Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"There is a crime here that goes beyond denunciation. There is a sorrow here that weeping cannot symbolize."
- The Grapes of Wrath

PROLOGUE

“You up for a little tough love?” Bucky hesitated at the door as Sam’s words came back to him. “You wanna climb out of that hell you’re in, do the work. Do it!"

Could he do this? Could he look into Yori’s eyes and confess to killing his son?

“You go to these people and say ‘sorry’ because you think it’ll make you feel better, right? But you gotta make them feel better. You gotta go to them and be of service. I’m sure there’s at least one person in that book who needs closure about something, and you’re the only person who can give it to them.”

Legs weak, chest tight, he knocked on the door. It opened to Yori’s round face and kind eyes. The shrine was on full display, as always, tendrils of smoke curving upward. A photo of RJ’s smiling face was front and center, a stark contrast to the memory Bucky held in his mind—RJ’s dark eyes drowning in fear, hands trembling as he tried to unlock the door in time.

Not that it would have saved him.

Yori stared up at him. “Hey, what are you doing here?” His voice was gentle. “It’s late, come in before someone call the cops.”

Bucky forced his legs to move, and Yori closed the door behind him. RJ’s smile mocked Bucky, accusing. Yori didn’t know the truth yet, but RJ always had.

“What are you doing here?” Yori asked. “It’s not Wednesday.”

There wouldn’t be any more Wednesday lunches.

“I, uh, I have to tell you something…about your son.”

I murdered him. Put a bullet through his head while he stared at me, begging, promising he hadn’t seen anything.

Yori was silent, following Bucky’s eyes to the shrine with a puzzled frown. He gestured to a chair. Bucky gratefully accepted, unsure if his legs would hold him steady much longer.

He slipped the glove off his left hand. The glove was a lie he walked around with to hide himself. It couldn’t be a part of this conversation.

Yori looked at him, patient, trusting.

Bucky’s mouth was suddenly dry. “He was murdered.”

“What?”

“By the Winter Soldier.”

Yori’s head tilted with confusion.

Bucky’s insides were shaking, his face hot. It felt like someone was sitting on his chest as he forced the next words out. “And that was me.”

There was only a subtle dipping of Yori’s head, a lowering of his eyes, then a glint of tears. “Why?”

The air rushed from Bucky’s lungs, and he clenched his right hand into a fist to keep control. This wasn’t about him. Yori asked a question. He deserved the truth.

“I didn’t have a choice.” He needed a moment away from Yori’s devastated face. It didn’t matter if Yori believed him. Bucky wasn’t here for forgiveness.

He couldn’t expect that from Yori, or anyone. It was selfish to hope. He remembered Tony’s reaction and braced himself.

He looked back to the raw grief in Yori’s eyes, the crumpled shoulders, the trembling hands.

“They told me...” Yori’s voice faltered as a tear dropped to the floor. He looked directly at Bucky, the gentleness in his glistening eyes replaced by grief. “You?”

There was something wrong with Bucky’s throat. He nodded.

Yori sat rigid, then turned to look towards the shrine, his eyes unseeing. He didn’t look back.

The Hotel Inessa. His metal hand squeezes the Russian’s neck. The eyes look into his. He recognizes fear. Terror. He sees fear most frequently, but the rest means nothing to him. The body goes limp, and he unclenches his metal hand, dropping the old man to the floor.

Metal jangles to his left. The witness—the trembling man. He stares at the trembling man trying to get the key in the lock. He is no threat. He is nothing to Hydra. Nothing to the mission except a witness.

Hydra leaves no witnesses.

He walks slowly toward the trembling man as the jangling of the key grows louder and the man’s breath comes in short, quick gasps. There is no need for speed. There is no one and nothing left to stop him.

“Please.” The trembling man gives up on the lock, presses his back to the door. “I…I didn’t see anything.”

The trembling man knows it is a lie. The soldier knows it, too.

“I didn’t see anything! I…didn’t…see anything.” The man’s voice breaks.

He raises the gun. He fires. The bullet goes through the center of the trembling man’s forehead, spraying blood and brains on the ornate wooden door. The body crumples to the floor, trembling no more.

They were both frozen in memories until Yori broke the silence.

“Did he…suffer?” Yori turned back to Bucky, his voice barely audible.

Dragging himself out of the past, he looked at Yori. The man deserved an answer.

Yes, he suffered. He was scared. He knew he was going to die. I was quick. He didn’t feel a thing.

Bucky swallowed, forcing his throat to work. “No.” The word was as shaky as RJ in his memory. “He died instantly.”

It was a half-truth, but a kindness. What good would it do Yori to know that his son pleaded for his life?

“Why are you here?” Yori asked.

Bucky dropped his gaze to the floor. “You didn’t believe the story the authorities told you. Leah said not knowing made it harder for you.”

Yori shook his head. “Why are you here, in my life, having lunch with me on Wednesdays? Each time we ate together, you knew you killed my son, but I did not know that I was sitting next to his murderer. Why?”

Murderer.

It’s what he was, not by choice, but a murderer nonetheless.

Yori waited. Bucky knew the words would sound hollow, but they were the truth. He couldn’t hide the truth. That’s not what he was here for.

“I was trying to make amends.”

“There is only one way to make amends for taking an innocent life.”

It was a punch to the gut. One he deserved. He nodded, forced his weak knees to push him up. He stumbled out, abandoning Yori alone in the apartment.

He walked on autopilot down the hall to the staircase, leaving his friendship with Yori behind. His legs carried him as far as the door. He shoved his way into the stairwell, his back to the wall as his legs gave way. He slid to the floor. His hand couldn’t scrub away the images playing behind his eyes, but he tried.

They were fresh, vivid, unrelenting. Bringing up the past resurrected the ghosts that haunted him. He had looked into so many eyes as life faded from them, and they had looked into his…the only part of him visible over the mask.

The mask. He rubbed at his jaw, feeling the warm flesh, the stubble. The mask wasn’t there. It hadn’t been for a long time, but he could still feel it.

His fingers touched flesh, not Kevlar. I am no longer the Winter Soldier. I am James Bucky Barnes and you’re part of my efforts to make amends.

James Buchanan Barnes. Once a son, a brother, a friend, and an army sergeant on the side of good. Now, a murderer.

No matter what he did, he’d always be a murderer. Something he could never change. There’d always be blood on his hands, a dark mark on his soul.

He was supposed to be strong. Strong as the Winter Soldier. Strong as Bucky Barnes. Strong as Steve.

But he wasn’t, and that was something Steve never understood when he dragged him out of the bunker or when he said goodbye for the last time. Had there always been a weakness—a darkness—in him? Is that why Hydra was able to twist him, to use him?

Helpless. 

It’s what he’d been most of his life. Helpless strapped to Zola’s table. Helpless to save the ones who’d been strapped there before him. Helpless when the railing on the train gave way. Helpless when the Russians dragged him out of the ravine.

Helpless to stop his finger from squeezing a trigger, or his hand from throwing a knife.  Helpless when they shoved him into the cryo chamber or the chair that would steal his memories.

He was helpless now. Helpless to change his past, to make amends, to not have the legacy of the Winter Soldier in every cell of his body, every corner of his mind, every clench of his metal fist.

And helpless to stop the sobs that tore from his throat and the tears that spilled from his eyes.

CHAPTER 1

“James Buchanan Barnes?”

He turned, tense, hand on the doorknob, metal fist clenching. “Yes.”

The man walking down the apartment hallway was barely in his twenties, wearing a long sleeve shirt, no obvious weapons, a wariness in his eyes. There weren’t many people who would use his full name. The kid looked too young to be former Hydra, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t. Hydra may be battered, but it wasn’t completely broken, and it would need new recruits.

Or maybe the kid was a victim’s son, a reporter, or even a Winter Soldier groupie. He hated the groupies. Who could possibly idolize the things he’d been forced to do?

The kid stopped five feet away. “Um.” He took a breath and held out papers, folded in half. “You’ve been served.”

Bucky blinked as he took the paper. Served?

“Sorry. Don’t kill the messenger!” The kid spun and ran down the hallway, ducking into the staircase.

Unfolding the papers, Bucky skimmed the headers and legal boilerplate, then turned the pages until he saw the pleadings.

“Wrongful Death…Emotional Distress…Personal Injury…Property Damage…”

His stomach churned as he read through the complaints by three different parties. How could…? Were they…?

They were.

Suing him.

For things he did as the Winter Soldier.

-0- -0- -0-

“Um, Sam, look at this,” Sarah called from the living room.

Sam put the last dish in the dishwasher and strolled into the other room. His sister pointed at the TV, grim lines around her mouth.

“What--?” The words hung in his throat as he read the headline on the ticker. “James Buchanan Barnes, former Winter Soldier, sued by victims and families.”

An anchorwoman prattled in a no-nonsense tone, “The spouse and son of Bryce Thomas are two plaintiffs. Thomas was killed by Barnes outside of the Triskelion in April of 2014. The other plaintiff is a driver who was injured during the Winter Soldier’s freeway attack against Captain America.”

“That’s impossible.” Sam sank on the couch next to Sarah. “That was ten years ago.” He glanced at his sister. She looked as shocked as he felt. “They can’t sue for stuff that happened that long ago. He was pardoned.”

“I don’t think the pardon has anything to do with the lawsuits. Remember OJ?”

Shit. “But ten years? That’s too long. Surely there are limits on those things? A deadline?” What was the term? “Statute. Right? There’s a limit for each thing?”

“James Barnes has not responded to requests for comment. The plaintiffs’ have an uphill battle overcoming the statute of limitations on the causes of action…”

That was it! “Statute of limitations.” Sam slapped his thigh. “That’s what I was trying to come up with. It’s too late.” He gestured to the TV.

“You don’t have to convince me,” Sarah told him. “But obviously some lawyer thinks they can make it stick.”

“Attorneys representing the plaintiffs argue that any statute of limitations was suspended during the blip, pursuant to the Blip Equity Act. Attorneys also allege that the statute of limitations should be tolled further because plaintiffs did not learn of James Barnes’ identity as the Winter Soldier until the UN Bombing in 2016, after which, Barnes disappeared. It was unknown whether he was alive or dead until he returned with the vanished.”

“That’s some creative bullshit.” Sam pulled out his phone and shot to his feet.

A still image of the Winter Soldier on the street beneath the overpass came onscreen. The mask covered his face, leaving only his focused, emotionless eyes. He held an assault rifle, obviously on the hunt, and, if Sam remembered correctly, Natasha was the prey at that moment.

That day was the first time Sam came face-to-face with the Winter Soldier, though he hadn’t known the man’s identity at the time. He’d never forget driving toward the unyielding figure standing in the middle of the road, expecting to hit him, only to have him leap effortlessly on top of the vehicle and rip the steering wheel through the windshield.

The mask, goggles, and metal arm, combined with the assassin’s strength and agility, made him seem more machine than human. Sam remembered every terrifying detail of the chrome-plated specter of death. At the time, he saw a monster.

Now, staring at that same figure on the screen with wiser eyes, he saw a man deeply violated in ways no other human had ever been.

“Let him know we’re in his corner,” Sarah said, pulling Sam from the memory of that terrible day.

He nodded, throat tight, and dialed as he walked onto the porch.

-0- -0- -0-

Bucky’s phone was sitting on the kitchen counter when it vibrated again. Calls had been coming in all day. He had no idea how reporters got the number, but they had, and they kept trying…over and over. When they weren’t calling, they were knocking on his locked door while he sat inside with the TV on mute, watching the news with closed captions and playing “not home.”

He tensed when someone pounded on his door—hard, impatient. Enough. He flicked the remote and turned off the television, then retreated to the bedroom. When he first moved in, his bed had gone unused most nights. He felt as though he was sinking into the mattress and the covers were too restraining. On bad nights, and most nights were bad, he slammed awake on impact with the floor. The tenants downstairs made their displeasure known with a broom handle to the ceiling.

Now that he’d gotten rid of the box spring and placed the mattress on the floor, he could sleep on the bed. His back also approved. It was too early for bed, so he grabbed the novel he’d managed to plod halfway through, flicked on the table lamp, and dropped to the mattress to resume his journey through Frank Herbert’s universe.

After a few hours, he felt himself fading but didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep until he woke up to light streaming through the window and a pounding at his door. The book was on the floor, and he was still propped against the wall. The right side of his neck ached, and he groaned as he rubbed at the stiff muscle.

The pounding continued, and he pushed down on the anger. How long would it take the reporters to give up? He padded toward the bathroom to relieve his bladder and brush his teeth, ignoring the pounding. Whoever it was wouldn’t go away.

When he turned off the faucet, he heard the familiar voice.

“…in, damnit, Bucky. Are you in there?”

Sam.

Bucky closed his eyes, splashed water on his face, toweled off, and gave himself a once-over in the mirror. He almost looked his age. Bags hung beneath tired eyes despite a decent night’s sleep…he was pretty sure, anyway. He couldn’t remember his dreams, which was a blessing.

“All right.” He hurried to the door, undid the locks, and cracked it open.

“Finally!” Sam threw his hands out.

Bucky looked down the hall, relieved to find it empty, and opened the door all the way. Sam pushed in.

“What are you doing in town?” Bucky asked, locking the door.

“Answer your damn phone, man.” Sam eyed the offending device on the kitchen counter briefly, then gave Bucky an appraising look. His eyes softened. “I heard about the lawsuit. You okay, man?”

“Fine.” Bucky grabbed two beers from the fridge, handing one to Sam.

With a shake of his head, Sam said, “It’s 8 a.m.”

Bucky shrugged, placed one beer on the counter, opened his, and took a long swallow.

“Does it help?”

“Nope.” It never did. He missed the ability to get shit-faced.

Bucky gestured Sam to a yellow chair while he straddled a wooden one and sipped the beer.

“What are you going to do?” Sam asked, dropping into the chair.

“Nothing. I did it. Not much I can do to be of service to them, but if money helps, they can have it.” All of it.

He was tired of fighting, tired of trying to convince the world he wasn’t a danger, tired of seeing the fear, loathing, or pity in people’s eyes when they recognized him in public.

He was just plain tired.

“Hey, hey,” Sam huffed, leaning forward, “when I said ‘be of service,’ I didn’t mean let people drain you.”

Bucky thought of Yori. He should set some money aside for him. Bucky didn’t have much, just the army benefits and a bit Steve left him. It wasn’t anywhere near enough to pay all the survivors of his victims, but he might as well put it to good use. He sure as hell didn’t need it. He’d lived for years with far less. 

But would Yori take the money? Probably not…unless he didn’t know where it came from. Yori didn’t want to see him again, ever, and Bucky understood. He killed the man’s only son and lied to him, as well. A lie of omission.

Bucky insinuated himself into Yori’s life, hung out with him, had lunch, listened to him talk about his son and lay his grief out on display. Yori hadn’t known he was baring his soul to the man who put a bullet in his son’s head simply because the kid was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The financial gift would have to be anonymous.

“Hey, Earth to Bucky,” Sam interjected. “Where is that brain of yours right now?”

“Nakajima.” Bucky took another swig.

“The name on your list?”

Bucky nodded. “I took your advice and gave him closure.”

“I can only imagine how difficult that was. How’d it go?”

He didn’t want to think about the look on Yori’s face, but it sprang to the front of his mind—the devastation, betrayal, and finally anger. The tremble in his voice when he asked “Why?” Watching the emotions play across the face of the man he’d come to think of as a friend gave new life to his nightmares, but this time from the perspective of the victims he’d left behind.

The grieving father. The heartbroken mother. The inconsolable spouse. The child who grew up without a parent.

And the children who had the misfortune of being witnesses.

The Winter Soldier never thought of such things. Bucky Barnes couldn’t get them out of his head.

“That good, huh?” Sam answered as the silence lingered.

Bucky sighed heavily, weary to his soul, and met Sam’s gaze. “How would you take it if someone murdered Cass or AJ, and years later, they got friendly with you, then one day confessed to being the guy who murdered the person you cared most about in the world?”

Sam’s face crumpled in horror, and he sank back in the chair. “Jesus, man, you had to go with Cass or AJ?”

Bucky pushed those images straight out of his head and took another swig of his beer. “Sorry.”

“Look, I don’t know…I imagine I wouldn’t react kindly.”

“He reacted more kindly than I would have thought possible, but the look on his face said it all. At least now he doesn’t have to wonder, anymore. I gave him closure.”

“What about you?”

Bucky set the beer on the floor and scrubbed at his face. “It’s not about me. You were right about that.”

“Shit, that’s not exactly what I mean. Of course, this is about you. It’s about you recovering, moving forward, and you can do that by helping people.”

Moving forward. It’s all he ever did. Year after year. Decade after decade. He moved forward through time, while everyone and everything else faded away.

“Have you talked to a lawyer?” Sam asked.

“No. My money’s either gonna end up going to lawyers or the victims’ families. I’d rather it go to the victims.”

“Bucky—”

He’d had enough talking. “Sam, why are you here?”

“Because you wouldn’t answer your phone, and I’m worried about you.”

Bucky managed a small, grateful smile, but it took everything he had. “Thanks. I’m okay.”

“Yeah, right.” Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You don’t look it, and you sure as hell don’t sound it. I thought you were getting to a good place, but from where I sit, you’re not. I know this is rough—the lawsuit, the press—but it’ll pass.”

“Eventually, everything does,” Bucky muttered, thinking of the War, Hitler, the Nazis—everything that had seemed so dire back then was just paragraphs in the history books now.

“Shit, I think you need more therapy man.”

He huffed a half-laugh at that. “There’s not enough therapy in the world to fix me.”

“Look, I know the court made you go to Dr. Raynor, and I only met her that once, but I have to say, I don’t think she was the best therapist. That whole couple’s session she forced on us was awkward as hell.”

“You can say that again.” It had almost destroyed their fragile relationship and taken away the only thing resembling a friend that Bucky had—Sam Wilson.

“Find another one,” Sam insisted.

“Talking about the things I’ve done doesn’t help. It was bad enough going through it the first time. I sure as hell don’t want to keep reliving it.” The only thing that had ever helped was spending time in a calm place where he could drop his guard, and where people really knew him and accepted him, without judgment or pity.

“What does help?”

“Wakanda was nice.” Peaceful. Quiet. People let him do things at his own pace. When he needed to be alone, they left him alone, but when he sought out friendly faces, they gave him their warm companionship.

“Maybe it’s time for an extended vacation there.”

He shook his head, a sharp chest pang stealing his breath for a moment. “That option’s no longer available,” he forced out, “at least for a while.” Ayo had made that clear, not that he blamed her. He was lucky they hadn’t taken the arm back after he freed Zemo.

“Shit. Sorry, man.”

“Not your fault.” I made my bed, and I can lie in it.

Sam pushed to his feet and grabbed the unopened beer from the counter. He opened the fridge, set the bottle inside, and leaned on the door for several seconds as if trying to find something that enticed him.

Good luck, buddy. If I knew I’d be a forced shut-in for a while, I’d have stocked up.

Sam heaved a loud sigh and closed the door. “I take it you’re staying in for a while? How about I make a grocery run for you?”

That would be useful. “Thanks, man. Hang on.” He went to the bedroom and pulled two hundred-dollar bills from his nightstand drawer, then hurried back to the kitchen and handed them to Sam. “Get anything. I don’t care, as long as there’s fruit, protein, and maybe a couple more packs of beer, not the German stuff.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “Germany’s still on your shitlist, got it, man. You know they’re cool now, right?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard.”

Sam flashed a mischievous smile. “Plums?”

Bucky held back the retort on his tongue. Sam was doing him a favor, after all. But, damn, if he wasn’t reminded that he’d left a bag of perfectly ripe plums on the newsstand in Bucharest…before the fight, Zemo, and more fights. He hoped someone enjoyed them.

Sam slapped him on the metal arm. “I’ll be back in a bit. Charge your phone.”

-0- -0- -0-

Inside the cab, Sam dialed Sarah. He’d promised her an update, and he knew better than to renege.

“How is he?”

“Not good. About as bleak as he was after….” He almost said ‘after Steve left.’ “…well, after the battle, and before the pardon.”

“Did you tell him we’re all thinking about him?”

No, he hadn’t, but he would. “Yes, and he says thank you.”

“Anything we can do?”

“I don’t know. I’m getting him groceries so he doesn’t have to go out. I’m not sure I’m the best one to help him, though. I gave him advice last time, but I don’t think it helped.”

In fact, it seemed to make things worse.

“What advice?”

It was private, and he didn’t want to break Bucky’s trust, but Sarah sometimes had unique insight. “He was working on making amends to the Winter Soldier victims, and—”

“Amends, how?” she interrupted.

“I’m not sure about the details. Going to folks, apologizing.”

“Apologizing?” She sounded indignant. “I thought he didn’t have a choice when he did those things? Isn’t that what you said?”

“Yeah.”

It was all over the news, so everyone knew. James Buchanan Barnes had been taken prisoner around New Year’s 1945, experimented on against his will, subjected to memory wipes, torture, repeat cryo freezes, and programming that let ten words turn him into a compliant, deadly autobot.

“So…what is he apologizing for? Getting captured?”

Sam sighed. “Of course not. I get your point, but it’s something the therapist had him working on…making amends. Though, I think part of it was him avenging, taking down people he helped put into power as the Winter Soldier.”

“I can see that. I mean, I can only imagine what I might be feeling if I went through half of what he did, but yeah, I’d probably want to do that, too. I’m no therapist, but that other part—apologizing. That sounds like bullshit, Sam.”

“Ooh, mom!” Sam heard AJ in the background.

“Go in the other room,” Sarah shouted. “Sorry, Sam. Go on.”

“I suggested he find a few people who needed closure and go to them, be of service. Make it about helping them, not just going and saying sorry so he’d feel better.”

Being of service always helped him through rough patches. He’d hoped it would do the same for Bucky.

There was a long pause. Had the connection ended? “Sarah?”

“Um, sorry, Sam,” she said, an undercurrent in her voice that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. “Am I understanding right? You told him to find the families of people he’d been forced to kill and tell them how he murdered their loved ones?"

Well, when put like that, it sounded like…

I’m an idiot.

“It sounded better the way I said it…okay…. It was crap advice. Sure, I counsel veterans, and I’ve lived through some terrible things myself, but Bucky’s dealing with things on a scale I can barely comprehend.” Not even barely. He couldn’t get close to comprehending what Bucky had gone through.

Hell, could anyone? If there was some poor bastard out there that could, Sam sure as hell didn’t want to meet them.

“You process things by talking about them, Sam,” Sarah told him. “That’s great. It’s healthy, and it works for you, but maybe there are some things people can’t talk about, and that’s okay, too.”

He knew that, of course. He’d worked with enough traumatized vets, and one thing he should have thought about before bestowing his woefully underqualified perspective was that sometimes talking about things was re-traumatizing. Even therapy could be re-traumatizing.

Telling someone how you killed their loved one sure as hell had to be re-traumatizing.

“Shit,” he muttered. “I was out of my league and shouldn’t have opened my mouth. I fucked up.”

Her voice softened. “Maybe you did, but everyone does. Just keep being a good friend to him. From what I’ve seen on the news, he needs one.”

Chapter Text

Bucky sat in the yellow chair, beer in one hand, pleadings in the other. He’d read the allegations three times. His eyes hovered over the third paragraph on the fourth page. 

‘Bryce Thomas was a loving father, husband, son, and brother. When Defendant kicked Bryce Thomas into the engine of a jet outside of the Triskelion, he deprived Plaintiff Thomas of her husband and her son, Jason Thomas, his father. Plaintiff Thomas vanished during the Blip. Plaintiff’s son lacked a stable home during the five Blip years, and his emotional development and education suffered. While Plaintiff regained custody of her son after the Blip, Plaintiff and son continue to suffer severe emotional distress as a direct result of Defendant’s actions. In addition to the substantial emotional distress, the family lost Thomas’ income. Plaintiff suffers the hardship of raising her son as a single mother. She and her son currently live on a reduced income provided by survivor benefits and Plaintiff’s part-time job.’

The creak of footsteps in the hallway outside had him out of his chair. He set the pages face-down on the dining table. A moment later, there was a light kick on the door followed by Sam’s voice.

