plan so many times I could recite it in my fucking sleep.”
Steve rubbed at the headache blossoming between his eyes. “You’d tell me if it was a dumb—.”
“Plan’s fine, Stevie,” Bucky cajoled, turning back to the sink. “‘Sides, breaking in to a top-secret HYDRA base is small potatoes for us.”
Bucky’s smile was tight and unconvincing in the way it didn’t reach his eyes.
At least they’d both been able to rest up a little over the past two days.
“Right. Small potatoes.” Steve echoed. He watched while Bucky finished tying his olive-green tie in front of the cracked bathroom mirror. Their reflections locked eyes, and suddenly it was 1944. Steve couldn’t breathe.
“Something on my face?”
“No, um.” He watched his own hands smooth down an invisible wrinkle in Bucky’s collar. “Your collar was…”
Bucky prodded the fake moustache he’d applied as part of his disguise. Steve had a matching blonde push-broom tickling the bottom of his nose.
“Thanks,” he said. Then, “You really gonna let that joke pass you by? ‘Something on my face?’ Come on, Stevie, I thought it was pretty good—“
Steve laughed weakly. He belatedly realized his hands were still resting on Bucky’s shoulders. He dropped them to his sides. Was he standing too close? They seemed to be standing really close. Steve scratched at his own moustache and then crossed his arms in front of his chest. He hadn’t felt this awkward around another person since—
“Well?” Bucky asked, one eyebrow raised. “Do I pass muster?”
“Yes. Yep. You look good.” Oh god did I just say that out loud?
But Bucky simply shook his head and stepped toward the door. “Let’s go, then. Sooner I can rip this monstrosity off my face, the better.”
Camp LeHigh, New Jersey. April 7, 1970.
Steve and Bucky tailed Steve’s past-self in through a hole that past-Tony cut in the fence. Once they were inside the base, they split up. Steve went high while Bucky went low, and since Bucky’d already chewed him out for going in the front entrance and “using the goddam elevator, were you two trying to get caught?” Steve opted to skulk along the outskirts of the SHIELD bunker until a likely access hatch presented itself. He thanked Clint Barton for forcing him to spend a long weekend in 2013 scrabbling around the various vents and ducts of the Avengers compound as he shimmied inside.
It really was small potatoes, this mission. Sure, his heart felt a little like a stuck pig knowing how close he was to Peggy. And had the other Howlies retired from SHEILD by now, or were they around here somewhere too? And Howard… He pushed everything to the background and forced himself to focus on the present. Easy enough to steal three vials of Pym particles and disappear back out the access hatch, out the hole in the fence, out of sight of the base. He heard the alarm get raised, but didn’t run into any trouble.
Steve reached the creek-bed first, which was no big surprise. Tony’d taken his sweet time to steal the Tesseract, so logically Bucky’d be a little longer replacing it. Steve squatted down with his back to a large oak tree and listened for approaching footfalls. Tried to distract himself from the ticking seconds with the pleasant tittering of songbirds overhead, the whisper of new spring leaves, the babbling of the ice-cold water a few yards to his left.
He couldn’t get his brain to stop replaying what Bucky’d said during their fight when they’d first landed in Jersey.
Which one of us is currently locked in a fucking bunker in Siberia getting his brains shocked to hell?
And he couldn’t stop thinking… how bad was it, really, to create an alternate timeline? Surely the whole universe wouldn’t collapse if he changed one little thing. Saved one life out of trillions. He fiddled idly with the third vial of Pym particles while his heart ached and ached and ached.
A sudden noise — footsteps on foliage — had Steve on his feet with his gun drawn. Whoever it was made far too much noise to be Bucky. Steve checked the magazine on his weapon before risking a glance around the tree.
Some thirty yards away, someone in a familiar white suit tramped through the forest, an even more familiar shield strapped to his arm. Steve blinked a few times to confirm he wasn’t hallucinating before he called out, “Sam?”
The man turned and, yep, that was Sam, gap-toothed grin on full display as he spotted Steve.
“Steve? Thank god!”
“Sam!” It was all Steve could do not to burst into tears as he pulled Sam in for a quick back-slapping hug.
“You are my Steve, right?” Sam said as he stepped away. “And what the hell is that thing on your face?”
“Sam how did you— what— I don’t— your Steve?” He rubbed his fake moustache. “This was Bucky’s idea. Disguises.”
“He around?”
“We had to split up. Should be back anytime, now.”
“Good. I owe him a whupping for leaving me behind on his little rescue mish.”
Sam’s tone was joking, but his expression was anything but. His smile too sharp. Eyes too harrowed.
“Bucky said I missed my time-stamp.” Steve cringed at the thought. “That it’s been six months for you?”
Correction: Sam looked hurt, and more than a little angry. Only other time Steve had seen him so obviously worked up was right after Steve had sprung everyone from the Raft. Sam’d realized he wouldn’t be able to go back to the States — to his family — for a long time. Steve had done what he could to be there for Sam as he raged at the world, the UN, the Avengers.
But right now, all that anger and hurt was pointed directly at Steve.
“I thought you were dead,” Sam spat as Steve instinctively took a step back. “I — fuck — I watched you die. You found your peace in the past and left me to shoulder a legacy I wasn’t sure I even wanted, and made me promise to look out for the man you shouldn’t have left behind in the first place, and — and even though I know that wasn’t really you, I’m still so goddamn mad at you, Steve.”
I thought you were dead.
I watched you die.
No. No, that can’t have happened. You were supposed to be safe. Five seconds for you, a few days for me. But now you've watched your best fried die again and, “I’m sorry. Sam, I’m so, so sorry.” An insufficient apology. “I never meant—“ Excuses. “I should’ve brought you with me. Both of you. Or let Thor do it. I shouldn’t‘ve tried to do this on my own. I just…” he gulped around a sob. “I just wanted to keep everyone safe.”
Both of them were crying now. Sam caught Steve’s eye and laughed through his snot and tears. “C’mere.”
Sam gave some of the best hugs in the world, second only to Sarah Rogers herself.
And Bucky, the back part of Steve’s brain added. But that was different.
“So,” Steve said, wiping his face with his sleeve but not breaking the hug, “you convinced that I’m your timeline’s Steve yet?”
“Nah, I think we need to make each other cry a bit more first.”
“I ever tell you about the starving trench cat that—“
Sam shoved him away told him to shut up and Steve couldn’t help his grin.
They settled into silence.
Steve checked his watch, his gut twisting anxiously. What was talking Bucky so long?
“So, uh, no pressure, but I’m on a ticking clock here,” Sam said after several minutes of agonizing waiting. “Pym injected me with a time-travel fail-safe that’s supposed to activate after an hour and automatically pull me and anyone I’m holding onto back to the present.” He chuckled. “Back to the future.”
“How long do you have left?”
Sam double-checked his gauntlet’s display. “Thirty-five minutes.”
Steve chewed his lip, mentally calculating how long it should take Bucky to get to the rendezvous if he left the base right now. Assuming he wasn’t injured, or captured, or…
“He’ll be fine,” Sam assured, reading Steve’s mind. “Former Winter Soldier, right? This kind of thing is—“
“Small potatoes.”
“Huh?”
“He said this mission would be small potatoes for us.” Another wave of anxiety threatened, and Steve just barely pushed it back.
“Want me to find some high ground and check things out? Here, I’ve got a spare comm. You stay here in case he shows.”
“Looks pretty busy down there,” Sam reported from his perch in a pine tree. His hands were covered in sap from climbing the branches and he’d gotten sticky patches all over the butt of his time-suit.
“Whole place went into high alert right before past-Tony and I left.”
“Could be Bucky got stuck. Maybe he’s camped out somewhere quiet, waiting for the alarm to be lifted.”
“Maybe.” Steve didn’t sound convinced.
Sam checked his watch. Fifteen minutes left. He raised his eyes as if in prayer and sighed.
The things I do for you, Steve.
And Bucky.
Goddammit why am I friends with these idiots?
Then, against his better judgement, he said, “I have a stupid idea.”
“Thought stupid ideas were my area of expertise,” Steve quipped.
“Glad to hear Bucky’s cut your big head back down to size,” Sam countered. Here goes nothing. “What if we go in and grab him before my timer runs out.”
Silence on the other side of the comms.
“Steve?”
“That is definitely a very stupid idea.”
Sam felt strangely relieved. He turned his focus back to the base, where movement along the nearest side of the barbed-wire perimeter caught his eye.
“Hang on, movement on the south-east edge, heading north. Do you think—“
“About that.”
The figured turned and flashed a salute to Sam before ducking through a hole in the fence.
“God fucking dammit, Steve!”
Sam caught up to him just outside the SHEILD bunker. Steve pulled open the access hatch and gestured. “After you.”
Sam flipped him the bird and disappeared down the hole. Steve followed close behind, adrenaline thrumming like electricity in his veins. Every few minutes, Sam called out how much time he had left in the past, like a slow-motion countdown to a bomb.
“Five.”
They had to slip into a custodial closet for a whole minute while a squadron searched the nearby offices for intruders.
“Four.”
They made it down to the basement lab, where Bucky ought to have replaced the Stone to its storage unit.
“Three.”
The storage unit was empty, one door swung wide to reveal a dark interior. A glimmer of silver caught Steve’s eye, and he bent down to find that the briefcase they’d used to carry all the Stones was laying open underneath a nearby table.
“Two.”
“Hey, Sam. Look.”
Steve let his fingers hover over several fat droplets of blood, one of which was slightly smeared by something — maybe a boot-print? The blood was scattered in front of the Tesseract’s storage unit. Right about where someone might stand with their back turned to the room as they tried to carefully replace a highly-dangerous artefact.
His worst fear was reflected plainly in Sam’s face.
“Right. That’s it,” Sam said, suddenly pushing up the sleeve of his suit. “Got a knife or something?”
Steve pulled out the field knife Bucky’d insisted he clip to his belt that morning. He watched numbly as Sam made a short incision near his elbow and then (cursing quietly), used the knife-tip to flick a small metal object out of the cut.
“You don’t have a band-aid, do you?” Sam asked through grit teeth as he clapped a hand over the fresh wound.
Steve rifled uselessly through his pockets but came up empty.
“Figures. One minute.”
They watched the sliver of metal with bated breath until it blinked from existence.
Sam blew a heavy breath through his teeth. “Guess I’m really in the shit now, huh? Gonna give the folks back home a heart attack for a second, that’s for sure.”
“Thank you, Sam,” Steve said. The extent of what Sam had just risked for him slowly registered, and he found his eyes burning. “I don’t— I… Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” Sam said. Though his usual grin was heavy around the corners, his shoulders rigid. “Now let’s go find your boyfriend.”
“He is not my—“
Notes:
I do hope Bucky's okay! He probably just got lost in storage. Sure is a maze down there, isn't it?
~~~~~
Updating my fic? In this economy? It's more likely thank you think!
Grad school is very busy this semester, so the weekly update schedule is decidedly a thing of the past, I'm sorry to say. I'll update when I can, but I make no promises as to when that might be. Heh.
Chapter 30: In Which Peggy Requires Something Stronger than Tea
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
SHIELD Headquarters, New Jersey. April 7, 1970.
Peggy was not in the mood to listen to excuses. A quick glance-through of Agent Kaminski’s weather report told her this wasn’t lightning at all — someone was messing around with Zero Matter again, just as she’d suspected. She’d have to give Dr. Wilkes a call, see if he’d developed anything better than the gamma-cannon they’d used in the late forties the last time Zero Matter had nearly torn a hole in reality.
She was still flipping through the report as she walked back to her office, and accidentally collided with Agent Sullivan.
“Apologies, Agent—“
“Director Carter, we have a problem,” Sullivan said, straightening her dress. Peggy gestured her into her office.
“A problem, Sullivan?”
“A potential security breach.”
As if Peggy’s day hadn’t been hectic enough. She’d only just sent Sullivan off with orders to initiate lockdown and launch an organized search for the potential intruders when Dr. Pym burst into her office.
“I knew it!” he shouted, flapping his arms back the way he’d come. “I never should’ve trusted Stark.”
“What’s happened, doctor?”
“Been stolen from is what’s happened. Nearly all my samples, gone.”
“And you think Howard stole them,” Peggy said dryly, well aware there was no love lost between the two scientists. She’d sat through more than one meeting-turned-shouting-match and was rather tired of both men’s immaturity and ego.
“Who else?” Pym shouted. “We both know Howard’s been after my work for years. To think I believed you when you promised to keep him in line. Hah!”
“Well, seeing as the facility is on lockdown from outside intruders, perhaps we should rule out the idea that someone else stole your work before pointing fingers at our allies.”
Pym deflated a little, and Peggy briskly but not unkindly removed him from her office. She allowed herself one moment to worry about Daniel, awaiting extraction with his team and apparently dealing with Zero Matter once again. Then it was back to business — she needed Stark in her office five minutes ago, preferably with a solid alibi and a stiff drink. A vice of his for sure, but a dependable one, at least.
Stark, it turned out, had been attempting to skive off work early. Poor Maria’s pregnancy was hitting her hard and according to him, he’d hoped to cook her a sauerkraut-heavy dinner and have a quiet night in. Or more likely, have Ana cook dinner, as Peggy doubted Howard could cook anything worth eating.
“Have you seen anything suspicious today?” she asked him, accepting the finger of scotch he’d poured her.
“Suspicious?” Howard raised an eyebrow. “No.”
There was a pause while he appeared to contemplate the drink in his hand.
“I did meet the visitor from MIT. Strange fellow. Seemed… oddly familiar.”
Peggy’s heart rate kicked up a notch. “We haven’t had anyone visit from MIT since the incident with Agent Fischer.”
Howard met her eyes from across her desk.
“He was down in the sub-basement lab when I found him. If he took anything…”
“Pym reported a break-in to his lab, too. Come on then, I’ll fill you in on the lift.”
The lab was empty when they arrived. Their footsteps echoed around the half-lit space as Peggy followed Howard deeper in.
“I found him lurking right around… Shit.”
The doors to one of the storage units were askew.
“What was in there?” Peggy asked, already dreading the answer.
When hours of searching turned up no evidence of their intruders beyond a dried spatter of blood that Howard whisked off to his lab to analyze, Peggy returned to her office, heart set on a strong cup of Irish coffee to see her through till morning. Someone had tampered with their CCTV, cutting out several hours of footage from both the sub-basement lab and Dr. Pym’s research facility. Several analysts were working on recovering the footage, but Peggy was doubtful their efforts would be fruitful. Lost footage was so named for a reason.
She sipped her coffee while she called Dr. Wilkes and arranged a way for him to contact her stranded team (and husband — don’t think about that). She sorted through the mountain of files that had wandered into her in-tray and made a few high-priority phone calls, including one to an irate Dr. Pym, who was refusing to believe that Howard hadn’t had some hand in the theft of his research. Who could so thoroughly meddle with our security system but the man who built it himself? Which was a fair point.
Peggy rubbed at the headache blossoming between her eyes. There was some angle here that she was missing. As she often did whenever she felt too tired to keep going, she glanced over at her picture of Steve, only to find that the photo had been knocked face-down onto her desk. Peggy carefully picked up the frame, and a scrap of paper fluttered out from under it. She set down the picture and plucked up the note.
Thought I’d make good on that promise of a dance. Don’t be late.
Underneath that was scrawled the address of a 24-hour diner in the nearby town.
It took her a minute to find the courage to read the note again. Found it read the same message upon a second (third, fourth, fifth) reading. She slipped the note into her pocket and took a slow, overtly-casual sip of coffee.
Only four people had been privy to her last conversation with Captain Steve Rogers, including herself and the aforementioned Captain. Which meant this note was from either a long-retired and ailing Colonel Phillips, or Agent Morita, who was supposed to be somewhere in Ugoslavia right now, providing support to Pinkerton’s Strike team.
Or one of Morita or Phillips had talked, and the wrong ears had overheard it, and if she went to that diner she’d surely be walking into some sort of Soviet trap.
The thing was, it really looked like Steve’s handwriting. She’d read enough reports from him during the war to recognize that loopy script anywhere.
A well-laid trap, then.
Peggy reviewed the situation as she tucked her backup-pistol into its holster under her skirt. Pym’s research and the Tesseract had been stolen, both of which had properties that affected the movement of objects through space — or blasted a man into oblivion, depending. She’d received a mysterious note styled like it was from a long-dead suitor. And—
“Hiya, Pegs, got a second?”
“I’m busy, Howard. What is it?”
“I finished analyzing that blood sample we found.”
She arched her eyebrows. Howard was infuriatingly fond of dramatic pauses. In some ways it was a shame he left Hollywood behind.
“There were some anomalies.”
“Anomalies?”
Howard shrugged. “Something in it looks an awful lot like super-soldier serum, but it definitely isn’t Erskine’s stuff.”
“What are you saying?” she asked sharply.
“I’m saying…” Howard ran a hand through his hair, something he only did when he was truly upset. “I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but it looks like the other side might’ve won this particular arms race.”
“You’re saying whoever stole the Tesseract and raided Pym’s lab was an enemy super-soldier operative,” Peggy said, sure to keep some incredulity in her tone.
Howard gave her a tired smile. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
Perhaps those unconfirmed rumours of a Soviet super-soldier might not just be scare-tactics after all.
“How would you feel about being my backup for something that is almost certainly is a trap?”
Howard’s smile stretched into a grin. “What’s in it for me?”
“Free coffee,” Peggy said, already bustling out of her office. “Maybe even breakfast if I’m feeling generous.”
The eastern sky was just beginning to lighten as Jarvis pulled them up in front of the diner.
“Keep the car running, would you?” Peggy said as she exited the backseat.
“Help yourself to some snacks,” Stark added, passing Jarvis the over-large bag of candied nuts he’d been eating on the drive.
“Take care, both of you,” Jarvis called. Peggy flashed him her brightest smile as she linked arms with Howard.
“Feels like old times,” Howard remarked as they crossed the parking lot. Peggy’s heels clacked a sharp staccato on the damp pavement. “Less thrilling, now that I’ve got family waiting at home.”
Peggy hummed noncommittally. She constantly worried about Daniel, who’d sworn he’d retire from field work next year (he’d said that the past five years and counting). She constantly worried after her children, about what might happen to them if she died in the field.
But someone had to put a stop to world-ending messes before they began. And she knew she’d be more anxious sitting around at home. It was better to do something about the evils in the world than to stay back, frozen in fear.
A wave of hot, greasy air washed over them as Howard pulled open the door to the diner. The place was brightly-lit and mostly empty. An old man sat up at the counter, reading yesterday’s paper with wide, gritty fingers. A pair of bikers were in a back booth, decked out in fringed leather jackets with their hats pulled low. Peggy picked a table near the back wall, where she could keep an eye on the other patrons and the door. Howard eased into the chair across from her.
The waitress, a broad, middle-aged woman with a cigarette hanging out the corner of her mouth, brought them coffee and took their orders. Eggs and toast for Peggy, and a fruit salad with yogurt for Howard.
“Maria’s been after me to eat healthier,” he said with a shrug. “She thinks I’m gonna die of a heart attack or something. Assuming my liver doesn’t give out first.”
Peggy noticed the guilt colouring his smile as she surreptitiously scanned the room. “You said you’d cut back on that, for her.”
Howard shrugged again, and Peggy felt a flare of anger. Now was not the time to dredge up Howard’s marital issues. She took a sip from her coffee to keep herself from commenting further and scanned the room again.
“The bikers in the booth are watching us,” she muttered behind her mug. “Don’t look.”
“I’m not an idiot,” Howard said into his own coffee.
Peggy risked a glance at the bikers again. The shorter one, Black, his jacket a little loose around his shoulders, got caught staring and looked away far too quickly to be subtle. He leaned forward and mumbled something to his broader, blond companion.
And then that man turned around and she found herself staring at a ghost.
All things considered, Steve thought Peggy was handling the insanity of the situation quite well. He shouldn’t’ve been surprised — she was Peggy Carter, after all.
A majority of the explaining about time travel and the Infinity Stones had thankfully been handled on the drive to Howard Stark’s New Jersey estate. Steve had had the unnerving experience of meeting Mr. Edwin Jarvis, who sounded nearly identical to Tony’s AI before it had been… killed? Could an algorithm be killed? Before whatever Ultron did to it had happened.
Steve took a moment to reflect on how deeply Tony Stark’s childhood had messed him up while Jarvis navigated the car up a sweeping gravel drive to Tony Stark’s childhood home.
A Tony Stark who was not born yet.
Man, time travel was weird.
Made even weirder when a very pregnant Maria Stark met the car out on the driveway. Steve pretended he couldn’t hear the Starks’ argument — emergency at work — that’s always your excuse — I tried to come home early, Maria, but — well you’d better try harder when the baby comes, I’m not raising it alone — until it faded out of earshot as the unhappy couple stormed into the house.
Jarvis cleared his throat. “Perhaps I should take you three around back.”
“Yes, Mr. Jarvis,” Peggy said, accent crisp as ever.
They reconnoitred with Howard a half-hour later in his upstairs study, all of them full to the brim with shortbreads, tea, and coffee that Mrs. Jarvis had insisted on serving them.
“So,” Peggy said once the Jarvises had left. “Time travel.”
“Yep,” Steve said.
“And you’re not really dead, just… frozen somewhere in the Arctic,” Howard pressed.
“I won’t get found until 2012,” Steve cautioned, but Howard just waved him off.
“In your timeline, maybe. And aliens are real?”
“Real nasty,” Sam said. “Well, the ones we fought. Some of the ones on our side seemed decent. Like that tree guy.”
“Groot,” Steve supplied.
“Yeah. Groot’s chill.”
Howard and Peggy stared at them like they’d lost their minds.
“You mentioned you were trying to replace the Tesseract, which you’d stolen on a different time-travelling trip in order to stop this… alien.” Peggy said.
“My partner was in charge of doing that while I stole some more Pym particles for the trip home. Apologies to Hank of course.”
“I’ve never seen him this angry,” Peggy admitted. Steve cringed.
“So it was your partner whose blood we found in storage?” Howard asked.
Steve glanced over at Sam, unsure how much to reveal. How much he should change this timeline. “I don’t know whose blood you found down there,” he hedged, heart pounding.
“Well, I analyzed it,” Howard barrelled on. “Thought at first we were about to be in some deep shit — an enemy super-soldier with no viable counter-operatives. But if it was your time-travelling future partner’s blood…” he trailed off.
Bucky had travelled through time to save Steve from the Mind Stone’s illusion, even though he was convinced Steve would ultimately leave him for an idealized past with Peggy. Travelled to a past where he’d found himself cuffed by the Avengers as thanks, at risk of being handed over to a HYDRA-infested SHIELD. And even then, he hadn’t begged Steve to stay.
“Don’t let them win.”
And really, was Steve ever going to choose different? Knowing what he knew, he couldn’t just let things play out. But he’d barely opened his mouth to speak before the phone rang.
“Stark speaking… No. No, I haven’t… What?… Well if I do I’ll let her know. Though I’m sure she already… Good, yes… Yes, goodbye.”
Howard hung up the phone with a curse and turned to Peggy. “Dr. Zola is missing.”
Notes:
Did I re-watch all of Agent Carter before writing the next few chapters? Who's to say.
Also, happy belated to everyone's favourite amnesiac cyborg! I'm sure he's out having a grand old time, wherever he might be during this chapter. Maybe he just stepped out to buy himself a cake??
Chapter 31: In Which the Ends Never Justify the Means
Notes:
TW: racially-motivated violence, human experimentation, accidental self harm. See end notes for details.
~~~~~
Look at you, lucky reader! Getting back-to-back updates yesterday and today because apparently I have zero self-control.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Stark Estate, New Jersey. April 8, 1970
Peggy knew there were rats in her organization. That was the nature of spycraft, after all. Agents, double-agents, sometimes even triple agents. She’d felt fairly confident that the rats in SHIELD were known, and being fed a healthy diet of bullshit — pardon her French.
Though she’d never been sure. That was another law of spycraft. One could be fairly certain. One could be confident. But one could never be sure.
They’d never discovered who had ordered the hit on Jack Thompson, for example. Had never successfully proven that the horrific program responsible for creating Dottie Underwood had ended with the fall of Leviathan. There was always doubt. There were always whispers.
Though if Peggy believed two-thirds of the rumours about what the Soviets were up to, she’d have spent all of SHEILD’s resources chasing old wives’ tales long ago.
But. If the time-travelling version of Steve was to be believed, this was something both very real and very horrifying. A decades-long ghost story come to life. A brother-at-arms, tortured until he forgot his own name. A loyal ally forced to fight for the enemy.
And worse, she’d been the one to set his tormentor free. Not that she’d ever trusted Dr. Arnim Zola. She knew more than most about what he’d done in the war, though admittedly less than she would’ve liked. She had thought she’d known enough to keep him on a leash, at least. How arrogant!
She felt sick to the stomach, thinking of her signature on his contract of employment with SHIELD. A deal she’d struck to get MacArthur and an assortment of CIA goons off her back during the height of Operation Paperclip. And to ensure a serum-obsessed Howard would be interested enough to provide the needed finances, way back when she was initially founding the organization.
In trying to serve the greater good, she’d turned a blind eye to evil.
“We have to save him,” she said, unable to fully face Steve. “As soon as your Barnes has been located and Zola is back in our custody.”
Steve’s shoulders were stooped with exhaustion, his eyes focused a thousand miles away. He clenched his jaw and pulled his gaze back to meet her eyes, all fire and steel. “I know, Pegs. We will.”
He may’ve been the one person in the universe who really, truly did understand.
Of all the ways Sam imagined his trip to the past going, this particular scenario never entered his wildest imaginings. He was supposed to have landed next to Steve smack dab in the middle of whatever crisis was keeping him in the past. And because whatever had happened to Steve had also happened to Bucky, he’d expected to find the grumpy old man at his Captain’s side.
He’d been expecting more universe-ending, Infinity Stone-wielding aliens and less… fringed leather jackets and gritty coffee.
He’d certainly never expected to cut his ticket home out of his arm and watch it disappear.
Or help Steve catfish Peggy Carter into a meet-up.
Or worry about spilling cookie crumbs on the expensive rug in Howard Stark’s private home office.
And yet. Here he was. In nineteen fucking seventy. Eating a shortbread while he watched SHEILD’s founders absorb the extent of HYDRA’s infiltration of their organization.
Howard’s expression was eerie in how similar it was to the look Tony’d worn during the fateful Accords briefing. The one where Thunderbolt Ross’d played an Avengers’ Greatest Failures compilation. Terrified, guilty, backed into a corner, all that emotion about to spill over into rash anger-fuelled action.
“Howard,” Director Carter said, looking like she’d just been force-fed poison. “We need to be smart about—“
He slammed a fist on the desk behind him and rounded on her. “This is your fault!”
Sam had to give her credit, she didn’t even flinch.
“Don’t pretend to be blameless, Stark, you’re on a first-name basis with the bastard.”
“I wasn’t the one who hired him,” Howard countered.
“He still whispering in your ear about the serum?”
Howard balked. “That is— we— that research is purely theoretical.”
“On your end,” Sam and Steve said at the same time. Carter and Stark turned to them.
“Bucky was Zola’s one success with the serum, but he never stopped trying to…” Steve paused. “A lot of this stuff hasn’t happened yet.”
Sam knew Steve was referring to the other Winter Soldiers, created by the serum that Bucky’d assassinated the Starks to steal. But his guts twisted further as he thought of a run-down Baltimore house. They threw my ass in jail, for thirty years. Even your people weren’t done with me.
“Does the name Isaiah Bradley sound familiar to any of you?”
Howard still looked angry, his eyebrows now furrowed with mild confusion. He didn’t attempt to read the expression on Carter’s face, though she was looking at him like she could x-ray him with her eyes alone.
“Who?” Steve asked.
A bead of sweat rolled down his back.
“Bucky really never told you, huh?”
Carter and Stark were smart, supposedly good people. They’d care about something like this. Right? People needed to know, something needed to be done. This kind of thing couldn’t keep happening. And here he was, unexpectedly given a chance to plead Isaiah's case to some of the most powerful people in the world. He had to take it.
“Didn’t tell me what?”
“So the Korean War was kicking off, right? And America wanted — well, they wanted a new you, Steve.”
Carter and Howard were both quicker on the uptake than Steve. But he got there a few moments later.
“They tried to recreate… But how? I thought the last vials of the serum were destroyed way back in ‘43.”
“Blood samples,” Stark said, looking sick. “We must not have destroyed them all.” He shared a complicated look with Carter.
“Or they had access to samples from someone else with stable serum in his system,” Sam said. “I never went digging into whether HYDRA had any hand in what happened. Maybe it was a purely homegrown evil, but—“ He took a shaky breath. “The military experimented its own. Gave a whole Black division variations of the serum and—“ He swallowed. “And Isaiah was the only…”
“Fuck,” Steve said.
“He ran into Bucky sometime during his war, which is how Bucky knew about him. Then he saved a bunch of folks, did some real hero shit. But the government couldn’t let him walk free knowing what he knew.”
“They killed him?” Peggy asked, hushed.
“Worse," Sam blinked away the image of scars across Isaiah's torso. "He’s probably in some hidden facility as we speak. A Guinea pig for our government and HYDRA both.”
Sam let Steve and Stark’s indignant protests wash over him. He’s already been angry. Already asked himself how this could have happened. Across the office, he caught Peggy Carter’s eye. Her lips were pressed together in a harsh line, her eyes flashing.
“Looks like we have some significant house-cleaning to do, both within SHIELD and within the government,” she said. She adjusted her curls as she strode across the office to the door. “Now if you boys will follow me, I believe we’ve got a Sergeant to find and a Nazi to catch.”
Camp LeHigh, New Jersey. April 7, 1970.
A bead of sweat rolled down Bucky’s back as he crouched in the rafters of the SHEILD lab-come-storage bunker. Getting in to the facility had gone smoothly, but they had a tight window to steal the Pym particles, replace the Space Stone, and get out undetected. No thanks to Steve and Stark going in the goddam front door the first time around. Sheesh.
How both Steve and Stark had managed to work with Natasha for years and remain so bad at spy-craft was truly a mystery. Hopefully Steve wasn’t yucking everything up with the particles in the lab.
Bucky reminded himself that Steve was a capable operative, and shifted his grip on the briefcase that held the last Infinity Stone. One last Stone, and then they could go home.
He couldn’t really believe it. Didn’t feel exactly excited by the idea, but he wasn’t dreading it, either. Mostly he just wanted to find somewhere — anywhere — to lay down and rest for a bit.
A quiet set of footsteps echoed around the stage vault. That was Stark — Tony — scanning nearby units for the Tesseract. Thankfully Stark Jr. never thought to flash that fancy scanner upwards. Bucky had no desire for another face-to-face encounter with the man he’d orphaned.
Stark had just placed the Tesseract in a briefcase when an all-too-familiar voice called out, “Arnim, you in there?”
Bucky’s stomach flipped inside-out.
“Arnim?”
Stark wisely tried to avoid his father, but Howard persisted, shouting, “Hey! Door’s this way, pal.”
Bucky couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe and he was going to throw up and he couldn’t —
“I’m looking for Doctor Zola, have you seen him?”
Bucky bit down on his right fist, letting the pain focus him until he could catch his breath. By the time he tuned in again, the pair of Starks were leaving. A small trickle of blood ran down his knuckles.
Good lord, he was a mess.
He dropped silently to the ground, shaking out his right hand as he popped open the briefcase with his left. The gut-watering blue light of the Tesseract glinted up at him from the Space Stone.
“You shoulda been left in the Arctic,” he told it. “Or better yet, whatever hole Schmidt dug you out of. Useless piece of shit.”
He wasn’t sure if that last comment was referring to Red Skull, the Tesseract, or both. But it felt good to say it, even if he was only talking to a rock. He flexed his left hand, told himself the vibranium prosthetic would be a sufficient buffer between himself and the Space Stone, and then gingerly plucked it up.
Nothing happened.
He shuddered out a breath and carefully opened the storage unit doors. Glared down at the damn Space rock one last time.
And then all the hairs on his body stood up at once.
“Howard?” an accented voice called. “Were you calling me?”
Nononononono move move get out move before—
“You are not Howard.”
It’s a dream. You’re caught in a nightmare. Wake up. Wake up, Barnes! Wake up!
A glint of light off of rounded glasses. The faint hint of tobacco and sweat, not quite masked by the bitter tang of rubbing alcohol. He was older than Bucky’d ever seen him, gait uneven, and leaning heavily on a cane as he stepped into view.
Bucky couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think as Dr. Zola hissed, “Soldat?”
He was back up in the rafters, watching his own body betray him as Zola limped forward until they were six feet apart. The empty briefcase slid from Bucky's numb fingers and clattered off under a nearby desk.
“Who sent you here?” Zola hissed in Russian, Bucky barely heard the question over the pounding of his heart.
No no no no no no no no—
“Malfunctioning again?” Zola muttered to himself, taking a step closer. “Don’t know what that upstart Lukin thinks he’s doing, not following operation protocols.”
A hand on his shoulder, and the next thing he knew, he had Zola pinned beneath him, his vibranium fist shattering through round glasses. The same vibranium fist that was wrapped around an Infinity Stone. A fact Bucky remembered a millisecond later when everything around him disappeared in a brilliant flash of blue.
Notes:
Detailed TW: Sam brings up Isaiah Bradley's story in this chapter. You can skip the second section of this chapter if that's not something that is safe for you to read. In the last section of this chapter, Bucky gets understandably stressed out and ends up biting his hand, accidentally drawing blood. If you don't want to read that, skip from "Stark wisely tried to avoid his father..." to "“You shoulda been left in the Arctic...”"
~~~~~
So ~that's~ what Bucky's been up to! I'm sure the Space Stone has transported him off for a nice, well-deserved tropical vacation. How considerate!
