Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Jason’s lungs seized as he struggled to draw in a breath, blood filling them up as he coughed and wheezed trying to empty them. Hands grasping at the bone protruding from his thigh. His eyes prickled with tears, his entire body aching and bruised.

He doesn’t know where he is, his eyesight blurry as he tried to blink the black spots appearing at the corners of his view away, causing the tears that were gathering in his eyes to make their way down his face. He groaned loudly as he tried to sit up and not lay vulnerable on the wooden floor of the completely new house -or is it an apartment? He can’t see or think that well right now-.

He gasped as he pushed himself up , his back now against the wall instead of him laying on the brown carpet in the middle of the room. He breathed in hard and deep, clutching at the batarang stuck in his ribs, a desperate and almost hysterical laugh leaving him at the situation, can’t use force like this against the rouges of Gotham but against an irredeemable monster wearing the face of his dead son it isn’t that hard huh?.

suddenly he is fighting to hold back a sob, furious with himself at his weakness as the mere effort he had used to hold the pathetic sound back caused rippling pain to travel up his back, courtesy of nightwing and the escrima stick he slammed against his back - Was he hoping to cripple him? Jason thinks so since they weren’t holding back- while he was down and unable to fight back, not that he was trying to fight back while trying to explain he was innocent of what they were accusing him of.

Between the smoke and ash in the air and the fire still raging a few feet away, the wailing of the people still stuck in the rubble, my people, crime alley people who trusted me to get them out of there. Jason didn’t know what he was supposed to be focused on as his family’s fists dove down at him.

was he ever even considered family? After he came back wrong? Maybe it was just wishful thinking of a stupid teenager too far gone to see things as they are. Of course someone like him wouldn’t be taken back with open arms, not after what he did.

not after his scheme to take down the joker

not after he hurt their precious new robin, Tim (at that time at least, since he was quickly replaced when Bruce’s shiny new boy came home) 

not when he killed, executed, butchered, massacred criminals (no matter how much he believed they deserved it)

what made him think he will ever be worth giving another chance, maybe it was seeing how happy the others were at the rare times Alfred invited him over for family dinners during the very shaky truce he had with the bats, the simple and easy routine they have between them at the dinner table, dick passing Tim the salt before he even had to ask, Bruce ruffling Damian’s hair as the other pushed his hand away with a scoff despite the slight red dusting his cheeks.

the same little boy with green eyes who drove his whole weight at Jason’s knee shattering it.

he was stupid oh so stupid to think, to imagine he would someday earn a place in a routine like this, when they didn’t feel like they had to invite him out of obligation but simply because they wanted to. And at that thought the dam broke, his sobs ringing out muffled by the blood coughed from his lungs as he struggled to even cry properly.

then the quick click of a gun and the feeling of cold steel on his forehead had him freeze and quiet down, his body tense as he stared at the bare feet of a man standing in front of him.

”who the hell are you? And what are you doing in my house?” The man asked his voice gravelly and deathly calm, Jason let his eyes trail up to meet the icy blue of a man with shoulder length hair, the same pitch black color as his, his eyes quickly noting the steel arm - is it armor? Maybe flesh covered by steel?-. When Jason tried to reach for his own gun he was met with an empty space in his gun Holster, right, he thought as he recalled it being taken from him during the one sided fight with the big bat.

“I’m running out of patience” the man practically growled the sound so similar to a particular person that Jason shrunk into himself, cursing himself out in his own head at showing weakness even in this type of situation, though despite that his knees drew to his chest blood running down his face from a cut on his forehead -his helmet still discarded on the rooftop when he was confronted before he fell through the black hole, portal? Jason was in too much pain to think-.

the lamp light in the other corner of the room was flicked on and Jason flinched now that he was visible instead of protected by the darkness that shrouded the apartment when he first dropped into it, his eyes flying to a blond man, his build big and tall -probably bigger than even Bru- Batman himself-, he had no time to think of how bad of a move it was to remove his eyes from the man who held a gun to his face but fuck it, if he was going to die anyway what is the point, he didn’t see a way out of this, not while he was practically bleeding out on their floor, it wouldn’t take much longer now for him to stop being able to function due to blood loss.

would they bury me again when they find out im dead? In the same place they did before or would I be put in an unmarked grave somewhere?

maybe they wouldn’t even bother at all, I know I wouldn’t if I was them.

the gun held to his forehead was pushed back as the blond man now was standing between Jason and the man with the metal arm, when did he get between us? Jason wondered, his eyes now half lidded, he felt tired. 

“…-just a boy!” 

“…know that-…look at-“ 

“Call Bruce-…”

Jason felt fear crawl up his frame, as he spluttered blood out of his mouth struggling to speak “no-“ he barely was able to say before his throat clogged up black spots painting his vision, two shadowy frames filling whatever he can see, hands now on him and all he felt was pain and fire where they touched him, he flailed -or at least tried to-, kicking and waving his arm around trying to throw a punch, his wrist caught by one of the figures, the touch cold, as he slowly sunk into unconsciousness, last thing registering was someone pressing down and applying pressure to the gaping wound on his side where the batarang is still buried.

Hopefully this time he’ll die for good and not come back to ruin anything else.

Chapter Text

beep, beep, beep

Jason’s heart skipped a beat the minute he regained consciousness, his eyes remaining closed as he tries to take note of his surroundings without giving away that he was awake. He didn’t want to focus too much on the slight disappointment of still being alive, he can have a mental break down about it later.

it was silent, not because he was alone, he wasn’t, he can almost feel the eyes of someone burning into his side, yet not saying anything, do they know he is awake? Jason hopes not, it would mean they are highly trained or a meta, and Jason isn’t sure he can face any of the two options in the state he remembers being in before he lost consciousness.

he wasn’t restrained, that’s what registered to him first 

he kept his breathing steady, and didn’t make any kind of movement. His body didn’t hurt, it did, just not as much as he thought it would. He can feel bandages wrapped around his chest. Why couldn’t they just let him bleed out? The two men that came across him clearly didn’t like him, at least the one who had a gun to his head didn’t, so why did they even bother, he was clearly a threat.

according to his fam- to the bats at least, though the word of Batman and his sidekicks was law, it’s why he was ignored and ostracized by the justice league and any vigilante associated with them. He didn’t let his thoughts on the matter linger too long, number one on the priority list right now was to get the fuck out of here.

“I know you’re awake” a deep voice said from the side, the person who was staring at him most definitely, Jason heart dropped for the second time. He steeled himself before opening his blurry eyes, blinking a few times as he looked to his side where the voice came from. A cruel smile painting his face as he looked at the man “it’s Mr. tin arm” he said almost coughing at how dry his throat felt.

a glass of water was moved into his sight and he slapped it away with a snarl “you think I’m fucking stupid?” Jason growled out, successfully stopping another fit of coughing that was about to break free from his throat “I’m not drinking anything you fucking give me” he said voice low and as threatening as he could make it, even his usual frown and scowl were enough to send a few goons running or intimidate them a little, but this man didn’t even flinch or show any sign of taking Jason’s look seriously. It made Jason a little wary, the only other person who he directed that look to that wasn’t affected by it was-… he shook his head trying to clear it and he blinked away the sudden tears that sprung to his eyes.

what was wrong with him, he doesn’t cry, he didn’t cry when he was left behind on missions, when he was put last on the priority list, and his injuries treated last after missions on the rare occasion he was allow to return back to the cave with them, it didn’t bother him, he didn’t cry, so why is he about to now? What changed? He always knew deep down he was easily expandable, it shouldn’t bother him and yet-

“you took quite a beating kid” the man said standing up, Jason shrunk a little at how tall and big he is, the man paused for a second at that -did he notice how Jason reacted? He couldn’t have it was subtle, Jason made sure that even when he slipped up it wouldn’t be that obvious- and took a step back putting more space between him and Jason.

”yeah well, thanks for the gun to the head and then the medical attention, point me to the nearest exit and I’ll be out of your hair” Jason said trying to be nonchalant with the over confident smirk he fixed on his face “speaking of hair, when was the last time you brushed it?” Jason asked trying to study the space he was in without having to remove his eyes from the obvious threat of a man in front of him.

he wasn’t getting killed again, if he was dying it was going to be on his terms.

The space looked clean, almost too clean, an I.V drip stand next to the bed Jason is in connected to his arms and steadily feeding fluids into Jason’s veins. Everything was white, and the room didn’t have a table, not any that Jason could see without turning away from the man in front of him which is not something he was going to do.

he just needs to keep his eyes on the man and not give him an opportunity to stri-

the door swung open and Jason felt himself flinch with his whole body at the loud sound, his hands almost coming up to cover his ears but he held back and they only twitched on the side of his thighs where he has them placed. His eyes leaving the man, fuck how bad could he possibly be at this, he didn’t have a problem keeping his Eyes on targets before so why is he failing miserably now?

maybe because he didn’t have a reason or anything to protect. Maybe he would rather be dead, for him to slit his throat at the opening Jason gave him and-

“the skunk boy awakens” 

Jason tensed at the voice, looking at the group of people who entered the room, two men, one being the blond from before, and another who Jason could immediately categorize into the category of rich douche bag. He met quite a lot of these people back when he still mattered to Batman before he died and before the teenage rebellion which pushed him away in the first place.

he felt his shoulders draw up to his ears and he pushed them down immediately, no reason to give people who might be enemies an idea that he is scared or uncomfortable. “Get it? Skunk boy? Because of the hair, you know white streak and all” the man said fixing his tie “whatever doesn’t matter, name’s Stark” he introduced himself looking at the watch on his hand not even meeting Jason’s eyes.

”but you already knew that I’m sure,” the man -Stark apparently- said, waving his hand dismissively “I’m more interested to find out who you are and how you broke into little Stevie’s apartment”  he finally looked up to meet Jason’s eyes and despite his nonchalant tone and almost non caring way of acting, Jason knew when someone was sizing him up and this Stark’s calculating gaze wasn’t the first to look Jason over in such a way that made Jason want to curl into a ball.

he didn’t though, he won’t, never again.

He’s had worse

Batman

Talia too for fucks sake, nothing could compare to how dissecting and dehumanizing her gaze was.

“Stark, go easy on the kid, he’s been through it” the blonde, Stevie his name Jason guessed from what Stark called him, or is it a nickname? Steve then Jason settled. “He doesn’t look like a kid to me,” Stark replied with a short laugh as he looked at Jason again, Jason flipped him off in retaliation earning him a longer laugh from the man, “he’s built like a tank” Stark said  “he looks trained, and to drop at your place of all, he’s been sent here, it’s just that someone else must have gotten to him before he got to you” Stark declared in a matter of fact tone as he approached Jason, making Jason snarl at him, almost anomalistically as he flashes his teeth at him, Steve stepped behind Stark at that, was it to stop him or to intimidate Jason into backing down, he didn’t know. 

“yes very scary” Stark waved off Jason’s attempt at intimidating him, Jason almost felt offended at that, but he knew how rich people were -and Stark wore the persona of rich like a man who hasn’t gone without food a day in his life- never afraid and sure their money will protect them from anything.

“Stark, I don’t think it’s a good idea to interrogate him like this” Steve said a hand on Stark’s shoulder, Stark surprisingly backed away slightly from Jason at that, Jason placed a note that the two were friends or at least close colleagues into the back of his mind.

”yes you’re right, maybe we should get him some tea” Stark replied “some stake too I’m sure he would appreciate that” the sarcasm was very clear and Jason could see the tin armed man roll his eyes slightly at Stark’s antics, his mouth drawn into a slight frown, those two aren’t that close then? 

“Stake sounds pretty good not going to lie” Jason said his voice low and deep, his eyes glaring at the man and his stance ready to pounce on any of them if he felt the need to, god he hoped he doesn’t feel the need to, the Steve guy and the tin armed man looked like brick houses with how they were built, in this condition he wasn’t sure if he can take them on.

not to mention he was already compromised by being on the bed and not on his feet, the few precious seconds he would use to get up could mean life or death. “Oh you think you’re funny?” Stark asked with an unamused expression and a raised eyebrow “I think I’m adorable” Jason shot back.

Steve chuckled at that and the tin armed man’s lips ticked up slightly at the sound, something that didn’t go unnoticed by Jason, dating? Very close friends? Married maybe? Jason doesn’t see a ring so the last conclusion is rolled out.

Stark gave an exasperated sound as he looked back at the blond “oh so you think it’s funny?” He asked making the blond chuckle a little more “I’m sure you didn’t find anything funny when he dropped into your apartment, looking like he got ran over by every single car in the closest highway”

“exactly, whatever he was doing, he probably didn’t even mean to come into our apartment specifically, for all we know he may have been running from someone and just chose our apartment as a place to hide”

”you don’t actually believe that shit, Hydra obviously sent him”

at the name of whatever Hydra is -isn’t that a water creature, or monster? Just another thing for Jason to look into- the tin armed man’s tensed “we don’t know that” he growled out cutting whatever response the blond had and Jason curled slightly at the sound his knees coming up towards his chest stopping midway , reminded with someone else. The man must have noticed -which rubbed Jason the wrong way- since he tried to school his murderous expression into something calmer, his voice lower a little as well “we don’t know if hydra is involved”.

Steve backed away from Stark and instead drew closer to him “we can’t be sure it’s not Bucky”, Jason would’ve laughed at the name if the air wasn’t so tense, how can someone who looks and acts like that, be called bucky.

“Quiet kid, the adults are talking” Stark shushed him waving his hand dismissively at him yet again, was that a habit? Whatever it was it was starting to get on Jason’s nerve. “A minute ago you were sure I wasn’t a fucking kid” Jason snapped at him but was ignored, he could feel his anger rising at that, if Bruc- Batman was here he would have already told him he was acting like a criminal with how temperamental he was.

it angered Jason even more that this was the first thing his brain thought of.

”a week ago we were targeted by them, and then he just shows up?” Steve says casting a wary look towards Jason, it rubbed Jason the wrong way, even they didn’t know him and thought of him as a criminal, no wonder he was easily turned against by the bats. ”I know how hydra agents act, he isn’t one of them” bucky said -seriously what kind of name was that?- 

“how can you be so sure?” 

“I just am”

”look as sweet as this is that you’re backing me up here” Jason interrupted and all three pair of eyes turned to him, he tried his best not to tense or get affected by that as he spoke, “I would rather just leave, problem would be solved” he shrugged yet another smirk on his face, he hopes it doesn’t look as fake as it feels.

”yeah that’s cute, not happening” Stark said with fake enthusiasm “here’s what’s actually going to happen” he said now addressing everyone “this little break in could or couldn’t be a hydra thingy” he said with air quotes in the air -how often does he use his hands while he speaks? Jason has half the mind to bite some of his fingers off- “either way, you broke in without setting off a single alarm, in a highly secured apartment where captain America” he said pointing to Steve -captain America? What the fuck? And he thought the name Bucky was bad, he takes it back- “and the fucking winter soldier lives, your trained and therefore can’t be trusted”

“with all due disrespect Stark” Jason almost growled out, Stark giving him another raised eyebrow at that “i didn’t fucking choose to get dropped into their fucking apartment” Jason spat out his tone raising in volume, Steve stepping forward his hands raised in the universal sign of surrender “okay let’s all just calm down” he said his placating tone irksome to Jason.

“I don’t fucking care what you think” Jason said ripping the white blanket off himself as he placed his feet on the cold clean floor standing up, holding back a wince as pain traveled up his legs and injured side, his forgot that he knee was shattered and he had to lean most of his weight on his right uninjured leg. A lesser man would have blacked out because of the pain but Jason has been through worse, has had to drag himself out of worse situations, this is nothing , at least that’s what he told himself.

“But I’m getting the fuck out of here, with your approval or not” he said ripping the I.V drip needle out of his arm, only his eye twitching at the feeling of it sliding out of his skin but no other reaction.

“Not happening kid” Steve said stepping close to him and placing a hand on his shoulder, Jason didn’t know what the hell happened but a flash of green over took his vision at the sudden touch and now they were both on the ground with Jason on top, he thinks he hears Stark yell something but he can’t quite pin what it was not with the anger rushing through him, panic working its way through his chest as his fight or flight kicks in.

he stabbed the needle which was previously in his arm into the man’s shoulder before a leg came slamming into his side, Jason banged against the wall from the force of it, now off Steve. He made to stand up, his vision still neon green not green, please not that color again, I can’t do this again.

 two hands -one hot one cold- were on his shoulders now hauling him up and Jason screamed bloody murder.

Whoever had gripped him let him go like he was on fire, and Jason slid down the wall covering his head with his arms and knees pressed tightly to his chest, curling into a ball. He couldn’t breath, his throat felt raw, maybe he can draw in a breath if he could stop screaming, but he cant.

why can’t he? He needs to breath but he won’t stop screaming.

maybe it’s better like this, to die in a way that at least resembled some sort of a fight, no matter how pathetic it was. Talia would have had him whipped if she saw him like this, she hated weak people.

He was sobbing and screaming, at least that’s what he thinks he was doing, he isn’t sure anymore. he can’t see, when did he close his eyes? fluid is running down his face so he must be crying right?

god he wished it would all be over soon, his throat hurts, did he think that before? He doesn’t remember, it feels better than the pain he felt when Batman threw that batarang at his neck and sliced it open, and the screaming was better than the silence he lived in the month after that, having to be selectively mute during the healing period -he stitched his own neck up, it hurt so much, when would everything stop hurting, he just wants it to stop-.

he feels something pull him firmly, Jason doesn’t have the strength in his limbs to fight back against the force of the pull and he is yanked towards a warm chest. Someone wraps their arms around him, he doesn’t remember the last time he was hugged, does this count as a hug? He doesn’t care, it feels good.

how can a hug feel this good? 

“it’s okay, it’s okay” the person breathes into his hair, tucking Jason’s head under their chin as they rub his back with one arm, the other in his hair tugging lightly at the strands. “Everything is going to be okay, no one is going to hurt you, I promise”

Jason can’t believe that, he shouldn’t, he remember when someone else promised him the same thing.

did Bruce ever hug him like this though? Even back when he was robin, he can’t think of a time when Bruce hugged him, he was never the kind of man for physical touch. The best Jason could get out of him was back or head pats, maybe a shoulder squeeze and on a very good day a side hug from the man.

but that was years ago.

this feels good, Jason wouldn’t mind staying like this.”yes good job, just breath for me kid” the voice soothed and Jason exhaled shakily into the collar of their shirt “it’s alright you didn’t mean to hurt anyone, I understand” 

it took Jason ten more minutes to get his breathing under control, the man’s hands didn’t stop their soothing movements on Jason’s back and head throughout the entire time, Jason wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

when Jason drew back the arms withdrew from him, and Jason almost leaned back in and let out a small sound at the feeling of them leaving his body, but he held back, though the reaction must have not gone unnoticed Because the arms almost wrapped around him again but Jason slapped them away with a glare, directed at the chest of whoever it was.

though the glint of the metal on one of the arms made him easily guess who it was.

Bucky

”don’t touch me” his voice was scratchy and raw, probably from all the screaming.

”it’s alright to want to be touched kid”

”don’t fucking act like you know what I want” Jason snapped making to stand up, struggling as he felt his left leg give out under the weight. -screw the demon spawn for shattering it, he thought they were brothers, so fucking stupid for having fantasies like that-.

it took a minute but Jason was on his feet again.

”I’m leaving” Jason declared throwing a heated glare towards Bucky as he moved to help Jason stay standing, the man’s hands backed away from him, unfortunately for Jason it wasn’t without argument “do you even have a place to stay kid?”

”don’t fucking call me that!” Jason grabbed the I.V drip stand and threw it at him, the man swatted it away like it was a fly, the stand crashing to the floor a few steps away from them, it was now that Jason noticed the other two men were gone, did Bucky tell them to leave?

most likely went to call for back up to help put me down like the rabid dog I am, Jason thought bitterly “just tell me where I am and give me some money” he replied eventually “I’ll go to the closest bus stop and take the first bus to Gotham, I’ll be out of here before you say ‘goodness gracious,” Jason chuckled humorlessly.

though the silence he was met with made his chuckle die down “forget about the money, just tell me where the bus stop is, I’ll figure it out” he said more defensively, his shoulders drawing up towards his ears, he made no move to stop it this time, he already humiliated himself, what’s a little more humiliation.

”ki-“ Bucky stopped himself from calling Jason ‘kid’ again, something he was slightly grateful for. “Listen I think it’s better if you stay here for the time being, heal up before leaving” he says taking a step closer but quickly backing away when Jason grabbed the small light lamb that was placed next to the bed.

Jason’s eyes settled on a few blood drops on the floor, he remembered the needle he stuck into Steve’s shoulder, he couldn’t help the slight sting of guilt that shot through his chest, he almost wished it was Stark he attacked. “I’m going home, there is no way I’m staying “ he said his voice losing the spark of anger, leaning more towards a defeated sort of tone.

”and where is this ‘home’?” 

The question caused Jason to throw a glare towards the man though he quickly dropped it when he saw the green of the pit making its way into his vision, “Gotham city” he replied p, his tone clipped 

another pause settled into their conversation, Jason glanced up and he saw the look on the man’s face, his face was almost blank, any normal civilian would think the man wasn’t feeling anything, but years working with Batman both as allies and enemies earned Jason some skill in reading people who didn’t want to be read, the man was definitely confused.

“You know…Gotham city? Kinda hard to miss with all the news” a feeling Jason couldn’t quite name was making its way into his heart, a desperate chuckle leaving him, low and breathless.

”no, I don’t know”

Chapter Text

Jason was dissociating 

the last thing he needed was to lose everything he has  -by everything he means the people of crime alley, his shitty apartment in a building run by a sweet old lady of a landlord, the kids in the Bowery and narrows, who’s going to help the kids with their homework when their parents were busy now?-, it wasn’t much but those things were his and now he was in a different…what? 
 
universe?
alternate reality?

Which god did he piss off in his past life? He was tired, he just wanted to rest, why won’t rest come to him?

he doesn’t remember when or how he got back in the bed, there was a few blood spots on the sheets from when his bandages bled through, he refused the offer to have Stark’s personal nurse to come in to replace them, he doesn’t want to move.

He only zoned back in to what was happening around him when someone tapped the bed side table next to where Jason was laying twice, Jason turned to him with an unimpressed look meeting the blank face of Bucky who stared down at him.

”do you mind? I’m trying to avoid a mental breakdown” Jason said turning away from the man to stare straight ahead at the doors of the room. He hasn’t given up his ‘get the fuck out of here’ plan, but he had to lower it to at least number three on his priority list for now.

number one being, figure out what the fuck was happening.
number two, is figure out where the fuck he is.

then escape, simple enough, he hopes Stark will lower his guard down so Jason can steal his wallet or something. He definitely needs the money since he doesn’t exactly carry around a wallet while on missions.

it wasn’t a mission though.

sitting in his run down apartment, heating up whatever the nice old lady next door to him gave him of her left over homemade food. An explosion in the Bowery close by shaking the entire building. He remembers how fast he ran while pulling his gear on in a hurry while he jumps across buildings to get there as soon as he can.

the fire, the smoke, the ash filling the air.

he remembers how his helmet filtered the dirty air, he remembers the screams, the dead bodies. He thinks he saw one of the working girls he helped apply to college out of Gotham dead unmoving on the street.

then the little girl he pulled to the roof out of the smoke, his helmet coming off and going over her head instead, her crying, then the shadow of Batman landing on the roof. 

everything else that followed he couldn’t exactly name, not now at least, it would give him a migraine, not to mention the feeling of pressure building behind his eyes at the mere thought of how they looked at him.

he thinks Tim took the girl away, she was screaming, he remembers how scared she sounded.

“You still with me?” Bucky asked sitting in the plush chair a worker brought inti the room, he looked strange in the plush orange chair, it was the only colorful thing in the room, not to mention the man’s entire look didn’t fit the softness of the chair.

Jason didn’t know how to exactly explain it.

”with you how? don’t you think I’m too young to be with you” Jason replied dryly to the question, the unimpressed look he received for the man almost made his lips tick up, almost.

”good to know your attitude is still intact” Bucky reached for another glass of water -another thing brought in by a worker, is he in a private hospital or is Stark a rich douche bag who has a shit ton of people working for him? Jason wouldn’t be surprised if it’s the latter-.

Jason’s eyes followed the glass of water as Bucky took a sip from it, taking a mouthful and swallowing it down before heading the glass over to Jason, the boy recalls how he slapped the first glass of water away, he slightly appreciated how Bucky went out of his way to prove to him nothing was put into it.

his throat ached with how dry it was, the screaming took its toll and he wasn’t sure when the last time was that he drank anything, he had been patrolling crime alley the entire week, he barely even slept, he only remembered to drink water when he saw his vision blur and he was getting too sluggish.

He reached out taking the cup from the man, but his grip was too weak -when was the last time he ate as well? He almost wished the explosion was after he ate mrs. Browns left overs- and Jason tensed as he waited for the glass to hit the ground, though Bucky had fought the cup before it even had the time to spill the water out.

Jason looked up at the man from where he was sitting on the bed “move” Bucky spoke his right arm coming to pull the pillow behind Jason and fluffing it out behind him before motioning Jason to lean back against the head board, Jason was relieved he didn’t touch him.

Following the man’s directions, Jason did so without argument, that is until the man moved to put the glass against his lips to help him drink, Jason scoffed moving to grab the glass again “I’m not a fucking kid, I can drink by myself” Jason told him but gave an exasperated sound when the glass was moved out of his reach.

”shut it and tilt your head up” 

Jason gave the man an offended look but the thirst gnawed at the him and he eventually did as the man told him, his head tilted up slightly as the glass was pressed to his mouth, tilted down only a little to not rush Jason.

The water felt good, and the dryness went away at the third gulp.

when the cup was pulled away he let out a small sound trying to lean forward to follow it wanting more, though he caught himself and pushed away avoiding Becky’s eyes who paused his movements and Jason tensed when the cup was pressed to his mouth again. He shook his head pulling away his cheeks burning slightly at the embarrassment and anger that burned in his chest.

“We have orange juice” Bucky offered placing the glass on the bed side table again.

”I’m fine” Jason replied still not meeting his eyes, his nails dug into the palms of his hands as the man settled back into his plush chair.

”you don’t look fine” Bucky countered

“I look better than you” the other snapped back, baring his teeth at the man before he leaned back against the headboard again trying to not show how stressed he was “I’m fine” he repeated earning a raised eyebrow from the man.

“where is this?” He asked giving a nod towards the room, he was met with another long pause -he was so tired of the pauses he receives whenever he asks a question- “not sure I can tell you anything yet” Bucky replied eventually “all I can tell you is that you’re somewhere safe”.

Jason scoffed at that “no where is safe,” Jason said slowly, the words heavy leaving his mouth, “there isn’t a corner in the world where people don’t hurt other people”

Bucky stared at him and silence filled the room-again-, seemed like the man can’t disagree with Jason’s statement.

The silence only broke when someone knocked on the door of the room, Bucky getting out of the chair giving a grunt to signal whoever is outside that they can come in, Jason’s eye twitched at the sound but no other reaction left him.

A man opened the door, one Jason hadn’t seen when he first woke up here -he’s glad he doesn’t have to see Stark or Steve again for the time being- he had fluffy brown hair, wearing a white lab coat, scientist?

Jason’s skin  prickled at that, body tensing and hands gripping the sheets of the bed, Bucky lifted his hand up to signal for the man to not come closer, his eyes on Jason and his posture. “Bruce, what are you doing here? Stark told me you wouldn’t be here until tomorrow” Bucky asked.

The name alone caused Jason’s heart to give a lurch in his chest, green tinging his vision, he lowered his head down, chin pressed to his chest as he shut his eyes tight and willed the green out of his vision it’s not him, it’s just a name, I’m fine, I’m fine, this is fine

he blinked his eyes open holding me the sigh of relief at finding his eyesight green free

1 point for Jason 

0 for the pit

“I came back as soon as I heard” Bruce said “you didn’t actually expect me not to!” The man sounded almost giddy with excitement and glee “a traveler from a different universe, though excuse me-“ he said waving at Jason “I heard that the matter of you’r arrival hasn’t been pleasant I apologize” he said a hand on his chest.

”we don’t want to overwhelm the kid” Jason’s eyes snapped up with a snarl at Bucky who corrected himself after a glance at Jason “we don’t want to overwhelm him” he said carefully, Jason mouth relaxing and dropping the scowl on his face.

”of course, of course, I wouldn’t want to do that” Bruce said arms raised slightly at his side “can I ask why you’re here though? No offense but I expected them to put Steve with him rather than you” that got the scientist -or doctor? Jason was still unsure on that- a heated glare from Bucky “why would you assume that?”

Even Jason’s guts tightened at the sight of Becky’s expression, yet this Bruce didn’t even flinch instead smiling in a placate manner “again no offense, but Steve is the more…” he paused trying to find the right word “approachable of the two of you” he settled on eventually.

”I have to agree with that” Jason said nonchalantly, looking away from Becky’s glare -he knows it’s not directed at him, he’s fine, it’s fine-. Bucky paused at Jason’s words

”I can call him in to replace me if you feel uncomfortable with me” Bucky spoke in an observant tone taking in Jason’s avoidance of meeting his eyes. though the thought of seeing Steve-… he remembers the needle he stuck into his shoulder, why would the man even want to be in the same room as him now, neither of them would feel safe, meanwhile Bucky-

The kick he delivered Jason after he hurt Steve, Jason is sure he broke a rib or two -he deserved it, they haven’t hurt him yet and he started it, he earned that kick, he won’t complain-, Bucky can protect himself -not saying Steve can’t, Jason can’t get over how large the man is-

but the hug-

not a hug, Bucky needed Jason to not lose it because they needed answers, they don’t care, no one does. Maybe crime alley people do, but they aren’t here. A sharp tingle went through Jason at that thought.

“No, I don’t want Steve” Jason said voice numb, can he go back to dissociating?, “how about Stark?” Bruce the scientist asked, Jason gave him an offended look which he chuckled at lightly “that answers that then” 

“you’re not asking him anything right now” Bucky interrupted “he needs to heal up and get treated for his…recent injuries” he said tone careful at the end referring to the kick he delivered to Jason’s side -thank god it wasn’t the one he has the batarang buried in-

“of course I wouldn’t expect to ask him anything right now, I just wanted to see him” Bruce said clapping his hands together softly and directing a smile towards Jason, who tried to return one of his own but it came off more like a grimace than anything, he doesn’t exactly like being the topic of discussion or attention.

bruce gave a slight nod at both him and Bucky before turning to leave, though before walking through the door he paused turning back again “will you be staying here in the tower then? Stark mentioned you’re apartment being off limits for the time being, doctor strange is getting involved to figure out what happened along with a few others” 

Bucky gave a grunt at that “Stark had a few of his workers prepare us an apartment in the tower” he replied, his tone clipped -Jason was very sure the two of them don’t like each other- “he will be put into mine and Steve’s care once he is in a better condition” 

Jason’s head whipped to where Bucky is standing at that his brows furrowed and an angry look on his face as he glared at him “I’m not staying with anyone, I’m leaving as soon as I’m discharged from here” he said voice low and deep.

”and go where?” Bucky retorted, Bruce taking this as a sign to leave, leaving the two alone. “You don’t have a home, you’re in a completely new place” Bucky supplied in the most matter of fact tone, it irked Jason, he didn’t need anyone telling him how helpless he is, he already knows how screwed up of a situation he was thrust in.

”I’ll figure it out” Jason grounded out 

“with what money?”

”I said I’ll figure it out!” He yelled, chest heaving and glare now more heated, pressure building behind his eyes. Bucky took a step back and folded his arms over his chest giving Jason an unimpressed look, Jason tensed at receiving that look, it almost looked like disappointment, his chest tightened at that thought, why should he care?

”you don’t have to figure it out” Bucky said dropping his hands to his sides “stay here, Stark is already investigating what happened” he informed Jason.

“so what, he doesn’t thing I work with this…hydra anymore?” Jason asked with a raised eyebrow relaxing as the man dropped the disappointed look on his face.

bucky tensed at the mention of ‘hydra’ a murderous expression painting his face and a glare directed at Jason, the fast switch of emotion on the man’s face startled Jason into reaching for something, the lamp on the bed side table, its neck gripped tight in Jason’s hand as he directed his own glare at Bucky, though he was sure it wouldn’t even match how terrifying Bucky’s glare is.

The older man’s eyes twitched a little at Jason’s reaction trying to school his expression and unclench his fists which formed at his sides “no, he still thinks you are” he said moving away from Jason by walking backwards a few steps, though it didn’t help Jason who kept the his ready to fight posture.

”he won’t let you leave” Bucky told him “not unless he is a thousand percent sure you don’t work for them”

”i don’t need him to let me do anything” Jason replied 

Bucky exhaled a Long breath through his nose in exasperation at Jason’s stubbornness “if anyone can find out what happened it’s Stark” he forced out, it sounded like it hurt him to even admit it “you want to go back home you need his help”

Jason bit his bottom lip at the words, his teeth digging into the flesh, his grip tightening on the lamp before tossing it to the end of the bed “how long?” He asked 

“I don’t know, not exactly the brains guy, that’s Stark’s thing” 

“yeah I can tell” Jason said looking the man over, his eyes settling on the tin arm “what happened there?”

”hydra” Bucky gave a short response his tone hard while spitting out the name.

there was a small pause and Bucky looked like he was contemplating saying something “it’s not…made of tin” he forced out, Jason raised his eyebrow at that “it’s titanium” Bucky supplied 

Jason stared at him in confusion, why did he feel the need to explain that? 

Bucky gave another pause letting out a sigh “you called me Mr. Tin arm when you woke up” he said tone blank. Jason sucked in a breath, before a laugh left him, startling the other man, tears stinging his eyes as he kept laughing sucking in desperate breaths.

he was sure he looked like crazy, laughing like a maniac like the joker, fuck, Bucky did look almost concerned with the way he leaned forward unsure if he should approach or not. It took a minute or two but Jason’s laughs died down eventually “it bothered you that much?” He asked wiping the tears forming in his eyes with the blanket on the bed not expecting an answer, and he didn’t get one, only a shrug from the other man who still had the same concerned look -no matter how blank it was- on his face.

“You’re staying” Bucky said with finality tilting his head an inch to the side ignoring the spectacle Jason put on, Jason nodded a little in defeat.