“It’s just me out here. Open up. I have my hands full.”

Bucky opened the door and took the two large canvas bags from Sam. “Thanks.”

“Bought the bags at checkout for the groceries, so I hope you can use them,” Sam said. “I didn’t see a whiff of reporters, so I think they gave up getting an appearance from you.”

“You aren’t worried about being seen coming and going?” Bucky asked as he set the bags on the kitchen counter. “Captain America has a reputation to uphold.”

“Here’s your change,” Sam gave him an exasperated look and slapped down a couple of twenties plus a few odd bills, “and no, I’m not.”

“Thanks for the grocery run.” Bucky unloaded the groceries, pulling out a hefty bag of plums. He held them up and cocked an eyebrow at Sam. 

Sam merely grinned and started putting the cold things in Bucky’s fridge. “So, about the lawyer….”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Bucky said as he folded up the empty canvas bags and shoved them in a lower cabinet. 

“So, what? You’re just gonna roll over, show them your belly, and let them drain you of every cent you own? Then what? Live on the streets? Disappear?”

“Steve left me a small cabin he bought during the Blip. It’s not much, but no more bare-bones than the hut in Wakanda.”

“Steve had a cabin?”

“Yep. I checked it out once. Middle of nowhere in Roxbury at the end of an abandoned train track. Spotty cell service.”

“You’re serious about this, aren’t you?” Sam leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “You’re giving up and going full hermit?”

A flash of anger sharpened Bucky’s tongue. “Doing the right thing isn’t giving up. I did every goddamned thing they said I did. The guy I shoved into an engine was named Bryce Thomas. There wasn’t even enough left of him for anyone to bury. He had a two-year-old son and a wife. Wife was dusted in the Blip. That left the son an orphan. Mom came back after five years. She got him back, but she’s a single mom working part-time, trying to raise a kid who went through five years of hell. So, you tell me, who deserves my money? A lawyer I pay to defend me against the people I hurt as the Winter Soldier, or that woman and her son?” Bucky rubbed his eyes against the images playing in his head of that day outside the Triskelion. “And she’s just one of the plaintiffs. Another is a driver who had the misfortune of being near the truck that I tossed Sitwell in front. You remember that?”

Sam looked away and nodded. “Yeah. Kind of hard to forget, man.”

“Collided with the truck after it smashed Sitwell into bloody bits all over the freeway. Five operations and years of PT, the man driving that car still walks with a limp.”

“Okay, look,” Sam sighed, dropping into an empty kitchen chair, “I think I overstepped. Back when I suggested you be of service to the people on your list, I thought that if you helped them, it would help you. If you saw that you were able to make a difference for them, it would ease some of the guilt. But I didn’t think about what it would be like for you to look into someone’s face and tell them how you killed their loved one. You can tell me to take a hike or go to hell if I’m out of line, but I think maybe that put you through the trauma all over again, in a new way. You feel guilty for what you did as the Winter Soldier, and that makes you a good guy , but you don’t owe anyone a thing, Buck. You don’t have to make amends, no matter what I say or even what Dr. Raynor had you doing, because none of it was your fault.” Sam pointed to the stack of papers face-down on the table. “You’re a victim as much as they are. Hydra did those things to them, not you, man.”

“Oh, I did them.” Bucky shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned against the wall. Sam opened his mouth to interject, but Bucky cut him off. “I didn’t have a choice. I know. Believe me. I know better than anyone just how….” His throat closed suddenly, caging the air in his lungs.

… just how well Hydra had destroyed the man he used to be and turned him into something barely human.

“Then why aren’t you fighting this?” Sam asked. 

Bucky bit the inside of his cheek in frustration. Why didn’t Sam understand? And why the hell did it matter to Sam so much, anyway? It wasn’t his life, and it sure as hell wasn’t his money. 

“I may not have had a choice, but I still did it. I remember it all, which means a part of me was there, or a part of the Winter Soldier is still with me. I’m not sure which. Maybe both. It was my hand that destroyed their lives. It should be my hand that gives them something back.” Bucky raised his arms, gazing at his mismatched hands. The right one had taken dozens of innocent lives. The left one—gifted to him by the Wakandans—was untarnished. The only lives it had taken had been in defense of the planet. He hoped to keep it that way. “So, if that means writing a check, I’ll write a check.” 

-0- -0- -0-

Sam Wilson couldn’t remember the last time he found himself in Hell’s Kitchen, but being friends with the guy formerly known as the Winter Soldier sure kept things…interesting. He spotted the Nelson and Murdock sign in front of the brick building above a “Page Investigations” sign and hurried inside, making his way to the law office upstairs. 

It was modest, run-down—not a high-end law firm. He’d seen these guys on the news here and there and knew they often took the underdog cases. They specialized in defending hard-to-win cases where the defendants were innocent. 

A lanky blonde woman was talking to a fair-skinned man by a coffee pot. She turned to him, and her eyes went wide. “Hello.” She walked over and extended her hand. “Captain America, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“This is an honor,” the stocky man flashed a broad smile and extended his hand. “I’m Foggy Nelson, the better half of the partnership here.”

Sam grinned and shook the man’s hand. He liked him instantly. “It’s nice to meet you. Sam Wilson.”

A second man emerged from an office behind a half-glass wall. Sam recognized him from a couple of older news stories. Matthew Murdock. He wore metal-rimmed sunglasses and carried a white cane.

“We know,” Murdock said, extending his hand slightly askew from where Sam stood.  “I’m Matt.”

“Nice to meet you both,” Sam replied, shaking Murdock’s hand. 

“So, what brings you here?” Murdock asked, gesturing to his office. 

Sam followed the two men into the other room and took a seat as Murdock closed the door. Nelson dropped into another chair as Murdock plopped into the seat behind the desk.

“I know this is a little unusual,” Sam said. In fact, it was a lot unusual. He wasn’t even sure they’d talk to him if he wasn’t a potential client, but he was starting to realize just how many perks came with being Captain America. Where Bucky was concerned, he intended to take full advantage of those perks. It was the least he could do for Steve. Captain America always looked out for Bucky Barnes. It was a package deal. 

“We specialize in the unusual,” Nelson said.

“So I’ve heard.” Sam took a breath. “Do you know about James Barnes being sued?”

“Yes.” Murdock nodded. “I don’t want to waste your time if you’re here on his behalf seeking representation. We’re criminal defense lawyers. His is a civil case.”

“Yes, technically,” Sam leaned forward, “but it’s related to criminal acts he committed. Look, I know it’s not exactly your thing, but he’s willing to drain his bank account to pay the plaintiffs. I’ve encouraged him to talk to a lawyer, but he says he’d rather give his money to the victims than to lawyers.”

“Admirable,” Murdock commented.

“But disheartening, from our perspective, of course,” Nelson added.

Murdock shook his head. “I’m not sure I’m understanding what you want from us. It sounds like your friend has agreed to settle without an attorney.”

Sam huffed in frustration. “Look, he fought Thanos, helped save the world. He was helping to save the world before any of us were even born. You know his story, I imagine. Everyone does. He went through hell for over 70 years. He had no control over the things he did. The man’s been a punching bag for long enough. I promised Steve Rogers I’d be there for James Barnes, and part of that promise means saving him from himself. He’s going to let them bleed him dry and then embrace his inner hermit. He’s dealing with decades of trauma that’s got him all twisted inside, and the lawyers representing these victims are taking advantage. How can they bring a case for things that happened ten years ago ? Things he was pardoned for?”

“Any lawyer can file an answer for him and assert the statute of limitations defense. It has to be asserted as a defense, though, or it’s waived,” Nelson said. “He has a certain timeline to file an answer and assert that defense. If he misses it, the plaintiff’s attorneys will get a default judgment.”

“Look, if you can’t help, can you refer me to someone who will?”

“Um,” the door creaked open and the blonde woman poked her head inside, “excuse me, but I couldn’t help overhear a couple of words.” She smiled apologetically at Murdock. “Thin walls.”

“Miss Page, this is confidential.” Murdock tilted his head in her direction. “I don’t think we’re going to need your investigation skills on this one.”

Investigator? Sam stiffened. Page. The name on the sign. 

She hadn’t introduced herself when they first met, but he assumed she was the receptionist, which was a rather sexist assumption. He should have asked. 

“Karen Page?” he stood and faced her. “You were a reporter, weren’t you?”

“I was.” She held up her hands. “I only heard a bit, and I’m sorry for eavesdropping, but…” she smiled at the two lawyers, “come on. Captain America walks into a law office, and you expect I’m not going to hang around?”

“Karen,” Murdock pointed to the door, “that’s your cue.”

“Look, I’m going, but I just want to say one thing. You two keep struggling to pay the bills because you take hard-luck cases….cases like mine way back when. This case will bring the firm a lot of publicity and get you into the good graces of Captain America here,” she gave Sam a wink. “It’s not a bad case to take, even if it is a civil one.”

“Well, it’s quasi-criminal,” Nelson interjected quickly, his eyebrows raised and a hopeful smile on his face. He looked at Murdock. “It would be a nice bit of attention for the firm, and with the Statute of Limitations issue, more than likely a slam dunk. Right? But,” he sighed, “we can’t work for free, you know. Bills to pay, as the lady said.”

“The man did help save the world,” Page said.

“I thought you were going,” Nelson glared at her.

She smiled and closed the door. 

“Look, I’ll pay you. I can’t afford much, but if I throw in a few hundred bucks will you talk to the man? See if you can get him to at least consider not letting the other lawyers bleed him dry?”

Murdock sat back, fingers on the arms of his chair, looking pensive even behind the sunglasses. “You’re not our client, so taking your money to convince someone who would be a client to do something it sounds like he doesn’t want to do would be a breach of professional ethics.”

“Okay, look, we’ll talk to the guy for free,” Nelson said. “But, if, say, we maybe need to call in an equally tiny favor from Captain America sometime in the future…”

“You got it.” Sam clapped his hands once and nodded. “As long as the favor’s on the up and up.” 

“Of course,” Nelson looked offended. “What kind of lawyers do you think we are?”

Murdock grimaced. “Well, I guess we’re agreeing to meet with him. In that case, we better get a move on and pay a visit to our not-quite client since the judicial clock is ticking.”

Sam gave a relieved sigh. He knew it was a long shot, and Bucky was likely to kick these two out on their asses, though he might be a bit easier with the visually impaired man…hopefully. Still, it was worth a shot. 

“I better go with you,” he said. “I’ll happily wait in another room if you want to talk to him attorney-client and all, but if you show up on your own, he probably won’t even answer the door.”

-0- -0- -0-

Bucky scrolled through the social media images of Sara Thomas, the widow of the man he’d kicked into the jet engine outside the Triskelion.

Sara.

Spelled without the H, but otherwise the name of Steve’s mother, another single mother. She had a hard life, losing her husband in the first World War. As a nurse, she had the skill and training to take care of Steve, but he often required medical care beyond her capabilities. She scrimped and saved to put food on the table and make rent. Paying  for Steve’s medications and taking him to the doctor when he needed more than she could do for him made life even more difficult for a single mother. 

A knock on the door made him grit his teeth. Was it another reporter? Maybe another process server? 

“Bucky, it’s Sam, open up.”

With a sigh, Bucky went to the door. The floorboards creaked, a little too loudly, as if a heavy weight were shifting…or multiple weights.

“Sam, are you alone?”

There was a pause then, “Damnit, man, you’re creepy sometimes, you know that? No, I have a couple of very good lawyers with me.”

Bucky opened his mouth to tell Sam and the two lawyers exactly where they could go, but Sam beat him to it.

“I know, I know,” Sam blurted. “Just hear them out. I’m not going to leave until you at least talk to them for a few minutes. You know how annoying I can get, right? Consider this your way of paying me back for the steering wheel—”

Bucky unlocked the door and flung it open. “Really, man, you’re going there?” He eyed Sam angrily. “Thought you insisted none of that was my fault?”

Sam gave him a quick slap on the shoulder and shimmied past him. “Got you to open the door, didn’t it?” He gestured to the two men. “Meet Foggy Nelson and Matthew Murdock.” 

“I’m Nelson,” the blonde man waved.

“I don’t need a lawyer,” Bucky said, eyeing the two men. Nelson looked harmless enough, but there was something about the way Murdock tapped his cane against the entrance frame while simultaneously walking through the middle of the doorway that caught Bucky’s eye. 

“That’s understandable, and by default, I’m Matthew Murdock.” The lawyer extended his hand, out of alignment from where Bucky was standing as if Bucky’s voice wasn’t quite enough to give the man a fix on his position. 

“I figured that out.” Bucky closed the door and leaned against the wall. “As I said, I don’t need a lawyer.” 

“Well, your friend here thinks differently,” Murdock said, dropping his hand and tapping the floor as he moved around the space. 

There was a manner in which the man carried himself that seemed like it didn’t quite fit a lawyer. He moved confidently, but it was more than that. He was graceful. Sure-footed. When a floorboard out in the hallway creaked softly—too softly—Murdock tilted his head a fraction of a degree.

Bucky knew that creak. It was the tenant two doors down hitting the one area in her apartment that made the floorboard outside her door creak. It happened so frequently, he stopped paying attention to it a while ago.

Bucky opened the door. “My friend was wrong.” He shot Sam a disapproving look. “You’ve wasted your time.”

“Okay, then—” Murdock took a few steps toward the door. 

“Wait a minute.” Sam held his hands up, beseeching. “Bucky, will you give them ten minutes? Listen to what they have to say. After ten minutes, if you still want them to go, fine. I’ll give up and let you become a penniless hermit, but I swear on the shield that if you do that, I’ll have no choice but to drive my incredibly muscular ass out to you on a regular basis to interrupt your self-imposed exile.”

Bucky glared at Sam, studying him. Shit. It looked like Sam meant every word. He sighed and closed the door.

“Fine. Ten Minutes.”

Sam smiled. “Great. Mind if I go into your room and check some emails while you three chat? Attorney-client stuff and all.”

“Don’t snoop.” Bucky told him. 

Sam’s eyebrows rose. “Me? Never.”

“A few things might be booby-trapped. Don’t open anything.” 

It was a lie. Though he had set things up to know if anyone went poking around, he wasn’t reckless enough to configure something dangerous that could hurt someone—burglar, firefighter, or otherwise. The look on Sam’s face was worth it, though, and if the fib kept Sam’s fingers off the drawers and out of the closet, it was well worth it.

“I’ll just sit on the bed. That safe?” 

Bucky flashed a fake smile. “Perfectly.”

Sam disappeared down the hall near the kitchen, and Bucky gestured to the two wood chairs near the small table as he sank into the yellow armchair. “Your ten minutes has just started.”

-0- -0- -0- 

Sam grimaced as he peered at the mattress on the floor in the sparsely-furnished room. There was a single nightstand with two drawers holding a white table lamp. The mattress next to the stand had a pillow with a blanket folded neatly across it. 

“Great,” he muttered, then lowered himself to sit cross-legged as he pulled out his phone and checked his emails. 

Lots of emails. From the government, nonprofit groups, and companies seeking endorsements.  He sighed. He’d never heard Steve complain or even mention the volume of requests he got. For all Sam knew, Steve might not have even had email. Whenever they’d communicated, it had been by voice call, comm unit, or text message.

Ten minutes went by quickly when he heard Bucky’s voice calling him from the other room. Pushing himself up from a position he was getting too old to sustain for long, he hurried into the living room. Murdock and Nelson were standing near the open door in front of Bucky. 

“Well?” Sam asked, studying their faces, but none of the men were giving anything away. 

“It was nice meeting you both,” Nelson said, as he and Murdock disappeared down the hall and Bucky closed the door. 

“Come on, man.” Sam hated the fact that he could never tell a damn thing from Bucky’s expression. “Any change in that cyborg mind of yours?”

“I agreed to let them file the answer with the statute of limitations defense. They made a good point that there are other victims, and this will give me the chance to get my financial affairs in order and set aside money for others, like Yori.”

Jesus. Sam shook his head. This wasn’t going the direction he’d hoped. He admired Bucky for wanting to help the Winter Soldier victims, but the way he was going about it was all at his own expense. Literally. All of it.

“Are you still determined to give away every cent you have?” 

Bucky shrugged. “Haven’t decided yet.”

“What about our…” Partnership? Coworkership? Friendship? “You know. What about this thing we’re just starting? Me being Captain America, you being my grumpy coworker. Turns out, you kind of came in handy last time. Every Captain America needs a Bucky Barnes, right?” He was laying it on thick, he knew, but the sudden pained, dark shift on Bucky’s face told Sam that he might have shoved a knife into a particularly sensitive wound. “Sorry man. Look, I don’t want to guilt you into anything, but if our situations were reversed, what would you do?”

Bucky got a little too close to him when he answered, “I’d respect your decision.”

Well, that was it then. Arguing with Bucky was like banging his head against a brick wall. The man had made up his mind, but Sam couldn’t give up completely. The thought of Bucky living alone in the middle of nowhere for the rest of his life was depressing as hell. 

“Come to Louisiana. The people are nice. You liked it, right? You can stay at the house until you figure out what you want to do, and frankly, Sarah could really use a hand with the boys and stuff around the house. The boys think you’re way cooler than me.”

Bucky smiled at that, which lifted some of the heaviness from the air in the room, but when he shook his head, Sam’s stomach, and his hopes, sank. 

“Thank you, Sam. Really, but I’ve got things I want to take care of. I’ll be okay on my own.”

Chapter Text

Bucky hadn’t slept more than two hours in three days. After Sam and the lawyers left, he signed the legal papers needed to allow Murdock and Nelson to file his answer and assert the statute of limitations defense. He spent the days cyber stalking the families, staring at photos, videos, social media posts, and comments from friends and families. 

He learned a lot. Sara was having a hard time keeping up with the mortgage and Billie needed braces. Her dead husband’s brother and parents helped out whenever they could. Billie wanted to be a pilot when he grew up. Billie was also a year behind in school and struggling with grades. The Blip and losing both of his parents had been hard on him. The family’s insurance didn’t have good mental health coverage and Sara couldn’t afford out-of-pocket therapy.

There were dozens of comments wishing a variety of terrible things on the person responsible for the family’s troubles. 

Shannon Anderson wrote beneath one post, “Can’t believe the government bought that brainwashing story.”

Carol Sevier commented, “An eye for an eye. James Barnes deserves to die over and over again.”

Jason Bosner opined, “Sorry, you and Billie are going through this. I hope someone puts a bullet in that man’s head. He may have been a hero once, but now he’s a walking bomb. It’s only a matter of time before he goes off.”

That one hit a bit too close to home.

The vitriol wasn’t new. He’d heard it all and worse screamed by protesters during his pardon. The reversal of the Blip had everyone preoccupied with the reunions and logistics of suddenly being alive again. Even the families and friends of Winter Soldier victims were overwhelmed. So, instead of hundreds or thousands of protesters at his court appearances, there’d only been a handful each time. 

Except at his first appearance, when a single protester—a gray-haired woman dressed all in black — stood outside the courthouse steps in front of reporters, a sign in her hand that read. “My son was innocent. The Winter Soldier killed him.”

He looked her up after his pardon. Her name was Evie Bellamont. He’d slipped a blade into the brainstem of her son Daniel, a researcher with S.H.I.E.L.D., in 1998. 

Bucky navigated to the social media page of another victim. Eric Sanders, the driver injured in the collision with the truck on the freeway, had a host of physical and mental problems. Besides the physical injuries, he suffered PTSD from having witnessed a man get splattered into pieces on the freeway. He successfully battled an addiction to painkillers. He just celebrated nine months clean. He lost joint custody of his daughter during his addiction. Now, he had supervised visits with her on weekends.

When Bucky made his list of amends, he hadn’t put Sara or Billie Thomas on that list. They knew what happened to Bryce Thomas, and they now lived in Maine. Frankly, there were so many people left behind by the Winter Soldier’s assassinations, he could spend the rest of his life trying to make amends. 

Bucky hadn’t even known about Eric Sanders. How many others did he not know about? The driver of the truck that hit Sitwell probably re-lived that scene every time he closed his eyes, but Bucky didn’t know that victim’s name. 

How many people on the bus beneath the overpass died? How many others on the freeway were injured during his assassination attempt on Natasha and Steve? 

Why stop there? What about the guy on the motorcycle in Bucharest? He’d ended up in the hospital, and Bucky couldn’t blame the Winter Soldier for that one. He never found out how badly the guy was injured. And the members of the special forces? Most of them were carried out on stretchers. 

The bombing of the U.N. might have been Zemo’s doing, but the fault was his own. He ran. He hid. He knew there were people looking for him—people who would kill to find him. 

He could have done so many things differently. If he’d reached out to Steve after remembering their friendship, King T’Chaka would still be alive, as would the guards Zemo killed and ordered him to kill.

Slouched against the floor on the wall of the living room, he set his phone down and eyed the silent news on the television. The captions told him the anchors were discussing preparations for the anniversary of the Return of the Vanished next month.

He got to his feet and decided to try for sleep. Maybe he could manage a few more hours before the nightmares jolted him awake. Entering the bedroom he lurched to a halt. A black backpack lay on the floor by the mattress, its top zipper open, revealing rolled-up clothes. 

For a moment he thought there was an intruder, until a vague memory teased his mind, a hazy image of pulling it out of the closet…had he packed the bag himself? Oh, hell. He closed his eyes and sighed, slipping out of his clothes and falling onto the mattress. If he didn’t get sleep, he’d lose his mind completely. 

-0- -0- -0-

He’s on the airstrip outside the Triskelion, fire and smoke all around as he moves, taking out planes, airmen, and anyone else in his way. 

A ground control officer dressed in orange stands in his way, gun in hand. He kicks, sending the man airborne into a jet engine, turning him into a spray of blood and flesh. 

Tendrils of black smoke part, and a little boy stands in front of him, caked from head to toe in blood, with bits of flesh and brain matter on his face and in his dark hair. He looks familiar, like a younger version of another face in a Siberian Bunker. 

The boy stares up at the Winter Soldier with round, brown eyes. “You killed my Dad. Do you even remember him?”

Bucky woke with a gasp, breath coming in short, quick bursts, the covers tangled around his legs. He sat up and worked his legs free, scrubbing a hand over his face to banish the nightmare. Once his heart slowed, he reached for the phone charging on the floor next to the mattress. 1:33 a.m. He’d managed seventy minutes of sleep, and he knew if he tried for more, he’d likely just end up lying restlessly in bed. 

He got up, turned on the light, and finished packing, taking time to go through the entire apartment three times. He’d take whatever was useful and could fit comfortably in the pack. Once he was sure he hadn’t left anything essential behind, he grabbed his phone and scrolled through the news, clicking on every link related to the lawsuit and the victims. 

He read an interview with the truck driver that hit Sitwell. There were bits of Sitwell stuck to the front of his rig. The man couldn’t get over the gruesome experience and never drove a truck again. He still had nightmares. 

Bucky’s memories of that day were excruciatingly vivid. He felt nothing when he smashed through the back window and tossed Sitwell into oncoming traffic. It had been as easy as swatting a mosquito. 

Firing through the roof of the vehicle, getting tossed into the air, facing the oncoming car, yanking the steering wheel from Sam’s hand, and sending a rocket straight toward Steve Rogers and the shield . 

The shield. 

At the time, none of it meant anything to him. It should have. The shield should have jogged something. 

The events played in his mind like a movie he’d seen yesterday. The fight on the street below. Realizing his target was strong. And fast. 

When he grabbed Steve by the throat and looked into that strained face there had been something in the depths of his brain. He wasn’t sure what it was—something barely qualified to be called an emotion, more like the shadow of one.

It wasn’t until his mask came off and Steve finally spoke that the shadow turned into something real. It stopped him. For a moment. 

“Bucky?”

Steve’s voice, saying that name–a combination some part of the Winter Soldier recognized. It confused him. Then the mission prerogative took over, and he raised his gun. He still remembered the devastated, stunned look on Steve’s face as he stood there, in the middle of the street, frozen. 

A perfect target.

If not for Sam and Natasha interfering, he’d have killed Steve. 