On a more serious note, I was debating for a long time with myself over whether or not Sam would mention Isaiah to Peggy and Howard. In the end I decided that he would. First, because Sam canonically landed in the camp of "this man deserves recognition and reparations," as evidenced by him vouching for a section about Bradley in the Captain America exhibit, which we see completed at the end of TFATWS. This runs contrary to Bucky's perhaps more cynical view of letting Isaiah stay in obscurity but relative(?) peace. And second, I think Sam would see this as an opportunity to cut Isaiah's suffering short. He's hoping that by telling Peggy and Howard, Isaiah will get rescued/released sooner, maybe even get the title and recognition and status that he deserves. I know there's some debate in the fandom over whether or not that sort of limelight would actually be the best thing for a traumatized veteran, but in the end I felt that sharing Isaiah's story was what Sam as a character would do.
I'm sure I'm missing at least a handful of nuances and layers here, writing from outside of this community. So if I've botched something important, my ears are always open.
Chapter 32: In Which Howard Stark Drinks a Bitter Brew
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Location: Unknown. April 7, 1970.
The first sense Bucky recovered was smell. Blood and shit and urine — a fresh kill. He blinked his eyes and found himself retracting his left arm from the back of Zola’s skull in a drab concrete hallway.
Gross.
The Space Stone sat inert and lightless in his now-bloody fist. For lack of a safer storage compartment, Bucky tucked it into a jacket pocket.
Time to take stock of his situation.
He was alive. Surprising, given what he’d seen tesseract energy do to a man during the war.
And Zola was dead.
Not that the bastard had been long for this world, anyways. Bucky couldn’t bring himself to feel guilty about altering the timeline. Or much of anything else he might have expected — relief, satisfaction, not even the sick feeling in his gut that usually accompanied a kill.
He glanced around the hallway the tesseract had transported him to. The whitewashed concrete walls were painted a sickly mint green from the floor to about shoulder-height, sparsely lit at regular intervals by caged sulphur bulbs. The overall effect was anemic and cold. Could’ve been any nondescript hallway in any underground bunker anywhere on earth.
Bucky swallowed bile and wiped his sweaty right palm on his pants.
He couldn’t leave Zola’s corpse laying here out in the open. After a final glance down the disturbingly familiar hallway, he decided to try his luck behind the nearest door. Thick steel, reinforced locking mechanism, a little slat around eye height that could be pulled back to peer inside… There was nothing for it but to force that lock with his left arm, and even that took some doing. He silently thanked Shuri for the upgrade, unsure if the old titanium model would’ve been able to break through the reinforced metal.
He was disappointed but not surprised when the door swung open to reveal cracked concrete on all sides. Rust bled down the back wall where a heavy bolt had been screwed in. The floor boasted a large central drain.
Bucky didn’t think about his deep familiarity with rooms — cells — identical to this one as he unceremoniously dumped Zola’s corpse inside. Feet to the wall and mangled head to the drain so he wouldn’t fester in a puddle of his own juices and raise a stench. At least, not before Bucky found himself an extraction.
He was jumpy and distracted as he slunk back down the hall and deeper into the base. More than once he found himself freezing up in hallways he couldn’t recall entering, half-panicked from— something. He grit his teeth and pinched himself and tried to stay focused. Stay grounded as Reynor would put it.
That wasn’t Russian the guards were speaking. It couldn’t be, right?
These halls, this facility, was not familiar.
It would be just your luck, though, wouldn’t it?
He needed to stay in the moment and not go back there, but with each passing minute it became harder and harder.
That guard’s voice sounded so familiar. He should glance around the corner and — no! Stay hidden, idiot!
He cursed the Stone in his pocket as a group of guards passed his current hiding spot. Their HYDRA uniforms were unmistakable. Of fucking course the last stop on this godforsaken mission would land him in a HYDRA bunker somewhere behind the Iron Curtain during the height of the Soviet branch’s power.
Well, at least you’ll know how to blend in.
Stark Estate, New Jersey. April 8, 1970.
Catching Nazis turned out to be much slower-paced than Sam anticipated. Because of the HYDRA infiltration, Carter didn’t trust anyone but the four of them to analyze SHEILD’s corrupted security footage, looking for a whiff of Bucky or Zola or both. There were hours of tapes to comb through, a process that was a lot more labour-intensive than it would’ve been in 2024. It all made Sam appreciate Redwing that much more.
They took a short break for dinner — ham, potatoes, and roasted spring greens courtesy of Ana Jarvis. Sam caught up to Steve on the back steps of the kitchen afterwards. The chilly evening air raised goosebumps on his arms as he sat down beside Steve and stared across the expansive green lawn.
He wasn’t sure what to say. His brain kept replaying not-Steve’s final moments. The heart monitor flatlining. Nurses rushing in with a crash cart. Someone ushering him into the hallway, but not so far that he didn’t hear the doctor call time of death. He kept trying to reconcile that grief with the living man beside him and coming up short.
Thankfully, Steve broke the silence first.
“Bucky told me you took up the shield.”
Make that not thankfully — Sam wasn’t sure he was ready for this conversation.
“Looks good on you,” Steve said.
Sam hummed noncommittally, then cleared his throat. “Bucky tell you anything else?”
“Only that you’ve made it your own.” Steve’s smile looked like it was dredged up from the bottom of the Mariana Trench, but there was pride in his eyes.
Sam’s laugh echoed harsh in the evening air. “I didn’t want it, at first,” he admitted. “Had a lot of complicated feelings about taking up the mantle. Not helped by the whole situation with Walker, or by your boy turning up to ride my ass over—“ Sam cut himself off before he could get too worked up.
“Walker?” Steve asked.
“Bucky didn’t tell you?”
“No, he…” Steve stared out across the dark lawn, chewing on his lower lip. His eyebrows furrowed tighter. “He hasn’t been all that talkative. And we’ve been busy, returning the Stones.”
An excuse, if Sam ever heard one. Thank god he didn’t play therapist to his friends. He sighed and leaned back against the kitchen steps. “Can’t hardly blame him. The world didn’t exactly snap back to normal, after.”
Steve leaned back beside him, head tilted up to stare at the stars. He didn’t say anything though, so Sam continued.
“After you died, I… everyone was just picking up the pieces, you know?”
“You don’t have to explain—“
“Lemme talk.”
“Sorry.”
“When you, well, when your doppelgänger gave me the shield, I told him it felt like somebody else’s. I put it in my closet, and for the next six months, I did my level best to ignore it. I got myself some military contract as the Falcon, I earned the respect of my new co-workers, I started to re-build a home back South with my sister and nephews, I…” Anger boiled in his gut and he sat back up. “I had put my fucking life on the line fighting goddam aliens, and I still couldn’t get a fucking bank loan in my own hometown. It’s like — like everything we’d done, everything we’d fought for, all those sacrifices, none of it… nothing mattered. So I did what I thought was right, and I tried to move on. When I donated the shield to the Smithsonian I thought that would be that.”
“Don’t tell me they tried to give the shield to some blue-eyed jarhead,” Steve said with surprising venom.
“John Fucking Walker. The Blue-eyed, blond-haired military wonder-boy. He even had a Black best friend.”
The string of curses that Steve let out was pleasantly cathartic to hear. There were even threats of stealing more Pym particles to travel forward in time just to punch whoever had approved Captain Walker’s promotion. It was glorious. When Steve had worn himself out, he apologized for interrupting Sam’s story and asked him to continue.
“Well, a lot of things happened kinda all at once, after that,” Sam said. “Bucky crawled out of the woodworks, blaming me for the whole situation — don’t worry, we’ve sorted it out. A radical group that had been running a grassroots rebellion for displaced peoples somehow ended up taking a jazzed-up version of the serum. Started bombing warehouses and supply shelters with relief workers still inside. Whole thing got kinda chaotic. Probably a lot of it is classified, now. I dunno. Walker went off the rails and killed an unarmed and surrendering kid. So Bucky and I stole the shield back from Walker, Shuri made me a sweet new wingsuit, and then we stopped the bad guys from kidnapping a bunch of politicians. I became Captain America… you know the drill.”
“All in a day’s work?” Steve said.
“More like a week, but yeah.” He laughed to himself. “Never thought it’d happen in a million years, but Bucky and I are actual friends, now.”
“The world really did end,” Steve said, his tone joking but his smile too forced.
They fell into silence.
“It’s weird, right?” Sam asked after a few minutes. “I thought you were gone forever, but now...”
“Weird is one way to put it.”
“Well, how would you describe it?”
Steve leaned forward and rested his forehead on his knuckles. He looked like he wanted to speak, opened his mouth several times, but eventually he simply shook his head and shut his eyes.
Worry tugged at Sam’s guts. “What the hell happened out here?”
Steve turned his head to look at Sam without lifting it off his fists. “You’re gonna laugh.”
Sam laughed on reflex even as he protested, “No, I’m not!”
Steve smiled that Mariana Trench smile again. “I really missed you, man.”
Sam’s eyes began to prickle, so he shoved Steve’s shoulder. “Stop stalling, dude.”
“Fine, fine!” Steve’s smile vanished and he cleared his throat. “Some of the Stones kinda, I dunno, acted up? While we were returning them. Worst was the Mind Stone. Caught me unawares during my solo mission and locked me in an illusion. I was trapped in a coma for six months in 2012. When Bucky jumped through time to save me, the Stone dragged him in, too, but only for a couple of days before…”
Steve suddenly bolted to his feet.
“Before what?” Sam asked, startled.
“The Stones!” Steve exclaimed. “They’ve been acting strangely, almost of their own accord, and—and what if that’s what happened to Bucky? Maybe the Space Stone suddenly acted out and, I dunno, teleported him somewhere?”
Steve sprinted back into the mansion.
“How’re we gonna know where he went?” Sam called after Steve’s retreating back. Man, he’d forgotten how fast that guy was.
Steve simply shouted over his shoulder, “I’m sure Howard will figure something out!”
Stark Labs, New York. April 9, 1970.
Howard stared at the nonsensical equations scrawled across his blackboard and leaned against a lab bench. The coffee in his hands had long gone cold. He briefly contemplated hurling the mug at the blackboard, as if that might teach the stubborn formulas a lesson. Instead, he drained it to the dregs and set it down beside him.
Running his hands through his hair didn’t help. But he found some relief when he pressed his palms into his eyes, just hard enough to see sparks. He knew he needed to work fast here, to focus on these tesseract equations and find some way to track the damn rock down — assuming it was still on the planet. But the more he tried to focus, the more his brain kept rebelling, dredging up images of a Sergeant he’d thought long-dead.
He’d only caught a handful of hours of sleep last night, most of them while on the road from his Jersey estate to his labs here in the city, where he hopefully had the resources to make good on the promise he’d made to the very much alive Steve Rogers to find an equally alive Bucky Barnes. Time travel! He wished he had several weeks to sit down and grill the Captain — both Captains — on the specifications of this technology. But with everything else going on, Sargent Barnes and Zola missing, the Winter Soldier being much more than just a spook story, HYDRA alive and well within SHIELD, quenching his own curiosity was unfortunately low on his current list of priorities.
The stress of it all was getting to him, that was certain. The nap he’d had on the drive up here was one of the worst sleeps he’d had in years. Plagued by nightmares. First, his mind re-ran some old classics from the war: an urgent telegram arriving but the harder he tried to read it the more inscrutable it became; working on the serum in an SSR lab but when he turned to ask Erskine a question the doctor was on the floor, gasping for air as blood bloomed across his chest; getting caught in a dogfight and his plane going down, the Howlies all dead in the back; flying to a pickup point only to discover the whole team strung out on pikes as a warning, all their faces accusing him: You could have saved us if we’d had better gear, if you’d flown faster, if you’d cracked the serum’s code in time. This is your fault. Your fault. And of course, the one where he was out searching the Arctic. It always started calm, just water lapping quietly at the hull. Then that lapping became scratching, scraping, and within moments the boat became overrun by frozen, half-decayed bodies. They crawled out of the water and onto the ship, dripping gore that froze where it landed on the deck. He was powerless to fight back against the skeletal hands that dragged him overboard. He often woke up from that one gasping, convinced he was drowned in the frigid depths.
But last night, he’d merely shifted in the passenger seat before dreaming on. His mind cooking up a brand-new nightmare. He was in the SHEILD lab, working a few lab benches away from Dr. Arnim Zola, as he often did these days. Something was wrong. Off. A flutter of motion in his periphery. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he turned. Nothing. He turned back to his work, but the compounds and flasks had vanished. In his hands, a scalpel. The lab bench morphed into an operating table and he watched with horror as his own hands sliced down into flesh. Very good, Arnim said, glasses flashing from across the room. You know I couldn’t have done this without you, Stark. He tried to scream, to drop the knife, but he couldn’t move. He tried to shut his eyes, to will himself to wake up (a dream, this had to be a dream), as his panic turned to terror. Sargent Barnes stared up at him, eyes dead and glassy. Still alive. You did this. You did this. Your fault.
Needless to say, Howard was relying heavily on coffee and whisky to keep himself upright this morning. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Rogers appeared beside him.
“You look like shit. Sleep at all last night?” The question was so familiar, he laughed in spite of himself.
“Enough,” he replied, going for another sip of coffee before he remembered he’d emptied his mug.
Rogers passed him a fresh one, full almost to the brim with dark brown coffee. Howard smiled. “Used to be your Sergeant, bringing me these,” he said.
Rogers laughed once. “You were just about the only rich guy Bucky ever had any respect for.”
Howard raised an eyebrow.
“I’m not sure if it’s cause you started out poor, or if he was willing to look past your flaws to get at all your science.”
He had to laugh at that. “My money’s on the latter. I’d been planning to offer him a job, you know. After.”
Rogers’s smile twisted. “He’d’a loved that.”
To prevent himself from doing anything embarrassing like bursting into tears in front of Captain America, Howard cleared his throat and turned back to his blackboard.
“I never should’ve stopped searching for you.”
“Howard, you—“
He raised a hand, rankling somewhat at the strangeness of Rogers addressing him as anything but Stark.
“Maybe everybody else was right, the Arctic Ocean is massive and I never would have succeeded. But there was always that chance, and now that I know…”
“Can’t change the past,” Rogers said. A bit rich, coming from a time-traveller.
Howard scoffed. “In any case, I know I should’ve been more worried about the home front. Glad-handed a little less with so-called re-formed Nazis. Asked a few more fucking questions about where Arnim got his data. I— I messed up, Captain. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me,” Rogers said.
“I know, I— god, I feel sick even thinking I might’ve had a hand in—“
“You didn’t know,” Rogers said. “Nobody knew.”
Howard stewed on that for a minute. Looked from the Captain, who cut an impressive figure even in a fringed biker jacket and bell-bottom jeans, to his tangled equations, and back.
“I knew I was sleeping with the enemy,” he admitted. He couldn’t keep looking at Rogers, so he focused on the coffee in his hands. “Maybe I didn’t know the details, but I knew what kind of man I was working with, what kinds of things he’d done, what he’d be willing to do again, for science. I guess I thought that since the damage had already been done, I… I might as well use what he’d learned. Fucking naive.”
“I wish I’d shot him on that fucking train,” Rogers hissed, all venom. Howard became acutely aware of his own fragility relative to the Captain’s agner. The super-soldier fixed him with a deadly glare. Howard didn’t dare breathe. Then just as suddenly, Steve deflated. “Sorry,” he said, passing a hand over his eyes.
“If anyone has a right to be angry, it’s you,” Howard offered weakly as the Captain back-pedalled to the lab door. Rogers paused.
“No,” he said. “It’s Bucky.”
Howard stared unseeing at his differential equations long after the coffee in his hands went cold.
Notes:
See? Everything is toooootally fine (:
Chapter 33: In Which a Perfectly Good Helicopter Meets a Very Bad End
Notes:
CW: This (and the following few chapters) contain graphic violence and suicidal ideation/thought. See end-notes for more detailed warnings.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
HYDRA Bunker, Somewhere in the U.S.S.R.. April 7, 1970.
He needed to calm down (calm down, calm down, breathe, get it together—). Needed to get his head back on straight and re-assess his situation.
Always fucking getting yourself into trouble. Never should’ve split off from Steve, you useless—
He needed more intel.
—breathe, goddammit!
Bucky pressed himself as far as he could into the shadows between some pipes and the bunker wall, and forced himself to hold his breath. His lungs fluttered and seized, still trying to hyperventilate as his body panicked. His mind, however, locked onto the two HYDRA guards stationed at the end of the hallway.
They were heavy-set, one just under six feet, the other an inch or so taller. They had semi-automatic rifles slung across their backs, side-arms holstered on their hips, and stun batons on their belts. Both guards snapped to attention as a third man approached.
“Comrade Nozadze,” the newcomer said, addressing the taller of the two men. “You are needed in the silo.”
Nozadze cursed under his breath.
“Don’t let the Commander catch you talking like that,” his shorter partner grunted.
Bucky heard the newcomer snort.
“Has there been a problem?” Nozadze asked.
“No, a new mission. Something about a theft from the Americans. Above my clearance level, and certainly above yours. The Commander will be here shortly, so I’d suggest you get moving.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bucky took a moment to weigh his options while Nozadze’s boot-steps retreated farther down the hallway. On the one hand, the new HYDRA guard clearly had some level of security clearance. It was possible he had useful information about where Bucky was and, more importantly, how to get back to where he wanted to be. On the other hand, extracting that sort of information, especially from trained operatives with the sort of loyalty to a cause that HYDRA demanded, took both a lot of time and a lot of noise that Bucky couldn’t afford.
Instead, he slipped a knife into each hand and slunk out of his hiding spot. He carefully glanced around the corner — still just two guards, the shorter one and the newcomer who had replaced Nozadze. Bucky inhaled, exhaled. Inhaled, moved.
The first guard was dead before he hit the ground, a knife thrown through the back of his skull. The second barely had time to react before Bucky was on him, a quick jerk with his left hand and —
The target’s face slowly purpled as he tightened his grip. He watched the colours shift, the target’s body thrashing, twitching, until —
Bucky dragged the bodies back to his hiding spot behind some thick, industrial piping. Pulled his knife out of the one guy’s head and shoved him in, then quickly stripped the other before squeezing him in, too. As he shucked his stolen olive-green U.S. Army uniform, Dr. Raynor’s voice echoed in his head.
Don’t do anything illegal.
He wiped his bloody hands off on the wool jacket.
Don’t hurt anyone.
He pulled on the HYDRA uniform, tucking as much spare ammo as he could into the pockets.
Tell them, “My name is James “Bucky” Barnes. I’m no longer the Winter Soldier. You are a part of my efforts to make amends.”
He straightened the slightly small uniform one last time, and set off after Nozadze with a purposeful stride.
Don’t forget to smile.
Raynor had been real big on that. Said it re-assured people.
And she said he was full of shit.
Bucky found himself descending in an old elevator, a sort of resigned terror coiled in his gut. He knew where he was, now. Had always known, in all likelihood. Just hadn’t wanted to admit it to himself. Much like all roads lead to Rome, for Bucky it all lead back here. All his nightmares, his memories, his fuck-ups and failures and the million ways he was broken. Everything began and ended right here.
A lone cryostasis unit vomited thick icy fog across the floor, door open.
Empty.
Some feet away, a limp husk sat slumped in the Chair, hair dripping with the thaw. His eyes were shut tight and his body trembled slightly — still to weak to properly shiver, but not yet in enough control to suppress the involuntary twitching. Bucky’s stomach twisted with sympathy as he watched the man heave and then swallow back bile.
Odd, that he’d feel anything but disgust for the worst version of himself.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up straight and at the same time the Soldier stiffened to attention best he could while strapped down.
“You’re behind schedule,” Lukin barked as he strode into the room. He gestured at the Soldier, who was still stiff in the chair’s restraints. “Has he been prepped?”
“The core temperature still has to rise a few degrees, Commander,” one technician said as he checked a readout on a nearby computer.
“Is that my problem?” Lukin snapped.
“No, sir.”
“Right. So prep him. Now!”
The technician hastily saluted and then hurried to establish an IV line in the Soldier’s right arm.
Lukin turned, mouth open to shout orders to the guards standing by, but he suddenly crumpled like a marionette with cut stings.
Bucky stared at the smoking gun in his hand for a split second. No time for regret — bullets riddled the concrete beside him and then pinged impotently off his left arm as he leapt from his hiding place and into the fray.
This he had dreamed of, too.
Something between a nightmare and a fantasy, it had played out a thousand different ways in his imagination during the long, unnumbered days of his captivity before he forgot the meaning of escape. Before he broke for good.
Now, he wasn’t dreaming. Every strike with a knife, every squeeze of the trigger was real. He wanted to cry and laugh and scream all at once. He wanted to get back to Steve and go home.
As the last of the guards and techs fell, Bucky reluctantly turned to face the man in the Chair.
The Soldier.
Himself.
The man’s expression was blank, but an observant person would notice something frantic about his eyes. Like an injured animal. Frightened and hurt and ready to lash out at anything that came near.
“Hiya, Pal,” Bucky said, stepping as close as he dared. “How’d you feel about a change in command?”
Home Base, Siberia. Date: unknown.
English.
The unknown enemy operative spoke in English.
And with a strange accent, too. Words stretched out like taffy on a summer afternoon. So unlike the clipped (brown-hair-red-lipstick) vowels he was supposed to use, or the round and lilting (kind-blonde-dying) accent he’d adopted on occasion to—
The enemy pulled the needle out of his arm. He wasn’t authorized to do that. The Soldier glared at him.
“Don’t give me that,” the enemy said. “Trust me, you’ll feel better off the happy juice. Might have the mother of all hangovers for a few days, but,” the enemy shrugged. “Not like you’ve got the vocabulary complain about it yet.”
He glared at the enemy some more, a tactic which sometimes got the more squeamish techs to back off, but this guy just huffed and said, “Can’t scare the boogeyman, pal. You gonna try to kill me if I let you out of the chair?”
He nodded on instinct.
“Figured. Fuck.” The enemy ran a hand through his short, brown hair. His stance changed subtly, and he began to move counter-clockwise about the Chair.
He knows.
Only Lukin was allowed the Words. Or possibly some other people that came before. They were irrelevant.
The enemy operative, who’d appeared suddenly and killed Lukin, the techs, and the guards without breaking a sweat was not supposed to know the Words.
(Unless…)
Unless he was a new Handler.
Like Lukin, after… after…
The Soldier glared at the enemy (maybe a Handler?) as long as he could before he circled out of view. If he were out of the Chair, he would—
“Longing.”
—would—
“Rusted.”
— he—
“Furnace.”
“Please.”
The pair of them froze, the Handler statue-still behind the Soldier’s head. The Soldier never pleaded.
Nothing happened for a long moment.
He heard the Handler clench his jaw.
What could he do but brace the body for whatever pain the Handler would inflict, breaths fast and eyes shut tight? He barley heard the Handler’s boot-steps over his own pounding heart as the Handler circled back in front of the Chair. He appraised the Soldier for an agonizingly long moment.
“Still want to murder me?”
The Soldier ground his teeth. Wished the Handler would just get things over with.
Fuck you, fuck you, fuck —
“No.”
The restraints on the chair released. The Soldier didn’t move. Maybe if he kept still, if he was quiet, the Handler would see that he could be compliant, be good — well done, Soldier — and—
“Sounds like a dozen reinforcements are already gathering in the hall,” the Handler said. The Soldier confirmed that estimate by counting the audible footsteps and the soft clatter of weaponry coming from beyond the door where Lukin lay in an ever-expanding pool of blood. He nodded.
“I don’t need to tell you that this place will be overrun within the hour.”
No, he did not need to state the obvious.
A crooked smile unexpectedly split the Handler’s face. “They still got that souped-up chopper in the hangar? I’ve always wanted to fly it.”
He nodded, and that crooked smile turned into a manic grin.
If Bucky hadn’t been certifiably insane before this little trip to the past, he certainly was now. Unexpectedly rescuing his psychopathic, brainwashed past-self had to be one of the dumbest decisions he’d ever made.
What the hell was he thinking?
He’d been too damn soft to finish the trigger sequence. So now he had an un-wiped, only partially-controlled and questionably loyal Winter Soldier on his hands. And to top it all off, he wasn’t even the one flying the experimental chopper out of the base. He’d seen the Soldier giving the chopper furtive admiring glances while Bucky was doing the pre-flight checks and had caved almost immediately.
“You fly, I’ll be gunner.”
The Soldier had simply nodded and headed for the cockpit. Ungrateful bastard. Bucky was totally taking over the controls when they stopped to re-fuel.
Bucky couldn’t help watching the man seated at the chopper’s controls. He’d seen footage of himself as the Soldier before. But this was a whole other level.
At least it had been relatively easy to escape the base with the pair of them working in perfect, lethal harmony. The base’s guards hadn’t stood a chance against two Soldiers.
Didn’t take much for him to fall back into form.
What Zemo hadn’t realized — what Raynor and the other government suits, hell, what even Sam hadn’t realized — was that Bucky had never truly fallen out of form.
To be fair, he’d given it a try, in Wakanda. Had toyed with the idea of retirement during those few short months after the triggers were gone and he was out of cryo and free to live as he pleased on that little goat farm. He’d even dreamed, idly, of asking Steve to slow down, to settle down with him, and—
And then they’d called him back to war. For all the good that did. World had ended anyways. He’d told Raynor once that all he wanted was peace. She had called bullshit, and maybe she was right. Maybe he was too fucking hyper-vigilant or whatever the shit Raynor’d called him to ever do anything but fight.
Bucky looked over at the Soldier, sitting stiffly in the pilot’s seat. The side of his face was finely dotted with someone else’s blood. Bucky watched as a rivulet of sweat slowly cut a path down his cheek, gathering a pinkish hue as it went. A strange feeling gripped his heart, like anger but more bitter. He looked away, overwhelmed with a sudden urge to pull his gun, shoot the Soldier clean through the temple, and then do the same to himself.
Fuck.
He heard the proximity alarm at the same moment as the Soldier.
“Incoming,” the Soldier informed him flatly.
“How many?” Bucky asked, already scrambling around the body of the copter, gathering as much extra gear as he dared to jump with.
“Three.”
“Evasive manoeuvres for as long as you can. You wearing a chute?”
The Soldier glared at him.
“More room for guns when we jump then. Here.” He tossed forward a semi-automatic and a few spare mags. The soldier strapped them on and turned back to the controls.
Bucky shrugged on the chopper’s singular emergency pack, which he hoped HYDRA had thought to supply with food and matches, at the very least. Then he turned to the machine gun mounted near the rear of the chopper. His hopes were not high, even in this souped-up machine. Especially if they were up against fighter jets. They just wouldn’t have the maneuverability and speed needed to—
The Winter Soldier ploughed into him, knocking both of them out of the chopper. Bucky shut his eyes against the blinding explosion that followed mere moments later. The force of the blast pushed them sideways, super-heated air searing their faces, and then they were falling, a tangle of flesh and metal limbs.
Blue sky. Black smoke. The retreating roar of jet engines.
Bucky blinked.
His whole body screamed at him, but as he cautiously moved each limb, nothing felt broken. He sat up and heaved in a ragged breath. Spat out a mouthful of blood — felt like he’d bit through his tongue on the landing.
A quick look around showed drifted snow and jagged boulders and a tangle of black-and-silver limbs a few yards to his left. Bucky pushed himself up and scrambled as close as he dared.
Don’t be dead don’t be dead don’t be —
“Nyet… No. No, please—“
“Hey,” Bucky said.
The Soldier’s eyes snapped open. It took him a second to lock onto Bucky’s face.
“Injuries?” Bucky asked.
He watched the Soldier go through the motions Bucky’d just did himself: slow blinking, careful movement of each limb, sit up, spit out a mouthful of blood.
“Negative. I’m functional.”
Bucky offered the Soldier a hand up, and damn, he’d forgotten how many pounds that old arm added. He stepped back and contemplated their next move while the Soldier re-calibrated his arm.
He did another quick check of himself for injuries, too. Because if this went south and he had to fight the Soldier here and now? Let’s just say he’d rather not discover something like broken ribs while trying to throw the first punch.
Thankfully, aside from some sore points that were going to become nasty bruises by the end of the day, he was fighting fit. So Bucky squared up to the Soldier and said, in his most authoritative Sergeant voice, “We need to remove your trackers.”
If looks alone could kill, Bucky would’ve died then and there.
“I don’t need to explain myself to you,” Bucky said. A line Pierce had used on the rare occasions that Bucky balked at an order during mission briefings. He pointed aggressively at the sky. “The bastards who just tried to blow us up will be back, and so long as you’ve got the trackers in you, they’ll know exactly where we are.”
The Soldier glared at him for another heartbeat, then pulled a knife and offered it to Bucky hilt-first.
What the hell?
“You don’t wan— You’re not gonna do it yourself?” Bucky asked, barely catching himself from asking a question the Soldier wouldn’t understand.
“Don’t know where they are,” the Soldier said flatly. He waved the hilt at Bucky once, up-down-up. Which was positively expressive, for him.
Bucky sighed deeply. He really should’ve just shot the Soldier when he’d had the chance, while he was strapped to the Chair back in the bunker. What the hell was he doing?
He took the knife.
“Right forearm.”
The Soldier shucked his tac jacket and obligingly rolled up his sleeve. Bucky made it as quick as he could, but he wasn’t exactly a surgeon. Not helped by the size of the tracker, which was massive compared to the microchips Bucky’d pulled from his own body in 2014.
It was an agonizing ten minutes before Bucky’d extracted all of them: two in the Soldier’s flesh and one in the titanium arm. Bucky cleaned the knife off in some snow before he handed it back to the Soldier.
“Let’s move.”
He set off northeastward, keeping as best as he could to their original heading. He had no doubts that HYDRA would be waiting for them by the time they reached the outpost on foot. But what other option did they have? Freeze to death? Or worse, freeze alive and get re-captured?
He’d rather take his chances in town.
The Soldier marched in silence behind him, gun out but not cocked. As the sun slowly sunk below the horizon and evening set in, that strange feeling gripped him again. Anger and some other bitter thing. It burned in his chest and sat heavy on his shoulders. He glowered at the snow underfoot as it turned a soft blue. Lost a staring contest to the sky overhead as it faded to navy, dusted over with a handful of pale stars.
“You know there’s aliens up there?” he said. Just to fill the silence. “I met some of ‘em. Pink ones, green ones. This big guy who’s a tree that can only say his own name. And this other guy— the tree guy Groot’s best friend — who looked like a raccoon but he could walk talk and he had this huge gun…”
His anger drained away, leaving behind bile in the back of his throat and an itch in his eyes.
“Wish we could’ve seen it as a kid, before…”
At his back, the Soldier remained silent.
Bucky returned his gaze to the darkening landscape. “We should find somewhere to camp for the night.”
Notes:
Detailed CW: Bucky kills a lot of people in this chapter. Meaning there's more condensed violence here than in a typical chapter. I don't think I go into more graphic detail than usual for this fic, but felt I should warn folks just to be safe. At several points in this chapter, Bucky contemplates/wonders why he doesn't/is tempted to kill himself (and/or a version of his past self).
~~~
Historical note:
The astute reader might be thinking "trackers???? Isn't it the 70's????" The astute reader would be correct! The project to develop GPS was officially launched in 1973, with the system going "live" in 1978. The system wasn't considered fully operational (24-hour global coverage) until 1993. So, no GPS to hunt down the Soldier if he ever wandered off (I'm sure that never happened... :P). Instead, for this fic, I'm operating under the assumption that HYDRA, being an evil science cult, has developed some sort of short-range trackers that let them at least keep local tabs on where their Soldier is within a radius of however many hundred miles.~~~
Bit of a longer update this week! Had time to edit/post thanks to the long Easter-weekend. Currently taking bets on who would win in a fight, Bucky or Bucky? :D :P
Chapter 34: In Which Bucky Attempts Self-Care
Chapter Text
Approximately 200 Miles Northeast of Home Base, Siberia. April 8, 1970.
The Soldier barely noticed it at first. Just a headache and tiredness that grew as the night watch wore on. His hand began to tremble slightly on his rifle, skin clammy under his gear despite the frigid temperatures.
His Handler alternated between light sleep and watchful silence all night, one hand on his gun and the other curled around a knife. Even in sleep, the Soldier noted, he was never fully unaware of his surroundings. Watching him made an uneasy feeling slide down the Soldier’s spine and settle somewhere near his stomach.
Many things about the Handler made him uneasy. With his blank thoughts buzzing loudly in his head, however, he couldn’t find a concrete reason why. When the eastern sky began to hint at sunrise, the worry fizzled to the background of his mind as the Handler stood, stretched, demanded a report.
“No activity overnight.”
“And yourself?”
The Soldier shifted his shaky grip on his rifle. “Mission ready, Sir.”
The Handler squinted at him.
“Report if you develop a headache, fever, nausea, or the shakes. I’d like a little warning before you go into full withdrawal.” And then he added, as if to himself, “Fuck if I know what they had you on, but it’s sure as shit not the same cocktail the Americans were using. Fucking unhelpful.”
The Handler glared at the Soldier for a few seconds, long enough that his heart began to jack-rabbit in his ribcage. He forced his right hand to stay steady on his rifle. He was mission ready. Didn’t have a fever or nausea. After a long moment, the Handler fixed his glare on the horizon.
“Let’s move.”
The Soldier let his breath out in a long, silent stream.
He fell in behind his Handler, marching across the tundra at a punishing pace. As the Soldier settled into the march’s rhythm, a single word floated unbidden through his mind.
Bucky.
He turned it over and over and around, inspecting it like he would a new weapon.
Bucky.
It felt dangerous somehow. A word he wasn’t supposed to have.
Bucky.
His unease grew as the day wore on. Something wasn’t —
Bucky.
— something was wrong. He was supposed to have a mission. Chair, Words, Mission. Every time, that’s how it — always the same — never stopped — (make it —)
Bucky.