“maybe if I get that orange juice you mentioned” he said with a self deprecating smile.

he can go along with this until he found an opening to escape.

he never trusted anyone to decide his fate for him and he won’t start today, if there is a way out and back to Gotham is he welcome there anymore? He will find it himself.

Jason is sure as fuck not going to stay here.

Chapter Text

“We brought you back into this family”

”gave you a life”

”worked with you, brought you into our home and this is what you do?”

”I should never have believed in you”

”you’re not my brother”

jason gasped for air as he sprang up to sit in bed, his chest heaving as he clenched the shirt he was wearing with his fist over his chest. It’s the same recurring nightmare, it’s been like this the two weeks he’s been here. Waking up every single time to a brightly lit white room, his eyes burning with tears and green tinging his vision.

he keeps hearing, keeps feeling, how his bones creaked and groaned before they snapped and shattered under the weight of their blows. The warm flow of blood trickling down his face from the cuts and gashes, Bru-Batman’s fists swinging back and forth to bash into his skull.

A chocked sound left his mouth as he clasped a hand over it. 

He can hear the voices echo in his head of that night, the little girl screaming, the people wailing as they burned, Dick’s voice cursing him, wishing him death

”why couldn’t you have just stayed dead?”

”I let Damian and Tim around a monster like you, how could I have been this stupid”

But it wasn’t the phantom pains that struck at him, that hurt him to his very core, nor was it the loneliness the filled him every morning when he woke up to the same overly clean and white room with the stupid orange chair Bucky would sit in when ever he came to visit. It was the betrayal, the heartache, the finality and sureness of Batman’s voice as each blow landed with devastating force.

The man that was his mentor, the man he once considered as the closest thing he had to a father…he made sure Jason knew what he thought of him.

Batman’s greatest failure, Bruce’s biggest regret.

”I should have left you that day on the curb where I found you.” The growl in his voice, the deeply rooted anger lashed at Jason “if I knew this is what would have become of you I would have left you there and hoped you starved”

Bile rises up in his throat and he scrambles for his crutch, laid to the side of his bed. Gripping it he rushes to stand up collapsing in his hurry as pain shot through his injured leg. A strangled cry of pain left his throat as he struggled to pick himself up, the crutches not helping him off the cold ground.

the bile rose and Jason retched slightly at the feeling. two arms slinked under his armpits and pulled him up with what seemed like zero effort, his body seized as he tried to protect himself, -is Bruce here to finish the job?- his arm flailing back to hit who ever had him.

he was sat on the bed and as he retched again, a bucket was pushed to his face, the watery and chunky bits of his vomit filling the bottom of the small trash bin as Jason hurled into it.

His lungs sucking in sweet oxygen when the burning in his throat stopped, the putrid smell wafting from the bin making him scrunch his nose in disgust, he didn’t have to suffer smelling it for long before it was hastily pulled away and placed next the bedside table.

Jason’s blurry vision quickly adjusted and now was able to take in Bucky’s face. “Can I leave now?” Jason asked voice tired and sweat beading on his forehead causing his hair to stick to it. Bucky who had been silent looked Jason over, his right hand coming up to wipe some of the cold sweat on Jason’s forehead, stopping and pulling away immediately when Jason flinched at the motion.

”Stark said he wants a question answered now that you’re…,” he folded his arms over his chest “better” he settled on eventually 

“what kind of question?” Jason shifted on the bed wiping his forehead and pushing the hair back.

”whatever kind I want,” Stark replies striding into the room like he owns the place -he does- “do I have to be worried about you attacking us again?” He asks giving Jason a look of disdain.

Jason skin prickled at the inquiry “not sure about ‘us’, probably just you if you keep talking to me like this” Jason said his hand clenching the bed sheets.

”color me terrified.” Stark bit back in turn “no point beating around the bush, why did hydra send you?” he asked sitting on the ugly orange plush chair, his leg crossing over the other as if he wasn’t on the receiving end of Jason’s murderous expression.

Becky’s posture tensed his eyebrows coming down and face set in a frown “I already told you I don’t think he is a hydra agent.” His metal arm flexed slightly as it formed into a fist before relaxing again.

”yeah sure winter soldier, I’ll definitely believe the word of a hydra agent when defending one of his own” Stark spat out checking his watch before switching over to his phone.

jason could feel the tension in the air grow ten fold as Bucky’s jaw tensed “former agent” he pushed the words out through his teeth.

”keep telling yourself that buttercup, but you don’t expect me to believe that there isn’t a bit of hydra left rattling in that brain of yours” Stark rolled his fingers next to his head unbothered by the highly trained man who looked seconds away from lunging at him.

“I’m not ‘hydra’” Jason cut in his heart beating loudly in his chest, hoping to cut the tension short. Both of the men turned their eyes to look at him, Bucky with an angry almost seething look on his, stark with a raised eyebrow as a huff of air leaves his mouth in a mocking laugh.

”listen kid-“

”don’t call me that!”

”sure, here’s the thing kid.” Stark put his hands together, his back to Bucky as he stood up to stand in front of Jason, just out of arms length “I don’t trust you, I don’t like you and I don’t know you”

“You say you’re from a different universe, and yet-“ he paused pulling out his phone while putting one finger up with his other hand to silence whatever Jason was going to say “I was informed by doctor strange and his group of ritual doers that they sense nothing that can back up your claim”

”you know what nothing means? None, nada, zero” he says stretching out the o on zero at the end “the evidence doesn’t back up what you’re saying, and I prefer to trust numbers” he clapped his hands together as he turned around to face Bucky, Jason tossed his crutch at him with whatever strength he has after sustaining himself on soup and water and orange juice for the past two weeks.

it wasn’t much.

though the crutch was caught by Bucky who gave Jason an unimpressed look. Traitor.

“The kid stays here, we’re not moving him” he says striding to the door giving a Bucky a dismissive wave, not looking back at Jason when he gives a chocked sound at the declaration.

he was stopped by the man who grabbed his arm “Steve said he will be moved when he is medically cleared” he growled out, Jason can’t see his expression from where he is sitting.

“He isn’t giving me answers” Stark argued back pulling his arm out of Bucky’s hold, Jason has a feeling the only reason he was able to was because Bucky allowed him to. “Don’t forget where you are winter soldier, you’re on my turf living under my roof” he shoves a finger into Bucky’s chest, the other man slapping it away.

”just because you’re sucking face with Mr. American flag doesn’t make you a good person”

”and what? You think you are? You’re not even half as good as you think you are” Bucky moved forward a step, practically towering over Stark, who gives a condescending laugh at his words.

”still makes me better than you”

the conversation didn’t continue after that and soon Bucky and Jason were left alone again, their bodies tense. Bucky looks back at Jason, fists clenched as their eyes meet, though no words were exchanged. The titanium armed man pushes a breath out of his mouth before turning and leaving Jason alone in the room.

jason stared at the man’s back as he left, the doors locking automatically behind him. Jason lets out a self deprecating laugh, his had coming up to run down his face. He closed his eyes for a few minutes before looking around the room again, his eyes settling on the camera in the right corner of the room, flipping the bird in its direction.

he’s not spending another minute in this place, screw their help. The only reason he stuck around was because they promised answers and an explanation, Jason doesn’t want one from them anymore. He can find his answers the same way he has been the past few years.

he turned his back to the camera, slipping his hand into the pillow covering, where he has been stashing the pain killers he was given by the nurses. Hiding them was a bit difficult since the nurses were always insisting to change the bed covers, every day he would have to slip the pills out of the covers, hiding them again when they were finished.

That was the easier part of it though, he still has no idea how the layout of the place is, all he knows is that he is in a tower in New York, where in New York? That he still doesn’t know.

He sighs as he looks down at the pills, they will help him ignore the pain in his injured leg, not much but enough to allow him to run. His injuries have healed up enough already, thanks to his accelerated healing because of the pit, he can put up a decent fight against normal security as long as they don’t rush him.

jason takes a deep breath in, blowing it out slowly before popping a few of the pills in his mouth, he won’t be imprisoned in here because of the whims of one rich man, he had enough of suffering because of people like Stark.

jason has always gone his own way.

__________________________________

it didn’t take long for the pills to kick in, Jason stretched his injured leg and gave a sigh when it only give a slight sting at the movement. His side injury didn’t hurt that much either. He looked up at the camera again, someone must be watching him, which means someone will come in to check on him if he is ‘hurt’.

hopefully it wouldn’t be any of the four men he met so far.

he grabbed crutches, pretending to use it as he hobbled off the bed and towards the bathroom on the left side of the room, where the camera can clearly see. as he passes the bed he ‘slips’ banging his head on the footboard of it. He clenched his teeth as his frame rattles from the impact but he remained still on the floor.

after some time passed with nothing happening he wondered if they really didn’t have anyone watching the cameras. He almost started to get up when he heard rushed footsteps, he settled back down, his body going limp, breathing slowing down.

the door gave a beep as it opened, Jason kept his eyes closed, focusing his hearing on whoever entered. They were panting as they approached him, obviously a man. he heard the slight sound of a radio piece, security guard, Jason concluded feeling relief wash through him. He wouldn’t have to deal with anyone he couldn’t go up against right now.

”yes- Rebeca, I’m going to need some help” the man radioed “he banged his head-.” He didn’t get to finish his sentence before Jason sprang up striking him in the head with a left hook, his form crumbling to the ground with an ‘oof’ before he ever got the chance to react. 

Not having any time to celebrate the small victory, Jason stripped the man of his uniform, replacing his light blue hospital like outfit with the security get up. He only gave a low whistle when he took the security card off the man.

bingo, his one way ticket out of here.

jason wasted no time walking out of the room, leaving the man sprawled out on the floor in his boxers. The first thing he noticed about the place was how high tech it seemed, the interior was clean cut, marble lining the floor, it made Jason pause before he pushed through trying to locate an elevator. It felt foreign standing in a place that screamed wealth, even back when he was still robin, being surrounded by money never felt quite right.

” bulls eye” Jason whispered in triumph as he spotted an elevator, he had to navigate through the what looked like a sparring or training room before he reached it.

reaching out to press the button on the elevator, he almost flinched when the doors opened by themselves, guards flowing onto the floor, not giving him a glance as they walked past him towards the room he was locked in, shit, he remembered the guard radioing for help before he knocked him out.

he slid into the elevator, pushing the ground level button insistently, as he watched the guards enter the room. Shouting echoed from the room before the guards came running back out now focused on him “stop right there!” 

the door of the elevator locked before they can reach him, the numbers on top of the door going down as the elevator descended through the floors. He gave a relieved sigh relaxing slightly “that could have gone worse”.

the elevator gave a jerk and stopped for a second before it started moving again, this time back up. “Fuck me sideways” Jason cursed smashing his fist into the emergency stop button, causing the elevator to give another jerk before powering down.

his breathing fast as he looked at the number board, he was on the 30th floor. he gave himself a second to think things over before he moved towards the doors of the elevator, shoving his fingers into the slight opening in the middle. His muscles tensed and flexed as he pulled the two apart, groaning slightly at the effort.

The doors eventually gave and opened from his force. He panted as he was faced with the stares of Workers wearing white coats. Jason gave an awkward smile as he walked out, pointing behind his back with his thump at the elevator “technical problems” he said chuckling as he walked nonchalantly through the space.

”everyone down!” 

fuck, how did the guards get here so fucking fast, Jason watched as a group of them entered the room from a door Jason could only guess was the stairwell. “Hands in the air!” One of them yelled putting up his taser gun. The workers scattered around the space ducking under their tables and out of the way, leaving Jason standing alone.

”hey hey!” Jason yelled throwing his hands up “you got the wrong fucking guy!” He said putting on his best confused look he can muster, he really hoped this is going to work.

the commotion calmed down a bit, some of the guards confused as well now “just look at my security card man!” Jason said, with an air of offense. The taser guns raised at him lowered as Jason approached pulling out the stolen security card.

as he stood in front of them, five in total, the guy at the front put his hand out to see his card. “Here man” Jason said putting the card forward. The guard reached for it.

idiots

the taser gun at the guard’s side was in Jason’s hand in an instant firing at the closest man to him, shocking him with high electricity voltage. holding the one he handed the card to in front of him as a shield.

chaos reignited as a few yells filled the space. The three free guards raising their taser guns back up, one of them firing it. The spiked wire burying itself into the guard Jason was holding, he went limp in Jason’s hold and Jason let go of him as he dropped like a sack of potato’s to the ground.

”shoot him!” One of the three yelled as the other two pulled the trigger on their taser guns, Jason’s body seized as dart-like electrodes hit him shocking him with a voltage that would make a lesser man -kinda like the two guards he dropped- go limp, he’s had worse though.

he clenched his jaw, a loud groan leaving him as the guards stared at him in apprehension taking small steps back. He lifted his hands ripping the electrodes out of his skin before swinging at them. It took less than a minute from them to drop unconscious as Jason panted.

he looked back at the hiding workers who were making rushed calls on their phone before he shook his head and walked toward the stairwell. Breaking into a run as he went down the stairs, Jason heard the rush of even more footsteps following him, he didn’t bother looking back to see who.

he looked at the wall and saw the number 8 written on it, god he has been going down the stairs for what felt like forever, his injured leg throbbing a little despite the several pills he had taken earlier, and his lungs hurting as he draws in breath. The voices now felt distant, not being able to keep up with his speed.

he kept passing the doors that lead to the other floors as he kept going down…

8

7

6

crash-

jason almost slammed into Bucky as he came through the door of the 6th floor, Jason ducking under Bucky’s outstretched arm, before crashing into the wall and turning to face Bucky with wild, wide eyes.

His chest heaving as he bared his teeth at the man who directs a glare at him “you’re not supposed to be here” he says, his tone flat as his arms tense. Eyes looking Jason over to check for injuries, for a weakness, an opening to strike.

jason laughs, the sound more like a wheeze with how exhausted and out of breath he feels “no shit, it’s why I’m leaving” he says, his eyes not leaving the man while trying to spot an opening to leave out of his peripheral vision.

”that’s not what I meant” Bucky growled out causing Jason to throw a snarl his way. “but it’s what you said,” the younger of the two replied back.

They stared each other down, not moving, but Jason knew he would be surrounded by guards any minute now if this continues. He needs an out.

”Bucky! Did you find him”

the voice of Steve from the still opened stairwell door to the sixth floor drew Bucky’s attention from Jason, a mistake he immediately tried to correct, though it was already too late. Jason lunged for the railing and flung himself over of it, yells resounding in the air, ones he can’t hear with the air whizzing past his ears as he plummets through the remaining floors.

He makes sure his knees aren’t locked but bent, hips back and chest up as he angels himself for his landing.

god I’m going to regret this later he thinks as he nears the ground floor.

his toes are the first to touch the floor, he is suddenly thankful for stark for providing his security guard with shoes that are thick.  The sound of the thud as he hits the floor is loud, Jason sucking in a pained breath, his landing form made sure he wouldn’t be injured seriously, but his knees will definitely hurt him in the coming days.

he gave himself a minute to breath and asses himself before standing up, swaying slightly. He could hear the sounds of who he could only assume are Steve and Bucky coming down a few floors up, he had no time to waste. He slammed the door of the stairwell open, light hitting his eyes as he walks into the foyer. 

he spots a reception desk to the side of him as he speed walks to the entrance of the building, tossing the security card on the floor as he breaks into a run. 

he doesn’t make it far out of the building before he hears…thrusters?, looking up he spots something flying in the air, heading directly at him. Jason almost felt his heart drop, do they have a Superman of their own? Shit.

is that a fucking robot?

The streets outside the tower were crowded, something Jason was thankful for as he dove to join the motion of the crowd, ducking and weaving between the people.

”I’m only going to say this once kid, stop right there” Stark’s voice was obvious despite the slight change of voice as he speaks through the robot. Does he have Bluetooth in that thing? Maybe he’s controlling the bot from the tower Jason thinks as he cuts through the crowd, people who have been busy walking now stopping and pulling their phones out, screaming and squealing at the flying robot while taking pictures, Jason’s pretty sure he saw a girl pull her shirt up to flash it. New yorkers Jason thinks as he passes what he can assume is a merch stall.

he dashes past it snatching a hoodie from the showcased items, before merging back with the crowd while pulling it on. He only noticed the color of what he took afterwards, black.

the sound of the robots thrusters passing overhead while he passed through alleys and streets, stalls and shops was loud at first, before Jason put more and more distance between him and the tower, Eventually it stopped all together. 

he stopped in an alley sliding down the wall to sit on the dirty floor, he took deep breaths, his side and leg killing him. The pain killer’s effect already wearing off, his earlier jump down from several floors already taking its toll as a throbbing radiated through his knees and ankles.

Well I got out…now what? He thinks as he rummages through his pants -guard’s pants- hoping the man he stole it from had something useful on him. 

fuck yeah

jason pulls out a phone from his pocket, turning it on, he almost throws it at the opposite wall as a screen demanding a password shows up. he bites his nails as he contemplates what it could possible be.

1111, nope

2222,nope

1234, fucking nope

0000, jackpot! Also stupid move but it works out for him.

jason lets out a low “let’s fucking go” under his breath as he opens up the browser page. He doesn’t know what he could possibly search up at the moment about this world, so he searches up what he knows about his.

gotham, the search comes up empty 

batman, the only thing he finds is a blog about a vampire down in Australia, it causes Jason to let it a chocked chuckle at that. was it relief he was feeling?, the fact he doesn’t have to face Bruce again? Even if it would’ve been a different one.

the riddler, nothing 

scarecrow, nothing

 Jason takes in a shaky breath before typing in the joker, when the search comes back empty Jason tilts his head back looking up at the orange tinted sky, his eyes tearing up as he wipes them with the sleeve of his newly stolen hoodie.

He doesn’t know how long he sat there but when he moved to stand up it was already night time, the bustle in the streets didn’t die down, its expected out of the city that never sleeps.

opening up the map app on his phone -it’s his now- he checks his location, midtown manhattan, at least he wouldn’t lack any hiding places.

the cameras will be a bit difficult to avoid but not impossible. Where he would stay though that’s a bit more tricky, there is always the public library, maybe steal some money and get a motel room. His stomach rumbles slightly and he rubs it in a small circular motion, if there was one thing he liked about the tower is the good soup he was brought by the nurses, too bad he will have to do without that now.

He tightens his resolve as he makes to walk out into the busy street again, public library for today it is. He will worry about everything else after he figured out a bit more information.

Chapter Text

The library here was nothing like the ones in Gotham—nothing like the ones Jason had known as a kid. This place was huge, spanning three floors, each one brimming with shelves. There were common areas on each level, where people sat and read or chatted quietly, but Jason had learned early on that if you found the right spot, you could slip away from the crowds.

He’d discovered a perfect little nook on the third floor, hidden between shelves so tightly packed that no one ever seemed to wander there. It was quiet up here, far from the noise and chatter of the first two floors. No one would bother him here. Just the soft hum of pages turning and the distant murmur of voices below. It was the kind of peace he hadn’t realized he’d been craving.

The couch he’d found was a relic—beat up, forgotten, and covered in dust. It was the only place he’d had to sleep for the past week since he escaped the tower, and if he was being honest, it wasn’t much of a bed. But it was a place to rest, at least. Though it still felt too exposed at times.

Jason had almost left more than once. The weight of being tracked down by Stark and the other two men was suffocating, but he had hoped that if he stayed hidden here long enough, they'd just give up.

the only real food he’d had the entire month since he was dropped here was the soup the nurses had given him before he’d escaped. Here in the library, the vending machine snacks barely kept him going. They weren’t enough to fuel him for long, and he could feel his body weakening as the days wore on. He hadn’t had a solid meal in nearly a month, and it was starting to show.

The hunger was gnawing at him, and he knew he couldn’t stay in the library forever. Sooner or later, he’d have to leave—either to get real food or, more likely, to steal what he needed. Cash. Supplies. Anything to keep him going a little longer. He hated that he was at this point, but there wasn’t much else he could do. Not yet.

With a sigh he got up from the couch, running his hands down his outfit to get some of the creases to go away, not that it worked much. He had to get new clothes as well, he has to add that to the ever growing list of things.

Though he did take somethings off it as well, the research. This universe doesn’t have the justice league but it does have the avengers, god just when he thought the names couldn’t get cringier.

Stark was exactly what Jason had expected—a spoiled, arrogant rich guy. No surprises there. Not that Jason cared, but he had to admit, the man was undeniably a genius. That genius had earned him a fortune and a level of influence few could even dream of. He could respect that. But the names—seriously? Iron Man? Jason rolled his eyes at the thought. Not that he had room to judge; his own vigilante alias wasn’t exactly inspiring either.

Still, Stark’s choice was a new level of ridiculous. But then again, it didn’t even come close to how ridiculous Captain America was.

Jason couldn’t deny it—there was something about Captain America that rubbed him the wrong way, but it wasn’t the usual stuff. It wasn’t the flag-waving, hero complex, or even the whole “perfect soldier” shtick. No, it was something a little more personal.

Steve Rogers had the same goddamn build as Bruce Wayne. The same muscle, the same height, the same idealized proportions that Jason couldn’t shake off whenever he looked at a picture of the man. It wasn’t a jealousy thing, at least, not in the way people would expect.

Jason didn’t want to be some perfect, chiseled paragon of virtue—he was far too jaded for that. But seeing Captain America was like watching a twisted mirror of Bruce’s perfectly tailored image. They both had that unnerving, untouchable air, the kind of body that screamed superhuman even though Jason knew damn well what it took to get there.

Still, it was hard not to notice the way Steve seemed to glide through life, all smiles and speeches about justice and freedom, like he’d never been punched in the gut by reality. It irritated Jason in a way he couldn't quite explain. The guy wasn’t a villain, sure, but the whole “super-soldier” thing, the way everyone fawned over him... Yeah, Jason could respect him as a fighter, but the whole package? It was a little too much like staring at a cleaner, more patriotic version of someone he already knew too well.

but it wasn’t Steve or Stark he tried to find the most about, these two weren’t the men who spent the two weeks keeping him company -or maybe just making sure Jason doesn’t harm anyone- in the tower.

Jason didn’t know what to make of Bucky Barnes when he first started digging into his past. The Winter Soldier was a name that came up often, but the deeper Jason dug, the more complicated it all became. At first, he had to rely on the scraps of information he could find on public servers, scattered news reports, and bits of chatter online. He knew enough to piece together the basics: Bucky Barnes, once Steve Rogers' best friend, presumed dead during WWII, then reappears decades later as the brainwashed assassin known as the Winter Soldier.

But it wasn’t the basics that got to Jason. It was the stuff no one talked about, the stuff hidden away behind locked files and security codes. After a week on the library’s computer spent tracking down obscure sources, hacking through firewalls, and getting his hands on some classified intel through backdoor channels—stuff that wasn’t meant for someone like him—Jason finally started finding the real answers. He’d leaned on his less used set of skills sometimes even used Stark's own tech to break into things he shouldn’t have had access to -which was more difficult than Jason would like to admit-. That’s how he found the personal files—how he learned about Bucky’s history with Hydra, his years of being used as an assassin. It took a bit of digging, but Jason was nothing if not persistent. He wasn’t above using some of his more unconventional skills to get the job done.

The more he read, the more Jason’s head spun. The files painted a terrifying picture of Bucky—of a man who had been turned into a weapon, stripped of his identity, brainwashed and conditioned to kill. But then, there were the glimpses of something else: photos of a smiling, younger Bucky, standing alongside Steve during WWII, looking like a man with a future, with hope. Jason couldn’t help but feel a strange pull, a sense of familiarity. Bucky wasn’t just some faceless killer; he had been human once, had lived and breathed before Hydra took it all away.

But Jason had seen Bucky, too—up close, even if it had only been for two weeks, when Stark had kept him under lock and key. And it wasn’t that Jason felt sorry for him—hell, Bucky had still killed people, and no amount of sympathy could change that. But there was something raw about it, something Jason couldn’t ignore. He’d been there. He’d felt what it was like to be turned into something you weren’t, something you didn’t choose. And somewhere, buried under all those layers of pain and rage, he could see the shadow of who Bucky might have been before Hydra had twisted him into a weapon.

The real kicker, though, was the bond between Bucky and Steve. The more Jason read about their history, the more it was clear: it wasn’t just some old friendship. It was everything. Steve had never given up on Bucky, even when the man was nothing but a living weapon, a ghost of his former self. The way Steve had fought to bring him back, the way he refused to let go, was painful to read. Jason couldn’t understand it fully—not in the way Steve did—but it hit too close to home. He’d seen that kind of loyalty before, that kind of unshakable bond. It was something Jason had craved, something he’d never quite had the luxury of experiencing, but he knew it when he saw it.

Jason's hands balled into fists, his nails biting into his palms as the thought took root in his mind. He couldn't stop the bitter resentment that rose in his chest. Why couldn’t they be like that? The thought of Bruce, Dick, Damian, and Tim—the people who were supposed to be his family, his brothers—made him feel like something in his gut had twisted into a cold knot.

Bruce would never make that kind of sacrifice, never bend that far for someone. It was all about the mission, about the bigger picture, no matter how much it hurt. Dick might’ve tried, but in the end, he’d have listened to Bruce, like he always did, always falling back on what the "greater good" was.

Damian? He wouldn’t even consider it. Too busy with his own pride to see the value in something as messy as saving someone who’d failed. And Tim—Tim would’ve analyzed the hell out of it, found every reason not to, because that was what Tim did: always calculating, always thinking with his head instead of his heart. Jason could feel his teeth grind together, the familiar anger rising in his throat. He wanted to scream, but all that came out was a ragged breath.

It wasn’t even about them, not really—it was about what they couldn’t give him. What they never would. That kind of loyalty, that willingness to put everything on the line for someone, wasn’t a part of their world. They’d never understand. And that was the part that hurt the most.

They’d risk everything for each other—Bruce for Dick, Dick for Tim, Tim for Damian—always willing to lay down their lives when it was one of them in trouble. But when it came to Jason? When it came to him, all that loyalty, all that talk of family, was a little too thin, a little too conditional. They’d never been willing to make the same sacrifice for him, and Jason hated how that truth stung, even now.

By the time he was done, Jason was left in a strange, uncomfortable place. He didn’t like Bucky—not yet—but he couldn’t hate him either. The guy had been a weapon, yes, but that didn’t mean he was just a monster. The more Jason read, the more he started to see the cracks in the story—the parts people didn’t want to acknowledge. Bucky wasn’t just some cold killer, and the more Jason learned, the more he realized that Bucky had been just another victim. And that made Jason wonder—how different was he, really?

_________________________

Jason pushed open the heavy library doors, the cool night air hitting his face as he stepped outside. He felt the weight of it all—disconnected, out of place, his stomach tight with hunger and frustration. He hadn’t been able to find much in the way of answers, but he’d been hoping for something, anything to give him a way out.

The reality hit him like a punch to the gut: no ID, no papers, no real way to get a job. He had nothing in this world. And the worst part? He knew he wasn’t going to get anything unless he used his old set of skills—the ones that had kept him alive when he’d been on his own for too long. Stealing. It was second nature now, almost instinct. He glanced around, taking in the darkened city streets.

The perfect time was now. With most stores closed for the night, no one would be around to stop him. His stomach twisted again, but this time it was more out of annoyance than hunger. He wasn’t proud of it, but he knew exactly what he had to do. There were things to take, and in this city, the night was his only ally.

Jason kept his head down as he walked, blending into the ebb and flow of the late-night crowd. The city felt colder than usual, the neon lights flickering around him, but his focus was razor-sharp, his eyes scanning for any sign of surveillance cameras.

It was second nature now—he knew how to avoid the prying eyes of the city, the invisible eyes that were always watching. He slipped through shadows, keeping his movements casual, as if he were just another face in the crowd, just another nobody passing through.

His mind worked faster than his feet, calculating every move, every angle, every turn to avoid detection. After a few blocks, he found it—an alleyway tucked behind a small convenience store, dimly lit and deserted.

Perfect. No cameras, no foot traffic, just the silence of the night. Jason paused for a moment, taking in the store’s layout from the distance, mentally mapping out his next move. It was the kind of place where he could slip in and out, unnoticed. He was good at this, too good, but tonight? Tonight, he had no other choice. His stomach growled louder, and with a small smirk, he made his move, slipping toward the entrance like a shadow.

just a quick stop, he wouldn’t be taking much anyway. he’s going to be in and out in no time. 

Jason slipped through the back door with practiced ease, bypassing the security system’s weak point—a faulty sensor he’d spotted from the outside—and entered the store without triggering a single alarm.

He moved swiftly, grabbing a few pre-wrapped sandwiches and a couple of water bottles, shoving them into a bag he found on a shelf. His eyes darted to the side, spotting a clothing aisle with jackets and jeans that looked like they’d fit.

With a quick, silent motion, he snatched a few items, ducking into a supply room at the back. He peeled off the sweat-soaked clothes he’d been wearing for the past week, feeling an almost desperate relief as the new, fresh fabric settled against his skin.

But that relief evaporated instantly when a flashlight beam suddenly pierced through the window, followed by a gruff voice calling out.

“Who’s there?”

Jason’s heart skipped a beat as his pulse quickened, damn it, he hadn’t accounted for the cops. How did they even figure it out anyway? He’s barely been here for five minutes. Did someone see him slip in?

he grabbed his supply bag and closed the supply room’s door with a soft click, before the flashlight was turned to where he was. Opening the window of the supply room, he tossed the bag out before climbing through. Dropping onto the concrete of the alleyway with practiced ease.

he reached up and closed the window of the supply room shut, just as the door of it opened and a light shone in. “Dave, no one in here” a voice called out, probably to the officer’s partner. 

“seriously man? This is like the sixth prank call this week” a voice grumbles from inside, growing muffled as Jason heard the click of the supply room’s door close.

Jason lets out a sigh, as he turns and leans down to grab his bag. His Heart stutters in his chest when he is met with an empty ground. He swings his head around trying to spot the bag, maybe he tossed it a bit harder than he thought? It can’t be far.

"Looking for this, man?" A voice called from above, light and teasing.

Jason froze mid-step, his eyes snapping upward to the source of the sound. A figure hung upside down from what looked like a thin white rope—no, wait, was that a web?

His gaze quickly darted to the thing the stranger held in his hand. His bag. The damn bag. Jason’s jaw clenched, his chest burning with a familiar, boiling rage. Of course, of course someone had to show up now, right as he was about to make a clean getaway. The universe was just that cruel.

Without thinking, Jason’s hand shot to his side, only to come up empty. Right. No weapons. Nothing. He cursed under his breath, glaring up at the guy.

The man—who was wearing an obnoxious mix of blue and red spandex—looked down at him, or just assumed he did since he was wearing a mask. "Language," he said, his tone annoyingly amused, almost friendly. It irked jason. He’d seen too many faces flip from friendly to deadly in the blink of an eye, and he wasn’t about to let this guy lull him into some false sense of security.

"You think you're funny, huh?" Jason shot back, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You gonna web me into submission now?"

The guy cocked his head, still hanging upside down like it was the most casual thing in the world. "Not my style. I prefer to stick to saving the day, y'know? But—" He twirled the bag around in his hand. "—you’re gonna need to take this back to the shop owner. They’re missing some, uh, supplies."

Jason narrowed his eyes, his lips curling into a sneer. "Supplies? I’m pretty sure I paid for those, buddy. At least, I was about to."

The man sighed exaggeratedly. "Yeah, I can tell. But you didn’t, did you? And I’m pretty sure the shop owner wouldn’t appreciate you ‘paying’ by leaving with his stuff."

Jason balled his fists, trying to reign in the urge to reach for a weapon again when he had none. "So what now? You’re just gonna play the good Samaritan and make me walk back in there like I’m some kind of charity case?"

The man grinned. "Pretty much. But hey, look at it this way—at least I’m not making you do it in cuffs. Small victories, right?"

Jason gritted his teeth, his body tensing. He had to leave. He could try stealing food another time, but this? This wasn’t worth getting compromised for. He had to stay low, keep his head down. He could disappear into the crowd if he could just make it out of this alley. It was his only chance. 

His heart pounded in his chest as he scanned the streets beyond the alley’s mouth. A crowd—a sea of people—was just a few blocks away. He could blend in with them, slip away like a ghost. He’d done it before. Hell, he’d gotten away from Stark in that damn Iron Man suit, so a guy in spandex? He’d be no problem.

He steeled himself, ignoring the flickering doubt that crept up his spine. He’d get out of here, no problem. 

But as he was about to move, a voice sliced through the air, sharp and cutting.

“Spiderman, what’s taking you so long?” The voice sliced through the tension like a blade. “You said you—”

Jason’s pulse skittered in panic. He froze mid-step, his stomach sinking. His eyes flicked to the source of the voice before he could stop himself.

And there he was.

Steve Rogers.

Shit.

The blonde man was standing at the mouth of the alley, his blue eyes locking with Jason’s the moment their gazes met. For a beat, neither of them moved. Jason’s heart skipped a beat—Steve’s eyes widening as recognition hit him like a punch to the gut.

Then, just as quickly, Jason could see the wheels turning in Steve’s head, the understanding coming too fast for Jason’s liking. He didn’t have time for this. He didn’t have time to think about it.

Steve’s legs coiled like a spring, and he surged forward, mouth opening to shout something—probably some goddamn order to stop. Jason didn’t give him the chance.

The alley was too narrow. The streets were filled with people, but Steve had come from that direction—he was cutting off his escape. Jason didn’t even have a second to think. His body reacted before his brain had time to catch up.

He spun around and ran.

The narrow alleyways stretched out in front of him like a maze, and Jason’s heart thundered as he pushed his legs harder. The sound of his footfalls echoed in the cramped space, but even through the panic, something gnawed at him: This was new. This wasn’t his turf. He didn’t know these streets.

He cursed under his breath, his mind racing. Think, think!

He could hear Spiderman—he thinks that was what Steve called him—somewhere behind him. The sound of webbing whipping through the air, followed by the distinct thwip of it attaching to a wall. Jason shot a glance over his shoulder, but it was too fast. A shadow moved just behind him, barely visible in the dim light. The guy was gaining.

Jason pushed harder, trying to outrun the fear building up in his chest. He needed to get to the crowd. That was the only way. If he could make it, he’d blend in, disappear.