Sometimes, in his nightmares, he did.

Bucky set his phone down and grabbed his checkbook, pen, envelope, and sheet of paper. Now that he completed his court-mandated therapy, the shackles were off. He no longer risked arrest if he missed a check-in. It was laughable that anyone thought a few months of therapy would fix an iota of the 70 years of fuck up in his head. 

He’d head to the lawyers’ office at nine, take care of a few things, then hit the road.

-0- -0- -0-

Sam came back from his run and jogged up the last few steps to his DC apartment, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. He froze when he saw the long black case on the floor next to the couch. A white envelope was taped to the top, his name written in large, neat letters. 

He looked around. He’d been gone less than an hour. Who could have left it, and more importantly, were they still inside? 

He left the door open behind him. “Whoever you are, you better show yourself now.”

The hairs on the back of his neck raised, and he turned around, scanning outside. Nothing seemed out of place, and there was no sign of whoever had left the package. He grabbed the envelope, pulling out and unfolding the paper inside.

It was a handwritten letter. 

Sam,

I don’t want to risk this falling into the wrong hands. Please make sure it gets to the Wakandans. Steve couldn’t have picked a better man to carry on the legacy of Captain America. Thank you for all you’ve done for Steve and me. 

I gave checks to the lawyers with distribution instructions. I’d appreciate it if you could check in with them and make sure it all goes the way it should. I’ll never be able to truly make amends for everything I did as the Winter Soldier. I can’t bring back the people I killed, and I can’t heal the grief of those left behind. This is all I can do. 

Goodbye, Sam. Be careful out there. 

-Bucky

Cold snaked along Sam’s spine, and he clutched the paper tighter in his hands. Bucky, what the hell are you about to do?

He pocketed the letter and opened the case. 

Oh God. It was the vibranium arm, nestled neatly in black foam that had a section carved out in precisely the shape of the prosthetic.

There was no way Bucky would leave the arm without making sure it was safe. He had to be watching. Sam snapped the case closed and hopped over the steps, landing lightly on his feet and listening for sounds in the bushes and trees around the house. 

“Bucky!” he shouted. “I know you’re here, let’s talk about this.”

He waited in silence, but there was no answer. 

Shit. Bucky could move fast when motivated. Sam flew back up the porch, grabbing the case and heading inside.

Slipping into his wings and goggles, he hurried back outside and took to the air, sending the drones into search mode. 

Two hours later, he was forced to admit defeat and returned to the house. He stared at the black case on the table and tried not to panic. Just because Bucky left the arm didn’t mean…. 

He wouldn’t. Would he?

Bucky had been in a dark place. Hell, he’d been in a dark place for a long time. He’d taken Steve’s leaving harder than he let on, and the court-mandated therapy had probably done more harm than good. 

He needed to pay a visit to Nelson and Murdock in New York, then check out Bucky’s Brooklyn apartment. Maybe he’d get a lead on where Bucky had gone.

-0- -0- -0-

“It’s a nice bike. Why are you selling it?” the heavy-set, middle-aged man asked. 

“It’s a bit difficult for me to ride.”

“Oh…Oh!” The guy’s eyes widened with realization, then his lips immediately pressed into a fine line of embarrassment. “Sorry.”

Bucky shrugged his left stump. “Not your fault. So?”

“Yeah, man, yeah. I want it.”

“Great. I have the paperwork ready as long as you have the cash.” 

-0- -0- -0- 

Matthew Murdock knew the moment he heard the footsteps in the staircase down the hall that Sam Wilson was on his way to the office. He placed the large manilla envelope in the top drawer of his desk. Barnes had left clear instructions with a dozen checks drafted to family members of Winter Soldier victims. The sum total was substantial. Too substantial.

Matt had done his research. He knew how much Barnes’ government POW benefits were. Unless Barnes had more financial reserves, the checks represented 85% of his total worth.

Wilson entered the office and Foggy met him first. Matt listened to the conversation. 

“Captain America, it’s a pleasure! What can we do for you?” Foggy greeted.

“I know Bucky left checks with you and instructions on how to distribute them. I have a note from him asking that I check in on that. What did he leave and to whom?”

Nice try, Captain, Murdock thought. 

“I’m sorry,” Foggy answered. “That’s subject to attorney-client confidentiality.”

“I’m the reason he’s your client.” 

“I know that, but unfortunately, it doesn’t change anything. We still can’t breach attorney-client confidentiality without Barnes’ express permission.”

“Here, read the note yourself.” Wilson sounded almost breathless. 

Something was wrong.

Matt grabbed his cane and walked into the lobby. “Mr. Wilson, my partner’s right. We can’t disclose confidential information.”

“Look,” Wilson began, “if I tell you something, will this stay between us?”

“Unless I have a legal duty to disclose, of course.” He listened to Wilson’s heartbeat, it was fast but steady. 

The man was worried, almost panicked. 

“I think Bucky might try to…hurt himself. Maybe. I need to find him. He’s not answering his phone, he left his apartment, and he left me something that tells me he isn’t planning on coming back. Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

Matt studied the man as he pondered the situation. If Barnes was a danger to himself or others, he could breach confidentiality. “I can tell you that Barnes left a substantial amount for us to distribute to the families of his victims, but unfortunately, he didn’t tell me where he planned to go.” 

“Shit.” Wilson sighed heavily. “Please tell me you still have those checks.”

“I do.” He knew what Wilson was going to ask, and he was already ahead of the man. “Given the situation, I’ll keep them for as long as I can. We’ve got time with the statute of limitations ruling and the legal process, so I don’t need to distribute the funds right away. However, if Barnes doesn’t turn up within a reasonable timeframe to tell me otherwise, I will have to abide by his wishes.”

Or if he turns up dead, Matt thought.

-0- -0- -0-

One month went by in a blur, and Sam was no closer to finding Bucky. He searched public records and found the cabin, but there was no sign Bucky had been there recently. The man still had the ability to be a ghost. Wincing inwardly at that thought, Sam hoped the ghost thing didn’t end up being literal. 

No sign of Bucky was a good sign in some ways. It meant his body hadn’t been found. 

You better still be alive, you asshole.

He hadn’t reached out to the Wakandans because he hoped he could find Bucky and talk sense into him. Then there’d be no need to return the arm to Wakanda. Unfortunately, such a successful outcome was looking less and less likely. 

He didn’t have a Kimoyo bead, but he did have a cell phone contact for Shuri. She’d left it with Steve in case there were any complications with Bucky after his treatment, and Steve had quietly passed the number along to Sam.

Taking out his cell phone, Sam dialed. To his surprise, the number still worked. He recognized the woman’s voice immediately.

“Shuri, Sam Wilson here.” 

There was a pause, then, “It is good to hear your voice, Captain, but I fear the purpose of your call is not a social one. Has something happened to our mutual friend?”

Straight to the point. Shuri was insightful. “Yes, unfortunately. He’s given most of his money away, left the arm, and disappeared. He asked me to make sure it got back to you.”

Telling Shuri made it real. 

And grim. 

Bucky had put his affairs in order, and no one had seen him since. 

-0- -0- -0-

Daryl Stein drove up to the overhead door of the warehouse. It was two a.m. and he was tired. He wanted to deliver the cargo and get the hell out of there, get drunk, then sleep for two days. 

He pulled the van into position, and the overhead door lifted. Johnny waved him in. The door closed behind the van, and he hopped out.

“Girls are quiet now,” he told Johnny. “Some have injuries, but we didn’t touch their faces. The redhead probably has a broken arm.”

The van’s side door opened. Bobby and Jerome hopped out, each one tugging a chain. Six girls stumbled out. They had tear-streaked faces, all but two with messy mascara and makeup. The youngest—the fourteen and fifteen-year-olds—were barely able to keep their feet beneath them. 

Looking at the really young ones bothered him, but the money was good enough to quiet his conscience most of the time. The girls would’ve probably ended up dead on the streets, anyway. At least this way, some of them might make it to thirty.

“Hey, girls,” Johnny greeted them, flashing a smile that always gave Daryl the creeps. “Good news. We’re getting you off the streets and finding you all new homes. All you have to do to survive is behave, keep quiet, and do what you’re told.”

A few of the girls started crying. Johnny sighed and jerked his chin at Jerome. “Get them cleaned and locked up.”

A clatter against the side door startled them all. Daryl pulled his gun from its holster as the other men spun toward the sound. 

“Check the cameras!” Johnny ordered. 

“They’re out, all black,” Andy announced from a desk against the far wall, seated in front of a dark monitor.

“Shit!” Johnny raised his gun toward the front door. “Bobby and Jerome, go check it out. Front door, recon around the side and take whoever or whatever that was by surprise.”

Bobby nodded, and the two men walked cautiously to the front door. Johnny nodded at Daryl.

Shit. Daryl just wanted to go home. Instead, he was following Johnny to the side door, taking a position opposite the other man. Bobby and Jerome opened the front door and cautiously peered out. It was quiet. Bobby went first, but something took him off his feet. He yelped, and slipped on something. His feet thrashed in the air, taking out Jerome.

A moment later, something exploded. Daryl was still blinking the bright spots from his vision when the door crashed inward. A blurry mass collided with Johnny, who dropped like a puppet with its strings cut. 

Daryl caught only a glimpse of the one-armed figure before pain flashed in his skull, sending him to oblivion.

-0- -0- -0-

Bucky moved quickly, disabling the remaining two men and approaching the cluster of terrified girls. They scattered in various directions, but the tethering chains yanked them back and over one another. 

The chains weren’t anywhere as heavy as the ones Hydra had used on him, but they were even more effective on the stick-thin girls—girls who were going to be sold as sex slaves. He knew all about what it meant to be a piece of property, used and abused. 

He couldn’t take revenge on the people who had done that to him. Most of them were dead now. But he could stop the modern slave-traders. The human traffickers. The people with power who traded in flesh and viewed human beings as mere assets to be bought, sold, trained, and molded until they were nothing more than a pet or a puppet.

Helpless. Broken. 

The youngest of the girls were children, teary-eyed and trembling, huddled on the floor. Decades ago, he was them, doing the same thing. He remembered that feeling, curling into himself on a cold floor, braced into the corner of a room, trying to make himself as small as possible even though it wouldn’t save him. Nothing could.

“Easy, I’m not going to hurt you.” He didn’t have time to reassure them further. He’d called in the anonymous tip five minutes ago, and he could already hear distant sirens. 

His fingers crushed the chain links, breaking the tethers between the girls one by one. They clustered together, crying. As the sirens grew closer, he knew time was running out. 

“Cops are on the way. Keep your hands where they can see them, okay?”

The redhead clutching her right arm to her side nodded shakily. She looked at him with red, puffy eyes and wet cheeks. “Thank you.” Her voice trembled in sync with the rest of her. “Thank you so much.”

Bucky swallowed and managed a “you’re welcome.” This is what it felt like when he used to be the good guy, instead of the ruthless assassin. This is what it felt like when someone looked into his face with gratitude instead of terror.

The sirens were close. He shook himself out of his momentary stupor and made his exit.  By the time the cops arrived he was far away from the warehouse. He adjusted the cross-body pack and hopped over the brick fence separating the industrial district from a two-lane road. The Florida night was warm and humid, and it made the air in his chest feel heavy.

He jogged two miles to the used white SUV he bought before leaving New York. It was an older Hybrid, decent on gas mileage and a hell of a lot easier to drive one-armed than the motorcycle. It allowed him to carry an extra pack and supplies, and he could tilt the seat back to sleep in it. 

He drove the remaining fifteen miles to the boarded-up house on the outskirts of town. By the time he parked the vehicle and entered the house, he was exhausted. He used half a bottle of water and a towel to wash the black makeup from his face, then undressed and used the other half of the water to wipe the sweat and grime from his body. 

That done, he grabbed a pen and black journal from his pack and lowered himself to the blankets on the floor. His mission was complete. In the morning, he’d move on. Setting his phone down, he activated the screen to provide faint light, then opened the book and held it one-handed against his lap. He flipped to the next blank page, wrote down today’s date and, under that, the number six.

He slipped beneath the blankets, his jacket wadded up as a pillow, and lay down, clutching the book to his chest and hoping that if he saved enough lives, they would bury the corpses of his victims and keep the nightmares at bay.

Chapter Text

Two months passed, and Sam still had no idea where Bucky was, but he was pretty sure he was alive. That was progress. First, the news story about a one-armed man intervening in a convenience store robbery—leading to the arrest of a man suspected in a string of ten robberies and the death of one clerk—caught his attention. 

Then there was the human trafficking ring busted up in Florida. The victims reported being saved by a one-armed man with dark hair, his face obscured by wide streaks of black makeup. 

Their savior was at least six feet tall with smokey blue eyes. That was all witnesses could offer, other than the mystery man, quite literally, single-handedly took out six armed men, then broke their chains with his fingers.

As he sat at the kitchen table in his D.C apartment, scrolling through the latest story on his phone about a one-armed man in Texas who saved a caravan of immigrants from heat exhaustion inside the back of a van, Sam was glad he’d set up a keyword news alert after the first story caught his attention.

Now, whenever a one-armed man was mentioned in a news story anywhere in the country, he got an alert. Bucky was making his way west across the country. Sam debated going to California. That had to be next on Bucky’s list, but California was a huge state. Sam could randomly pick any large city in California and still be hundreds of miles away from Bucky…and far behind. By the time he got a heads up of another one-armed man saving lives, Bucky could be in Oregon, Washington, or even Canada. 

Sam pondered going to Texas to interview witnesses. Maybe if he flashed his Captain America smile, people would be inclined to talk? He might get a lead about where Bucky was heading next…if the mysterious one-armed man actually was Bucky. It’s not like Mr. Cyborg was the only amputee in the world, but he had to be the only amputee who could break chains with his fingers. 

Why haven’t you reached out to me, Bucky? Sam asked silently. He tried to imagine what his friend must be going through, traveling on his own with limited funds, using his skills, Hydra training, and super strength to take on dangerous criminals. 

Outnumbered and with only one arm, Bucky was still a force to be reckoned with. Sam worried that if Bucky spent too much time in the dark hole of vigilantism, he’d slip further and further into the robotic, soldier mentality that had enveloped him for over seventy years.

But what the hell was his end game? Why was he making his way across the country, taking out random bad guys and saving lives, all with one arm? If he wanted to be a vigilante like that Devil of Hell’s kitchen, why not keep the arm? Super soldier or not, fighting bad guys with one arm–without the vibranium one that could deflect bullets–put Bucky at a significant disadvantage.

Then again, thinking back to the vision of death on the freeway in 2014— that guy would have been lethal even with one arm. Was Bucky slipping back into his old fighting skin? The one where he didn’t have to pull back to avoid killing people? Didn’t care about getting hurt? 

God, Sam hoped not, but the arm and the letter had him worried that Bucky was on a suicide mission, taking out as many bad guys as he could until someone took him out but not wanting the arm to fall into the hands of whatever bad guy happened to finish him off. Even if the bad guy didn’t know the arm was detachable, there were messy ways to remove it.

His phone rang, and Shuri’s name popped on the screen. Quickly, Sam answered. “Good morning, or I guess good evening on your end. Please tell me you have good news.”

“I take it that you have had equally poor results in locating Sergeant Barnes?” Shuri asked. 

“Just following the news stories, assuming the mysterious one-armed man with superhuman strength is our guy, of course.”

“I regret we have been unable to offer greater assistance.”

“No, it’s okay. I understand. You all have your hands full with post-blip life just like everyone else.”

“Indeed. However, while we have the arm, I have made modifications and minor repairs. It appears the arm suffered an electrical overload at some point. If you do locate our friend, the arm awaits him. It remains his to reclaim.”

“Thank you, Shuri.”

He had to find Bucky before the only thing left to find was something to bury, and he’d buried too many friends already. He hung up with Shuri and checked out the quickest flights to Texas. 

-0- -0- -0-

“Shit!” Bucky sailed over the wood fence as the woman fired the shotgun at him, standing on her back steps in a blue robe and pink slippers. 

He felt the sting on his right hip and landed in a crouch, out of her line of vision, then made a beeline for the woods behind her property. He adjusted the strap of the crossbody that threatened to slip off his shoulder and pushed the sunglasses up under the brim of the cap. 

People in Texas had guns. A lot of people. He’d have to remember that but he didn’t plan on staying much longer. Texas held nothing but bad memories—one very, very bad memory, in particular.

Taking out the smugglers was one thing. A few make-shift projectiles traveling at 50 to 60 miles an hour generally did the trick, and it was usually nonlethal. Usually . Though, he was pretty sure the guy with the tattoo on his forehead wouldn’t be walking out of a hospital anytime soon. 

But taking out a soccer mom defending her backyard that just happened to be the easiest and fastest route to his vehicle was off the table. He was still James Buchanan Barnes, not the Winter Soldier. He refused to let the darkness Hydra had scorched into his soul take over.

Never again. 

He made his way to the SUV. He’d need a place to crash and tend to his wounds, which meant a cheap motel. He checked the map on his burner phone and picked one a good fifteen miles away. 

When he arrived, the place looked barely operational, but the clerk behind the dirt-caked desk took his money and handed him a worn keycard. Bucky parked in front of his room, grabbed his packs, and headed inside. The room was small, with a full-sized bed covered by a questionable bedspread, but Bucky had slept in worse places. He just hoped he didn’t leave with hitchhikers. 

With a grunt, he tossed his backpack and crossbody onto the one chair in the room, took off his cap and sunglasses, then fished the first aid kit out of the pack, peeled out of his shirt and bullet-proof vest, and inspected the spattering of shotgun wounds on his right hip. 

The damage wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Most looked like surface wounds. Still, it would take a while to remove all the shrapnel. At least it was where he could reach, even if the angle was awkward. He grabbed a few sheets of toilet paper from the bathroom and spread them on top of the dresser, then stood in front of the mirror, a pair of long tweezers in hand, and set to work. 

Some of the pieces came out effortlessly, with little pain. Others, he had to dig for, gritting his teeth on a few of the deeper ones. One by one, he set each bloody piece on top of the toilet paper until every tiny wound in his side had been excavated. Finally, he hopped into the shower to clean up. 

He was halfway through washing the shampoo out of his hair when he heard a woman scream, and a thud shook the wall. 

Shit. It sounded like a domestic disturbance. Disturbances brought cops. 

The hard squish of flesh hitting flesh, a woman’s cry, and another thud had him out of the shower, a few suds left in his hair as he toweled off and used his one arm to hurriedly shimmy his damp body into uncooperative jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. 

He grabbed his hat and sunglasses and left the hotel room, eyeing the old blue Chevy parked next to his SUV, directly in front of the neighboring room. He gave three hard knocks on the door.

“Fuck off, whoever you are!” a man’s deep voice bellowed.

“Hey, man, is this your Chevy out here? It’s about to get towed.”

The door flung open, and a bare-chested older man with red-rimmed eyes looked at the Chevy, then at Bucky, and snarled. “Who the fuck are you?”

Bucky smiled and peered into the room. A woman was on the floor at the foot of the bed, blood on the right side of her face, sobbing. “Excuse me, Ma’am, is this guy bothering you?”

She shook her head and muttered, “It’s fine. Just an accident.”

Bucky kept his easy posture and looked back at the man’s smirking face. The guy’s brown eyes held the challenge of an inebriated idiot. 

Holding his fake smile, the one he used to practice in the mirror when he was following Dr. Raynor’s Rule Number Three, Bucky said. “Well, he’s bothering me.”

The man pushed at him, stumbling back from the effort, and closed the door, but Bucky stopped it with his foot, then gave a solid kick. 

The door slammed into the man’s face. He screamed and fell backward, blood erupting from his nose. As he hit the floor, his hands flew up to cover his nose. 

“You broke my nose, you asshole.”

“Sorry, it was an accident.” Bucky looked at the woman. “Ma’am, if you want to get the keys to the car and get out of here, I’ll make sure he doesn’t hurt you.”

She looked at Bucky, then at the man on the floor—whoever he was to her—and hesitated. 

Come on, he pleaded silently. 

Finally, she nodded, grabbed a purse and car keys, and hurried past him. “Thank you.”

Bucky waited until she drove away, then turned to the man on the floor. A few lookie-loos from other rooms had peeked their heads out for a moment, but in true skid-row fashion, no one intervened.

“You want me to call an ambulance for you, pal?” He asked.

“Fuck you,” the man wheezed. 

“Have a nice day.” Bucky closed the door, grabbed the packs and supplies from his room and drove away. He’d find a secluded place far enough from the scene and sleep in the passenger seat. 

It didn’t take long to pick a spot. He slept fitfully on the side of a quiet road in an industrial park and, when morning came, he grabbed a few energy bars from his glove compartment, scarfed them down, hit a drive-thru for coffee, and made his way to Dallas. 

Dallas was a city he never thought he’d step foot in again, but now that he was in Texas, so close, he wanted to see it. He wasn’t sure why. It sure as hell didn’t make any sense. 

He parked and walked the short distance to the tall brown building, pausing a moment to look around at the grounds, the street, then up at the sixth floor.

The trees were bigger, and the cars on the street were different, of course. Still, it looked eerily familiar, almost the same as it had on November 22, 1963. 

The spectators waving at the caravan. The excitement in the air. The woman in the front of the crowd with the red dress and the scarf tied over her head. 

The first lady in her pink outfit and pink hat. The suit dress would end up stained with blood. The hat would fall off, lost in the chaos and panic.

That day, Bucky deprived a son of his father, a woman of her husband, and a nation of its leader. He’d changed the course of history, shaped the century. The museum on the sixth floor of the building would talk about conspiracy theories, Lee Harvey Oswald, a second shooter, and sound recordings, but it wouldn’t tell the real truth—that he, the Winter Soldier, killed John F. Kennedy. 

It was a truth he dared not tell, not even to Steve, but like all terrible secrets, it was a weight on his soul. There were so many weights. At times, the collective burden was too heavy, and he could barely breathe. Some days, it took everything he had just to force himself out of bed. 

He sometimes wished he never remembered any of it—not who he was, or where he came from—and that someday he’d wake up, and it would all be gone, that he didn’t remember the family he’d lost, the best friend he’d never see again, the man he used to be, or the terrible things he was forced to do. The faces of his victims would be washed away. He’d start over, knowing nothing other than the world around him, the time he found himself in, slowly learning to navigate life, blissfully ignorant of the century-long nightmare he’d lived.

-0- -0- -0-

“Yep, he was here.” Delores kept her arms crossed, cigarette held between two fingers, her eyes narrow as she stared at him. “Are you really Captain America?”

Sam flashed his best smile and nodded. “Yes, ma’am. So, anything else you remember that didn’t make the police report?”

She shrugged, taking a puff of her cigarette. “Nope. I hear a ruckus, gunshots, I figure it’s someone taking potshots in the woods or under the bypass. Just in case, I head on out with my shotgun, and sure enough, your guy comes sailing over the fence. Moved like a ninja. One arm. Pack across his shoulders, hat and sunglasses. I didn’t see his face, but I’m sure he only had one arm, and I think I hit him.”

Sam tried to keep a poker face as he processed that bit of information. How badly had Bucky been injured?

“He had a glove on his right hand,” the woman continued. “A black jacket. Cap, but I can’t remember the color, and I can’t tell you his age or race, just that he had to be young moving the way he did. Tall guy. Not sure how tall, but taller than the fence by at least a few inches.”

“Thank you, you’ve been very helpful.” Sam forced a smile. “You say you hit him?”

She nodded. “Pretty sure.”

“Any idea how badly he was injured?”

“Couldn’t have been too badly. Didn’t see any blood on the fence, and it sure as hell didn’t slow him down. He was gone before I looked over the fence.”

“Which way did he go?”

She pointed toward the woods. “That way.”

“Thanks again, Ma’am.”

Sam left Delores and trekked through the woods. Five minutes later, he came to a one-lane road, but of course there was no sign of Bucky. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find—but he pulled up his sleeve and called Red Wing. A moment later, the drone buzzed overhead. 

Maybe Red Wing could find something—traces of blood, footprints, or if Bucky were being particularly sloppy and helpful, a detailed road trip itinerary that showed his next stop. 