His vision blurred as his brain, which had been fighting a crescendoing headache all day, suddenly lit itself on fire. The pain left him panting on all fours, his stomach roiling. He was dimly aware of a Handler standing above him.
Next they would make him forget. They always— he didn’t want —
His last thought, before his vision blacked out with pain, was that singular word.
Bucky.
He clung to it. Tried to tuck it in a corner of his mind where it would be safe, even though he had learned long ago (when?) that no such corners existed. The futility of it all didn’t stop him from trying one more time.
When Bucky’d gone through his own post-HYDRA withdrawal, he’d at least had a nice warm (bedbug infested) motel room to do it in. No such luck out here.
The Soldier had dropped like so many bricks about an hour after dusk. Just collapsed in the snow and started to violently vomit for a few minutes before he passed out completely. Bucky cautiously checked his radial pulse — fast, thready — and noted the feverish sheen of sweat that clung to the Soldier’s forehead.
Bucky cursed quietly, breath curling in the frozen air. If this went anything like it had in 2014, the pair of them were in for a rough couple of days. His mind raced ahead as he dug a shelter out of a deep snowdrift.
Assuming they survived through the week, what came next?
They needed to find some sort of transport out of the country, and while Bucky’d briefly considered it during the long hike today, he knew the Space Stone currently burning a hole in his pocket was not an option. If he were honest, he didn’t trust the damn thing not to disintegrate him just for looking at it sideways. Let alone what might happen if he tried to use it on purpose.
No, they needed something solid. A plane, or a helicopter or, hell, even a boat.
The next problem, assuming they found some way to escape the country, was where to go. He couldn’t take the Soldier to the SHIELD base in New Jersey. May as well gift-wrap him and drop him off at the nearest HYDRA base. Not to mention that the Soldier had no chance at any sort of U.S. governmental pardon without Thanos’s devastation and ultimate defeat softening politicians’ hearts.
Besides, it would be decades before this timeline’s Steve was found and defrosted. What if the Soldier’s programming didn’t break until he saw Steve? Would he just be stuck in some sort of compliant limbo until then? And worse, Shuri wasn’t even born yet. How would they get the trigger words out of the Soldier’s head?
Bucky rubbed the frosted knuckles of his left hand over his pounding heart and forced himself to keep his breathing even.
Steve will know what to do.
He broke your programming once, he can do it again.
Just get through this and get back to Steve.
He dreamed of the sun. Golden hair and a golden smile bending over him.
I thought you were dead.
He woke to darkness, sweat-soaked clothing frozen stiff against his body. His arm dug ice-cold claws deep into his left shoulder. Pain shot across his body when he tried to move. It took a minute to realize that he himself was the source of that awful, animalistic keening.
“Easy, pal,” someone said, words like sandpaper on his ears. A voice that had to be obeyed.
He held still. Let unknown hands wipe sweat off his forehead. When something hot was brought to his lips, he drank obligingly. Blinked up at a mirrored pair of exhausted eyes through eyelashes nearly frozen shut with ice.
The face above him swam and tilted and—
“If you die on me I swear I’ll kill you myself, you hear?”
He could only pant, curled on his side as he weakly expelled the contents of his stomach.
“Guess you’re not ready to keep water down, huh?”
Those hands again. Unexpectedly gentle as they rubbed a circle across his upper back. He shuddered and heaved and lost himself to a pain-filled haze.
Fire chased him, creeping ever closer until he awoke in an inferno. His bones were branding irons, his skin boiling. He needed air, needed to shed his layers and roll in the cool snow that surrounded him. He fought against the hands that held him back, held him down.
Too weak (always too weak).
He snarled and snapped, but he couldn’t not listen to that voice. It would be worse not to listen, not to obey.
“Report.”
“Burning.”
“Fuck, you’re hypothermic. Just… just wait it out. You’ve felt this before. It’s like cryo, but slower. Try not to sleep.”
He tried.
The wind outside the shelter faded to a train whistle. He was being dragged through snow, left arm leaving a bloody trail. A man with round glasses hovered overhead.
Sergeant Barnes…
He woke shivering uncontrollably, head swirling and pulse pounding. It was light outside. Again? He’d lost count of time. He flinched away from the hand on his shoulder, but realized moments later it was only there to help prop him up as a fresh round of nausea overtook him.
“Status report,” that soft voice grumbled, wiping bile off the Soldier’s chin.
The Soldier could only groan as he fell backwards onto the icy wall of their shelter.
“That bad, huh? Think you could keep some water down?”
He considered that. Weighed his burning throat against the nausea crawling around his stomach.
Time passed again without permission. He found a canteen pressed to his lips and drank a few sips. A familiar churning began in his stomach. He clenched his jaw and shut his eyes. After several long minutes, the nausea eased and he relaxed. He risked a glance at the Handler, and received a small nod of approval. Silence filled the frigid air of their shelter as the Soldier fought against the sleep that clawed at his eyelids. His body felt feverish, his bones ached, and he still wasn’t sure if he would manage to keep down the little water he had drunk. He settled for subtly observing the Handler as a means of keeping himself awake.
The man in question was built similarly to the Soldier. Pale skin and dark hair, broad and muscular, with a black-and-gold arm to rival HYDRA’s titanium fist. He looked vaguely familiar, and that forbidden word popped uninvited into the Soldier’s head.
Bucky.
“You’ve been out of it for several days,” the Handler said, breaking the silence. “Keeping water down’s a good sign. I’m hoping that means you’ve turned a corner.” He ran a hand through his greasy, short-cropped hair. “With any luck, we’ll be out of here by dawn tomorrow. I don’t like our chances out there without you fighting fit, but the longer we sit still…”
The Soldier privately agreed with that tactical assessment.
The Handler tossed him a canteen of water and a packet of food. “See if you can drink all that, maybe give the crackers a try. Take it slow, though. Probably wouldn’t hurt for you to get a little more sleep, either.” He stood and picked up a rifle. “I’m gonna check the perimeter.”
And then he was alone. He sipped a little more at the water. Opened the package of food, but thought better of it when the mere smell of the crackers turned his stomach. He lay down on the snow-packed floor, curled tight as he could for warmth. Exhaustion dragged his eyelids back down.
If Bucky spent another minute in that damn snow shelter with his past self, he was going to go insane.
More insane.
Whatever.
It was one thing to experience something himself, and quite another to watch it happen to somebody else. His post-Hydra withdrawal wasn’t something he’d have wished on his worst enemy — a sentiment whose irony was not lost on him in this particular situation. Add in being on the run from HYDRA, stranded somewhere in Siberia, and at risk of dying from hypothermia and dehydration, and Bucky could easily put the past few days on his list of traumatic shit he’d rather not do again.
He had a constellation of bruises mapped across his torso from the times the Soldier had been too incoherent to bring to heel. The wrist that had gotten grabbed and summarily snapped was still swollen and tender. He’d quickly discovered that on top of not having nearly enough food and water rations, HYDRA’s emergency pack hadn't had shit in terms of decent first aid supplies. Sam’d be rolling in his proverbial para-rescue grave.
Though really, what should he have expected from the organization famous for handing out cyanide teeth like candy?
Bucky paced away from the shelter where he’d spent the majority of the past three days and stared up at the robin’s-egg sky. No chem-trails. He forced his shoulders to relax. Shook out his arms. Squinted at the horizon.
The awful, muted whining the Soldier had made in the height of his feverish half-sleep wouldn’t stop replaying in Bucky’s head. He’d sounded like the Roscoe’s dog, the one that got run over by a car in ‘28. It had made the worst sort of noises before it died. Pained and afraid, too weak to voice anything above a whimper.
Bucky’d felt just as powerless to help then as he had now. He’d done everything he could think of to keep the Soldier comfortable. Or at the very least, keep him alive. He’d changed him into Bucky’s dry uniform when he sweat through his gear. Had huddled close to him to share body heat. Rubbed circles on his back as he dry-heaved into the snow. Periodically offered warmed water, thin broth, flavourless crackers.
All the while doing his best to ignore the running tally of everything he had done that this Soldier had not. A long, bloody ledger that included a former friend and his innocent wife, the son of an acquaintance, a handful of young not-yet Widows…
It was better not to think about it.
He imagined Sam saying something stupid like, trauma is not a competition, man, and laughed at himself.
Maybe not. But he still did those things. Both of them had—
Not your fault, an imaginary Steve butted in.
Bucky grit his teeth and set off around the perimeter he’d established the first night they’d dug in here. The sun slowly sunk towards the horizon as he walked, casting the world first in shades of pale pink, and then a deep blue.
He couldn’t deny the beauty of the surrounding landscape. The harsh wind whipped snow across his path like sand while the snow itself stood in unbroken drifts almost as far as he could see. A distant range of mountains loomed purple in the gathering night. Up here beyond the tree-line, the lack of familiar vegetation made the world seem enormous.
For a moment, Bucky felt he could get lost in the vast expanse of white. Let HYDRA and Steve and the whole world come searching. He was a mere speck, a grain of sand in a desert of snow.
The Siberian cold bit through his clothes and down to the core of him as he remembered the fantasy he’d had, however many days ago on Peter Quill’s ship. Of dying next to Steve, their skeletons intermingling and crumbling to dust and getting scattered on the sands of some unknown planet.
Bucky finished walking the perimeter and posted up a few meters away from the shelter’s entrance, eyes tracking the northern horizon.
Steve was out there, somewhere. Not his Steve, but. Steve. He’d never really thought about how close the pair of them had been for the sixty-odd years Steve spent trapped in ice. Bucky’d spent plenty of those years on ice, too.
If only they could’ve been frozen together. The Arctic wastes were beautiful, and—
A distant, mechanical rumble snapped him back to the present. So much for getting lost out here.
“We’ve got incoming,” he said, ducking back into the shelter.
The Soldier startled awake. He looked gaunt and skeletal in the dark, his long hair matted and plastered to his face with sweat. Bucky tossed a handful of weapons his way.
“You up for a fight?”
The Soldier slowly nodded and blinked.
Very convincing.
Bucky sighed. He’d ended up wearing the Soldier’s gear — at the time, it had seemed better than nakedly freezing to death — and the Soldier was still dressed in the Hydra guard’s uniform that Bucky’d stolen. He noted that that uniform had been sweat through, too, and mentally kicked himself. Not much they could do about it now, though.
He picked up the Soldier’s mask and steeled his nerves.
Of all the dumb fucking decisions he’d made in his life…
The Soldier crouched inside their snow-built den, hands on his rifle, ears pricked for the Handler’s signal.
He’d been ordered to stay hidden until the Handler gave the signal to join the fight.
An unusual strategy, though he felt he’d been this sort of backup… before?
Unimportant. The Handler had given him his orders, and then donned his Mask and disappeared into the night.
He pushed aside the nausea and the headache and the strange double-vision he got when picturing the Handler wearing the Soldier’s own gear.
The rumbling of trucks grew closer, closer, and the Soldier stayed crouched, awaiting the signal.
Gunfire cut through the night. Muzzle-flares flashed harsh outside the shelter’s entrance.
He shifted his grip on his rifle and clenched his teeth.
An explosion, shouting, more gunfire.
Where the hell was that signal?
Then an electric-blue flash, a throat-tearing scream and—
They fell easy. One, two, three in the sights of his rifle. Four. Five. He tangled with two more for mere seconds before they also fell — one to his knife and one to the arm. His body protested as he propelled himself onwards, thinking only that he needed that screaming to stop, it had to stop, make it —
He’d forgotten how goddamn difficult it was to breathe through the mask. Though that could just as easily be him forgetting how difficult it was to breathe, period, while being fucking electrocuted.
The back part of his brain berated him for forgetting that in the mid-sixties, HYDRA had developed Tesla-cannons powerful enough to temporarily immobilize him. The rest of his brain was pre-occupied with the familiar sensation of white-hot fire lancing through his nerves. He couldn’t hold in his screams. Couldn’t do anything but try not to black out as faceless men in familiar black uniforms circled around him.
The electricity stopped for a heartbeat, just long enough for Bucky to register two things: One, another black-clad man, dead-eyed and furious and covered in sweat, barrelling towards the man operating the cannon. And two, the commander of the group shouting a singular, dreaded word.
“Sputnik.”
Notes:
Uh oh! The HYDRA Commander has cast Power Word: Stun! Hopefully Bucky's got an 8th-level counter-spell ready to go, otherwise this round of combat could end really badly. Fingers crossed for a nat 20 on the Soldier's CON save!
Chapter 35: In Which Steve Goes Ice Fishing
Notes:
CW from previous chapters regarding violence still applies.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Stark Labs, New York. April 10, 1970.
“…oday? Howard?”
Stark set down his soldering iron and pushed up the visor on his helmet. “What?” he snapped.
Peggy stepped into view, bearing a plate with sandwiches.
“Just checking in,” she said mildly.
“I’ll update you when I’m done building this… what should I call it?”
“What does it do?”
He watched her eyes glaze over one minute into his explanation. Which was impressive — most people who weren’t comfortable with theoretical physics at a graduate level wouldn’t have lasted twenty seconds. One of the reasons he’d always liked working with Peggy.
“Why don’t you just call it a tesseract locator?”
“Boring. It’s gotta have a flashy name.”
She gave him a look that read, Really, Howard?
He gestured at the plate of sandwiches. “These for me?”
“No, they’re for your electronic calculators.”
She handed him a sandwich at around the same instant that he realized he was starving. “Thanks,” he said around a mouthful of ham and cheese.
She left with a fond smile and a chiding, “Manners!”
Sometime around one in the afternoon, the TeLo (sounded much punchier than tesseract locator, and he didn’t have time to brainstorm anything truly good) locked on to the Stark Industries Weather Tracking satellite. At 2:07 p.m., the TeLo pinged with a possible location for the Tesseract.
Howard was elated, may have even let out an excited whoop! as he grabbed the printout from his machine. That lasted for all of five seconds, when he read the approximate coordinate range.
He’d been loud enough to alert the others, who rushed into the lab in various states of panic.
“You get it working?” Steve asked, desperate hope clear in his voice despite his neutral expression.
“Of course,” Howard said, stalling.
“Where is he?” Steve and Peggy asked simultaneously.
Howard simply passed the readout to Peggy.
She frowned as her eyes skimmed the page. “But this is in—“
“Siberia,” Steve said, glancing over Peggy’s shoulder. He exchanged a meaningful look with his friend Sam Wilson. “He’s in Siberia.”
Meanwhile in Siberia. April 11, 1970. Local Time 03:00 Hours.
Bucky felt the codeword crash impotently against him. An old scar in his mind whispered of oblivion. But he was already moving, forcing his electrocuted body to roll, to leap on the nearest HYDRA operative, to kill.
His instincts sang out warnings as he readied the now-dead operative’s gun. Five men up close, one manning that damn Tesla-cannon. Four more trying to circle up behind him with a second cannon. In the distance, two men dragged an unconscious Winter Soldier towards a truck.
“We have him,” one of those bastards shouted.
It took Bucky two bullets to kill the guy on the nearest Tesla-cannon, electrical after-shocks messing with his aim. He ducked behind a fallen body to dodge the responding burst of gunfire.
“Take him to base,” a nearby operative yelled back. “We’ll take care of—“
Bucky’s clip ran dry, but the man shouting orders fell. He tried to sprint for the truck where they were loading up the Soldier, but a tell-tale whine from one of the Tesla-cannons forced him back. He narrowly dodged an electric blast, skidding across the snow in an undignified tumble that landed him at the feet of yet another HYDRA goon.
He barely got his left hand up in time to avoid eating lead. Followed through on his upward motion and snapped that man’s neck. Used the man’s body as a shield while he shot down three more. The revving of the truck as it peeled away from the fight rang louder than gunfire in his ears.
Six left. Easy odds, if not for the way the world swam before his eyes and he couldn’t draw in any breath. He dropped his meat-shield and rolled out of the way of another electric blast, leaving a red trail across the snow. The hand on his gut came away slick.
Fuck.
The fight slowed.
Bucky did what he could to keep the remaining six… five… four men from encircling him. He destroyed one of the Tesla-cannons with a grenade pilfered from a fallen operative. He registered but didn’t feel two more bullets punch through his body. His vision blurred, making his aim worse and worse. He kept running out of fucking bullets.
He lost his last knife to the guts of one operative and found himself cornered against the only working Tesla-cannon. In the time it took him to crush the controls, he’d left himself open to a rifle-butt to his gut.
“Identify yourself!” the operative who struck him demanded. A commander, judging by his insignia. A second operative stood back a few paces, gun trained on Bucky’s head.
Bucky tore the mask off his face so he could hack up blood without drowning himself. He swore that last strike’d landed right on the hole in his side.
“You know who I am,” he coughed, not looking up. He heard them ready their weapons, and an insane laugh burst through his bloodied lips. What did Steve always used to say?
I could do this all day.
He tipped his head up to meet the eyes of the HYDRA commander. Saw a satisfying flicker of confusion and fear in his eyes.
“Soldier?”
With the last of his strength, Bucky hauled the Tesla-cannon in front of himself. It smashed into the farther operative, who went flying across the snow. He used the only weapon he had left— his arm — to crush the windpipe of the HYDRA commander. When he stumbled to the operative he’d hit with the Tesla-cannon, he found a pool of red forming around a crushed skull.
Bucky collapsed to his knees, right arm clamped to the wound in his stomach. His vision flickered and swam, ears ringing like he’d jammed his head inside a church bell.
A blink, and he was face-down on the snow, body cold and numb and burning. He rolled onto his back with a groan that turned into a desperate, hacking cough. His guts felt like they’d been skewered through by a hot poker. When he could breathe again, he stared dizzily up at the sky. A crescent moon hung low amongst the drifting stars.
He wanted nothing more than to shut his eyes again and lay there forever.
But.
But HYDRA had their Soldier back, and he couldn’t just— he couldn’t—
He forced himself back to standing. Stumbled over blood-soaked snow until he reached the other HYDRA truck. Tried not to count the bodies littered across the snow. Counted them anyways. He ripped open the back door and began a one-handed search for first aid supplies.
He was saving future victims. Innocents who were destined to fall by his hand but who were alive now, in this past. At least, that’s what he told himself as he tore open a roll of bandages.
He checked himself over. Found a through-and-through high on his right shoulder and a graze across his right thigh, both bleeding sluggishly. Neither of big concern. No exit wound in his back to match the hole in his stomach. That was… that would have to be fine until later. He bandaged himself up as best he could with one hand — his wrist had re-broken at some point in the fight — before he turned the ignition in the truck.
The engine’s rumbling was just this side of unbearable on his injuries. Bucky grit his teeth, broken hand clamped around his guts, and squinted at the half-faded caterpillar tracks before him.
He wasn’t doing this for himself. Bucky knew he hadn’t been worth saving. Knew the same could be said about That Fucking Bastard, whom he’d spent the past three desperate days trying to keep alive.
He knew.
He knew.
Bucky switched off the headlights and slammed the gas-pedal to the running-boards in spite of himself.
Anchorage, Alaska. April 12, 1970.
According to Peggy — and Steve rarely doubted Peggy’s judgement — the most reliable and efficient way to sneak into Soviet Russia these days was to take a prop plane from Alaska. And so here they were, camped out in an isolated but decadent fishing lodge while they waited to refuel the plane. The cover story was Millionaire fishing holiday. Steve had been less than impressed to find out that they’d be spending most of the morning out on a frozen lake, keeping up that cover with a local guide.
“Don’t usually take folks out this late into the season,” the guide, Ray, had said after they’d made introductions. “But the ice is good — just over a foot deep when I checked last night.”
The weather was crisp and sunny, the temperature hovering just above freezing. Steve, Sam, Peggy, and Howard all followed Ray in a single-file line of snowmobiles onto the frozen surface of the lake near their lodge. As everyone settled in around the augers and got ready to cut their fishing holes, Steve found himself wandering away from the group.
He wasn’t in the mood to fish. Wasn’t in the mood for much of anything that wasn’t actively searching for Bucky.
The name thrummed in his chest like a heartbeat. Five whole days he’d been missing now. Every passing second grated on Steve. For all he knew, Bucky could be hurt, or captured, being tortured and brainwashed and—
He found a secluded patch of shoreline, out of earshot but still within sight of the group, and sat down on a snowy log. Then he buried his face in his knees and turned himself over to sorrow.
As it so often did, his mind conjured Bucky.
Bucky, suspended behind frosted glass. Pale and unreachable as his life hung somewhere between sleep and death.
Bucky, falling.
Bucky, crumbling to nothing.
Bucky, strapped to a table—
Steve smacked the memories out of his head. He had no desire to sit around watching a highlight reel of some of the worst moments of his life. Because that wasn’t what wanted to remember, when he thought about Bucky.
When he remembered Bucky, he thought of a Cheshire Cat smile. The one that had split a pimpled face, back when Bucky’d been long-limbed and awkward. The one he’d worn right before producing a pilfered bag of candies. Finally fourteen, eh Stevie? Better watch out or you’ll catch up to me.
He thought of Bucky, alive (alive, alive, alive!) and asleep on Steve’s shoulder. Rattling around the back of a transport truck, mud-covered in a foxhole, hurtling through space in an alien craft… always somehow tense and alert, even in slumber. It made Steve want to bundle him up in his arms and promise nothing would ever hurt him again.
He thought of Bucky skittish and cornered in a Bucharest bolt-hole, claiming not to know why he’d pulled Steve from the river. The sparse apartment had been filled with little scraps of life: a handful of well-loved fantasy paperbacks on the makeshift bookshelf, dirty dishes on the counter (Bucky never did dishes the same day, it used to drive Steve up the wall), a journal stuffed with newspaper clippings and notes. He wished he could’ve paused time and told Bucky how goddamn proud of him he was. How far he’d come. How much Steve loved him.
He thought of Bucky on the stoop of the Rogers’ apartment building. Eyes wide and earnest as he squeezed Steve’s bony shoulder. I’m with you till the end of the line, pal.
In his memories, Bucky hummed along to the radio while darning a hole in his socks on a chilly November evening. Bucky showed Steve around a Wakandan goat farm, his eyes the brightest Steve had seen them this century. Bucky laughed at some dumb joke Gabe or Dum Dum had cracked. Bucky ruffled his kid sister Becca’s hair, just to rile her up. Bucky antagonized Sam on purpose, same way he used to antagonize Monty.
A sudden twig’s snap made him startle to his feet.
“Peggy! Hi!”
He hastily wiped face on his sleeve, doing his best to dodge her assessing gaze.
“Are you alright, Steve?”
He knew if he opened his mouth he’d start crying again, so he opted for a shrug.
She gave him another long look before gently saying, “He means a lot to you, doesn’t he?”
And if any sentence could sober him up and put the fear of God in him it was that one, coming from Peggy Carter.
“We’ve been best friends for as long as I can remember,” he hedged, voice cracking a little on the word friends. He wiped at his dripping nose.
Peggy let his sentence lie and stepped up beside him to gaze out across the frozen lake.
“It took me several years to move on, after your plane went down,” she confessed. “I kept reminding myself of the advice I’d told you, after we lost Barnes. To allow you the dignity of your choice.” She laughed bitterly. “Easier advice to give than to take, it turns out.”
“Most advice is,” Steve offered.
Her smile was too full of grief. “I’ve missed you,” she said.
“You’ll see me again,” he promised, mouth moving before his brain could catch up. “In my timeline, at least. You were still around when I woke up. I… we got to have a few more years of friendship. This timeline, who knows? Maybe Howard will crack the ice sooner.”
“He’s certainly determined.”
Steve couldn’t quite muster up a smile. “Best and worst thing about him.”
“Useful, at any rate. I expect we’ll have to burn the ship to get rid of all the HYDRA rats, and Howard will be an invaluable ally when that time comes.” Peggy sighed. “My mother used to say that sometimes in life the only thing one can do is start over. Perhaps it’s what we should’ve done from the beginning.”
Steve watched a lone raptor circle the lake.
“Maybe by the time that’s done, I can properly retire,” Peggy mused.
“How many years have you been saying that?” Steve asked, only half-teasing.
Peggy smacked him gently. “None. Though my husband’s been promising to retire for the past five.”
“Daniel Sousa, right?”
She blinked at him.
He shrugged. “You had— will have? A photo of him on your nightstand, along with all your kids and grandkids. You used to brag to me about them whenever I’d visit.”
“Sounds… nice,” Peggy said.
“It was,” Steve said, and he meant it. Painful as visits to Peggy had been, especially in the later years as her dementia progressed, he’d treasured each one.
They watched the raptor circle the lake again.
“He turns out okay, right?”
Steve gave her a questioning look.
“Bucky,” she clarified. “After eventing they did to him—“
“He’s got a long road ahead of him,” Steve said. “The kinda stuff they did to him, it doesn’t heal over in just a few weeks.” Or even a few years, as Steve was learning.
“But he does recover?”
Steve thought of Bucky, poised to jump off the cliff on Vormir, and swallowed down a sudden lump in his throat.
“He gets his memories back. But it’s not like…” before. Steve swallowed again. He felt small, and incredibly alone. “I can’t— I don’t know how to help him.”
A hand on his shoulder. “Oh, Steve.”
He shrugged and sniffed and found he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. “Let’s go see if Jarvis is back with that plane.”
He awoke cold.
He’d been… sick ? But someone had— there’d been — golden hair, a sunshine smile—
He sat still, breaths even.
Someone else had been hurting, screaming, and he—
Somebody spoke.
He needed to—
He listened.
(…needed to?)
“Good morning, Soldier.”
Dull cropped hair and flat grey eyes, the shadow of a beard across a square jaw. Everything slotted into place as the Soldier looked up at his new Handler.
“Ready to comply.”
Notes:
Historical note: The first electronic calculators were invented 1967, and were incredibly expensive ($200-400 for ONE basic calculator). So of course Howard would have some of these fancy bad boys in his lab to do his math! Before electronic calculators and other mathematical computing hardware became relatively affordable, places like NASA would hire real-live humans, most often women, to do their complicated calculations. And then of course they did not give these employees the credit they deserved for their scientific and mathematical contributions to the space program. Yet another example in science's long, long history of not crediting women (especially women of colour) for their work.
~~~
Timezones! Marvel never tells us what part of Siberia the super top secret HYDRA base is in, so I just put it kinda in the middle. Which means Bucky and (?)Bucky(???) are 13 hours ahead of our friends in New York. Because even when all the characters are in the same universe/dimension/year, I needed to set my story across the international date line. Sigh.
Chapter 36: In Which Bucky Admires Steve’s Eternal Willingness to Get Punched
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Goddamn Fucking Siberia. April 12, 1970.
Fuckers had several hours on him — his own fault for passing out in the snow like a fucking amateur.
Had a few less bullet holes and broken bones than him, too. Though his leg and shoulder had scabbed over and his gut had slowed to a sluggish ooze sometime around dawn.
Bucky knew where they were headed, though.
Back to base.
Back to his real home, as Zemo had so elegantly put it.
He knew of a shortcut HYDRA wouldn’t discover until the mid eighties that could cut at least three hours off his drive. It was more treacherous, sure, but this truck was frankly more tank than car, and Bucky wasn’t afraid to drift full-speed around hairpin turns for efficiency’s sake. He parked near the height of the secret pass and scrambled up the nearest peak, a pair of binoculars in hand. Took him three minutes of scanning the landscape below before he spotted the other truck. Behind him now, thank fuck. He packed away the binoculars and dashed back to his vehicle, calculating times and distances and hoping his memory was right about the upcoming terrain.
A late-afternoon flurry found Bucky crouched on a craggy outcropping, rifle balanced in his left hand while he kept his right warm inside his shirt. His gut wound had stopped bleeding. Not that it mattered much. What he was about to do was bound to open it up again.
The wind carried the rumble of an engine to his ears, and he tensed. Crouched lower. Both hands on his gun.
The truck trundled into view.
Wait, wait…
Swerved to avoid a deep drift.
Wait…
Rolled beneath him.
Now!
He hit the roof like so many bricks, left arm screeching as it dug grooves into metal. Bucky pivoted on his hand like it was a hinge, firing his gun at the driver’s side window as he swung towards it. The glass shattered and he lashed his right arm through, ditched the gun in favour of grabbing the driver’s body and hurling it out the window and down the mountain.
Nobody else in the cab.
Bucky pulled the emergency brake and the truck shuddered to a stop. Something warm dribbled down his side, pain in his gut slowly crescendoing once again. He blinked, attempting to clear his vision, and narrowly dodged the titanium fist aimed at his head.
“Mother fu—“
The Winter Soldier socked him in the guts, hard, and Bucky saw stars.
He scrambled back, away from the truck. Reached for a gun he no longer had. Pulled a knife instead.
The Soldier looked worse than last Bucky’d seen him. His hair, already matted and lank, was greasy now down to its ends. His skin was sunken and sallow, body trembling so badly his first two shots went wide. He ditched his gun with a growl of frustration.
“Soldier, attack!”
Bucky hadn’t even noticed the second HYDRA bastard until he spoke. He looked vaguely familiar in a way Bucky very much did not want to investigate.
The Soldier, weak as he was, didn’t hesitate. Bucky found himself fighting off his back foot, playing defence while he desperately tried to think of a way out of this that didn’t involve killing his past self. He dodged blows, used the terrain best he could, tried to wear down his opponent. But every time he thought he had an opening to knock the Soldier out, the Soldier’s Handler was there, firing shots like Bucky was a clay pigeon at a skeet range.
You know him, where do you—
He narrowly dodged that titanium arm again, and ducked behind the truck to avoid the pop pop pop from the Handler’s gun. His right arm screamed as he ripped the truck’s door off its hinges, but the pain was worth the dazed expression on the Soldier’s face when he ate bullet-proof metal.
Bucky launched himself into the cab and scrambled for his gun. Let his momentum carry him right through the open driver’s side door as he swung his rifle up.
Pop, pop.
The Handler crumpled. Bucky didn’t get to celebrate that victory for more than a moment before the Soldier rammed into him like a freight train.
Bucky cried out as the bullet in his gut flared once more with white-hot pain. It took all his strength to catch the metal arm aimed at his head. He was pinned, the Soldier a crushing weight above him, that arm coming down again—
“Bucky! Bucky, wait!”
The Soldier froze above him, aggression and anger and confusion warring on his face.
Wow. Did not expect that to work.
“Who the hell is Bucky?” he growled, then swung again for Bucky’s face.
Bucky took the punch and rolled, pulling the soldier with him. He locked his vibranium arm around the Soldier’s neck and screamed through bloody teeth as the Soldier bucked and kicked and struggled. Kept on holding until the Soldier’s fight drained to nothing.
Bucky pushed his unconscious counterpart off of himself and spat blood into the snow. He probed his face with shaky fingers and wasn’t surprised when they came away tacky and red.
“You’re a fuckin’ idiot, Steve. Fuck, that hurt.”
When he felt steady enough to crawl, he heaved himself away from the Soldier and over to the fallen operative. Needed more ammo. A change of uniform might not be a bad idea either, if Bucky could get it off the guy.
He found himself staring down at the face of a very young, very dead Vasily Karpov. Then everything sort of tilted, and his vision faded from grey to black.
He awoke cold.
An exhausted sort of pain clawed at his bones, begging him to continue laying still. He pushed himself to his feet and stared at the wreckage around him.
A truck with caterpillar treads, one door missing its window, the other simply missing. Blood on the snow at his feet. Sprinkled around the truck. Pooled around two bodies a short distance away.
He frowned.
Couldn’t remember those kills.
Couldn’t remember his mission, which was much more concerning.
His boots crunched an uneven beat as he stumbled across the snow.
Up close, he recognized them as Handlers.
One on his back, three holes in his chest. Hard eyes staring, harsh mouth empty of Words.
The other on his front, still warm. Still alive. He rolled him onto his back, and —
Hiya, pal! How’d you feel about a change in command?
— and —
Gentle hands tipping warm liquid into his parched and burning mouth.
— and he —
You know there’s aliens up there?
“Who the hell is Bucky?” the Soldier whispered. The Handler, being unconscious, didn’t reply.
Inconsiderate bastard.
The Soldier hauled him into the truck. He knew he ought to report back to base. He knew that without medical attention, the wound in the Handler’s gut would kill him. That there were doctors on base who could save his life.
He sat down across from the Handler.
“Ready to comply.”
The Handler slept on.
Waking up in the back of a HYDRA transport with the deadened eyes of his brainwashed past-self boring holes into his skull was not on Bucky’s bucket list. And yet here he was, unceremoniously propped against a frigid truck wall. He squeezed his eyes shut tight and opened them again.
Yep. That was the Winter Soldier staring him down.
Bucky wasn’t sure how much more of this he could survive.
If the bullet in his gut didn’t kill him first, of course. He cautiously prodded his middle, hissing through his teeth when the slightest touch sent pain shooting through his entire body. He looked back at the Soldier through watery eyes.
“So." He swallowed around something tacky in his mouth. "We didn’t kill each other.”
The Soldier frowned. “You’re a Handler.”
“Handler. Sure.” Bucky tipped his head back against the wall and tried to keep his breathing shallow. All it did was make him feel lightheaded.
“If we go back to base, you could receive medical attention.”
Bucky snorted weakly. “Of a sort.”
They sat and listened to the wind howling through the busted truck cab for a long time.
“Where did the golden man go?” the Soldier asked, apropos of nothing.
Bucky peeled his aching eyes back open. “Golden man?”
The Soldier stared at the floorboards. “Blond hair and— he smiled? In the snow shelter. When I was sick.”
Bucky moved to sit up straighter but warning bells of pain made him decide against it. “Blond hair and a smile’s not particularly descriptive.”
Bucky’s heart was skipping beats because of blood loss and not because—
“I knew him.”
His heart squeezed painful and tight in his chest.
“Steve,” Bucky whispered. Like a confession.
Maybe it was.
The Soldier kept staring at the floor, statue-still. “Steve?”