But then—another sound, louder this time. Heavy boots on the ground, more purposeful, more insistent. 

Jason’s stomach churned.

Steve was closer than he’d thought.

The alley turned sharply, and Jason barely registered the sharp bend before he was careening around it, only to find that it dead-ended into another tight, dimly lit alley. The city itself felt like it was working against him, and every corner seemed like another trap.

Behind him, the web-slinger shot another strand of webbing—closer now. Jason could hear it, feel it in his bones, that buzzing almost there sensation.

He cursed again, desperate. He doesn’t know where he is. He knew how to move quickly through familiar streets, but this? This was unfamiliar territory. He didn’t know how to lose someone in these twists and turns. 

He forced his legs to move faster, rounding another corner—goddammit, it’s another dead end—and just as he skidded to a stop, he heard Steve’s voice, booming from the distance.

“Spiderman call Bu—”

Jason’s breath came in jagged gasps as his boots hit the cold pavement, his mind screaming at him to think, to focus, but all he could hear was the pounding of his heart in his ears. Panic was rising in his chest, suffocating him, making it hard to breathe, hard to think straight.

Where do I go?

The alleyways around him twisted like a maze, each turn, each corner, a new dead-end, a new trap. His thoughts raced too fast to catch. Every shadow, every movement felt like a threat.

Left? Right? No... shit!

His feet slipped on the wet ground, his mind spinning, his legs aching as he pushed himself harder, faster. No, no— the thought was a desperate mantra, trying to anchor him, trying to force him to focus on the escape. The crowd, the crowd. Just get to the crowd. Blend in. Get out.

But then, out of nowhere, a memory hit him—a flash, too fast to stop. A face. The unmistakable presence of someone who had once hunted him, chasing him through the dark streets, a predator in pursuit. Bruce.

The breath caught in his throat, and his heart stuttered painfully in his chest.

No. Not him. Please, not him. Don’t— Jason’s hands shook, his fingers slick with sweat as he tried to grab onto the walls, his thoughts spiraling. The memories rushed in, jagged, relentless. The panic exploded in his chest, overwhelming, like a hand tightening around his throat. The sound of those boots. The anger in his eyes. The knowing that if Bruce caught him, it would be worse than anything he could imagine.

He remembered the way Bruce’s voice had twisted when he’d realized what Jason had done—the way he’d chased him down after Jason had shot penguin. The man who’d killed Willis, who Jason had tried to stop. He hadn’t even thought about it, just acted. But Bruce—Bruce didn’t care about the reasons. It didn’t matter. He just saw a killer.

God, no. I can’t. I can’t breathe, I can’t—

The weight of that panic crushed him, every step heavier, every corner a new nightmare. The tightness in his chest felt like the walls of the alley were closing in on him, pressing in until he couldn’t escape, couldn’t think.

Get out. Just get out.

But it was too late. He wasn’t thinking straight. He couldn’t keep up the pace.

He rounded a corner—too fast, too desperate—and for a brief second, thought he saw an opening. There was a way out. The alley ahead led to a wider street, where the crowd was waiting.

But that moment of hope died instantly.

Before he could even register what was happening, something collided with him—hard. A body slammed into him from the side with a force so powerful that it felt like his spine was going to snap.

Jason was thrown sideways, his body crashing violently against the brick wall of the alley. Pain exploded across his back, the force knocking the wind out of him. His head smacked into the rough stone, and everything swam, his vision splintering. He was dizzy, disoriented, and as he tried to push himself up, a fist hit him.

Bucky’s fist.

It slammed into his temple with such force that Jason couldn’t even think before the world went blank.

His skull rattled with the impact. The punch felt like it reverberated through his entire body, and everything around him blurred, twisted. He couldn’t even find air, couldn’t gather his bearings. The pain was overwhelming, a hot spike of fire in his head, and then the world—the world just stopped.

No... I...

Everything around him faded, the edges of his vision darkening, the panic ebbing away as his mind started to shut down.

Get up. You have to get up. The thought was distant, like it was someone else’s voice. Jason tried to move, to open his eyes, but his body refused to cooperate, too heavy, too numb. His arms didn’t respond. His legs felt like they were made of lead.

Come on... Come on, don’t let them—

But the words were fading. His heart felt like it was slowing, like he was sinking into the darkness. The panic that had been choking him a second ago was now distant, muffled. The sharp pain was still there, but it was starting to blur, as though it was happening to someone else.

I... can’t...

And then, just as the last shred of awareness slipped away, Jason's mind whispered one last thing, one thing he couldn’t escape:

I’m not getting away.

And then there was nothing.

Chapter Text

Bucky stood at the head of the meeting room table, his arms crossed tightly, his voice as cold as ice. The tension in the room was palpable as he spoke, his tone cutting through the air like a scalpel.

“This wasn’t Hydra," he repeated for hat fly like the hundredth time that day, his eyes like steel as he surveyed the room. "I know Hydra. I know how they operate, how they think. If they wanted to send a message, they wouldn’t leave him like this. Hydra’s efficient. They’re surgical. If they wanted him dead, he’d be dead. No hesitation, no theatrics."

He stepped closer to the table, his metal hand tapping against the surface as he spoke. "And Hydra doesn’t do this kind of messy, prolonged brutality. Their methods are calculated—poisons, clean hits, subtle takedowns, or outright executions. This?" He gestured vaguely toward the hallway, where Jason was being treated. "This was something else entirely. Whoever did this didn’t just want him hurt. They wanted him to feel it. To suffer. Hydra doesn’t waste time on personal vendettas or emotions."

He clenched his teeth. "His ribs—almost every single one—were broken. A punctured lung, barely functioning when we found him. He had a weapon lodged in his side—a damn throwing blade, heavy, custom-made, stuck so deep it nearly pierced his heart. His arm? Dislocated. Both shoulders, actually. The left one was pulled so far out of the socket, it tore muscle. His legs... fractures all over. Kneecap shattered. It’s a wonder he managed to stand at all, let alone run."

Bucky’s voice lowered, his words sharper now. "And his face..." He stopped, jaw tightening as his gaze swept over Stark and Steve. "Multiple fractures in his cheekbones, his nose, his jaw. Both eyes swollen shut. The swelling was so bad, the med team said he could’ve gone blind if we were even an hour late. And his skull..." Bucky’s hand clenched into a fist. "Hairline fractures. Swelling. He took so many hits to the head, he shouldn’t even be alive. The only reason he’s breathing right now is because we’ve got your tech, Stark, and the best med team money can buy. Without that, he’d be a corpse."

He turned, his gaze locking with Steve’s. "This wasn’t a fight. This wasn’t an ambush. This was... punishment. Every single injury was deliberate. Someone beat him to the brink of death and didn’t care if he made it out."

Bucky leaned back against the wall, his cold, detached demeanor never wavering. "So no, this wasn’t Hydra. This wasn’t organized. This was personal. And whoever did this to him? They wanted to break him in every possible way."

Stark scoffed, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms as he looked at Bucky with a mixture of exasperation and skepticism. "Oh, come on, Barnes," he said, his tone sharp and dismissive. "You’re really that sure this isn’t Hydra? They’ve evolved before, adapted their methods. Who’s to say this wasn’t one of their new tricks? Maybe they’re sending us a different kind of message this time. Ever think about that?"  

He gestured toward the medical files on the table, tapping a finger against them for emphasis. "And let’s not ignore the elephant in the room here: the kid’s healing factor. You saw how fast some of those injuries started to stabilize. Punctured lung? Cracked ribs? Most people would be in a coma or dead from half of what he went through, but this guy? He’s bouncing back quicker than normal. That’s not normal, not even close."  

Stark leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at Bucky. "You know what is now the new norm, though? Super soldiers. You, Steve, all those other Hydra experiments—they’ve been trying to replicate that serum for decades. What if this kid is just another one of their attempts? And what if they’re pissed because he went rogue or botched some mission? This could easily be them cleaning up their mess, making an example of him."  

He shrugged, feigning nonchalance, though his voice carried a bite. "And let’s not forget the weapons he had on in his ribs. That throwing blade? Custom-made or not, it doesn’t scream 'innocent civilian.' It screams 'trained operative.' Maybe Hydra didn’t dump him here by accident. Maybe they knew we’d find him and want to pick him apart. Maybe they’re watching us right now, seeing how we react."  

Steve, who had been silent up until now, cleared his throat and shot Tony a look. "Tony," he said firmly, "you’re not helping by throwing out accusations like that. We don’t know what he is yet. And we definitely don’t know who he’s working for, if anyone. But you’re right about one thing—this doesn’t add up. That kind of recovery isn’t normal, and it’s not just luck or determination keeping him alive. If there’s something in his system, we need to figure out what it is and how it got there."  

Tony opened his mouth to respond, but Steve cut him off with a raised hand. "But you don’t have to come at Bucky like this. He knows what Hydra’s capable of, probably better than any of us. If he says it doesn’t fit their MO, I’m willing to listen—but we still have to consider every possibility. The fact is, Hydra’s changed tactics before, and if this kid is connected to them, we can’t afford to let our guard down."  

He turned to Bucky, his expression a mix of concern and understanding. "Look, Buck, I get where you’re coming from. You don’t think this is Hydra because it’s not as clean-cut as what we’re used to. But think about it—what if this is them trying something different? You said yourself they don’t leave loose ends. So what if they didn’t expect him to survive? Or what if they wanted us to find him? A super soldier who’s unpredictable, maybe even rogue—that could be a perfect distraction or even a weapon against us."  

Steve’s voice softened, trying to ease the tension. "I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m just saying we need to keep our eyes open. Whoever this kid is, he’s dangerous. And until we know more, we need to be careful."  

Tony, still leaning against the table, crossed his arms again and shot Bucky a pointed look. "Careful doesn’t mean pretending he’s not a threat. This kid escaped our tower, two weeks after being half-dead, with no clue how we even kept him alive. If that doesn’t scream Hydra—or at least a walking liability—I don’t know what does."  

Steve sighed, glancing between Tony and Bucky. "Let’s focus on the facts. We’ve got a kid who’s hurt, scared, and hiding something. Whether he’s Hydra or not, we can’t ignore what’s in front of us. Buck, you know I trust you—but we need answers before this spirals out of control."

Bucky stood with his arms crossed, his imposing figure casting a shadow over the room. His jaw was tight, his eyes colder than winter itself as they flicked between Steve and Tony. He hadn’t sat down once during this whole mess of a conversation, too restless and angry to even consider it. His metal hand clenched and unclenched rhythmically, the faint whir of its joints filling the silence between words.

Steve sat at the table, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on the polished wood. His expression was calm but determined, the way it always was when he was trying to make a point without escalating things. Meanwhile, Tony leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers tapping impatiently on the armrest.

"Look," Steve started, his tone even, though there was a hint of weariness in his voice. "We need to figure out what to do about him. He doesn’t trust us, and we can’t help him if he keeps seeing us as the enemy."

"Maybe because you are the enemy to him," Bucky muttered, his voice low but sharp as a knife.

Steve shot him a look but didn’t rise to the bait. "He’s not going to open up if we keep treating him like a threat. We need to try a different approach. Something that makes him feel… I don’t know. Less cornered."

Tony rolled his eyes. "Oh, great. Let’s all hold hands and sing kumbaya. That’ll fix him right up."

"Tony," Steve warned, but Tony just waved a hand dismissively.

"You’re the one who keeps saying this kid’s a wounded animal," Tony said, looking pointedly at Bucky. "And what happens when you back an animal into a corner? It bites. He’s already proven he’s good at escaping. Next time, he might not just run—he might fight back."

"And whose fault will that be?" Bucky shot back, his voice cutting through the room like ice. "Maybe if you didn’t treat him like a goddamn science experiment, he wouldn’t feel the need to bolt."

"Okay, enough," Steve said firmly, standing now, though he didn’t match Bucky’s intimidating posture. "This isn’t about placing blame. It’s about figuring out how to move forward. We don’t even know his age. Hell, we don’t even know his real name."

Tony snorted. "Yeah, because when he introduced himself, I’m sure he forgot to bring his driver’s license. You realize he could still be Hydra, right?"

Steve sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We don’t know that, Tony. But right now, we don’t have proof either way. All we know is that he’s young, vulnerable, and terrified. That doesn’t exactly scream Hydra operative."

"And it doesn’t not scream it," Tony shot back, tapping his fingers on the table. "You’re ready to assume he’s just some lost kid, but we don’t have enough to go on. For all we know, he could be bait."

Bucky let out a humorless laugh. "If he’s bait, you already bit. What do you want to do, Stark? Keep him locked up until he gives you answers he doesn’t have?"

Tony’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, he didn’t respond. Finally, he said, "I want to make sure we don’t all regret this later. You should too."

Steve held up a hand, cutting off Bucky before he could reply. "Look, none of us want to be blindsided here, but locking him up isn’t helping. He’s not going to talk to us—not like this. If we’re going to get through to him, we need a different approach."

Tony raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Like what? You want to sit him down for tea and cookies?"

"No," Steve said, his voice firm but measured. "But he seems close to Peter’s age, give or take a few years. And Peter-“

Tony leaned forward, his tone sharp as he asked, "What about Peter?" His posture stiffened, the protective edge in his voice unmistakable.

Steve hesitated for a moment, glancing at Bucky before speaking. "Peter’s been asking about him—constantly. Every chance he gets. He’s worried."

"Of course he’s worried," Tony snapped. "The kid’s got too much heart for his own good. That’s exactly why I don’t want him anywhere near this guy."

"It’s not just that," Steve said, holding up a hand to stop Tony from spiraling further. "Peter feels responsible. He thinks he’s part of the reason things went sideways."

Tony’s brow furrowed. "What the hell does he have to feel responsible for?"

Steve sighed, his expression softening. "He stopped him. Took his bag. And yeah, it was stolen food, but… Peter feels like he kicked someone while they were already down."

Bucky, who had been silent up until now, finally spoke. His voice was low, but there was an edge to it. "Because he did."

Steve turned to him, surprised, but Bucky’s expression didn’t waver.

"You didn’t see him like we did," Bucky continued, his metal fingers curling into a fist. "He looked like he hadn’t eaten in days. And Peter… I get it, he was trying to do the right thing, but he doesn’t know what it’s like to have nothing. To be hunted. Taking that food? That wasn’t just some bag to him—it was survival. Peter might not have meant to, but he made things worse."

Tony immediately shot back, his tone sharp and defensive. "Yeah, well, Peter shouldn’t be the one feeling bad about any of this. Let’s not forget who actually knocked him out and dragged him back here like a sack of potatoes." He leveled a pointed look at Bucky, crossing his arms.

Bucky’s jaw tightened, his metal hand flexing at his side. "I did what I had to. He was about to bolt, and we couldn’t let him get away."

"Sure, because slamming the guy into a wall was the only option," Tony retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "If anyone should be feeling bad right now, it’s you—not Peter."

Bucky’s gaze darkened, but he didn’t respond, the tension between them palpable.

Steve stepped in, raising his hands in a calming gesture. "Alright, that’s enough. We’re not here to assign blame."

Tony scoffed but leaned back, clearly still irritated. "Blame or not, Peter doesn’t need to be part of this. He’s a kid, Steve. He’s got no business getting involved in… whatever the hell this is."

Before Steve could respond, a small noise to the side caught everyone’s attention—a soft shuffle, like someone trying to stay quiet and failing. All three heads turned toward the source of the sound, and there, just barely stepping out from behind the doorway, stood Peter.

"Uh… hi," Peter said, lifting a hand in an awkward little wave.

Tony groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "You’ve got to be kidding me. What part of ‘stay out of this’ didn’t you understand, kid?"

Peter stepped fully into the room now, his expression equal parts sheepish and determined. "I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. Well, okay, I kind of was, but only because I knew you guys were talking about… you know, him. And I want to help."

"Absolutely not," Tony said immediately, pointing a finger at Peter like it was already a done deal.

"Come on, Mr. Stark," Peter said, his tone earnest but firm. "I can handle myself. You know I can."

"You shouldn’t have to," Tony snapped back, standing now and gesturing toward him. "This isn’t your responsibility, Peter. You’re not the one who brought him in—I mean, technically, you are, but you get my point. Let us deal with it."

Peter crossed his arms, his expression stubborn. "I don’t think you are dealing with it. You’re just arguing about what to do like he’s some kind of ticking time bomb. He’s not! He’s just… a guy who’s had a really bad day. Or week. Or life."

Steve raised a brow at Peter’s uncharacteristically direct tone but stayed quiet, letting him speak.

"Look," Peter continued, his voice softening but still steady, "I know I probably didn’t help things when I stopped him. I was just trying to do the right thing, and now it feels like I made everything worse for him. I can’t just sit around while you guys argue about him like he’s not even a person."

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. "Peter, you’re nineteen. You don’t have the experience to handle someone like this. He’s dangerous."

"So am I," Peter countered, his voice calm but unwavering. "And I don’t mean, like, in a scary way or anything, but… I’ve dealt with dangerous people before. You know that."

"That’s not the point," Tony said, exasperated.

Peter tilted his head, looking almost amused. "Then what is the point? Because it kind of sounds like you just don’t want me involved because you’re worried about me. And I get that, but this isn’t about me—it’s about him. He’s scared, and he doesn’t trust you guys. But maybe… maybe he’d trust me."

Tony immediately snorted, leaning back in his chair. "Trust you? Kid, he doesn’t even trust himself right now. What makes you think he’s going to trust someone who took his dinner?"

Peter winced slightly but held his ground. "Because I didn’t mean to make things worse. I was just trying to help, and—"

"You helped by stopping him from eating," Bucky cut in, his tone blunt but not unkind. His cold stare locked on Peter, and the teen couldn’t help but shift under the weight of it. "You think he’s going to forget that? He’s a survivor. He’ll remember everything you did—everything we did—and he’ll keep it all in his head to use against us if he gets the chance."

"Okay, that’s enough," Steve said, his voice cutting through the room as he raised a hand. He glanced at Peter, his expression softening. "Peter, I get what you’re saying. And I think your heart’s in the right place. But Tony and Bucky have a point—he doesn’t trust us right now, and that includes you."

Peter opened his mouth to argue, but Tony cut him off. "Let the adults handle this, kid. No offense, but this is way out of your league."

Peter’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t push back, reluctantly stepping back as the three men turned their attention to each other.

Bucky was the first to speak, his tone clipped, his posture rigid like he was already done with the entire situation. "Move him in with me. That’s what we talked about before. The apartment in the tower. Safe. Supervised."

Tony frowned immediately, his arms crossing. "We talked about it, yeah, but I didn’t think we were actually doing it. You think putting him in the same apartment as you and Steve is going to fix all this?"

Bucky’s jaw tightened, his expression hard. "It’s better. Less nerve-racking for him. Big space. No lab equipment. No one staring at him like he’s an experiment."

Tony scoffed, his fingers drumming on the armrest of his chair. "And you think he’s just going to settle in, no questions asked? What happens if he bolts again?"

Steve stepped in, his voice calm but firm. "The apartment door will be secured, Tony. He won’t be able to leave without one of us knowing. JARVIS will monitor the hallway outside—nothing gets in or out without an alert. It’s a controlled environment, but it doesn’t feel like a prison. That’s what he needs right now. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere that doesn’t make him feel like he’s being watched every second."

"Except he will be watched," Tony pointed out, raising a skeptical brow.

"Not in a way he’ll notice," Steve replied smoothly. "It’s about giving him the illusion of space. Letting him breathe without feeling cornered. Right now, he’s spiraling because everything around him feels too big, too hostile. Putting him in that apartment gives us a chance to ease him into things, let him settle down."

Tony leaned back in his chair, clearly unimpressed. "And when he decides to start smashing holes in the walls or, I don’t know, tries to set the place on fire?"

Bucky’s expression darkened. "He won’t."

Tony turned to him, arching a brow. "You sound awfully sure of that, Tin Man."

Bucky took a step closer, his voice low and unwavering. "Because I’ll be there. So will Steve. He’s not going to do anything stupid if we’re around. And even if he tries? We’ll handle it."

"That’s a lot of trust to put in a guy who, let me remind you, took down an entire unit of my security and escaped the tower," Tony said, his tone sharp.

Steve sighed but kept his composure. "Tony, no one’s saying this is perfect. But keeping him locked up here isn’t working. It’s making things worse. Moving him into the apartment doesn’t mean we’re letting our guard down—it means we’re trying something different. Something that gives him a chance to stop seeing us as his enemies."

Tony’s fingers drummed faster now, the only sign of the internal debate he wasn’t voicing. Finally, he shook his head. "And if this backfires?"

Steve gave him a small nod. "Then we’ll deal with it. But I think it’s worth the risk. You saw how he was with the nurses—he’s been sweet to them, he just needs to be around people who don’t feel like a threat. The apartment might be what he needs, Tony. It’s a step in the right direction."

Bucky didn’t say anything else, his cold gaze locked on Tony, like he was daring him to keep arguing.

Tony let out a long sigh, rubbing his temple. "Fine. Fine. But don’t come crying to me when he breaks the door down or decides to climb out a window."

Steve smiled faintly. "The windows don’t open, Tony. You made sure of that, remember?"

"Yeah, well, I didn’t think I’d be using it to house a stray kid with trust issues," Tony muttered, though there was no real bite in his tone.

Steve met Bucky’s eyes and gave him a smile, causing Bucky’s lips to twitch up slightly. Slight relief filling his chest at having the discussion over with, getting a satisfactory outcome.

one last thing left, wait for the kid to wake up.

_____________________________

Jason stirred, his eyelids heavy and his body sluggish. For a moment, everything was a blur—a haze of pain and exhaustion that made it impossible to think straight. His head throbbed sharply, and he winced, reaching up instinctively to touch his temple. The ache was a brutal reminder, and as the fog began to lift, the memories came rushing back all at once.

The chase. The panic. The wall slamming into his back like a freight train. The cold, unrelenting steel of Bucky’s fist connecting with his head.

Jason shot upright in bed, his pulse spiking. His vision swam momentarily, the sudden movement making him dizzy, but he forced himself to push through it. His eyes darted around the room, his breathing shallow as paranoia clawed its way to the surface.

It wasn’t the same sterile room he’d woken up in before. This was… different. The bed beneath him was soft—too soft. He tugged at the sheets, the deep forest green fabric brushing against his fingertips. The color was rich, calming, almost cozy, which only made his stomach churn.

He scanned the room more closely, his brows knitting together. The walls were painted a neutral, warm tone, not the cold concrete or clinical white he’d come to expect. A wooden dresser stood against one wall, its surface polished and unassuming. A matching nightstand sat next to the bed, with a simple lamp perched on top, casting a soft glow. Across the room, there was a small desk with a chair tucked neatly underneath, and next to that, a window with thick, beige curtains drawn shut.

Jason’s heart pounded as his gaze swept over everything again. It all felt… normal. Too normal. The kind of room that belonged to someone who had their life together, not someone like him. The air here was quiet, the faint scent of something clean and woodsy lingering in the space. It wasn’t the suffocating antiseptic smell he expected.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, his bare feet hitting the smooth hardwood floor. His boots were gone. His new clothes , too. They must have had someone change his clothes for him, putting him in the simple and soft fabric of the black Pajamas he is wearing now. His body shook at the thought, memories of long manicured nails running through his hair shooting through his mind.

talia

He reached for his head again, fingers brushing over a bandage taped to his temple.

They patched me up? Why?

His jaw clenched as unease gnawed at his gut. This was wrong. This was all wrong. A place like this wasn’t meant for someone like him. It was too comfortable, too inviting. A setup. It had to be.

Jason stood cautiously, his body still protesting the movement as he made his way to the window. He pulled the curtains aside, revealing glass that filtered the morning air into the room. He stared at the view of the city out the window, he must be back in the tower, with the apartment being this high off the ground level. He tapped it lightly with his knuckles. Locked. Figures.

He turned back toward the room, his eyes narrowing as they swept over every corner, searching for cameras, hidden mics—anything that could be used to monitor him. There was no way they’d let him stay here without keeping tabs. His gut told him that much.

What the hell is this place? Some kind of trap? A bribe? Or are they just screwing with me?

His fists clenched at his sides, the tension in his body building as the uncertainty pressed down on him like a weight. His mind raced, trying to piece together what was happening, why he was here. He didn’t remember much after Bucky’s fist collided with his skull.

They didn’t kill him, so they want something.

Jason’s throat felt tight, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He didn’t trust any of this—any of them.. Not Steve. Definitely not Stark. Not…Bucky.

He took a slow, deliberate breath, forcing himself to stay grounded, to push past the ache in his head and the panic bubbling beneath his skin. If they thought this room, this place, was going to make him drop his guard, they didn’t know him at all.

Jason's head whipped around at the sound of the door creaking open. His muscles coiled like a spring, ready to lash out. Without a second thought, his hand shot to the closest object—a lamp on the nightstand—and he hurled it toward the figure stepping inside.

The crash was deafening as the lamp shattered against the doorframe, narrowly missing its target. Jason’s chest heaved, his teeth bared in a feral snarl as he dropped into a defensive stance, his fists raised, ready for the fight that he knew was coming.

But the man at the door didn’t react the way he expected.

Bucky Barnes stood there, looking completely unfazed, one hand still on the door handle, the other resting casually at his side. His expression was calm, almost bored, as if he’d just stepped into the wrong room by mistake.

Jason blinked, his posture faltering for half a second as he took in the sight before him. Bucky wasn’t in his usual tactical gear, no menacing black combat suit, no looming aura of danger. Instead, he was wearing a plain red hoodie that looked a little too big on him, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his metal arm. Paired with that was a pair of dark sweatpants and… bare feet?

Jason blinked again, his brain struggling to reconcile the picture in front of him. This wasn’t the same man who had slammed him into a wall and knocked him unconscious. This guy looked like he’d just rolled out of bed.

Bucky’s eyes flicked briefly to the shards of the lamp on the floor before settling back on Jason, his face as impassive as ever. "You done?" he asked, his tone low and calm, with just a hint of dry amusement.

Jason’s fists remained clenched, his breathing ragged, but he didn’t make another move. His heart pounded in his chest as his mind scrambled to figure out what the hell was going on.

Bucky tilted his head slightly, as if waiting for Jason to say something. When no response came, he shrugged one shoulder and stepped fully into the room, moving with an infuriating lack of urgency.

"Breakfast is ready," Bucky said casually, as if he hadn’t just been assaulted with a lamp. "Pancakes."

Jason’s jaw dropped slightly, the hostility draining from his face as confusion took its place. "What?" he blurted out before he could stop himself.

Bucky didn’t repeat himself. He just stepped aside, holding the door open and gesturing lazily toward the hallway. "Kitchen’s that way. Eat or don’t. Your choice."

Jason stared at him like he’d grown a second head. His entire body was still tense, his brain screaming at him to stay on guard, but the sheer normalcy of Bucky’s demeanor was throwing him off balance. Pancakes? Who the hell talked about pancakes like this was a goddamn sitcom?

"You expect me to believe that?" Jason growled, his voice hoarse but sharp.

Bucky shrugged again, turning halfway toward the hall. "Believe what you want. Food’s getting cold."

With that, he stepped out, leaving the door open behind him.

Jason stood frozen in place, his fists still raised, staring at the empty doorway. His mind raced as he tried to process what had just happened. Pancakes? Bare feet? Hoodies? What kind of twisted game were they playing here?

For the second time since he got here, Jason didn’t have a clue what to do.

Chapter Text

Jason stood in the middle of the room, his eyes darting to every corner like a caged animal assessing his surroundings. The smooth wooden floor felt solid beneath his bare feet, grounding him even as his thoughts spiraled out of control.

The faint smell of pancakes wafted through the air, buttery and warm. His stomach tightened involuntarily, a sharp reminder of how long it had been since he’d eaten a real meal. But the scent only made him more anxious. He didn’t trust it—didn’t trust anything.

Bucky was out there. Waiting. He hadn’t seen the man since the door had closed behind him earlier, but Jason could feel his presence in the apartment, hear the occasional creak of the floorboards in outside the room.

Jason swallowed hard, his throat dry. He knew he was in no shape to fight his way out of this. He had no weapons, no armor, no plan. His body felt weak, his limbs heavy from exhaustion and hunger. His fingers twitched at his sides as he tried to suppress the rising panic, but his thoughts wouldn’t stop racing.

They brought him here. Against his will. Trapped him.

What did they want? Why hadn’t they just locked him in some cell? Why the normal room, the comfortable bed, the homey feel?

It was a game. It had to be.

Jason’s jaw clenched as he took a step closer to the door, his bare toes brushing the cold floor. He could hear faint sounds beyond it now—muffled voices, maybe, or the clink of something in the kitchen. He froze when a voice reached his ears, low and familiar.

"Glass is still in there," Bucky’s voice came through the door, calm and even. "Need to clean it up before he steps on it."

Jason’s heart skipped a beat, His eyes darted to the shattered glass scattered across the floor. Sharp edges glinted in the soft light, a stark contrast to the polished wood beneath them. He crouched low, fingers brushing against the floor as he picked up a jagged shard. It wasn’t much, but it was something—a small, improvised weapon he could have.

His breaths were shallow now, his heartbeat hammering in his ears. He crouched there, shard in hand, staring at the door like it might burst open at any second.

He wasn’t going down without a fight.

his fingers brushed the edge of the broken glass shard. His hand trembled, gripping it tight, only to hiss in pain as the sharp edge bit into his palm. Blood welled up instantly, dripping onto the floor. He cursed under his breath, clutching his hand to his chest, his heart pounding.

The sting snapped him out of his spiral, and he forced himself to breathe, wiping his hand against the hem of his shirt. Idiot. Can’t even hold a damn piece of glass without screwing up.

He held the shard  carefully this time, not risking another cut. His eyes darted to the door, his ears straining for the faint noises on the other side. Bucky’s movements were slow and deliberate, the subtle creak of the floorboards and the occasional clink of a plate filtering through. Jason noticed it, how he could hear him—how clear it was. A man like Bucky wouldn’t be this obvious unless he wanted to be.

Jason’s lip curled slightly, not liking the implication. It wasn’t that Bucky was trying to scare him—it didn’t feel like that. It was more... deliberate. Like he was  making sure Jason knew where he was at all times. It didn’t make Jason feel better. If anything, it added to the crawling sensation at the back of his neck.

Shaking his head, Jason pulled the door open slowly, his pulse pounding as he stepped into the hallway. The apartment was quiet, apart from the faint hum of something—maybe an air vent or the distant sound of the city outside.

The layout was simple and clean. To his left was the kitchen, where  Bucky was, his back to Jason as he stirred something around in a pan. the smell of pancakes stronger now, making his stomach clench painfully. He could just make out a small, rectangular table with six chairs around it. Ahead of him was a cozy living room with a simple brown leather couch, a low coffee table, and a  flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. A throw blanket was draped casually over the back of the couch, a white carpet covering the floor where the couch and coffee table are. The place didn’t look fancy, but it was comfortable in a way Jason didn’t trust. The warm wood tones of the furniture and the faint, earthy smell in the air made it feel homey, which only made Jason’s nerves worse.

He crept forward, keeping his steps as silent as possible on the wooden floor. His eyes flicked to the corners of the room then back to Bucky every now and again, searching for any hidden cameras or traps. The front door loomed ahead of him, a heavy steel thing with a sleek panel beside it that glowed faintly.

Jason’s hand hovered over the handle for a moment before he grabbed it, twisting it firmly. It didn’t budge. He tried again, harder this time, but it refused to move.

His jaw clenched as he turned his attention to the panel. It was something he’d never seen before, its smooth surface devoid of buttons or keypads. He ran his fingers over it, searching for a seam or a latch, anything that might give him access.

"Come on," he muttered under his breath, his frustration mounting.

Just as he considered whether the shard of glass could pry the panel open, a voice cut through the quiet, making him jump.

"Kid."

Jason spun around, his back hitting the door as his heart leapt into his throat.

Bucky was standing a few feet away. His hoodie hung loose over his frame, the sleeves pushed up slightly to reveal the metal glint of his arm.

For someone who was dressed so casual, there was something unnervingly sharp in the way Bucky’s eyes stayed locked on Jason.

"The door’s not gonna open," Bucky said evenly, his tone calm but firm. "It’s locked down. Not gonna find a way through it."

Jason’s hands clenched at his sides, his injured palm stinging as blood seeped from the cut. His eyes darted around the room, looking for an escape route, but the hallway didn’t have a way out other than the one Bucky was in, and Bucky was blocking the only path back to the room he woke up in.

"Stay back," Jason growled, his voice low and rough.

Bucky didn’t move, his posture relaxed but unmoving. "Not here to fight you," he said, his tone unchanging. "But you’re not leaving."

Jason’s chest heaved as panic bubbled under the surface. His gaze flicked to the locked door behind him and back to Bucky. "Why?" he snapped. "Why the hell do you care if I leave? You dragged me here, locked me in—"

"The door’s locked for your safety, kid. You’re not in any shape to go running around out there."

Jason let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp and hollow. "Yeah, sure. Safety. That’s why you’re keeping me prisoner."

Jason’s grip tightened on his injured hand, his mind racing as he tried to figure out his next move. Bucky’s calm demeanor only made him more uneasy. It was like the guy wasn’t even fazed by Jason’s hostility, like he’d seen it all before.

"If you’re hungry," Bucky said after a moment, nodding toward the kitchen, "pancakes are still warm."

Jason glared at him, his stomach twisting painfully at the mention of food. He hated how his body betrayed him, how weak he felt even as he tried to hold onto his defiance.

Bucky didn’t wait for an answer. He just turned and walked back toward the kitchen, his steps soft but deliberate, leaving Jason alone with his thoughts.

Jason stayed by the door, his back pressed against the cold surface as his mind raced. His breathing was shallow, and his injured hand ached in time with the frantic pounding of his heart. He glanced back at the steel door, its smooth surface mocking him with its impenetrability.

He didn’t want to move. His legs felt like lead, but the gnawing hunger in his stomach was becoming impossible to ignore. The faint smell of pancakes still hung in the air, teasing him, twisting his gut painfully. He felt disgusted with himself for even considering walking into the kitchen after everything. What if the food's drugged? Poisoned? What’s their angle?

But his vision swam as he tried to think. The lack of food over the past week was catching up to him, and his body was betraying him, demanding he eat despite his suspicions.