Sam had spent two years hunting Bucky before Bucharest, and he sure as hell hoped things didn’t pan out the way they had last time.  He didn’t have another two years of his life to spend searching for an asshole super soldier with a trauma-induced guilt-complex and antisocial tendencies.

-0- -0- -0-

Bucky was tired of being behind the wheel. He managed a couple of hours of sleep at a rest stop last night. Now, he found himself in one of the most scenic areas of his travels – the rolling hills and neat vineyards between Sonoma and Napa. It was nine a.m. and a whisper of fog nestled in the valley. 

At least the backroads were fairly empty. Tuesday seemed to be the lightest traffic day of the week, but he always pulled over during rush hour to catch some rest, grab a bite to eat, or empty his bladder.

Wine tasting was a thing these days, apparently. It wasn’t a thing in his time. Prohibition put a crimp in a lot of things, but even outside of those years, people didn’t go to a place just to sip a few different wines and coo about whether it was oaky or fruity.

People drank to have fun, add social lubrication to dates, or forget their worries for a few hours.

As he drove past another vineyard with countless rows of grapevines dwarfed by green hills, he marveled at how much land was dedicated to growing a single product. 

Grapes.

He spotted a small red and white diner ahead and pulled into the parking lot, picking a spot near the front window so he could keep an eye on the SUV. He grabbed his backpack, took a moment to stretch his legs, then headed into the restaurant. His crossbody,  with dangerous things that shouldn’t fall into the wrong hands, was in the back, hidden by a cargo cover. The backpack held the bulk of the important things – ammunition, cash, ID, his best knives, and of course, the firearms. 

He worried about getting caught with the weapons, so he always drove the speed limit, used his turn signals, and kept a low profile. 

He slung the backpack over his right shoulder. The chest strap was a pain in the ass to secure one-armed, so he avoided that aggravation whenever possible.

A woman behind a counter smiled at him, a large cash register in front of her. “Take a seat wherever you like, Sir.”

He nodded and slid into a booth near the window where he had a clear view of the vehicle, then set his pack on the seat next to him. A digital screen on the table near the wall cycled through the menu options, and he decided on the cheap plate of eggs and sausage. 

The woman behind the counter came up with a smile and took his order. As he waited for his food, he scrolled through his phone, catching up on the news. He’d created a Gmail account to keep tabs on keywords and phrases—Sam Wilson, Captain America, Avengers, Winter Soldier, James Barnes, and the names of the plaintiffs in the lawsuit. 

He was pleasantly surprised to see an article about Captain America intercepting a transfer of black-market alien weapons from a Romanian dealer. This was only the second news story he’d found about Sam since leaving New York and, frankly, that had worried him. Relief brought a smile to his lips. It was good to see the Shield being used for good by a man worthy of carrying it. 

Next, he logged into his bank account. The checks he’d left for his victims were still uncashed. He knew these things could take time—finalizing settlement agreements, distributing funds, but it had been almost three months. 

What was the holdup?

He dialed the law firm, blocking his burner number. 

“Murdock and Nelson, how can I help you?” a woman answered. 

"I’d like to speak to one of the lawyers. I’m a client.”

“Do you have an appointment?” 

“No, Ma’am. Are they available?”

“Who's calling?”

He looked around and lowered his voice. “James Barnes.”

“One moment.”

A few seconds later, a friendly voice greeted him. “Sergeant Barnes?”

“Nelson, right?”

“Yeah, hey, it’s really good to hear from you, and nice to know you’re alive. We have no way to contact you.”

“Why haven’t the checks been cashed?” he asked, letting his impatience permeate his tone. 

“Yeah, about that, see we’re still working out the details with opposing counsels, and we’ve had a couple of questions for you, then one of the plaintiff’s attorneys went on a vacation, so things are taking a little longer than anticipated. If you have some time, I’d like to set up a phone appointment so that three of us – my partner and I – can talk to you about the details. What’s your schedule like next week? Or maybe the week after that?”

A week or two? Bucky got the impression the man was trying to buy time.

“Cut the crap. What’s going on?” 

There were only a couple of plaintiffs lawyers involved. The other recipients weren’t part of the lawsuit, so there should be no one to negotiate with. All the lawyers had to do was see that the checks were delivered.

“Nothing. We’ve got your checks here.”

“If they aren’t cashed soon, the bank won’t honor them. I’ll have to write new ones.” Or buy cashier’s checks, but he resisted that option. It was more difficult to keep tabs on when a cashier’s check was cashed without calling into the bank and going through customer service hell. At least with his bank account, he could keep an eye on the funds and know exactly when the checks were distributed.

“Where are you?” Nelson asked “You know your friend—Captain America—he’s worried about you. Have you contacted him?”

So, that’s what this was about. Sam had stuck his nose into the mix, probably convinced the lawyers to stall for time.

“No, and don’t tell him I called.” Attorney-client privilege was good for something.

“He’s been looking for you. I know we don’t know one another very well, but he seems like a good friend, and he’s been worried you’re dead. At least let him know you’re alive, or let me tell him you’re alive.”

A pang of guilt twisted in Bucky’s chest. He knew Sam would worry about him for a little while, but it had been three months. Is that why there had been so few Captain America news stories? Sam was in missing-persons search mode? Bucky figured Sam would’ve moved on by now, buried himself in his Captain America duties, and spent time with Sarah and his nephews on the boat. 

Hell, Bucky figured Sam would be relieved. While their friendship had just started to get off the ground, it was still very new…and mostly the result of their mutual attachment to Steve. 

Loyalty to Steve was the reason Sam violated the Accords in Bucharest and Berlin. Loyalty to Steve is also why Sam hung around during Bucky’s arrest and pardon after the battle with Thanos. Loyalty was both Sam’s strength and weakness.

In Bucky’s case, loyalty was a burden Sam needed to shed. A clean break was easiest all around, for both of them.

“If he’s still looking for me, you can tell him I’m alive, and I’m okay. I’m a big boy and he kept his promise to Steve, so his job is done. It’s time for him to back off and focus on being Captain America. Got that?”

A sigh, then. “Yeah, I’ll tell him. Now, how about that phone call?”

“No. Just get those checks distributed. Don’t make me call again, or I’ll cancel the checks and find new lawyers.” He hung up just as his breakfast arrived.

He should have mailed the checks himself before he left and bypassed the lawyers. Devouring his meal, he paid the check, used the restroom to relieve his bladder, and did a very quick wash up with the body wipes from his pack. Then, he headed back on the road.

He eyed his gas tank. It was at the halfway mark, which would easily get him to the state capital where a former Hydra lackey was now serving in the state senate and backseat driving a money laundering and weapons operation.  The senator hadn’t been on Bucky’s amends list because the Winter Soldier didn’t help put him in power, but Hydra had, and that was enough. Time for the man to go. 

Once Bucky reached Sacramento, he’d figure out a place to sleep – either a secluded industrial area where he could park overnight or an empty building. Sometimes he lucked out and found one with running water. A laundromat was also on his list, but a motel was not.

Sleeping in the car was murder on his joints, but he had to make the funds he kept for himself last as long as possible. He saved the motel stays for when he really needed them.

Chapter Text

Sam rubbed at his lower back, finding the spot just above his tail bone that was screaming mad. So mad, it might put him out of commission for a couple of days and give him time to do more digging into where Bucky headed after Texas. 

Maybe a nice hot soak would work out the angry knot? Or a massage. Or both. Being Captain America was hell on his body, and he wasn’t as young as he used to be. 

Thank heaven for the vibranium-laced suit. It wasn’t as hardcore as T’Challa’s, but it provided him with extra protection. Without it, he’d have broken something when he hit the car. 

Those Chitauri weapons pack a punch. 

He started the bathtub and stripped out of his clothes. He sure could use the big tub in the Delacroix house, but he was stuck with the standard tub in his DC apartment. 

His phone rang, and he fished it out of the pile of clothes on the floor. When he saw the Nelson & Murdock caller ID, his heart picked up a few beats. 

“Hey, do you have news?”

“Yeah,” Nelson answered him. “Barnes is alive.”

Sam breathed a relieved sigh, dropping to his butt against the rim of the bathtub. 

Thank God. 

It was nice to have confirmation that Bucky was still breathing and the freakishly strong one-armed guy in the news was almost certainly him, and therefore Bucky was okay, and not a corpse waiting to be discovered.

“He checked in to grouse about the checks,” Nelson continued. “Look, man, we can’t delay much longer. He’s threatened to cancel the checks and hire new lawyers, and I probably shouldn’t tell you that, attorney-client confidentiality and all.”

“Mum’s the word,” Sam promised. 

“I appreciate that, because I really don’t want the Winter Soldier pissed at me. He did give me permission to tell you he’s okay, and he said specifically to tell you that he’s a big boy and you should back off and focus on being Captain America. Oh, and that you kept your promise to Steve, and your job is done. I think that’s about it.”

“If you don’t want him pissed at you, don’t let him hear you call him the Winter Soldier,” Sam said. “He hasn’t been that for a while.”

“Got it. My bad.”

“So, was this a phone call?” God, he hoped that meant they had a way to contact Bucky. “Did you get a number?”

“Nope, blocked, and he hung up before I could ask.”

“How did he sound?”

“Grumpy.”

Sam smiled. Grumpy meant Bucky was relatively okay. His usual curmudgeonly self. And he wasn’t seriously injured by Delores’ shotgun.

His smile faded as he considered how close a call the Texas incident had been. If he found Bucky—alive, dear God, he hoped—he was going to give him a vibranium-winged kick in the ass for taking off without so much as an in-person good-bye or leaving a cell phone number.

-0- -0- -0- 

Bucky drove past the state Capitol, with its white columns and wide, concrete steps, green lawns, and massive trees. Senator Lewsom wasn’t likely in the building of course. He could be anywhere—his district office, an event, or schmoozing over a fancy lunch with someone who could help line his pockets. 

Still, Bucky wanted to get the lay of the land. The deal was supposed to go down tomorrow at 3 a.m. in a little area called Del Paso Heights. Bucky circled the Capitol a few times, then drove down the surrounding streets, checking out the restaurants and weekday vibe. 

There were men and women in suits walking with hurried paces down the sidewalks. As he steered around a corner, a cluster of tents—a homeless encampment—sat on a section of sidewalk blocks from gleaming high-rises. 

He punched the Del Paso Heights address in his phone’s navigator and hopped on the freeway. Fifteen minutes later, he was in an area that screamed of poverty and failed gentrification, peppered by fireworks stands in preparation for the upcoming holiday.

Independence Day. 

Steve’s birthday. Three days away. The sharp twist in his chest was surprising in its intensity. How long would it take until he could think of Steve without feeling like a part of his insides were carved out?

He forced the emotions to the background and focused on the task at hand. Steve was gone. He wasn’t coming back. And, shit, that was a hard pill to swallow, but the bad guys were still around, and Bucky had a mission. 

The neighborhood was a good area for a shady deal. Residents weren’t overly nosey, and police always took a little longer to respond to calls. He found the location of the exchange—an abandoned building with boarded-up windows that sat a block away from an older residential street.

Parking the car inconspicuously, he walked the area, surveying the building from all sides, keeping a casual pace. There were no visible security cameras on the old building, not that he expected them, and the place didn’t seem to have electricity. The flat industrial roof provided an ideal vantage point. Signs were posted on the doors and a few boarded-up windows warning that the building was unsafe. 

He roamed the rest of the neighborhood, looking for any structures close enough with security cameras that could catch a view, but the houses in this part of town were low income. Only a few had visible cameras, and none of them were close enough or at the right angle to view the old building. The jammer in his pack would take care of any hidden cameras within 100 feet.

The lack of surveillance was no doubt one reason the shady entrepreneurs chose this location. It was an advantage for both him and the bad guys. His stomach gave a grumble. He decided to find something to eat and a place to park his car where he could sleep undisturbed for the night.

Hours later, after eating at the Crab Shack by the river and filling the SUV’s gas tank, he found the perfect spot—a quiet street at the edge of a park occupied by old RVs and tents where unhoused persons congregated. He situated the car half a block away, far enough to stay off the radar of most of the park residents, but his proximity to the camp pretty much guaranteed no one would notice one extra guy sleeping in a vehicle. No residents would call him in as a “suspicious” person, and the cops obviously left the area alone. 

He pulled out his cell phone and checked his bank account. The $15,000 designated for Yori had been deducted from his account. It wasn’t anywhere near enough to compensate for the loss of a son, but there was no sum that would. 

At least it would give Yori a cushion at this time of his life, let him eat all the sushi he wanted, maybe argue less over trashcan space, and just generally make life easier. Yori never needed to know where the money came from. Bucky was clear on those instructions. 

If Yori had known who sent the money, he wouldn’t have taken  it. With Bucky’s name attached, it would have felt too much like a guilt-payoff, money meant to wipe RJ’s blood from Bucky’s hands. 

Nothing could ever get rid of those stains—not a pardon and not all the technology at Shuri’s disposal.

The rest of the money was still in his account. He’d give the lawyers two more weeks. After that, the checks would be stale, and he’d have words with Nelson and Murdock.

He grabbed the tablet from his pack on the passenger seat and double-checked that his surveillance files were backed up on the cloud. He’d recorded an incriminating phone call between Senator Lewsom and the lead arms dealer—a man named Dwayne Monroe with connections throughout the United States and Europe. 

The senator shared when and where alien technology would be transported. Monroe set traps, intercepted, killed a few people, and got his hands on valuable alien weapons that he sold to the highest bidders across the world.

Buyers ranged from ruthless dictators seeking to vaporize uprisings before they got off the ground to drug cartels wanting to out-muscle their competition. 

An explosion rattled the air, and he jerked upright, his eyes scanning the area. The residents of the homeless camp were undisturbed. 

Fireworks. Great .

And it wasn’t even the Fourth of July yet.

By nightfall, the neighborhood sounded like a war zone. M-80s rattled windows, set off car alarms, and sent a non-stop cascade of memory-induced adrenaline into his system. 

He huddled in the passenger seat, trying to stretch out and relax, but every bomb was hell on his enhanced ears and had him resisting the urge to duck for cover. As another one rocked the air, too close, rattling the entire car and lighting up the night, he was in a foxhole with the smell of sweating bodies and moans of injured men.

He gritted his teeth, debating the merits of moving the car, but he could see and hear fireworks for miles, so he closed his eyes and hunkered down. 

Another explosion from behind the vehicle, only a few blocks away, shook the car again. He flashed back to the Avenger’s complex in upstate New York. Death from above as Thanos’ ship rained fire. Dirt and rock sprayed around him with each hit, until one found its mark. 

Bucky took a shuddering breath and squeezed his eyelids, turning against the door and focusing on his breathing like Ayo had taught him. Inhale slowly, count to five. Exhale slower, count to eight.

How many times had he died or almost died and found himself not dead? One when he was eight and slammed into a tree sledding, ending up with a concussion. The train in the Alps and the fall that should have killed him but unmercifully did not. Three particularly hairy missions as the Winter Soldier. One battle with Tony Stark that took the metal arm and fried his brain for a while. Getting dusted for what seemed like a second after the first battle with Thanos, then taking a direct hit from a spaceship in the second battle. 

Why wasn’t he dead? In so many ways, things would have been easier had he died even a few moments before the snap. Those dead didn’t come back. It wasn’t fair or right. A few seconds or minutes in that battle made the difference between staying dead or coming back. He’d have gladly traded places with one of the Wakandan warriors who died a moment too soon.

Two deafening explosions battered the night, sending more car alarms screaming and his heart racing faster. 

Enough. 

He got out of the SUV, the pungent smoke in the air making his nose crinkle, then walked to the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel. It was time to find another place to rest. The map showed his location surrounded by rural areas. If he could find someplace a little more out of the way, maybe the aerial barrage wouldn’t bother him as much. Maybe, he might even get a few hours of sleep. He needed to be sharp and get to the drop site two hours before the deal was set to begin.

He drove until he was in a pitch-black area with no one around. 

Explosions boomed in the distance but they no longer shook the car. He moved back to the passenger seat to try for a couple of hours’ sleep. He set two alarms on his phone ten minutes apart, then tilted the seat as far back as it would go and closed his eyes.

He wasn’t sure how much actual sleep he got when the first alarm went off, but it wasn’t much–nothing more than a twilight slumber where the sounds of distant explosions commingled with memories of battles long ago.

Switching over to the driver’s seat, he set his phone on the dash holder and punched in the destination. Fifteen minutes later, he nestled the car into a dark section along the street, two blocks away, beneath a broken streetlight. He had another two hours to wait, but he couldn’t afford to sleep. Odds were, some of the parties would arrive early, and he didn’t want to be taken by surprise or wake groggy. 

Nor did he dare use his cellphone. Its bright screen would be a beacon in the early morning hours. So, he stayed huddled in his car and gritted his teeth against the fireworks still flashing like thunder and lightning in the night. Sirens punctuated the in-between silences, as the police no doubt responded to calls of illegal fireworks.

The criminals knew what they were doing by picking this part of town at this time of the year when the local PD was obviously too overwhelmed with complaints of M-80s and rocket launchers to respond to “suspicious activity” calls. Even reports of gunfire would be assumed fireworks-related. 

The domestic war zone began to quiet just after two a.m., and it was time for him to get into position.

Bucky grabbed his crossbody and checked the contents, making sure everything was in its proper place. The knives were in exterior pockets, snug and accessible, with the flashbangs in the front. His backup firearm was safely in the rear. The main compartment held bear spray, a last resort and a risky one considering a change in the breeze could send it back his way. The stun gun was charged and ready. 

He pulled the Glock with its clip-on holster from the pack and secured it on the right side of his waistband. Then he worked the glove onto his hand, using his teeth as an anchor. Turning off the vehicle’s interior light, he slid out of the car, quietly pushed the lock on the door, and slid through the night with the pack across his chest. 

As the Winter Soldier, he would have taken a strategic position on a rooftop and picked off the targets before they could locate his position or take cover, but he was no longer the Winter Soldier. He was James Bucky Barnes, and he was not a killer.

Not a murderer. Not an assassin. Not anymore.

So, he’d do this the hard way. Running along a side street, he circled around to the rear of the building, climbing to the old roof and shimmying on his stomach. He kept flat on the roof, listening, his head below the six-inch cement lip, as he reached into his pack. He found the black greasepaint, smearing it liberally on his face, then wiping his glove on his jeans. 

At 2:30, things began to happen. The groan of tires indicated the arrival of a large vehicle. Bucky peeked over the lip of the roof. A black van sat in the lot, its headlights off. Two men sat in the front. 

Forty minutes later, a black Cadillac Escalade arrived, stopping ten feet from the van. The passenger door opened, and a hulking man hopped out. Caucasian, graying hair, with a mustache. A dark-skin man emerged from the driver’s door, clean-shaven, dark sunglasses. 

Dwayne Monroe. 

So far, four men were visible, two in the front of each vehicle, but there had to be more in the windowless cargo hold of the van. The rear of the Escalade looked empty, presumably to keep cargo space for whatever weapons were exchanged. 

-0- -0- -0-

Dwayne kept his eyes on the buyer and his ear to the comm unit as he walked a few feet to meet the older man halfway. 

“Just the two of them,” Bobby’s voice proclaimed in his ear. 

Bobby made a decent look-out riding shotgun, but he had a penchant for stating the obvious. 

“You are?” Dwayne asked, stopping in front of the man who had a couple of inches on him.

“Scott.”

“Okay, Scott, let’s see what you’ve got.”

Scott jerked his chin toward the van. “Let’s see the goods first.”

Dwayne held himself a little taller. “You won’t mind a pat-down?”

Scott sighed and lifted his shirt. “No wires. No weapons on me.” He jerked his head toward his companion in the vehicle. “He’s got me covered.”

Dwayne didn’t see the weapon pointed at him from the man in the Escalade, but that only meant the weapons were on him weren’t visible. Not surprising. Buyers at this level weren’t stupid. Quickly, he patted down the buyer, who returned the favor, then they got down to business. 

“I need a peek at what you’ve got first, before you see the goods,” Dwayne ordered. 

The man in the Escalade held a small duffel bag out the window.  Scott grabbed it and unzipped the top, revealing enough cash to meet Dwayne’s expectations. If the deal went smoothly, Bobby could count it before everyone left.

“Follow me.” Dwayne opened the door of the van on  the building side, which shielded the interior from the street. 

Dana sat cross-legged on the floorboard, a gun in her hand. A load of Chitauri weapons lined the walls of the van. The heavier ones sat on the floor. “You can test them inside the building. It’s empty. Maybe a homeless person or two, if you’re lucky, so you’ll be able to see what it really does.”

Something clinked on the blacktop. Dwayne saw a dark object roll toward the rear tire of the van. He lunged away, but too late. The night erupted with a loud bang and a flash that seared his eyes. His lungs took in smoke. 

Someone yelled—maybe Bobby. A car engine roared.

Another bang, more smoke, and something hard slammed into his skull. His head pounded, the world spun. He blinked through the bright dots in his vision and the sting of smoke. A man, all in black, even his face and his hair, sauntered casually toward the van, glancing down at Dwayne as though looking at a dying insect.

The stranger bent forward. A strong hand grabbed Dwayne, dragged him along the blacktop, and deposited him against another body. He felt his arms and legs being bound. Then the stranger left and, a moment later, an explosion rocked the night. 

He tilted his head up to see the van engulfed in flames, smaller explosions erupted as the cache of weapons succumbed to the fire. Through the smoke and flames, he caught a glimpse of the dark figure walking away, the satchel of cash in his right hand. He couldn’t tell for sure through his blurred vision and the smoke, but it looked like the man didn’t have a left arm.

His head hurt too much to think about how he was going to explain this to the big boss, so he rolled to his side, threw up, and passed out.

 -0- -0- -0- 

“Senator Lewsom hasn’t been available for comment since the anonymous leak of the recording tying him to Dwayne Monroe, the illegal transfer of top-secret alien weapons, and a large money-laundering scheme. Monroe and the other four defendants remain behind bars pending their arraignments. Police still have no leads on the remaining suspect at large and are asking the public to come forward with any information they might have about the events of that night. If you saw or heard something unusual, please contact the number on the screen.”

Sam turned off the television. He had no idea if the mystery suspect was Bucky, but since Chitauri weapons were involved and it went down in California—one of Bucky’s likely destinations if his westward pattern held—Sam was willing to bet serious money on Bucky.

Where might Bucky go next? Oregon? Washington? Nevada? Hell, what about Canada?

Unfortunately, the trail after Texas went cold, and Sam had been pulled into another Captain America mission to rescue a group of Americans held prisoner in the middle east. Mission successful, and now he was back in Louisiana, trying not to think too hard how he’d react if Bucky turned up dead somewhere. 

The guy was a grown man—former elite assassin and Howling Commando—and fully capable of taking care of himself.  Even though Sam had only gotten to really know Bucky over the past year, he felt like he should be doing more . He promised Steve he’d be there for Bucky. No one else would, not even Steve.

It was a harder job than he imagined, and the man in question didn’t want any help. Bucky seemed to be in the midst of a supersoldier-sized, trauma-fueled mid-life crisis, and Sam could only watch from the sidelines. 

He hated the sidelines, but more than that, he had to admit to himself—though never to Bucky—that he missed the old curmudgeon. The more he’d gotten to know James Buchanan Barnes, the more he realized why Steve sacrificed so much to save him. 

Bucky, who followed Steve into the jaws of death, who threw himself out of an airplane without a parachute, who bulldozed the Shield into Sam’s hands, and who kept fighting, whenever called upon, alongside people who hated him, who’d tried to kill him, just because it was the right thing to do. 

Shit. He actually liked the man. Admired him. Sometimes, in the quiet of the night, he found himself drowning in awe that he’d gotten to partner with both Captain America and Bucky Barnes. 

Bucky Barnes, the most famous of the Howling Commandos. The man who kept coming back from the dead, still swinging. 

How the hell did that even happen?

And now he was Captain America because of both Steve and Bucky. Both stubborn. Both loyal. Both damn good friends. 