“He wasn’t in the snow shelter, but you… yeah. You knew him.”
“Who… is he?”
Everything. He’s everything, and you forgot him. How could you? How could you forget —
“An ally. My original exfil plan was to get ourselves to him, but, well.”
“I got sick. You got shot.”
“Yeah.”
“We are now stranded without supplies.”
“Yep.”
“And you are dying.”
“Picked a fucking slow way to go, too,” Bucky grunted. His weak attempt at gallows humour was unfortunately lost on the Soldier.
“If we go back to base—“
“We’re not fucking going—“
“—will they try to turn you into… me?”
That gave Bucky pause. He studied the Soldier for a long moment. The man still looked horrible — sweaty and greasy and emaciated. Weakened from his withdrawal. Bloodied from multiple fights. But there was also evidence that he’d had some rest while Bucky’d been unconscious. A few protein bars and emptied water bottles littered the floor at his feet. His skin was maybe less baggy under his eyes.
I am you, Buck-o.
“Yes.”
The Soldier scowled harder at the floorboards.
Bucky tried to shift to a position that felt less like he’d been gut-shot, but the movement made his vision go white and and then he was blinking up at the roof of the truck, clammy with sweat. He needed… needed to get up. To make a plan. Had to push through the pain and blood-loss and… he needed to… to… something. He lost the thread of his thoughts as his consciousness drowned itself in an inky ocean of pain.
A closer inspection of the Handler’s abdominal wound revealed it was poisoning him. Judging from the jaundiced coloration of his skin, the bullet had punctured his liver. He would not survive much longer without specialized medical intervention. Maybe a few more hours. A few days if he was particularly unlucky.
He scowled at his unconscious Handler.
Got out of the truck and scowled at the ink-black sky, face stinging in the unforgiving wind.
He knew what awaited him if he returned to home base. He knew the Handler would die if he stayed put.
It didn’t matter.
HYDRA would find him eventually, regardless of what he decided. They always did.
He returned to the truck and sat down across from the Handler. Checked his pulse. Watched his chest rise and fall and catch and rise again.
What had the Handler said?
Their original mission was an extraction to the Golden Man — the one he had seen while he was sick, but who hadn’t really been there.
Steve.
White star on a round — I can get by on my — taking all the stupid with — A hand, reaching, screaming a name as he—
He grit his teeth against a sudden, splitting headache. Anger sang through his veins. Stay put or go back, the end result would be the same.
Correction. Chair. Cryo. Chair. Words. Another Handler with another Mission.
But. If he could hold out long enough to get the Handler secured on a plane… maybe there was a chance.
Maybe the Handler would survive long enough to get to Steve.
And then—
He carefully didn’t finish that thought. No good in thinking. Time to act.
Notes:
Tell me you recently watched All Quiet on the Western Front without telling me you recently watched All Quiet on the Western Front...
Chapter 37: In Which Steve Admires Bucky's Handiwork
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Russian Airspace. April 13, 1970.
“You’re certain he’ll be at these coordinates?” Howard asked for the third time. Steve had to physically bite his tongue to keep himself from snapping.
Thankfully, Sam stepped in with a measured, “We know he was kept there — or rather, we know he will be kept there from at least the late eighties up until the mid 2010s. But it’s quite possible he was kept there long-term from as early as the mid-fifties.” Sam crossed his arms. “Not like HYDRA was keeping public records of where they stored their top-secret super-assassin.”
“Best shot we have is to start at the bunker. If he’s there, or if he was there recently—“ Steve’s throat tightened.
“We’ll find him,” Peggy said, voice full of confidence.
Steve glanced over at Sam.
“This ain’t 2014, man,” Sam assured. “He wants to be found.”
Steve forced himself to smile at his friends before he turned to stare out the airplane window. Steve had no doubts that Bucky’d fight tooth and nail to stay out of HYDRA’s grasp. Bucky’d do anything to keep himself away from them. Steve knew that like he knew the sun rose in the east and set in the west and that Bucky’s eyes held the sky when he smiled.
Maybe that’s why his guts had been replaced with molten lava these past few days. Why it felt like Howard’s plane, the fastest of its size on the planet, was crawling at a snail’s pace. Why time kept skipping by in blinks and starts, each molasses moment a second of ignorance he could never gain back, because what if…
What if each minute, each mile, second, inch, brought him closer not to a friend but a corpse? What if they were too late? What if—
“ETA 20 minutes,” Howard called from the cockpit.
Steve blinked. The faintest hint of blue on the horizon off the plane’s tail suggested a distant dawn.
He turned and numbly stared first at Sam, then Peggy, then Howard. Tried to find something to say. A warning, maybe? None of them had been to the bunker before. Had seen the rust-stained concrete and the cryo-units lined up in a circle around the memory-wiping machine. Had watched their best friend march blank-faced and silent into a personal hell. None of them had been there when Tony—
He shook his head and pushed himself to his feet. “This is HYDRA. So. Gear up. Stay sharp.”
Ten minutes’ time found them in a dogfight to give the Red Baron a run for his money.
Howard was a good pilot, calm under fire and unafraid to put his bird through her paces. He’d proven himself capable more than once during the War. But he was no Tony Stark, and they were up against fighter jets in a minimally-armed civilian aircraft. They were mere seconds into the fight, Howard dodging and weaving, when Sam popped open the loading bay doors.
“Give ‘em hell!” Steve shouted.
Sam grinned in that manic way he always did right before a jump, clipping his shield to his back. Then he snapped Steve a two-fingered salute and leapt from the plane.
“Oh God!” Peggy yelled. Steve glanced back to find her staring out the open back of the plane. “There’s two of you.”
“Only one Cap in the future,” Steve shouted back, unable to contain his own grin, “and he’s got wings.”
The fight swung decidedly in their favour with Sam in the air, although Howard had to make an emergency landing when one of the fuel-lines got hit. Steve hauled Peggy and Howard clear of the plane moments before it self-immolated. Sam landed on the snow behind them a few moments later.
“Everyone okay?”
“My… my plane.” Howard dropped to his knees.
“Never better, Captain Wilson,” Peggy said crisply, checking her handgun hadn’t been damaged in the landing.
“Got a feeling that was just the welcome committee,” Steve said. He tracked the thick black trails that the fallen fighter-jets had carved across the sky. Noted how their own crash site spewed up orange smoke like a flare. “Let’s move.”
An hour’s trek across rugged, frozen mountains brought a familiar concrete building within view. The entrance to the bunker clung to the granite face of the mountain like a barnacle. The snow that had drifted high against the walls gave the impression of someone huddled against the merciless arctic wind. Steve counted twelve guards as he scanned the area; eight on patrol and four on the bunker’s heavy steel door.
He ached for the Howlies for one brief moment. If he were here with them, they’d have Monty and Jones circle one way, Dum Dum and Morita go another. Dernier would sneak forward with his explosives, prepared to blast open those heavy steel doors while Steve stormed the bunker head-on. And Bucky’d hang back with his sniper rifle, make sure everyone got in and out safe.
Then he ached again for the Avengers. They’d have Hulk take the Western flank, cause a big distraction and pull most of the guards that way. Meanwhile Barton and Romanov would take down the guards on the doors. That’d leave Steve and Thor an opening to break through the bunker doors and start causing chaos inside while Stark found (or created) a back entrance and worked his way up.
Steve looked back at the people he did have. Sam, faithful to the last. A man who would do what was right no matter how hard, and one of the best friends Steve’d ever had the pleasure of making. Howard, a man who wanted to do so much good for the world that sometimes he lost sight of the people currently living in it. A flawed man, certainly, but still a good person at his core. And Peggy. Peggy, who constantly had to be smarter and faster and stronger and braver and kinder than everyone else around her, just to get the same level of respect and recognition.
It wasn’t enough. They needed a sniper, someone on overwatch to thin out the patrols. They needed — Steve needed — Bucky at his back. Every way he sliced the oncoming fight, he couldn’t see all of them coming out of it unscathed. Everyone was counting on him to have a plan, but all he could think about was Bucky’s face after Zemo’d played the video of the Winter Soldier murdering the Starks, and—
Sam squeezed his shoulder.
“You good, man?”
Steve glanced at Sam, then back towards the base. Swallowed around a dry mouth.
“I’m fine.” He could feel the look of disbelief Sam was sending him and huffed. “Don’t wanna mess this up.”
“Remember that time in, oh where was it, Argentina? Yeah. Argentina. You and I’d chased a cold trail down to an abandoned HYDRA base. Got half-way inside before we realized it was a trap?”
Steve raised one eyebrow, wondering if Sam had a point.
“That was twenty on two, Steve. And I’m pretty sure I only took out like, three guys myself.”
“Nat bailed us out,” Steve countered.
“Nat told me she’d been in the area making plans to clear the base out for a few weeks before we showed up and did it for her.”
Steve snorted, chest aching. “And I thought I was tired of fighting HYDRA back then,” he said.
“Where’s that ‘I can do this all day’ attitude?” Sam joked, jostling Steve’s shoulder.
It snapped away, alongside all the Dusted in Wakanda.
Steve sighed. Rubbed his eyes and scanned the bunker again. “I need a goddam nap.”
“Don’t we all?” Sam mused. After another few minutes of recon, they crawled away from the vantage point and reconvened with Peggy and Howard.
“Alright,” Steve said, words like lead in his mouth. He hated the way the other three snapped their attention to him. “Here’s the plan.”
In the end, the fight wasn’t much to write home about. Could be his perspective was skewed after facing down Thanos’s army. Could be he’d forgotten how reliable his companions were in combat.
Peggy and Howard captured a handful of officers and scientists to pump for information while Steve and Sam tore apart the rest of the base. They found several dead bodies with tell-tale bullet holes, knife wounds, and snapped spines in a makeshift morgue on one of the upper levels. Found the stiff and bloated remains of Dr. Arnim Zola in a horrifying cell deeper within the base. At the bottom of the empty missile silo sat an empty cryo-chamber and the memory-wiping machine. Down a little side hallway, they found an office filled with files documenting the Winter Soldier project — a veritable treasure trove of intel if one had the stomach to read it.
But they didn’t find Bucky, present or past.
“I’m sorry, man,” Sam said, same way he’d said it every time they’d torn a HYDRA base apart only to come up empty handed. They were back in the makeshift morgue, Steve glaring into the glassy eyes of the late Aleksander Lukin. A man Steve knew best by a handful of signatures on scant, yellowing mission reports tucked into the file Nat had given him after everything went to hell in DC.
“He was here,” Steve said. Had to say.
“He… Barnes did all this?” Peggy asked, voice shaky.
Steve met her eyes.
Yes.
No.
No, this is just what they made him into, he—
“Well,” Sam hedged, “we don’t know yet if it was our Bucky, or your guys’ version acting on, uh, orders.”
Steve snapped over to Sam. “You think he fucking activated himself?”
“I don’t know, Steve,” Sam defended with raised hands. “All I’m saying is there isn’t much Bucky wouldn’t do to stay out of HYDRA’s hands.”
Steve took a step back, that lava-like fear boiling again in his stomach.
“But we gotta be prepared for anything, right?”
Steve nodded. “Right. You’re right, Sam. Sorry. I’m just—“
“Stressed. I know. This ain’t exactly easy for me, either.” Sam made a sour face. “I’mma go look for clues somewhere where there’s less dead bodies. Maybe you should, too.”
Steve looked back at Peggy, ashamed for exploding at Sam, and especially so for doing it in front of her.
“He seems like a good friend,” she said mildly.
“The best.”
He watched her pull the sheet off a body, count the stab wounds, and pull it back up.
“Can I speak plainly to you for a minute?”
“You know I value your honesty, Pegs.”
Her smile was small as she met his eyes. “You haven’t changed as much as I expected.”
He blinked.
“Maybe that’s not the best way to put it. What I mean is… you’ve been through a lot, Steve. Our war, of course, and then whatever craziness the future had in store for you. The bits of it you have told me sound like the sorts of experiences that leave their mark on a man. But you… you seem…”
“Tired?” Steve offered.
Peggy laughed quietly.
“Maybe. I was going to say you seem just as driven now as you were a 90-pound recruit with asthma and heart palpitations.”
Steve grimaced. “Lot’s changed since I was that skinny Brooklyn kid.”
“Twice now you’ve convinced both me and Howard to fly you behind enemy lines on behalf of Barnes.”
He had no response for that. They picked through the corpses in awkward silence for a few minutes.
“We got off on the wrong foot, Barnes and I,” Peggy said, voice soft with recollection, “At first I thought he might be the type to balk at taking orders from a woman. Had to deal with plenty of soldiers that saw me as nothing more than a pretty face, back then. He— I don’t right know what he thought of me. Didn’t take long to discover that our first impressions were wrong, thankfully. We bonded over our common interest in keeping you from doing something stupidly heroic every time the Howlies deployed. He went so far as to make me promise I’d look out for you, if he ever—” Her laugh sounded more like a sob.
Steve struggled to find his voice for a moment.
“Schmidt had multiple bombs, Peggy. I couldn’t just— There wasn’t any other way.”
“I know, Steve. I know.” Peggy sniffed. “Can’t help but feel like I failed him, though. Especially now.”
Steve watched her methodically inspect a body and replace the sheet in silence.
When she straightened up, there was something sharp and desperate in her eyes. “Do you think it was worth it, Steve? What we did? What I…”
He wanted to tell her it was. That she was fighting the good fight with SHIELD. That this wasn’t a zero-sum game. That at the end of the day, good prevailed. Justice was served and peace achieved.
But knowing the future — the past? —
He shrugged, forcing a twisted smile. “Damned if we don’t try, Pegs.”
En-Route to Home Base, Siberia. April 13, 1970.
Dawn had barely started to break when the sky was rendered day-bright by explosive rounds. The Soldier tucked himself and his unconscious Handler under a rocky outcropping for cover. It was impossible to make out much of the dogfight beyond distant muzzle flares and blinding explosions. The sound of it rolled over the mountains like thunder. It was over in minutes, multiple planes leaving nothing behind but smoking black trails that lead down to distant crash sites.
When everything had stayed quiet for over an hour, the Soldier set off again, dragging his Handler behind him on a broken door he’d commandeered from the truck. The Handler occasionally stirred, protesting weakly. A garbled blend of English, Russian, and German.
The pathetic sounds gnawed at him. Pushed his pace faster despite his own exhaustion. Driven by terror that the Handler would die before—
His plan was simple: hit the base hard and fast. Buy the Handler enough time to get out before they regained control. Get himself out too if he could manage it. No great loss if he went down fighting. Something in his gut told him he’d done that before — tried to, at least.
He almost envied the Handler his fatal wounds.
Good thing he himself wasn’t hurt to the point of compromise, however. He had a mission to complete, and his body was still exhausted from when he was sick — drug withdrawal, the Handler had called it. The handful of ration bars and bottles of water he’d consumed yesterday were not nearly enough to bring him back up to baseline functioning.
Pulling the makeshift sled made his limbs tremble from effort. His whole body felt leaden. And that piercing headache only worsened as the day matured, sunlight blinding on endless snow.
The base was suspiciously silent when he arrived. No guards freezing on watch outside. No muted sounds of techs and agents and operatives scampering up and down the underground halls. Just a lot of overlapping tire tracks and boot-prints, a few scatterings of blood across the snow, and the empty howl of the wind.
He hauled the Handler up over a shoulder, willed his legs not to give out from under him, and clicked the safety off his gun.
Upper entry level clear. Signs of a fight near the doors. Unable to recall if he or the Handler or someone else had caused the damage. Had it happened after they left?
“3… 2 5 5… 7 0…”
He clamped a hand over his Handler’s mouth to silence him.
Taking the stairway down to the first sub-level nearly caused him to collapse. Couldn’t feel his legs. The world tilted and twisted beneath him.
He wouldn’t make it to the aircraft hangar at this rate. Needed a faster way down.
Both he and the Handler jumped at the echoing clang the elevator doors made as he wrenched them open. He tightened his grip on his gun as the elevator rattled down the shaft. All this noise would alert anyone laying in wait exactly where they were.
Movement below. Voices. Weapons being drawn.
He wouldn’t let them — not going back — get to Steve —
He let the Handler fall off his shoulders as he opened fire. Grit his teeth and willed himself not to listen to whatever they were shouting. Only four in this hallway, two dressed as civilians and two wearing strange uniforms? Outfits?
You’re keeping the outfit, ri—
One of the men in strange gear yelled something — something…
It distracted him enough to let the two agents dressed as civilians escape through a nearby door.
Sloppy.
He dodged a thrown projectile aimed at his head, focused fire for a few seconds on the man with — were those wings? Whatever they were was bulletproof. And that damn shield—
—hear it for Captain—
He caught it the next time it came sailing his way. White star in a blue and red bullseye. Thrown with enough force to send him staggering back a step.
Fuck.
He hurled a knife at the blond one — no point trying to get any projectiles past those wings — and felt his terror increase as the man caught it easily. This operative was like him. Stronger, since the Soldier wasn’t functioning—
“Soldier.” So quiet he nearly missed it. The Handler was awake, fevered eyes locked onto his own. “Stand down.”
No. No, we can’t— we— No, we—
“It’s Steve.” A hitched breath and a cough that burbled blood out his lips. “Stand down.”
He obeyed.
Dropped his gun. Reluctantly interlaced his fingers behind his head and dropped to his knees.
“Bucky?” The blond said.
That word again. It made his headache flare.
“St-teve.” Another gruesome cough from his Handler at his back.
Steve. The blond man was—
— you’re taking all the stupid with — come on, Bucky, I — get by on my — alright, Buck? — grab my hand! —
With no regard for personal safety or the fact the Soldier had moments ago been trying to kill him, the blond man (Steve?) rushed straight past the Soldier and collapsed at the Handler’s side.
“Buck, what,” he stuttered a moment, hands fluttering uselessly over the Handler’s broken body. “What happened?”
“Bullet to the liver. I think,” the Handler said. Huffed, showing bloody teeth. “Figures I’d bite it down here.” Another burning cough. “Fuck.”
The others, the one with wings and the two civilian-types (who had somehow re-emerged without him noticing), protested at that.
He ignored them all, eyes only for the Handler.
And Steve. Steve! Bent over the Handler, eyes rapidly filling with tears. A few fell on the Handler’s face when he said something else, mumbled through a bloody half-smile.
He knew him. He knew—
The Handler’s icy eyes locked onto him. Final instructions. A pass-phrase: re-assignment to a new Handler. The woman stepped forward, and his heart sank for a beat. He’d hoped that Steve—
No.
Hope was not for things like him.
He knew better than that.
And yet. When he looked back at Steve his chest shattered inside. Strange. He’d thought that every inside bit of himself had been broken apart a long time ago.
Notes:
Reunited at last! (Please don't hate me lol)
Apologies for the long gap between updates, a combination of grad school and chronic pain flares conspired to kick my butt. Should be back to business-as-usual soon :D
Chapter 38: In Which We Send a Hero Home
Notes:
CW: suicidal thought patterns in first half of the chapter.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Bucky knew what dying felt like.
Knew that’s what his body was doing now, piled on a cold concrete floor. Death was an old friend of his. One he could only hope would do him the courtesy of sticking around this time.
Especially since—
He wasn’t sure of much, couldn’t tell what was real or what his brain was conjuring up in its last moments. But if he really was here —
He needed it to stick. HYDRA couldn’t take him a third time. He—
Blinked. And Steve was… here? Kneeling over him and looking more panicked than Bucky’d ever seen, asking what happened.
Bullet to the liver.
Figures I’d bite it down here.
Not a bad fucking view though, your big dumb nose the last last thing I—
Other voices. Sam? He must be seeing things. Spectres. Howard Stark loomed in his periphery. Peggy Carter, lipstick pulled into a thin red line. The Winter Soldier watched from the sidelines with a dead-eyed stare.
He made Peggy the Soldier’s handler, on the off-chance wasn’t a hallucination. She’d know what to— He’d trusted her at one point, anyways.
One last thing. Bucky fumbled in his bloodstained jacket. Managed to get the Space Stone into his vibranium fingers. Didn’t waste energy telling Steve what to do with it.
In the end he had two big regrets, dying right here and now.
The first, that it had to be here.
Fucking Siberia.
Would’ve been nice to die somewhere with no unpleasant memories clogging up his senses.
He hoped that’s all it was. Memories. Shit that had happened to him (and not happening again, now). Not like what he wanted or hoped or thought had ever mattered, down here. He could just as soon make his guts stop leaking as he could control what HYDRA had done. To him. To others.
Steve —
“I’m here. Right here, Buck. Try not to…”
That was his second regret. Bigger, because it was something he’d actually had control over. Should’ve told Steve how he felt.
Stevie, I—
“You’re okay Bucky, you’re gonna be okay.” Then more urgently, “Sam! He’s —“
In life he’d had a lot of fucking regrets. Had filled half a notebook with regrets like some morbid to-do list. He hoped to leave those behind, now. A life for a life. Though if that were true then maybe he ought to die a hundred times over before any kind of atonement could be reached.
Dying twice would have to do. Three times? Depending on how you counted.
But maybe… Maybe the ones who ought to answer for… everything… were those who’d held the Soldier’s leash?
His vision blurred and faded. Often one of the first senses to go, in cryo. He felt that familiar ice growing on his bones. The cold ready to re-claim him.
Last thing he saw was Steve, red-faced and snotty.
God, he loved that punk.
Might’ve said that out loud.
It was important, so he hitched in a breath and tried again.
Love you, punk.
Pretty sure he actually said it, that time.
Steve might’ve said something back, but if he did, it was lost in the whiteout of another bloody cough.
Sorry for—
Everything.
He dimly felt his best friend clutch at his shoulders. Press their foreheads together. All this jostling probably wasn’t great for his wounds. But even that pain was spiralling far away.
“… Bucky! Don’t you dare leave me, you fuckin jerk. Just hang on...”
Make that three regrets.
He didn’t mind leaving.
Just wished it didn’t mean leaving Steve.
Meeting the Howling Commandos’ plane on the airfield after that mission stood frozen in Peggy’s memory like a series of tin-types. She hadn’t truly believed Barnes was gone until he didn’t deplane alongside the others.
She remembered Zola, smug under his blindfold, stepping off the plane in Barnes’ place. Morita and Jones, dry-eyed and stone-faced, had handed him over to the waiting MPs without a word. Dernier and Dugan had fresh tear-tracks down their faces, though both were holding it together in front of Colonel Phillips. Monty was the only one who’d spoken, handing over the after-action report before requesting eight hours of R&R for the men. And Steve…
Steve had looked much like he did now: a man whose whole world was suddenly and cruelly pulled out from under him. Fear and pain and disbelief in every line of his body. Peggy felt equally helpless then and now, witnessing the weight of his grief.
Thank goodness for Samuel Wilson, who’d leapt into action immediately. A man with a background as military para-rescue, or something to that effect. She still wasn’t sure how the futuristic jetpack and wings factored into that job description. Or how he came to be Captain America.
A story she would’ve loved to hear, given the time.
“He’s in hemorrhagic shock,” Wilson said, taking Bucky’s pulse with professional efficiency. “We need to get him home. Now.”
Steve nodded, and Wilson began fiddling with something on his wrist.
“Peggy,” Steve said, voice cracking.
She skirted around the Winter Soldier —Barnes, god what have they done to you? — and crouched next to Steve. “I’m here.”
“The Tesseract.” He gestured at the gem laying beside his friend’s prosthetic arm.
She nodded, understanding perfectly.
“And—“
“I’ll look after him, Steve. Keep him safe until we find you.”
He pulled her into a crushing hug. She didn’t miss the aborted step towards them the Soldier took.
“Ready,” Sam said.
“Good luck, you three.”
They disappeared in a flash, and Peggy could only hope that Sergeant Barnes got the medical care he needed in time. There was… altogether too much blood left behind on the concrete floor. She wiped her eyes, took a breath, and turned her attention back to her immediate surroundings. A much more dangerous and strange reality than she’d ever anticipated.
Howard, bless him, had come prepared with the containment case Steve and Bucky had used to transport the Tesseract and whatever other powerful artefacts on their time travelling mission. He rushed forward and snapped the glowing Stone shut inside the case.
Then he stood and looked from Peggy, to the living breathing shell of their fallen friend, and back.
“So, um.” Howard cleared his throat. “What next?”
Next they needed to find covert transportation out of the country, preferably with a few of their captive HYDRA scientists in tow. They needed to protect Barnes, get him deprogrammed and recovering safely, and as soon as he was stable, get him back to his family. They needed to secure the Tesseract somewhere outside of SHIELD. They needed to excise the cancer that was HYDRA from their ranks and failing that, to burn SHEILD and the rot within it to the ground.
Peggy’s heart twisted as she looked more closely at Barnes. He was grimy, coated in sweat, splattered with what she’d initially thought was dirt but now realized was dried blood. Emaciated and trembling with either exhaustion or fear or both. Face blank and eyes staring into the middle distance.
No hint of recognition when those eyes flicked over to her as she cleared her throat. It made her want to simultaneously scream and cry. To hunt down and murder the bastards that did this to him and also bundle him up in a warm blanket.
She forced a smile as she looked back at Howard. “Next, we find Steve.”
Notes:
(((please don't hate me)))
I feel like I should give some fair warning so that you lovely readers aren't disappointed, but this is the last we'll see of the 1970s timeline in this story. I have plans to write a spin-off sequel set in the alternate 1970s timeline (and maybe also some of the other alternate timelines...), but diving into what happens after 2024 Bucky and Steve and Sam leave just made this story feel scattered and bloated to me. Please let me know if that's something you'd be interested in reading, as there is nothing quite like reader enthusiasm to fuel writerly inspiration!
And lastly, happy Pride month to my fellow LGBT+ readers! Been a rough year for a lot of us, I feel, and I can't really think of anything to say that doesn't sound cheesy, but. You're all loved and appreciated and I'm glad you stumbled upon my angsty gay MCU fanfic. I hope it's been as fun an escape for you as it has been for me this past year. <3
Chapter 39: In Which Bucky Re-Discovers Descartes' Philosophical Principles
Notes:
CW: medical trauma. More detailed warnings can be found in the endnotes.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Stanford Hospital, Palo Alto, California. March 17, 2024.
The paramedics hadn’t had much hope. The team in the back took over resuscitation efforts as the ambulance screamed through the city. There was nothing for Steve to do but clutch Bucky’s hand and blankly pray.
Nobody said it was pointless to his face, but sometimes enhanced hearing truly was a curse.
The emergency trauma surgeon hadn’t had much hope. Eight hours of surgery, with Steve asked to sit in as a precaution. He overheard some nurses debating his presence while he pulled on a surgical gown. The surgeon was afraid the anesthesia would wear off half-way though and wanted someone there to protect them from— from— One of the nurses snorted. Said, I’m more worried that he’ll die on the table and we’ll be the ones who killed Sergeant Barnes in front of Captain Rogers.
Somehow, ten hours later, they were both still alive.
The internal medicine specialist hadn’t had much hope. Something about hypoglycaemia and prolonged blood toxicity and extensive liver and gallbladder damage. Not to mention the eight broken bones, two other partly-healed gunshot wounds, and who-knows-how many minor cuts and bruises. Steve stayed up all night at Bucky’s bedside, willing his heart monitor to keep beeping.
The cardiologist and neurosurgeon and whoever else was in charge (Steve was losing track) hadn’t had much hope, when dawn broke and Bucky’s temperature and blood pressure suddenly spiked. He was whisked off to another surgery. Something about swelling in the brain and too much stress on the heart and all Steve could do was stand in the middle of the hallway, uselessly staring at the closed doors to the surgical wing.
By some miracle, Bucky pulled though again. Steve found him five hours later, tubes and wires everywhere and his head shaved short underneath a new set of bandages. Right hand looked like a pincushion so Steve settled in on his left.
He felt like there ought to be… like he ought to say something. Or do something? To wake Bucky back up. But for all his inspiring speeches, Steve had no words. Nothing he could do or say to fix whatever had happened to his best friend — the man he loved — who maybe loved him back? — so he sat. Clung to Buck’s left hand like it was the only thing keeping him pinned to the Earth. Tipped his head down to rest against their clasped hands and forced his lungs to keep breathing.
Woke up when someone — Sam — gently shook his shoulder.
“Hey, man.”
Steve blinked and peeled his face off of Bucky’s arm. It was bright outside the hospital window.
“Day s’it?”
“March 20th,” Sam said. “2024, if you need the year too.”
He took the coffee Sam handed him.
“Right.”
“It’s four thirty p.m., in case you were wondering. You’ve been asleep for just under twenty hours. The nurse said she couldn’t wake you.”
“Oh.”
“Hungry?”
Steve blinked slowly over to Sam from where he’d been staring at Bucky’s heart monitor. He wasn’t sure just now what all the lines and numbers meant, but the beeping was soft and steady.
“Yeah, I don’t know why I asked. I’m betting you really need to piss, though.”
He really, really did.
Sam settled into the chair on the other side of the bed. Motioned go on.
Steve found a bathroom down the hall. He barely recognized himself in the mirror while he washed his hands. Surely this tired, haunted shell wasn’t the infamous Captain Steve Rogers?
“Let’s take a walk,” Sam said when he returned. “Grab some food, get some fresh air. Might do you good.”
Steve didn’t want to leave Bucky’s side, but his stomach growled loudly. Sam raised his eyebrows. Steve begrudgingly followed him out of the room.
The early evening air was cool on Steve’s skin as they walked away from the hospital. Steve pecked at the stale cafeteria sandwich Sam had bought for him, Sam keeping pace with his own sub-par meal to his right. They walked until they found a local park with a duck pond. No ducks, though.
Steve crumpled his sandwich wrapper and tossed it in an over-full bin beside the path.
“It’s not right,” he said. To the pond or to Sam.
He wasn’t quite sure what it referred to, either.
Everything, maybe.
“No,” Sam agreed.
Steve watched a mother trying to wrestle a screaming toddler into a car seat across the street.
“I didn’t know he felt—”
But that was too big to talk about. Or too much. Too something.
“I had a suspicion,” Sam said. Steve whipped his head around, but Sam wasn’t meeting his eye. Instead, he scuffed at a loose pebble, picked it up, skipped it across the pond. Three even bounces. “Don’t give me that look,” Sam said, scuffing around for another skipping stone. “It’s not like I kept anything from you. I wouldn’t say I really knew Bucky until a few weeks ago, so the suspicion was relatively new. Plus, the old bastard keeps everything so close to the vest.”
“But you suspected—“
“Let’s just say his grief looked more similar to someone going through a breakup than someone mourning a death.” Sam shrugged. Skipped another stone across the pond. “I wasn’t about to question him on it. Besides, I had my own shit going on. Grieving the death of my two best friends, becoming Captain America, just fucking… being alive again. You know?” Another shrug.
Across the street, the kid stopped screaming. His mother had given him a tablet to watch.
Steve tried to think up a response for Sam, knowing all his words would fall short. He knew, intimately, what it was like to wake from death, to mourn friends, to become Captain America. And he wished, sharply, that Sam hadn’t had to face all of that alone.
“I’m sorry.”
“Not your fault.”
“You shouldn’t have had to face all that alone. I… maybe I should’ve let you come with.”
Sam snorted. “Who woulda saved your ass then, huh?”
They lapsed into silence.
Car doors slammed and the family drove away, toddler happy and quiet in the backseat. Steve watched the wind skate across the surface of the pond.
“You know, if you did like men, theoretically,” Sam said. “It wouldn’t change how I think of you. If you were… worried about that. Theoretically.”
He had been, even though he knew Sam wasn’t the type to care about things like that.
He tried to say thanks, found his throat was too tight to speak, and opted to just nod instead.
“Good. Cool,” Sam said.
Steve stared resolutely at the pond, not really seeing it, pretending not to notice how Sam was staring at him.
Sam broke first, bumping his shoulder. “Geez, the two of you deserve each other. You know you’re allowed to have emotions, right?”
He bit down hard on his lip and nodded.
“Want to tell me what’s going on?”
“It’s all…” he gestured vaguely and then swiped furiously at some stray tears. “I dunno where to start.”
“That’s okay.”
He still couldn’t look at Sam, so he opted for staring up at the sky instead.
Might as well start there. Easier than talking about the other thing, somehow.
“Back in the war, Bucky used to joke about how—“ he swallowed thickly. “Used to joke that he didn’t much care how he died, so long as he could see the sky while doing it.”
“That was the worst part, honestly,” Bucky said, swaying a little as they walked home from a night on leave spent at the Fiddle. “Knowing I’d never see the sky again.” He stumbled over a loose cobblestone and muttered, “Fuck.”
Steve hadn’t known what to say back then. Didn’t know why he was thinking of it now, baring his soul by a duck-less duck pond.
“When he was… Down in that silo, he couldn’t— and I was so — I — He—”
Sam pulled him into a long, tight hug and didn’t say anything at all. Eventually the sun began to properly set, and Steve’s crying slowed. They held each other up with arms around shoulders as they wound their way back to the hospital.
Time and Thought, he realized, were inconsequential. Made trivial in their swirling unpredictability, always moving. To try to hold onto a Moment, a Thought, would be as frivolous as attempting to tack down an ocean’s tide. Surprising, then, when it came to him that he must be the one doing all this thinking. He wondered how long he’d been doing it for.
Everything felt calm and floaty. Symptoms of a super-strength opioid. He’d have to panic about it later, though. When he wasn’t… however he was now.
Bucky had a vague impression that he’d recently brushed up against death. Wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed to find himself alive. Something else to think about when he was less high.
For now, he could let the drugs carry him— a spark of fear flickered to life in his chest. Not carry. Drag. The Solder had been… dragging him.
Back to base.
Fear cut more sharply through his drug-induced euphoria as scattered memories dropped into place.
Gut shot. Dying. Dragged over snow. Roughly carried through familiar concrete halls.
Not again.
No no no no—
“Bucky?”