His knees wobbled slightly, forcing him to steady himself with a hand against the wall. Jason clenched his teeth and cursed under his breath, forcing his feet to move. He needed to eat if he wanted to get out of here. If he collapsed, there wouldn’t be a fight to put up.

He approached the kitchen slowly, his steps hesitant, deliberate. As he came into view of the space, Jason stopped at a distance, leaning slightly against the wall to keep himself steady. He didn’t dare walk further in—not yet. Sitting down would mean letting his guard down, being vulnerable. Standing was better; he could bolt if he needed to.

The kitchen was simple but functional, with light wooden cabinets and stainless-steel appliances that gleamed under the soft lighting. Bucky was standing by the counter, placing a stack of pancakes on a plate. Jason’s gaze flicked to the table where two other plates sat, along with a bottle of syrup and a small bowl of butter.

Three plates.

Jason’s stomach twisted uncomfortably as his gaze lingered on them. His paranoid mind jumped to conclusions, piecing together the possibilities. Three plates meant someone else was coming. Steve? His jaw tightened at the thought. He didn’t know what kind of relationship Bucky and Steve had, other than being pretty close friends, but the idea of facing them together made his pulse quicken.

Bucky didn’t look up as he worked, his movements calm and deliberate, but Jason didn’t miss how the man occasionally glanced toward the space where Jason was lingering. He wasn’t being subtle about it, which only added to Jason’s unease. It was like Bucky wanted him to know he was being noticed, as if to say, I know you’re there, kid.

Jason’s eyes flicked back to the pancakes. The smell was even stronger now, and his stomach churned with hunger. His body screamed at him to take the food.

The faint beep of the front door startled him, and Jason turned his head sharply. The door slid open, and in walked Steve Rogers, clad in his Captain America suit—minus the helmet. His hair was slightly messy, and there was a tired edge to the set of his shoulders that Jason didn’t miss. Steve’s gaze immediately found Jason, and while his expression was warm, there was an underlying wariness in the way he carried himself.

“Morning, kid,” Steve said, his tone polite but cautious. He moved toward the table, setting his shield down—not far from his reach, Jason noticed—and pulled out a chair. Bucky, who had been placing silverware at the table, didn’t react to the greeting, instead sliding a plate of pancakes in front of Steve before sitting down himself.

Jason bristled at the word kid, his jaw tightening as he fought the urge to snap back. He didn’t trust his voice to remain steady. Instead, he glanced between the two men, his instincts screaming at him to stay standing, to keep an easy exit in sight. But his legs felt weak, and the hunger clawing at his insides wasn’t going away.

After a long, tense moment, Jason relented. He moved stiffly toward the table, lowering himself into the chair farthest from both men. His posture was rigid, his muscles coiled like a spring as his eyes darted to every corner of the room. The second he sat down, he hated how vulnerable it made him feel, but his body needed the rest.

Bucky didn’t say anything, pushing a plate toward Jason instead. The pancakes looked fresh and fluffy, steam curling up from the stack. Jason hesitated, his hands clenching and unclenching under the table as he fought the conflicting urges to grab the food and to shove the plate away.

Steve cut into his own pancakes, his movements steady but deliberate. He kept glancing at Jason, his gaze assessing but not unfriendly. "You look like you could use a good meal," he said finally, his voice calm but firm, like he was trying to coax a stray animal out of hiding.

Jason stared down at the pancakes in front of him, his eyes narrowing as he shifted his gaze to the plates in front of Steve and Bucky. His brows furrowed, irritation bubbling to the surface as he noticed the difference.

"Why the hell are mine shaped like... cats?" he asked, his tone sharp and accusatory.

Steve, who had just taken a bite of his own perfectly round normal pancake, chuckled quietly, his lips twitching into a faint smile. He glanced at Bucky, amusement dancing in his eyes.

Bucky, on the other hand, looked genuinely puzzled by the question. His expression didn’t shift much, but there was a slight crease in his brow as he answered, "I read that animal-shaped food makes people more likely to eat. Thought it might work."

you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

Jason’s eyes flicked between the two men, his irritation only growing. Steve seemed mildly entertained, while Bucky turned his focus back to his own plate, cutting into his pancakes with methodical precision. The silence that followed felt heavy, and Jason’s paranoia crept in, wrapping around him like a vice.

His gaze darted back to his plate before he glanced at the other two again. The only reason he wasn’t eating yet was simple—he wanted to make sure their food wasn’t poisoned. It wasn’t rational, he knew that. But He needed to see them eat first, needed the confirmation that they weren’t trying to mess with him.

Steve seemed to notice Jason’s hesitation, his fork pausing mid-air as he exchanged a glance with Bucky. Bucky didn’t say a word, but his eyes flicked to Jason every now and again, watching him closely without being overt. There was no judgment in his gaze, no impatience—just a quiet, steady observation that made Jason feel even more on edge.

he wasn’t used to someone trying to make sure he was eating. maybe Alfred back when he still lived in the manor, or Bruce, when Jason was still his son. But not after he came back, no one had tried to make sure Jason was taking care of himself for years now.

Finally, Jason’s stomach betrayed him, a quiet growl breaking the silence. His face flushed slightly, and he clenched his jaw, annoyed at his own weakness. He watched as Steve took a bite of his pancakes, the casual motion making Jason’s own stomach twist painfully. Bucky followed suit, cutting into his stack with the same calm efficiency as before, his movements unhurried.

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers tightening around the fork. His eyes lingered on Bucky for a moment longer, taking in the man’s calm demeanor. It unnerved him how collected Bucky seemed—like he wasn’t fazed by any of this, by Jason’s hostility or his paranoia. Finally, Jason picked up his fork and knife, cutting into the edge of the kitten-shaped pancake. He hesitated for just a moment longer before shoving a piece into his mouth, his jaw working as he chewed.

The pancakes were good—annoyingly so. He hated that they tasted decent, hated that he was this hungry, hated that he was sitting here with them at all. But for now, he ate, keeping his guard up and his eyes on the two men at the table.

Jason knew he was hungry but didn’t realize just how starving he actually was until the first bite. The pancakes were gone in minutes, he barely have himself time to breathe between bites. He didn’t bother thinking about whether he looked desperate—he was too focused on shoveling the food down. When the plate was pulled away from him, his head snapped up, instinctively jerking back, his body tensing.

Bucky didn’t react, calmly taking the empty plate and walking over to the kitchen counter. Jason’s eyes followed him, noting how effortlessly the man moved, like every motion had a purpose. Bucky grabbed the bowl of batter and quietly began pouring another set of pancakes onto the griddle.

Jason sat frozen, unsure of what to do now that his plate was gone. His hands fidgeted under the table, his leg bouncing slightly before he caught himself and forced it to stop. He could feel the awkwardness creeping in—what was he supposed to do? Thank them? Make conversation? Like hell.

His eyes flicked toward Steve, who was still seated, casually sipping from a glass of water. Jason tried not to meet the man’s gaze, but something about the way Steve’s eyes lingered on him made him shift uncomfortably.

And then Jason noticed it—where Steve was looking.

His neck.

The familiar flash of insecurity hit him like a gut punch, his walls slamming up in an instant. His hand shot up, fingers pressing against the front of his neck where the jagged scar sat. The scar Batman had given him—not just a mark, but a permanent reminder of the time he chose the Joker over Jason. 

His chair scraped loudly against the floor as he sprang up, standing so fast the chair toppled over, clattering somewhere behind him. Jason didn’t look. He didn’t care.

“The hell are you staring at?” Jason’s voice cracked like a whip, sharp and raw.

Steve’s head snapped up, blinking at the sudden outburst. His face shifted quickly into something cautious, his hands coming up slightly in a placating gesture.

“I wasn’t—”

“Don’t give me that crap!” Jason cut him off, his voice rising, his hand still pressed firmly to his neck. His body was tense, bristling, like he was ready to fight or flee.

The sound of movement behind Steve made Jason’s head whip toward it. Bucky had stopped whatever he was doing, stepping away from the counter with a measured calm that only made Jason feel more cornered.

Bucky didn’t speak, didn’t move toward him, but Jason felt the weight of his presence. He wasn’t standing idly either, his posture alert, ready. The subtle shift in the air only made Jason’s pulse pound harder.

Steve, still standing between Jason and Bucky, took a careful step forward, his hands staying up, palms out.

“kid,” Steve started, his voice even but soft, “I wasn’t trying to upset you.”

Jason’s heart thundered as Steve closed the space, and for a split second, all Jason could see was him. The broad shoulders, the imposing frame, the quiet, commanding presence—it was all too familiar. Steve Rogers standing there, trying to subtly move closer, was too much like him.

“Don’t—” Jason’s voice cracked, his body recoiling slightly. “Don’t come near me.”

Steve stopped in his tracks, his expression flickering briefly with something that Jason couldn’t—or wouldn’t—name.

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Steve said, his tone calm but carrying an undercurrent of regret. “It’s just a scar.”

Jason’s hand tightened against his neck, his nails digging into his skin. “Yeah? Then why the hell were you staring at it?”

Bucky, still behind Steve, finally spoke, his voice low and steady. “Rogers.”

Jason’s breath came in short, shallow bursts as Steve took a careful step forward, his hands raised in what Jason could only guess was supposed to be a calming gesture.

“Hey, kid, it’s okay,” Steve said, his voice steady but still cautious. “No one’s going to hurt you.”

Jason flinched at the word, his jaw tightening as his hand pressed harder against his neck. His chest heaved as he glared at the man in front of him.

“I said stay back,” Jason growled, his tone low but laced with panic.

Steve didn’t stop, his steps measured as he inched closer, trying to bridge the gap. “You don’t have to be scared. Just let us—”

“Steve,” Bucky cut in, his voice low and sharp, laced with warning. He’d moved closer, his stance shifting subtly, his metal fingers flexing. “Don’t.”

Steve didn’t turn around this time. “He’s just a kid, Buck,” he said without looking back.

Jason’s head snapped toward Bucky for a fraction of a second, his eyes darting over the man’s tensed frame. He could see it—Bucky was poised, ready to step in, but didn’t want to startle Jason by moving too fast.

But Steve was already too close.

Jason’s muscles coiled tight as the blonde extended his hand, reaching out slowly like he thought Jason was some kind of spooked animal. “Kid, I’m just trying to help—”

“Don’t call me that!” Jason snapped, his voice loud as he sprang back away from the blond, teeth flashing and eyes wide, the green of the pit crawling through the corners of his vision.

Bucky took a step forward, his hand twitching like he wanted to grab Steve by the shoulder. “Rogers, back the hell off!” His voice was louder this time, the urgency clear.

But Steve ignored him. His hand was almost on Jason’s shoulder now, his movements careful but unrelenting.

Jason’s eyes darted to Bucky for a split second—just long enough for Steve’s hand to graze him. The touch sent a shockwave through Jason’s system, his breath hitching as he recoiled violently.

“Don’t touch me!” Jason shouted, his injured hand lashing out before he could even think.

The slap echoed through the room, sharp and unmistakable, the force of it snapping Steve’s head to the side. Blood, from the cut Jason gave himself when holding the glass he’d gotten from the broken lamp, smeared across his cheek where Jason’s palm had struck, the crimson streak stark against the blonde’s skin.

Steve froze, his blue eyes wide with shock as he slowly straightened. His hand came up to touch the side of his face, his brow furrowing as he processed what had just happened.

Jason’s chest heaved, his trembling hand still raised as his body quaked with adrenaline. His gaze darted between Steve and Bucky, panic clawing at his throat.

The green filling more of his vision as he sucked in shallow breaths.

“Hey,” Steve started, his tone soft. “Kid, I—”

“Stop calling me that!” Jason’s voice cracked as he cut him off, his tone teetering on the edge of hysteria. His hand moved back to cover his neck, the protective gesture tightening as he took a shaky step backward.

Bucky moved swiftly this time, stepping around Steve and positioning himself slightly in front of him, his metal arm held out just enough to block Steve from trying again. “That’s enough, Rogers,” Bucky said firmly, his tone laced with warning, dangerous.

Steve frowned, glancing at Bucky before shifting his gaze back to Jason. “I didn’t mean—”

Jason’s breathing turned erratic, each shallow gasp tearing through his chest as his vision swam with flickers of green. He staggered back, gripping the edge of the table with a trembling hand, his eyes fixed on Steve. Only, it wasn’t Steve anymore—not in Jason’s mind.

“You—you think you can just stand there like nothing happened?” Jason’s voice cracked, laced with rage and raw pain. His lips curled into a snarl, and his wide, panic-stricken eyes bore into Steve’s confused gaze.

“This is all your fault!” he screamed, his voice breaking as it climbed higher. His throat ached from the force of it, but the words kept pouring out. “You did this to me! You left me!”

Steve barely moved—just a slight shift of his weight, his hands still held up, frozen in their placating gesture—but that was all it took. Jason flinched violently, his back hitting the wall with a dull thud as he threw up his hands like he was warding off an attack.

“Stay back!” Jason’s scream pierced the room, his hand instinctively moving to cover his neck again, though the shaking made it impossible to hold steady. “You don’t get to—don’t you dare come near me!”

The green in his vision pulsed, a sickly glow that painted the edges of Steve’s figure, twisting it into something monstrous. Jason’s mind filled in the blanks, reshaping the man in front of him. It wasn’t Steve standing there anymore—it was Bruce.

“You did this to me,” Jason hissed, his voice trembling with fury. “You made me this. You made me a—a weapon, just like all the others.” He laughed bitterly, a hollow, humorless sound that hurt more than it released. “And for what? For your stupid crusade?!”

Steve took a half-step back, his expression taut with concern, his mouth opening like he wanted to say something.

“Don’t move!” Jason shrieked, his voice raw and grating, cutting through the air like a blade. “You move, and I swear to God I’ll—” His voice faltered, the threat dissolving into a choked sob before he clenched his jaw and forced himself to steady.

Bucky’s voice cut through the tension, low and sharp. “Steve. Don’t move. Not a damn inch.”

Steve froze, his body stiff as he glanced back toward Bucky, but he didn’t retreat. “Buck, I can handle this,” Steve began.

“You’re not handling it,” Bucky snapped, his voice hard as steel. He stepped forward, his movements measured but deliberate, keeping himself positioned between Jason and Steve. His sharp gaze flicked to Jason briefly before landing back on Steve. “Get your shield and get out. Now.”

Steve frowned, his jaw tightening. “I’m not leaving him like this—”

“You leave willingly, or I put you out myself,” Bucky interrupted, his tone dangerously low. He took another step forward, his shoulders squared, his entire body tense like a coiled spring, now completely blocking Jason view of Steve as he stands in front of him, giving his back to Jason. “I’m not asking, Steve.”

Jason’s mind filled with the shadows of his past, but even in his haze, he noticed the way Bucky moved—calculated, precise, and ready to intervene if Steve pushed further. Jason’s voice cracked through the tension again.

“You think they’re better than me, huh?!” Jason screamed, his voice climbing to a hysterical pitch. “You think this is what makes a hero? Leaving me—replacing me! Like I was nothing. Like I didn’t matter!”

Steve hesitated, but Bucky’s presence loomed, his voice cutting through once more. “Steve, this isn’t about you. Get the hell out of here before you make it worse.”

When Steve didn’t immediately move, Bucky’s metal hand came to rest on Steve’s shoulder—not gently. The warning was clear. “Go. Now.”

Reluctantly, Steve stepped back, moving to the dining table where he left his shield. It is now clutched tightly in his hand as he finally retreated toward the door. He glanced at Jason one last time, his expression torn, before leaving the room.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Jason’s legs buckled, and he sank to his knees, his hands trembling as they gripped the sides of his head. His vision blurred, the green bleeding into every corner, but he refused to let it take over. Not this time.

Bucky stayed where he was, his sharp eyes watching Jason carefully, his entire body still brimming with tension. He didn’t move closer, didn’t say a word, just stood there as Jason’s final words echoed through the silent room.

“It’s your fault,” Jason whispered, his voice cracking. Then louder, “It’s all your fault!”

Bucky watched Jason crumble to the floor, his body trembling like a live wire ready to snap. His sharp blue eyes flicked briefly to the door where Steve had disappeared. Now, with Steve gone, the tension in the room remained suffocating, but at least it was just the two of them.

Keeping his movements deliberate and slow, Bucky knelt down on one knee, lowering himself to Jason’s level without getting too close. His hands rested behind his back, clasped loosely together in a show of restraint. He was well aware of how Jason’s eyes darted to any sudden movement, the way his shoulders flinched at the slightest perceived threat.

“Steve’s gone,” Bucky said softly, his voice steady but low, almost like he was speaking to a skittish animal. “He’s out of here. It’s just me now.”

Jason didn’t respond, his chest still heaving with sharp, uneven breaths. His hands were curled into fists at his temples, the knuckles white from the force of it. The green tint that had painted the edges of his eyes seemed to have dulled, but the storm was far from over.

Bucky shifted slightly, keeping his movements measured, and let his eyes scan Jason’s posture. Every muscle in the younger man’s body was taut, coiled so tightly that it seemed like even a breath might set him off again. Bucky knew he had to tread carefully.

“I’m not gonna come any closer,” Bucky continued, his tone calm but firm. “Not unless you’re okay with it. But I need you to listen to me.” He paused, watching for any sign that Jason had heard him. The younger man’s ragged breathing hitched, but he didn’t look up.

“Start with breathing,” Bucky said, his voice dropping even lower, quieter but no less commanding. “In through your nose, out through your mouth. Slow it down. Just focus on that for now.”

Jason’s hands twitched, his fingers curling and uncurling like he was struggling to keep them steady. Bucky kept his eyes trained on him, his own breathing slow and deliberate, almost exaggerated as he inhaled deeply through his nose and exhaled through his mouth.

“You don’t have to talk,” Bucky added. “You don’t even have to look at me. Just focus on breathing. In… and out. You’re not there anymore, boy. You’re here. Right here.”

The sound of Jason’s ragged breaths began to even out ever so slightly, though his body still trembled with residual tension. Bucky stayed where he was, unmoving, his hands still clasped behind his back.

“You’re safe,” Bucky said, his voice softening further, though it never lost its edge of conviction. “I know it doesn’t feel like it, but you are. No one’s gonna hurt you here. Not Steve, not me. No one.”

Jason’s head dipped lower, his chin nearly touching his chest as his hands slowly slid away from his temples to grip his knees instead. His breathing was still uneven, but it wasn’t as frantic as before. Bucky took that as a sign to keep going.

“You’re not alone in this,” Bucky said, his tone carrying a weight that came from personal experience. “I know what it’s like. To feel like you’re drowning in it. To feel like you can’t get out.”

Jason’s fingers tightened against his knees, his jaw clenching hard enough that Bucky could see the strain in his face. But he didn’t lash out, didn’t scream or push Bucky away. The fight in him seemed to be giving way to exhaustion.

“You don’t have to fight me,” Bucky said, his voice barely above a whisper now. “Not right now. Just breathe. One breath at a time.”

Jason’s breaths came shallow and uneven, but the hysterical edge had dulled, replaced by a shaky rhythm as he slowly grounded himself. The green haze that had clouded his vision was gone, leaving exhaustion and the sharp sting of raw emotions in its wake. He sat slumped on the floor, his eyes fixed on a random scuff mark on the wooden boards beneath him.

Bucky stayed crouched at a safe distance, his hands still resting behind his back. He didn’t rush Jason, letting the moment settle before speaking.

“You good now?” Bucky asked evenly, his voice calm but gruff.

Jason didn’t answer right away, his chest still rising and falling erratically. Finally, he turned his head toward Bucky, his lips parting as though he were about to speak—but then he stopped himself, the words caught in his throat.

Instead, he dropped his gaze again, his fingers picking absently at the seam of his pants. “Don’t... don’t call me ‘kid,’” Jason muttered after a long pause. His voice was hoarse, each word scraped out like it physically hurt to speak.

Bucky tilted his head slightly, observing Jason with his sharp, calculating gaze. He didn’t blink or waver, his tone staying neutral. “Not much else I can call you,” he said after a moment. “Unless you’d rather me call you ‘dude’ or ‘man.’”

Jason’s shoulders tensed, his fingers curling into fists against the floor. He stayed quiet for what felt like an eternity.

Finally, he exhaled shakily and mumbled, “Jason.”

The name came out so low and raspy, it was almost swallowed by the room, but Bucky caught it. He nodded slightly, his expression unreadable.

“Alright, Jason,” Bucky said, his voice steady and free of judgment. “Noted.”

Chapter Text

Jason’s body felt drained.

every ounce of energy stripped away, leaving him too exhausted to protest. His eyes flickered slightly whenever Bucky moved, tracking the shifts in his stance, the slow and deliberate way he handled things. But Jason didn’t react beyond that. He was too tired. Too spent. Even still, his skin prickled with awareness every time Bucky moved. Even exhausted, paranoia never left him completely.

Bucky remained cautious, his movements calculated, almost robotic. He knelt beside Jason, his hands steady as he took Jason’s injured palm and began wrapping it with precise, practiced efficiency. “Need to bandage this,” Bucky said, his voice level, but his words clipped and mechanical. “To prevent infection.”

Jason barely registered the words. The sensation of the bandage winding around his palm felt distant, the pressure dulled by exhaustion. He was dimly aware of Bucky’s touch—steady, careful, but foreign. His body didn’t know how to process a touch that wasn’t meant to hurt or restrain. It left him feeling strangely off-balance, uncertain. The warmth of Bucky’s hand (the flesh one at least) contrasted with the cool, practiced efficiency of his movements, and Jason didn’t know which one unsettled him more.

Bucky finished and sat back on his heels, watching Jason carefully before speaking again. His brow furrowed slightly, and he ran a hand through his hair, pushing the strands out of his face—only for them to fall back a moment later. He exhaled sharply through his nose and did it again, this time holding his hair back a second longer before letting it fall. “Need to get you to bed,” he said. “You’ll recover faster.”

Jason didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge the suggestion beyond a slow blink. Bucky hesitated for a long moment, then tried again. “Can you walk?”

Silence.

Bucky adjusted slightly, shifting his weight before speaking again, his tone unchanged. “I can carry you.”

Jason didn’t answer. His breathing remained steady, but his body showed no signs of cooperation. Bucky waited, watching for any sign of resistance, but Jason didn’t pull away. Taking that as permission—or at least not outright refusal—Bucky moved carefully. He shifted closer, slow and deliberate, giving Jason time to react, time to protest if he wanted to. When he didn’t, Bucky placed a hesitant hand on Jason’s shoulder, testing the contact. Still no reaction.

Slowly, cautiously, Bucky gathered Jason into his arms, lifting him with the same care he’d handle a fragile object. He expected tension, a flinch—something—but Jason only remained limp, head almost resting against his shoulder. The sensation of Bucky’s touch was disorienting, the steady rise and fall of someone else’s breathing against him was something Jason wasn’t used to. It felt too much like comfort, and his gut twisted at the unfamiliarity of it.

Bucky carried him through the quiet apartment, his steps deliberate and smooth. When he reached the room, he lowered Jason onto the bed, pulling the blanket over him with one last moment of careful precision before stepping back, giving him space.

He lingered for a moment, watching Jason’s half-lidded eyes, searching for any sign that he was still aware of his surroundings. Then, in that same steady, measured tone, Bucky spoke again. “You can explore the apartment if you want,” he said. “I’ll be gone for a few hours, so u can get familiar with the place without anyone around. Do whatever you want. Just don’t hurt yourself.”

Jason didn’t acknowledge him, but Bucky didn’t expect him to.

Before he left, he hesitated in the doorway, glancing at the shattered lamp still scattered on the floor. With a sigh, he stepped back inside and crouched down, carefully picking up the broken pieces, carrying them out with him as he goes.

Jason watched as Bucky shut the door to his room with a soft click. A minute later, the heavier sound of the front door followed, the steel locking mechanism engaging with a quiet thud. Silence settled over the apartment, thick and heavy, pressing into the space Jason now found himself alone in.

He stayed where he was, lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling without really seeing it. His mind moved sluggishly, thoughts drifting in and out without fully forming. He knew he should be thinking about something—about where he was, about what to do next—but everything felt distant, like he was watching himself from behind fogged glass.

His body felt weighted, but not in the way it did when he was on alert, when tension kept his muscles coiled and ready to spring. This was different. His limbs were loose, drained, and even the idea of moving felt like too much effort. He blinked slowly, barely registering the burn in his throat from earlier, the dull ache in his palm where Bucky had bandaged him.

What was he supposed to do now?

He should be thinking about escape. About where Bucky had gone. About how long he had. But instead, all Jason could focus on was the exhaustion sinking deep into his bones. He was so damn tired.

Despite knowing it was still morning, despite the logical part of him that wanted to stay awake, his body made the decision for him. His eyes drifted shut, and before he could fight it, sleep took him.

_____________________________

Bucky stepped into the common area of Avengers Tower, the sound of raised voices hitting him before he even crossed the threshold.

Steve was pacing, tension coiled tight in his frame, hands on his hips as he struggled to get a word in. Tony, sprawled lazily on the couch, looked thoroughly entertained by the argument, sipping from a glass of something dark while wearing a smirk that only made Steve more frustrated.

“I told you,” Tony was saying, voice light, almost sing-song in contrast to Steve’s barely-contained anger. “I told you not to corner him, but nooo, Captain Righteous had to go and try the personal touch.” He gestured vaguely at Steve’s face. “And look where that got you. Wearing the kid’s blood like some kind of tragic war paint.”

Steve exhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw tight. “That wasn’t—”

“Wasn’t what, exactly?” Tony interrupted, arching a brow. “Wasn’t a complete disaster? Because, buddy, from where I’m sitting, it looks exactly like one.”

Steve shook his head, stepping closer, his frustration mounting. “I wasn’t trying to corner him, Stark. I was trying to talk to him. To help him.”

Tony laughed, short and sharp. “Oh, sure. Because nothing says ‘help’ like pinning a skittish, half-feral kid against a wall and expecting him to spill his tragic backstory like it’s story time at daycare, and for all his traumas to disappear”

Steve’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “I didn’t pin him! I didn’t push him! I just—I was trying to make him see that he wasn’t alone.” His voice was edged with frustration, his words faster now, more desperate to get Tony to understand.

Tony scoffed, shaking his head. “And you thought he’d just what? See the light? Fall into your arms, thank you for your kindness, and suddenly be a reformed little soldier ? Jesus, Steve. Did you even stop to think how that was gonna look from his end? To him, you’re just another authority figure trying to control him. Trying to box him in. And that kid obviously doesn’t do well with cages.”

Steve opened his mouth, anger flashing in his eyes, but Tony pressed on, relentless.

“You don’t get it, do you? You can’t just talk someone like him down like you do with everyone else. He doesn’t trust you. Hell, he doesn’t even trust the guy who actually cares about him,” Tony said referring to Bucky who they still hadn’t noticed is in the room.

Steve flinched at that, his expression tightening.

Tony sighed, running a hand through his hair before taking another sip of his drink. “Look, I get it. You see a lost cause, and you can’t help yourself. You want to fix it. Patch it up, slap some good old-fashioned American values on it, and call it a day. But news flash, Cap—he is not some wide-eyed kid in the trenches waiting for your heroic speech to inspire him.” Tony leaned forward, voice dropping slightly. “ you thinking you could just ‘talk him down’ is either arrogance or ignorance. Take your pick.”

Steve stood there, chest rising and falling, struggling to find a response that didn’t sound hollow even to his own ears. He wanted to argue, wanted to tell Tony he was wrong, that he wasn’t trying to fix Jason, that he just wanted to help. But Tony’s words sat heavy in the air, undeniable in their truth.

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken things, until Steve’s gaze flickered over Tony’s shoulder and landed on Bucky.

The shift was immediate.

The tension in Steve’s shoulders changed—not lessened, but redirected. Tony, for all his snark, went quiet for half a second before recovering, though Bucky didn’t miss the flicker of hesitation.

Steve was the first to speak. “Buck.” His voice had lost some of its frustration, dipping into something more cautious. “The kid—”

“Jason,” Bucky corrected, cutting him off before he could finish. His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it, like a warning. “His name is Jason.”

Steve hesitated. Then, with a small nod, he tried again. “Jason. Is he…?”

Bucky let the question hang in the air, unreadable as his gaze flicked over Steve’s still-bloodied face, the mess of emotions lingering in his expression.

“He’s alive,” Bucky said finally. It wasn’t an answer, not really, but it was the only one he was willing to give.

Something in Steve’s expression tightened, but before he could say anything, Tony let out a sharp exhale, shaking his head.

“I may not like the kid, but you’re the one who does,” Tony said, eyes flicking to Steve. “Which is exactly why I told you not to corner the damn feral stray. Your obsession with fixing things is going to ruin everything.”

Steve shot him a look, irritation flashing across his features. “That’s not what I was trying to do.”

“Yeah?” Tony swirled his drink, unconvinced. “Then what exactly were you trying to do? Because from where I’m sitting, it looked a hell of a lot like you thought you could just Captain America your way through his trauma, and surprise, surprise—it didn’t work.” He took a sip, watching Steve over the rim of the glass. “And now you look guilty. Congrats.”

Steve didn’t respond immediately. He just pressed his lips into a thin line, glancing at Bucky again.

Bucky didn’t disagree.

Bucky’s voice cut through the tension, steady but carrying a weight that made both Steve and Tony look at him. His expression barely shifted, but Steve saw it—the tension in his jaw, the slight furrow of his brow, the way his mouth settled into a frown so subtle that most wouldn’t even notice. But Steve did. And it told him everything he needed to know.

“He’s right,” Bucky said simply, his voice measured, but firm.

Tony blinked, looking genuinely startled. “Okay, well, I didn’t see that coming. Hold on, let me savor this moment. Barnes agreeing with me? Somebody mark the damn calendar.”

Bucky ignored him, his eyes locked on Steve. “It’s not your fault he fell into an episode. But what is your fault is how you reacted after. You don’t approach someone screaming not to be touched and try to put your hands on them anyway, Steve. And you sure as hell didn’t have to be looking at his scar in the first place”

Steve’s breath hitched slightly, but Bucky didn’t let up.

“You don’t get to push past his boundaries because you think it’s for his own good. That’s not how this works. You wouldn’t have done it to me back when I was still figuring things out. So why the hell would you do it to him?”

Steve’s lips parted, but he didn’t have an immediate answer. Bucky wasn’t done anyway.

“Jason isn’t like the other kids you dealt with on missions. He’s not some scared little kid that you can ground with a few kind words. That should’ve been obvious. And yet, you tried to do with him what worked on others. You didn’t stop to think that maybe he needed something different, that maybe your approach wasn’t just ineffective, but harmful.”

“You saw him shutting down, and instead of backing off, you pushed harder. He wasn’t ready, and you made it worse. And maybe you didn’t mean to, but intent doesn’t change the damage done.”

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Steve’s face was tight, his throat working as he tried to swallow down the guilt rising in his chest.

Tony, for once, didn’t have another joke lined up. He just shook his head, muttering, “Damn. I really need to get that on record.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, the weight of the conversation settling over him like a slow-building headache. He didn’t want to say this—not because it wasn’t true, but because he knew how Steve would take it.

“Maybe,” Bucky started, voice firm and unyielding, “you should keep your distance from the apartment for a few days.”

Steve’s gaze sharpened, his frustration evident in the way his shoulders squared. “Buck, that’s not—”

“I’m not kicking you out,” Bucky cut in before Steve could argue. “It’s your place just as much as it’s mine. But Jason needs time to settle in, and you being around right now isn’t gonna help.” He leveled Steve with a look, not giving him room to maneuver. “And let’s be honest—you won’t be comfortable either.”

Steve clenched his jaw, shaking his head. “So what? I’m supposed to just leave? I didn’t—” He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean for things to go the way they did.”

“I know you didn’t,” Bucky said, his voice steady but firm. “But that doesn’t change the fact that it happened. You might not have meant to set him off, but you did.”

Steve opened his mouth like he wanted to argue, but the words didn’t come. His hands curled into fists at his sides before he forced them to relax. “I don’t like walking away when something’s broken.”

Bucky nodded, but his expression didn’t soften. “I get that. But this isn’t something you can fix by sticking around. Not this time. You have to let me handle it.”

Steve’s frustration lingered, but something in his stance wavered. He looked at Bucky, really looked at him, and Bucky could see the moment he understood. The tension in his shoulders eased, just slightly.

Bucky reached out, just briefly, just enough for the backs of his fingers to brush against Steve’s wrist. A fleeting touch. A quiet reassurance. The touch sending a wave of electricity through both of them for a fleeting moment.

Steve stilled.

It was gone in the next breath, but the weight of it lingered, unspoken.

“This isn’t permanent,” Bucky continued. “Just give it some time.”

Steve let out a slow breath, his frustration still present but tempered now. He held Bucky’s gaze for a long moment before he gave a slow nod. “Alright,” he said, voice steady but reluctant. “I’ll give it time.”

It wasn’t easy for either of them. But for now, it was necessary.

Tony shrugged, smirking. “So, you heading back to Chompers now?”

Bucky’s expression darkened instantly, his glare sharp enough to cut through Tony’s smugness. “Don’t call him that.” His voice was cold, leaving no room for argument.

Tony just raised his hands in mock surrender. “What? It fits. He’s all teeth and paranoia—jumps at shadows, snaps when cornered. Honestly, I’m doing him a favor. ‘Jason’ sounds way too dignified for someone who acts like a half-feral attack dog.”

Bucky’s fingers curled into fists on his sides, his patience thinning. He took a slow breath, forcing himself to stay calm. “I said don’t.” His voice was quieter now, but the weight behind it was heavier than before.

Tony didn’t push further, but the amused glint in his eyes didn’t fade. “Fine, fine. Sensitive topic. Got it.” He leaned back, shifting gears just slightly. “So, are you actually heading back to him now, or are you giving him space to rearrange your furniture with his bare hands?”

Bucky exhaled sharply, reigning in his frustration. “I told him I’d be gone for a few hours. Let him breathe, explore the place. I’m sticking to that.”

Tony snorted. “Right. Well, get ready to come home to a disaster zone. I’m sure not-chompers is having a grand time tearing up your apartment.”

Bucky just shook his head, hoping Jason was too damn exhausted to do any real damage. But with Jason, hoping wasn’t exactly a reliable strategy.