Bucky, so help me God, when I find you, I’m gonna punch you, even if it breaks my fist, then force a Louisiana-sized hug on you ‘til you realize there are people who want you to stick around, no matter how many arms you have or how well you can fight.

Chapter Text

He tracks the target through the scope, moving the rifle to follow as the man leaves the brick school building, a young boy beside him, holding the target’s hand. The target stops at a car, fishes for his keys.

Finger on the trigger, he holds his breath, then squeezes. The rifle fires, recoils. The shot rings true. The man’s head snaps back, a red spray slicing through the air, raining on the boy as the target crumples and hits the ground, lifeless. The boy stands, silent, eyes wide. 

Bucky lurched awake, his right elbow and knee slamming into something hard that protested with a crack and groan. He blinked, breathing heavy, taking in glass, a roof, the haze of the dwindling daylight, and the leaves of a tree overhead. 

He was in the SUV. The glove compartment was now smashed, hanging open, and the passenger door dented outward. 

Running his hand over his face, he wiped the sleep from his eyes, then ran his fingers quickly through his hair, scratching at his skull and wishing he could scrub a few select memories out of his brain. He needed an uninterrupted night of sleep.  

The child in his dream was a middle-aged man now, a co-victim of that assassination.  Lucky for him—if luck were a gruesome sadist—the only thing he witnessed was his father’s murder. He didn’t see the Winter Soldier, and so he lived.

Bucky eyed the damage to the interior panel. At least the door held. If he were lucky, maybe it would still open and close. Expensive car repairs were not something he factored into his budget.

He tried the door. It opened with a groan, but when he pulled it closed again, it took a couple of tries and a hard slam to get it to latch. Not great, but doable. 

The glove compartment was hanging open, revealing the stash of energy bars and napkins along with registration papers. He lifted it and, thankfully, it closed, though there was a concave dent in the front. He opened it and closed it a few times, testing its integrity, relieved that it was functional.

He checked his phone. It was just almost nine p.m. Even though it was July, he felt the chill outside. San Francisco had the coldest summers anywhere in California. His jacket provided warmth, but he couldn’t easily zip it, so he opted to keep the front open, leaving his chest and torso with only a couple of layers of cotton between him and the cool breeze.

The ‘shipment’ was due to arrive any minute. The shipment . He hated that term, hated the euphemisms criminals used to cloak the ugliness of their acts in legitimacy.

Like calling a brainwashed prisoner an Asset.

As he looked over the bay, he used the view to remind himself that the world still had good things . Even if the city itself had become more cesspool than playground, and that was even before the Blip, it was surrounded by natural beauty that humanity hadn’t yet managed to destroy. He’d heard that during the Blip some of the big cities flourished, with cheap, sometimes free housing, cleaner streets, and empty industrial buildings that people claimed as their own to start a pop-up restaurant or sell their crafts, until whoever ended up being the rightful owner kicked them out or asked for rent.

After the Blip, chaos erupted. Returnees had no idea what was happening as their surroundings morphed before their eyes, and some found themselves in their homes with different furniture and strangers gaping at them. 

The world was still trying to sort it out—the sudden lack of housing when there had been plenty, property rights, and even custody rights when the parents of previously orphaned-then-adopted children reappeared.

That chaos is probably the only reason Bucky ended up with a pardon, and that was its own kind of messed up.

A ship approached the dock. Bucky pulled the scope from his pack and looked through it until he found the name on the side of the hull.

The Seaduction. Bingo. Not subtle at all, assholes . 

He shifted the scope to the collection of shipping containers. According to the information he’d obtained from a man who no longer had any front teeth, two of them held human cargo, mostly teenage girls smuggled from North Korea and promised freedom but sold instead as sex slaves to the highest bidder.

He could spend the rest of whatever life he had left ending slave traders and freeing their victims, and it still wouldn’t be enough. There were too many people willing to profit off other humans. Too much evil. Like Hydra. Cut off one head, two more take its place. 

He could help the girls on the ship in front of him. He could do for them what no one had done for him. 

Port authorities and inspectors boarded the ship, all business as usual. Twenty minutes later, a port crane unloaded two of the front containers, which were likely filled with legitimate cargo. 

An hour later, all was quiet, and he swapped the scope for a pair of binoculars. A tractor-trailer pulled up to the ship, and a large man dressed in black hopped out of the passenger side, then hurried to the rear and opened the loading doors. 

Through the binoculars, Bucky spotted the girls—children, really. He counted twenty, and all looked terrified. Some appeared no older than thirteen. The oldest might be in her early twenties, but to his surprise, only half of them appeared to be Korean. The rest were of various ethnicities. Chinese, European, and Indian, he guessed.

He swapped his binoculars for his phone’s camera, zooming in as much as he could without losing details, and snapped a few photos. Then he switched to video.

Six men hurried the girls into the back of the tractor-trailer. Three followed them inside, two closed the doors, and the guy who’d hopped out earlier went back into the cab. The truck drove away.

Bucky placed the phone on the dash holder and followed the truck. As he drove, he called in an anonymous tip to the local authorities about the Seaduction . Hopefully, some extra attention and more detailed inspections would net a few of the leftover bad guys. At the very least, it would interrupt any other plans they had.

Bucky debated the merits of waiting until the truck made it to its destination, when he would no doubt be even more outnumbered, or intercepting it on the street and using the element of surprise. He wanted to know who the main boss was and where the headquarters were located, but his chances of a successful operation with minimal casualties were best by interrupting the truck en route.

He waited until the truck stopped at a light, then pulled his SUV to the side of the road, swung the packed crossbody over his chest, and got out of the car. As the light turned green and the truck eased into motion, Bucky ran behind it, making sure to stay close and out of sight of the mirrors.

Now came the tricky part—opening the back door and sending in a smoke canister with one hand, hopefully giving him cover to take out the armed men without risking the girls. If he was fast enough, it would go smoothly. 

He hoped.

Pacing the truck, he grabbed the smoke canister from his pack, held it between his chin and collar bone, then lifted the door latch. As the door swung open, he grabbed the canister, pulled the pin with his teeth, then tossed the cylinder inside. Hoping his right arm was strong enough for what he planned, he grabbed the metal step beneath the cargo door and jerked up. 

The truck careened and slowed as the trailer came back down. Bucky almost ran into the vehicle as the driver fought for control. With a single leap, he was inside, blinking through the smoke as it poured out the open doorway, and located the gunmen. The swerving and smoke had everyone off their feet and disoriented, including the girls, whose choked, coughing screams filled the metal container. One of the guys fired a wild shot at him. Bucky ducked, ripped the gun from the assailant's grip and slammed the butt of it into the man's face. Bucky flung one man out the back and sent the other one sailing after with a swift kick. When they hit the blacktop, neither moved. 

The truck’s air brakes squealed, and the sudden deceleration sent the girls tumbling to the front along with the remaining two gunmen. Bucky used the momentum to leap toward the two men, landing just as one of them managed to fire the assault rifle. 

The vest took three bullets, but his shoulder took one before he sent a fist into the man’s face. Blood sprayed upward, and the man went limp.

The wound in Bucky’s shoulder was bad, but he’d had much worse. He gritted his teeth and grabbed the shirt of the last man, who was fumbling for his gun. With a jerk, Bucky threw the guy upward into the metal roof, head first, and the clang reverberated through the cramped container. Bucky dropped his limp body, not sure if the guy was alive or dead. Two figures appeared in the open end, both with guns aimed at him, and he had only a moment to react. If they opened fire, they’d pepper the inside with bullets, killing everyone inside, including the girls. 

He kicked one of the limp bad guys toward the two armed men and grabbed the second body, flinging it after the first. One of the limp bodies connected, taking out the man on the right, but the other side-stepped the flesh-and-blood projectile.

Bucky launched himself toward the door as the man fired. Two bullets hit the vest, and one punched a hole in his left thigh. When Bucky connected with the gunman, he didn’t hold back. He couldn’t afford to.

He sent his fist through the man’s skull, ending him. In his peripheral vision, he spotted the other assailant get to his feet, firearm swinging up. Bucky rolled, grabbed the dead man’s rifle, and fired. 

He was pretty sure there were no more bad guys left, but he kept his finger on the trigger, his back on the ground, and lifted his head to do a visual sweep. A few of the girls peeked out of the truck, their faces masks of terror. 

Maybe he should have called this one in and let the police handle it, but that came with its own risks, such as a firefight that ended up with both cops and girls dead. 

“Is everyone all right?” he asked the sobbing Korean girl who stared wide-eyed at him. 

He gave her a quick visual scan with his eyes. Her wrists were red and the skin broken, indicating prior restraints. She wore a pink dress with long sleeves, but the right one was torn at the shoulder seam and fell around her elbow. She favored her right side, keeping her arm close to her ribs. 

She needed medical attention. They all did.

She didn’t answer, so he repeated the question in Korean. Her face flickered with surprise, and she nodded, scrubbing hard at her face. 

He heard sirens. Good. The gunfire had drawn police. He kept an eye on the unconscious men around him, lest any of the living ones stir and decide to start shooting, but they all seemed solidly out of commission. 

He dropped his head, his skull thunking against the blacktop, and blinked up at the dark sky. 

Come on, get up and get out of here.

He had suffered far worse injuries. With a grunt and a massive effort to ignore the pain in his shoulder and left leg, he rose to his feet. 

“Police are on the way,” he said in Korean. 

Suddenly the young woman launched herself out of the truck and into his arms. He swung the firearm out of the way and stumbled back from the unexpected bundle suddenly clutching at him. 

“Thank you! Thank you!” she sobbed in frantic Korean. 

He wrapped his arm around her impossibly thin frame. “You’re welcome,” he answered in her native language. “I have to go.”

“Who are you?” a voice asked in English.

He looked up as another teenager, a young woman with blonde hair that looked maybe 16, hopped out of the truck. Inside the cargo bed, there were at least ten more girls than he’d counted going in. Some of them must have been in the truck prior to the ship unloading. 

“No one,” he answered the teenager. “Cops are seconds away, so you should be okay. Don’t touch any of the guns.” He didn’t want a cop mistaking the situation and shooting one of the girls.

He gently extricated himself from the girl’s embrace and guided her into the arms of the American teen, then turned to run back to his car. One of the men on the road groaned, and Bucky gave him a swift kick in the jaw to send him back to sleep. By the time the cops arrived, Bucky was blocks away. 

His shoulder throbbed as he navigated the car through the city streets, keeping his injured left leg as straight as he could. His best bet was making it out of the city before finding a cheap bed, but the drive would be hell. He made it over the Bay Bridge, then pulled off in Emeryville and found a suitable motel. 

The place was worn down and shady, but it would do for the night. He slipped into a jacket to cover his shoulder wound. There wasn’t much he could do to hide the leg except hold his pack in front of the wound as he walked into the lobby. 

Fortunately, check-in was quick, and the clerk barely paid attention. Buck parked in front of his room, slung his gear around himself, and limped inside.

He stripped immediately, groaning as he pulled the shirt over his head. Getting out of the vest took a bit longer than usual, and he inspected the damage from the bullets. The vest was compromised. It might still stop a bullet, but he couldn’t count on it. Fortunately, the cash he repurposed from the weapons buyer in Sacramento offered a nice buffer for such expenses. 

Bucky fished the first aid kit from his bag and went into the bathroom. It was small, with a shower, sink, and toilet. He sat naked on the toilet and worked on the bullet in his thigh first. 

The bullet in his shoulder made his entire arm throb, but it was the only arm he had to work with. He grabbed the forceps and probed the angry wound in his thigh. Pain flared. Fresh blood streamed out of the hole and dribbled down the side of his thigh. 

Kulak Gidry ne chuvstvuyet boli! the voice from the dark bunker echoed in his head. ‘The Fist of Hydra feels no pain.’

He pushed the pain and the memory away. Grabbing the flattened piece of metal with the forceps, he pulled it out and dropped it in the wastebasket. He’d toss the trash bag on his way out so whatever passed for housekeeping in this dive didn’t find bloody bullets and decide to call the police. 

His shoulder was next, and that was going to be a bitch. Looking down, he could see the wound, but it wasn’t a great vantage point. Taking a breath, he bent his right arm and twisted his wrist to get the necessary angle. There was no way to be delicate about the operation, so he dug the tip of forceps into the wound and tried not to bite the inside of his lip, fighting the hot agony that pulsed throughout his chest and shoulder. 

There! He clamped onto the bullet and pulled it slowly out. Too fast, and it might slip out of the metal grip. Once out, it too went into the wastebasket. 

That was over with, thankfully. He slumped forward, breathing a relieved sigh as he dripped blood on the bathroom floor. 

He washed the forceps, hopped in the shower, then dried off and bandaged his wounds. He left the bloodied towels on the bathroom floor—those, too, would have to be disposed of—and staggered to the bed. 

He forced his eyelids open a bit longer and grabbed the journal from the pack on the end of the bed. Opening it to the previous entry, he wrote the date below the previous one and scribbled the number 30 under it. Then he shoved the pack off the bed and tossed the journal on top of it.

He was exhausted, but it was not easy to find a comfortable position that didn’t aggravate his wounds. His shoulder and leg throbbed. The rest of him ached. He ended up on his back with one pillow beneath his arm and his hip shifted to the right, with his left leg slightly bent onto his right. 

He flirted with sleep, thinking about the Korean girl and how she’d launched herself at him, her arms wrapped around him, clutching the back of his jacket. Before he started this mission, the last time anyone thanked him for saving them was the councilmember who climbed out of the van after the Flag Smasher’s assassination attempt. It was a feeling long forgotten that stopped Bucky in his tracks and made him hesitate. It felt good but hesitation could get him killed.

He tried to remember the last time anyone hugged him like that girl. He fell asleep thinking of his mother and her tight, warm embrace on the morning he left for the war.

-0- -0- -0- 

The caller ID on Sam’s phone was a 415 area code he didn’t recognize. Normally, he’d let it go to voicemail, but maybe it was Bucky calling—or news of Bucky, and most likely bad news if that were the case. He took a breath and answered it.

“Who is this?”

“Is this Sam Wilson?” a man asked.

“Yes, who are you?”

“I’m Detective Arnold with the San Francisco police department. I’m involved with an investigation into the kidnapping and human trafficking of thirty minors, and it appears James Barnes was involved.

Involved? No. Kicking ass, probably. Unfortunately, the police didn’t know that. “No way,” Sam told the man.

“We don’t think he was involved in committing the crime,” the Detective clarified. “According to the victims, he rescued them, but two of the suspects are dead, and we found Barnes’ blood on the scene.”

Blood. DNA. Fingerprints. The government had processed the hell out of the former Winter Soldier when they had their hands on him before his pardon.

Shit. Sam sank onto the couch in Sarah’s living room. Fortunately, she and the boys were out running errands. First, a shotgun hit, now this. Damnit, Bucky, why are you determined to get yourself killed?

“How much blood?” His gut clenched as he waited for the answer.

“Enough to indicate serious injury. According to victim statements, Barnes was shot at least twice. He took off before police arrived, and fleeing the scene is a serious matter, but we just want to talk to him. He’s a vital witness to the crime.”

Sam’s grip tightened on the phone. How badly was Bucky injured? Serious for a normal person? Or serious for a serum-enhanced human? “I don’t know where he is. If you find him, let me know. I’ve been looking for him.” And having about as much luck as I did after the SHIELD-HYDRA fiasco . “Just so you know, he’s a good guy. If one of your officers does find him, make sure they don’t shoot him.”

“We don’t shoot unless we have to.”

Sam wished he could believe that. 

“Do you have any idea why Barnes is in San Francisco?” the detective asked.

He did, or at least he was pretty sure he did, but ‘being a vigilante’ wasn’t an appropriate answer. “No idea at all. Probably just sightseeing. The guy’s earned a vacation. He helped save the universe, after all.” Best to remind the detective of that fact. “And before that, he was fighting Nazis.” 

He was laying it on thick, but the Winter Soldier was a heavy legacy to overcome, and he’d lay it on as thick as he had to if it meant some cop’s finger would hesitate even a fraction of a second longer on the trigger when facing the former Winter Soldier.

“Yeah, I know the story. The only Howling Commando to give his life in service of his country. Look, Captain, like I said, we just want to talk. If you hear from him, please contact me. Did my cell number come up on your phone?”

“Yeah, I have it.” Sam wasn’t going to make any promises so kept his response vague. “Thanks. I’m in the middle of something, gotta go.” It was a lie but gave him a reason to hang up quickly.

He opened the browser on his phone and searched the news for the San Francisco story. Local media had extensive coverage, but article after article, it was all the same. Thirty girls from various nations, half of them from North Korea. A few American teenagers, mostly runaways, two with families who were still searching for them. 

There were stories about those tearful reunions.

The victims’ statements were all over the place in terms of what happened, but all of them were consistent on a few facts—a one-armed stranger with a black-streaked face and a crossbody pack took out six armed men. He spoke both English and Korean and had short hair. He disappeared before the police arrived, moving faster than anyone they’d ever seen.

That was good news. Moving fast hopefully meant whatever injuries Bucky sustained weren’t as serious as the detective indicated…or it could mean that Bucky just hadn’t lost enough blood to slow him down at that point. 

Hospitals report gunshot wounds to the police, and the detective would’ve been informed of such a report. So Bucky either treated his wounds himself or…. 

No, there was no way the guy who survived Nazis, a fall from a speeding train, Hydra, Thanos, and the Snap would succumb to a couple of bullets. Bucky wasn’t dead. No way.

Chapter Text

“Boss wants the delivery on the third at ten. Can you make that timeline?”

“Not a problem. Any livestock needs?”

Bucky’s hand clenched around the steering wheel as he listened to the conversation. Livestock likely meant humans coerced into doing their bidding, probably drug mules or sex slaves.

“No. He’s got someone in mind.”

“Not a problem.”

Bucky wasn’t sure if the delivery included drugs or something else, but he’d gotten wind about Hydra equipment that changed hands during the Blip. Hydra leftovers had to be kept out of the wrong hands. He clenched the wheel harder, and the plastic creaked. 

Immediately, he loosened his grip. He didn’t need more car repairs, though he was no longer hurting for money thanks to the duffel of cash he’d obtained in Sacramento. Still, there was no telling where his travels might lead him or what equipment he’d need, and anything left over belonged to victims. 

Like the girls in San Francisco.

“South street seaport.”

He had a location, date, and time. Looks like he was heading back to New York, and with the deal only ten days away, he couldn’t afford to waste time.

“Don’t be late. Boss has special plans for it that night. He isn’t a forgiving man, and he leaves a brutal yelp review for bad service.”

Silence, then. “The Fat Man will get the delivery on time. Don’t worry.”

-0- -0- --0-

Matt Murdock held his position on the roof, ears tuned to the harbor. The auction would begin in a few hours. Fisk couldn’t be allowed to rebuild his power base. The man should be in jail, and still would be if not for the Blip. 

He heard the boat arriving, the size of a small trawler from the sound of the engine and the way it sliced through the water. Four men waited for it on the docks. 

As the boat docked and the engine died, Matt listened to creaking floorboards and  footsteps. He couldn’t distinguish heartbeats from this distance, but he counted at least four more men on the boat. It wasn’t the delivery he was interested in, but the item was heading to a secret location for the auction. Matt needed to know where that auction was being held. Most of New York’s big wig criminals would be in attendance. All he had to do was follow the delivery and, in a couple of hours, he’d put a dent in New York’s criminal underbelly.

-0- -0- -0-

Bucky crouched low and watched through his binoculars as a white-haired man hopped off the boat and approached three more at the docks. They chatted for a moment, their postures stiff and eyes wary. The white-haired man waved, and three more guys wheeled a large item from the boat.

A slither of iciness snaked through him as he peered at the thing through the binoculars. 

“Then wipe him, and start over.”

The clamps on his arms. The whir of machinery. The helpless anticipation that twisted his insides. The cool metal against his face. The hiss just before white-hot pain scorched through his skull. 

Another man appeared, observing from the ship as the others navigated the cargo onto the dock. There was only one use for that chair, and Bucky needed to find out who wanted it, then make sure they never had a chance to use it.

-0- -0- -0-

Matt followed the package to the warehouse. He knew only that it was a piece of Hydra equipment that changed hands multiple times during the Blip. Fisk had ties to Hydra, the Hand, and the Ten Rings. Fisk had ties to almost every major criminal organization in the United States .

Hunkering low on the roof, Matt listened as a black SUV pulled up in front of the warehouse. Two people got out. Flat shoes and heels. The man spoke to his companion, and Matt recognized the voice as Norman Romanski, an art dealer whose real merchandise was black-market technologies. His presence confirmed that the warehouse was the auction site, and the guests were starting to arrive.

-0- -0- -0- 

Bucky observed the proceedings in the warehouse from his vantage point in the duct space of the roof. 

This was an auction, not a simple sale of black-market goods, but an actual event with twenty-five guests, a dozen guards, and a large man in a white suit that Bucky assumed was the “Fat Man.” This was much bigger than he realized, and he was badly outnumbered. He didn’t know the players in the audience, but it was a near certainty that they were all part of the criminal underbelly of New York. 

Five items had already been auctioned, collectively totaling more than two million dollars. Small ticket items, for the most part. A few outdated items from the destroyed Avenger’s complex, a Chitauri energy gun, and a USB drive alleged to have pre-Blip Hydra and Shield passwords and encryption protocols that were probably no longer of any use—a buy-at-your-own risk low-level item for anyone wanting to try their luck at stumbling on something useful.

The Fat Man came on stage, a walking stick in his hand. His voice was deep, and he carried himself with confidence. He gave a gentle, welcoming smile. “Thank you all for coming. I’m pleased to inform you that the item has arrived.” He gestured off stage, behind a wall and a curtain. 

Three men wheeled the chair onto the stage, positioned it in the center, then locked the wheels and tethered it to the stage floor. 

“Thank you, gentlemen,” the Fat Man said. “This is the only device of its kind that has ever been recovered during the Blip. It has been lovingly inspected and restored to its original working condition. This chair is capable of wiping the memories of any human subject, even an enhanced one. At maximum power, it will kill a normal human being, but at twenty percent capacity, it will successfully erase his memories.”

Bucky couldn’t tear his eyes away from the machine. He had no idea what had happened to it after the destruction of the helicarriers and the release of secrets that sent Hydra and SHIELD into chaos. He wasn’t even sure this was the chair stored in the bank vault. 

But the memory of its brutal embrace, the hiss of power coursing through its mechanical veins, and the electricity that stole pieces of him, second by agonizing second, were embedded in every neuron of his body. 

He had to call this in. There were too many people present, and he couldn’t fight all of them with only one arm.  He waited to hear applause, then dialed police dispatch and gave the location. 

Once police arrived, the criminals would scatter. Most would likely escape, but Bucky had only one mission this time around. 

Destroy the chair. 

“I’m sure you’ll all like a demonstration,” the fat man announced.

A demonstration? Bucky’s lungs froze as he watched a struggling man forced onto the stage by two goons gripping his arms. A third held a gun at the ready. 

No. No. No. This wasn’t happening. He had no idea who the man was, but he sure as hell wasn’t a willing participant, and Bucky couldn’t sit by and let another human being go through that hell. 

Did they mean to kill the man or erase his memories? Either way, it couldn’t be allowed to happen. But there were too many people, and with one arm and no backup, Bucky’s odds of being able to save the guy were low. 

“Hello, Agent Jameson,” the Fat Man addressed the prisoner.

Agent?

“Thank you for joining us,” the Fat Man continued, his tone polite, gentle. 

“If you’re going to kill me, just get it over with,” the agent retorted.

“Oh, we’re not going to kill you,” the Fat Man said, then turned to the audience. “Allow me to introduce my associate here, Agent William Jameson of the DEA.”

A DEA agent? Shit to hell. The prisoner was law enforcement. Goddamnit . An innocent man. They were going to put an innocent man in that chair. 

No. Not happening. That chair would never be used again. 

Never.

“He is an honorable man, very good at his job,” the Fat Man continued. “It brings me no pleasure to do this, but as you know, our work requires secrecy, and he threatens that secrecy. However, a man of his connections and skills could prove very useful.”