Steve’s voice. Soft, concerned.
He must have hallucinated that, too, bleeding out on the bunker floor. Steve, kneeling beside him, telling him to hang on. Wasn’t a particularly new fantasy. A cruel one, though. He couldn’t— he wouldn’t do this again. Had to—
“Bucky. Buck, wait. Stop—“
He struggled against the hands that held him back, held him down. Too weak to fight properly, couldn’t even see—
“Open your eyes, Bucky. It’s me. You’re safe. It’s just me. It’s Steve.”
He peeled his eyes open. Hadn’t realized they were closed. Steve’s worried face blinked into view.
“Steve?”
His best friend’s mouth contorted into a smile.
“I’m here.”
“Where…”
“Stanford hospital. Near San Francisco, California. The date is March twenty-first, twenty twenty-four.”
He let that sink in for a moment.
Blinked and found his friend still standing over him with that stupidly adorable worry-line between his eyebrows.
Steve was here. In the present.
Too big a thought to let sink in.
“What… happened?”
“You almost—“ Steve frowned. Swallowed. “I thought you were—“
Bucky shut his eyes again.
“Oh.”
It wasn’t the line, wasn’t how the conversation had gone the first time Steve had dragged him out of hell. Whatever. He’d spent six months thinking Steve was dead, and now—
Now, he blamed the drugs for the dampness around his eyes.
“It okay if I let Sam know you’re awake?”
“Sam?”
Why the hell would Sam be—
“Yeah, Sam. You know, the annoying one, with wings?”
“You talk a lot of shit, Steve,” someone said.
Bucky peeled his eyes back open in time to see Sam stride into the room, a coffee cup in each hand. He passed one cup to Steve with an exaggerated eye-roll, then turned his mega-watt grin on Bucky.
“How’re you feeling?”
“Like somebody gave me a lot of morphine.”
Sam snorted. “That’s because somebody did.” He pulled up a chair and sat down next to Steve.
Bucky took one look at their matching exhausted expressions and sighed.
“How bad?”
“Bad,” Sam said. The fact Steve didn’t answer said a lot more.
“Lasting damage?”
Sam shook his head. “A regular person would be looking at lifelong complications. You…”
“We don’t know,” Steve said. “Probably not, if your healing factor is anything like mine.”
Steve would know exactly how long it takes a super soldier to recover from a gut-full of bullets because he’d done it before.
Because he had shot Steve in the guts, before.
Bucky studied the ceiling tiles and tried to think up something to say.
“You need anything?” Steve asked after an awkward minute. “Water? A snack? More blankets? Hospitals are always freezing—“
“No.” He shut his eyes again. “M’fine.”
Now that he knew where he was — when he was — with Steve close by and alive, nothing sounded better than sleeping for another several hours. He was just loopy enough to reach for Steve, the motion more instinctive than purposeful. Smiled when familiar calloused fingers caught his hand and squeezed.
Everything was probably still fucked up six ways to Sunday. He certainly was. Later, though. He could deal with all of that later.
Now, he held tight to Steve’s hand and let the drugs carry him back to sleep.
Notes:
Detailed CW: For the first three-quarters of this chapter, it is unclear if Bucky will survive. Described scenes include: Steve in the ambulance with Bucky, overhearing comments of medical staff before an emergency surgery, waiting at Bucky's bedside for him to wake up, helplessness in the face of medical complications, and a flashback to Bucky and Steve on leave in WW2.
~~~
For those curious, Descartes was the philosopher famous for the quote "I think, therefore I am." (Also the guy who gave us the cartesian plane. So, thanks for all the graphs, I guess?).
Also, uh, don't mind the chapter count going up. (:
Chapter 40: In Which Two Idiots Hold Both Ends of a Conversation
Chapter Text
The next time Bucky’s consciousness ambled back to the surface, he found himself alone. The hospital room was dim, with hallway light spilling in through the door jamb. He rattled off a quick mental list of facts and came up satisfied that he knew who and where he was.
Wasn’t solid on the date, but that didn’t feel all that important at the moment. Was decently sure the year was 2024, but he wouldn’t have bet money on it.
Bucky spent a few minutes or maybe a few hours staring hazily up at the ceiling tiles and letting whatever painkillers he was on dance through his system. Or maybe he fell back asleep for a bit. Who could say?
A lot of things he wasn’t quite sure of. Something he took care to note the next time his thoughts bothered to take shape.
Had Steve really been in the HYDRA bunker?
Must’ve been. Otherwise, how did he get here?
So Steve was there. Maybe.
It was… nice, to have not died in Siberia.
Doubly nice to have been saved by Steve.
He liked that.
Kinda hated that he’d needed saving in the first place, but.
There was something about Steve. Finding him. Rescuing him from that particular hell.
Yeah.
That part wasn’t so bad.
Speak of the devil— “You’re awake.”
A hand in his, squeezing.
Bucky tipped his head over. Waited for the world to stop tilting and spinning. Cracked a smiled when Steve’s face solidified in the dark.
“Hi.” Mouth felt tacky and dry.
“How’re you feeling?”
“High,” he said, which was true. Then he thought some more about it. “Dizzy.”
He accidentally moved his head again and found bile crawling up his throat.
“Might. Uh—“
Wasn’t fast enough to warn Steve before everything came rushing up and out.
Bucky felt a lot more clearheaded the next time he woke up. Early morning, judging by the weak light creeping in through the window. He half-listened to Steve’s voice rumbling sternly to someone in the hallway. Tried to drift off again, but they must’ve switched up his meds or something because his body was resolutely awake and aware.
His whole torso ached dully, with a sharp point of heat burrowed in his abdomen.
Given nothing else to do, he gingerly took stock of all the bandages, tubes, and wires stuck on and sticking out of him. Lying down was— he needed to sit up. Got as far as his elbows before a sudden blinding pain in his gut stole his breath.
“Bucky? Lay back down, what are you—“
He failed to shove Steve off. Found a supporting arm braced around his shoulders instead, propping him up. Water in a cup with a little straw was brought to his lips.
He drank a few sips, then let his head lean back on Steve’s shoulder.
“Better?”
“Mmph.”
“You in pain?”
He lifted a hand and see-sawed it.
Steve launched into a quiet explanation about how the damage to his liver meant he wasn’t metabolizing the opioids they’d been giving him for pain management as quickly as expected. Something else about metabolic rate and changes to his medications and his liver healing. His brain felt stuffed too full of cotton to really take it in. Didn’t matter. He trusted Steve to handle it.
Breakfast arrived, and Steve got Bucky situated with the bed angled upright so he wasn’t laying flat. It helped with the staticky feeling under his skin.
“Sam around?” Bucky asked, poking at a tub of fruit-on-the-bottom yogurt.
“He’s at the hotel,” Steve said. “Probably still sleeping.”
News to Bucky that there was a hotel involved in all this in the first place. Though where else Steve and Sam were supposed to have been sleeping, Bucky wasn’t sure now that he thought about it. He made a mental note to see about covering the hotel bill once he was back on his feet.
“He’ll be by again this afternoon.”
“Okay.”
The IV tape on his right hand pulled at his skin while he stirred his yogurt. Not painful. Decidedly annoying.
“How much of, uh. Of what happened do you remember?” Steve asked into the silence.
God, he hated that question.
“Most of it. I think.” Bucky frowned. “Don’t remember getting here. Last thing before that was…”
Foreheads pressed together.
And —
Don’t you fucking die on me you jerk.
And before that —
Love you, punk.
Oh.
Oh shit.
Bucky sighed shakily, hoping a deep breath would stave off the impending panic. He stared unseeing at his breakfast tray.
“Look. I might’ve said some—“
“Don’t,” Steve whispered.
That stopped him in his tracks.
“Don’t take it back unless you didn’t mean it.”
The lie he’d been about to spin withered on his tongue as he looked back up at Steve.
Steve, who had lost everything twice over and yet somehow kept his faith in people. Who made friends slowly and lost them twice as hard. Who fought for the little guy, because that’s who he was.
Who was staring Bucky down with an intensity he’d never seen before. At least, not aimed at himself.
“Alright Steve,” he said, mouth dry. “I… yeah. I meant it.”
Forget the sun. Bucky could get a tan from the wattage coming off Steve’s grin alone.
“Good,” Steve said. “Because the feeling is mutual. I’ve been in love with you since forever. It just uh, took me until recently to realize.”
“Recently?” Bucky asked, teasing on reflex even as his heart thundered in his chest.
Holy shit he loves you back.
He loves you back?
Holy shit—
“Had a lot of time to think, those few days alone on Vormir.”
Bucky didn’t want to think about what had happened on Vormir, let alone discuss it. So he deflected. Painted on a crooked smile and said, “Well, I always did say you were a blockhead when it came to romance.”
Steve pulled a face. “Sorry.”
Bucky snorted, then winced because doing that hurt. “Don’t make me laugh pal, s’not fair.”
“I’m being serious!”
Bucky chucked his orange at Steve’s head. Steve caught it easily. Didn’t even break eye-contact. Sheesh.
“I don’t know what happens next,” Steve said, fiddling with the orange while those earnest blue eyes pinned Bucky in place. “I just… whatever it is, I’d like to do it with you. By your side. If, uh. If you’ll have me.”
Bucky felt his face going hot as his eyes stung with held-back tears. His voice felt close to failing him, and what the hell was Steve doing sitting all the way over there in the visitor’s chair?
“Get your ass up here,” Bucky croaked, patting the plasticky mattress.
“I don’t wanna hurt—“
Bucky shushed him. Pulled Steve onto the narrow bed and wrapped an arm around him best he could, ignoring the twinges of pain across his body. “Don’t care. That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s said to me in —” He didn’t want to calculate how long. Decades.
Steve got the message either way. Bucky felt a kiss pressed into the stubble on his forehead as Steve wrapped him up in a tight hug. A tear burned its way down Bucky’s cheek. Then another. And then all at once he was sobbing, clinging onto the back of Steve’s shirt with his face buried in Steve’s collar. Clinging and crying in a way he hadn’t since he was a very small boy on his mother’s knee.
Everything hit him all at once: his most recent brush with death, killing Zola and Lukin and Karpov in an alternate timeline, the past six months without Steve. He’d— God, but he’d wanted to do exactly this the first time he’d been rescued by Steve way back in 1943. To just let it all out after so long alone and hurt and fucking terrified.
Eventually his tears ran out. Steve kept right on hugging him, rubbing gentle circles across his back and planting soft kisses on his bandaged head. Bucky’s whole body ached, his guts alight with pain. He felt… better. Cleaned-out and empty like a street after heavy rains, all the dust and debris washed down the storm drains and out to sea.
“Sorry about your shirt,” Bucky sniffled, once he was able to string words back together.
“It’s fine,” Steve said. “Want some water?”
“Please.”
Steve brought water and Kleenexes for both of them. When Bucky finished with his drink he lay down, completely spent. Steve stayed standing, futzing with the water glasses and tidying up Bucky’s abandoned breakfast tray.
“Hey Steve?”
“Yeah, Buck?”
“I’m cold.”
“I can find you another blanket if you…”
Bucky’s exaggerated glare cut him off. It was almost comical, watching the slow realization dawn across Steve’s face. He was less chagrined when that realization morphed into Steve’s classic shit-eating expression.
“You know, if you want to cuddle, you can just ask me,” Steve said, carefully laying down beside Bucky.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Bucky argued. Or deflected. He wasn’t sure he had the guts for that. Asking so directly. Seeing as it had taken him literally bleeding out in Steve’s arms to admit his feelings, he privately doubted it. “Besides, you were never so straightforward either. Even though you spent half of our youth cozying up beside me like I was some kind of personal portable heater.”
“I had anemia,” Steve protested, snuggling closer.
“And pneumonia, and—“
Steve smacked him gently. “I never heard you complaining.”
An old wave of guilt froze him in place. Steve was right. He never had complained about sharing a bed with Steve on nights when the Rogers’ old radiator crapped out, or snuggling up close on the couch on cold afternoons after school, or tucking Steve under an arm to shield him from a biting wind, or — had Bucky been taking advantage? And what about now? He was so messed up and broken and—
“Hey. Hey, I didn’t mean it like that, Buck.” Steve pressed closer. “If I hadn’t wanted you near me, I would’ve told you to buzz off. You remember how I was back then.”
“A little shit is what you were,” Bucky managed.
“Exactly,” Steve laughed and some of Bucky’s panic eased. “I liked having you close. Because I liked you. Okay?”
Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and tried to make himself believe it. “Okay.”
“Still like you.” Steve said, wrapping a hand around Bucky’s clenched fist.
“I’ve picked up on that,” he said, forcing himself to relax his fist so he could hold Steve’s hand properly.
“Good, because it's true.” Steve threaded their fingers together. Gave Bucky’s hand a long, gentle squeeze.
The silence between them became comfortable. Bucky tuned out every sound except the even susurration of Steve’s breath, until that too fell away and he drifted back to sleep.
Super 8 Motel, Mountain View, California. March 22, 2024.
The past week and change had well and truly destroyed Sam’s sleep schedule. Jet lag was a joke compared to the chronological whiplash he’d received hopping through time. At this point, the only thing keeping him awake was the self-serve coffee offered free in the hotel lobby.
Sam took a bracing sip of the bitter, scalding brew (no amount of sugar or cream could save the taste, he’d tried), rubbed at the headache forming between his eyes, and picked up his ringing cellphone.
“Hey, Rhodey.”
“Captain Wilson,” Rhodey said, teasingly formal. “Holding up okay?”
“Still kicking,” Sam replied, not in the mood to be vulnerable. He didn’t have time to get into it. “Yourself?”
“Good, good. Can’t complain. Just calling to give you a heads up about a few, uh, legal things. Didn’t want you guys to be blindsided while Barnes was still in hospital. How is he, by the way?”
“He’s woken up a few times. Had a semi-coherent conversation with me and Steve— was that yesterday? I think that was yesterday. Fingers crossed, but it looks like he’ll pull through.”
Rhodes breathed a long, shaky sigh into his microphone. “Would you say he’s well enough for visitors?”
“Hell no.” Sam took a beat to compose himself. “I mean, I’m not his doctor, and he is a super soldier, but the man’s been in a coma for days and only just woken up. He’s barely fit to see Steve, let alone me.”
“Good. No, that’s good. Gives the lawyers van Dyne hired more time to harass Ross about his pardon.”
Rhodey gave Sam a rundown on the legal stuff facing the one of the (chronologically) oldest members of the — well, not the Avengers, anymore. The team. Mostly that the politicians and lawyers and whoever else in charge of Bucky’s pardon were beyond pissed that he’d gone rogue. They were threatening to send him back to the Raft.
It was a real risk. In fact, Sam’d been on a call with Shuri late into the night last night to plead for an end to Bucky’s banishment from her country. They’d come up with a few emergency plans before she got called away to deal with a ‘family matter.’ He didn’t tell Rhodey about any of that, though. Loose lips sank ships, and he didn’t want to put Rhodey in a position where he’d have to lie to his superiors. The fewer who knew about Shuri and his emergency plans, the better.
“That all why you called?” Sam asked, after Rhodes wrapped up his formal brief. At least the government were willing to let Bucky remain in recovery at Stanford Hospital, but from how Rhodey told it, even that had been a fight.
“Yep. You don’t want to get me started on my other problems.”
Sam laughed, “I’ve got time.”
“You feel like the red tape at the office is worse now than it was before the Blip?"
Sam hummed and Rhodey laughed.
"You'd think between my service record and saving the universe, I'd have some pull. But ever since Walker… Ever since I advocated for him to receive more than a slap on the wrist for what he did — let's just say I'm not exactly popular in the workplace lately.”
“I hear you,” Sam said.
“You haven’t been unpopular a day in your life, Cap.” Rhodey joked, sounding bitter.
“You forget I spent two years as an internationally wanted terrorist.”
There was an awkward pause.
“Look,” Sam forged on. “We survived an apocalypse. You survived during the apocalypse. All of us, regardless of our differences, came together to kick Thanos’s ass and we won. I know you can take whatever bureaucratic bullshit the Air Force tries to blow your way. You’ve done it before, right?”
Another beat, then, “So does the ability to deliver impassioned speeches come with the Shield, or…”
“Fuck off, man.” But they were both laughing, both a little lighter.
Sam was still chuckling to himself as he hung up. He liked Rhodes a lot. Hadn’t known him all that well before everything went to hell because of the Accords, but he was eternally thankful for their friendship now. They were very different people, him and Colonel Rhodes, but there were some things Rhodey just got like other folks didn’t.
After a long debriefing the first day back, while Bucky’s life was hanging by a thread in emergency surgery, it was Rhodey who’d hunted him down. Brought him a sandwich and some water and parked him in a relatively quiet corner of some hospital waiting room.
“Nineteen seventy, huh?” he’d said. Sam hadn’t had the energy to respond beyond a half-hearted shrug. “You’re a brave man, jumping through time like that. When we were doing our… time heist, I flat-out refused to go back farther than 2012.”
A smile tugged on Sam’s lips despite himself.
“Anyone give you trouble?”
“Nah,” Sam took a swig of water and found the energy to speak. “I mean, nothing beyond the usual bullshit anyone could run into today. We were with SHEILD — well, with Carter and Stark — for basically the whole time. Living it up at the Stark estates and Stark penthouses.”
Rhodey snorted. “Yeah. It sounded like you guys got a real five-star vacation.”
Sam took a hasty bite of his sandwich, not quite ready to unpack all that. Chewed thoughtfully. It was a decent sandwich, for something bought at a hospital cafeteria. Good balance of mayo and mustard, and the lettuce wasn’t too wilted.
“I, uh,” Sam swallowed. “I told them about Isaiah. Carter and Stark, that is. Thought that if anyone could do something for him, it’d be them.” And then he bit the inside of his cheek against the anger and grief that welled up inside him every time he remembered what had happened to Isaiah Bradley.
Rhodey hadn’t said anything. Just squeezed his shoulder and nodded through watery eyes. After a few minutes of sitting in silent solidarity, he’d pulled Sam to his feet and said, “Let’s go book you and Steve a hotel. Got a feeling you’ll be in the area for a while.”
Now, days later, Sam’s fingers still smelled faintly of iron no matter how thoroughly he scrubbed beneath his nails with the hotel’s cheap lemon-scented soap. Seeing Bucky awake and talking had helped. He hoped to catch him awake again this afternoon, if only to further ease his own anxieties. Sam polished off the dregs of his free hotel coffee, checked and then re-checked that he had his room key in his pocket, and headed out.
The traffic was thick but not yet horrendous at 1400 hours on a Friday. Hope van Dyne called him just as he was passing the Jack-in-the-Box en-route. He briefly wondered if the novelty of the CEO of a multibillion tech company casually calling his cellphone would ever wear off as he picked up.
“Hope! Any news?”
“Hi, Cap. Yes. Good news, actually. I couldn’t get ahold of Steve, but could you let him know that we’ve got all the paperwork completed to officially resurrect him? I’d send it digitally but it has to be witnessed by an in-person Notary. Any day that he has time to come down to our head office, just tell him to give his name at the front desk.”
“I’ll let him know. Thanks for taking care of that, he really—“
“It’s nothing. How’s Barnes?”
Sam blinked down a sudden wave of exhausted tears. Damn. He needed a nap more than he’d thought. “Last night the docs seemed cautiously optimistic, so.” He swallowed the lump in his throat.
The conversation moved on to safer waters (namely, the logistics of PymTech covering some of Bucky’s medical expenses), and he said goodbye to Hope just as he pulled into the hospital parkade. Ten minutes later, Sam was marching up the now-familiar hallway to the trauma unit with a criminally overpriced parking stub in his pocket and a fresh cup of weak cafeteria coffee in hand. Sam slowed his roll as he reached the door to Bucky’s room. Things sounded quiet inside — maybe they’d both opted for an afternoon nap?
The scene he found when he gently pushed the door open near about melted his heart. The narrow hospital bed was barely big enough to hold one super soldier, let alone two. But there they were. Sam would say they were tangled together, but with a second glance he saw how carefully Steve held his best friend. Body angled so Bucky was leaning back on him, taking the pressure off Bucky’s abdominal wound. One leg hooked over an ankle to avoid the stitches in Bucky’s thigh, fingers interlaced with his vibranium hand. He’d never seen either of their faces look so…
At peace.
It was a private moment. One that Sam would resolutely not read into beyond two traumatized best friends comforting each other. Though he dearly hoped that his idiot best friends had finally, finally talked out their feelings as he made a silent retreat. He found a half-decent chair tucked into an unobtrusive corner, made sure his visitor badge was nicely visible, and settled in for a nap of his own.
Notes:
THE FEELINGS CONFESSION HAS HAPPENED AT LONG LONG LAST!
Feel free to scream alongside me in the comments, because I've been waiting to share this moment with you lovely readers basically since I started writing this fic aaaaaaaaaaaaa~~~
As a side note, I gotta confess I've never been to San Fransisco or the surrounding area. Please blame any geographical mistakes on Google Maps lol.
Chapter 41: In Which there is Collateral Doughnut Damage
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Washington, D.C.. March 23, 2024.
Christina was thankful that the newly-reinstated Secretary’s office gave her several days’ notice before calling her to D.C. to discuss Barnes’ case. It had given her time to cool off, collect herself, and gather her thoughts and arguments. Suffice to say she’d had her work cut out for her after receiving the news that her high-risk, high-profile client was a) not deceased and b) had once again violated the terms of his pardon.
Secretary Ross was nearly frothing at the mouth with pent-up anger when she arrived in the stuffy conference room at the Pentagon, the meeting already in full-swing. Not that Dr. Raynor was late. It was clear she’d been summoned to consult on a small part of some larger discussion. Ross wanted to lock him on the Raft indefinitely. The DODC and SWORD both wanted to bring him under their own organization’s exclusive ‘protective custody’ while a long-term plan was hashed out in court — a process that would likely take years. Meanwhile, the CIA and FBI wanted to know if he could be useful to them. If he’d play ball or become a liability.
It was a delicate thing, to convince them all to buy what she was selling.
Push too far one way, and Barnes might end up serving life in prison for no reason other than saving on paperwork. Too far the other, and he could be trapped in a mandatory Black-Ops contract, hardly any better off than he’d been under HYDRA. Not to mention that the representatives from SWORD and the CIA both seemed a little too interested in having access to a live specimen with super-serum.
Nobody wanted to hear that what they’d been doing — re-integration to civilian life with moderate surveillance and emergency safeguards in place — was the best option for Barnes.
Christina didn’t necessarily enjoy her role in that particular arrangement. Barnes was far and away her most difficult client. She often found herself leaving their sessions wanting to rip her hair out, a feeling often mitigated with a glass of wine and idle musings about whether she’d see Barnes in her office again the next week. If anyone knew how to drop off the grid, it was the former Winter Soldier. But despite how disastrous the previous session, every Wednesday morning found a grouchy shadow lurking in her clinic waiting room.
That alone told her more about James Barnes than any of his bullshit non-answers and evasive half-truths ever had. There was some determined, stubborn, deep-down angry part of that man that wanted to live. It was honestly somewhat inspiring.
Even though he drove her to distraction most weeks.
Regardless of how much she personally disliked him, she was professional enough to set that aside and acknowledge that Barnes deserved a fair shot at re-integration and retirement. Sure, he’d done horrible things while working for their enemies. But was he really so different from the dozens of ex-operatives she’d debriefed and counselled who struggled with the things they’d done in the name of ‘good’? She’d been around long enough to realize that wars were rarely fought between ‘good’ and ‘evil’. Morality had nothing to do with it. There was only Us and Them.
As the meeting dragged on,Christina carefully poked holes in the irrational, emotional, knee-jerk response plan that Secretary Ross proposed. She pointed out to the Alphabet Agency representatives that an unstable operative on the field was worse than a grounded and monitored ‘rogue’ agent. She cited research and evidence and oh so many of her own case notes from sessions with Barnes. Proof, she hoped, that the re-integration approach was worthwhile.
There was slow, begrudging agreement. More conditions added to his pardon. Increased surveillance. Travel restrictions. Therapy three times a week instead of once (she’d need to increase her wine budget). And a promise to inform the panel as soon as Barnes was deemed ready to return to service.
Stanford Hospital, California. March 24, 2024.
Bucky smelled the coffee thirty seconds before Sam rolled into the room with a box of doughnuts and a tray with three disposable cups. Real coffee, Sam declared. Not the weak crap the hospital served with breakfast.
“You’re the best,” Steve said, flashing Sam his signature grin as he took a coffee and began to rifle through the box for a doughnut.
“Alright, Buck?” Sam asked, passing him a coffee.
Bucky glared at him both for using that nickname and for being too cheerful at such an early hour as he took the offered coffee. “Fine.”
“We’re waiting to hear if Buck’s healed up enough to get another scan by the end of the week. If it’s approved and all goes well, we could be outa here by Friday,” Steve offered.
“Oh it’s we now, is it?” Sam asked, eyes sparkling with humour. Steve actually turned a little pink.
Bucky smirked into his coffee. Took a sip.
Nothing to write home about, but still. “Thanks, Sam,” he said, motioning with the cup.
Sam just smiled like he knew he was all that and passed Bucky the doughnut box. Bucky let Sam and Steve’s banter fade to the background while he mulled over his options.
So many fucking options, nowadays.
Inexplicable rage hit him, hard and fast. A jam-filled pastry turned to mush in his fist. Breath too fast. Room too small. Steve and Sam were close — too close. He was going to hurt them when he lashed out — erratic. He’s unstable. Been out of cryofreeze for too long —
“…safe. It’s 2024. You’re in Stanford Hospital in California. Here with me and Sam. You’re safe, Bucky.”
He curled his knees up to his chest as best he could with his healing abdominal wound and buried his face in his hands.
Fuck. Fuck, he hadn’t had one like that in a while. Not in front of anyone, at least. He preferred to spiral in the privacy of his studio apartment.
Steve was still talking.
Bucky heaved in a breath and forced himself to look up at his best friend. “Sorry.”
“Don’t have to apologize, Buck,” Steve said, though he looked completely wreaked.
Bucky forced himself to take another breath and look around. Sam was gone, the box of donuts crushed and leaking chocolate icing across the floor.
“I was apologizing to the Boston creams,” he said flatly.
Steve’s smile was weak, but it was still a smile.
“Didn’t know you had such strong opinions on doughnuts,” Steve said.
Bucky leaned back onto the bed, abdomen singing with pain where he’d strained the healing muscles.
“Want to talk—“
“No.”
“Okay.”
Steve picked up his book and flipped it back open to where he’d been before Sam arrived. Bucky looked from Steve, to the mess on the floor, and back. Steve turned a page and kept on reading.
Okay, sure. They could both just pretend that everything was fine and normal. Worked for Bucky.
Sam re-appeared ten minutes later, this time empty-handed. He also looked from Steve to the doughnuts on the floor, and then said, “I think the statute of limitations for the five-second rule ended about half an hour ago. So, uh.” He shoved the box in a nearby garbage bin. Looked at the brown smear on the floor and scoffed. “Looks like shit.”
Bucky snorted.
“Seriously,” Sam said. “Housekeeping’s gonna come in here and think one of us took a dump in the middle of the floor.”
It was stupid. Not even funny. The three of them ended up laughing so hard that tears streamed down Steve’s face and Bucky had to hold a hand to his side to keep his guts from busting open.
The remainder of the week was fine. Bucky spent most of it staring up at the hospital’s ceiling tiles, alternating between mind-melting boredom and that incomprehensible rage. When he wasn’t asleep, that is. Apparently sleeping was his body’s new favourite pastime. He was logging 16 - 20 hours a night, and honestly couldn’t complain. About time he got some decent fucking sleep for once in his life.
Steve spent the week planted firmly by Bucky’s bedside, sometimes reading, sometimes furiously typing on his laptop, sometimes driving Bucky up the wall with his mother-hen act. When Bucky’d snapped at him to lay off one evening, he’d snapped back, “Turnabout’s fair play, pal.”
Bucky’d snarled some line about getting a taste of his own medicine. Not like Steve had ever been an easy patient, given his stubbornness and the chip on his shoulder and his complex about not being a burden. Steve had simply leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. Bucky pointed out that Steve was rewarding bad behaviour, which only made Steve laugh and kiss him again. Must’ve been some reverse-psychology bullshit, because he’d resolved to try harder not to grouse or get snappish, after that.
Sam came by every day, which was weird. Good weird, he supposed. Unexpected, given the way Bucky’d left things and how new and fragile their friendship was. Baffling in a lot of ways. Bucky kept expecting Sam to come to his senses. Realize what — who — realize who he was associating himself with and split.
Steve sticking around, sure. Maybe Bucky didn’t get it, but he had enough self-awareness to acknowledge that if their situations were reversed, Bucky wouldn’t do things any different himself. It was Steve. He was Bucky. A large, selfish part of himself had to admit he was glad to have Steve around. People did stupid things for love.
Bucky not pushing Steve away was maybe one of the stupidest.
Sam, though. Sam didn’t have a history with Bucky that spanned a century. There was no friendship there to fall back on (no sort-of-new, century-long romance to navigate). Their relationship started with Bucky trashing Sam’s car on a DC freeway and included highlights such as: Bucky throwing him across the room while under Zemo’s control, Bucky’s refusal to surrender in Leipzig landing Sam in the Raft, Bucky stalking Sam through the scope of a rifle for a few weeks in 2014, Bucky being an asshole to him about the shield…
A handful of ex-Avengers dropped in one evening, armed with balloons that read Get well soon! and a bouquet of white carnations. None of them stayed long, thankfully. Just long enough to give Bucky an idea of the sorts of law-breaking tomfoolery they’d engaged in while Bucky’d been away.
Sounded like he was once again in debt to the Wakandans, Shuri in particular. He spent most of that night staring at his flowers and wondering if trying to contact her would do more harm than good.
He was deemed well enough for a CAT scan that Wednesday. The results showed what the doctor called “remarkable” recovery. All Bucky cared about was the news that, barring unexpected complications, he’d be discharged within a day. The team of sunglass-wearing government types who’d dropped in that morning to “check up” on him would surely be pleased that he’d been cleared to fly back to New York.
Easier to watch him from his bugged apartment, probably.
Whatever. He was just glad to be free of the cloying scent of antiseptic when Thursday morning found him basking in the California sunlight bathing the hospital pickup-loop. He was dressed in paper-thin hospital pyjamas and leaned up against a concrete pillar for moral support. Physically, he felt fine. Just needed a few more big meals and another good night’s sleep before he’d be back to baseline. All his stitches were out, though the doctor had said his liver was still re-growing. She’d made some joke about taking it easy with alcohol for the next few weeks.
Steve kept looking at him and grinning like an idiot. How he could stand to even look at Bucky, let alone smile—
A rental car pulled up with the passenger-side window rolled down.
“I got a call to pick up some dinosaurs?”
Steve laughed. A little more bitter-sweetly than Bucky expected. He didn’t quite get the joke beyond hardy-har, old people. Must’ve been an inside joke between the two of them.
Because Sam and Steve had inside jokes.
Because Sam’d spent way more time with Steve than Bucky in this century.
Because Sam was the better friend.
That was just objective truth. Only one of Steve’s best friends had tried to kill him multiple times, and it wasn’t the one currently driving and cracking jokes.
He watched Steve laugh at something else Sam said, and turned to look out the window. He could see it, the two of them together. Both had the same strong moral drive. That urge to fight for justice that’d first made Bucky fall for Steve.
He wished he’d never woken up in the hospital. Not that he’d particularly wanted to die in Siberia — God, he’d rather die almost anywhere else. But. Dying in Steve’s arms, Bucky’s name on his lips… that part had been better than most of Bucky’s imagined scenarios.
He was like a fucking cockroach, the way he kept crawling back from the brink.
Whatever. Now he got to watch his best friend maybe flirt with the only person who’d put up with all his shit post-Blip. Sam had somehow come out the other side of it his friend, too, and if Bucky spent one more minute in this car, he was going to break the door off.
“Pull over,” he managed through clenched teeth.
Sam muscled the car across four lanes of freeway traffic and put on the hazards.
“Bucky, what’s—“
But he was already gone, sprinting as fast as his body could take him after a week of bed rest. No plan for where to go except not here.
He ended up on a small, shitty beach. Watched the sun make a feeble attempt at setting over a choppy grey ocean. Several empty beer cans clattered along the shoreline, the rising tide pushing them farther up the briny sand.
Notes:
I recently re-watched the 'Bucky goes to therapy' scene from FATWS ep1 and got mad all over again. Especially frustrating because I don't think that Dr. Raynor sees anything wrong with her therapeutic approach. I think she does genuinely want Bucky to 'get better,' which is good, but I was also not convinced that her motives were purely out of a desire to see Bucky thriving in a well-earned retirement. Very possible I'll have many more Opinions on all this whenever Thunderbolts comes out, but who knows. Maybe I'll be pleasantly surprised!
Bucky is having a totally Fine and Good Time on the beach. He will not be taking questions at this time :P
~~~~~~~~
Edit: I forgot to say, I'm going to be travelling/on vacation for the next few weeks so updates may be more sporadic than usual, it all depends on my schedule and whether or not I have wifi at any given point in time.
Chapter 42: In Which Bucky and Steve Go Shopping and Eat Sushi
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
It took Steve less than an hour to find him.
Didn’t say anything when he did, just posted up a foot and a half away and stared out at the unforgiving Pacific surf.
“Where’s Sam?” Bucky asked, after a few minutes or maybe an hour.
“Moving our flights to tomorrow.”
“Sorry.”
“Shit happens,” Steve said.
“Language,” Bucky chided. A desperate bid for familiarity.
Steve’s mouth quirked up at the corner for half a beat. “I’m, uh,” he cleared his throat. “I know I’m not always the best with, um, mental health stuff. But. I’m here. And I want to listen. If you ever. You know.” Steve made a vague hand gesture. “Need to talk.”