______________________

Bucky ended up staying out of the apartment the entire day, he didn’t sleep. Instead spending his time in the tower’s gym.

he figured that with Jason feeling tired and falling asleep, by the time he woke up he wouldn’t have enough time to fully explore the apartment. Which in the end lead Bucky to making himself scarce.

though it was about time he went back, he knew he still couldn’t leave Jason alone for too long, boredom and paranoid can lead to a lot of things when trapped in a single apartment you’re not comfortable in, none of those things were good.

Bucky stepped through the front door, the quiet click of the lock sliding back into place behind him the only sound in the apartment. The place looked untouched at first glance—no broken furniture, no shattered glass, no reckless destruction like Stark had oh-so-confidently predicted. 

But Bucky wasn’t a normal person. And Jason wasn’t the type to leave obvious messes. 

His trained eyes swept over the space, cataloging every minute detail that felt off. The coffee table had been nudged half an inch out of place. The remote, which he distinctly remembered leaving at an angle, now sat parallel to the table’s edge. The coat rack near the door was moved- just a few inches to the left.

Subtle. Methodical. Thorough. 

Bucky took a few steps further in, his boots near-silent against the floor. The air itself felt disturbed, like the apartment had been quietly dissected and then put back together again. The kitchen cabinets had all been opened at some point—he could tell by the way a couple of doors didn’t sit flush against their frames anymore. The fridge was closed, but the fingerprints left on the handle told him it had been opened p. 

He moved down the hallway. His room was next. He pushed the door open slowly, scanning for anything out of place. The bedding was still made, but the left corner of the comforter had been lifted and folded back just slightly. A drawer in his dresser sat a fraction of an inch open—Jason had been careful, but Bucky had an eye for these things. He knew the exact way he left everything, and this? This wasn’t how he left it.

His gaze flicked toward Steve’s room, where the door was just barely ajar. Jason had been there too.

Bucky exhaled slowly. 

He turned toward Jason’s room. The door was closed, but Bucky had no doubt he was inside. He debated knocking, but Jason already knew he was back. If he was in there, it was because he wanted to be. 

Bucky didn’t call out. Didn’t acknowledge anything aloud. Instead, he walked past the door and into the living room. 

Jason had explored every inch of the apartment. 

And then, after all that, he’d chosen to return to his room. 

Bucky sat down on the couch, rubbing a hand over his face before leaning back with a quiet sigh. He wasn’t going to push. 

For now, Jason could have his space.

Bucky barely had a second to let himself relax before the door to Jason’s room creaked open. The sound was soft, hesitant—like Jason wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to step out.

Bucky immediately straightened up, his head snapping toward the noise. His first instinct was to look sharp, attentive, but he caught himself, forcing his expression into something neutral. He’d spent part of his time at the gym scrolling through articles on his phone—advice columns, parenting forums- he found the most useful advice there, anything that might help him navigate whatever the hell he was doing with Jason. Most of it was useless, but one thing stuck: Don’t be too eager. boys, especially ones with authority issues, don’t respond well to overbearing concern.

So he forced himself to stay still, to keep his features unreadable. No leaning forward. No asking if Jason was okay. Just… wait.

Jason stepped out fully, his hoodie slightly wrinkled, the sleeves pulled over his hands. His gaze locked onto Bucky’s with a sharp, immediate glare, eyes burning with something not quite anger but close enough.

“You said you’d be gone for a few hours.” His voice was low, rough from how he overused it the day before, but the accusation was clear. “It’s the next damn day.”

Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t waver, though internally, he was already planning his approach. Jason had questions. Of course he had. The kid was paranoid enough to question every detail.

Bucky exhaled through his nose, slow and measured. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Got held up.”

Jason didn’t seem satisfied with that answer. He stood there, waiting, arms crossed over his chest like he was expecting something more.

Jason didn’t say anything right away. He just stood there, staring Bucky down like he was trying to decide if it was even worth pushing for an answer.

Bucky let him take his time. He was getting used to Jason’s silences, how they weren’t always about hesitation—sometimes, Jason just wanted to watch, to pick apart every movement and expression before deciding his next move. A habit Bucky recognized all too well.

Finally, Jason shifted his weight, exhaling sharply. “So,” he said, voice flat. “Are you guys actually trying to send me back to my universe, or are you still stuck on questioning whether or not I’m with Hydra?”

Bucky met his gaze, keeping his expression unreadable. He’d known this conversation was coming sooner or later. Jason was too sharp to just accept being stranded here without any real progress on a way back.

He tilted his head slightly. “We looked,” he said simply. “Dr. Strange checked my old place. Nothing there confirms your story.” He let that sit for a second before adding, “Doesn’t mean you’re lying. Just means there’s no proof.”

Jason’s jaw twitched. “So what? You think I’m making it up?”

Bucky sighed through his nose, considering his words. “I don’t think you’re Hydra,” he admitted. “Not my call, though—Stark still does.”

That earned a bitter scoff from Jason. “Of course he does.”

Bucky didn’t comment on that. He had his own thoughts on Stark’s malice, but in a way, he understood it. Jason was an unknown. And even though Bucky personally didn’t buy the Hydra angle, the alternate universe thing? That was harder to swallow.

The kid acted like someone who had been through hell, someone who knew how to survive, how to fight—but being from a different universe? Bucky wasn’t ruling it out entirely, but part of him was still wary. There were too many holes, too many things that didn’t add up, or maybe it’s just the fact that Jason wasn’t willing to share anything yet. What if Jason was just using that as a cover for something else?

Still, looking at Jason now, standing there like a coiled wire, there was no real malice in him—just frustration, exhaustion, and maybe even a little desperation.

“We are looking for a way,” Bucky said eventually. “But right now, there’s nothing.”

Bucky hesitated, the words forming in his mind before he decided if he should even ask. He thought back to what he had read earlier—how boys Jason’s age (or what he assumed Jason’s age is according with how he looks) didn’t like being questioned too much, how pushing too hard could backfire. But this was only one question. One that had been on his mind since the moment Jason first mentioned getting back to his universe.

So, he went for it.

“You sure you wanna go back?” Bucky asked, voice steady, unreadable. “Considering the shape you showed up in, most people wouldn’t be in a rush to return to a place where someone did that to them.”

Jason stiffened, and for a second, Bucky thought he might shut down completely, retreat behind that wall of silence he used like a weapon. But then Jason exhaled, slow and measured, like he was forcing himself to stay calm. His fingers curled at his sides, shoulders tight.

“It’s not that simple,” Jason muttered.

Bucky didn’t say anything. He just watched, waiting to see if Jason would actually explain.

Jason scoffed under his breath, eyes flickering away. “What, you think I don’t know what it looks like?” He shook his head, jaw clenched. “Yeah, I got my ass handed to me. And yeah, maybe I should take the hint and stay gone, let them believe whatever the hell they want to believe about me.”

His hands twitched, like he wanted to grab something—his guns, maybe, if he had them. Something to hold onto. To protect himself, so he wouldn’t feel so defenseless .

Jason inhaled sharply through his nose. “But that’s my world,” he said, voice low, firm. “Doesn’t matter what they did, or what they think of me now. I’ve still got unfinished business. People to take care of and others who rely on me. And I’m not about to let them decide for me that I don’t belong there anymore.”

Bucky froze for a long minute, the silence stretching between them. He wasn’t sure what he had expected—maybe deflection, maybe a sharp retort meant to shut the conversation down completely. But not this.

Jason had answered him.

It wasn’t much, just a few sentences, but the fact that Jason had willingly let even that slip had Bucky reeling. He didn’t show it—his expression remained unreadable, his posture just as relaxed as before—but internally, he turned the words over, running them through his mind again.

Jason hadn’t just told him why he wanted to go back. He had admitted something.

And Bucky noticed—how Jason’s entire frame had gone rigid, how his jaw was set too tight, like the words had been strangled out of him rather than given freely. Jason had forced himself to say that, had pushed past every instinct screaming at him to keep quiet, to hold everything close to his chest.

Bucky didn’t know why Jason had told him, but he knew one thing—Jason already regretted it.

Bucky watched him carefully, tracking the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched, restless. Jason had given too much, and now he was bracing for whatever came next.

“So,” Bucky said, voice level, careful. “It was a they, not just one person.”

Jason shut down immediately.

His entire expression went blank, like someone had flipped a switch. The tension was still there, coiled tight, but his face was unreadable now, cold and detached. His eyes flickered with something sharp—warning, maybe, or regret—but then even that was gone.

Jason turned away, stepping back, retreating without a word.

Bucky didn’t stop him. Didn’t push.

He just sat there, watching as Jason disappeared back into his room, the door clicking shut behind him.

Bucky leaned back on the couch, eyes closing for a second before he let out a slow, measured sigh. His mind replayed the conversation, Jason’s words, the way he had shut down the moment Bucky pushed just a little too far. He wasn’t sure if that was progress or a setback. Maybe both.

But either way, Jason had to eat.

Bucky pushed himself up, rolling his shoulders as he made his way to the kitchen. He figured Jason wouldn’t want to eat with him—he hadn’t voluntarily stuck around for a conversation yet, so why would food be any different? Still, Bucky would offer. And if Jason didn’t come out, he’d just leave the tray in front of the door and hope for the best.

though hoping hasn’t done him any good for years.

Chapter Text

Jason sat down on the bed, elbows resting on his knees as he ran a hand down his face. His eyes closed on their own, frustration pressing at the edges of his mind, but the moment he let himself slip into the darkness behind his eyelids, a memory surfaced.

It was after a mission—some gang bust Batman had orchestrated, nothing Jason particularly cared about, but he’d still lent a hand. They stood on one of Gotham’s rooftops, the city humming faintly below, still alive even at this hour. The air was thick with adrenaline wearing off, their breaths still just a little too fast, their bodies aching in that way that came with a fight well won.

For once, the tension was low. The others—his brothers?—were laughing. Even Damian had the ghost of a smirk playing at the edges of his mouth, his usual scowl softened by the afterglow of success.

"Man," Dick breathed out, shaking his head with a grin as he clapped Tim on the back, nearly knocking him forward. "I swear, you kids keep growing up. I remember when you could barely throw a punch without falling on your ass. My baby brothers have grown"

Tim groaned, rolling his eyes. "Thanks for that, Dick. Real confidence booster."

"Just saying!" Dick grinned, gesturing between him and Damian. "Even you, Dami—look at you, cracking smiles and everything. Guess you’re finally learning to enjoy yourself."

Damian scoffed but didn’t argue, crossing his arms as he huffed.

Jason felt himself smirk slightly, the energy infectious. Something about moments like these almost let him pretend things were different. Almost.

He rolled his shoulders, standing a little taller as he added, "Been grown for a while now, Goldie."

The laughter didn’t stop immediately, but there was a shift. A slight pause. A flicker of something Jason caught before Dick covered it up with an awkward chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck.

Jason’s stomach twisted.

"Right, yeah," Dick said, still smiling, but it was off now—like something forced into place too quickly. "I guess—"

"Tt," Damian cut in, unimpressed as ever. "He wasn’t referring to you, Todd."

And there it was.

The laughter died completely now, Tim pressing his lips together, looking away, and Dick throwing Damian a disapproving glance, though it was weak at best.

"Damian—"

"What?" Damian said flatly, shrugging. "I only spoke the truth."

Jason knew that Dick’s weak reprimand wasn’t disagreement.

Because Damian was right, wasn’t he?

The rooftop was quieter now, the laughter fully faded. Jason kept his face neutral, biting back the simmering bitterness that curled inside his chest. His face hidden behind his helmet.

Dick, ever the golden boy, had already moved on. With a forced grin, he hooked an arm around Damian’s neck, ruffling the kid’s hair despite his protests. "Alright, demon spawn, you had your fun. Let’s go before B gets here and chews us out for loitering."

Damian scowled, shoving at Dick’s arm. "Unhand me, Grayson!"

But Dick just laughed, dragging him toward the edge of the rooftop. He didn’t spare Jason—or Tim—a glance. Busy with the youngest member.

Jason clenched his jaw, but before he could dwell too much, there was a slight shift beside him.

Tim.

The younger boy had moved closer, hesitant but deliberate. Jason turned his head slightly, eyeing him, noting the way Tim fidgeted with the strap of his glove.

"I, uh…" Tim started, then stopped, his shoulders stiff like he regretted even speaking. Jason almost scoffed at how awkward he looked, but then—

"I noticed you’ve been using less lethal force," Tim muttered, voice careful, like he was treading on thin ice. He wasn’t looking at Jason, instead staring out over Gotham’s skyline. "I know you probably don’t care what I think, but… I appreciate it. I know it’s not easy for you."

Tim hesitated, then shifted closer, the movement small, almost uncertain.

Jason stayed still.

He and Tim weren’t exactly the closest. Their history was... complicated.

He let out a small huff, not quite scoffing, not quite humored. “Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it.”

jason watched as the boy fidgeted a bit more with his gloves, glancing around the rooftop, unwilling to meet his eyes for a minute before he eventually did.

"You, uh… shouldn’t let Damian get to you. Not that I have much room to talk." Tim let out a small, humorless chuckle, glancing away. "I feel left out most of the time too. Guess I’m not as good at hiding it as you are."

Jason’s gaze sharpened, watching as Tim gave a wry smirk, voice dipping into something self-deprecating. "I mean, let’s be honest—Damian’s the entire family’s favorite. That’s just a fact at this point. Being the traumatized assassin son who needs their full attention and all.” He chuckles a little rubbing the back of his neck nervously, a line of tension in his shoulders.

Jason exhaled through his nose, watching him. For a second, he almost stayed silent. Let the weight of everything settle.

But then—maybe because Tim was trying, maybe because it was rare for either of them to acknowledge this kind of thing—Jason shifted.

forcing himself to relax his stance. Slowly, he reached out, ruffling Tim’s already-messy hair with a teasing shove.

Tim stiffened, surprised, but Jason just smirked down at him. "I don’t give a shit what Dick or Damian think." Then, without thinking too much about it, he added, "And Damian’s not the entire family’s."

Tim blinked at him, confused. "…Huh?"

Jason shrugged, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets as he leaned back slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a bit. "If I had a pick, of who my favorite is out of all of you, it would be you, Replacement."

Tim’s mouth parted slightly, caught between shock and something unreadable. He didn’t answer, but Jason caught the way his ears turned just a little red.

Jason rolled his eyes. "Relax, don’t get a big head about it."

Tim scoffed, but there was something lighter in his expression now. Something that made Jason feel… less alone.

Jason blinked his eyes open, the warmth of the memory fading as reality settled back in.

A knock on the door.

"Breakfast is ready," Bucky’s voice came through, steady and even. No pressure, no expectations. Just a statement.

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose, dragging a hand down his face. His chest still felt too tight, his ribs still caging something heavy and unwelcome. He tried to shove the memory of Tim away—the quiet warmth it had given him back then, the way it felt like, just for a moment, he belonged.

But time had a way of twisting things.

Tim hadn’t helped him in the end. None of them had.

Jason sat up, rolling his shoulders, trying to shake off the stiffness that came from days—weeks—without proper movement. His body felt wrong. Tense. Unused. He hadn’t fought, hadn’t trained, hadn’t even let himself move the way he was used to.

He needed to fix that.

Standing, he stretched his arms behind his back, hearing the faint pop of joints before pushing himself toward the door. His steps were careful, hesitant, but he forced himself out into the kitchen.

Bucky was already at the table, the plates set.

Eggs and bacon.

No stupid animal-shaped pancakes this time.

Jason wasn’t sure why that made him feel a little disappointment.

Wordlessly, he dropped into the chair across from Bucky, resting his arms on the table, his muscles still coiled too tight beneath his skin. He glanced at the food, then at Bucky, whose expression was neutral as he started eating.

Jason picked up his fork, rolling his shoulders again.

The clink of utensils against plates was the only sound between them. Jason sat hunched over the table, shoveling scrambled eggs and toast into his mouth with the kind of efficiency that came from years of needing to eat fast or not at all. Across from him, Bucky ate slower, methodical, almost mechanical. His face was blank, but Jason had been around enough emotionally constipated people to recognize the faint undercurrent of discomfort. Awkward silence practically clung to the air between them.

Jason wasn’t sure if the tension was because Bucky didn’t know what to say or because he did know but didn’t know how to say it. Either way, Jason wasn’t going to be the one to break it. He stabbed at a piece of bacon, chewing noisily just to fill the space.

Jason was almost done with his plate when he heard the scrape of Bucky’s chair against the floor. He didn’t look up—just kept eating, pretending the movement hadn’t made the hair on the back of his neck prickle. A few seconds later, Bucky returned, his heavy boots a muted thud against the old wood floors. Jason figured the guy was just grabbing seconds for himself, but then—

A fresh pile of eggs and bacon landed on Jason’s plate with a soft thunk.

Jason blinked, his fork freezing mid-air. He looked down at the food, then up at Bucky, who was already sitting back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest like nothing had happened.

"You—you know I’m not starving, right?" Jason asked, a faint edge of disbelief in his voice.

Bucky’s face didn’t so much as twitch. "People your age need food to develop."

Jason frowned. "Develop? What, you think I’m still a teenager or something?"

Bucky didn’t respond right away, just looked at him, gaze even and unbothered. If Jason didn’t know better, he’d think the guy was waiting him out.

Jason sighed, setting his fork down. His appetite despite being big most days wasn’t up for the mountain of food in front of him, and if this was going to stop, he’d have to say it. "I’m twenty," he said flatly. "Not eighteen, not nineteen. Twenty."

Bucky blinked. Once. Then he gave the faintest shrug, like that information barely registered as important. "Still young," he muttered, leaning back in his chair and picking up his fork again.

Jason stared, incredulous. "That’s it? That’s your reaction?"

Bucky just grunted, already halfway through his next bite of bacon.

Jason hesitated, torn between frustration and resignation. Finally, he gave up and started eating again. It wasn’t worth the fight—especially since the bacon was good, and the eggs weren’t bad either.

Jason’s fork clinked softly against the plate as he finished the last bite of eggs. He set the utensil down and pushed the plate aside, rolling his shoulders back in an attempt to shake off the tension that had built up from sitting in the quiet for so long. He was used to eating alone, so the silent, almost stoic atmosphere with Bucky—though not unpleasant—was beginning to feel a little suffocating.

When he looked up, Bucky was staring at him. Not in the way someone stares when they're admiring something or even in a way that’s hostile—just… blankly. But Jason wasn’t sure what Bucky was thinking, despite being able to recognize some moods, knowing the thinking process of someone he didn’t know was entirely different. He glanced down at his plate, picking at a stray piece of bacon, feeling the weight of Bucky’s gaze. It was unnerving. And judging. Probably judging, is he judging? Jason feels judged.

"Something wrong?" Jason muttered, half-snark, half-wariness.

Bucky didn’t respond immediately. His brow furrowed ever so slightly as if he was trying to figure out the right words, which, from what Jason absorbed so far, was never easy for him. It wasn’t hard to guess that Bucky’s mind was working overtime. The guy had a way of calculating every word before it left his mouth. Jason could practically hear the wheels turning in Bucky’s head, trying to piece together the words.

Jason shifted uncomfortably in his seat, picking at the hem of his jacket sleeve, his fingers restless. The silence stretched between them, and Jason’s thoughts began to drift, but he caught himself before his paranoia could kick in. He couldn’t let himself get too lost in that headspace. not now. Not with Bucky, who he didn’t quite trust—he didn’t! Jason is sure of it— but who also wasn’t giving off the kind of vibes that screamed danger. Not yet, anyway. Still, Jason’s back was tense, his legs slightly spread out under the table, ready to move whenever. His gaze flicked to the door as though he were already scanning the space for exits—despite knowing there is none, or possible threats.

And then—finally—Bucky spoke, breaking the silence with his usual gruff tone, but this time it was laced with hesitation that is barely detectable.

"So… what do you want?" Bucky asked, his voice sounding almost like he was testing the waters. "I mean, other than the obvious answer of wanting to get back to your own universe." Bucky flicks his eyes to his now empty plate “something that would make your…stay, more comfortable” 

Jason blinked, unsure whether he should be annoyed at the question or genuinely surprised that Bucky had even asked. It wasn’t like people often gave him the chance to say what he wanted, not that he was in a position to ask for much. But still, the fact that Bucky was asking him instead of assuming… that was new. It threw him off for a second.

He didn’t know why though, hadn’t Bucky already done that a few times now? Jason shook his head to clear his train of thoughts.

He leaned back slightly in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest as he tried to keep his face neutral. The gears in his mind started turning too, calculating the possible answers. He wasn’t stupid. He knew what he wanted: his gear back, access to the Tower’s sparring and training area, and a little bit of freedom. But he wasn’t about to ask for his suit or his weapons. He wasn’t a complete idiot. Stark wouldn’t allow it, and Jason was smart enough to know that Bucky probably wouldn’t either, at least not without a fight.

So, the usual stuff—the stuff that wasn’t unreasonable, at least in Jason’s eyes—was what he needed to focus on. He could deal with the rest later. He just needed to figure out how to phrase it without sounding like he was asking for too much.

After a long pause, Jason finally spoke, his voice steady but guarded. “I want access to your sparring and training area.” He met Bucky’s gaze, his expression unreadable, though the slight tension in his jaw gave away that this wasn’t the easiest thing to ask for. “No interference. I want to be left alone when I’m in there.”

Bucky didn’t react immediately. His eyes narrowed slightly, the barest hint of a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t disbelief, though. It was more like he was trying to decide if this request was something he can fulfill. Finally, after a beat, he nodded.

"I’ll see what I can do," Bucky said, the words clipped but not dismissive. “It might take a minute, but I'll talk to Stark, see if we can make it work.”

Jason nodded back, though his thoughts were already drifting again, the flicker of a new request forming in his head. It wasn’t the first thing on his mind, but it was a close second. Since the phone from the security guard he had…burrowed during his escape was no longer with him, he needed a new one. His skin prickled at feeling out of the loop, with news, social media and everything happening in the world in general, he needed a way to connect to the outside world.

“I also need a phone,” Jason added after a moment, his voice a little sharper now. “No trackers. No listening devices. You can tell Stark I’ll find out if there’s anything planted in it.”

Bucky’s eyebrow twitched, but he didn’t flinch. Jason wasn’t sure if Bucky was surprised by the request or not. Either way, he didn’t care. A phone was a basic request, but it was one that had to be handled carefully. Jason wasn’t about to let anyone monitor his calls or messages, especially not while he was stuck in this weird version of the world where was still new to him.

For a moment, Jason hesitated, chewing on his bottom lip as he thought through the rest of what he could reasonably ask for. He wasn’t going to push it. Asking for his gear would be pointless, and the last thing he wanted was to give Bucky any reason to think he was pushing his luck. He was smart enough to know that this wasn’t the time to press too hard.

Instead, he gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug. “That’s all for now.”

Bucky nodded slowly, his expression still unreadable, but there was something almost approving in the way he held himself. Jason wasn’t sure if it was because Bucky had been able to get through that conversation without any major awkwardness or if he was just relieved that Jason wasn’t demanding anything too extreme.

"Alright," Bucky said, voice steady as ever. "We’ll figure it out."

Jason gave him a look, one that said more than he intended. He didn’t trust easily, but Bucky was being... weirdly reasonable about all this. At least for now. And Jason figured that was something he’d just have to take at face value.

Or maybe he just found it weird because no one had taken his request into consideration in any resealable way before, but Jason wasn’t going to think about that now, he will have a mental breakdown about it later, preferably when alone.

he will find a free time slot for that in his schedule, he’s sure of it.

___________________

Bucky stood a little stiffly as the elevator (newly repaired after Jason’s little adventure) hummed its way down, the familiar weight of his own thoughts pressing against him like a constant force. He’d just come from a tense conversation with Stark about Jason’s request—one that had included a lot of back and forth, and, to be honest, some heavy sighs from Tony. But in the end, Bucky had managed to swing things in Jason’s favor. The kid was getting access to the entire training and sparring floor for a few hours, without anyone else poking their noses in. He didn’t know what Jason planned to do with the time, but Bucky had a hunch it wasn’t going to be a casual walk in the park.

When the elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, Bucky was about to say something—anything—when he noticed the shift. Jason had been quiet, a little off-kilter before, still holding that cautious, almost defensive air about him, but now? Now, the kid—can he still think of him like that, now that he found out he is twenty?— was different.

Jason’s posture had changed completely. Where he’d once held himself with a sort of perpetual tension, shoulders stiff and back rigid, there was a surprising lightness in his step now. His hands weren’t clenched at his sides anymore, and the scowl that usually seemed glued to his face was gone, replaced with something else—anticipation.

Bucky couldn’t help but notice the subtle shift, how Jason’s eyes were just a little more alert than usual, his gaze flicking toward the hallway where the training floor was. There was a bounce in his step, the kind Bucky had never expected from the kid. It was as if the weight of the world had lifted off his shoulders, even if just for a little while. And Bucky hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected Jason to be so... excited about the training space.

A part of Bucky was glad for the change. Jason was far more at ease now than he’d been since Bucky had first met him, and it felt like a small victory. Maybe giving the kid—he can’t help but think of him like that, despite Jason’s age— space to do his own thing was the right call. Maybe this was the first step in getting him to settle in.

"Hey," Bucky spoke, his voice a little softer than usual, but still low. "You okay?"

Jason shot him a quick, almost surprised look, like he hadn’t expected the question. He was still visibly relaxed, his shoulders less hunched than they’d been, though his gaze was still quick to dart around the space. Paranoia wasn’t gone entirely, Bucky could tell, but for the first time since they’d started interacting, the kid didn’t seem on edge.

"Yeah, just—" Jason broke off, looking down at the floor for a brief second before his focus snapped back up. "Just ready to get moving. Haven’t had a chance to work out like this in a while." His words came out with a kind of quiet subtle eagerness Bucky hadn’t anticipated. He wasn’t sure what to make of it, but it was there. The kid was genuinely looking forward to it.

Bucky watched Jason for a moment longer, arms still crossed, but his stance loosening a little as he studied the younger man. There was something oddly gratifying in seeing Jason relaxed, no longer carrying the weight of constant suspicion in his body language. It made Bucky think that maybe this whole arrangement wasn’t as impossible as Stark expected.

He nodded, the corner of his mouth twitching into something close to a smile or at least resembling it. "Alright, well, you’ve got the whole floor to yourself. Don’t hold back."

"Trust me, I won’t," Jason muttered, already stepping out the elevator and onto the training floor, his pace quickening. It was like he couldn’t wait to get started, like this was exactly what he needed to burn off whatever was simmering inside him.

Bucky watched him go, feeling a quiet sense of something—satisfaction? Relief? He wasn’t sure.

Though as soon as Jason stepped into the middle of the spacious training area, a smooth, calm voice filled the air, catching him off guard.

"Hello, Mr. Jason," JARVIS said in a tone that was formal yet polite, almost too proper. "I am JARVIS. I will be watching over you during your sparring and training sessions. Please don’t hesitate to ask me anything I am permitted to answer you about."

Jason stopped in his tracks, his body tensing as he immediately scanned the room, trying to identify where the voice was coming from. His eyes darted to every corner, expecting to see someone else in the room or some sort of hidden speaker. But there was nothing.

His brows furrowed in confusion, a flicker of annoyance already bubbling up in him. He hated being caught off guard like this, especially with someone—or something—watching him.

Bucky, noticing the confusion on Jason’s face, stayed back by the elevator. "It’s an AI," Bucky explained, his voice calm and steady. "JARVIS. Stark insisted on having it monitor you while you train. He wouldn’t have let you use the floor otherwise."

Jason’s gaze shifted back to Bucky, his expression unreadable for a moment. But inwardly, he was reminded of Alfred—at least the way the AI spoke with its polite formality.

"An AI," Jason repeated, his voice low, trying to process it. His irritation was clear as he muttered, "Great. Another thing to keep an eye on."

Bucky gave a small nod but didn’t seem phased. "It’s not a big deal. JARVIS won’t interfere unless you need something or if you’re about to break the place."

Jason huffed, his body language tense again as he crossed his arms. "I wasn’t planning on breaking anything," he grumbled, but he knew the idea of having a constant observer wasn’t going to sit well with him. He gave a small, dry laugh, though there was an edge to it. "Just don’t start giving me orders."

"I will not give orders unless it is necessary, Mr. Jason," JARVIS added promptly, and Jason shot an irritated glance at the empty space around him.

"I can already tell this is gonna be fun," Jason muttered under his breath, before turning away to start his warm-up. Though it was clear he didn’t like the idea of being watched, at least it was something he could ignore for now.

Bucky lingered inside the elevator, watching Jason with a quiet sense of concern, but didn’t push it. Instead letting the door slide closed, leaving Jason to his own devices.

________________

Jason exhaled slowly, dragging the back of his wrist over his forehead before reaching for the towel he’d tossed aside earlier. He wiped the sweat from the back of his neck, relishing the dull ache in his muscles—the good kind of ache, the kind that told him his body was getting back to where it was supposed to be.

It had been a week since he started training here. A week of pushing himself, of moving through drills and sparring routines, of letting his body remember what it was like to be strong again. And, maybe most surprising of all, a week of getting used to the quiet routine he and Bucky had fallen into.

Jason didn’t know when it had started feeling normal, but at some point, the tension he carried—while still there—had loosened, just a bit. Enough that he could go through his training without constantly looking over his shoulder. Enough that he didn’t always feel the need to keep himself coiled tight like a spring, ready to snap.

His stomach grumbled, reminding him he needed to eat. That was another thing he hadn’t expected—Bucky’s cooking was annoyingly good. Jason had been skeptical at first, but after a few meals, he had to (very reluctantly) admit that the guy knew what he was doing in the kitchen.

Breakfast and dinner had become part of the routine too. No real conversation, just the two of them eating in mostly comfortable silence. Jason had never been great with small talk anyway, and Bucky didn’t seem to mind the quiet. It was... weird, in a way, but not bad.

Still, Jason wasn’t about to say any of this out loud.

With one last stretch, he let out a slow breath and tossed the towel onto the floor. Time to go see what was for dinner.

Jason rolled his shoulders, feeling the tension ease slightly as he paced the edge of the training floor, waiting. Bucky would be here soon to take him back—Stark had made it clear he wasn’t allowed to roam the tower on his own, which was just fantastic. Not that Jason had expected any real freedom here, but still, it rubbed him the wrong way.

His thoughts drifted as he absentmindedly flexed his fingers, rolling out his wrists. He hadn’t seen Steve in a while. At first, that didn’t seem odd—Jason wasn’t exactly looking for the guy. But now that he thought about it, Steve’s room was in the same apartment as his and Bucky’s, yet he hadn’t crossed paths with him once in the past week.

His and Bucky’s apartment.

Jason frowned slightly, the thought catching him off guard. He hadn’t really considered it before, but his first instinct had been to call it his apartment too. Like he actually lived there.

The realization made his chest tighten, though he wasn’t sure if it was irritation or something else. He didn't like the idea of getting comfortable here, but… hell, he had been. At least a little. Enough that the routine didn’t feel like a cage anymore.

Jason exhaled through his nose and shook his head, pushing the thought aside as he waited for Bucky to show up.

Jason had just started reaching for his phone, figuring he’d kill some time scrolling through whatever news or headlines he could find—not like Stark let him make a social media account for anything. He could look, but not participate, which was just another way of keeping him contained.

Before his fingers could even unlock the screen, the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. A cold prickle of instinct shot through his spine, the unmistakable feeling of someone there.

Jason stiffened, muscles coiling tight as his fingers went slack, letting the phone slip from his grasp. By the time it hit the floor, he was already moving—his hands came up, body twisting as he swung his fist toward the shadow behind him.

Whoever it was dodged, moving fast, their body shifting just out of reach before lunging forward. Jason barely had time to register the momentum before they tackled him, forcing him back toward the ground.

The training floor was dim, lit only by a few overhead lights that left most of the space cast in deep shadows. He couldn’t see who he was fighting—not fully—but he could feel their weight, the way they moved, the sheer intention behind the attack.

Jason gritted his teeth, instincts taking over as he braced himself, ready to counter before they could pin him down.

Jason twisted mid-fall, shifting his weight and using the momentum to roll through the tackle. His back barely hit the floor before he kicked up, flipping over and landing on his feet in one smooth motion. His breaths were sharp, controlled, but his pulse pounded in his ears as he immediately dropped into a defensive stance.

The figure moved fast, but Jason was faster. His mind worked through the details even as he kept his body primed to react—whoever this was, they weren’t as heavy as he expected. Lighter, but not weak. A woman, then. That much he could tell from the way her weight had felt against him.

His eyes flitted across the dimly lit training floor, trying to get a clearer look at her. But the sparse overhead lights barely cut through the deep shadows, leaving most of the room cloaked in darkness.

Jason’s heart was hammering. It had been weeks since he’d fought someone in a real, direct fight—since he’d had to react like this. Sparring was one thing. But this? This was sudden. Unexpected. And it set every nerve on edge.

He forced himself to take a slow breath, steadying the adrenaline spike. His fingers curled into loose fists, his weight balanced and ready. Whoever she was, whatever this was—he wasn’t going down easy.

The next hit came out of nowhere. Jason didn’t see it, didn’t even hear her move.

Suddenly, his head was yanked back, sharp pain flaring across his scalp as fingers tangled in his hair and pulled. His breath hitched, and his hands nearly flew up on instinct to pry her grip away—but he forced the reaction down. He wasn’t some panicked rookie.

Instead, he twisted his body, using the pull to his advantage. His muscles coiled tight, and he drove his fist into her ribs with a sharp jab, aiming to knock the wind out of her and break her hold in one go.

Jason heard the sharp crack as his fist connected—solid, forceful, meant to hurt. The woman let out a quiet grunt but reacted fast, springing away from him with practiced ease.

Now that she was out of the shadows, he could actually see her. Fiery ginger hair, an all-black, skintight outfit that barely made a sound when she moved. Black Widow.

His mind clicked through the information quickly—he remembered reading about her, but he hadn’t paid much attention at the time. Too focused on digging up whatever he could about the men he’d actually encountered—Steve, Bucky, Stark.

But now? Now she had his full attention.

His blood was rushing, adrenaline making his body feel hot, alive. His teeth bared slightly, his fists clenched tight, muscles coiled and ready to spring.