“You’re delusional if you think I’m working for you,” Agent Jameson scowled.

“Please, sit down, Agent Jameson,” the Fat Man said, pointing his cane at the chair.

The goons maneuvered the struggling man into the metal chair. The hum of electricity rose. Someone had connected it to power. Metal restraints clamped into position along Jameson’s arms. 

-0- -0- -0-

Matt listened from outside the warehouse. A DEA agent? Time was running out. He was outnumbered, but Fisk was here, along with a DEA agent who likely had enough evidence to send Fisk back to prison. 

Crawling along the outside of the building, he kept track of the guards’ footsteps. He heard two heartbeats on the roof, but they were both slow, as if the men were unconscious or sleeping. The scent of blood told him there were injuries. A third heartbeat was fast, thready. There was no shuffle of footsteps from the roof. No rustle of fabric or shifts of position. Soft breathing. 

Someone had already taken out a few of Fisk’s men. Who was the new player? A rival criminal? 

A commotion from inside forced his attention back to the auction. A crash. Yells. A scream. Gunfire. The chaotic reverberation of frantic footsteps. 

Matt ran into the auction house. The guests were fleeing, and he sidestepped two of them, letting them go. They weren’t his concern.

“That’s the Winter Soldier!” he heard someone say.

Matt tilted his head. Barnes was here?

“How the hell do you figure that with all that shit on his face?” another man answered, his voice sounding younger.

“Look at him, strong, fast, one-arm. It’s him.”

“Shit! Let’s get out of here,” the younger man yelled.

Matt let them go, focusing on Fisk, the DEA agent, and the guy on stage tearing through metal who had to be James Buchanan Barnes. 

-0- -0- -0- 

Bucky ripped off the metal restraints at the joints and yanked Jameson out of the chair. 

“Who are YOU?” the Fat Man bellowed at him. 

Bucky spun just as the boss man’s gigantic fist came at him, barely missing. 

“Go!” He shouted at the agent, then turned to face the white-suited figure that stalked toward him, calmly, confidently, as if he considered Bucky no threat. 

Five feet away, the man stopped, and his head tilted as he studied Bucky. “I know you. Sergeant Barnes. The Winter Soldier.” The Fat Man straightened. “I understand,” his tone was suddenly gentle. “This brings back distasteful memories for you, no doubt. I apologize for this unpleasantness. Perhaps we can take these unfortunate circumstances and create something mutually beneficial? Your services in exchange for the chair—yours to do with as you like.”

Really? This asshole was trying to hire him? “No thanks.” Anger flushed hot through his cheeks at the man’s hubris . “There’s only one thing I want to do with this thing .” He grabbed one of the metal halos and ripped it from the chair. 

“Stop!” The crime boss’s voice was deep and bellowing.

Bucky’s rage fueled his fist as he pummeled the remaining halo, his knuckles cracking as he demolished the barbaric metal arch that erased the man he was and helped forge the Winter Soldier.

A solid white mass lurched into his peripheral vision, and Bucky turned in time to counter the assault, blocking with a hard elbow into the Fat Man’s chin and sending him staggering back. The cane clattered to the floor. Bucky followed through with a hard kick into the guy’s stomach that should have sent him several feet through the air. Instead, the man stumbled another few steps but miraculously kept his balance. 

Crap.  

Whoever the crime boss was, he was strong. Too strong. Had he managed to get a hold of Nagel’s serum? The kingpin was strong enough to present a challenge, and Bucky was working with a handicap. 

The Fat Man roared and ran forward, fist swinging. Bucky had the advantage when it came to speed and twisted out of the way, using his momentum as he turned to bring his fist into the side of the man’s face. 

The guy collapsed to the floor, shook his head, then, impossibly, pushed back onto his feet. 

You’ve got to be kidding me. Bucky took a breath. No more pulling punches. This asshole wasn’t going down easy.  

A red blur leaped onto the stage, throwing kicks and punches that the white-suited man deflected. Bucky had no idea who the newcomer was, but at least the man in red seemed to be on the right side of things…for the moment. Bucky let the two trade blows as he scanned the room. He heard footsteps, the cocking of guns. They’d have company soon. 

But who the hell was the incredibly fast circus guy in the weird horned costume?

“I have had enough of you, Murdock!” the Fat Man bellowed. 

Murdock ? Bucky gave the red-suited figure another look. The height and build were right. 

Matt Murdock. The supposedly blind lawyer? Faking it? What a sleazeball maneuver.

“New York has had enough of you, Fisk,” Murdock retorted.

The voice sounded right. It was his lawyer.

And the man in white was Wilson Fisk. Bucky had heard of him, but in name only when Hydra used him briefly. 

What the hell had he walked into? Unfortunately, Bucky didn’t have time to ponder it. Fisk and Murdock were back at it. Murdock moved with near-prescience in the way he countered Fisk’s attacks, but the larger man finally landed a punch to Murdock’s chest that flung the not-so-blind lawyer twenty feet across the stage. 

Bucky tackled Fisk, sending them both careening off the stage and onto the floor as he slammed his fist hard into Fisk’s nose. Then his cheek. Again, and again. Blood spurted, but the Fat Man refused to surrender. A strong kick to Bucky’s groin sent him sailing. He landed with a hard thud, his pelvis on fire, but one thing Hydra taught him was how to shrug off pain. He was on his feet at the same time as Fisk.

Murdock was back on his feet, too, behind Fisk. Footsteps clattered around them. Five men with guns. Two behind Murdock and three around Bucky and Fisk. More were on the way, their footsteps thudding outside, the clink of metal indicating more weapons. 

Murdock flipped into an acrobatic display that rivaled any circus performer as the armed men slid to a stop, and Bucky used the distraction to careen around Fisk, giving a solid kick that sent the crime boss into the nearest gunman. Two of the goons opened fire, but Bucky was prepared, a flash-bang grenade in his hand, pin in his teeth, rolling as he sent it toward the gunmen. 

They dove away as it detonated, and Bucky had another one right behind, rolling it toward Fisk as the man pushed to his feet. Fisk kicked his downed henchman on top of it, and the grenade gave a muffled bang. 

Sirens screamed in the distance. Bucky hoped that meant the DEA agent had made it to safety and called for reinforcements. Murdock was in the air suddenly, on Fisk, and the two traded more blows as Bucky dealt with the remaining gunmen, kicking one hard into the other and sending both sailing through the exterior wall, guns and all. They landed in a pile of motionless limbs, one on top of the other.

The one on the bottom was a bloody mess. Probably dead. The guy on top was out, but he might make it. Bucky didn’t give either man another thought. He moved into the fray, turning just in time to see Fisk with his hands around Murdock’s throat, the fight draining from the lawyer with the pinching of his carotids. A few seconds is all it would take to render a man unconscious by blocking blood flow to the brain.

Bucky reached into his pack. It was time to end this. He pulled out the handgun, cocked it, and aimed the barrel at Fisk’s head. “Let him go.” 

Shooting people, even bad guys, wasn’t part of his plan. He avoided using guns after starting his cross-country crime-fighting spree, telling himself he wasn’t a killer anymore. 

That was a lie. He’d always been a killer, even before Hydra. How many enemy soldiers had he taken out, at close range and from a hundred yards away? Too many to count. War was different, but killing was the same. No matter the reason or the century, men all died the same way at the end of a bullet—with a spray of blood and, sometimes, a name on their lips.

Fisk opened his hands, and Murdock dropped like a ragdoll, crumpling onto the stage, barely conscious. 

The crime boss’s additional backup arrived as half a dozen armed men surrounded the stage. Bucky maintained his focus, the barrel aimed at Fisk’s forehead. 

“I believe you’re outnumbered, Sergeant Barnes,” Fisk said amicably.

“You’re right about that, but I’m faster than your men,” Bucky said, his voice and hand steady. “You’ll be dead before you hit the ground.”

Fisk tilted his head. “It seems we’re at an impasse. Let me propose a solution.” He glanced down at Murdock, who was slowly rolling onto his side, his head bowed toward his chest, aware but still. “We all walk away. You. Mr. Murdock. Me. My men.”

The sirens outside were closer. Bucky estimated two minutes until they were on scene. Even Fisk had to hear them by now, which meant the man knew time was short. 

“I just have to wait ‘til those sirens get here,” Bucky said. 

“So the gunfight can begin?” Fisk asked. “Who knows how many people will die? Oh, I’m sure you don’t care much for yourself. You’ve died how many times already? But this guy?”

Half the guns shifted toward Murdock. 

“Are you really willing to sacrifice someone else’s life?” Fisk’s chin came up as he waited for an answer. 

“I’m pretty sure he knew what he was getting into,” Bucky bluffed. He wasn’t willing to sacrifice Murdock, even if the guy did fake being blind. There were less reprehensible ways to throw off suspicion of being a masked vigilante. 

Then again, with the way the cap covered Murdock’s eyes, maybe he wasn’t faking, but he had to see something. No blind man could fight with the kind of precision Murdock showed.

Maybe the horned headpiece held some kind of neural-optical technology?

“True,” Fisk acknowledged.

One minute until the sirens came. 

A commotion outside distracted the gunmen for a second, and Bucky fired, aiming and hitting Fisk’s right shoulder, then threw himself on top of Murdock, dropping the gun to wrap his one arm around the lawyer and using his legs to catapult them both off the stage.  Fisk roared, and something sharp slammed into Bucky’s side, piercing his vest and skewering straight through him. He felt Murdoch jerk. The object pulled back, sliding out and leaving a trail of pain and blood. Footsteps retreated, tires screeched to a halt as sirens died and gunfire erupted outside. 

Blood. It was warm and sticky beneath him, spilling onto Murdock as the man grunted and slithered out from beneath Bucky. He found himself on the hard floor. Hands turned him over, igniting a fire in his side that shot straight through his core, and as the groan ripped from his throat, he tasted blood. 

“Barnes?” Murdock’s head was above him, his mouth twisted in horror. Strong jaw. Hint of stubble. Eyes hidden behind the mask.

So, this was it. Bucky closed his eyes as he forced in each tight, painful breath. “I hope…you got…the…checks out.” 

“We’ll talk about that later.” Hands pressed on one of his wounds, bringing fresh hell. 

He resisted reacting with a fist to the man’s face, though Bucky wasn’t sure his arm would cooperate even if he tried. “Tell Sam…” He swallowed the blood in his mouth to get out the rest of the words. “Duffel…in…my white SUV. Get to S.F. girls. Victims.”

“Look, we can talk about all this later, just shut up and focus on breathing,” Murdock said before everything faded.

Chapter Text

Sam woke to the ringing of his cell phone. Snatching it off the nightstand, he looked bleary-eyed at the caller ID. A New York number. He sat up, suddenly awake with a surge of adrenaline, hoping for news of Bucky.

Not bad news, please. 

He answered it. “Wilson here.”

“Captain Wilson, Matt Murdock here.” There was a pause and a breath that made Sam’s stomach heavy. 

He closed his eyes, bracing himself. The man wouldn’t be calling at this hour with that tone to deliver good news. 

“I got word that Sergeant Barnes is in Metro-General Hospital.”

“How bad?”

Another pause, then. “Bad.”

“I’m on my way.” Sam hung up, dressed, and was out the door, phone in hand, texting Shuri with the news as he slid behind the wheel of his car. 

-0- -0- -0- 

The heart monitor beeped steadily. The man in the bed was attached to a variety of tubes. IV. Drains. Catheter. Ventilator. 

Sam shifted on the hard hospital bench along the window. Murdock had visited, arm in a sling, with Nelson and Page. Rhodey stopped by, offering well wishes, asking if Sam needed anything, then going for a coffee run. A DEA agent even stopped by, which sent Sam into an almost panic until he realized the guy was there to thank Bucky.  

One eight-hour surgery and two days after the battle with Fisk, and Bucky still hadn’t woken. The closest he’d gotten was a crinkled brow, a spike in his heart rate, and a turn of his head that had the medical team upping his pain killers, trying to find the right dose for a supersoldier. Bucky’s face wasn’t as pale as it had been when he got out of surgery, but it was still far too pasty. Ash gray circles hung below his closed eyes, and his lips were almost as colorless as the rest of his face. His right hand was bandaged around a palm splint, leaving an opening for the IV line.

For someone with enhanced healing abilities, Bucky wasn’t making the progress Sam hoped for. Maybe it was the drugs being dripped into him by the IV? The doctors weren’t sure of the dose, so they might be overdosing Bucky.

Sam reached into the duffel full of cash and other odds and ends that Murdock brought with instructions that Bucky wanted it distributed to the girls he rescued in San Francisco. Pulling out the black journal, Sam flipped through the pages again. He’d read every entry from the last four months. Dates and numbers, and all it took was a Google search to match each one to a news story. 

The number six below the date April 5, 2024, representing the six women rescued in Florida. 

May 1, 2024 and the number three. That tied to a news story in Arkansas about three immigrants found chained in a basement, two boys and one girl, forced into labor and sexual acts. Sam hadn’t connected that one to Bucky before. The news story mentioned the victims heard a commotion with sounds of a struggle and assumed it was a home invasion. None of the victims got a good look in the middle of the night at the figure that entered the dark basement and freed them. 

There was no mention of a one-armed man, so it never popped up on Sam’s keyword news alert.

July 17, 2024, and the number 30. The teenagers and young women rescued in San Francisco. 

It wasn’t hard to see the pattern. Bucky was hunting people who enslaved human beings. In between, he broke up a drug or weapons ring here and there, according to the news alerts, but every entry in the journals was tied to lives saved, all of them related to human trafficking in some form. Sex slaves. Forced labor. 

Yeah, there was a theme alright.

“Sam Wilson.” 

He looked up to see Ayo standing in the doorway, her arms at her side, unusually weaponless, a black case clutched in one hand. 

He managed a small smile as he slipped the journal in his back pocket. “They wouldn’t let you in with the spear, huh?”

She tilted her head, eyebrows raising. “No one but the King commands the Dora Milaje. I chose to honor their customs.”

“Of course.” 

She walked in and set the case on the floor next to Sam, out of the way of the machines and floorspace medical personnel would need. “What is his condition?”

Sam took a deep breath. That was the million-dollar question. Would Bucky pull through? It sure as hell didn’t seem like he was fighting his way back. “He was skewered all the way through, side to side. Nicked his liver and tore through his intestines and stomach. He lost a lot of blood. Almost too much. They used every compatible pint they had available to keep him alive.”

Maybe that was why Bucky wasn’t recovering like he should. Had the new blood diluted the effects of the serum?

“He is strong,” Ayo said. “He has survived worse.” 

Sure. The fall from the train. Probably North Korea. Sam didn’t know all of Bucky’s history, mostly because Bucky didn’t talk much about it, but he knew the type of missions Hydra sent the Winter Soldier on. No one would defrost a brainwashed supersoldier for a garden-variety mission that any operative could easily accomplish.

Odds are, Bucky had survived worse than this.

Sam eyed the black case. “That the arm?”

Ayo nodded.

“You here alone?” Usually she traveled with other Dora Milaje.

“The others stand guard outside this facility.”

Right. They couldn’t all leave their spears propped against a wall, and it would create an international incident if Wakandan warriors bulldozed their way through nurses and orderlies in a New York hospital.

“If you leave me a way to contact you,” Sam began, “I’ll let you know if there’s any change in his condition.”

Ayo sat on the other end of the bench, her back straight, shoulders back. “I will wait with you, for a little while.”

Sam gave a grateful nod. He didn’t know how long a wait they were in for. Two days was more than enough time for Bucky to at least open his eyes…if the serum was working and he wanted to. 

Maybe the guy really did have a death wish. 

Sam rose and walked up to the bed, on Bucky’s right side. He only had one arm for the IV, wrapped around a splint. Sam was careful when he placed his hand on Bucky’s, not wanting to jostle the tubing or aggravate the battered knuckles. Whatever or whoever Bucky punched hard enough to bust his knuckles must be in even worse shape than he was.

“Hey man, I know what you were doing. You were trying to make amends, right? Save lives to make up for the ones you took as the Winter Soldier? Free people used as slaves, like you were.” A lump rose in his throat, and he swallowed it quickly. Seventy years a slave was too damn long. Hell, one day was too long. “I don’t know why you didn’t talk to me. You helped me. I would have helped you.”

Ayo came up next to him and placed her hand on Bucky’s arm. “White Wolf, if you can hear our words, follow them. You have much yet to accomplish.”

Sam sucked in a hard breath to push down the tears that threatened. He was grateful for her support. She and Bucky hadn’t exactly patched things up after the Zemo thing, but it was obvious she still cared for their wayward headcase. 

“You hear that, White Wolf,” Sam said, doing his best to inject a teasing quality to his tone. “Ayo says you’re not done yet, and you know better than to argue with a Dora Milaje.” The heart monitor continued its slow, steady beat as the rhythmic swish of the ventilator announced each lungful of air. “Come on, man.” Sam slid his hand to Bucky’s wrist and squeezed gently. “I know you’re…tired.” He swallowed hard. “You’ve lost a lot, maybe more than anyone ever has.” 

Shit. As far as pep talks went, this sucked. 

Sam was beginning to realize how much the man lying in the bed had to be hurting. Oh, he’d had a vague idea. No one could go through what Bucky had without suffering deep psychological scars, but with that damn supersoldier stoicism—or maybe it was something of the Winter Soldier stoicism still left inside him, courtesy of Hydra’s damn brutality—it was hard to tell at any given time what was going through Bucky’s brain. He rarely talked about any of it, except when forced to do so by a therapist not-quite-cut-out for 70-years-of-Hydra trauma.

“I’m screwing this up.” Sam lowered his head. 

Ayo’s warm hand gripped his shoulder. “James needs to hear the voice of a friend. The words do not matter.”

He gave her a grateful smile and hoped she was right. “Okay,” he nodded, giving Bucky’s wrist another squeeze. “You know we care about you, right? Me. Ayo. Sarah. The Boys. Hell, even Rhodey stopped by.” There was one person who couldn’t visit. One person Bucky needed right now—maybe the only voice that could pull him out of whatever dark hole his mind had crawled into. “I know I’m not Steve, but I am your friend. I need you, partner. You refused to let me give up the Shield. Come on, man. Don’t you give up now.”

-0- -0- -0-

Beeping was the first thing his brain registered. The second was low snoring to his right. He became aware of his body in a vague sense, the heaviness of his legs, right arm, an unnatural pressure in his chest, something hard in his throat, a kiss of pain with each rise and fall of his breath.

His skull felt two sizes too big, and thick, like the whole thing was filled with sand. 

What happened? 

A fat man in a white suit. The chair. 

The chair. 

The chair.

He tried to move, but pain shot through his center, snaking around his chest, and into his back. Light danced behind his eyelids, and slowly, he opened them. Fluorescent panels loomed overhead, their faint hum tickling his eardrums. 

Where was he?

The beeping increased. A shuffling from his right, the movement of fabric and flesh. 

“Bucky, hey.” A familiar, dark face. A bright smile. Sam. “I’ll call the nurse. You’re okay. Don’t try to move.”

A moment later, a woman appeared, light brown skin, dark hair. “Hello.” Another white smile. “I’m Claire, one of the nurses here, Sergeant Barnes. You have a tube in your throat helping you breathe. Don’t try to fight it. I’ll get a doctor.” 

He closed his eyes. His body was heavy, and the hum of the lights morphed into an annoying ringing in his ears. 

Sometime later, there was another voice. Male. Unfamiliar. 

“Sergeant Barnes? I’m Doctor Matthews. Are you awake?”

It took a monumental effort to open his eyelids and see the gray-haired man standing over him. 

“Hello,” the man said. “Sergeant Barnes, you’re in Metro-General hospital. You’ve been unconscious for four days. We operated on you, had to give you 10 units of blood. It diluted the serum in your system and made it difficult for us to find the right dosage for the medications, the painkillers in particular, but we’ve sorted it out, and you’re going to be okay. Blink if you understand.”

Bucky managed a blink. He slid his gaze to Sam’s face, noted the lines of worry in the brow, the crinkle of fear at the edges of his eyes. That look told Bucky just how close he’d come to never opening his eyes again. 

But he felt weak…weaker than he could remember feeling in a long time. And tired. So tired. His lids were heavy. The light tormented his eyes. He closed them and fell back into the darkness.

When he woke next, sunlight was streaming into the room and Sam was sprawled on a bench beneath the window, typing on his phone. The hard tube was still in Bucky’s throat, so he tapped his hand on the mattress.

Sam’s head shot up, and he was on his feet instantly, phone discarded on the bench. “Hey, Bucky, you’re awake again. That’s great news. Do you remember what happened?”

Fisk. The auction. The chair. The DEA agent. Murdock.

The chair. 

Smashing it. Destroying it so it could never be used again. 

He blinked. He mostly remembered. There was a fight. A pain in his side. Fisk was strong. Too strong. 

Another white-clad figure walked up to the bed. A doctor. Stethoscope around her neck, long blonde hair pulled back in a bun. A smile. Still, his heart fluttered faster as his eyes danced around the room—fluorescent lights, tubes, machines. 

Scientists. Experiments. Saws. Needles.

The warmth of a large hand descended on his forearm.

“You’re going to be okay, Bucky,” Sam said. “They had to give you a massive transfusion that diluted the serum in your bloodstream. It’s why you’re taking longer to heal. That, and they accidentally overdosed you on painkillers because they calculated a supersoldier sized amount, but your organs are still protected by the serum because, you know, DNA and all. Shuri consulted remotely, worked it all out with the medical team here. You’re going to be fine. It’ll take about two to four weeks, depending on how fast your metabolism works in this condition, until your body replenishes its own blood and you’re back to full supersoldier annoyingness.”

Bucky tried to process the barrage of words with a brain that felt like cotton candy. Was he not…enhanced anymore? A normal guy for a  couple of weeks?”

“Sergeant Barnes,” the doctor began, “I’m going to hold up fingers. Blink for however many fingers you see. One blink for one finger. Two blinks for two. Do you understand.”

He gave as much of a nod as he could with the tube in his throat, and she held up three fingers. He blinked three times. 

“That’s good.” She gave a wide smile, a man appeared alongside her, dressed in scrubs. 

He hated hospitals. Hated doctors. Needles. Tubes. People hovering over him. Lights in his eyes. 

“We’re going to take the tube out. Nurse Pierce here will assist.”

Pierce. Alexander. The bank vault. The chair. The chair. The chair. His heart pounded, the beeping of the machine increased, and a hand squeezed his wrist.

“Sergeant Barnes?”

“One minute, please. Bucky.” Sam’s face slid into view. “Hey, man, look at me and lose yourself in my soulful, brown eyes.” A white smile with a glint of wetness in the eyes. 

Sam Wilson, not Alexander Pierce. A hospital. Not the bank vault. He was safe. He wasn’t the Winter Soldier. The chair was destroyed. He’d destroyed it. It wouldn’t hurt anyone ever again. No more memories to erase, no more minds stolen. 

“If you’re ready for us to proceed,” the doctor began, “blink once.”

Bucky blinked. He wanted the tube out. The head of the bed rose with a mechanical hum. The doctor leaned over him. A pair of scissors in the air. Sam’s hand gave a squeeze.

He closed his eyes. If he didn’t see the things above him, the tubes, the sharp objects, he could make believe that he was somewhere else. A song his mother made up to comfort him played in his mind, but the beeping was there, intruding, keeping him tethered to the reality of the hospital room.

A hiss of air from behind him. 

Sam’s voice. “She’s getting the nasal canula ready,” Sam said. “It helps if you tell him what you’re doing right before you do it. He hasn’t had the best experience with doctors.”

“Understood.”

Bucky made a mental note to upgrade Sam’s Christmas present. 

“Sergeant Barnes, I’m just going to check for leaks around the tracheal tube, and you’ll feel a cold object as I place the stethoscope on the side of your neck. I want you to take some nice big breaths.”

The cold metal pressed along the left side of his neck, and he couldn’t quite stop the flinch. “You’re doing great, Sergeant. No signs of edema. Everything’s looking good.”

“Fi02 still set to one,” the nurse said.