“I know,” Bucky said.
He would never in a million years burden Steve with the caustic darkness constantly on loop in his head.
Steve made a strange, small sound. It took Bucky several seconds too long to realize he was crying. He had no idea if a hug would be welcome, but he opened his arms anyways. In a strange reversal of that first day in the hospital, Steve burrowed into his chest and clung onto Bucky like he thought he might disappear at any moment.
Fair enough.
Bucky rubbed circles into Steve’s back and pressed his cheek onto the top of Steve’s head and hated himself.
“I missed you so goddam much,” Steve said, face buried in Bucky’s neck.
“You, too.” It was true. He knew it was true. But his voice was flat and he just couldn’t—
Feel.
Anything.
“Well,” Steve said, pulling away and indiscriminately wiping at his eyes. “Aren’t we a pair?” He chuckled weakly and then snorkelled in a nose-full of snot.
Bucky resisted the urge to kiss him right then and there. He turned back to the Pacific instead. Watched an ocean liner slowly cruise across the the horizon and wondered what the fuck was wrong with him.
“So. You and Sam,” he heard himself say.
“What about me and Sam?” Steve asked. Then, “You know Sam is like a brother to me, right?”
Bucky scuffed one foot in the sand and tried to shrug around the sick, embarrassed feeling in his gut.
Steve huffed out a frustrated breath beside him. “I’ll set the record straight for you, then. There’s nothing going on between me and Sam. Never has been, never will be. Clear?”
“Clear,” he mumbled.
“Because I love you.” Steve gave his shoulder a little shake. “Warts and all.”
Bucky smiled in spite of himself. “Even the big hairy one on my left—“
Steve laughed and shoved him and after a minute or two of play-wrestling in the sand they somehow ended up chest-to-chest, the front of Steve’s shirt balled in Bucky’s fists and Steve just holding him. Steady. Sure. Safe.
They hadn’t had a proper kiss, yet. Just quick pecks on the cheek or forehead, and… and Bucky should fix that. Right? He studied Steve’s face, focused in on the little flecks of green and gold in his summer-blue eyes. He leaned forwards.
With the sun setting behind them, the sounds of the tossing tide all around, and the two of them here, alive and in love and together at long, long last… it should’ve been perfect. Maybe in some universe, it was. Maybe somewhere in some alternate timeline Bucky Barnes kissed Steve Rogers on a beach at sunset and violins started playing and birds began singing and both of them were the happiest they’d ever been.
Not here, though.
Here, Bucky lasted all of two seconds before pulling away, heart pounding and palms sweaty and thinking Steve oughta have higher standards because that measly little smooch did not warrant a grin like that. To think Bucky used to be good at this sort of thing! He’d wanted to make it good for Steve and he’d failed and now all he could feel was a buzzing numbness like an incoming thunderstorm and—
“You ready to head for the hotel?” Steve asked, still smiling softly at Bucky like he was something truly special. Like he was anything at all. “I can call us a cab or ask Sam to—“
“Cab’s fine.”
While Steve fiddled with his phone, Bucky paced along the shoreline and tried to collect himself.
He’d kissed Steve on a trash-filled beach on the wrong side of the continent in the wrong century, and worse yet, he’d chickened out half-way through. His past self was surely rolling over in its empty grave.
Whatever. It had happened, it was fine. This was fine. Best to shove it aside and focus on a more immediate problem. Namely, returning to his pathetic existence in New York without letting Steve see the real shape of how low he’d gotten these past few months.
Would Steve want to stay at Bucky’s apartment? He couldn’t — Bucky didn’t even own a bed. Was less settled into that place than he’d been in his bolt hole in Bucharest.
And what about the longer-term future? If Steve found a place in New York, would Bucky be allowed to move in with him? Would Steve even be okay with having Bucky and his conditional pardon baggage hanging around? What if Bucky never got better and—
“Hey,” Steve said, smiling wider than the Mississippi. “Cab should be here soon.”
Bucky nodded. Ran a hand over his buzzed head, still unused to the feeling of soft stubble instead of hair. He didn’t like it. Didn’t want to think about the last time he’d had his head shaved.
He shouldn’t be doing this. Shouldn’t let Steve in. He was going to ruin Steve’s life. More than he had already, that is. All his darkness was going to swallow up Steve’s light. Drag him down and down and— and—
A cab pulled up to the curb, driven by a balding man with large, wire-framed glasses and an impressive grey moustache.
“Car for Steven Rogers?”
They both squeezed into the backseat. The driver gave them a once-over and said, “You two picked the least romantic beach in the whole Bay Area for a first date.”
Steve didn’t correct him. Just laughed and gave the address of the hotel.
Brooklyn, New York. March 29, 2024.
All that time travel and all those alternate universes, and Steve’d landed himself in the best one.
Bucky was alive. Present. Here.
Bucky loved him back.
They hadn’t flown with much beyond their wallets and IDs (freshly issued thanks to Hope van Dyne’s terrifyingly efficient lawyers), so when they landed at JFK that morning, Steve’d been more than happy to agree to some old-fashioned sightseeing before they went home.
The train into Brooklyn was delayed, and when it did come their car was crowded and noisy. Steve thought his face might stick, he was grinning so wide. He laughed when Bucky leaned over and told him just that.
They got off early and walked over the bridge, just for the hell of it. Bucky’s pinkie knocked against Steve’s thumb. Steve, stomach swooping, grabbed his hand. Bucky squeezed back and didn’t let go.
They wandered aimlessly for a bit. Groused good-naturedly about traffic and gentrification and how all the good delis went under during the Depression. They stood outside the shiny glass business park that stood where their last apartment building had been.
“Member that time — who was it, one of the Neilson brothers? — fell through the rotted step?”
“Mrs. O’Leery nearly kicked us out for that,” Steve said, laughing.
“Nah, that was cause she thought you were spreading TB.”
“What?”
Bucky shrugged. “I convinced her otherwise.”
“How?”
Another shrug. “Don’t remember.”
“Well, she was a real piece of work at any rate.”
“That she was,” Bucky agreed. “Come on, I want a hot dog.”
They found a stand near Prospect Park and ate their dogs stretched out on the damp, spring-brown grass. The sky overhead threatened rain.
“You have a little schmutz,” Steve said, wiping an errant gob of mustard off the corner of Bucky’s mouth.
Bucky laughed and slapped Steve’s hand away. “You wanna kiss me, Rogers, all you gotta do is ask.”
Steve’s stomach swooped and he felt himself blush to the roots of his hair as he met Bucky’s eyes. He leaned forward, mustering up all his courage to ask, “May I?”
Bucky met him halfway. A quick brushing of lips, over before it really started. But both of them were grinning like fools now and Steve didn’t think he could be happier except then Bucky grabbed his hand and yes, yes he could. They leaned back on the grass and finished off their hotdogs and watched thick clouds roll themselves out over the sky like a giant grey carpet.
The afternoon ticked itself lazily by. They took shelter in a cozy café when it began to pour. After, Bucky showed him around a used bookstore. They spent a long time combing through the endless titles jigsawed together in a claustrophobic maze of shelves, but in the end neither of them bought anything.
Bucky took him to a sushi place for dinner, confidently ordering from the menu when the waiter came by.
“You’ve been here before?” Steve asked, burning with curiosity about Bucky’s life in the six moths he’d missed.
“No,” Bucky said. “I’m on the hunt for a new place, though. This spot had good reviews.”
“What, you get kicked out of your favourite sushi restaurant?” Steve teased.
Bucky grimaced. “Something like that.”
“What happened?” Steve asked, his joking mood evaporated.
Bucky picked at a crack in the tabletop. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Steve decided not to press.
The sushi was good when it arrived. They bantered about nothing in particular and dared each-other to eat increasingly large gobs of wasabi and Steve couldn’t really believe he was sitting in a restaurant in Brooklyn with Bucky Barnes across from him.
Could a person die from sheer happiness?
Steve thought he might as he watched Bucky stuff another bite of sashimi into his mouth, passionately complaining about the flaw with some smartphone encryption algorithm.
“Why’re you looking at me like that?” Bucky said, pausing his rant to wipe his mouth.
“What, with hearts for eyes?” Steve asked, only half joking.
“You’re a punk,” Bucky said, grinning as he hooked a foot around Steve’s ankle.
“Jerk,” Steve grinned back.
They spilt the bill and set out into the chilly March night. Soft rain gave each street lamp its own halo. As he so often had, Buck slung an arm over Steve’s shoulders as they wound down the sidewalk, tossing lighthearted insults back and forth.
The perfectness of the day and the wonder of the evening should’ve given Steve some warning. Maybe it had, and he’d made himself blind to it. He’d always been great at living in denial.
Bucky pulled away when they got to his apartment building. Completely away, so they weren’t touching anymore. That was when the first alarm bell started ringing in Steve’s head.
“Buck?”
A long silence. Alarm bell number two began to blare.
“Bucky, what’s wrong?” Steve said, hoping his voice didn’t betray his panic.
Bucky ran his right hand over his head, a lifelong nervous tell. He stared at the ground instead of at Steve.
“I can’t do this,” he said.
“Do what?” Steve asked, willing himself not to explode with sudden anxiety.
Bucky gestured vaguely between himself and Steve, which—
“I don’t understand,” Steve said, though if Bucky meant what he thought he meant…
Bucky turned away and began to pace.
“Maybe we could talk this over inside?” Steve tried.
“No,” Bucky snarled.
“Why not?” Steve argued, anger flaring.
“Because it’s fucking— I don’t— No. Just fuck off, Steve.”
Alarm bell number three.
Steve crossed his arms and dug in his heels. “I’m not going anywhere until you explain yourself.”
Bucky glared at him. “What more of an explanation does I can’t do this,” he gestured between them again, “need?”
“Tell that to the man who literally jumped through time to save me. That’s an awful quick turnaround time, Buck.”
“Yeah? Well. I’m fucked up, okay?”
“Don’t say—“
“It’s fucking true, why shouldn’t I say it?” He spread his arms. “Bucky Barnes,” he shouted. “World’s biggest fuck-up!”
“You sure you wanna play that game, pal?” Steve asked, voice rising. He slapped himself on the chest. “Steve Rogers! Caused the Blip!”
A few passerby turned their heads at that.
Bucky gave him a look that could cut steel. “That’s not true and you know it,” he hissed.
Steve glared right back. “Well, neither was what you said.”
Bucky made an abortive motion to pull on hair that was no longer there. “You’re insufferable.”
Steve didn’t bother responding to that. This wasn’t really a fight— at least, not a fight he wanted to win by fighting. An angry silence descended around them.
“I’m going up,” Bucky eventually grit out. “Don’t fucking follow me.”
He disappeared inside with a jingle of keys.
Steve stood on the doorstep for a long time, half-expecting… he didn’t know what. Bucky to come back out? He ran the day over and over in his head, searching for what went wrong. Anxiety built like a tidal wave in his guts until he had to move.
He ended up near the bridge, typing out a text to Sam without really thinking.
I think Bucky just broke up with me?
His phone rang.
“Steve? What the hell happened?”
He burst into tears.
Notes:
I'm BAAAAACK!
Though perhaps it would be prudent for me to slink into hiding again after pulling this kinda heartbreaker twist out of my back pocket. My justification for these heinous actions is: Something, something, realistic portrayal of mental illness, something, something, hedgehog's dilemma, something something...
(Bonus points to anyone who spotted the Stan Lee cameo)
Chapter 43: In Which Sam is Unwillingly Volunteered to Help at the Local Church Potluck
Notes:
CW: dissociation, panic attacks, and distorted/depressive thought patterns are depicted and/or implied throughout the latter half of this chapter.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Delacroix, Louisiana. March 29, 2024.
Sam was supposed to fly to New York with Steve and Bucky, then drive a rental down to D.C.. The Air Force was itching to re-negotiate his contract now that the initial media frenzy following the Flag Smashers incident and his public debut as Captain America had died off. Sam hadn’t decided yet what he wanted to do. He wasn’t keen on re-signing anything with the military, but he wasn’t exactly making money by just being Captain America.
He’d changed his flight last-minute for a ticket to New Orleans. Some might say that was irresponsible of him (his own brain screamed that it was very irresponsible of him), but the moment he breathed in that muggy, salty air, he knew he’d made the right choice.
Secure your own oxygen mask before assisting another, and all that.
He promised the powers that be that he’d be in D.C. next week, and set about putting himself back in order.
First things first: giving his sister a long, tight hug. They both needed it, judging by her quiet sniffles into his shoulder. He spent the rest of that Friday lazing around, eating junk food, chasing after his nephews, and pretending his worries extended no farther than the boat moored at the marina (still gotta fix that water pump) and the mosquitoes biting his neck.
Steve and Bucky’s… situation somehow imploded that night. Sam tried to stay neutral as he listened to Steve cry on the phone. He texted both Bucky and Steve multiple times the following day, but got no response from either.
Sarah looked less than impressed on Saturday night when she walked into the living room and found him Googling last-minute flights to New York.
She snapped his laptop shut and said, “Sam.”
He glared at her. “Sarah.”
Went to re-open his computer, but she kept it shut with her hand.
“You just got home,” she argued.
“I know, but they—”
“They are grown adults who can survive without you for a week. Also, super soldiers.”
“But—“
“Go to bed, Sam. And set an alarm. I promised some of the church aunties that you’d help set up for a potluck before the service.”
By the time he was done arguing with Sarah about ‘volunteering’ him for things, he’d not only gotten ready for bed, but found himself actually sleepy. Damn, she was good. He wondered, as he settled under the covers, if that was a trick she’d learned from their mother, or something she’d discovered on her own during the Blip.
He felt decidedly less generous towards Sarah when his alarm rang the next morning. Nobody else was awake as he set out for the church at 0730, feeling disgruntled and a little bit used. The feeling quickly faded as he caught sight of the familiar faces of church aunties he hadn’t seen in years, all of whom were equally delighted to see him. Some even let him sample their potluck goodies as thanks for him hauling tables and chairs and whatnot around the church lawn.
“Where’s that muscular white boy you had trailing after you the other week, Samuel?” Mrs. Landry asked, surveying the table layout with a critical eye. “He sleeping in instead of helping you out today?“
Sam laughed with surprise. “Oh, no. He’s—“ not dead. He’s alive, he’s fine. Get it together. “He’s in New York.”
Mrs. Landry scoffed, like she couldn’t imagine someone choosing to be in New York over Delacroix. “Well, tell him he’s always welcome back.”
“Of course.”
“Are you staying after the service? You know, my granddaughter…”
And that was Sam’s cue to politely exit the conversation. Couldn’t help smiling to himself as he spotted Sarah’s truck pulling into the church parking lot. He’d have to tell Bucky that all the elderly church ladies were asking after him. And he’d definitely have to invite him back. Both him and Steve.
Plus, he owed Steve a ride on the boat for all his patience listening to Sam wax nostalgic about The Paul and Darlene while they were on the run.
Brooklyn, New York. March 29, 2024.
So that was it, then. Bucky parked himself on the bathroom floor and stared blankly at the peeling paint on the wall opposite.
Excluding the past fifteen minutes, the last ten or so hours had been some of the best of his life. Being with Steve again in Brooklyn? He’d been walking on clouds all day.
Maybe that’s why he’d done it. He knew good things never lasted. This way, he had control of the situation. Kind of.
Bucky curled himself small as he could, forehead pressed to his knees and arms curled tight around his legs. He tried to comfort himself with the thought that even though Steve would never want to talk to him again ever, at least he was alive. At least he was no longer trapped in an illusion constructed by the Mind Stone. Hell, if he wanted to, Steve really could go back to 1945 and live out his picket-fence fantasy with Peggy Carter.
Bucky ended up spending the night curled on the bathroom floor, just sort of numb and staring at the wall. Wishing he could fall asleep forever.
Somewhere in the main part of the apartment sometime after dawn, his phone rang. Bucky blinked and sat up, surprised that he’d been dozing. The phone rang itself into silence, then started up again. He cursed softly and forced himself up off the floor.
Sam, probably. Calling to give him a verbal lashing for what he’d done to Steve.
The caller ID showed it was the buzzer downstairs.
“James Barnes’ residence,” he grumbled as he picked up.
“I’ve got breakfast if you wanna buzz me in.”
Steve?
He buzzed him up, speechless.
Why the hell was Steve here? Why the hell would Steve want to see him? Outside of giving him a well-deserved punch, that is.
A minute, later, someone knocked rhythmically on his front door. The Howlies’s friendly signal. Dread and confusion warred within him as he pulled open the door.
Steve looked tired but he was smiling, arms full of brown paper-bags. Bucky swallowed the urge to kiss him. Nothing new there.
“Um.”
“Hey, Bucky. You gonna let me in?”
He didn’t want Steve to see his sad, embarrassing apartment.
Too late.
“Don’t mind the mess,” he said, though there wasn’t really much mess. Hard to be messy when you own about ten things. Officially, that is. The government didn’t need to know about the dead drops he’d stashed in a handful of hard-to-reach places across the city.
Steve dumped his bags on the cracked kitchen counter and started unloading. Bagels and schmeer. Black coffees. Christmas oranges.
Why are you here? he wanted to ask.
Steve offered little conversation and less explanation. Just parked himself in the armchair in front of the TV, plate stacked with bagels perched precariously on his lap, and flicked through the channels until he landed on one showing a baseball game.
Bucky retreated back to the bathroom and shut the door. Things made more sense in here, alone on cold tile with his stomach grumbling softly. He listened to the Blue Jays loose to the Red Sox. A tense game through till the end, with all the bases loaded at the bottom of the ninth inning.
A knock on the door. “Want some lunch?”
No.
Another knock, sometime later. “I’m gonna go buy us some groceries. Need anything specific?”
No.
He heard Steve leave. The frosted bathroom window went dark, then glowed orange when the streetlamp right outside it turned on.
Steve returned. Bucky listened to him clatter around the kitchen for a long time. The smell of frying onions wafted through the closed bathroom door.
His hunger drove him to lurk near the edge of the kitchen.
“You still like shepherd’s pie, right?” Steve asked, pulling a casserole out of the disused oven.
Bucky had no idea.
Hadn’t tried it this century.
He attempted a retreat back to the bathroom with his plate, but somehow Steve managed to silently cajole him into eating with him in the living room. Side-by-side with their backs against the armchair. Bucky barely tasted his food in his haste to scarf it down.
He wanted very badly to hide in the bathroom again, but the part of his brain that liked to scold him about manners in his mother’s voice took one look at the dishes Steve had made and ordered him to be a better host. He reluctantly pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and got scrubbing. Steve wordlessly joined him, drying with a dishtowel.
What the fuck is he still doing here?
Dishes done, Bucky gave the counter a good wipe-down.
“Can I talk to you?” Steve asked.
He left the cloth in the middle of the counter and very nearly dashed back to the bathroom.
“I’ll take that as a no,” he heard Steve say to the empty kitchen.
Just go away. Why can’t you give up on me and go away?
He listened to Steve putter around the apartment for another half hour before he eventually left. Alone at last.
Finally. Don’t come back.
The tiny bathroom felt cavernous in the dark.
He slept fitfully and woke well before dawn, blinking away visions of little girls in bloody ballet shoes. Went for a run. Took a shower. Checked his mail.
He had a letter from the government. Something about Walker not having the authority to terminate his therapy. He was to report to Dr. Raynor’s office Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at 9 a.m., effective from Friday, March 29, 2024.
Bucky checked his phone and realized that was two days ago.
Fan-fucking-tastic. Well, hopefully recently being in the hospital would be a legitimate excuse for missing therapy. He wondered if there were any warrants out for his arrest yet.
He was just toasting some leftover bagels from yesterday when his phone rang. Steve, asking to be buzzed up again.
A minute later, that familiar rhythmic knock.
“Got us ingredients for French Toast,” Steve said in lieu of a greeting.
Bucky didn’t quite retreat to the bathroom, but he did hole up in the corner of the living room between the armchair and the window to the fire escape. Out of view from Steve.
He didn’t know why he was acting like this. Just knew that if he couldn’t push Steve away soon — An overwhelming feeling of doom settled in on his chest.
The street lamp was glowing a bright, ugly orange outside the bathroom window when Steve knocked softly on the door. “Warmed up some shepherd’s pie for you.”
He waited for Steve’s footsteps to retreat, but they didn’t.
“Can I… can I come in, Bucky?”
No.
“I won’t if you don’t want me to, but I’ll need a verbal response to at least know you’re okay.”
He couldn’t muster one up before the door handle turned.
Steve put the warm plate of leftovers on Bucky’s lap and slid down the wall opposite. He’d brought his own plate, too, though he didn’t start eating.
“D’you want to tell me what’s going on?”
I fucked it all up on purpose to push you away and now you’re gonna leave me forever and I can’t— I can’t—
Steve shrugged like he didn’t care either way. “You don’t have to.”
Steve’s fork clinked softly against his plate as he took a few bites, then set his plate to the side again and pulled a face. “Yeugh. To be honest, I’m not that hungry tonight.”
The silence that stretched between them was almost companionable, except Bucky could barely breathe.
“Can I tell you something? You don’t have to say anything back.”
He forced himself to lift his shoulders in a shrug.
“Good.”
The silence became decidedly awkward. Steve scratched the back of his neck.
“Should’ve planned out what to say,” he said. Cleared his throat and started again. “I just want you to know that this doesn’t have to — that it doesn’t have to change things, between us. I like you, you like me. That’s not— we’ve been friends with that dynamic for decades. Only difference is now, um. Now we both know. About. Yeah.” He cleared his throat, beet red.
Bucky fixed his gaze on the ceiling because he couldn’t look at Steve.
Steve.
Who had feelings for him.
That couldn’t be— real.
But Steve was talking again.
“Our friendship is more important to me than... just about anything, Buck. You are more important. I’m not really sure what you’re going through right now, but I—“ he sighed. “You were there for me when I had nothing, Bucky. Least I can do is be here for you now.”
He could hear Steve’s heart thundering in his chest, almost as fast as his own.
“If you don’t want me around cause you’re weirded out or something, just tell me and I— I’ll go. But otherwise,” Steve gestured vaguely. “You’re stuck with me, pal.”
Now’s your chance, Barnes.
Tell him you don’t want to see him anymore. Tell him you think he’s gross. Watch how he’ll abandon you like everyone else.
He couldn’t make his mouth move. He listened while Steve’s heartbeat slowly returned to normal. Watched as his embarrassed flush faded. Eventually, Steve gathered up the full plates of shepherd’s pie and left, softly shutting the door behind him.
He was too dried out and exhausted to cry, but he felt like weeping. He almost wished he could.
Notes:
See Sam finally getting that long, separate vacation he talked about.
Happy August Long Weekend everyone! Hope the weather is good wherever you're reading from <3
Chapter 44: In Which Dr. Raynor is Back By Unpopular Demand
Notes:
CW: Unhelpful/borderline traumatizing therapy
Also, Bucky swears a lot in this chapter. So, uh, heads up for that!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Brooklyn, New York. April 1, 2024.
Having therapy with Dr. Raynor at nine in the morning was the worst April Fool’s prank Bucky’d ever received. He woke up grumpy and hungry and with a crick in his neck from sleeping slumped against his bathroom wall. Steve hadn’t left last night, which Bucky discovered when he found him awake and drinking coffee in the armchair, watching the news. He had an impressive case of bed head that did something funny to Bucky’s stomach.
Bucky reheated some French Toast for both of them and scowled at the letter summoning him back to Raynor’s office.
“Did you know the members of the GRC were appointed, not elected?” Steve said, wandering over to the griddle.
Bucky snorted. It was far too early in the morning to get pulled in to a political debate. He stood at the counter, scrolling through unread texts from Sam on his phone and munching eggy toast with his left hand. Steve, French toast acquired, returned to his armchair to continue watching the news.
It reminded Bucky a little of the good old days. Steve reading the paper and piping up when something caught his interest. You know about these new tramp laws… Did you hear what they did to those union men… Have you read what happened in Poland…
At ten after eight, Bucky begrudgingly grabbed his keys and shrugged on his jacket.
“Going out?” Steve asked.
He wasn’t quite up for talking yet, apparently, but Steve got the point when Bucky handed him the letter.
“Want company? I can walk you there.”
He shrugged like he didn’t care. Steve grabbed his coat and wallet and they were almost outside the building when Bucky realized he’d forgotten his gloves.
Shit.
No time to go back and look for them. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.
“See you in an hour,” Steve said, much too soon.
Bucky nodded. Took a deep breath. He’d jumped out of airplanes without a parachute. He could sit through an hour of mandatory fucking therapy.
Dr. Raynor looked just about as pleased to see him as he was to see her when he strode into her blandly furnished office.
“Welcome back, James,” she said.
He felt he should win some sort of award for not putting his fist through her stupid forest wallpaper in response. He’d forgotten how uneasy he felt with the illusion of all that unwatched open space behind him.
“I got your gift,” she said. Raised Steve’s notebook and gave it a little wave. “Have to admit I was impressed by your efficiency.”
He’d been notorious for his efficiency at one point in time.
“I noticed you were absent last week. Care to tell me why?”
No, he did not.
“You know what happens if you don’t talk, James.”
We have ways of making you talk.
He grit his teeth.
Raynor pulled out her notebook and clicked her pen.
Bucky grit his teeth a little harder and said, “I was in the hospital last week.”
She made a note. Unfair.
“Why?”
“That’s classified.”
Raynor raised an eyebrow. “Are you working again?”
“No.”
“But you were hospitalized for classified reasons last week.”
“Is this therapy or an interrogation?”
“I’m only trying to understand,” Raynor said, tucking her pen into the rings of her notebook.
Bucky didn’t rise to her bait. He watched her purse her lips and change tracks.
“You’ve finished the amendments exercise.”
Exercise? Was that all it—
“So, how have the nightmares been?”
“Better,” Bucky lied through his grit teeth.
“Better how?” she probed.
“Less frequent.” Not technically a lie, if only because he hadn’t had the time to sleep regularly during the reverse time-heist, and he hadn’t had as many horrific dreams while drugged to the gills in California.
“That’s good,” Raynor said with a thin smile. “Have you started doing anything new that may be helping?”
Opioids.
Sleep deprivation.
Sleeping next to Steve.
He couldn’t say any of that.
“Eating healthier?” he offered. “More home cooked stuff, I guess.” Another technical truth. The only takeout junk he’d eaten since getting back to the present was the hotdog in Prospect Park.
Thankfully, Raynor took that as an opportunity to lecture him about how important a healthy diet was for maintaining overall wellbeing. Bucky tuned most of it out in favour of re-playing the prefect moment on the grass, when Steve had leaned forward to wipe a non-existent gob of mustard off his lip, and then…
He tuned back in to hear her ask, “You have any favourite foods, James?”
Fuck.
“Mustard.”
Fuck!
“Good on hotdogs. Cures colds,” he listed hastily. “My Ma used to swear by it.”
“Your mother?”
He nodded, sensing that he’d accidentally wandered into dangerous territory.
“You’ve never spoken of your family before.”
No, shit.
“Why don’t you tell me a bit about your mother?”
That was just about the last thing he wanted to do. Raynor pulled her notebook into her lap. He needed a change of topic and he needed one fast.
Desperate times…
“I was wondering,” he said, “with the amends exercise.”
Raynor paused.
“We focused on people I’d worked for, who I had helped to hurt others. And people I’d hurt myself. What about—“ He chewed his lip. He didn’t really want to talk about this, either. “I know this isn’t exactly possible because almost all of them are dead, but what about the people who, um. Hurt me?”
Gore, dripping off his metal hand as he stared down at Zola’s body.
“What do you mean?” Raynor asked.
“Shouldn’t they…”
Lukin, laying in an expanding pool of blood.
Karpov, eyes unseeing, sprawled across the snow.
“…Shouldn’t they have to make amends, too?”
He focused on the ticking of Dr. Raynor’s clock and waited for her response. Counted ninety-eight seconds before she said bluntly, “The people who tortured you are dead, James.”
“I know.”
“So I’m not really sure what you want here.”
He wasn’t, either.
She ended up giving him a bullshit homework assignment: Writing letters to his former fucking Handlers.
“Many abuse victims find it cathartic to write out what they wished they could say back to their abusers,” Raynor said.
He’d found shooting Lukin in the back of the head pretty goddamn cathartic, but obviously he couldn’t tell her that. He was spitting mad by the time he left her office. Angry enough that he’d completely forgotten about Steve.
“You look pissed,” Steve said, about a block away from Raynor’s office.
“I’m beyond fucking pissed!” he seethed.
“Punching or talking?”
“Hell should I fucking know?”
“I used to go to a gym a few blocks from here,” Steve offered, voice an infuriating neutral. “They kept a supply of reinforced bags for me. Maybe they’re still open?”
The gym was indeed still operational. A rare small business that’d survived the Blip. The owner recognized Steve immediately, but like a good Brooklyn businessman, kept it quiet. He showed them down to the basement, where a dusty stack of reinforced heavy bags lay piled in a closet.
“Nobody wanted to put in the effort to move them, so. All yours.”
Steve handed him a couple twenties and the owner went back upstairs.
The first few hits Bucky made on the bag were weak, hardly disturbing the dust of the vinyl cover. He quickly picked up speed as the familiarly of the movements sunk in. He gave himself over to the muscle memory ingrained through hours spent with his Pa and cousins and friends at the Brooklyn YMCA. Through tooth-on-knuckle and skin-on-pavement scraps he’d gotten into with Steve all over this city as a young man.
He poured all his anger into the bag until it exploded, haemorrhaging sand across the cracked floor.
“I really fucking hate therapy,” he spat, wiping sweat off his forehead. Felt the momentary clench of fear in his gut that hit him every time he remembered he’d had his head shaved in the hospital. “Fucking stupid — I can’t fucking — where the fuck is my fucking hat?”
Steve handed it to him and he shoved it on his head. It made him feel only marginally better.
“Should I set up another—“
“I need some fucking air.”
He turned and left the gym and didn’t stop walking until he was inside his apartment.
Standing under neither scalding hot nor freezing cold water did anything to make him feel less furious and caged-in. It did give him enough time to realize that leaving Steve with a mess in the gym was an asshole move.
Steve hadn’t returned when Bucky finished rage showering.
He’s not going to come back.
Bucky made sandwiches anyways. Ate half of one and put the rest in the fridge. Nearly jumped out of his skin when the window rattled in the living room and Steve forced his way inside from the fire escape.
“You weren’t answering your phone,” Steve said.
“Maybe that was on purpose,” Bucky-the-Asshole snapped back.
Steve ignored him and shut the window. “Want lunch?” he asked instead as he strode into the kitchen and opened the fridge. Pulled out the stack of prepared sandwiches, too many for even one super soldier to eat. Steve raised a pointed eyebrow.
Bucky retreated to the bathroom. The only spot in this goddam studio apartment with an actual door. When evening fell, Steve came knocking.
“Go away.”
“I gotta piss.”
“Piss somewhere else,” he groused. But he hauled himself up from where he was laying on the floor and opened the door.
“Thanks,” Steve said. Bucky grumped out to the kitchen, where Steve had left him a sandwich. Not just that— a peanut butter and carrot sandwich, with the carrots sliced just so and a thin layer of crunchy peanut butter on both slices of bread and— god, he hadn’t eaten one of these since before the war.
Sometimes Steve was too nice for his own damn good.
Bucky crunched down his sandwich wedged between the chair and the exterior wall. Which meant he didn’t have an easy retreat back to the bathroom when Steve emerged, freshly showered. He was comfortable enough where he was, anyways.
“Want to watch anything?”
He wanted to trace the rivulets of water that dropped from Steve’s wet hair onto his neck, leave a trail of peanut-butter kisses behind, but that was neither here or there.
“I want to hate-watch the Yankees,” Steve said. “They’re supposed to be playing the Marlins tonight.”
They watched the New York Yankees crush the Miami Marlins into the dirt — so much for a hate-watch. Sometime during the sixth inning, Steve slid off the armchair and onto the floor beside him. At the bottom of the seventh inning, Bucky offered Steve half of his blanket. Steve fell asleep at the top of the ninth inning.
Bucky watched the blue light from the TV dance across his peaceful features while the Yankees took home a win and thought about what Steve had said a few days ago.
What he’d said in the hospital last week.
A decade ago on a falling helicarrier.
Thought about what Steve had done for him, in 1943 and 2014 and 2016. What Steve was doing for him, now.
It didn’t make sense.
He thought about his list of amends. How he had planned to kill himself nearly a month ago. How if he had, he would’ve never seen Steve again.
How glad he was that he hadn’t followed through on that plan.
How being alive was still incredibly painful.
He shut off the TV and looked out the window. Moonlight brushed the rusted metal of the fire escape. He thought about what Natalia had said, in the Soul Stone.
Sometimes you gotta stay alive for something or someone other than yourself for a while, and that’s okay.
Steve shifted in his sleep. Woke up and stretched and sat up beside him.
“Bad dream?”
“Just thinking.”
“Hmm.”
“You ever done something colossally stupid because you were afraid?” he asked. It was easier to ask in the dark, for some reason.
“Sure, Bucky. You want the list alphabetically or in chronological order?”
“I’m being serious, Steve.”
“So’m I.”
He swallowed around a dry mouth. “What if you didn’t know why you did it?”
“Everyone’s got a reason for doing things,” Steve argued. “Might be a bad reason. Might not make logical sense to the outside observer. But people don’t just randomly do stuff.”
“Well, what if I did something and didn’t know why?”
Steve exhaled slowly. “Based on your first question, I’d say you did it because you were afraid of something. Hypothetically.”
He was afraid of losing Steve.
And yet here Steve was, after everything.
“I did something really, really stupid the other day.”
Beside him, Steve tensed slightly.
“I’m — fuck.” Don’t cry don’t cry don’t—
“Bucky.” Steve placed a hand on his shoulder, and suddenly everything was too much. The door nearly banged off its hinges as he sprinted from the apartment.