Jason barely had time to react when JARVIS's calm, measured voice cut through the tension in the room, the words like a sudden cold splash of water.

"Mrs. Romanoff, please refrain from engaging in combat with Mr. Jason, as he is a guest."

It was a second too long—a split-second of distraction—and in that moment, Natasha moved.

Before Jason could even think about getting back into the fight, she yanked his arm, spinning him with expert precision. His feet left the floor, and before he could brace himself, his back hit the ground hard. The breath was knocked from his chest, pain flashing through his spine, forcing his eyes to snap shut in instinctive reaction.

She was fast, efficient—too efficient. Natasha’s weight pressed down on him, forcing his face into the cold, unforgiving floor. He could feel the cold tip of a dagger just inches from his skin, pressing against his cheek, and his heart pounded in his chest as he froze, his body stiff and tense beneath her.

His pulse was roaring in his ears. His breath came out in sharp, ragged bursts, teeth clenched in a mix of rage and panic.

“Get the fuck off me,” Jason snarled, his voice a low growl as he fought to keep his breath steady. Every muscle in his body was screaming to move, to push her off, but the sharp edge of the dagger kept him in check.

He hated this. Hated being pinned like this.

Jason’s mind suddenly supplied him with an unwelcome memory—the weight of another woman pinning him down. Talia.

His body tensed involuntarily, the memories crashing in with a force he couldn’t control. Fear gripped his heart, sharp and cold, and a choked sound escaped him before he could suppress it. His chest felt tight, like the air had been sucked out of the room, his pulse racing as his vision blurred for a moment.

His eyes prickled with the threat of tears, but he quickly blinked them away. The last thing he needed was to show anyweakness. The weight of Natasha’s body on top of him was just too familiar, too close to that feeling, the memory of Talia’s hands—Talia’s touch—lingering in his mind.

But Jason wasn’t about to beg.

He wasn’t that person anymore. Not ever again.

Instead, something snapped inside him. The violent edge in his chest flared to life, sharper than before. The words that left his mouth were filled with rage, his body fighting against Natasha’s hold despite the dagger at his face.

“Use more fucking force if you’re gonna keep me down, bitch,” Jason spat, his voice low and dangerous, filled with venom as he glared up at her. He was out of control now, pushing against her hold, straining with every muscle, desperate to move, desperate to make the memory of Talia vanish.

But Natasha—Romanoff—wasn’t someone he could easily break. And that thought only made him angrier.

The elevator dinged, the sound cutting through the tense silence like a knife. JARVIS’s voice followed almost immediately, his tone perfectly calm and matter-of-fact despite the situation unfolding.

“Mr. Barnes has been notified of the situation, along with Mr. Rogers and Mr. Stark.”

Jason didn’t have time to react, his heart still pounding in his chest as Natasha’s weight pressed harder against him. But then he heard the sound of boots hitting the floor, followed by the sharp hiss of the elevator doors opening.

Bucky stepped out into the dimly lit space, his expression one Jason couldn’t quite see—his face still pressed against the cold floor. But Bucky’s presence was unmistakable. The air seemed to change, the temperature dropping as Jason’s senses screamed that things were about to shift.

Bucky’s metal arm glinted in the low light, a deadly contrast against the dark room, and his voice rang out, low and commanding.

“Natasha. Get off him. Now.”

The threat in his tone was clear, like the steel edge of a knife, sharp and unyielding. He wasn’t asking. It wasn’t a suggestion. Natasha had no choice but to comply.

As Natasha moved off of Jason, the dagger disappearing from view with a practiced fluidity, Jason stayed on the floor for a long moment. His mind wasn’t catching up to what had just happened—the fight, the sudden memory that came crashing through, the overwhelming panic and anger mixing together. His breathing was ragged, his chest rising and falling too fast, and the ache in his muscles from the workout earlier still burned through his limbs, slowing his body down.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there, unmoving, disoriented.

But then Bucky was there—right by his side, his presence blocking Natasha’s view as he moved with surprising speed. Jason barely registered it before Bucky’s hands were on him, lifting him up with a gentleness that didn’t match the intensity of his aura. His touch was light, careful.

Jason found himself standing, the sudden movement making his head spin for a moment. His legs were shaky, like they were struggling to keep him upright.

Bucky’s voice cut through the haze, a low question, full of concern—more than Jason was ready for.

“Are you alright?”

Jason didn’t answer immediately. His jaw clenched so tight that his teeth ground together, the tension in his body speaking volumes. He didn’t have the words for what he was feeling—didn’t have the patience to process the mix of rage, fear, and humiliation swirling inside him.

But Bucky didn’t need an answer. Jason’s silence and the tight set of his jaw gave him all the answer he needed. Jason wasn’t okay. And right now, he didn’t want to be.

Bucky turned to face Natasha, his expression hardening into something cold and demanding. His voice was low, barely controlled, as he spoke.

“What the hell were you thinking, Natasha?”

Natasha didn’t flinch, but her eyes flickered momentarily toward Jason, assessing him. Her gaze lingered a little too long, and that simple shift was enough to make Jason’s skin crawl.

Her eyes.

The instant her gaze landed on him, something inside Jason snapped. The flash of Talia’s face, the memory of her cold, controlling touch, hit him like a wave, and he couldn’t stop it. He felt the suffocating pressure of it again, the overwhelming weight of being trapped and exposed.

Without thinking, Jason moved. He instinctively stepped back, seeking the cover of something—anything—to block out the feeling, to hide. Without even realizing what he was doing, his hand shot out and gripped the back of Bucky’s shirt, clutching it like a lifeline.

His eyes were on the floor, humiliation creeping up his neck, making his heart race faster. He hated feeling this way—pathetic. Like he was weak, vulnerable. He hated it more than anything, but it didn’t matter. The sensation wouldn’t leave.

Bucky immediately sensed the shift, and his body moved as if it was an instinct. As soon as he felt Jason hiding behind him, he stood straighter, his shoulders squared, creating a physical barrier between Jason and Natasha. He turned to face her fully, blocking her view of the younger man.

Natasha crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing as she took a moment to watch Jason, who was still hidden behind Bucky. Her voice was calm, but there was a bite to it.

“Steve’s not exactly fond of the kid,” she remarked, glancing toward Bucky. “And that’s putting it lightly.”

Bucky stiffened, his jaw tightening. His expression became serious, cold. His tone was sharp when he responded.

“Is that something Steve said, or something you deduced?”

The question hung in the air for a long moment, and Natasha stayed quiet. She didn’t look away from Bucky, but her silence was telling enough.

Finally, she spoke, voice laced with something that bordered on indifference.

“Steve didn’t have to tell me. It’s obvious the boy did something. Since Steve wasn’t willing to tell me anything, I decided I’d find out myself.”

Jason’s muscles tensed at her words, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. The mention of Steve—not liking him—didn’t bother him as much as it should have. It wasn’t exactly a new thing. People had always found reasons not to like him. But hearing it spoken so plainly, in Natasha’s sharp voice, made something deep inside him tighten.

He stiffened further, instinctively shifting closer to Bucky’s side, as if the proximity could protect him from the sting of Natasha’s words. His grip on Bucky’s shirt tightened in a near subconscious move.

He cursed himself internally, the same thoughts racing through his mind. Pathetic. Weak. He was twenty—an adult, but moments like these always made him feel smaller, like the years hadn’t really mattered. His age, his size—none of it mattered when he was standing here, feeling like this.

though in these moments he never had anyone to really hide behind, not after he crawled out of his grave.

Jason’s kept his eyes on the floor, trying not to react much.  but inside, it was a different story. Another name. Another person on the long list of people who didn’t like him. He was used to it, really, but that didn’t mean it didn’t sting. Just a little. Just enough to make his chest tighten.

Bucky’s voice was low, cutting through the tension that hung in the air like a thick fog.

“You had no right to put your hands on him,” he said, the words sharp and direct. His gaze didn’t leave Natasha. “If Steve didn’t tell you something, it’s for a damn reason.”

Bucky’s grip on Jason’s arm was firm, though not harsh. He gently pulled him towards the elevator, the action quick but not rushed. He reached down to pick up Jason’s discarded phone, relieved when he saw it wasn’t cracked, and slipped it into his pocket.

“This isn’t over,” Bucky said, his tone hardening again as he glanced back at Natasha. “We’ll address this as soon as I make sure Jason’s okay.”

Natasha didn’t respond immediately. She just tilted her head slightly, shaking it with a raised eyebrow, as if she didn’t quite understand why Bucky was making such a big deal out of it.

Jason, not wanting to meet her gaze, kept his eyes focused on his feet, his movements stiff as he followed Bucky toward the elevator. The anger and frustration still boiled inside him, but he wasn’t ready to deal with it—especially not with Talia —no it wasn’t Talia, just stop—watching him. He just wanted to get away.

The short trip back to the apartment was silent.

Chapter Text

Bucky stepped out of the elevator, his jaw tight, anger still simmering beneath his skin. The memory of Jason’s withdrawn expression gnawed at him. The kid had barely looked at him when he told him he’d be back soon—just a quick nod before disappearing into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him without another word. Bucky hadn’t missed the way Jason’s shoulders had been tense, his movements slow, like he was carrying something heavier than just the exhaustion from training. It didn’t sit right with him. None of this did.

Stepping into the common room, he spotted Natasha standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed, still in her tight-fit suit, looking completely unfazed. Steve was there too, sitting on the couch, looking exhausted, rubbing a hand down his face. But as soon as Bucky walked in, Steve stood, shoulders squaring like he was bracing for something.

Bucky didn’t stop walking, his movements controlled but tense as his eyes flicked between them.

"Start talking," he said, voice cold.
Natasha shrugged, completely unfazed. “I don’t see why this is such a big deal. It’s not like this is the first time I’ve snuck up on someone in the tower.” Her tone was even, almost bored, as if she hadn’t just pinned a clearly traumatized kid to the floor. “Besides, I had every right to know who he is and why he’s here. But since no one was willing to tell me anything beyond ‘he’s just here,’ I decided to do my own investigation.”

Steve let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his face again before speaking, his voice calm but firm. “Nat, you just got here this afternoon. We could’ve talked about this tomorrow, gone over it with Bucky first instead of you running off like that. You should’ve known better.” There was no anger in his voice, no sharp edges—just the same tired patience he always had when trying to keep the peace.

Bucky, though, wasn’t interested in keeping the peace. His glare didn’t waver. His hands curled into fists at his sides. "That wasn't an investigation," he said, his voice low, cold. "That was a damn ambush."

Bucky’s glare snapped to Steve now, his jaw tight as he forced his anger down just enough to keep his voice steady. "What exactly did you tell her?" he asked, tone edged with accusation.

Steve exhaled sharply, hands coming up slightly like he was trying to physically slow the conversation down. “I didn’t say anything bad about him,” he said quickly, looking between Bucky and Natasha, his expression tense but not defensive. “I don’t—I don’t hate him. I don’t even dislike him.”

Natasha arched a brow, arms crossed as she tilted her head slightly. “Could’ve fooled me,” she remarked. “You sure sounded resentful when you told me he was here.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked back to Steve, glowering now, waiting for an explanation.

Steve ran a hand down his face again, letting out a slow breath before shaking his head. “It wasn’t resentment,” he said, his voice quieter now, like he was trying to find the right words. “I just… I don’t know what to do with him, Buck. And maybe that came out wrong, but I wasn’t trying to say it like—like I think he’s some kind of burden or that I want him gone.”

Bucky didn’t say anything, just kept staring, but Steve knew that look well enough to keep talking.

“I don’t know him,” Steve admitted. “Not the way you do. Not the way you’re trying to. And I know he’s been through hell, but it’s—it’s complicated, alright? I don’t know where to step with him, and I don’t want to make things worse.” He hesitated, glancing at Natasha. “So maybe when I told her he was here, I didn’t sound as neutral as I thought I did. But it wasn’t resentment. It was me trying to figure out how to handle this.”

Bucky let a heavy silence settle between them before finally speaking, voice clipped. “He’s not a problem to be handled.”

Steve exhaled, shaking his head again. “I know that.”

Bucky didn’t believe him. Not entirely. But he also knew this wasn’t the time to get into it. Not with Natasha standing there watching. So instead, he pressed his lips into a hard line, glancing between them both before muttering, “Right.”

The elevator chimed, and Stark strolled out, clad in his robe, snack in hand, rubbing at one eye like he’d just been rudely yanked out of a deep sleep.

“Alright, which one of you disturbed my beauty sleep?” he drawled before pausing mid-step, eyes landing on Natasha. He blinked, then tilted his head. “Aaaand when the hell did you get here?”

Steve exhaled heavily. “She ambushed Jason after training.”

Stark’s brows shot up as he made an unimpressed face. “Oh, yeah. That’s a great idea,” he said dryly. “Kid’s just starting to settle down, so obviously the best move was to pounce on him like a damn horror movie jump scare. Great call, Romanoff.” he said with an almost lazy kind of sarcasm, but there was something sharp underneath it, something that hinted he wasn’t exactly thrilled about it either.

Bucky’s glare snapped back to Natasha, who, while not looking remotely intimidated, did look the slightest bit guilty. Not much, but enough for someone like Bucky to notice.

“Jason’s grown,” she said, her arms still crossed over her chest. “What’s the big deal? He’s, what, twenty three? Twenty two?”

“Twenty,” Bucky corrected immediately, his voice edged.

Stark made an affronted sound, hand pausing midair. “Excuse me? And why wasn’t I told about this?” He squinted at Bucky, then turned back to the room at large. “The kid’s twenty? That’s it?”

Natasha’s brow barely lifted, but Bucky caught the flicker of something in her expression.

Stark hummed, waving a hand. “Huh. No wonder he’s got all that teenage angst still clinging to him.” Then, after another bite of his snack, he mused, “Though, I gotta say, Chompers really doesn’t look twenty. Thought he was at least a little older—built like a damn brick house.”

Bucky frowned. “He looks exactly his age.”

Natasha and Stark both shot him unimpressed looks.

Stark scoffed. “Oh, sure. If you ignore the whole ‘grizzled war vet in a twenty-year-old body’ thing he’s got going on.” He gestured vaguely with his snack. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s definitely young—just didn’t expect twenty young.”

Bucky shook his head, clearly frustrated. “This isn’t about his age, though, Stark,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is about you,” he added, nodding toward Natasha, “and the fact that you went about this all wrong. You must’ve known Jason is staying with me, from Steve at least. You should’ve come to me first before whatever the hell it was you just did.”

Stark gave an approving hum, his lips quirking up in a smirk. “Yeah, I’m all for throwing grenades into quiet situations, but you’re right—probably could’ve been handled better.” He tossed the empty snack wrapper into the trashcan as an afterthought, still eyeing Natasha.

Bucky’s expression hardened as he turned back to face Natasha directly. “And telling Jason that Steve isn’t fond of him?” He shook his head, voice dropping low. “That was out of line. Steve was supposed to come back to the apartment by next week, and now—how the hell is Jason supposed to be comfortable after hearing that?”

Steve winced at the question, looking toward Natasha and letting out a sound of frustration, a mix of defeat and irritation. He then gave Natasha a disappointed look, his jaw tightening. “It wasn’t your place to do that, Nat,” he said quietly, though there was no real anger in his tone.

He paused for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. “But… is there something I can say or do?” Steve turned toward Bucky, brows furrowed, the weight of exhaustion clear in his voice. “Please, there has to be something, right?” His tone was soft but pleading, as if he was willing to fix whatever damage had been done but didn’t quite know how.

Bucky paused, his eyes locking with Steve’s as he tried to reevaluate the entire situation. The air still crackled with tension from the earlier confrontations, and he realized with a sinking feeling that none of this had been what Steve intended. "I’ll speak to Jason and see what I can do," Bucky said quietly, his voice steady despite the storm behind his eyes.

Steve nodded, his blonde hair falling into his eyes as he brushed it back with a slow, weary sigh. The weight of the conversation settled between them, and for a moment, it seemed like that might be the end of it.

But Bucky wasn’t finished. Turning sharply toward Natasha, his gaze hardened. "I expect you to apologize to Jason," he stated firmly, each word edged with authority and underlying frustration.

Natasha’s eyes flashed, and she folded her arms, her tone cool and unyielding as she replied, "I won’t apologize until I know for sure he isn’t a threat. I want to know everything tomorrow, and frankly, I’m not comfortable with you keeping him here without all the facts." Her voice was controlled—assertive, not timid—and left no room for negotiation.

Bucky’s face darkened further. "I don't give a shit what you think," he snapped, his tone leaving no doubt about his irritation. Without waiting for a retort, he turned away and began walking back toward the elevator.

From his corner, Stark couldn’t resist a wry remark as he watched the exchange. "Well, this is going just great," he quipped with a dry edge, "I guess nothing like a little domestic turbulence to spice up the night." His comment, laced with sarcasm, drew a faint, resigned chuckle from Steve, though the underlying tension was far from diffused.

_________________

Bucky closed the door behind him, the familiar click of it locking sounding louder in the silence. His body was still tight, muscles coiled from the tension of the earlier situation, but he let out a slow breath, trying to shake it off before Jason noticed. He didn’t want to add any more stress to the kid’s already heavy load.

But as soon as his mind wandered to what had happened earlier, the memory hit him hard. The way Jason had slid behind him, his hand grabbing at the back of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping him from losing control. Jason wasn’t small—wasn’t some helpless kid—but in that moment, Bucky saw the raw panic, the frantic fear in his eyes. It wasn’t that Jason was weak; it was that he was scared. And Bucky could feel it, the way Jason’s fingers tightened in desperation, like he needed something solid to hold onto.

the fact that he had hidden behind Bucky like that... it did something to him. Something he wasn’t ready to unpack, but it made something inside him twist, a mix of protectiveness and something softer, something he wasn’t prepared to admit.

He rubbed at his chest, where his heart had stuttered a little. There was no easy way to explain it.

Bucky's thoughts were interrupted as his hearing picked up the heartbeat of the other moving closer, Jason stepped into the hallway. He was rubbing his arm, a nervous tick that was unmistakable even from across the space between them. Bucky watched him for a moment, sensing the tension rolling off him like. Jason’s gaze was firmly fixed on the floor, avoiding Bucky’s eyes, and the way he was shifting on his feet—slightly hunched, his shoulders tight—told Bucky everything he needed to know. The kid was unsettled.

Jason’s voice broke the silence, low and cautious. “What happened?” he asked, his words carrying more weight than the simple question might suggest. He wanted answers, but something in his tone said he wasn’t ready to hear them.

Bucky took a slow breath, trying to keep his own emotions steady. "I talked things through with the others," he said carefully, not giving away too much. He knew Jason was already on edge and wasn’t about to drop a load of information on him that would only add to the confusion.

Jason’s eyes remained trained on the floor, the corners of his mouth pulling downward in frustration. He didn’t ask again, but Bucky could tell by the way his posture stiffened that something else was weighing on him. Jason had more questions, but he wasn’t ready to voice them.

Bucky stepped closer but kept his distance, unwilling to push too much. He knew Jason didn’t like being cornered or crowded, but he also knew that right now, the kid needed something steady. He needed reassurance—gos he hopes he is right and isn’t fucking this up—.

“Everything’s okay,” Bucky said, his voice quiet but firm. He made sure not to crowd him, not to overstep. "It’s all settled. You don’t need to worry about it."

Jason didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he kept his gaze fixed on the floor, his expression hardening as if he was fighting to keep something from breaking free. His lips tightened, and Bucky saw the muscle in his jaw flex—whatever was going on inside him, he was holding it in.

Then, without warning, Jason looked up, his eyes still avoiding Bucky’s. He shifted his weight, fidgeting with his hands as he spoke. "How’s Steve?" The words were quiet, but they cut through the air between them like a sudden gust of wind. The question felt more personal than it probably was, but the way Jason asked it told Bucky this wasn’t just about Steve. This was about Jason needing to know where he stood.

Bucky paused, watching Jason carefully as he crossed his arms, a little too defensive, a little too closed off. He hadn’t expected the question, but he understood it. After what Natasha had said, it made sense that Jason would be wondering. Would be worried.

Bucky took a breath, trying to steady his own thoughts. "Natasha’s wrong," he said, his tone calm but firm. "Steve told me he doesn’t hate you. He doesn’t even dislike you. He’s just… got a lot on his plate right now. Things have been complicated."

Jason didn’t look convinced. His gaze flicked briefly to Bucky’s face, but it didn’t linger, instead focusing back on the ground, almost like he was bracing for something he didn’t want to hear. The frustration was still there, but now there was a slight edge of relief, like he was finally letting himself feel it, even if he wasn’t fully ready to trust the words.

Bucky let out a breath, stepping a little closer, but keeping his hands at his sides. “Look, I know it’s not easy,” he said, his voice softening. "But Steve doesn’t dislike you, Jason. He’s just... been busy, yeah? But that’s got nothing to do with you. We’ll figure it out."

Jason didn’t answer at first. His gaze flicked up to meet Bucky’s for the briefest of moments—just long enough for Bucky to see the flicker of doubt in his eyes. But then, just as quickly, he dropped his gaze again, hands clenched in fists at his sides, body still tight with something Bucky couldn’t quite name, he still isn’t good at…whatever this is.

Jason was silent for a long moment, the weight of everything hanging between them. Bucky waited, giving him space to process, but he couldn’t help the tug at his chest—the way it felt like Jason was trying to shoulder everything on his own. He wasn’t sure why it bothered him so much, but it did.

Finally, Jason spoke again, his voice quieter this time, like he was talking to himself as much as he was talking to Bucky. “I don’t need Steve’s approval,” he muttered, almost bitterly. "I can handle it."

Bucky stood there for a moment, watching Jason as the silence stretched between them. The weight of the conversation was heavy, but he needed to clear the air, needed to make sure Jason knew things were going to change.

“I’ll make sure nothing like this happens again,” Bucky said, his voice steady but firm.

Jason didn’t immediately respond, but his jaw tightened, his arms folding across his chest. Finally, he muttered, “There’s no way you can promise me that.”

Bucky's jaw clenched at the words, but he realized that trying to convince Jason with words wasn’t helping. He cut through the tension, his voice patient. “We’ll be leaving the tower tomorrow. We’re going shopping for new clothes.”

Jason blinked, visibly surprised. His head snapped up, actually meeting Bucky’s gaze for the first time in the conversation.

Bucky shook his head slightly, not bothering with anything more than the truth. “Your comfort is my priority right now. Nothing else.” He glanced toward the door, his tone softer but still direct. “If the tower’s feeling suffocating, then we’ll get you out for a day. I’ll figure something out.”

Jason hesitated, looking like he wanted to say something but didn’t quite know how. After a moment, he spoke up, his voice quieter. “Thanks.”

Bucky nodded, not sure how to respond, his usual bluntness not quite fitting with the situation. He didn’t have a clue how to comfort someone, let alone Jason, but he could at least do something, even if it was as simple as getting him out of this place for a little while.

Bucky walked into the kitchen, his boots clicking softly against the floor as he pushed the door open. The space was warm, a little too quiet, but he could feel Jason’s presence now in the kitchen with him. Bucky wasn’t sure if he wanted to bring up dinner just yet—there was too much tension in the air—but the silence had been lingering long enough.

“You still up for dinner?” Bucky asked, glancing back toward the hallway.

Jason looked away for a moment, his body language tight. But after a beat, he gave a quick nod.

“Alright,” Bucky said, turning back to the counter. “I’m making spaghetti and octopus sausages.”

Jason immediately scrunched his face, clearly unimpressed. “We’ve got TV dinners in the freezer. We could just microwave some of those.”

Bucky shut that idea down without hesitation, his voice firm. “No. Should’ve burned those when Steve bought them. No way I’m feeding you that crap.” He shot Jason a quick look over his shoulder. “You need healthy food to grow and develop. Not whatever frozen trash that is.”

Jason scoffed, crossing his arms and shifting his weight to one side. “I’m not eating octopus shaped sausages, Bucky.”

Bucky turned fully now, raising an eyebrow, not even bothered by the argument. “You’re gonna eat them, kid.”

Jason shot him a look of disbelief some of the tension leaving him. “How the hell did you even find out about them?”

Bucky paused for a second, his hand freezing mid-motion as he took in Jason’s confused expression. He hadn’t expected to be asked, but there was no point in lying. He muttered, “Stark sent me a video. Said it was a ‘cooking tutorial.’”

Jason blinked at him, clearly processing. “You actually watched that?”

Bucky’s gaze flickered for a moment before he answered in a low voice, making direct eye intact. “Yeah. Don’t ask questions. Just eat ‘em when I make ‘em.”

Jason stared at him, his face a mix of confusion and disbelief. “You’re weird.”

Bucky gave him a flat look, the corner of his mouth twitching just slightly. “Deal with it.” Then, turning his attention back to the stove, he added, “Now let’s get this dinner done.”

_______________

the two of them were sitting at the small table, the quiet hum of the apartment almost as suffocating as the awkwardness between them. Jason had piled the octopus-shaped sausages to the side of his plate, making a clear point to avoid touching them as much as possible. Instead, his fork was busily twirling the spaghetti, clearly focused on it more than the rest of his meal.

Bucky sat across from him, one arm resting on the table, his metal arm catching the dim light of the apartment as he ate. He glanced at Jason’s plate, noticing the untouched sausages. With a simple tilt of his head and a motion of his fork toward the sausages, Bucky gave him a look.

Jason glared back at him, but after a moment of tension, he reluctantly speared one of the sausages with his fork, popping it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, but after a moment, he ate another, and then another. The sausages were soon gone, all eaten quickly despite his earlier reluctance. Jason shot Bucky a glance, muttering, “It’s good… Not the sausages, though.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, his expression still stoic as he observed Jason’s consumption. He didn’t comment on the matter, simply shaking his head in mild amusement before returning to his food. Jason didn’t make another comment, but he glanced at Bucky a little more often now, as if gauging his reaction.

After a few moments of silence, Jason spoke again, his tone trying to be casual despite the underlying awkwardness. “How’d you learn to cook?”

Bucky paused before answering, his focus momentarily drifting to the plate in front of him. He gave a slight shrug, his voice low but direct. “When I was younger, I used to cook for Steve. He didn’t know anything about being in a kitchen.” The words were straightforward, offering little beyond the bare facts. He didn’t seem to expect Jason to press further, his gaze falling to his food again as he continued eating.

Jason, seemingly content with the answer for now, took another bite of spaghetti. He chewed thoughtfully for a moment before asking, “did you cook often? Before I….arrived?”

Bucky glanced up at Jason, taking a moment to finish chewing before replying, “Not too often. I do when I need to. Why?”

Jason was silent for a beat, but then, as if he were almost caught off guard by his own words, he said, “My grandpa—” He stopped suddenly, eyes flickering to the side as he corrected himself quickly, “I mean, I had a…butler who taught me how to make a few things in the kitchen.” His voice faltered just slightly, and he was quick to move on, as if he hadn’t meant to say it that way.

Bucky’s brow furrowed for just a second before he let it go. The comment didn’t seem to faze him. Instead, he nodded slightly and raised an eyebrow. “You cook then?”

Jason shrugged in response, though he didn't look up from his plate. “Hadn’t for…a really long time.”

Bucky gave him a quick unreadable look, but didn’t say anything. The silence filling the kitchen again as they continued eating.

Jason finished the last bite of spaghetti, pushing the plate away from him with a quiet sigh. He was full, and while the night had been tense, there was a small sense of normalcy now that the meal was over.

Without saying much, he stood up, pushing his chair back from the table. Bucky had already gotten up and taken both their plates, walking toward the sink. Jason hesitated for a moment, but he didn’t want to stay in the kitchen for long. He just needed to be alone for a bit.

“I’m going to bed,” he said, his voice quieter than he intended. He didn’t look at Bucky when he spoke, his mind still a bit clouded from the whole day.

Bucky’s voice followed, calm and simple, “Goodnight.”

Jason nodded in response, before walking toward his room. He didn’t look back, but as he reached the door, he could hear Bucky moving around in the kitchen behind him.

he entered his room, the door closing behind him with a soft click. He sat on the edge of his bed with a soft low groan, still aching from the training he’d done earlier, even after the warm shower. He can still feel Natasha’s hands in his hair, his body shivered as his imagination conjured the face of a different woman with jet black hair and neon green eyes.

he shook his head trying to focus instead on the soft clink of utensils and glass as Bucky washes the dishes in the kitchen, the sound muted and low through the door.

elbows on his knees, hands dragging down his face. He exhaled sharply, rubbing at his eyes before letting his hands drop. As his fingers curled, his gaze caught on the faint, healed cut on his palm—the one Bucky had bandaged a week ago.

Jason stared at it for a long moment, flexing his fingers. It didn’t hurt anymore, barely even a mark left, but the memory of it was still fresh. The sting of the cut, the blood, the way Bucky had grabbed his wrist with that damn careful touch, wrapping the wound without a word. He hadn’t been rough about it. Hadn’t chastised Jason for being reckless. He’d just… helped.

when was the last time anyone had treated any injury of his with gentleness? The rare times he went back to the bat cave for medical attention, he was either met with tense silence or a stern angry reprimand.

Bucky had done a lot. More than Jason had really let himself process before now.

He’d helped him through more than one panic attack, never flinching, never pulling away, just staying there, grounding him. He’d taken Jason’s mess of nerves and paranoia in stride, never once treating him like he was fragile or broken. When Steve had triggered him, Bucky had kicked him out without hesitation, making it clear where he stood. And now tonight—Jason had barely spoken to him after what happened, just nodded and shut himself in the bathroom, but Bucky had still come back. He’d still said everything was fine, still looked at Jason like he wasn’t a problem to deal with.

And Jason… what the hell had he done in return?

Barely acknowledged the guy.

He’d eaten the food Bucky made but never really said much about it. He’d listened when Bucky spoke but rarely offered much back. He’d let the man step in for him over and over again, but had he ever actually thanked him for it? Had he done anything besides take and take and take?

Jason scowled, rubbing his hands over his face again. The worst part was that he didn’t even know what to do about it.

He wasn’t good at this—at expressing things, at gratitude, at being vulnerable without turning it into a joke or a deflection. But sitting here, doing nothing, felt worse.

Before he could overthink it, he pushed himself to his feet, turned, and yanked open his door.

His feet carried him toward the kitchen, his pulse picking up the closer he got. Bucky had his back turned, rinsing their dishes in the sink, the low sound of running water filling the space. Jason hesitated for only a second before pushing forward.

Bucky turned just as Jason stepped into the doorway, his brow furrowing slightly.

“Is something wrong?” Bucky asked, voice steady but questioning.

Jason didn’t answer. Instead, he closed the distance between them with quick  steps. He barely registered Bucky starting to say something else before he moved, his arms wrapping around him in a firm but slightly awkward hug.

Bucky’s body went rigid at first. Jason could feel the sharp inhale Bucky took, the way his metal arm hovered slightly before lowering. For a split second, Jason thought he’d made a mistake, but before he could second-guess himself, he forced himself to stay.

He pressed his forehead lightly against Bucky’s shoulder, his muscles tight, unfamiliar with the sensation of someone else’s warmth so close after so long. It wasn’t a casual touch, wasn’t some light clap on the back from Dick or shoulder bump in passing from Tim—it was real, grounding, something Jason hadn’t let himself have in a long time. The sheer foreignness of it made his skin prickle, but he held on anyway, feeling the solid presence of Bucky beneath his hands.

Bucky wasn’t tense for long. The second he realized Jason wasn’t about to shove him or take a cheap shot, his body eased. His arms, previously hovering, finally settled—one hand resting lightly against Jason’s back, the other hesitating for just a second longer before it came down too, the weight of it surprisingly steady.

Jason swallowed hard. “Thank you for today,” he muttered, voice barely above a breath, but the words felt important. They sat in the air between them, raw and unfiltered. “And…The octopus sausages were good”

Bucky let out a slow exhale through his nose, his breath brushing against Jason’s hair. His grip wasn’t tight, but it was enough—secure, unshaken. He gave a small nod Jason couldn’t see but could feel.

“Don’t mention it,” Bucky said, voice lower, rougher, like he wasn’t sure how else to respond.

Jason wasn’t sure how long they stood there, but neither of them pulled away immediately. The warmth of Bucky’s body, the subtle weight of his arms, the coolness of the metal fingers against his back—it was grounding in a way Jason hadn’t expected. the tower, Natasha, Steve, all of it momentarily unimportant.

Eventually, Jason gave a small exhale and took a step back, letting his arms drop. Bucky let him go without hesitation, though his eyes flickered over Jason’s face, as if trying to read something there.

Jason rubbed at the back of his neck. He wasn’t good at this—expressing things, acknowledging things, letting people in—but right now, he figured he’d done enough.

“Goodnight,” he said, voice quieter than usual but firm enough.

Bucky gave him a short nod, his expression unreadable but not unkind. “Goodnight, Jason.”

jason turned and went back the way he came.

He shut the door to his room behind him and pressed his back against it, sliding down until he hit the floor. His heartbeat was still hammering, his chest rising and falling faster than he wanted it to. He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to shake off the feeling crawling under his skin.

He couldn’t hear Bucky moving around in the kitchen anymore. Hell, he couldn’t hear much of anything over the rush of blood in his ears.

What the hell had he just done?

Jason let his head thunk lightly against the door, squeezing his eyes shut.

He groaned quietly, dragging both hands through his hair.

Why did he do that? What possessed him to just—do that?

The second he thought about it too much, he could feel the heat creeping up the back of his neck. Jason didn’t do things like that. He didn’t go around hugging people, clinging to them like some lost clingy puppy. But—

Jason exhaled sharply and pushed himself to his feet, legs feeling unsteady beneath him.

It was done. No point in regretting it now.

He forced himself to move toward his bed, kicking off his boots before sliding under the covers. He yanked them up over his shoulders, turning onto his side and shutting his eyes, willing sleep to come.

It didn’t.

Minutes passed. He turned onto his other side. Then onto his stomach. Then onto his back, staring at the ceiling.

His fingers curled into the blanket.

What the hell was he doing?

Chapter Text

Bucky stood in front of Stark and Steve, arms crossed over his chest, expression set in stone. He'd already made up his mind about this, and no amount of Stark's bitching was going to change it.

"I told him we’re going." Bucky’s voice was flat, unwavering.