“Thank you. Sergeant, take big, big breaths, and when I tell you, hold it. I’m going to pull the tube out right when you’re holding that big, deep breath. Just breathe deeply right now, but don’t hold that big inhaled breath until I tell you.”

He sucked in a few deep breaths through the tube. Cold metal slid beneath the tape holding the tube into place, then the tape tugged, and a hand came behind his head. 

“I’m pulling the tape off,” the doctor said. “I know it isn’t very comfortable. Now, take a deep breath in.” 

He sucked in air.

“Another deep breath in…. Then hold it. I’m taking the tube out.” The hardness slid from his throat. “Cough it out! Cough it out!” 

Then pain in his throat, a feeling like his lungs were being turned inside out. He coughed, and fire erupted through his abdomen. The room spun. A bead of sweat snaked down the back of his neck. 

“I’m going to put a suction tube in your mouth just for a few minutes to get all that gunk out.”

The tube slid into his mouth. It was too much. He pulled away, ignoring the pain, his hand coming up. 

“Okay, easy buddy.” Sam again. “I don’t want to get in the way of what you need to do, Doc—”

“It’s okay. I understand his history, and you do whatever you need to to help keep him calm.”

“Maybe see how he does, forego the nasal canula and suction right now?”

“Okay we’ll play it by ear. Sergeant Barnes, can you open your eyes for me?”

He lifted his lids, squinting against the light, seeing her face and Sam’s. “How does your chest feel? Do you feel like you’re getting enough air?”

He nodded, mouthed, “Okay.” 

“You’ve been out for four days, as I mentioned,” the doctor said, “and we’ve had you on IV support, but I’m putting you on clear liquids for the next few days. Lunch will be in half an hour or so. Take in what you can slowly, even if it’s just a few sips.”

The doctor hovered over him for a few more minutes, and the stethoscope returned, cold on his chest, as he took more deep, painful breaths, his insides stretching, groaning, protesting the movement. 

Then the nurse and doctor left, and Sam remained, eyes glistening, smile faded. “You scared the hell out of me, man.”

Sorry.

Sam gestured toward the floor. “Ayo brought your arm back. Whenever you’re ready, I can reattach it. I texted her to…” his head came up, “…and there she is.” 

Bucky swiveled his head to see Ayo walk into the room, tall and proud as usual. Her eyes met his immediately, and she bowed her head in a gesture of respect. “It is good to see you awake, White Wolf.”

He swallowed, his mouth felt dry and gross, and he was pretty sure there was a glob of something on the right corner of his lips. 

“Hey,” he managed, but it came out mostly as a croak. 

“Shuri and the King send their regards and wish you a speedy recovery. Shuri has made minor upgrades to your arm and repaired the damage caused by the electrical surge.”

The arm. Bucky raised his head to see the duffel bag of cash and a black case that looked the right size and shape to hold one vibranium arm.

“Thank you,” he said, or thought he said. He wasn’t sure if the sounds coming out of his throat were decipherable as words.

“You are welcome, White Wolf,” Ayo said. 

Good. She’d understood him. Then she walked closer, and her hand was on his left shoulder, where the metal met flesh. “You have much healing to do, both body and mind, but you will have help from those of us who have faced the darkness with you and wish to walk beside you into the light.”

Her words were absolution and a promise that he didn’t deserve. His vision blurred, and warm tears spilled from his eyes, falling down the sides of his face. The gentleness in her eyes threatened to undo him, and he closed his. 

Sam’s hand wrapped around his wrist and gave a firm squeeze. “Rest, Bucky. I’ve paid the rent on this hospital bench for the week. I’m not going anywhere.”

Chapter Text

“Bucky.” Something tickled his nose. “Bucky, time for nom noms. Open those baby blues.”

He opened his eyes. Sam and Ayo were still in the room. It was still day. What time was it? His eyes found the clock on the far wall. 12:35. 

“There you are. I’d let you sleep, but the doctor wants you to get a little bit of this stuff in you.” Sam held up a carton of apple juice with a bendy straw. 

Ayo reached for something, and the head of the bed raised a few more degrees. 

“Open up,” Sam said with a smile as he brought the straw to Bucky’s lips. 

Bucky was torn between desperately wanting the liquid and desperately not wanting to be sippy-strawed by Sam with Ayo watching, but his hand was out of commission, wrapped over a splint and tethered to an IV, so he didn’t have many options.

“Come on now.” Sam touched the end of the straw to Bucky’s bottom lip. “Don’t be like that. You brought this on yourself. You could’ve roped me in, you know. Talked to me. I’d have helped you. Do you have any idea how many years you took off my life? Now stop being a stubborn jerk and open up.”

Guilt softened Bucky’s gaze and he parted his lips, sucking up the warm, sweet liquid. It was heaven, soothing his dry mouth and scratchy throat. He’d only managed three sips when Sam pulled it away.

“Not all at once. Doc wants you to take it slow on account of your sewn up insides. See how that sits for a few minutes, and if it stays down, she said you can have more.”

“Hello, am I intruding?”

Bucky turned his head to see Agent William Jameson standing in the doorway, a black box in one arm, a Tupperware container in the other. He had one foot in the room and the other in the hallway. Clearing his throat, Bucky tried to avoid coughing the yuck out of it since he knew it would ignite fresh hell for his torn-up insides, and managed a raspy, “Come in.”

Jameson walked in and set the box and Tupperware on the tray table next to the food. “I don’t know if you drink, but that’s some good whiskey. My wife baked you a batch of her famous sugar cookies.” He put his hand on the rail and looked directly at Bucky, as though he were seeing him for the first time. “Thank you. You saved my life back there. I know now what that machine does, what it did to you. I did my research after…. you know. I’m glad you destroyed it. My wife insists I invite you over for dinner when you’re on your feet. You have a standing invite.”

Sam extended his hand over the bed and Jameson shook it. “Hey man, Sam Wilson. It’s good to see you again.” He glanced at Bucky. “Agent Jameson stopped by once before, but you were completely out of it.” Then Sam gestured to Ayo. “This is Ayo.”

Jameson gave the woman a wide-eyed once-over, then extended his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Ayo eyed the extended hand for a moment, then took a breath and shook it. “Indeed.”

Bucky smiled. Ayo had spent weeks teaching him Wakandan manners. Maybe he’d get a chance to return the favor and teach her what passed for the social graces in New York.

“Anyway,” Jameson looked back at Bucky, “I don’t want to intrude. I just wanted to make sure I got a chance to thank you in person.” He pulled a card from his jacket pocket and set it on top of the whiskey bottle. “Call me if you want to take me up on the dinner invite, and please do take me up on it. My wife will hound me nonstop until she gets to stuff you full of spaghetti and meatballs and hug you to within an inch of your….” His voice trailed off as he realized what he was about to say. He cleared his throat and flashed an awkward smile. “Well, you know. Also, my son—he’s nine—wants to meet The …uh…well, you, Bucky Barnes. Howling Commando. Captain America’s best friend. He was three when the Blip happened. I missed five years, came back, and he was big.”

“Yeah, same with my nephews,” Sam chimed in, then patted Bucky’s arm. “He’ll call, right, Bucky?”

Bucky managed a smile and a nod. “I’ll call.” He licked his dry lips. “Thanks for the whiskey, and thank your wife for the cookies.” He eyed the yellow discs inside the transparent plastic and wondered if he’d be cleared for solid foods before Sam ate them all.

“You’re welcome.” Jameson gave a nod, then looked up at Sam. “You’re welcome to dinner, too. Both of you.” His gaze included Ayo, then dropped back to Bucky. “In fact, bring any guest you like, just let me know the headcount so we can make sure we have plenty of food, though with the way my wife cooks, that’s usually not a problem. She comes from a big Italian family and always cooks to feed a village.”

Bucky liked the man, and it was nice to know he hadn’t been shish-kabobed for a jerk. 

“Anyway, thank you again. I’m pretty sure Fisk’s plan was to erase my memory and use me to further his criminal enterprise, maybe plant me as a mole back in the agency, possibly even send me off to kill my family, that is, if the machine didn’t kill me, so you saved me from that, and you probably saved a lot of other people from that damn machine. Thanks again.”

Bucky nodded. His energy was fading fast. Had it felt like this when he’d been injured before he got the serum? It was so long ago, he could barely remember. Maybe this was what Steve felt like most of the time, before Erskin’s serum.

Tired and weak. 

“I’ll let you rest now.”

Then, Jameson was gone. Sam and Ayo remained. Something beeped, and Ayo slid a Kimoyo bead onto her wrist. An image of Shuri appeared in the air. 

Bucky blinked and tried to perk up as Shuri smiled at him. He was pretty sure he looked like hell. His hair was probably sticking up all over the place, and there might still be dried bits of drool on the edges of his mouth. He needed a mirror and a washrag. 

“Hello, Bucky,” the princess greeted him. “I am pleased to see you awake.”

“Thanks.” He took a deep, painful breath. “Thank you for the arm, too.”

She tilted her head in acknowledgment. “You are welcome. I won’t take up much of your time. Your face betrays your fatigue, and I will let you rest, but I do want to update you on the modifications to the arm and be on hand once it is reconnected to your nervous system. I have repaired the minor damage caused by the electrical surge, reinforced it so that it better shields you from future events of a similar nature, and upgraded the tactical sensors in the fingers and palm. When you are ready to reattach the arm, Ayo will contact me.”

“I’m ready now if you are,” he said. With his one arm out of commission, he really wanted to be able to feed himself and go to the bathroom on his own if he ever managed to get out of the hospital bed anytime soon.

“Of course. It won’t take long.” 

Ayo retrieved the case, opened it, and lifted the arm, walking around to the left side of the bed. She placed the arm on the blanket next to him, then rolled up the short sleeve of his gown to keep the fabric out of the way of the connection points. 

“Are you ready, White Wolf?” Ayo stated.

“Your brain has been without the integration of the arm for four months, so it may feel a bit strange when the arm is connected,” Shuri told him. 

“Understood.” 

Ayo slid the arm into place against the shoulder piece, and the gears locked. A small surge went through him, down his spine, into the base of his brain, bringing a hint of a headache. The arm tingled for a moment as the neural sensors came online, and he raised the limb, flexing the fingers, opening and closing his fist. 

Shuri looked down at a tablet in her hand. “Good. I’m able to get a reading through the Kimoyo beads. All looks well. How does the arm feel?”

He gave a weak smile as he made a fist. “Good.” He could tell the arm was different. He rubbed his metal thumb against his index finger and felt the sensation of smooth metal with noticeably greater sensitivity. “It’s…better.” He took a deep breath. 

Being downgraded to almost normal sucked when it came to recovery times. He couldn’t say more than a few words without feeling out of breath.  “What’s my recovery time look like?” he asked. 

How soon can I get out of this bed?  

Now that he was more awake, he needed to take care of things, like the load of illegal weapons in his SUV. Someone must have found it because the duffel bag of cash was inside…

He had a vague recollection of telling Murdock about it. Murdock must have located the vehicle and given the bag to Sam, and if so, he must have also found the weapons. Police hadn’t shown up with an arrest warrant yet, so Bucky suspected Murdock had taken care of the equipment.

But how? And where were they?

“I can’t be sure,” Shuri said, pulling Bucky out of his thoughts and reminding him that he’d asked her a question about his recovery. “The massive blood transfusion diluted the levels of circulating serum in your blood, but because the serum altered your DNA, your organs still benefit from the protection of the enhancements. As your body makes new red blood cells, the levels of serum circulating in your blood will increase. For an average human, this process takes about four to six weeks. I was not able to perform diagnostic tests on you. Due to your privacy laws, the medical team wasn’t able to share test results, but I consulted with them and offered information that I felt would benefit your care. I hope you don’t mind.”

He shook his head. “It may have saved my life, so thank you.”

“You are most welcome. You will feel weaker than normal for at least two weeks, and your recovery should be slightly faster than an average human’s. After a week or two, you should start to see improvement in your rate of healing and strength. By three weeks, I suspect you will be at your normal baseline healing rate.”

Sam patted Bucky’s arm and flashed a bright smile. “So, you’ll have me as your nursemaid for a while. A couple of weeks of a Louisiana summer will teach you to go off without me.”

Another knock on the door announced Matt Murdock’s presence at the threshold, his arm in a sling and a cane in his good hand. 

Speak of the Devil. He was just the man Bucky needed to talk to, sooner rather than later, and preferably alone. 

“Ayo, why don’t you get Sam out of here for a bit?” Bucky asked. “Force some coffee into him and make sure he stretches his legs.”

“I can take a hint,” Sam said. “You want to speak with your attorney in private and want us to scram.” He raised his hands. “I’m going, but I’ll be back. Don’t think you’re getting rid of me quite that easily.”

“You should go home, get some rest, take a shower, that kind of thing.”

“Home is DC or Louisiana, and both are quite a drive. I have a hotel room. I’ll clean up and be back by before visiting hours end so they hopefully let me stay the night again.”

“You don’t need to.” He wasn’t going to be a burden to Sam. The man hadn’t signed up for this. Steve drafted him. “Sleep in a bed.” He looked at Ayo. “You, too.” He was quickly wearing himself out with all the talking. 

The pain was manageable, as long as he didn’t breathe too deeply, cough, or shift the wrong way in bed. 

“I’ll see you later,” Sam said with a hard glare that promised sooner rather than later. 

Ayo offered a tilt of her head. “Rest, White Wolf.” Then she walked past Murdock, stopped momentarily to give him a long, appraising look, and disappeared through the doorway.

“Close the door,” Bucky asked.

Murdock complied and walked up to the bed, not at all bothering to tap his cane. 

“So, is this blind thing an act, because you sure as hell didn’t seem blind…” How many nights ago was that? “…back with Fisk.”

A tiny smile played at Murdock’s mouth. “Not an act. I’ve been blind since I was a child. I learned to use my other senses to compensate.”

Bucky had a hard time believing anyone could compensate that well. “What, like a bat?”

This time Murdock actually smiled. “Something like that.”

“What happened to your arm?”

“Fisk skewered it, straight through you. The cane he carries has a retractable blade, among other things.”

Ah, so that explained what happened. Bucky shifted gently in bed, gritting his teeth against the pain. For so long, all he wanted was to be normal, but when it came to getting back on his feet, he missed the full effect of the serum. 

“How did you learn to fight?” Bucky asked.

“I had a mentor.” 

“You and Fisk seemed to know each other. You two have a thing?”

Murdock’s face lost all mirth. “You could say that.”

“Why the hell is he so strong?”

Murdock walked around the bed and sat on the bench near the window, propping his cane next to him. “He’s always been much stronger than an average man, but he was never as strong as what I saw last night. I’m not sure.”

“Could he have gotten his hands on serum?”

“You would know that better than I, but he’s dangerous, and if he did get dosed with the serum, he’ll be even more dangerous.”

Murdock jutted his chin toward Bucky. “So, why didn’t you have that arm when you were off fighting scumbags?”

Bucky studied the man. “How do you know I have the arm?”

“It gives off a slight hint of electricity, and when you shifted, I heard the metal scrape against the sheets.” 

Weird. “I didn’t want it to fall into the wrong hands.”  

He knew what his odds were when he left New York on his self-imposed mission. Eventually, someone would get in a lucky shot, or he’d take on too many, find himself in a really bad situation. He hadn’t wanted to drag Sam down with him, and he certainly couldn’t tie up Captain America for an indefinite amount of time. So, he went alone.  Even though fighting one-armed put him at a significant disadvantage, it would have been so much worse had someone like Fisk gotten hold of the Wakandan technology and figured out how to reverse engineer it. 

Even without access to more vibranium, there was a lot of damage they could do with such sophisticated technology. 

“I can understand that,” Murdock said. 

“So, you found my SUV?” Bucky asked, using his vibranium hand to point to the duffel bag, then realizing he wasn’t sure if Murdock could see the gesture. 

“Yeah. You asked me to get the cash to Wilson, and I did.” 

“And, uh….”

“The other items are safe. You can pick them up when you’re up and about.” His lips twitched upward. “Consider it part of the Nelson and Murdock service.”

Bucky knew that taking possession of illegal weapons was not only beyond the scope of their representation but could land Murdock in serious legal trouble. Then again, given what he’d seen at the auction house, Bucky figured Murdock was probably used to operating outside the law. 

Ironic, given his profession.

“Thanks. Where’s my car?” 

“Impounded, sorry about that. I can’t exactly drive.”

“You can fight, but not drive?”

“Well, I could drive, but I’d need a convertible, or I’d have had to get rid of your windshield, and of course, red lights present a bit of a challenge.”

“You’re…unusual.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“So what’s with the costume?”

“You don’t like it? As I recall, Steve Rogers wore a costume, soft helmet included.” 

“His didn’t have horns.”

Murdock raised an eyebrow. “Well, I embraced the nickname bestowed upon me.”

Ah. Buck remembered hearing something about a vigilante. “So, you’re the Devil of Hell’s kitchen?”

“You can just call me Matt or Mr. Murdock.”

“You can call me Bucky. No more Sergeant Barnes. I think getting skewered together puts us on less formal terms.” It was time to get back to business. Vigilante or not, Murdock was still his lawyer. “About those checks…”

“Right. Your case got dismissed. Statute of limitations. If you still want to give away all your money, I can’t stop you, of course, but I didn’t feel right about draining your bank account if you were…well…if you were having a mental health crisis. I have an ethical duty to you as my client, after all. If you want to report me to the New York bar, go ahead.”

He'd be insulted at the implication he was having a mental health crisis if that didn’t pretty much define the last 80 years of his life. To be honest, he was pretty sure he was still in the middle of a mental health crisis. Not that he would tell Sam that. Or Murdock. 

“Sam put pressure on you, didn’t he?”

“I don’t bow to pressure, Bucky .”

I’ll buy that, Bucky thought. It was no big deal, either way. He could write new checks and mail them directly to the people who needed them. 

He wasn’t sure what he was going to do once he was up and about–continue his self-imposed mission or partner with Sam, but now that he wasn’t dead, he’d have to calculate how much he needed to live on. He also needed to figure out where the hell he was going to live since he gave up his Brooklyn apartment.

Matt reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a white envelope. “This has your checks. Would you like me to put it in the duffel bag?”

Bucky nodded, but not knowing whether Murdock could sense that, he added, “Sure.”

He watched as Matt unzipped the bag without fumbling, stuffed the envelope inside, then zipped it back up, grabbed his cane, and walked around the bed. “Well, you sound like you need rest. I just came to check on you and drop off those checks. When you’re out of here, give me a call and I’ll make sure you get your other belongings.”

“Thanks, Matt.” Bucky watched him leave, then breathed a sigh, grateful to have the room to himself. 

He closed his eyes and was asleep instantly.

Chapter Text

“Use the walker!” Sam insisted as he trotted ahead of Bucky and unlocked the cabin door.

“I don’t need that damn thing.” Bucky walked slowly but steadily over the uneven ground. “I told you not to bring it.”

Sam deposited the bags just inside the door and took a look at the tiny interior. Steve’s cabin was bare-bones, with a wood-burning stove in the far corner, a matchbox kitchen with a two-burner gas stove, metal sink, a few cabinets, a three-drawer chest, a loft with a bed, and a single first-floor living area with a sofa and small coffee table. An open doorway in the far wall showed a compact bedroom filled almost wall-to-wall with a queen-sized bed.

Sam took a breath. The next few days were going to be interesting. “Please tell me there’s a bathroom inside?”

Bucky hobbled through the cabin door and looked around, then pointed to a doorway barely visible in a cubbyhole off the living room. “There.”

“I’m glad it’s summer. I wouldn’t want to be hunkered down here during the winter. Why the hell couldn’t he get a place with electricity?”

“The point is to be off the grid,” Bucky said, his right arm wrapped around his side as he made his way to the dusty couch and, with a sigh, eased onto it. “There are solar panels on the roof, enough to power the refrigerator and an outlet.” He waved a hand. “The outlet will be live once you turn on the power.”

Sam scanned the place again. “I don’t see a refrigerator.”

“It’s a small one behind one of the cabinet doors,” Bucky replied.

“Well, that’ll be helpful. I’ll be right back. I’m going to grab the cooler.” 

Sam ran back to the car, pulled the large cooler out of the back seat, then raised his car’s key fob and clicked the lock, hearing the beep! beep! He suddenly realized how unnecessary it was to lock anything out here. Trotting back inside, he dropped the cooler on the floor, closed the door, grabbed a couple of pill bottles and a bottle of water from the pack on the floor, then went to the wood chair near the couch and gave it a quick dust-brush-off with his hand before sitting down. 

“Nice place,” he said. 

Bucky’s lip curved into a lopsided smile. “I slept in a hut in Wakanda, a bunker in Siberia, this isn’t bad at all.” Bucky eyed the pill bottles. “I don’t need those.”

Sam sighed. “The doctor said not to let your pain get away from you, and since you still have a lot of donor blood in your system, you’re not going to be able to rely on that supersoldier pain tolerance.” He held the bottles and water out. “You’re grumpy when you’re in pain. Grumpier, anyway, so take these for my sake if not your own.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and took the bottles, popping one pill from each and downing them with a gulp of water. “Thanks.” He set the water bottle on the side table, which was coated with a fine layer of dust. 

Sam gave the place another once-over. When was the last time anyone had occupied the cabin? “We really need to clean this place up.”

Bucky tilted his head back and closed his eyes. “Yeah. Doc says I have to take it easy, though.” The edges of his mouth twitched upward for a split second.

Asshole. Sam glared, even though the look was lost on Bucky. “Yeah. Guess I’ll be your maid.”

“Cinderella, more like it.” Bucky smiled as he kept his eyes closed. 

“Funny, but, yeah, that’s me for the next week or so, and I’ll even cook for you. I tried your cooking once, and that was one time too many.” Bucky hadn’t cooked a single meal for over 70 years, so it wasn’t surprising his culinary skills took a hit, assuming he ever had any.

When Bucky didn’t respond to the dig, Sam leaned forward and studied the steady rise and fall of his friend’s chest. The road trip had been a long one, and once they’d gotten to the rural roads, it had been bumpy. Bucky hadn’t complained, but Sam knew the jostling had to be painful. 

It was too early for the pills to be kicking in. At least Bucky was getting rest and, hopefully, the pills would keep him out for a few hours. That position, though, with his head tilted back….

Ouch.

He should probably wake Bucky up and get him repositioned. Probably. But he’d wait a bit, maybe do some dusting in peace first. A half an hour or so in that position wouldn’t hurt the man too much. 

Sam pushed to his feet and opened the door to let the dust out once he started cleaning, then rifled as quietly as he could through the cabinets until he found a pile of old rags. There weren’t any cleaning supplies, so he tried the faucet. To his surprise, after a brief rattle, water flowed. Bucky had said there was a well, but Sam hadn’t seen it driving up. He had seen a large propane tank, however. That must be what fueled the kitchen stove.

Wetting the rag, he set to work dusting every surface until the place was as spic and span as he could get it with the limited supplies. It had taken several re-rinses in the sink but, as he surveyed his handiwork, he had to admit he’d done a good job. The place didn’t look half bad. 

The only thing left to dust was the sofa, and that would have to wait. At the moment, Bucky was sprawled on it, snoring softly, his mouth open, a dab of drool in the corner of his mouth.

Sam pulled out his cell phone and snapped a photo, grinning as he returned the device to his rear pocket.

He decided to let Bucky sleep a bit longer while he worked on putting together a late lunch. The small refrigerator couldn’t hold much, but he managed to stuff a case of beer and the lunchmeat and cheese in it. The small freezer compartment just barely held the steak he’d brought with ambitions of grilling.

Not that he’d seen a grill or expected one, but he had a vision of cooking caveman style over a fire pit…which reminded him of the spices. He reached into one of the packs and brought out the fancy steak seasoning he’d picked up on the way. 

They were refined cavemen, after all.

A grunt, thud, and a muttered “Fuck” had him spinning around. Bucky was on the floor between the sofa and the coffee table, clutching his side, curled inward. Sam hadn’t even heard his friend stir. 

“Shit, man.” Sam was at Bucky’s side in seconds, crouching down. “Nightmare?”