Steve had thought the word heartbroken was a little melodramatic until just over three days ago. He almost wished he and Bucky hadn’t had that perfect day together, because every day since was a sharp reminder of what Steve didn’t have. He loved Bucky. Bucky didn’t seem to love him back.
Tough shit for Steve, he supposed. A little crushing case of heartbreak wasn’t about to stop him from seeing Bucky through whatever this was. Mostly that involved making Bucky food he barely ate and cleaning Bucky’s Spartan apartment and generally hanging around with the assumption that if Bucky wanted him gone, he’d say so.
Bucky’d been generally non-committal with regards to Steve’s presence. Hadn’t really spoken to him at all since their fight Friday night. Or whatever that had been. Break-up? Was it a break-up if they’d never been official?
Now it was Monday, and Steve was at a loss. Bucky’d woken him up in the middle of the night, started circuitously discussing some hypothetical awful thing he had done, and then fled the apartment. Steve did the only thing he could think of, which was to call Sam.
“He apologized yet?” Sam asked by way of greeting.
Sam had been less than impressed by Bucky’s attempts to push Steve away when Steve’d first called him about it.
“No,” Steve said. “Maybe? I don’t know. He started talking hypotheticals and then he fled the apartment.”
“Hypotheticals and Bucky don’t mix well.” Sam blew a sigh into his phone’s mic. “How’d his appointment with Reynor go?”
“Bad, I think. He punched through a reinforced heavy-bag.”
“That’s probably fair,” Sam mused. “I only met her once, but she’s really something else. Military quack, you know?”
“I only knew the SHIELD ones.”
“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to,” Sam said. “How’re you holding up?”
“I’m okay,” Steve said on reflex.
“Steve.” Sam sounded unimpressed.
He sighed. Took a breath. And laid out some of his heartbreak for Sam. He kept it short, conscious of the fact that he’d called in the middle of the night. The two of them could properly talk when Sam came up to New York this weekend.
The call ended with Sam telling him to take care of himself.
Steve promised he would, but only if Sam promised him the same.
He lay flat on the hardwood floor and pulled the blanket tight around himself. Watched passing headlights paint patterns across the ceiling. Bucky came back home just after three a.m. and went straight to his favourite hiding spot in the bathroom.
Steve dozed on and off. Pretended not to notice when Bucky moved out to the kitchen. Then again, leaned against the wall on the other side of the chair. He fell asleep for good when Bucky finally, slowly settled back down beside him.
Notes:
Time for historical food facts!!!
Mustard has been used in many cultures for thousands of years as both a condiment and a medicinal ingredient. Mustard plasters or mustard compresses were mentioned as treatment for congestion and cough as far back as the OG doctor Hippocrates himself. They remained popular through the early 1900s, and were even a common (if debatably effective) treatment for Spanish Influenza. As for mustard the food, it made its American hot dog debut in 1904 at the St. Louis World's Fair.
Peanut butter, while exiting in various forms in South American indigenous cuisine for centuries, was first "invented" in the United States in the late 1800s. At the time it was a somewhat expensive spread, championed as a health food by Mr. Kellogg (yes, the cereal guy). Two major things pushed peanut butter into its current ubiquity: failure of cotton crops due to the boll weevil at the turn of the century, causing many plantations to grow peanuts over cotton, and the invention of hydrogenation in the 1920's, which gave peanut butter a much longer shelf-life. This made the spread both cheaper to produce and a lot more appealing for the average consumer to buy. Many Great Depression-era recipes featured peanut butter, as it was an inexpensive and protein-rich food.
Yes, peanut-butter carrot sandwiches really were a Great Depression thing. As were PB and cucumber, PB and bacon, PB and tomato...
My mom grew up eating PB and bean sprouts, a combination inherited from her parents who grew up in the '30s. Personally, I've never had any of these things together in a sandwich, but I have to confess to eating straight PB and carrots as a meal when the budget was tight. It's surprisingly... not bad(?) if one is hungry enough.
Chapter 45: In Which Bucky and Steve Grab Brunch
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Brooklyn, New York. April 2, 2024.
Tuesday was usually grocery day, but since Steve had been buying him food all weekend, he didn’t need anything. Bucky left the apartment anyways. Maybe to avoid Steve.
Definitely to avoid his stupid therapy homework.
He parked himself on a bench in the slip of green-space a few blocks from his apartment and glared up at the overcast sky. Wondered if skiving off to space would solve all his problems. Dismissed the thought.
He’d been dragged all over a far-flung galaxy with Steve, and all of his hangups and issues had been right there with him. Hard to escape a problem when the problem was yourself.
Back here on Earth, surrounded by regular folks, it was just more… obvious how fucked up he was.
It hadn’t even occurred to him that he wouldn’t want Steve to see how pathetic and small his life had become until it was too late to stop it from happening. Steve being Steve (read: a blockhead) had hardly seemed to care. And that, at least, was something.
Awareness of being watched picked at the back of Bucky’s neck. He stood up and gave his surroundings a once-over, easily clocking the plainclothes agent watching him through a Starbucks window across the street. Bucky sighed. He was going in circles with the same useless thoughts he’d been thinking all weekend, so sure. He could go for a coffee.
Bucky’s paranoia — or rational preparedness for worst-case scenarios, take your pick — had driven him to run his own unofficial background checks on all the agents that regularly tailed him. Just to make sure none of them were former HYDRA.
The man currently watching him was Mike Hooper. A 36-year-old ex-Marine, now working for the Department of Damage Control. One of the newer DODC agents assigned to babysit his geriatric super soldier ass. Keeping tabs on Bucky was Mike’s first assignment back on active duty after a stint spent behind a desk.
Bucky’d never bothered to hack the DODC’s internal system and read the official reason why the guy’d been on desk duty. Cloning Mike’s phone was enough to make an educated guess. The guy was constantly complaining in a private group-chat about how unfair it was that he couldn’t joke around at the office anymore. How “that bitch Sadie” had no sense of humour.
To add insult to all that unpleasantness, Hooper was dog-shit at covert ops. He’d always been easy to spot, but this was a new low even for him. The seat directly beside the window, seriously? It gave your target as good a view of you as you had of them. Mike was so slow to realize his mark was headed his way that Bucky’d entered the cafe and effectively cornered him before he got a call out to his team.
Bucky heard him quietly panicking into his earpiece as he got in line to order.
“Next customer!”
He stepped up to the till. “One grande pink drink and a blueberry scone, please. Oh and a tall black coffee.”
“Name?”
“James.”
He paid with cash and moved to the side, strategically placing himself between Mike and the door.
“James!” a barista called a few minutes later.
His grin was genuine as he gathered up his order. He walked straight up to Mike’s table and grinned a little wider at the guy’s expression. Mike looked like a teen caught trying to sneak out at night.
“Jeez, unclench a little, Mikey,” Bucky said, plopping the pink drink and scone in front of the agent. “Have a snack. You look like you need it.”
And then he left. Thought about ghosting his other tail, but decided that would get him in too much trouble. He sipped his coffee and wandered down towards the old shipyards and revelled in the pleasure of rebellion.
Would he pay for it later? Almost certainly. Didn’t mean it wasn’t worth it right now. He tossed his empty cup into a trashcan eight feet away and smiled.
Yep. Definitely worth it.
Definitely not worth it, sitting in Raynor’s office the next morning like a kid called in to see the principal.
“I got a phone call yesterday,” she said. “Any guesses who from?”
He shook his head, hoping he looked nonplussed.
“The Department of Damage Control,” she snapped, consonants sharp in her mouth. “Care to tell me why?”
He did not.
“They were concerned about your behaviour. Said you had threatened one of their agents.”
“Threatened?” Bucky asked, incredulous.
Raynor raised her hands. “Their words.”
“I didn’t fucking— I bought one of the guys trailing me a Starbucks because he looked like he could use a pick-me-up. That’s all.”
Raynor sighed and pulled out her notebook. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of Bucky’s neck.
“That’s all I did, I swear. He looked tired, I bought him a drink and a scone and told him to relax a little.”
Raynor looked unimpressed. “The DODC informed me that the agent in question is making a lot of noise around the department, asking for hazard pay, getting the others on assignment with him to organize—“
“I ain’t gonna union bust for the fucking DODC, if that’s what you’re implying. Maybe they should get hazard pay, I don’t fucking know. If anything, I did Mike a favour.”
“Mike?”
Fuck.
He snapped his mouth shut. A few minutes passed. Eventually Raynor sighed heavily and clicked open her pen. “You can either tell me what happened, or I can start writing what I think happened.”
Bucky ground his teeth. “Fine.”
She put the pen down.
“I was — out. Walking. Supposed to be getting groceries but I didn’t need any because — that’s not important. I was out on a walk, and I guess I was a little bored.”
“You were bored?”
“Sure. Nothing but time on my hands, these days.”
Consumed with existential despair may’ve been more accurate. Whatever.
“I got to the park near my apartment, the one next to the Starbucks, and,” Bucky paused, trying to re-trace his thought process. He’d spotted Mike by the window like a sitting duck. Easy pickings for even a mid-level agent. Mike, who’d been assigned desk duty for harassing a female agent on his team.
Yeah, okay, maybe the pink drink and scone had been a bit of a threat. An I see you, asshole. Really, Mike should be thankful. For most of his over-extended life, Bucky’d sent those messages through the backs of his target’s skulls.
Raynor prompted him to keep talking with a raised eyebrow.
“He was doing a crap job of tailing me. He’d positioned himself poorly in the shop, I mean just right out in the open. And I know he’s an asshole to his coworkers— perks of, um, enhanced hearing. I was bored. Thought I’d let him know what a bang-up job he was doing.”
“So you bought him a pink drink and a blueberry scone?”
“And a black coffee for myself.”
Raynor made a face like she’d just sucked a lemon.
“Like I said, I did him a favour. If he’d been out on a real assignment, he’d’ve gotten a lot more than just a drink.”
“James,” Raynor said, sharp the way she did whenever he said something dangerous. Another bead of sweat dripped down his neck.
She let him stew for a minute before she said, “He was on a real assignment, James. Do you understand that?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I won’t do it again.”
“Do what?”
“Bother the agents that tail me.”
“They’re there for your protection, James,” Raynor said. Almost gentle now.
Everyone else’s protection, she meant. Maybe he should be thankful Mike hadn’t shot him point-blank the moment Bucky’d entered the café.
“I know,” he said.
“Good.” Raynor set her notebook aside completely and leaned forward. “How did your homework go?”
“Fine,” he lied.
She leaned back. “You didn’t even start it, did you?”
It was impressive, how she could make him feel so small with so few words. The rest of the session was spent in silence, Bucky glaring at a page Raynor had torn out of her notebook and written To Dr. Arnim Zola, across the top. She periodically took notes in her notebook. Bucky very carefully didn’t think about anything at all.
Brooklyn, New York. April 4, 2024.
Steve woke up and watched the colour drain from the world. He blinked his eyes. The ceiling of Bucky’s apartment stared back in shades of early-morning grey. Steve sat up and found the space on the floor beside him empty. His gut twisted, but he told himself not to panic. Bucky’d probably slunk off to the bathroom or gone out for an early-morning walk.
A puff of dust swirled through the air as he shoved the blanket back, and Steve scrambled to his feet in alarm. Ashes. Scattered across the floor. Right where… where…
“No.” He collapsed to his knees, trying to scoop the ashes into his hands.
Steve.
Not again. He couldn’t do this again.
Steve. Wake up.
There was no one around, so he didn’t bother hiding his grief as the scant remains of his best friend slipped through his fingers.
“Steve!”
He gasped awake, disoriented by the darkness of the apartment. Felt more than heard someone shifting beside him.
“Bucky?” His voice creaked and wobbled. A hand to his cheeks confirmed he’d been crying in his sleep. Possibly crying out, too.
“Yeah, it’s me,” Bucky said softly. “You were… it sounded like a bad dream.”
“Sorry,” Steve said, mostly out of habit.
Bucky huffed. “Don’t worry about it. Want some water or something?”
He wanted to cling onto Bucky, make sure he was really awake and Bucky was really real, but Bucky’d already stood up. Steve listened to him clatter around his tiny kitchen, searching for a clean glass. A minute later, he returned with a mug full of water.
“Thanks,” Steve said, as Bucky shoved the mug into his hands.
Bucky sat down a few feet away from him and leaned back against the windowsill.
Steve drained the mug and set it aside. Wiped the last few tears off his face. He was fine. This was fine. Bucky was alive and here and—
“You, uh. Want to talk about it?” Bucky mumbled.
“No.” Steve sniffed and wiped his nose on his shirtsleeve. He felt small.
On the rare occasions over the past decade that Steve’d been lonely and homesick and motivated enough to pick up his drawing pencils, he’d drawn Bucky how he remembered him best — smiling, one eyebrow raised like he was waiting for you to get the joke. Now, Bucky’s face was inscrutable in the dark. He seemed unreal, felt unfamiliar, his body shaded in greyscale. A fun-house incarnation of one of those sketches.
Something hot and sharp jabbed through Steve’s chest.
“I dreamed I woke up and you were… dust. Again. I just— I know it’s stupid. Probably residual stress, or something. Like a post-mission come-down.” Steve ran his hands through his hair and tried not to think about California.
“Hey.” Bucky squeezed his shoulder. “That’s not.”
Steve looked up, waiting for the end of the sentence. But Bucky withdrew his hand and scowled at the floor.
“Not what?” he asked, prodding Bucky’s leg with a foot, because even in the depths of an emotional crisis he wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to be annoying.
Bucky slapped Steve’s foot away, his scowl easing to just a glare.
“Stupid,” he snapped, grabbing Steve’s foot when he went to kick him again.
“What’s stupid?” Steve asked, only half-attempting to pull his foot away. Bucky tightened his grip and turned the full-force of his glare back onto Steve.
“Your face, for starters,” he deadpanned, dropping Steve’s ankle on the hardwood with a thunk. Then in one fluid motion, Bucky picked up Steve’s empty mug and pushed himself to his feet. “More water?” he asked, striding towards the kitchen. Then, before Steve could answer, “Might go on a run. Beat the early-riser fanatics.”
This conversation was going to give Steve whiplash. He scrubbed the sleep out of his eyes, took a breath, and gave up on trying to understand Bucky Barnes for the day.
“Mind if I join?”
Bucky shrugged, which Steve was going to take as a yes. What he really wanted was to cling, to pull Bucky close and never, ever let go. He’d take keeping time beside him as they loped down dew-slick sidewalks for today. Any day, so long as Bucky was alive and safe and—
“Used to have nightmares about you all the time,” Bucky puffed on their fifth lap around Prospect Park. “Would wake up thinking that I’d… Yeah.”
Steve nearly tripped over himself scrambling for something to say, breath like a steam engine in his chest. “It wasn’t your—“
“I know,” Bucky snapped.
They ran in silence for a mile before Steve worked up the courage to say, “I’m sorry.”
Though what Steve was apologizing for, he wasn’t quite sure. Everything, maybe.
“Not your fault, either, Stevie,” Bucky said. His smile didn’t reach his eyes.
They stopped at a 24-hour diner for breakfast on the way back. Ordered two hungry-man specials with black coffees from the sleep-deprived server and were barely just settling into the booth near the back when something prickled on the back of Steve’s neck. Call it paranoia or his years as an international fugitive doing something to his nerves, but he found himself casing the place, counting exits, noting cameras, memorizing faces. Who was likely civilian, who might be an undercover operative.
A muscular man in dusty construction gear caught Steve’s eye. He seemed familiar. No, Steve’d definitely seen him around somewhere before. He busied himself with his coffee and tried to think rationally. Brooklyn was a big place, but it wasn’t impossible to run into the same person around town. Maybe the guy lived close to Bucky’s apartment and Steve’d seen him on the street? He glanced up just in time to see the man hurriedly looking away from their booth. Was he watching them?
Steve nudged Bucky under the table, then darted his eyes over to the supposed construction worker.
Bucky, alleged master spy and former ghost story, turned around in his seat to look.
“Buck!” Steve hissed, “what are you—“
“Finally noticed our tail?” he drawled, turning back to take a sip of coffee. “Well, my tail, I should say.”
“The fuck are you—“
“Government needs to know I’m not gonna…” Bucky made a fist and shook it. Then snorted like he’d said something funny.
“They’re watching you?” Steve hissed, even quieter.
Bucky shrugged. “Not very well.” Then he glared at Steve. “Don’t do anything stupid, I’m on thin enough ice as-is.”
Steve felt a little hurt at that. He opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. He had to admit that Bucky had him there.
“This part of your so-called pardon?” he asked instead.
“Conditional pardon. And yes. This and therapy.”
The food arrived, and they fell silent for a few minutes while they tucked in.
Steve worked through his pile of scrambled eggs while simultaneously working up the courage to ask, “How is it? Therapy, I mean. Sam said your therapist is a piece of work.”
The laugh he got out of Bucky was the brightest he’d heard in days.
“Bullshit, mostly,” Bucky said. “The Doc is mean, and petty, and she assigns me fucking homework like some delinquent schoolboy. She cares, though. I think. At least, she’s not actively torturing me on purpose, which is more than I can say for almost all the other shrinks I’ve met.”
The bite of toast Steve was happily munching turned to ash in his mouth. He somehow forced himself to swallow.
“Buck—“
“Gotta take a leak. I… Be right back.”
Steve sighed. Stared down at his disgusting food for a minute before deciding he’ll probably be hungry for it later. He flagged down the server and asked for some to-go boxes and the bill. Resisted the urge to follow Bucky into the washroom and check that he was still real about five times before the server returned. He was all paid up and standing awkwardly outside, fingers tapping restlessly on the to-go boxes when Bucky finally rejoined him. He took his first full breath in minutes while Bucky held the door for an elderly couple exiting behind him.
If Bucky was oxygen, Steve was a man suffocating in the dark.
He was a fire, while Steve remained trapped in ice. Desperate for a flicker of warmth. Terrified to get too close and smother the flames.
"You good?"
"Yeah," Steve said, hoping he didn't sound too breathless.
Bucky smiled and grabbed one of the to-go boxes. “Let’s get outa here.”
“Where’re we going?”
“Somewhere with a shower, hopefully,” Bucky said. “You know you stink?”
Always count on Bucky to make him laugh. “And whose idea was it to get breakfast directly after a run?”
Bucky laughed and shoved him and made some other ball-busting comment, and for a few golden seconds, Steve felt like everything was going to be okay.
Notes:
Never let it be said that I never write happy fluff. It might only be 3-5 lines, but it's there.
Also s/o to Sadie, the DODC officer who did her absolute best to chase down Kamala. Though this story happens before the events of Ms. Marvel, so all the best to future her, I guess? Gaslight, Gatekeep, Girlboss, and have fun trying to arrest literal children/s
~~~~~~
Sorry my dearest, beloved readers for the unplanned hiatus! Depression waits for no man, apparently. But! It's a long weekend and I have some Motivation, so here's another chapter!We're in the endgame now :P
Chapter 46: In Which a Dinosaur Makes Steve Cry
Notes:
CW: discussion of suicide/self-harm in the second section. See end note for details.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Louis Armstrong International Airport, New Orleans, Louisiana. April 6, 2024.
“You’d think airlines’d have their shit figured out by now, it’s been over six months. This is absolutely ridiculous,” the mousey lady in the customer service line behind Sam complained to no one in particular.
“Where’re you trying to head?” he asked, figuring making friendly conversation would be more entertaining than just standing around. He was waiting to get his itinerary sorted out after Delta’d overbooked his flight, more than a little frustrated to be losing out on a whole day of vacation with his recently-back-from-the-dead friends up in New York.
“Montreal,” the lady replied. “Up to see my grand-babies for the first time. At least, that was the plan,” she added, glaring pointedly at the agent behind the customer service desk.
“Grandkids, huh? What are their ages?” Sam asked, hoping to distract the lady from her brewing anger and himself from his own frustration. it worked, and a minute later Sam was delightedly cooing at a series of adorable baby photos on the lady’s phone.
“Where are you off to?” she asked, slipping her phone back into her purse.
“New York,” Sam said. “Then down to D.C. for work.”
“D.C., huh?” She squinted at him. “You look familiar, are you a politician?”
Sam laughed, regretting mentioning D.C. at all. “No, no. I’m… I do consulting. For the military.”
His hope that she wouldn’t recognize him lasted for all of two seconds before her eyes went wide and she gasped, “You’re Captain America!”
Well, shit.
He grinned and spread his hands as if to say, that’s me.
“I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you! Oh, this is so embarrassing. I always figured you were too fancy to fly commercial like the rest of us.”
“Only when I’m on-duty,” he joked.
And then, somehow, he found himself shaking hands and posing for photos before he got pushed to the front of the customer service line on the insistence of his fellow travellers. He protested a little, but the little crowd of tired, grumpy travellers were insistent — and also maybe wanting to enjoy a bit of Schadenfreude watching Delta Airlines bend over backwards when they realized they’d overbooked Captain America’s ticket.
The rest of his trip north was almost a vacation in itself. When Delta realized the potential for bad PR — more than one person had a phone out and filming — they upgraded him to business class at no cost. He spent the day in the quiet VIP lounge, alternating between texting Steve and answering emails in his overfull work in-box, all while sipping on complementary coffee with his feet up. His re-booked flight was a red-eye, getting in to JFK at 0400, but with the extra legroom and the distance from the screaming baby back in economy, he actually had a decent sleep on the plane.
He couldn’t help his grin when he exited the airport to see two surly, familiar faces waiting on the dirty pavement of the pick-up loop. Apparently they’d rented a car for the occasion.
“Steve! Bucky!” he called. Bucky’d already noticed him, but Steve’s head snapped around at Sam’s voice and his face split into a wide grin.
“Sam! Good to see you, man!”
He found himself pulled into a rib-cracking hug.
“You, too,” he choked, a little winded. Freaking super soldiers. “Wasn’t sure the city’d still be standing after leaving the two of you unsupervised in it for a week.”
Both men immediately started protesting.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re highly responsible adults,” Sam teased. “Tie your own shoes and everything.”
Steve playfully punched Sam’s shoulder while Bucky stuffed his bags into the trunk. Sam was itching to ask if they’d sorted out their relationship melodrama but instead said, “So. There anything worth eating in this po-dunk town? I know it’s the middle of the night, but I’m starving.”
Steve, with his newly-reissued drivers license, expertly navigated them straight into a snarl of early-morning traffic. By the time it had cleared, the friendly debate of where to go for breakfast had an angry, urgent edge to it. Not helped by Sam grumbling to himself about being stuck in a car with two hangry super soldiers.
“I don’t get hangry,” Steve protested.
“Hangry?” Bucky grumped from the backseat.
“Hungry and angry,” Sam helpfully defined, then turned to Steve, “and yes, you do.”
If Steve hadn’t been glaring daggers at Sam, he would have seen the lifted pickup that came careening into the lane right in front of them a half-second earlier. Bucky’s shout from the back meant Steve had just enough warning to avoid a collision as he slammed on the breaks and then swerved up onto the sidewalk.
Sam got treated to a stream of cussing in twin Brooklyn accents as Steve leaned on the horn and Bucky rolled down his window to flip off the truck’s disappearing tail-lights. Both of them looked about ready to clamber out of the car and chase the truck down, and since Sam didn’t have the funds to bail two idiots out of jail, he needed a distraction. Such as the hole-in-the-wall diner just up the block.
“So, you two still wanna eat, or do you both survive on righteous fury alone?” he asked, pointing to the restaurant.
Bucky rolled his eyes and got out of the car. Steve grumbled, “Forgot you could be a real ass,” while he shifted gears to properly park.
Sam grinned. “Guess my usual rebuttal of being your favourite ass is moot now, huh?”
Steve flushed and glanced out the window after Bucky.
Sam laughed and shook his head. “You’re incorrigible.”
The diner was grimy in a way that meant the food would be hot, cheap, and mouthwatering. While Sam paid for his order, he became aware of a whispered conversation going on behind him. He turned to find Bucky and Steve huddled together near the pickup counter, locked in a hurried argument.
“Maybe he could take the rental to a hotel and—“
“I don’t think he can drive the rental, there’s rules about—“
“—well what if the two of you stay there and I’ll—“
“—seems overcomplicated. Sides, we’re not exactly rolling in—”
“Yeah, but he can’t stay at mine there’s no—“ Bucky cut himself short mid-sentence as he caught Sam listening in.
“Trouble in paradise?” Sam asked, mostly for the selfish satisfaction of seeing his two best friends blush like teenagers.
“No,” Bucky said, crossing his arms.
When their order got called and Steve stepped away to pick it up, Sam leaned closer and murmured, “My flight to D.C.’s so early tomorrow morning, I’d probably have to leave your place at like 2:00 a.m. to get to the airport on time, anyways.”
Bucky shook his head.
“I really don’t mind camping over at the airport,” Sam insisted, stifling a yawn. “Though I wouldn’t say no to an afternoon nap on your couch,” he added hopefully.
“That’s the whole problem,” Bucky said quietly. “I don’t. Have a couch, exactly.”
“No couch?” Sam teased, “Geez your place must be tiny!”
“VA benefits.” Bucky shrugged and shot Sam a self-deprecating grin as he re-adjusted his cap.
Steve re-appeared just then with his arms full of take-out bags, and the conversation abruptly shifted to how none of them could wait to dig in to their breakfast orders.
Steve knew he’d been wearing a big, stupid grin ever since he and Bucky’d gotten up at an ungodly hour that morning to go pick Sam up from the airport. But playing tour guide to his two best friends made him incredibly happy. Sue him. He licked the last of the grease from his take-out breakfast off his fingers, half-listened to Sam and Bucky bicker over whether ketchup or white vinegar went better with fries, and wished he could freeze this moment in time and just live in it forever.
Maybe not literally.
Definitely not literally. He’d had altogether enough of messing around with time for one (hah!) lifetime. Hell, even in an illusion crafted by the Mind Stone to keep him content and asleep, he’d been malcontent, and —
Bucky bumped his shoulder.
Steve blinked at him, shaken from his spiralling thoughts. Almost surprised to find himself seated in a familiar-yet-unfamiliar public park, a handful of grey clouds scudding by overhead. After a beat of searching Steve’s face, Bucky turned back to Sam and said with all the conviction of a religious zealot, “Anything besides ketchup on fries is simply un-American. Right, Steve?”
“I plead the fifth,” Steve said, while Sam protested that since he was Captain America, everything he did was, by default, one-hundred percent American.
The debate over condiments morphed into a debate over what to do with the rest of the day. Steve floated the idea of checking out the five-year Memorial of The Great Disappearance exhibit that was currently running at the Met, but Sam argued that they weren’t allowed to do any “triggering shit” on his vacation. They all agreed on the natural history museum, and spent several enjoyable hours learning about woolly mammoths and sabre-toothed tigers and the like. Steve didn’t even get sad until they looped back around to the main atrium with the large exhibit of dinosaur fossils.
It was like a reflex. A habit ingrained over those five long years holding down the fort together. When he realized he’d scanned the crowd over his shoulder for a flash of red hair, an ice-cold ball of grief punched his gut and left him winded.
He realized the last time he’d stood here, right here, had been with her. On a mission, of course. Stopping some whacko AIM scientists who were trying to steal dinosaur fossils to make a real-life Jurassic Park (a reference he’d actually understood, by that point). She hadn’t even made the joke as they’d rushed passed the giant T-Rex fossil in the atrium, just given it a look and then raised her eyebrow at him. He’d had to stifle his laughter so he wouldn’t clog up the comms.
Steve felt more than saw Bucky and Sam come up to stand on either side of him.
“Friend of yours?” Sam asked, his tone a little too watery to be completely teasing.
Steve’s responding laugh was somewhere closer to a sob. He swallowed a few times, because what he wanted to say next was important.
“Did I tell you we ran into her?”
Sam went still beside him.
“We, uh. In 2012, of course. But also, we. When we went to return the Soul Stone. I—“
“You saved her?” Sam whispered, as if he were afraid to breathe.
Steve nodded, throat too tight to talk.
He found himself the recipient of a crushing hug.
“I only wish I could have saved her for our timeline, too,” he said, when he found his voice again.
Sam shook his head. “Just knowing she’s out there. That she’s alive, and… That’s enough. More than enough.”
Maybe it was.
They went to an Indian restaurant for lunch — Sam’s treat — and Steve was once again struck by his friends. They were here. Alive. He couldn’t help grinning while Sam mercilessly teased Bucky for being “too white to handle spice” after he’d sampled one of the extra-hot curries.
“S’not my fault!” Bucky spluttered, coming up for air after chugging two cups of ice-water.
Sam laughed and tossed him some napkins for his streaming nose.
“No, seriously,” Bucky mockingly-argued, laughing too as he blew his nose, “stuff they used to feed me, we’re lucky I don’t think mayonnaise is spicy.”
Steve’s good mood popped like a bubble of dish soap and Sam’s laughter died in mid-air, but Bucky seemingly didn’t notice.
“Or maybe it’s a good thing they were all too White and Fascist to know anything about good cuisine,” Bucky continued, only faltering when he looked up from his plate. “Because that. Dish... is...“
Steve felt helpless and lost, watching the laughter drain out of Bucky’s face. He didn’t know what to do. Hydra wasn’t something he could joke about. At least, not that part of Hydra. But Bucky could. Or he needed to. Or something.
“Don’t make this a fucking thing, Steve,” Bucky said.
Which was completely out of left field.
“I’m not?” Steve argued on reflex.
“Yes, you—“ Bucky clenched his teeth and stood. “Thanks for lunch, Sam. Sorry I— Yeah.”
And then he was gone.
Steve blinked after him in utter confusion for a few seconds, and then buried his face in his hands. He wished he could go back to five minutes earlier, when everything was good and he hadn’t somehow messed it all up. Better yet, if he’d just caught Bucky’s fucking hand on the goddam train. He shivered and pressed his palms deeper into his eyes until sparks popped in his vision. Might as well complete the fantasy and travel back to before everything went to shit. He’d intercept Bucky’s draft letter, and the pair of them could—
Sam blew a low whistle between his teeth. “I thought he saved up all his grouchiness special just for me.”
“I don’t know what to do, Sam,” Steve said, dragging his hands down his face so he could rest his chin on closed fists. He listened to his own pulse accelerate until it was pounding in his ears. “I’m probably just paranoid, or something, but every time he goes off like that I feel terrified that he’s going to—“
He couldn’t say it.
“You’re worried he’s going to hurt himself?” Sam asked. Neutral tone. Steve recognized his counsellor voice, and felt his stomach clench with guilt because he shouldn’t be putting this on Sam.
He nodded despite himself.
“Did something happen?”
“No,” he said. Beat. Beat. “Yes.”
He could feel his pulse in his fingertips now, itching for his shield the way they did before a fight. He wiped his sweaty palms on his pants and forced his mouth to say, “He told me some things, while we were doing the time-heist. That he’d — maybe it’s not my stuff to tell, I don’t know. But I’m worried. And I don’t trust the government to help him. If they think he’s not stable, they might… I don’t know what they’ll do. I just — Sam, I can’t lose him again. I just can’t.”
Sam reached across the table and squeezed his shoulder. “It’s going to be okay, Steve. You’re alive. Bucky’s alive. We’re going to figure it out. Okay?”
Steve nodded, taking a deep breath.
“I’ll see if I have any former contacts in the area who’d be willing to talk to him off-record, for starters,” Sam said with a winning smile. “Call in a favour as Cap, if I have to.”
Steve chuckled weakly.
“The Pym family offered some of their scary-ass legal team to help with his pardon. But that’s a later-plan. Right now, we get this boxed up and go find the world’s grumpiest super soldier. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Bucky, being Bucky, turned out to be harder to find than anticipated and Sam wasn’t in the mood to bust out Redwing just to find the guy. Not when he was actively and somewhat amicably answering Sam’s texts.
“He said he’ll meet us for dinner,” Sam said, closing his phone. This news, however, didn’t seem to satiate Steve’s anxiety.
“You’re sure it was him?”
“You want me to request proof of life or something?” Sam asked sarcastically.
His phone dinged.
From Bucky Barnes: Tell Steve to stop worrying, I just need to clear my head.
From Bucky Barnes: If he says he’s not worrying, don’t believe him. I know he is worrying. Which is dumb. I am fine.
From Bucky Barnes: [photo.jpg]
From Bucky Barnes: You two have fun. I will see you at 17 30.
Sam flipped his phone around so Steve could read the texts and see the photo, a blurry, zoomed-in image of Bucky’s best scowl.
“Fine,” Steve said. “Tell him I’m not worried and I hope he has a nice afternoon, too.”
“Text him yourself, grandpa,” Sam said, dutifully typing out Steve’s dictated text.
But without Bucky present, there wasn’t much point in going to the special exhibition at the library, all about the history of sci-fi and fantasy. For lack of anything better to do, Steve drove them to Bucky’s apartment, promising Sam the use of their shower while Steve looked up local attractions with the least likelihood of triggering either of them. Steve expertly parallel parked in front of a beautiful mid-rise apartment complex, each unit boasting large windows and spacious balconies. Sam supposed several decades as a POW warranted some extra VA benefits, but that musing proved false when Steve marched straight past that building, as well as the well-kept row of brownstone houses beside it. Sam followed him two blocks over, to a slightly crumbly low-rise made of red brick.
The inside of the building looked to have been renovated sometime in the late eighties, with little upkeep done after that beyond an optimistic vacuuming every now and again. Cigarette smoke hung in the air, defying a large and yellowed ‘no smoking’ sign that served as the foyer’s only piece of artwork. Then up several flights of creaky wood stairs to the top floor, where they arrived at Bucky’s slate-grey front door.
“It’s not much,” Steve said, fumbling with the key.
Sam huffed a laugh to stop himself from saying something inappropriate like no, shit. And then Steve jimmied the key in the lock just so, and swung the door open.