"Yeah, see, I heard that part," Stark said, waving a hand in the air. "What I don't get is why you think this is a good idea. Kid’s barely been here two weeks, and we still don’t know—"

"No."

Stark blinked. "Oh. Well, that’s a compelling argument. Really thorough, very thought-out." He turned to Steve, throwing his hands up. "Do you hear this? This is what I have to deal with. The caveman has spoken."

Steve sighed, rubbing his temple. "Tony, I actually don’t think it’s a bad idea."

Stark’s head snapped toward him. "Excuse me?"

"Jason’s been cooped up here since he got here. Taking him out for a bit could be good for him."

Bucky gave Steve the smallest nod, appreciating the backup.

"Okay, great, glad we’re all just playing fast and loose with security now." Stark crossed his arms, tapping his fingers against his bicep. "I mean, sure, let’s just hand him an expense card while we’re at it, let him go wild. Oh, and Bucky, while you're out there, maybe—just maybe—consider updating your wardrobe."

Bucky raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

"Seriously," Stark went on, eyeing him up and down. "The whole ‘brooding assassin chic’ thing? Getting a little tired. There’s more to life than black and tactical. Hell, you could at least branch out into, I don’t know, navy? Dark gray? Give us a little something different."

Bucky stared, silent.

Stark sighed dramatically, leaning back against the counter. "Fine. You wanna play bodyguard for the day, be my guest. Just try not to traumatize him with whatever grim reaper ensemble you throw together."

"Noted." Bucky turned on his heel, already done with the conversation.

Steve exhaled, shaking his head as Stark muttered something under his breath about "emotionally constipated war vets and their moody protégés."

Bucky didn’t stop walking.

Bucky had made it halfway to the elevator before Stark called out.

“Hold up.”

Bucky didn’t stop at first, but then Stark pulled out his phone, waving it in the air like it was some kind of lifeline. “Look, you might be determined to do this your way, but let’s not pretend you have even the slightest clue what kids these days actually wear. You think Jason’s gonna be thrilled about walking around looking like—” Stark motioned vaguely at Bucky’s outfit, “—a walking funeral procession?”

That got Bucky to slow his steps. He turned his head slightly, side-eyeing Stark with the same unimpressed expression he always had. He didn’t think his own wardrobe was a problem. It was practical, neutral. Just black. A lot of black. What else did a guy need?

He crossed his arms, not speaking, but clearly waiting for him to get to the point.

Steve sighed, already rubbing at his temple. “Tony…”

“No, no, hear me out,” Stark interrupted, tapping on his phone. “I’ll even do you a favor. Since I actually have a working sense of fashion—and access to what’s trending—I can show you what Jason’s age group actually likes. You want to do this right, right? So come take a look.”

Bucky didn’t move at first, clearly weighing whether or not this was worth humoring. But then, with an exhale through his nose, he stepped closer, glancing down at the phone as Stark began scrolling through images.

Bucky studied the screen. He considered. He didn’t catch the way Stark’s lips curled into something just a little too satisfied, the glint of something downright evil in his eyes. He only saw the photos, the suggestion that, for once, maybe Stark had a point.

"Yeah," Stark mused, "these? Oh, Jason would love these."

It didn’t take long before Bucky gave a short, almost begrudging nod. “Fine.”

And that was how Stark won the battle.

_____________________

The moment they stepped out of the tower, Jason stuck close to Bucky’s side, though his sharp gaze flickered across their surroundings, his shoulders squared with the tension of someone assessing every possible exit. Bucky could practically see his brain working overtime, noting the flow of foot traffic, gauging the most efficient route through the shifting crowd. He barely needed to glance down to notice how Jason’s body leaned ever so slightly toward the busier street—like he was calculating how fast he could disappear into it if the need arose.

Bucky shut that down immediately. “Don’t even think about running,” he muttered, voice low enough for only Jason to hear.

Jason stiffened, his head snapping toward him, looking just a little chastised. “I wasn’t gonna.”

Bucky hummed. “You were thinking about it, though.”

Jason’s mouth opened like he wanted to argue, but whatever response he had died before it could take shape. Instead, he exhaled through his nose and shut his mouth, crossing his arms like that would somehow mask his guilt. Bucky let it go.

The car Stark had sent for them was waiting at the curb, a sleek, nondescript black vehicle that blended in with the rest of the city’s luxury transport scene. Jason slid into the passenger seat without complaint, his fingers briefly tapping against his knee as the doors locked with a soft click.

The drive was quiet, but not in a bad way. Jason didn’t fidget or keep his shoulders up near his ears like he was expecting something to go wrong. Instead, he stared out the window, taking in the scenery with something close to relief. his head tilting slightly whenever something caught his eye. The streets blurred past, people bustling along the sidewalks, horns blaring in the distance—just the normal hum of city life.

Bucky let him be, pulling out his phone and scrolling through the pictures Stark had sent him. He didn’t react much, but he took them in, considering each one with the same level of focus he gave any mission briefing. Stark had promised these were things Jason’s age group actually liked. Bucky wasn’t entirely sure what to make of them, but… well, he’d believe him for now.

Beside him, Jason leaned his temple against the window, and for the second time since Bucky had met him, he actually looked excited. The first had been when Bucky took him to the training area, the chance to work the tension out sparking some real energy in him. Now, though, it wasn’t adrenaline—it was just the simple fact that he was out of the tower. Bucky felt a sliver of warmth shoot through his chest at that, unexpected and brief, but undeniable.

They were close now, pulling up to the open-ceiling mall. Bucky pocketed his phone, glancing at Jason as the car rolled to a stop.

“Come on, ki-….jason” he quickly corrected himself, already reaching for the door handle.

The moment they stepped inside, the noise hit—chatter, footsteps against polished tile, the faint hum of background music from the stores. It wasn’t overwhelming, but it was a sharp contrast to the quiet of the tower. The open ceiling let in natural light, making the whole place feel bigger than it was.

Bucky kept walking, not slowing as people instinctively parted around him. It wasn’t recognition—his cap was low, and he was dressed just like anyone else—but something about him set people on edge. His posture, maybe, or just the sheer presence he carried. Either way, it worked in his favor.

He glanced back to check on Jason, expecting to find him eyeing the storefronts, maybe trying to figure out where to start. Instead, Jason was watching the people. His eyes scanned over groups of teenagers huddled together, parents wrangling their kids, a couple walking hand in hand. He barely spared a glance at the stores themselves, too busy reading the crowd like they were the real thing of interest.

Bucky didn’t comment on it. He just kept moving, making sure Jason was keeping up. Every few steps, he checked over his shoulder, and every time, Jason was right there, not straying, not lagging behind.

“C’mon,” Bucky muttered, jerking his head toward the first store in sight. He wasn’t about to wander this damn place all day. They were here for a reason.

Jason exhaled sharply, maybe amused, maybe just resigned, but he followed without argument.

The moment they stepped inside, they were met with bright lighting, neat racks of clothes, and the overpowering scent of fabric softener and new material. Bucky barely had time to glance around before an older woman, short and sprightly, approached them with the kind of energy that didn’t belong in retail.

“Welcome in, boys!” Her voice was high and chipper, a stark contrast to the dull murmur of other customers. “Anything I can help you find today?”

Jason was already looking around but not moving, his hands shoved deep into his pockets like he had no intention of actually engaging. Bucky, used to handling things, pulled his phone from his pocket and turned the screen to face the woman.

“We’re here for him,” he said, jerking his chin toward Jason. “Got anything like this?”

The old woman leaned in, squinting at the screen for barely a second before straightening up with a nod, her smile widening. “Oh, absolutely! We’ve got some great pieces for a handsome young man like yourself.”

Jason visibly stiffened. His head snapped toward her, eyes wide with disbelief, like he didn’t quite know how to process the compliment. Bucky expected him to scoff or mutter something back, but instead, Jason hesitated, his posture losing its usual sharp edge.

Then, before he could do anything, the woman latched onto his arm, patting it before tugging him along with surprising strength.

“Come on, sweetheart, let’s get you looking sharp,” she said cheerfully.

Jason made a startled noise, glancing toward Bucky as if unsure whether to resist. Bucky moved on instinct, stepping forward to stop her, but before he could, Jason just… let it happen.

Bucky stilled, watching as Jason—without argument, without complaint—let himself be guided further into the store. He even nodded along to whatever the woman was saying, a small, almost shy smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

That was unexpected.

Bucky remained standing for a second longer, still a little shellshocked at the shift, before finally following after them. He wasn’t sure what he’d just witnessed, but he figured he’d let it play out.

_______________

Bucky stood with his arms crossed, watching Jason with a deep-set frown, wondering—genuinely—where the hell he went wrong.

Jason was standing in front of the store mirror, his entire body stiff, shoulders locked up so tight Bucky thought they might snap. His hands were clenched at his sides, his lips pressed into a flat, almost murderous line, and his eyes burned with a quiet, seething fury.

The outfit was… well.

Bright.

Neon red and yellow clashed aggressively, loud and attention-grabbing in a way that would make Stark’s own bold-colored clothing feel muted. It looked like something Stark would pull out for a bad joke, but Bucky hadn’t doubted the man when he said it was trendy. Maybe Jason didn’t like it because things were different in his world. That had to be it.

Bucky shifted slightly, glancing down at the old woman beside him, who was clapping lightly, her warm smile never faltering.

“Oh, don’t you look sharp, dear!” she praised. “So bold! It really brings out your complexion.”

Jason twitched.

Bucky could see it—the war happening in real-time behind Jason’s expression. He looked mortified, like he was seconds from combusting, but at the same time, he wasn’t snapping or arguing. Maybe because of the old lady. Maybe because she was the only thing keeping him from tearing the outfit off in real-time and setting it on fire.

Bucky wasn’t a fan of it, either, but he figured the old lady knew better than him. So he just stood there, arms still crossed.

Bucky barely had time to process Jason’s current suffering before the old lady was already reaching for another option.

“Oh, don’t worry, dear,” she said, her voice as chipper as ever. “If you don’t like that one, you can try this next.”

She lifted the new outfit in her hands, and Bucky watched as Jason went completely still. The bright neon blue shirt practically glowed under the store lights, and the green pants were just as aggressive. Jason’s reaction was immediate—his eyes widened, his face went pale, and for a second, Bucky thought the kid was going to pass out on the spot.

Jason turned toward the old lady, voice edging on desperation. “Uh—I really don’t wanna bother you with all this. I can just—y’know, look around and find stuff myself. You don’t have to—”

“Nonsense!” she interrupted, waving a dismissive hand. “I’m more than happy to help. It’s not every day I get to dress up such a handsome young man!”

Jason froze.

Bucky, standing silently at the side, could only watch as all the fight visibly drained out of him. Jason’s shoulders slumped, his head hung in sheer, miserable defeat, and he reached out to take the outfit with the weight of someone being handed a death sentence.

“Right,” Jason muttered, voice resigned. “Thanks.”

The old woman beamed.

Jason turned sharply on his heel, marching toward the fitting room with stiff, reluctant steps, very deliberately avoiding looking in Bucky’s direction. The old lady followed behind him, still cheerful, humming as if she hadn’t just crushed his spirit.

Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose, shifting his weight onto one foot. He wasn’t sure if Jason was going to make it out of this alive.

Bucky’s fingers fumbled with his phone, the small screen lit in the dim light of the store as he tried to open the notes app. He typed quickly, barely looking down at the screen, a thought forming in his mind. Compliments work with Jason...he paused, a flicker of doubt crossing his face. Maybe it’s just old sweet ladies… needs more testing.

He was just about to close the app when the voice hit him—loud, too loud, and familiar. “Uh!…hi Mr. Soldier Barnes!” Bucky’s head snapped toward the entrance, his expression instantly hardening.

peter Parker…

Chapter Text

Jason stood in the cramped changing room, staring at his reflection in the mirror with a deep sense of regret. The bright blue and green outfit clung to his frame like a bad decision, the colors so loud they practically screamed. He barely resisted the urge to groan out loud.

A soft knock on the door made his shoulders tense.

“Oh, dearie, how does it fit?” The sweet, chirpy voice of the old saleswoman carried through the door, dripping with enthusiasm. “I just know that color will bring out your eyes!”

Jason ran a frustrated hand through his hair, tugging at the strands before exhaling sharply. He had no clue how he got himself into this mess—one second, he was reluctantly picking out clothes, the next, this overly enthusiastic old lady had taken it upon herself to ‘help.’ And apparently, ‘help’ meant making him try on every bright, ridiculous outfit she could find.

With a resigned sigh, he cracked the door open before stepping out, feeling like he was walking to his own execution. The moment he did, the old lady gasped, clapping her hands together in delight.

“Oh, don’t you just look wonderful! You are simply glowing, dear!”

Jason felt his face heat against his will. “Uh… thanks,” he muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. He cast a quick glance around, hoping no one else was witnessing this humiliation, before the woman gently nudged him forward, ushering him toward the open space in the middle of the store—where Bucky was probably still waiting.

Stepping out of the changing area, Jason’s brows furrowed when he didn’t see Bucky where he had been standing before. His heart dropped for a split second, his slouched, defeated posture vanishing as his body instinctively straightened. His muscles tensed, eyes sweeping the store with sharp, practiced precision.

The familiar, unwanted feeling surged through his chest—being left.

He didn’t even know why the thought of Bucky leaving him affected him so much. It shouldn’t. It didn’t matter. And yet, his hands curled into fists at his sides, his breath hitching slightly as his mind raced with worst-case scenarios. His pulse pounded against his ribs like it was trying to escape.

Then, his gaze landed on Bucky.

Relief shot through him so fast it nearly made him lightheaded. Bucky was standing near the entrance, his back turned, talking to someone. Jason narrowed his eyes, trying to get a look at who it was, but Bucky’s broad frame blocked the way. His relief quickly twisted into something sharp-edged and wary. Who the hell was he talking to?

Before he could take a step forward, the old lady’s voice rang through the store.

“Oh, dearie! Your boy is all done trying on his outfit!” she called out cheerfully, beaming at Bucky.

Jason’s brain short-circuited.

His entire body locked up, his heart slamming against his ribs in pure shock. A wave of heat crawled up his neck, mortification settling like a rock in his stomach.

His boy?

Jason felt like all the air had been punched out of his lungs. His face burned, embarrassment curling uncomfortably under his skin—but beneath that, beneath the knee-jerk reaction of humiliation, there was something else. Something colder. A sharp, gut-deep panic that clawed at his insides.

Because that wasn’t the first time someone had called him that.

And the last person who did?

They had tried to kill him.

The phrase echoed in his skull like a hammer striking metal, over and over until it rang with something else.

Bruce’s boy.

Or at least—he used to be.

Jason swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. His fingers twitched at his sides, nails biting into his palms. Did Bruce try to kill me?

The question slithered into his thoughts before he could stop it, venomous and insidious.

It shouldn’t have been a question, not really. He knew what happened. He remembered the pain, the betrayal. The way Bruce had stood there, watching him like he was a stranger—like he was an enemy.

Jason clenched his jaw.

But—wasn’t he?

Maybe Bruce had a reason. Maybe they all did. Maybe it wasn’t even really their fault. Maybe it was his.

Maybe he deserved it.

He had been a criminal. A murderer. A walking disaster with blood on his hands and a temper that couldn’t be leashed. Of course they turned on him. Of course they beat him down.

Bruce had always tried to help people, to save them. That was his whole thing, wasn’t it? So if Bruce had raised a hand against him—if he had let them do it—then what did that make Jason?

Not a son. Not a brother.

Not even a person.

Just a problem. A mistake that needed to be corrected.

Jason’s breathing had gone shallow without him realizing it, his vision blurring slightly at the edges. His thoughts coiled tighter, harsher, suffocating—

“Jason.”

The voice cut through the noise, grounding and firm. A presence loomed in front of him, blocking out the bright store lights. Jason blinked, his head snapping up, the spiral of thoughts shattering like glass.

Bucky.

The cap he wore cast a shadow over his face, but his eyes were sharp and steady, locked onto Jason with an unreadable expression. Jason barely had time to register him before another person—someone Jason didn’t recognize—caught his attention.

A guy stood beside Bucky, looking completely at ease despite Jason’s clear scrutiny. He had a lean build, brown hair that somehow looked both perfectly neat and effortlessly messy, and warm brown eyes that held a kind of open curiosity.

Jason narrowed his own eyes slightly.

Who the hell…?

The guy looked like he had just stepped out of a damn commercial for cozy autumn sweaters and good credit scores. He radiated that boy next door, golden retriever kind of energy that Jason had spent years avoiding.

Jason’s nose scrunched up in immediate confusion.

What was Bucky—Bucky—doing talking to this guy?

Jason’s nose was still scrunched in absolute bafflement as he stared at the new guy. His brain, still fogged from his earlier thoughts, took a complete left turn into something utterly ridiculous.

Wait a damn minute.

Bucky and—this guy?

What happened to Steve?

Jason had spent days researching  whatever weird, unresolved, war era pining bullshit was going on between the two super soldiers. They had the whole tragic, friends to enemies to lovers dynamic. That kind of stuff had weight. And now Bucky was standing here—looking suspiciously comfortable—with some sweater-wearing golden retriever, who looked like he would do his taxes early and volunteers at the animal shelter?

That felt like cheating.

Jason glared harder at the guy before he even knew what he was doing.

What the hell did this dude have that Steve didn’t? He couldn’t even stand Steve, but even he knew this was an insult. Steve was a walking war poster with biceps the size of boulders. He was practically American Jesus.

And Bucky was just gonna throw that away for this guy?

Jason didn’t even like Steve, but suddenly, on principle alone, he was offended.

What kind of person was Bucky if he was the type to cheat?

Jason’s jaw clenched, his glare sharpening. His entire posture went rigid, and when he finally spoke, his voice came out sharp and hostile.

“What the fuck are you looking at?”

The guy—who had already looked a little nervous—visibly tensed. His brown eyes flickered between Jason and Bucky, and he let out a weak, awkward laugh. “Uh—”

Jason wasn’t in the mood for that. He cut in, his tone accusatory.

“What are you doing here with Bucky?” His brows furrowed, and then, almost as an afterthought, he quickly corrected himself. “With us.”

He didn’t know why that correction felt necessary, but it did.

Bucky gave him a look, still unaware of whatever absurd drama Jason’s mind had just concocted, while the guy—who Jason still didn’t know the name of—looked like he regretted every decision that led him to this moment.

“…I—uh—came to help?” the guy said, voice uncertain, looking between Bucky and Jason again as if trying to gauge just how much danger he was in.

Jason’s glare somehow deepened. “Help with what?”

“…The clothes?”

Jason blinked.

Then slowly turned his head toward Bucky, still scowling.

Bucky sighed, finally speaking. “Jason, this is Peter. Stark sent him.”

Jason processed that for a moment.

Then processed why that felt even worse.

“Tony-fucking-Stark sent him?” Jason repeated flatly. His expression darkened immediately as he turned his glare back to Peter, now with an extra dose of suspicion.

Peter, for his part, had the audacity to look more nervous.

Peter, looking increasingly like he wanted to be anywhere but here, lifted his hands in a quick, almost defensive gesture. “Uh—actually, it was Mr. Rogers’ idea.”

Jason froze.

His hostility deflated like a punctured tire, his mind grinding to a halt as the sheer ridiculousness of everything he’d just assumed hit him like a brick.

Oh.

Oh, okay.

So he’d just… completely made all that shit up in his head, huh?

Jason cleared his throat, suddenly feeling like an idiot. He blamed it on the mental meltdown he’d nearly had earlier. That had to be it. His brain had been fried from too much bullshit at once, and for some reason, it had decided to make that particular brand of nonsense.

Because obviously Bucky wasn’t—God, of course he wouldn’t do something like that. Jason knew that. Or atleast he never got the vibe from him, he never showed any kind of interest like that towards anyone. Bucky wasn’t the type.

Feeling mildly horrified at himself, Jason gave Peter a slow, acknowledging nod—because, yeah, maybe the guy didn’t actually deserve to be on the receiving end of all that misplaced aggression. Then, as soon as he did, Jason became painfully aware of what he was wearing.

His scowl returned in full force.

“Can I finally take this stupid shit off now?” he asked, voice dripping with exasperation, because seriously, he had suffered enough.

Bucky exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms. “Stark said people your age like this kind of stuff.”

Jason gave him an incredulous look, completely offended by the implication that he—of all people—would ever willingly wear something like this. Peter, meanwhile, glanced down at his own outfit—a simple sweater and jeans—before looking back up at Bucky.

“If that’s true, then I’m way out of the loop,” Peter muttered, shaking his head.

Jason let out an unimpressed scoff before turning on his heel. “Yeah, well, Stark’s full of shit,” he grumbled, already tugging at the ugly neon shirt as he stalked back toward the fitting room.

It didn’t take long for him to change back into his actual clothes, and when he reemerged, he wasted no time making his way toward Bucky and Peter, clearly ready to get the hell out of there.

But just as he reached them, he hesitated for a brief second.

Then, with a small, quiet voice, he turned slightly to the old woman who had helped them and muttered, “Uh… thanks.”

She beamed, delighted as ever.

Jason cleared his throat, face twitching as if he wasn’t quite sure how to handle that reaction, before quickly turning back to Bucky and Peter. “Alright, let’s go,” he grumbled, pushing past them toward the exit.

Bucky followed behind them, keeping a steady pace as Jason and Peter led the way through the crowd. Jason, however, made sure to keep a bit of distance between himself and Peter, sticking closer to Bucky instead. He wasn’t exactly sure why—maybe just instinct—but either way, he wasn’t about to walk shoulder-to-shoulder with the guy.

Peter, meanwhile, was clearly trying to fill the air with something, because he started talking. And talking.

“So, yeah, I’ve been working on some biophysics stuff in college. You know, molecular dynamics, protein folding, all that fun stuff. And then there’s my bio chem class, which is insane, by the way—like, I knew it’d be hard, but wow, they really do not mess around—”

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose, staring straight ahead, doing his absolute best to pretend he wasn’t hearing any of it.

Then he made the mistake of glancing at Bucky.

Bucky, walking just behind them, met Jason’s gaze with a look that was just too expectant, like he was waiting for something.

Jason scowled.

Fine.

“Cool,” he muttered, deadpan.

Peter, taking this as some kind of win, kept going. “Yeah! I mean, it’s a lot, but it’s actually kinda fascinating. Like, did you know that enzymes can increase reaction rates by up to a billion times—”

Jason clenched his jaw.

“That’s crazy,” he said flatly.

Peter nodded enthusiastically. “Right? And don’t even get me started on nucleotides—”

Jason gave Bucky a look.

Bucky just raised an eyebrow, expression flat.

Jason let out a quiet, suffering sigh and turned back to Peter. “Uh-huh.”

Peter, completely oblivious to the sheer amount of effort Jason was putting into not snapping at him, kept right on talking.

Jason however came to an abrupt stop, his eyes locking onto a store that actually looked worth a damn.

The place had an aesthetic that wouldn’t have been out of place in Gotham—streetwear, dark colors, a solid mix of edgy and practical. The window displays showed leather jackets, heavy boots, and distressed clothing, all of it a hell of a lot better than whatever neon monstrosity that old lady had made him wear earlier.

A smirk tugged at his lips. Finally.

Without a word, Jason beelined straight for the entrance, ignoring whatever the hell Peter —seriously screw that guy, for some reason something about him just felt off— was still rambling about. Seriously, whose brilliant idea had it been to send this guy? Stark was rich enough to hire some actual fashion consultant or whatever, right? Or maybe that was the point—maybe Stark just didn’t want to waste the money on someone like Jason. Not exactly shocking.

Hell, Jason hadn’t even seen Stark since he’d escaped the tower. Not once.

Whatever.

Jason could feel Bucky’s gaze burning into his back as he walked in, the guy keeping close as he followed him inside. Peter, still oblivious, trailed behind them.

The moment Jason stepped into the store, he felt more at ease. The lighting was dimmer, the music wasn’t some obnoxious pop playlist, and—most importantly—there were actually clothes here that he wouldn’t rather die than be seen in. He immediately started skimming through the racks, fingers brushing over different fabrics as he picked out a few leather jackets.

Then came the long-sleeved shirts—tight-fitting, good for layering. Cargo pants, too. Durable, functional, enough pockets to stash whatever he needed. A few pairs of heavy boots, because he was not about to suffer through any more stupid shoe suggestions from old ladies.

At this point, Jason didn’t even bother looking at price tags. Stark had handed over his fancy little expense card? Fine. Jason would make damn sure to put it to good use. Might as well drain some of that billionaire money while he had the chance. The guy deserved it.

Jason slung another jacket over his arm, already planning how he was going to walk out of here with a wardrobe that actually made sense, when he felt a presence still lingering at his side.

Bucky.

Jason didn’t even have to look to know Bucky was watching him closely, probably already clocking the sheer amount of shit he was stacking up. Jason didn’t acknowledge it, just kept sorting through clothes, lips curling slightly in satisfaction as he grabbed yet another solid addition to his growing pile.

Jason froze when something was hesitantly handed to him.

It wasn’t shoved into his arms like some overenthusiastic sales pitch, nor was it dangled in front of his face like a joke. No, this was careful—almost tentative.

His gaze lifted, eyebrows furrowing as he took in the sight of Bucky, who—for some damn reason—was looking off to the side, avoiding his eyes. It only lasted a second or two before Bucky squared his shoulders and met Jason’s gaze head-on, his expression as carefully neutral as ever.

“This is soft,” Bucky said simply. “And warm.”

Jason blinked, completely thrown off, before finally looking down at what had been handed to him.

A hoodie.

A deep red, and—just like Bucky had said—it looked soft. The kind of material that felt worn-in from the start, comfortable and warm, something easy to sink into.

Jason stared at it for a few beats longer than he probably should have.

Then, slowly, hesitantly, he reached out and took it.

“…Thanks,” he muttered, his voice quieter than intended.

He wasn’t sure if Bucky actually acknowledged it or not, because before anything else could be said, Peter suddenly jumped in, his voice a little too eager, a little too frantic.

“What colors do you like?”

Jason turned, only to find Peter practically burying himself in the hoodie section, rifling through racks like his life depended on it.

What the hell was this guy doing?

Jason narrowed his eyes slightly, watching as Peter frantically sorted through options, pulling out a couple only to immediately shove them back in, moving at a pace that seemed almost… desperate.

Why is he acting like that?

It wasn’t just annoying—it was weird. Like Peter had something riding on this. Like he needed to get this right.

Did Stark promise him a raise if he kissed Jason’s ass? Maybe some kind of reward for “helping” with this bullshit trip?

Jason had no idea what the guy’s deal was, but whatever it was, he was definitely trying too hard.

Jason exhaled through his nose, deciding not to dwell on it, and answered flatly, “Black. Navy.”

Peter hummed in acknowledgment, still flipping through hoodies.

Jason hesitated.

His grip on the red hoodie in his hands tightened for just a second before he spoke again.

“…Red.”

He gave a quick glance toward Bucky, something brief, something barely there.

Bucky didn’t react.

Jason turned back to Peter, hoping that was enough to get him to stop whatever frantic scavenger hunt he was doing through the racks.

____________________

Jason sighed as they stepped out of the mall, the weight of the last two hours settling in. The sun was high in the sky now, casting sharp shadows across the pavement as they walked toward the car Stark had clearly sent to pick them up.

He took a slow sip of the cold, freshly squeezed orange juice in his hand, relishing the slight tang of it. It wasn’t the energy drink he wanted—because apparently those were “bad for you” according to Bucky, who had shot him down the second he even reached for one—but whatever. This was fine.

Bucky, naturally, was carrying the majority of the bags, his metal arm hidden by the layers of his clothes holding the weight like it was nothing. Jason, on the other hand, wasn’t carrying a single damn thing.

Peter, however?

Peter looked ridiculous.

Jason glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, taking in the sight of the poor bastard nearly drowning under the sheer amount of bags he insisted on carrying for Jason. With his lean build and nervous energy, he looked more like a walking shopping cart than anything else.

Jason almost felt bad. Almost.

As the car rolled to a stop in front of them, Peter let out a quiet, breathless huff, shifting the bags in his arms while Bucky moved ahead to start loading them into the trunk. Jason didn’t bother waiting around—he just slid into the back seat, exhaling slowly as he leaned back against the headrest.

The other two finished shoving the bags into the trunk before climbing in with him—Bucky taking the seat next to him, Peter up front.

Then, silence.

The drive back to the tower was quiet, save for the steady hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of bags shifting in the trunk.

Well—quiet except for Peter.

Not talking, for once, but tapping.

Jason’s gaze flickered toward the front seat, watching as Peter’s fingers drummed restlessly against his thigh.

It wasn’t loud—it wasn’t even particularly annoying—but it was constant. His fingers moved in a steady, repetitive rhythm, like he needed to keep moving or he’d implode from the effort of sitting still.

Jason frowned slightly.

It was like the guy was scared to even breathe the wrong way.

Jason sighed, gripping his cup a little tighter as the car stopped in front of the tower and they stepped back into it.

He hadn't even realized how much he'd been enjoying being out until now, standing in the familiar, sterile lighting of the lobby. Out there, the world was big, full of people who didn’t know him, didn’t look at him. Even if it was a damn shopping trip, at least it had been a distraction.

But now?

Now he was back.

And as much as he hated to admit it, there was something in his chest that settled a little when he stepped inside. Not comfort—not exactly—but something like resignation. He was back here again. Back where he was supposed to be.

At least for now.

The only real silver lining was that he wasn’t carrying a single damn thing.

Behind him, Bucky and Peter were still saddled with the ridiculous number of bags, the rustling of plastic and paper filling the space as they walked. Peter, naturally, was still struggling under the size of them, shifting the bags around every few steps, while Bucky moved like he barely noticed them.

The three of them stepped into the elevator, and as the doors slid shut, Jason settled against the wall, sipping his juice in silence.

Nobody spoke.

The ride up was quiet, just like the drive had been.

Peter’s fingers twitched like he wanted to break the silence, but one glance at Jason’s expression seemed to change his mind. He kept his mouth shut.

When the elevator finally reached the common area, Jason was the first one to step out. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t even look back to see if Bucky and Peter were following—of course they were.

But then he froze.

Because they weren’t alone.

The common area was already occupied.

Steve.

Stark.

And—

Natasha.

Jason’s shoulders tensed immediately, his grip tightening around his cup before he even realized he was doing it.

Natasha—who had been leaning casually against the counter—straightened the second she saw him, her expression unreadable. Her sharp, assessing gaze swept over him in a cold, neutral once-over, but Jason could feel the weight of it.

It was like she was looking through him, peeling back layers, dissecting everything she saw.

Jason hated it.

His spine went rigid, his jaw clenched, and his free hand curled into a fist at his side.

The glare came automatically, instinctive, his body already shifting into defense before he could stop it. He could still feel her pinning him under her gaze, could still remember the way she moved—quick, calculated, efficient. The last time they saw each other, he’d been pinned to the damn floor, and she hadn’t hesitated.

Not for a second.

Jason didn’t know what her deal was—didn’t know if she was waiting for him to slip up, or if she was just waiting for an excuse to attack him again and break whatever truce she was forced into by Bucky.

The moment Natasha’s gaze lingered for too long, Bucky stepped forward, shifting just enough to block her view of him.

Jason blinked, surprised for a second before his tension settled into something heavier, something he didn’t want to name.

Natasha, of course, didn’t react to the movement—didn’t even glance at Bucky—but her voice cut through the room like a knife. “It’s time for that debrief.”

She didn’t phrase it as a question.

Jason’s shoulders tensed again, but before he could respond questioning what she was talking about, Stark let out an exaggerated sigh, eyeing Bucky and Peter instead.

“Jesus, you really are enjoying the princess treatment, huh?” he mused, nodding at Peter—who was still carrying a great amount of bags—and Bucky, who didn’t seem burdened at all.

Jason barely even twitched at the jab.

“Yeah?” he shot back, hostile and unimpressed. “Then I hope you enjoy your credit card statement after this.”

Stark narrowed his eyes slightly before shaking his head, muttering, “Brat,” under his breath, though there was something looser about his tone.

Not the sharp-edged, condescending way he’d spoken to him before. Not the clinical dissection of his every word, Treating him and looking at him the same way a scientist would a lab rat.

Something more teasing. More relaxed.

Jason frowned slightly at that realization but didn’t have time to linger on it because Steve—who had been quiet up until now—stepped forward slightly, eyeing him carefully.

“You look better,” he said, voice even, but there was something genuine about it. “Hope you enjoyed yourself.”

Jason hesitated.

He wasn’t sure why.

Maybe it was Natasha’s words still rattling in his head. The way she had said it, so casually, so matter-of-fact—Steve’s not exactly fond of the kid.

It shouldn’t have mattered.

He shouldn’t have cared.

And yet, standing here, with Steve looking at him like that, with words that didn’t match Natasha’s, Jason felt something twist in his stomach.

He dropped his gaze slightly, exhaling through his nose before giving Steve a small, sharp nod.

That was the most he was getting.

Stark, of course, immediately latched onto it.

“Oh, so he gets a nod, but I get my bank account threatened? Where’s the respect?” he asked, looking between them as if truly affronted.

Jason rolled his eyes. “Where’s the respect?” he echoed dryly. “Maybe somewhere between sending your intern to pick out my clothes and making me sit through his endless monologue on whatever the hell he’s studying.”

Peter, who had been quietly shifting the weight of the bags, suddenly looked up, wide-eyed. “I—what?”

Jason didn’t let up, turning his glare to him directly. “Seriously. What the hell made you think sending him was a good idea?” His voice was condescending, sharp-edged, but there was no smugness. No teasing.

He was actually trying to insult them.

Stark, infuriatingly, just let out a short laugh. “Well, I did consider hiring a professional stylist, but then I thought, why not let the guy who actually wears normal clothes handle it?”

Jason scowled. “Yeah, great call. ‘Cause that really worked out for me.”

Peter—who looked like he wanted to disappear—let out a weak chuckle, nervously adjusting the bags. “I mean, I tried—”

Jason cut him off with a scoff, shaking his head and muttering, “Yeah, you sure did, intern.”

Peter opened his mouth, as if to argue, but closed it just as fast, deciding against it.

Jason expected someone to take offense. Anyone.