Through gritted teeth and forced breaths, Bucky nodded. 

“I hope you didn’t pull any stitches. I should’ve woken you and had you change positions, lay down. Sorry. I thought about it.”

Bucky’s breathing steadied and he uncurled, rolling slowly onto his back. “You’re not seriously apologizing for this, are you?” 

Sam moved the coffee table out of the way and held his hand out. The vibranium hand wrapped around his while Bucky used his right arm to brace against the couch as Sam helped him gently into a sitting position. 

“I’m your nursemaid for the next week or so,” Sam said, trying for a light tone. “I take my job seriously.”

Bucky flashed a look that Sam couldn’t quite interpret. “I appreciate you being here and helping me, but I’m a hundred and seven years old, and I’ve had worse than this.”

Really? “Worse than being skewered alive sideways?”

“Yeah.”

Shit. The fall from the train when Bucky lost the arm, Sam hoped, because he didn’t want to think what else might be worse than becoming shish kabob . “Okay, but we all need help once in a while.” Sam sank onto his butt. “What’s going on with you man? Why are you so determined to push everyone away?”

Bucky’s tongue worked the inside of his cheek as he stared at the open front door. A gentle breeze wafted inside, glinting on the airborne dust particles. “I’m living an overextended life. You said it yourself.”

“Geez, do you listen to everything I say?” 

Freaky Magu. Cyborg. He killed just about everyone he ever met. Sam made a mental note to be more mindful about the words that came out of his mouth. Bucky had one hell of a memory, and though he came off stoic, Sam knew there was always a lot going on beneath the surface. 

“You know I’m just messing with you most of the time, right?” Sam added. “Will you tell me where your head is at? I read your latest journal,” he held up a hand at Bucky’s irritated glance, “and I’m not sorry. What were you doing? Trying to save more lives than you’d taken as the Winter Soldier? Free people being used as slaves? Until someone killed you…and that’s why you left the arm. You were on a suicide mission. Am I wrong about any of this?”

Bucky took a moment before answering, his gaze distant. “I didn’t have a death wish, if that’s what you think, but, yeah, I wanted to shift the balance of my life. I can’t erase the lives I’ve taken, but I can even out the ledger. Hydra did this to me—gave me the serum, trained me—so why not use it for good? Fighting is all I’ve done for almost 90 years. I don’t know how to do anything else.”

“Ninety?”

“Even before the War, I was fighting off bullies and boxing.” He shrugged. “They gave me a pardon, sent me to therapy, but what’s after that? I’m trying to figure it out, and it’s harder than I imagined it would be.”

Finally, something familiar to Sam. It echoed the words of so many war veterans—men who had often served a decade or two, sometimes less. Not 70-plus years, and most of that involuntary. 

It wasn’t a surprise Bucky was having a hard time adjusting to civilian life and figuring out what he wanted to do. He’d had no choices for 70 years, and now suddenly, he was dropped into modern society, given a pat on the shoulder by the legal system, and told to stay out of trouble. 

Bucky had no support network, and his only real friend disappeared to live the dream. Sam had seen too many traumatized veterans take their own lives even with a strong support system.

“What do you want to do?” Sam asked.

With a shake of his head, Bucky looked at him. “That’s the problem.” He took a deep breath, wincing slightly from the movement. “Sam, I just don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to be doing with this overextended life of mine. I can’t have a normal relationship or a job or the life that Steve went back for. The Winter Soldier legacy follows me. I cut my hair, cover up the arm, and most people don’t recognize me…until they see the arm or I tell them my full name. No one, not even you, is 100% sure I won’t just snap one day.” He gave a pained, lopsided smile. “Not even the Wakandans.” He raised his arm. “Hence, the secret failsafe to detach the arm.” A hard chuckle escaped, followed by another wince. “To be honest, I can’t blame anyone. Sometimes, I wonder too. Can I ever really be normal after everything they did to me, everything they made me do? And,” his voice cut out for a moment, “they did a lot.”

That was most Bucky had opened up since Sam had known him, and the significance wasn’t lost on Sam. Bucky trusted him enough to be honest and vulnerable. Bucky wasn’t one to trust easily…another side effect of Hydra.

Sam took a moment to collect his thoughts before he responded. Words were important. What could he offer that wouldn’t sound trite or hollow? He didn’t want to say the wrong thing again because if he did, he could lose the trust he’d gained, and Bucky would shut down. 

“There aren’t any easy answers, Buck,” Sam said finally. “I said before that you have to do the work, and I meant that, but about you being of service to Winter Soldier Victims…that can be re-traumatizing, for you and for them. I’m sorry I didn’t think about that before. You don’t owe anyone anything. No matter what I say or what Dr. Raynor encouraged you to do—with making amends—the truth is, and this is one hundred percent the truth—you don’t have anything to make amends for. You did nothing wrong. You had no choice in the things Hydra made you do. You were a victim, just as much as those you killed as the Winter Soldier. Steve was right when he said it wasn’t you doing those things. He wasn’t wrong about you…don’t think I didn’t register that nugget during our little couples session with Raynor. Steve knew you better than anyone, and he was right about you from that day on the bridge. He told me you’d remember him, and you did. I was right about one thing, though. You have to stop looking to other people to tell you who you are, including me, Dr. Raynor, the media, or some random asshole you meet on the street…including, and I know this is going to be a hard one, the victims of the Winter Soldier.” 

Bucky was staring into space, but Sam knew he was listening. 

“About what you’re supposed to do with your life,” Sam continued, “no one can tell you that except for you, and, yeah, I know how hollow that sounds. Things aren’t going to be easy, and it’s probably going to take you a while to figure out your place in the world, now that you have your freedom and choices. Thanos wasn’t that long ago, and then you had the legal mountain of crap to deal with. Give yourself time, man. Look how far you’ve come in just the past year. Hell, to this day, I’m still amazed at how far you came all on your own, after you pulled Steve out of the river, disappeared, and kept me running circles around the globe looking for your ancient ass. I wasn’t even sure if you’d try to kill me if I found you.” 

Ah, the things he’d done for Steve. 

“Ninety-ten chance.”

“Which is the ninety?” Sam asked.

Bucky gave a weak smile. “Depends on when you might’ve found me.”

“Great.” Sam tried to imagine how that meeting might have gone. Would he have ended up being throat-tossed against a solid object that time? He punched Bucky lightly in the thigh. “So, after you heal, are you going to head back out hunting human traffickers like a one-armed avenging angel, because if you are, I’m coming with you.”

“I’m going to take some time here,” Buck said, sweeping an arm around the cabin. “It’s quiet, but, yeah, I found a sense of purpose for a few months. I know what it’s like to be a…slave. Helpless. No one came for me because they didn’t know I was alive, and it’s the same for the victims of human traffickers, except this time I can help them.”

“We can help them,” Sam corrected.

Bucky gave one of the shy smiles that transformed his face into pure innocence. “Okay, we .”

“I still don’t think you should have given away all that money. And anonymously? Crap, at least get the credit.”

“It would have cheapened it if I did it to get the credit.”

“I saw the news. Everyone pretty much suspects the anonymous donations to the Winter Soldier victims and the cashier’s checks sent to the San Francisco girls are you. The media finally picked up on the cross-country, one-armed, super-strong rogue Avenger.”

“I’m not an Avenger.”

“You sure?” Sam grinned and pushed to his feet. “I’m going to make us something to eat.” He held out his hand. “You need help?”

Bucky looked at the hand for a moment as though he were going to brush it off, then sighed and nodded, grabbed Sam’s wrist and used his other to push against the couch and ease upright. 

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Bucky said, then shuffled out of the room like an old man.

Sam finished unloading their food and supplies from the bags. He brought too much junk food, like the three bags of chips and a dozen energy bars, but better safe than starving. The nearest grocery store was 20 miles away.

First aid kit in hand, he opened one of the kitchen drawers to stuff it inside but found it already occupied by a metal box. White masking tape was stuck to the top, with “Bucky” handwritten in black marker.

-0- -0- -0-

Bucky stood in front of the mirror and inspected the incision across his abdomen. The stitches were just under the skin. They weren’t visible and wouldn’t need removal, but everything looked as it should. Hopefully, he hadn’t popped anything during his tumble off the couch. 

He folded the waistband of his sweats down to avoid irritating the incision, then scrubbed a hand through his messy hair. The bags under his eyes were more pronounced, and the face staring back at him looked…old, with crow’s feet and a furrow between his brows. 

Maybe he looked older because he didn’t have the full effects of the serum, or maybe he looked older because…he was getting older physically, not just chronologically.

He didn’t know his precise physical age, but if he remembered all his time out of cryo accurately, he’d put himself at 40ish. Some of the dates were fuzzy—repeated freezing and memory wipes had taken their toll—but just looking at himself, he figured late 30s, at least.

He’d lived a hard life, and that was evident on his face. Sometimes, when he stared into the mirror, he remembered the young man he used to be. He missed that guy. Sometimes, he even mourned that guy. 

He wasn’t yet comfortable in his own skin, but with time, he hoped he’d get there…when there was more distance between James Barnes and the Winter Soldier. When the nightmares were fewer and he’d built a bigger cache of new memories. Memories not about handlers, assassinations, and mission reports. Hopefully good memories. He really needed to work on that.

Padding back into the living room, he saw two plates with chips and sandwiches along with a beer and a glass of water on the coffee table. Water. Right. Because of the meds. He was pretty sure his moderately enhanced system could withstand combining meds and a beer. Could he get drunk now? That might be something worth testing out later. 

As he walked further into the room, he saw a metal container about the size of a shoebox perched on the arm of the chair. 

“Thanks for lunch,” Bucky eased himself onto the couch as he grabbed the box, noting the masking tape scrawled with his name, in Steve’s handwriting. He looked up at Sam. “What’s this?”

Sam shrugged. “I haven’t opened it. I found it in the kitchen drawer.”

There was a button on the front. Bucky pressed it, a latch unclicked, and the top popped up a crack. He lifted the lid, revealing a square, blue envelope and a long, white envelope, both addressed to him.

He opened the white envelope first, pulled out one sheet of paper, and unfolded it to see Steve’s handwriting again. 

Bucky,

I’m glad we had a chance to talk before I left. I know you wished I’d stayed, but I also know you would never ask. This is something I need to do. 

I meant it when I said I’m with you ‘til the end of the line. I didn’t see this as a possibility when I said those words, and I hope you understand this is something I need to do, for more reasons than one. 

I wish you had agreed to come with me, even though with what I’m planning, it would be…awkward.

I’ve thought about this ever since I realized time travel was possible. Seeing Peggy with the photo of me before I took the serum was the final push. 

I can’t go back and live a happy life in the past knowing what would be happening to you. I couldn’t sit by and let things play out the way they did. End of the line means something. 

Bucky’s eyes stopped over the last few words. He knew what they meant. What had Steve done? When he had gone searching, and where? Siberia? One of the Winter Soldier’s missions? Was he successful and, if so, at one point was that James Barnes rescued?

Because it wasn’t him. He was never rescued. He understood the basics of Bruce’s explanation. It was impossible to change our pasts. Any significant changes in the past would create a new timeline.

“What is it?” Sam asked.

Bucky glanced at him, shook his head—he couldn’t muster an answer just yet—and dropped his eyes back to the page.

Things may not work out. I’m not sure if I’ll create a new timeline or if there’s any way I’ll be able to see you and Sam again, say goodbye, and pass on the shield. I have an idea about how to do that with the quantum GPS if things end up happening too differently. I’ve taken extra Pym particles just in case. 

Sam’s a good man. Give him a chance. Be his friend. Let him be your friend. Find a way to be happy. If you can’t, I’ve left something for you. You’ll know the spot when you see it. It’s one of the reasons I bought this property.

Goodbye, Bucky…for now.

Bucky gripped the page tighter. Goodbye, Steve. His eyes grew hot, and his vision blurred. He wiped quickly at his face. 

“Hey, you okay?”

Bucky kept his gaze low as he handed Sam the letter and opened the blue envelope. It held photos, encased in plastic. When he unwrapped the photos, the top one caught his breath. 

The image was slightly worn but still in surprisingly good condition. Steve was smiling, a toddler in his right arm, a vaguely 1950s look about his wardrobe. The man next to him with the cocky grin was unmistakable, right arm slung over Steve’s shoulder and the left one… still attached and looking normal. 

“Holy shit,” Sam whispered. 

Bucky flipped the photo over. The date on the back read ‘July 4, 1952.’

There were three other photos. 1945, Bucky with his folks, in uniform, medals on his chest. 1973, Bucky with a terrible, shaggy hair cut, tight pants, bell bottoms, giving an irate look to the photographer. A woman he didn’t know stood next to him, arm wrapped around his waist. Peggy was in the background, a mischievous smile on her face. 

The last photo was taken in 2014. An old man sitting in a plaid chair, but the eyes and the smile were both familiar. 

So, that’s what I’m gonna look like when I’m old. 

The envelope contained a folded white piece of paper that he just noticed, and he pulled it out. It was another letter from Steve.

Bucky,

I’m an old man now, so I hope you can read my writing. I got to you that day in the Alps, not the Russians. I couldn’t bear the thought of you spending one day being tortured by them, I made sure you were safe, and I reunited with you in 1949. 

We lived a good life. The only thing I regret is that it wasn’t a life you got to lead. You still can, though. Go find that life. 

The gift I left for you (decades ago for me) is waiting in case you change your mind. I checked. Not sure where you’ll land if you end up using it, so if you’re considering it, think carefully. I still don’t really understand how all this works, but for me, it worked out pretty wonderfully. 

-Steve-

“I can’t believe it…” 

Bucky looked up to see the photos in Sam’s hands, jaw slack and eyes riveted on the image of Bucky and Steve in 1952.

Trying to wrap his mind around what had happened was…almost impossible. He filled in as many of the gaps as he could imagine. Steve rescued him in 1945. While the other Steve crashed the Valkyrie into the ice, this Steve must have met up for that dance with Peggy.  He must have told Peggy and that Bucky something.

What had that conversation been like?

Who was the woman in the photograph with her arm around his waist? His girlfriend? Wife? Had he married and had kids?

A well of anger surprised him, and his fist crumpled the paper before he realized what he was doing. 

“Bucky?” Sam asked, voice gentle 

He stole my life. It was a stupid thought, but there it was. Steve had rescued some other version of James Buchanan Barnes who lived a happy life…but it wasn’t his life. Nothing could change his past. 

Steve wanted Peggy and the old Bucky back, and he’d gotten both. Good for you, Steve. 

He pushed to his feet, ignoring the pain in his torso from the sudden movement, and dropped the crumpled paper. He needed air. Outside, the sun was low. A gentle breeze brushed through the trees. 

“What’s going through that cyb…uh, mind of yours?” Sam asked, walking up alongside him. 

Bucky didn’t answer. He couldn’t. How the hell was he supposed to wrap his head around this? Why had Steve left the photos? Seeing them felt like salt in deep wounds that hadn’t even gotten close to healing. 

That’s what his life would’ve been had Steve gone back for him the first time. 

“This silent thing you have going on worries me,” Sam said. 

Bucky took a deep breath, glanced back at Sam, and mustered an answer. “That’s the life I should have had, but someone else got to live it. It stings a bit, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry. I can only imagine. All this is mind-blowing.” Sam’s hand brushed his back. “Do you know what he might have left you, or where?”

The end of the line. He knew exactly where to look for whatever Steve had left. “Yeah, I know where it might be.”

He walked around the cabin, over the uneven terrain, his pace a bit too fast for his battered insides, and he almost tripped. 

Sam’s hand caught his elbow. “I told you the walker would be a good idea.”

No way in hell was he going to let Sam take a photo of him using a walker. He’d have to endure countless age jokes. “I’m fine, but thanks.”

He made his way to the edge of the property where the abandoned train tracks sat, a cross beam marking the end of the old line. Lowering himself gingerly to his knees, he scanned the dirt, looking for any sign to tell him where to start digging. There was a patch of ground with weeds slightly less overgrown than the rest. That was as good a place to start as any. 

“Oh, no you don’t,” Sam said. “You’ll pop something open. I saw a shovel on the side of the cabin. I’ll be right back.”

Bucky waited until Sam left, then…

“You do that, and I’ll post the photo I took of you drooling on the couch all over social media!” Sam yelled.

With a sigh, Bucky leaned back on his heels and waited. A moment later, Sam appeared with the shovel and started digging. About two feet down, he hit something hard and worked the shovel around it. 

Bucky leaned over and pulled out the black, waterproof stash box. When he opened the lid, he saw two vials of Pym particles.

“Who knew Steve was a klepto…” Sam muttered. 

Bucky smiled. Steve was a lot of things, and not the choir boy everyone thought. Mostly a choir boy…but he had a mean stubborn streak and a penchant for bulldozing his way through the rules.

“You need a GPS or something to work with that, right?” Sam asked.

Where there’s a will, there’s a way, Bucky thought. Steve gave him the raw materials. If he decided to blow this century, he could figure out the rest. 

“Well, that explains why he gave me schematics and told me to keep them safe,” Sam said.

“What?” Bucky looked up at Sam, who was leaning on the shovel, his expression torn between anxiety and awe.

“Steve left me the schematics for the time travel GPS. I had no idea why. He just told me to keep them safe. I guess he had this in mind. You know, in case you couldn’t steal one.” Sam’s gaze was probing. “You gonna take him up on the offer?”

Where would he go? If he traveled back to the 40s, it probably wouldn’t be in the new timeline Steve made. It would be a timeline where Steve was in the ice, and… 

It was tempting, though. He could go back to a time that felt familiar, see his folks and sisters again. Hell, he could rescue Steve from the ice. 

If he did, there’d be no Captain America to stop aliens from destroying the planet in the 21st century. 

Bucky pocketed the Pym particles and stifled a groan as he pushed himself to his feet. Being downgraded to almost normal sucked. He’d forgotten how long it took to heal. 

“So?” Sam began shoveling dirt back into the hole. “You blowing this joint?” His tone was casual, but he kept his eyes on the ground, and there was tension in his shoulders.

Was Sam actually worried he might leave? 

Going home was tempting, but the reasons he stayed hadn’t changed since that day, almost a year ago, when Steve told Bucky what he was planning and asked him along for the ride.

“No.” He slapped Sam on the shoulder. “I’ll hang around a bit.”

Chapter Text

This ravine was emblazoned in his memory. He knew the exact spot. The precise moment. Dressed in black, he pressed himself to the side of the cliff, anchor stakes deeply embedded, harness secure. He could no longer feel his ears and nose, but he wouldn’t have to wait much longer. 

His timing needed to be perfect. If he failed, he’d move to Plan B. Bucky would still lose the arm, but Steve would get to him well before the Russians. 

The roar of the train broke the silence. A few more minutes….

The climbing anchors vibrated with the approaching locomotive, and he closed his eyes for a couple of seconds—all the time he could afford. He knew what was coming, but when the railing gave way and Bucky screamed, he felt all the same emotions he had the first time he’d watched his best friend plummet to his apparent death. 

But this time would be different. He launched himself away from the cliff, and…

Gotcha!

Both arms wrapped around Bucky in mid-air, and then they were both falling until the line caught and a bone-jarring hard snap sent them swinging. Steve twisted, his legs extended and straddling Bucky to face the oncoming cliffside. He bent his knees with the impact, clutching Bucky between himself and the mountain. 

Bucky was silent, his right shoulder pressed into Steve’s chest, hands clutching Steve’s arms, his fingers twisted in the fabric of Steve’s shirt.

Steve tightened his grip, his face splitting into a grin. “I gotcha buddy.” You’re safe.

He couldn’t believe it worked.

Wide-eyed and face nearly as white as the snow, Bucky looked up at the retreating train. A younger Steve Rogers was on that train, clutching the side, closing his eyes against the horror of watching his best friend die. 

“Steve?” Bucky asked, voice shaky, his entire body trembling as he looked between Steve and the tracks overhead.

“It’s a long story,” Steve said, adjusting his grip on Bucky. “Hang on.” 

They were only 20 yards from the ground. He’d chosen to intervene as far below as possible to avoid his younger counterpart catching a glimpse of the interception and deciding to double back. That Steve Rogers needed to complete the mission and end up in the ice.

Steve pushed away from the cliff face, snapped the line, and landed squarely on the icy rocks of the ravine. His feet slipped as he hit, and they tumbled into the slush. 

Getting to his feet, he gave Bucky a helping hand. The look on Bucky’s boyish face—confusion, disbelief, suspicion—was a delight to see. Steve smiled, and it gave way to a full-fledged laugh until he lost all control, falling onto his butt and clutching his stomach. 

“What’s so funny?” Bucky huffed, visibly shaky as he cocked his head, a hint of a smile on his lips but disbelief still heavy in his eyes. “And what the hell is going on?”

Catching his breath and gaining control of his emotions, Steve pushed himself to his feet and slapped a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “It’s a long story, pal, and you’re probably not going to believe it. I can’t tell you everything, but I’ll give you the gist on the way back to camp. We better get moving. It’s going to be a long, cold walk. I stashed some gear up ahead, should keep us warm enough.”

The sun was close to setting by the time they got within distant earshot of camp.

“What did I get for my 10th birthday?” Bucky whispered, breath visible in the snow, eyes scanning the terrain. 

Steve sighed, ears and eyes tuned to the surroundings. Bucky had been testing him for hours. “A train set.” 

“What did you get for your 10th birthday?” 

“My mom got me mittens. You got me a sketchbook. You did odd jobs for Mr. Cramer to save up enough money for it.” Despite the cold, Steve felt a sudden warmth in his chest. “You’ve always been a good friend, Bucky.” He stopped and turned to his friend. 

That face, so young and…full of life. Spunk. Wonder. The eyes more hooded, a seriousness in him that hadn’t been there before Zola’s table, but still relatively unscathed. 

All things considered. 

“What?” Bucky’s face twisted with anxious confusion. 

“I’m just glad I caught you.” You’ll never be the Winter Soldier, never even know what that is, I hope.

“You’re really from the future?” Bucky’s eyes narrowed with a skeptical tilt of his head. 

Steve nodded. “I am, and that’s why you can’t breathe a word of this to anyone, not even the other me. They won’t believe you.”

“I’m not sure I believe it, but I haven’t believed half the things I’ve seen the last few months.” He pursed his lips, eyes calculating. “Come on, tell me something about the future!”

Steve’s shoulders slouched and he chuckled. “Nope!” 

He hung onto the feeling a moment longer, but it couldn’t last. What he had to do next would be almost as hard as leaving Bucky in Wakanda. Indulging in a few more seconds, Steve stared at his friend, soaking in his bemused expression and trusting blue eyes.

He hated to break that trust, but he hoped Bucky would understand. Eventually.

Leaning forward, Steve pulled his friend against him, one hand cupping the back of Bucky’s head. “I love you, buddy. And I’m sorry, but you need to stay out of commission for a bit. Where I’m going, you can’t follow.”

With a clench of his jaw, Steve pulled back, grabbed Bucky’s left wrist, and snapped it. The scream echoed through the quiet terrain, sure to reach the base camp. They’d have company soon. 

“I’m sorry.” Steve said, letting go as Bucky yanked away from him, falling onto his butt in the snow, eyes wide with disbelief. 

Raising his hands and taking a step back, Steve shook his head. He hated the accusation in Bucky’s eyes. The betrayal.

“It has to be this way. The fate of the world depends on it.” Steve heard the crunch of boots in the distance. “When the other me gets back, you can’t follow me on missions. You have to stay here, injured, until you get sent home. Promise me.”

“Why?” Bucky clutched his broken wrist to his chest.

Because I know you. You’d follow me onto that plane, and when I aim it toward the ice, you can’t be on it.

“I have to go. Just…promise me. I mean it, Buck. I have to do something alone. Billions of lives depend on things happening a certain way, but I’ll be back. I’ll see you in 1949, no matter what you’re told, or what you read, count on it. 1949. Okay?”

The men were approaching. Bucky’s jaw clenched then, after a moment, he nodded. 

Steve turned and ran, disappearing into the trees. His fingers touched the Pym particles at his side, enough for one last trip through time to keep his promise.