The interior of the unit sailed straight past Spartan to land firmly on depressing. Off-white and dull grey walls boxed in a nearly bare room with a small window at one end, whose view of a dumpster-filled alley was mostly blocked by a rusted fire-escape. An armchair sat positioned across from a TV and a dilapidated upright piano. Nearer the door, a tiny kitchen boasted few appliances scattered across even less peeling linoleum counter space. A door on the right led off to a cramped bathroom with a slightly mouldy ceiling above the shower.
Most notably, this was a studio apartment. Which meant there was no bedroom tucked away somewhere, which meant…
“Where the hell do you two sleep?”
Words he regretted when he noticed Steve shifting from foot to foot. Sam sighed. This whole situation was somehow both better and worse than he’d expected.
“You don’t gotta explain, man,” Sam back-pedalled, “Not to me.”
Steve gave him the saddest of sad smiles and said, “I know.”
“You do know what this means, though?” Sam said, placing the case with his wings down and kicking off his shoes.
Steve, who’d been digging in the tiny closet beside the bathroom door, raised an eyebrow at him.
“After I get done showering, I am dragging your ass to IKEA.”
Sam caught the towel Steve threw at him and sauntered off to the bathroom, happy to hear Steve laughing in his wake.
Notes:
Detailed CW: Steve and Sam briefly discuss their mutual worry regarding Bucky. Steve confides in Sam through heavy implication that Bucky has attempted to hurt himself in the past, and that he is worried he will do so again. They briefly discuss some options that might help Bucky.
~~~
Bucky's opinions regarding ketchup on fries are categorically incorrect. Vinegar on fries is the superior way to eat them, and no, I will not be taking questions at this time :P
Sam's flight cancellations are brought to you by my own bad experiences with [redacted airlines] cancelling my flights TWICE in the span of two months. With a bit of wish-fulfillment thrown in because who doesn't wish they could get bumped to business class when an airline messes up your trip?
~~~
GUYS I PASSED MY THESIS DEFENCE!!!!! I'm very nearly done my degree, I just have like, the final proofing of my thesis manuscript left to do and I'll be officially done done done :D
Chapter 47: In Which Steve Successfully Assembles an Ikea Bed
Notes:
CW: Discussions of suicide and mental health more broadly, depiction of dissociation and panic attacks.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Brooklyn, New York. April 7, 2024.
Bucky left the restaurant with fire coiling in his mouth thanks to that goddam curry. Everything else burned, too. His whole body aflame with — something. Anger was too short a word.
He was incandescent with it. Fists balled and jaw clenched.
Can’t even eat a fucking meal without—
He had to move. Do something before this feeling consumed him and he—
— government needs to know you’re not gonna —
A dead sprint through six narrow alleys, up a fire-escape, across a few rooftops, down into the subway and then back up to street level via an old access hatch was all it took to shake his DODC tails.
He was on thin enough ice already. This was a bad move. Stupid. Stupid.
— taking all the stupid with —
Well maybe everyone could go to hell. Bucky didn’t care.
He walked a few blocks, hood up and head down, fighting the dual urges to put his fist through a brick wall and throw himself into oncoming traffic.
This was so dumb. He was so dumb. He should be back at the restaurant, having a normal, nice time with his two best friends. Leave it to him to fuck it all up. Typical, really.
Though he hadn’t set out in a particular direction, Bucky found himself trudging through the old shipyards. The lava pulsing in his veins cooled with each block he walked. Cooled and cooled until he was seated on the harbour wall, ice-cold and immobile as he stared blankly out at Lady Liberty.
The city was starting some sort of restoration project on the island, scaffolding already built up around the statue’s base like a second skirt. Another thing changed.
Bucky fought the temptation to hurl his phone as far as he could into the harbour when Sam texted. Instead, he texted back with leaden fingers. Took a close-up of his face as proof of life for Steve, careful not to catch any background in the corners so the bastard couldn’t track him down. In the spirit of nurturing friendship or whatever, he even promised to re-appear in time for dinner.
Sending those texts was the extent of his ability to be a functioning person, however. Sliding into familiar blankness felt almost like relief.
Sam was ready to call the afternoon a success right up until Bucky no-showed for dinner. Steve and Sam went to IKEA and picked up a bed frame that didn’t look too complicated to assemble. Sam had even convinced Steve to spring for a nice set of sheets to go on the new double-bed. They’d taken it all back to the apartment (how Sam had missed Steve’s super-soldier muscles), and then they’d texted Bucky to say they’d be ordering dinner in half an hour.
No response, but Sam wasn’t about to start worrying. Maybe Bucky thought texting back when he was about to arrive home anyways was a waste of time. Steve was funny like that about texting sometimes, even after all these years.
But then the food arrived and went cold and Steve, claiming he might as well be useful although Sam suspected it was more anxiety than anything, got started on assembling the bed. And Bucky still hadn’t shown. No responses to any of their texts. No nothing.
Sam re-heated his take-out order in the microwave and watched Steve work. He was steady and methodical as he quietly twisted a screw into place. Thorough as he double-checked the instructions.
The sorrow coming off of him was thick enough to taste, and for a horrible moment Sam found himself plunged ten years into the past. Powerless to stop his best friend from losing himself to chasing down a ghost story. Sam doing everything he could to shoulder some of the burden. Watching helplessly as Steve withdrew anyways, leaving only the steel-eyed Captain in his place.
As he watched Steve carefully tighten another screw, another old feeling welled up inside him: anger. He’d been plenty angry back then. At Hydra, for making a mess of the world. At Steve, for being too stubborn to give up on a lost cause. At Bucky.
Easy to be angry at Bucky, because he hadn’t been there, and the only times Sam saw him were in his nightmares. A horror of black and chrome, crashing through his windshield, ripping him from the sky.
If Sam were honest with himself, he’d have to admit he’d resented the guy just a little. For taking him on a wild-goose chase across the globe. For taking up so much of Steve’s time and energy and — And for somehow being more important to Steve than any of the people who were actually there, in the present.
And now? It was like nothing had changed. He’d come toBrooklyn to see his friends and found himself alone, with Steve grieving by himself and Bucky who-the-fuck-knows where.
Sam took another bite of his lukewarm dinner and shut his eyes.
“Don’t tell me the food’s that bad.”
Sam smiled in spite of himself. “Food’s fine, Steve. Want any?”
“Gonna finish the bed, first,” Steve said, twisting an irregularly-shaped metal piece in his fingers.
Sam stuffed another bite into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully, back to watching Steve.
This wasn’t 2014.
Things had changed.
A lot of things had changed.
2014 Steve would’ve been tearing New York apart if he’d known Bucky was nearby. But now…
Now he wanted to finish assembling the bed. Their bed, Sam realized. Steve and Bucky’s.
As though, despite everything, Steve trusted Bucky to come home.
Sam abandoned his meal and fired up redwing, running a protocol to track Bucky’s phone. Last text was sent from across town, near the water.
“Sam? What are you—“
“I’ll be back.”
And then he pulled on his coat and dashed out the door, redwing tailing behind.
“… couldn’t pump the bilge fast enough, so me’n Sarah had to go belowdecks with buckets and do it ourselves. And let me tell you there’s nothing smells worse than the bilge of a…”
Bucky came back to himself in parts.
Hands on concrete. Rough and cold.
Nose thick with damp, brine-y air. Pungent overtones of garbage and exhaust.
Ears full of talking.
Sam?
It was dim outside. The kind of smudgy orange-on-grey that meant a big city well after sunset but long before night.
“… teased me mercilessly for it. Of course. You know Sarah, never passes up an opportunity to…”
Brooklyn, New York.
Had to be, because there was the Statue of Liberty. Half-buried under scaffolding across the water.
He realized he was cold.
Whole body stiff from sitting still for who-knows-how-long.
And—
“…following in my footsteps. In terms of being a bad fisherman, that is. But AJ, he really might—“
“You talk too much.”
Sam, who to the outside observer was cool as anything leaning up against the sea wall a few feet away, dropped his shoulders slightly and glanced at Bucky.
“I think I talk just the right amount, thank you very much.”
Bucky wanted to snark back with something cutting like Oh yeah, what would Sarah have to say about that? but found he only had the energy to muster up a half-hearted hum.
His lacklustre response didn’t deter Sam, who kept right on talking. Bucky couldn’t process half of what Sam said next. But that didn’t really matter.
“I know what you’re doing,” Bucky grunted after a particularly sharp comment from Sam’s one-sided dialogue.
“And what’s that?” Sam asked, feigning innocence.
“You’re trying to annoy me into—“ but that was where his thought ended.
“Into what, Buck? You know I could never make you do anything. You’re too much of a stubborn old man for that.”
Bucky glared at Sam, whose grin could only be described as shit-eating.
“Is it working?” Sam asked.
“Piss off,” Bucky grumped, swatting at Sam, who cackled and dodged out of reach.
“No can do.”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “I forgot how stubborn you are.”
“Said the man who invented stubbornness.”
“Hey, now. Don’t confuse me with Rogers.”
“Speaking of,” Sam said, and Bucky sighed.
“Is he mad at me?”
“He’s worried about you,” Sam said simply. “I am, too.”
You always end up hurting people.
He studied the concrete beneath his fingers.
Especially the people you care about.
“Didn’t mean to make you guys worry,” he said through a constricting windpipe.
“I know,” Sam said. Then, “Maybe you can help me understand why you didn’t show up for dinner?”
You missed dinner? Fucking useless—
“Guess I lost track of time.”
Sam stayed quiet beside him.
Eventually worry won out and Bucky worked up the courage to ask, “Where’s Steve?”
“He stayed back. Or, well. He maybe didn’t know I was coming out here to find you. Either way, I think we’re overdue for another tough love conversation. If you’re up for it.”
Bucky watched a speedboat skip across the water and out of sight. He couldn’t tell if his chest ached in anticipation of whatever well-meaning blow Sam was about to deliver, or if this was simply phantom-limb pain from where his heart used to be. He took a breath and turned to face Sam.
“Alright, hit me.”
“Are you planning to kill yourself?”
Panicked ringing in his ears. Right hand trembling, rammed deep in his jacket pocket. Stomach filled with boiling grease. How — how did Sam — he’d been so careful, and now—
Now Sam was stood expectantly across from Bucky, eyebrows in a deep furrow.
“I don’t- I don't know.”
“You don’t know?” Sam repeated slowly.
“I don’t know, okay? I had a plan, but then you fucked it up and then there was the whole time-heist thing and I thought maybe… I dunno what I thought, but nothing worked out and I’m still here, so... Happy?”
And there was the anger from before.
“Hang on, back up,” Sam said. “You were going to kill yourself but I messed up your plan?”
Bucky ran his hand through his hair and pulled until the fire in his scalp matched the fire in his veins. Turned from Sam and—
“What plan, Bucky?”
Fucking—
“My amends. After Steve… left, I— I stuck it out to finish that goddam list of names. Figured it was the least I could do to balance the books. You helped, even. Gave me the kick in the pants I needed to get through the hardest set of names.” Bucky let his hand fall back into a fist at his side as he risked a glance at Sam. “I finished the list right before my birthday,” he laughed hollowly. “You called to invite me down for the cookout that same weekend.”
Sam looked sick under the orange glare of the streetlights.
Too much, too much. Walk away. Study the pattern of lights on the water.
“You had no intention of coming back from the reverse time-heist, did you?”
His eyes burned, anger dripping away and leaving behind something else. Sam shifted closer, but this time Bucky didn’t move away.
“Do you feel the same way now?”
Hot, shameful tears splashed down Bucky’s cheeks, and for a moment all he could think was how much he hated crying in front of people.
He didn’t know.
He didn’t know.
Now that Steve was back, everything had changed.
And still he—
Lost his breath as Sam crashed around him. The fierceness of the hug sent Bucky stumbling one step back. When Sam pulled away, he too was blinking away tears.
“I should probably say something profound and counsellor-y,” Sam said, “but I’m drawing a blank.”
“All it takes is fessing up to a suicide attempt or two to shut you up? If only I’d known earlier—“
Sam smacked him, which was well-deserved. And nearly smiled, which was what Bucky’d been hoping for.
“I know you kinda hate her, but have you talked with Dr. Raynor about any of this?” Sam asked, after a moment.
Bucky shook his head.
“She might be able to help you.”
“I don’t,” he sighed with frustration when he couldn't find any words to explain. “It’s complicated.”
“Well, I’m always here to listen as a friend if you—“
“Great, thanks.” Bucky snapped, and then sighed again. “Sorry.”
“All good, man.”
Silence stretched between them, filled with a hundred things Bucky wanted to say but couldn’t vocalize. How he still felt trapped and powerless all the time, even though he’d been free from them for years. How much he appreciated Sam as a friend and admired him as a person. How he felt so confused and conflicted and wrong, because having Steve back was everything, but it was hard and messy and he kept fucking it up, and it should’ve been easy because it was Steve. And under all that, always always always a hurricane of shame and anger and guilt and terror about the Winter Soldier.
He must’ve lost focus for a minute or two, because he realized with a start that the silence was once again being filled by Sam. Talking about something called a safety plan. Saying he was glad Bucky’d stuck around.
“We don’t have to do it all today, but at the very least I’d like to put a list of numbers on your fridge when we get back. If that’s ok?”
Bucky shot him a glare, stomach clenching at the thought of returning to his shitty apartment and facing Steve.
“Seriously, Buck—“
“What if Steve doesn’t—“
“Bucky,” Sam said, turning to face him dead-on. “My man. Do you know what Steve was doing when I left to go find you?”
Sam held up a finger before Bucky could respond.
“Building a bed. Tell me why?”
“He got sick of sleeping on the floor?” Bucky ventured.
“No,” Sam snorted. “The bed got bought because I couldn’t stand the thought of either of you sleeping on the floor. But that’s besides the point.”
Bucky raised an eyebrow.
“Point is, that man would make his bed in hell if it meant sleeping next to you,” Sam said. “Hell in this case being your mould-infested studio apartment.”
“Hey!”
“All I’m saying is it takes a lot of courage to build a bed for someone you’re not sure is coming back.”
The extra-hot curry from lunch was nothing compared to the burning in Bucky’s throat now.
“I think he’ll understand about a list of emergency numbers on the fridge.”
“Okay.”
“If he doesn’t, I’ll kick his butt for you.”
“You’d lose,” Bucky said, lips twitching.
Sam blinked, then grinned, “Oh is that how it is?”
“Pretty much.”
“Well in that case…”
They bickered amicably the whole taxi ride home. Bucky let himself relax into their familiar back-and forth game of banter. Even found himself smiling as Sam roasted him for walking too slow up the stairs to his apartment. He barely had time to realize he ought to be anxious about seeing Steve again before the door to the apartment was open and he was there. Laughing at something Sam said as he let them in. Offering up leftovers from supper. Looking just about as nervous as Bucky felt.
“So this is the bed?” Bucky said, incredibly smooth. He paced over and prodded the mattress with a vibranium finger.
“Yeah, it’s… is it ok?" Steve said, literally wringing his hands. "We can take it back if you—“
Bucky sat down and gave the mattress a few bounce-tests. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but it felt comfortable enough beneath him.
“It’s great.”
And it was, when he flopped backwards on it. Steve quickly turned his back and stuffed a plate of food in the microwave. Too bad for him, Bucky could see the back of his neck turning beet red.
God, they were like teenagers all over again.
Sam either saved or ruined the moment by slapping a torn-off page from a notebook onto the fridge. Emergency Contacts was scribbled across the top. And beneath that, a list of names and phone numbers. Steve, Sam, Dr. Raynor, Sarah Wilson, Shuri, and the numbers for two suicide helplines.
Bucky held his breath and did his best to look like he was not watching Steve take in the list. For his part, Steve paused for only a moment to read it before he grabbed the reheated leftovers and delivered them to Bucky. He sat down on the bed beside Bucky and started writing in a little notebook while Bucky tucked into his food.
“Grocery list?” Bucky asked around a bite of greasy noodles.
“No, but I should make one for the week,” Steve said. “We’re almost out of eggs.”
“Then what—“
Steve tore the page from his book and strode to the fridge. Bucky abandoned his food and followed.
Stuck to the door beside Bucky’s own list was a new one that read Steve’s Emergency Contacts. Listed underneath were: Bucky, Sam, Rhodey, Bruce, and the number for the VA mental health crisis line.
“Is is weird that I want to kiss you?” Bucky said softly, bumping Steve’s shoulder with his own.
“Go finish your supper,” Steve said, blushing again. “I’ll see if Sam wants to watch anything before he has to head out.”
Sam convinced them to watch an absolutely ridiculous movie titled The Fast and the Furious. A perfect choice for the night, as nobody felt bad talking over the lacklustre dialogue, heckling the characters and mocking the physics-defying stunts in the action scenes. For a few hours, Bucky let himself relax into the warmth of the apartment, cozy with all three of them sandwiched together on the new bed. Sam on one side, throwing jokes faster than the cars onscreen. Steve on the other, laughing so hard he nearly toppled off, hand slapped to his chest and head thrown back.
Bucky squeezed Sam extra tight when his taxi to the airport arrived.
“Call me anytime,” Sam said. “I mean it.”
“Okay.”
Steve’s hand brushed against Bucky’s as they watched the taxi pull away. The contact made his stomach twist in a way that was somehow different than the usual anxiety. Something about the feeling made him brave enough to grab Steve’s hand and pull him, all the way back upstairs and into the safety of the apartment.
There were dishes in the sink, and empty takeout containers on the counter, and a grocery list needed to be made for the morning so Steve could do the shopping while Bucky was in therapy, but all of that felt trivial right now. Because right now, Bucky was freaking out a little at the realization that his gut was twisting with butterflies. Butterflies!
“You’re a real punk, Steve Rogers,” Bucky said, facing Steve but not dropping his hand.
“Oh?” Steve said, gently taking up both of Bucky’s hands in his own. “Why’s that?”
Bucky stepped closer. “You know.”
“Tell me,” Steve said, words challenging but voice soft. They were chest-to-chest now, Steve’s heartbeat rabbiting in tandem with his own.
It was a matter of physics, really. Laws of gravity that pulled Bucky forward to close the space between them. He’d say that Steve melted into the kiss, but it was more like they melted into each other. Trying to say everything without using any words at all.
“Does it kill the mood if I tell you I’m going to look into counselling for myself next week?” Steve murmured.
Bucky snorted softly, pulling away. “No. Maybe. Do you need to… talk about it?”
“Not right now,” Steve said.
“Good.” Bucky, said. “But maybe first go brush your teeth, you taste like chow mien.”
Steve laughed. “You ain’t doing any better, jerk.”
They got ready for bed, the shared bathroom routine so familiar that Bucky hardly realized what had happened before they were both tucked under the covers, laying back-to-back as they had countless times in another life.
Only. This wasn’t a war zone. There was no need to literally watch each other’s backs through the night.
Bucky rolled over to face Steve, and Steve did the same.
“You good, Buck?”
That was the question, wasn’t it.
“I don’t know,” he said, feeling oddly brave in the dark. “I don’t— I don’t think I’ve been 'good' for a very long time.”
Warmth spread through his body as Steve ran a reassuring hand up and down his arm.
“That’s… well, it’s not okay, but it’s okay. You know?”
Maybe.
“I’m afraid that one day you’ll wake up and realize I’m not worth it.”
“Bucky—“
“I’m serious, Steve. I wouldn’t even be alive without you, and all the thanks you got was two-odd years as a fugitive, five years of the apocalypse, and now…”
He lost himself, for a moment, in the mesmerizing pattern of circles Steve drew on his arm. Soft and slow, his hand a nexus of heat that left a trail of warmth behind it.
“You ever wonder why I spent all those years searching for you? Trying to get you back, to keep you safe?”
“Because you’re—“
“An idiot?” Steve chuckled softly. “Maybe so.” He shifted closer, so they were nearly nose-to-nose, his eyes piercing in the dark. “You would’ve done the same for me.”
Bucky couldn’t deny it. “But. You’re Steve.”
“And you’re Bucky,” Steve said, voice suddenly strange. “Every day that I’ve had to live without you, Buck, I— It was like trying to breathe without lungs.”
Bucky’s turn to wrap an arm around Steve. Pull him close, let him duck his head down to listen to Bucky’s heartbeat.
“I’m here,” he said, tracing circles over Steve’s back. “I’m right here.”
The night fell softly around them. Bucky turned onto his back and Steve curled around him, head resting on his chest. Steve listening to Bucky’s heart while Bucky counted the rise and fall of Steve’s breath beneath his hand.
“Hey, Steve?”
“Mmph?”
“I love you.”
“Love you too, Buck.” Steve snuggled closer, his body warm and safe around Bucky. “Now sleep.”
Bucky smiled up into the dark. Listened to Steve’s breathing slowly shift as he fell asleep. Shut his eyes and waited for sleep to close the curtains on this perfect moment.
But sleep never came.
He spent most of the night staring up at the ceiling, wondering what the fuck was supposed to happen next. Despite the fun of the movie last night and the good conversation (and even better kissing) with Steve, Bucky’s thoughts steadily darkened as dawn crept closer. He’d got that fairytale ending, but then the world had kept right on spinning and now he found himself immobilized underneath the covers, wishing it would stop. By the time Bucky dragged his ass out of bed, Steve’d already gone for a run, showered, cleaned the kitchen, and made coffee.
He resents you, lazy-ass piece of—
A glance at the microwave clock showed it was well past 8:00 a.m.
Gonna be late to therapy.
Fuck.
He forced a smile of thanks as he took the thermos of coffee Steve offered him. Patted down his pockets for his keys, wallet, phone, knife. Put the knife back on the counter because he didn’t want to get caught with it in therapy (again).
“I made your breakfast to-go,” Steve said, almost sheepishly holding up a brown paper bag.
Bucky pulled on his coat, hat, gloves.
Checked his pockets again. Keys, wallet, phone. No knife. Good.
“Did you want me to—“
“Let’s go,” he said, because he couldn’t handle Steve asking. A big, stupid, selfish, awful part of him wanted Steve to just magically know. Which was stupid. And selfish.
You’re not worth this.
Not worth him.
Steve brushed up against his hand a block from the apartment. Grabbed it lightly somewhere around the half-way point. Gave it a re-assuring squeeze a half-block from the counselling office and let go.
His absence felt like falling.
You’re alone.
Ice in his veins.
You’re a hundred years old.
No air in his chest.
You have no history.
Choking, dying—
No family.
He got up the steps of the office building. Stopped. Turned around.
“Steve?”
“Yeah?”
He struggled for words around can’t-breathe-no-air-can’t-GET-IT-TOGETHER-FUCKING—
“Buck?”
The door swung shut behind him.
You’ve gotta nurture friendshi—FUCKING SHUT UP!
Suffice to say he was already in a mood when Dr. Raynor called his name from the charcoal-grey waiting room and summoned him into her charcoal-grey office. Still with the aggravating forest mural.
She wanted to know about his weekend.
Probably harmless to tell her that Sam was in town, so he did.
It was good, seeing Sam. And good to see Sam looking well-rested, for once — though he didn’t tell her that. He hammed up a few stories from the weekend, heavy on the unimportant details like what they ate and where they went. That alone took a whole seventeen minutes of the appointment.
“And what about your homework? Did you find time to complete that while you were galavanting around Brooklyn with the Captains America?”
“Of course I did, Doc,” Bucky mustered up a scoffing tone. “You know, I was a straight-A student back in the day.”
Not strictly true, since his high school didn’t switch over to letter-grades until after he’d dropped out, but Raynor wouldn’t know that. Probably.
Raynor looked unimpressed regardless, extending a hand. Bucky begrudgingly extracted four slightly-crumpled sheets of notepaper from his jacket pocket and handed them over.
“Dear Dr. Arnim Zola,” Raynor read aloud, “Go fuck yourself, you worthless piece of HYDRA scum. Sincerely, James B. Barnes.” Her mouth pressed into a thin white line as she flipped through the other three identical letters, addressed to Commander Lukin, Commander Karpov, and Secretary Pierce, respectively.
“James,” she said, tone suffering nothing.
Bucky let a minute and twenty-four seconds tick by in silence, not feeling particularly guilty about his actions. Raynor sighed. He did his best to ignore her while she talked about engaging with the spirit of the exercise. He felt he’d engaged with the exercise plenty, thanks.
The conversation circled around to trust.
Why he didn’t trust the exercise to help him? And then—
“You can’t live your life without trusting the people around you.”
“I trust people.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I trust Sam,” he offered.
She raised an eyebrow. “You ever answer any of his texts?”
And then she was going through his phone. Again.
“See what I mean? You self-isolate. You refuse to trust anyone. You refuse to foster any real relationships. And then you turn around and blame the whole world for your misery.”
Is that what he’d been doing? Bricking himself away in a prison of his own making? Lashing out at others when the person to blame was himself all along?
But he’d been — he’d been trying, hadn’t he? Sometimes? To get better? To be better. Trying to make amends. Trying to connect with Sam and— and others. Trying to not fucking blow his brains out before he could finish atoning for what he’d done. Even though he could never really make up for it. And now, he—
Was outside. Checked his watch and realized he must’ve walked out of the session a good ten minutes early. Hoped that wouldn’t come back to bite him later. If it did, he’d just have to deal with it. For now, he found a nice set of dumpsters in a nearby alley and tucked himself away to have his long-awaited panic attack in peace.
...
Phone, ringing.
Fingers too numb to pick up.
The screen lit up: two missed calls.
You self-isolate.
The phone started to ring again.
You’re alone.
It rang again.
Alone, isolated, you don’t trust anyone, it’s your fault, it’s all your fault—
And again.
No history, no family.
He picked up.
“Bucky?”
Your fault, your fault, your—
“Buck, where are you? I—“
“S-steve?”
And then Steve was there. Talking on the phone and also in real life. Hanging up and bending down and pulling him to his feet. Patting him down in a search for injuries, hauling him in for a hug when he found none.
Don’t deserve — worthless — can’t trust anyone — did this to yourself — your fault — your—
“Steve?”
“What happened, Buck?”
—fault your fault your fault—
“Are you… are—” He swallowed around a dry mouth. “I… what are… we?”
“What are…? The hell did that woman say to— we’re friends, Buck. Best friends. More, too, but I don’t think this is a conversation we wanna have tucked behind a dumpster.”
He shook his head. He didn’t know. Behind a dumpster seemed as good a spot as any.
“You think—“ but that wasn’t the right start to the sentence. He tried again. “Do I trust you?”
“Of course you can trust me, Buck,” Steve said. That wasn’t quite right either.
“I know. I mean, I… I do. Trust you. But do you — do you know I trust you?”
“I… Yes?” Steve said. “You’ve lost me, sorry. I don’t know what you—“
“She said I’m alone.” Don’t fucking cry you weak little— “Said I have no. No history. No family. I—“
“That is some fucking bull-shit. What the actual— she said?” Steve’s grip on his shoulders became painfully tight. “I’m your fucking family, alright? And with the size of your apartment, we’re as alone in there as sardines in a can. Who the hell does this doctor think she is, telling you what you do and do not have? Me, for one. Sam. Hope and Shuri and Rhodes and everyone else who went to bat for you back in California. I could go on. Do I need to go on?”
Fucked if Bucky knew. All he wanted was to lean his forehead on Steve’s chest and cry for about a year.
You’re such a needy, selfish piece of —
“Hey. Hey, look at me, Buck.”
A gentle shake of his shoulders. Bucky reluctantly flicked his eyes up to Steve’s face. Felt his stomach fill with lead as he saw Steve on the verge of tears.
“I love you. Okay?”
Statement of fact, request for acknowledgement. He forced his head to nod, once.
“You’re my family. My history. I— nobody can take that away.”
But they could. They could and they had and wasn’t that the whole fucking problem?
Your fault you forgot him. You shot him, stabbed him, strangled him, punched him, almost killed—
How could you? How could you? Monster! Your fault, your fault, y—
His fault again, now, for still being fucked up about it.
He was trapped in a no-win scenario. It was his fault for giving in and becoming the Winter Soldier in the first place. His fault if he gave up and offed himself, now. His fault for getting so low he wanted that anyways. His fault he wasn’t better. His fault he was alone.
His fault that Steve was standing in some godforsaken back-alley in Brooklyn, enduring light rains and heavy dumpster smells with tears on his face.
“Buc—“
“I’m sorry.”
“What for?”
He chewed on the words in his mouth before vomiting out, “Forgetting. You.”
Steve pushed him back, arm’s length away. Hands on shoulders. Then closer, hands on face.
“I’d tell you that wasn’t your fault, but I don’t know if you’ll accept it right now.”
Bucky couldn’t meet Steve’s eyes. Looked at his rain-soaked shoes instead. Funny, he’d almost expected cobblestones instead of cracked concrete.
“I forgive you.”
His face felt hot and tight under Steve’s rough palms.
“It wasn’t your fault, and I forgive you, and I love you, and I’ll tell you that as many times a day as you need to hear it until it sinks in through your thick skull. Okay?”
Okay.
“Good. Now let’s go find some lunch and get out of the rain. I’m hungry, and cold, and I need to get moving or I’ll do something stupid like march into your therapist’s office and punch her in her stupid face.”
A snort escaped him involuntarily, and Steve smiled.
“I’m firing her, by the way,” Steve said, as they set off down the street.
“Don’t think you can do that,” Bucky argued.
“Says who?”
“The United States of America.”
“Screw the United States of America,” was the vehement reply.
“And that’s why you’re not the Captain anymore.”
Steve laughed, and Bucky —
Well, he wasn’t okay.
Probably wasn’t ever going to be fully okay.
But when they got back to his apartment he found a case of his favourite beers tucked into the back of the fridge with a sarcastic sticky-note from Sam stuck to the top, and then a few minutes later his phone lit up with a meme sent from Shuri apropos of nothing, and with Steve in the kitchen cursing at the coffeemaker he’d bought sometime in the last week, he thought there might be a chance for him.
Maybe.
Maybe less than that.
The hope of a chance.
And sure, he didn’t want to be alive.
But.
Maybe he wanted to want to be alive.
Here.
Now.
In Brooklyn.
With Steve.
Maybe that would be enough.
Notes:
Ah yes, the happy happy ending we were all hoping for, no?
No?
Ah, well. Epilogue will be up tomorrow.
~~~
GUYS!!! I can't believe this is the final chapter!I had half of it actually written and the other half outlined/drafted since JULY but the post-grad-school writing burnout hit me HARD and I literally couldn't write anything for like a whole month after I finished my thesis. So uh, sorry for the unbelievably long delay. I don't think I'm quite un-burnt-out yet, but at least I'm back on my Marvel fanfic bs so that's a positive sign :P
I hope that the enjoyment of actually reading the ending of this story isn't cheapened by having to wait so long to read it.
Much love to all of you <3
Chapter 48: In Which there is An Epilogue
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Brooklyn, New York. March 10, 2029.
“You know, five years ago the happiest ending I could imagine was being dead long enough for everyone to forget about me.”
“That’s…”
“Really dark?” Bucky said. “I know. I— Geez it sounds horrible, but I had this fantasy that we’d bite it side by side on some godforsaken planet. When we were out doing the reverse time-heist? That nobody’d find our bodies for ages and then when they did we’d just be like… sand. Our bones so old and jumbled together that you couldn’t tell whose crumbly bits were whose.”
“God, Buck.”
“Real romantic, right?”
“Try Shakespearean tragedy.” Steve bumped his shoulder. “So, what’s the happy ending for you now?”
“Oh, I dunno,” Bucky said, letting his lips curl into a lopsided grin. “There’s this guy who I’ve been in love with forever. Real smoke-show, y’know? Stupid number of muscles. I’m talking biceps on biceps.”
Steve laughed and rolled his eyes. “Oh, yeah?”
“They’re ridiculous, truly,” Bucky teased, poking Steve’s arm until Steve slapped his hand away.
“You’re ridiculous,” Steve countered, and Bucky grinned. No argument there. He turned and looked out over the ever-changing Brooklyn skyline. Steve leaned up against the railing beside him, and Bucky leaned up against Steve. Just because he could. He couldn’t help another smile when Steve looped an arm around him, pulling him closer.
“This,” Bucky decided. “You, me, your dumb-ass cat—“
“—that cat is just as much yours as mine—”
“I wanted a dog.”
Steve laughed again. “Who says we can’t have both?”
“Fucking landlord said one pet—”
A squeeze of his shoulders. “Forget the landlord. You were telling me about your happy ending.”
Right.
“I already told you,” Bucky said, snuggling a little closer. “It’s this.”
“Just this little two-bedroom Brooklyn apartment?” Steve asked. “No flying cars, or grand space adventures, or—“
“Space adventures are overrated. A flying car, though…” He grinned up at Steve, just to see the exasperated expression he knew would be there. But Steve only looked fond.
“What about you?” Bucky asked. “No regrets about staying in the future?”
“I stayed in the present.” Steve squeezed him tight. “And I’ve got everything I need right here.”
“Don’t say stuff like that if you don’t want me crying all over you,” Bucky warned.
“Was kinda hoping it’d get you to kiss me.”
“You’re an idiot, Rogers,” he said, leaning in.
“So long as I’m your idiot,” Steve murmured against his mouth.
“Till the end of the line, pal.”
Steve, never one to be outdone, broke the kiss to counter, “Always.”
Notes:
~~~
My dearest, most beloved readers!Here we are, at the end of the story. A bittersweet goodbye, as writing this fic has been a constant in my life for over a year and a half. It saw me through the Summer of Cancelled Flights, was there for me during semester of the World's Longest Commute (parts 1 and 2), waited patiently while I struggled with the Thesis Project from Hell, and of course, had my back for more migraines than I care to count.
To the readers who came back each week, to the readers who binged it all in one go, to the silent lurkers, and to the serial commenters: thank you. This adventure wouldn't've been half as fun without all of you coming along for the ride.
Until next time,
- Beans
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