But instead, Stark just looked amused, and Peter—though clearly uncomfortable—wasn’t biting back.

Jason’s scowl deepened.

They weren’t taking the bait.

Fine. Whatever. He wasn’t in the mood for this shit anyway.

He just wanted whatever this is to be over with, so he and Bucky can go back to their apartment.

Though Jason hadn’t expected Bucky to turn to him, hadn’t expected him to dismiss him, either.

“You should go up to the apartment,” Bucky said, his voice even. “I’ll be up after I finish here.”

Jason blinked.

What—was Bucky actually letting him take the elevator alone? That was new.

Before he could get too used to the idea, though, Bucky followed it up. “Peter will drop you off.”

Jason’s shoulders immediately tensed.

Of course.

Because why the hell would they ever let him do anything completely on his own? No, he had to have his intern escort him like he was some kind of lost fucking kid.

Jason gritted his teeth but didn’t say anything, just exhaled sharply through his nose before giving Bucky one last glance, he didn’t want to leave without him but what could he possibly say without sounding like a mumbling child. He deliberately avoided looking at Natasha—refusing to give her the satisfaction of another glare—before stepping into the elevator.

Half the bags stayed with Bucky, the other half in Peter’s arms as he followed him in.

The elevator doors slid shut.

And immediately, the air turned stale.

Peter didn’t look at him. He was standing just a little too stiffly, his head turned slightly toward the elevator doors as if they were the most fascinating thing in the world.

Jason knew exactly why.

Maybe it was because of what he’d said downstairs. Maybe it was because of how obviously he’d written Peter off as nothing more than an over excited promotion seeking worker.

Or maybe—maybe it was just because the whole damn situation was tense, and neither of them wanted to be in it.

Jason let out a slow exhale and focused on the orange juice in his hand instead.

The ride felt longer than usual, but eventually, the elevator reached their floor with a soft ding.

Jason stepped out first, walking toward the door, already thinking about throwing himself onto the couch just to not think for a while—

Then he stopped.

Right.

The door wouldn’t open for him.

He stood in front of it, irritation already bubbling up. He could turn around and go back downstairs to get Bucky to open it, or—

Before he could even say anything, Peter stepped forward.

Jason watched, confused, as Peter shifted the bags slightly in his arms, then pressed his hand to the scanner. A soft beep. Then he leaned in, letting the security system scan his eye.

The door unlocked.

Jason froze.

His stomach twisted. His grip on the cold plastic cup tightened.

What the fuck?

“Why the fuck do they think it’s a good idea to let normal workers like you have access to my and Bucky’s apartment?” Jason’s voice was sharp, cutting, as his body went rigid. This place is the only place he feels like he has actual control over, he was under the impression that only Bucky and Steve could access it, maybe Stark as well, but to think that workers like this peter could step into his space without the only form of security the apartment has stopping them…it made something twist in his chest.

Peter—who had tensed immediately at Jason’s tone—held up a hand, as if trying to wave off the hostility. “It’s—it’s not like that—”

“Not like what?” Jason snapped. “You’re a fucking intern. Why do you have clearance to my place?”

His.

It hadn’t been intentional, but the moment the word left his mouth, something ugly twisted in his chest.

Peter hesitated, shifting awkwardly.

Jason narrowed his eyes, already anticipating some Stark-brand bullshit excuse.

Peter took a step back, still holding the bags awkwardly, his free hand raised like he was trying to calm a wild animal. "Look—I just wanted to apologize, alright? I really didn’t mean for this to go this way.”

Jason barely heard him over the simmering irritation still buzzing in his head. His body was still wound tight, still pissed over the fact that this intern—this random-ass guy Stark sent—had access to his place.

Peter, oblivious to the way Jason’s patience was already at a breaking point, kept going.

“I mean… I should’ve expected it, I guess,” Peter said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You have been ignoring my sticky notes.”

Jason’s mind hit a full stop.

His irritation came to a screeching, grinding halt as his brain just—
Failed to process that.

The fuck?

“What the hell are you talking about?” Jason’s eyes narrowed.

Peter looked a little thrown off by that response. His brow furrowed as he tilted his head slightly. “You know—the sticky notes I’ve been leaving outside your window at night?”

Jason blinked.

Peter hesitated, then gestured vaguely. “The ones that say ‘I’m sorry about what happened’?”

Silence.

Jason just stared at him.

He felt his brain stutter, trying to make sense of that sentence.

Sticky notes.

On his window.

On this floor.

He was on the whatever-the-fuck level of this high-tech glass prison, with zero balconies, zero fire escapes, zero convenient ledges to stand on.

There was no way—no fucking way—anyone was getting to his window to slap a goddamn sticky note on it.

Unless—

Jason’s stomach dropped.

His head whipped toward Peter, his eyes narrowing.

The way he’d been acting all day—hovering, fidgeting, desperate—

It wasn’t because of Stark.

It wasn’t some overeager intern thing.

It was guilt.

Jason suddenly remembered something. Something from a week ago.

A red-and-blue blur.

Steve standing with some masked guy.

The Spiderman.

Jason felt his pulse hammer against his skull.

No.

No way.

There was no way anyone would be that fucking stupid—

But as he stared at Peter, who was shifting nervously under his gaze, who looked way too nervous for just a normal guy, who had been leaving fucking sticky notes on his goddamn window—

Everything clicked.

Jason’s stomach turned. His hands clenched into fists.

He took a step forward.

Peter stiffened.

Jason exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening as his glare darkened.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

His voice was low.

Dangerous.

Peter swallowed hard.

__________________________

in Gotham:

The Batcave was dark, the only illumination coming from the dim lights lining the cavern walls. The usual hum of the Batcomputer, the quiet whir of cooling fans and processing power, was gone. Silent. Dead.

Bruce stepped out of the Batmobile, his cape shifting as his boots hit the platform. Damian was at his side in an instant, both of them pausing as they took in the wreckage before them.

The Batcomputer was destroyed.

Shattered screens hung in broken, twisted frames, their usual glow replaced by jagged cracks of darkness. The keyboard was warped beyond repair, the plastic bubbling and melting under the corrosive substance that still sizzled and smoked against the metal frame.

Acid.

Bruce’s jaw tightened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. His rage simmered, cold and controlled, but no less dangerous.

“Drake has gone too far,” Damian snapped, voice sharp with fury. He stepped forward, staring at the destruction with narrowed eyes. “This is the fifth time. The fifth time he’s sabotaged our equipment because of his misplaced loyalty. He refuses to see sense—”

“Damian.” Bruce’s voice was low, edged with warning, but his own anger was a seething, undeniable thing beneath his ribs.

“He should know better,” Damian continued, heedless. “He should understand that his sentimentality is costing us valuable resources—”

“It isn’t Tim’s fault,” Bruce interrupted, his voice calm but firm. But this time, the words felt hollow. “He has a kind heart. It’s unfortunate that his anger is directed at us rather than at the person truly responsible.”

Red Hood.

Bruce’s teeth clenched, his shoulders tightening as fury surged through him like wildfire.

This was his fault. All of it. The destruction, the chaos, the death. Dozens had died that day because of him, because of his selfish, reckless behavior. Because he refused to understand that Gotham wasn’t his to control, that his way—his brutal, bloody sense of justice—was nothing but anarchy.

And now Tim… Tim was lost to him, manipulated into believing Red Hood was innocent, blinded by whatever misguided loyalty he still held for that thing that had done nothing but tear them apart. Despite his intelligence, Tim refused to see the truth, refused to accept what needed to be done.

But Bruce knew. He knew what had to happen.

Red Hood would be found.

And then, maybe then, Tim would come back. Maybe he would finally see how wrong he was. Maybe he would finally understand.

Bruce exhaled sharply, forcing his fury into something cold, something useful. There was work to be done. The Batcomputer could be repaired. The damage could be mitigated.

But Red Hood would pay for what he’d done. That much, Bruce would make sure of.

Wayne Enterprises was in chaos.

Bruce had spent years ensuring the company remained strong, its stocks stable, its reputation untouchable. It had been a fortress. And for so long, Tim had been the one ensuring that everything ran smoothly. Tim, with his brilliance, his sharp intuition, his ability to calculate risks before anyone else even realized they existed. He had been the backbone of the company’s operations, the one who saw problems before they arose and handled them with efficiency.

Until he didn’t.

Until he made sure everything fell apart.

Now the company was scrambling, its foundation shaken. Stocks had plummeted. Investors were panicked. Employees were being forced into overdrive, clawing desperately to fix what had been undone. Bruce still didn’t know how Tim had done it—what keystrokes, what algorithms, what silent, calculated strikes he had used to send Wayne Enterprises into free fall. But it was deliberate. It was intentional. And the worst part? He had done it without hesitation.

He had done it for him.

For Red Hood.

Bruce refused to call him by any other name. Jason was dead. Had died years ago, buried beneath the cold, unforgiving dirt where Bruce had mourned him, grieved for him. And whatever had come back was not his son. It was a twisted, wretched thing wearing his face, a hateful parasite that had done nothing but carve himself into the cracks of their family and tear them apart from the inside.

It was his fault. All of it.

The destruction. The deaths. The loss. Tim.

Tim, who should have known better. Who should have seen past the manipulation, past the sentimentality that Red Hood had wrapped around him like a chain. Despite all of his intelligence, all of his genius, he had let himself be led astray, convinced that the monster who had caused all of this was somehow worth protecting. That the truth, the one Bruce had seen with his own eyes, was something to be questioned.

Bruce had tried to stop it. He had benched Tim the moment he so much as suggested gathering evidence that Red Hood wasn’t responsible. There had been no need for an investigation. No need for questions. Bruce had known the truth. And Tim—Tim should have, too.

But he had let Red Hood’s poison take root, and now… now he was gone.

No. Not forever.

Bruce would bring him back. He would make him see the truth. He would break whatever delusion Tim had wrapped himself in and pull him out before it was too late. Before he was lost for good.

And as for Red Hood…

Bruce’s hands clenched into fists, his teeth grinding as his fury burned through him like an open wound.

He would be found. Dragged from whatever hole he was hiding in. And when he was, Bruce would see to it personally that he was locked away—thrown into Arkham where he belonged, where he should have been from the very beginning. Permanently.

And once that was done, once the infection had been removed, Tim would return. Bruce would make sure of it.

Because Tim was his. His son. His family. And he would not lose him to Red Hood’s corruption.

Not again. Not ever.

Chapter Text

The Wayne Enterprises Gala was in full swing, a carefully orchestrated event filled with Gotham’s wealthiest and most influential figures. Bruce Wayne stood off to the side, watching as Lisa Millard took the stage. She wasn’t dressed to impress like most of the attendees, but she carried herself with confidence. She didn’t need extravagance—her words were enough.

“For too long, Park Row has been forgotten,” Lisa said, her voice steady. “A place abandoned, left to decay while Gotham prospers. But we cannot allow that to continue. A city is only as strong as its weakest parts, and if we ignore those in need, we fail them—and ourselves.”

Bruce scanned the crowd. Some nodded, some murmured approval, while others looked skeptical. Lisa was fighting an uphill battle, but she wasn’t backing down.

“I ask you,” she continued, “what if we could change that? What if Crime Alley could be a place of hope instead of despair? A place where families can live without fear, where businesses can grow, where the people of Gotham—our people—can thrive.”

There was applause, some polite, some genuinely engaged. Lisa stepped down from the stage and was immediately surrounded.

“Such a moving speech,” a woman in pearls said. “You truly have a heart for the people.”

“Indeed,” a man in a tailored tuxedo added. “Crime Alley has been a lost cause for decades, but if this succeeds… imagine the real estate potential.”

Lisa smiled, gracious but firm. “Your support won’t just benefit Gotham—it will benefit all of us. A stronger, safer Park Row means a stronger, safer city. The impact will ripple across Gotham, in business and in community.”

Bruce observed as she handled them effortlessly, balancing gratitude with determination. Then her gaze met his, and she excused herself to approach him.

“Mr. Wayne,” she said warmly. “Thank you. I wouldn’t have had this opportunity without your support.”

Bruce returned her smile, measured but sincere. “This project matters. Lives can change because of it. But don’t thank me. It was your words that made them believe.”

Lisa studied him. “That means a lot, coming from you.”

Bruce glanced toward the crowd. “The wealthy don’t give easily. But you made them listen. That’s not something many can do.”

Lisa sighed. “I just hope they follow through. It’s easy to promise support here, but when the cameras are gone…”

Bruce nodded. “They will.” There was quiet certainty in his voice.

Lisa smiled, the tension in her shoulders easing. “I believe you.”

A server passed, offering champagne. Lisa took a glass, hesitated, then looked at Bruce. “Do you ever think about what your parents would say about all this?”

Bruce’s gaze flickered past her, toward the city beyond the grand windows. He could see it in his mind—the shadows of Crime Alley, the place that had changed his life forever.

“They’d be proud,” he said, quiet but sure. “Of you.”

Lisa blinked, surprised, before smiling genuinely. She lifted her glass in acknowledgment. “Then let’s make sure we do them justice.”

Bruce watched as she was pulled back into another conversation, accepting more praise and promises of support. He exhaled slowly, pushing back the weight of the past.

Bruce stood at the edge of the ballroom, the hum of conversation fading into the background as his thoughts drifted elsewhere. Watching Lisa Millard speak so passionately about Crime Alley, about lifting it out of ruin, stirred something within him—something he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a long time.

Jason had always cared about Crime Alley.

Not Red Hood. Not the ruthless, violent figure that now haunted Gotham’s streets. But Jason, his Robin, the boy who had once looked at Bruce with unwavering conviction and told him he wasn’t doing enough.

"You’ve got all this money, Bruce. You could fix so much. I mean, sure, beating up criminals works, but what if people didn’t have to turn to crime in the first place? You could change lives before they get ruined."

Bruce could still hear his voice, sharp and full of defiance, but warm in a way that Red Hood had never been. Jason had never been afraid to challenge him, never hesitated to tell him when he thought he was wrong. And back then, Bruce had seen it as reckless passion, as the idealism of a boy who hadn’t yet learned how the world really worked.

But he had been wrong.

This project, this attempt to rehabilitate Crime Alley—it was something Jason had wanted long before Lisa Millard ever stood in front of Gotham’s elite to ask for their help. It was something he had pushed for when he was still Robin, still that stubborn, kind-hearted boy who wanted more for the people in Gotham’s shadows.

Steeling himself, Bruce turned his attention back to the present, watching as Lisa navigated the crowd. If nothing else, he would see this project through. He would make sure Park Row got the chance Jason had once fought for. Because even if Jason was lost to him, his vision didn’t have to be.

This gala, this charity, this entire event—it was all he could do for Crime Alley. It was his way of making a difference, the only way he knew how. But it wasn’t enough.  

Not to them.  

Because after that day, Crime Alley burned.  

Three weeks of chaos, where Gotham’s crime rate shattered records. Riots tore through the streets, precincts were attacked, government offices vandalized. Even the Batmobile wasn’t spared.  

Somehow, they had found out what happened to the Red Hood. And for the life of him, Bruce couldn’t understand why they were fighting for him.  

The loyalty they showed Red Hood made his blood boil. They turned their backs on Batman in retaliation, rejecting everything he had built, everything he had fought for. The people who had once looked to him for protection —reluctantly or not— now wanted nothing to do with him.  

They drove him out of Crime Alley, jeering and spitting as he left. They hurled garbage at nightwing, sneered at Robin. They refused to be saved.  

The people assumed it would pass. That these outcasts, these criminals, these people who had been discarded and ignored would eventually give up.  

They didn’t.  

Instead, they united together.  

Men walked women home at night, sheltered the homeless from the cold, found ways to get medicine to the sick.

They took care of their own, picking up where Hood had left off. Walking through crime alley now, you would struggle to find someone who wasn’t wearing red like a symbol.

Had Hood planned this? Was this his doing?  

Bruce had spent the last three weeks searching for answers from them, from the people who worked under him or with him. even capturing those who interacted with him once or twice before.

But all he got was the same answer from every single one of them. Both women and men. Young and old.

"Go to hell. We don’t turn on family."

Family.  

That word haunted him. Jason—the man who had killed, who had betrayed everything they stood for—had somehow earned their devotion in a way Batman never could.  

They weren’t scared of him.  

And without fear, what was Batman ?

Chapter Text

Jason stared Peter down, his jaw clenched tight, teeth flashing in a snarl as he took a slow, deliberate step forward. His hands curled into fists at his sides, tension rolling through his body, coiled and ready.

Peter, for his part, didn’t look scared, but he sure as hell looked nervous. His shoulders were drawn tight, his weight shifting uneasily between his feet. His hands hovered near his chest, like he couldn’t decide if he should raise them in defense or gesture in some weak attempt to defuse the situation. His eyes darted between Jason and the closed door, his fingers flexing before rubbing anxiously at the seam of his sleeve.

“I—I honestly didn’t mean for things to spiral like this,” Peter started, his voice steady but edged with an undeniable strain. “I swear, I wasn’t—this wasn’t me targeting you or anything, man. I wasn’t going after you specifically.”

Jason let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Bullshit.” His shoulders squared, his entire stance shifting as though readying for a fight. His fingers twitched, the old instinct to lunge—to hit, to hurt—almost overriding the rational part of his mind.

Peter swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, but he didn’t step back. His lips parted, probably to say something stupid, something that would piss Jason off more, but before he could, a smooth, distinctly British voice interrupted them.

“I do believe Mr. Barnes will not take long to return, and would be quite disappointed to find out the two of you had an altercation”

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose, some of the tension leaving his shoulders at the familiar, mechanical cadence of JARVIS. His fingers uncurled, jaw loosening just slightly as he let out a slow breath. He shot one last glare at Peter before shifting his weight back, his aggression subdued—but not extinguished.

Peter, on the other hand, visibly relaxed, his posture untensing as relief washed over him. He let out a breath of his own, rubbing at the back of his neck. He opened his mouth, about to say something, some fumbling attempt at damage control, but Jason wasn’t interested in hearing it.

Without a word, Jason bent down and swiftly collected the bags at his feet, his movements sharp and purposeful. He turned on his heel, stepping into the apartment and letting the door slide shut behind him before Peter could get another word out.

Through the closed door, Jason barely caught the sound of Peter’s voice, muttered low and exasperated.

“Well, that went great… God, I’m an idiot—”

Jason rolled his eyes, scoffing under his breath as he carried the bags deeper into the apartment.

No argument there.

Jason dumped the bags in his room next to the bed without a second thought, not bothering to fold the clothes or put them away just yet. He rolled out his left shoulder, rubbing at the sore muscle as he exhaled sharply. His gaze flickered toward the window, the blinds still drawn shut—just as they had been since the day he woke up in this damn apartment. He hadn't even thought about opening them.

A nagging thought crawled up the back of his mind. He didn’t even know why he kept them closed. It wasn’t like Superman was out there looking for him—he didn’t even exist in this universe. And even if he did, what the hell would some flimsy blinds do? Nothing.

Jason let out an exasperated breath before stepping forward and gripping the cord, pulling the blinds open in one swift motion.

His expression soured immediately.

Sticky notes.

Well, one sticky note.

It was clear that others had been there before—probably stuck in a neat little row—but the wind had taken most of them. The only one left was pressed stubbornly against the glass, its edges curled slightly from exposure.

Jason narrowed his eyes, stepping closer. The handwriting was neat, the message short.

"I'm sorry. I'll get you the same sandwiches I took”

in the corner of the sticky notes, where the small paper was curling slightly was a small drawing of a sad face.

Jason’s glare deepened. He tapped the glass, trying to will the damn thing to unstick, but it didn’t budge. He exhaled sharply through his nose, then, without another word, yanked the blinds shut again.

Jason glanced back at the pile of bags before stepping forward and pulling out the red hoodie Bucky had handed him in the store. He turned it over in his hands, running his fingers over the soft material before pressing it against his face. A quiet sigh of satisfaction left him—it was warm, comfortable. Just like Bucky said it would be.

His gaze dropped back to the bags, and after a second of hesitation, he pulled out another hoodie—identical to his own in color and material but slightly bigger. He had grabbed it when Bucky and Peter weren’t looking, stuffing it into the pile without a word.

He wasn’t even sure if he got the right size, but—

Shaking off the creeping embarrassment, Jason stood up, gripping the hoodie tightly as he stepped out of his room. His feet carried him toward Bucky’s door before he could talk himself out of it. Hesitating only for a second, he turned the knob, pushing the door open just enough to slip inside.

The room was neat, just as he remembered it when he first explored the apartment. Keeping his movements quick, Jason stepped over to the bed, carefully folding the hoodie before placing it down. He smoothed out the fabric once before exhaling sharply and scurrying out of the room, shutting the door behind him before his nerves caught up with him.

he huffs as he tries to cal, himself down, now what?

Jason walks into the living room, his gaze traveling to the kitchen. Maybe…he can make them something? It has been a long time since he had cooked anythin, but…Bucky must be tired from cooking dinner every day.

maybe Jason can help this once.

jason steeled his resolve, rolling his sleeves up as he steps into the kitchen.

______________________________

Bucky stood his ground in the common room, his expression dark, the tension in his frame evident. Across from him, Natasha’s stance mirrored his—arms crossed, weight shifted slightly to one side, but her eyes sharp, calculating. The air between them crackled, thick with an unspoken challenge.

“He’s not Hydra.” Bucky’s voice was low, steady, but firm. “You all need to stop acting like the kid doesn’t belong here.”

Natasha’s lips pressed together, her eyes narrowing. “That’s because he doesn’t.”

A scoff echoed from the couch. “Well, since we’re throwing around opinions like they mean something, I’d just like to remind everyone that this is my tower.” Stark gestured broadly, lounging with a drink in hand, the picture of ease. “And last time I checked, I decide who’s welcome and who isn’t.”

Natasha turned slightly, shifting her attention to him. “Last thing I heard, JARVIS mentioned that you were still convinced the kid was Hydra.”

Stark gasped dramatically, hand over his heart. “JARVIS, my own AI, stabbing his maker in the back? Betrayal most foul.” He exhaled in mock heartbreak before rolling his eyes. “Yeah, alright. I never fully dropped the suspicion, I just… eased off a little. And that’s only because I realized the kid can’t actually do anything to us. The worst he managed was slipping out of here once, and let’s be honest, that only happened because we didn’t bother to take him seriously. Won’t happen again.”

Bucky’s glare hardened, his jaw tightening. Stark met it with a half-smirk, lifting his drink in a mock toast. “Relax, Tin Man, I’m just saying—he’s not that dangerous. Not to us.”

Natasha cut in, her voice sharper than Stark’s teasing tone. “He’s not normal.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked back to her, assessing. “And what the hell does that mean?”

She took a step forward, voice even but weighted with authority. “I saw the security footage from the day he escaped. No normal person can leap down multiple flights of stairs and walk it off like it’s nothing. No normal person takes fights multiple people off and keeps moving like it didn’t happen. It’s my job to take potential threats seriously when the rest of you won’t.”

Stark hummed, taking another sip. “Gotta admit, Widow’s got a point there. Could be an experiment, a Hydra project. Wouldn’t be the first time they’ve made something that looks human but isn’t.”

Bucky’s fists clenched at his sides, but he forced himself to stay calm. “Jason is human.”

“Maybe,” Natasha said, but she didn’t sound convinced. “Or maybe he’s something else entirely, and we’re just waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Silence stretched between them, thick with distrust and unspoken arguments. Stark, ever the showman, clapped his hands together. “Welp, this got bleak fast.”

Bucky’s fingers twitch where they rest against his bicep, his arms crossed tight over his chest. His stance is rigid, jaw locked, but there’s something flickering behind his eyes—frustration, sure, but also something colder. A warning.

Steve watches him closely, the set of Bucky’s shoulders, the way his fingers curl slightly like he’s holding himself back from swinging at the next person who pushes him too far. He exhales through his nose before stepping in.

“Look,” Steve says, measured but firm, glancing at both Natasha and Stark before settling his gaze on Bucky. “Jason’s got strength, speed, agility—things that aren’t exactly normal, I’ll give you that. But there are a hundred different reasons why he might have those things. Training, enhancements, even something we haven’t seen before.” He shrugs slightly. “For all we know, he really is from another universe, like he said.”

Natasha doesn’t even hesitate. “Doctor Strange didn’t detect anything,” she reminds him, crossing her arms, voice steady, cool. “No energy signatures, no dimensional shifts, nothing to suggest Jason came from anywhere but here. That’s enough to dismiss his story.”

Bucky’s jaw tightens. He steps forward, just enough to be pointed, intentional, and levels Natasha with a hard stare. “I respect your opinion, Nat,” he says, voice even but lined with steel. “And I value our friendship. But I’m not gonna stand here and let you casually dismiss my own.”

His tone is sharp, final. Natasha tilts her head slightly, eyes narrowing, but she doesn’t say anything.

Bucky glances around the room, gaze lingering on Stark’s ever-present smirk, the way Steve watches him like he’s waiting for him to snap. His shoulders roll slightly as he straightens, his next words deliberate.

“I’m responsible for Jason,” he says, cutting through the tension like a blade. “Me. Whatever happens that involves him, whatever risk he might be, that’s on me. No one else.”

Natasha’s expression doesn’t change, but he can see the slight shift in her posture, the way she crosses one arm over her waist, fingers tapping against her elbow like she’s thinking, calculating. Stark raises an eyebrow but doesn’t interrupt, which in itself is rare.

Bucky continues, unwavering. “Anything that has to do with Jason? It goes through me first.” His eyes flicker over them all. “If you have a problem with him, you come to me. If you think he’s a threat, you talk to me. Not to each other, not behind my back.” His voice drops slightly, carrying weight. “Me.”

Silence.

Bucky exhales slowly, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose for a brief moment before speaking again. “I don’t know what Jason is,” he admits, voice rougher. “I don’t know who he is yet. I don’t know what he wants, where he came from. I don’t know anything past what little he’s told me and what I can figure out from his attitude.” His lips press into a thin line. “But I do know that he’s not Hydra.”

Natasha shifts slightly, like she’s about to speak, but Bucky cuts her off.

“And if it turns out I’m wrong,” he continues, something dangerous simmering beneath his words, “if somehow, against everything I know, he is Hydra—” his jaw tightens, expression dark, “—then that’s on me. That’s my responsibility. And I’ll deal with it.”

The weight of his words settles over the room, thick and heavy.

Another silence.

Stark huffs, crossing his arms, looking at Bucky like he’s something interesting, something difficult. “You’re really staking your whole reputation on this kid, huh?”

Bucky doesn’t even blink. “I don’t care about my reputation.”

Stark smirks. “Yeah, figured.”

Natasha doesn’t look convinced, but she exhales through her nose, arms still crossed. “I’m keeping an eye on him,” she says evenly. 

Bucky doesn’t fight it. He just nods once, sharp. “Fine. But don’t expect me to just stand by if you cross a line.”

Natasha holds his gaze, silent, but there’s a flicker of something in her expression

Steve finally steps forward, glancing between them all before settling his gaze on Bucky. “Alright,” he says. “We’ll handle this your way.”

Bucky nods, slow. But the tension in his shoulders doesn’t ease.

Bucky’s gaze lingers on Steve for a fraction longer than he means to. He takes in the way Steve stands, steady as ever, close enough that Bucky can feel the warmth of him, the sheer presence of the man he once followed into war without question. It’s been a long time since they had a conversation that wasn’t filled with sharp edges and frustration, and for a brief moment, something flickers in Bucky’s chest.

I missed him.

The thought comes unbidden, unwelcome almost. His fingers flex at his side as if he can physically push the feeling away. He has other things to focus on—Jason, his well-being, the mess that is everyone around them thinking the kid is a ticking time bomb. Steve’s grown. He’s got an entire team, a mission, a purpose. He doesn’t need Bucky in the way Jason does.

So Bucky shakes his head slightly, brushing the thought aside, and turns to leave.

As he moves toward the elevator, his sharp eyes flick toward Natasha, catching the strange expression on her face. Her head is tilted slightly, her brows drawn together, mouth set in a firm line. She’s thinking—but there’s something else there too, something distant.

It almost makes Bucky stop, the way her expression is just off enough to unsettle him. But he doesn’t ask.

Maybe she’s just running through everything they just discussed, piecing it together in that way she always does. Maybe she’s just trying to figure out her next move regarding Jason. Either way, Bucky doesn’t have the time or patience to pick apart what’s going through her head right now.

So he keeps walking, stepping into the elevator, and just before the doors close, he glances back at Steve one last time.

Then, the doors slide shut, and Bucky exhales slowly, the tension in his chest coiling just a little tighter.

______________________________

Stepping into the apartment, Bucky lets the tension in his frame drain out. A breath leaving him before he took in a deep breath calming his nerves, he didn’t want to look frustrated around Jason.

Though the smell that reaches his nose makes him go into high alert, his stance straightening as he hears the low cursing from further in the apartment. Jason’s voice undeniably the source of the cursing, and Bucky was moving before he even had time to process what he was doing.

his steps were quick as they lead him to the kitchen, his fists clenched on his sides ready for a fight. He wasn’t sure if someone else was in the apartment with them, what if Jason was hurt again? This apartment is supposed to be his safe space, he won’t let anyone-

Bucky froze at the scene he found in the kitchen. Jason was wearing an apron, in his hand a pan with fire coming out of it. The smell of what was now obviously burnt food wafted in the air, stronger now that he was near the source of it.

he didn’t move from his place at the kitchens entrance, his eyes instead traveling to the side where a plate of…what was that supposed to be? charcoal? it was so black Bucky wasn’t able to discern the dish Jason was trying and clearly failing to make.

Jason still letting out curses, and from what Bucky could guess, Jason didn’t figure out the older man was home yet— probably due to the ruckus he was making, dumped the burning pan into the sink. Opening the faucet, Jason watched as the small fire died down and the water sizzled as it hit the hot steel of the pan. The younger man sighed, rubbing his hands down his apron as he let out a huff turning around with the same motion, only to freeze when he spots Bucky.

he opens his mouth and closes it again, unsure of what to say as Bucky continues looking at him with a confused and puzzled expression. Eventually Jason just turns to the counter taking the plate off it and looking down, avoiding Bucky's eyes as he speaks. ”I made dinner” he says hesitantly, his free hand brushing his apron down in what Bucky could only guess was Nervousness.

Bucky looked at the plate again, his eyebrows furrowing “what is it?” He asks looking at the black charred pieces laid on the white surface of the plate. Jason pauses looking at the plate before averting his eyes away, clearly embarrassed as his cheeks flushed, not answering Bucky as he just starts walking towards the bin with his mouth set into a tight line.

Bucky realizing he’s about to throw what ever he made away steps forward in quick steps, his hand reaching out to take the plate from Jason. “I’ll eat it” he tells him, though his stomach churns at the thought of putting that in his mouth.

Though he’s sure he can manage it if he puts his mind to it.

jason gives him a glare, though still not directed at him, more like at his feet “no, I’m throwing it out, it’s not edible” he forces out still not meeting his eyes. “That’s irrelevant” Bucky says.

Jason’s jaw tightening at his words in clear annoyance. ”just let go, this was stupid”

“you let go”

“can you stop being like-…that!” Jason says finally looking him in the face, though it only lasted a few seconds before he went straight back to avoiding him again.

“It’s not good, and I…I don’t want you to eat it” his tone now more defeated “I clearly forgot the most basic things about cooking” he mutters, pulling the plate out of Bucky’s hand now that he has loosened his grip on it after what Jason said. Bucky watched with furrowed eyebrows as Jason dumped the food into the bin.

Bucky watched as Jason pulled off the apron, the weight of disappointment hanging heavy around him. He let the silence settle for a moment, watching Jason’s expression carefully—his furrowed brows, the tension in his jaw, the way he wouldn't quite meet Bucky’s eyes.

After a beat, Bucky exhaled through his nose and crossed his arms. “I can teach you to cook another day.” His voice was calm, casual—like it wasn’t a big deal, like Jason hadn’t just dumped his hard work into the bin with barely concealed frustration.

Jason’s shoulders stiffened slightly, but he didn’t snap back like Bucky half expected him to. Instead, an awkward pause settled between them, both standing there in the lingering smell of burnt food.

Eventually, Bucky broke the silence. “You want some burgers?”

Jason finally glanced up at him, blinking. Then, as if trying to act like he hadn’t just been sulking over his failed dinner attempt, he gave Bucky a small nod. “Yeah. Which place are you ordering from?”

Bucky’s head snapped up slightly, his brows rising in something close to offense. “Ordering?” he repeated, like the word itself was insulting. “You need healthy, homemade food. I’m making them here.”

Jason’s lips twitched at that, the corner of his mouth quirking upward in the faintest of smiles. He nodded again.

Bucky huffed but didn’t argue, rolling up his sleeves as he made his way to the fridge. Jason, still lingering near the counter.

_______________________________

Jason let out a slow breath, sinking further into his mattress. His stomach was full, the lingering warmth of the meal settling in his chest. The burger had been good. He could still remember the unimpressed look he’d given the older man when Bucky had handed him his plate, a dumb ketchup smiley face drawn on the meat patty like some kind of joke Bucky had with himself.

Jason had scoffed, but he’d eaten the whole thing.

Now, dressed in his sleepwear, he was finally allowing himself to wind down. His body felt heavy, exhaustion tugging at the edges of his awareness. He exhaled again, closing his eyes.

Then— knock, knock.

Jason bolted upright, heart hammering in his chest. His eyes snapped open, wide and alert, before flicking to the window. The silhouette of a person stood behind the thin curtain, just barely visible in the dim light. Jason didn’t even have to think—he already knew who it was.

He didn’t move at first, muscles tensed, watching. The figure hesitated, lingering for a few more seconds. Then, as quickly as they’d appeared, they jumped off.

Jason’s stomach lurched. He moved before he could stop himself, shoving the blanket off as he hurried to the window. His fingers curled around the blinds, yanking them aside to look outside.

His gaze immediately found the sticky note. The old one was gone, replaced by a fresh square of paper stuck to the glass. His breath caught slightly as he leaned closer to read it.

What can I do?

Tiny flowers surrounded the words, their petals drawn with shaky, uncertain lines. Sad faces peeked out from the center of each one.

Jason scoffs, raising one of his eyebrows in exasperation, is this guy for real?

His grip tightened on the blinds, and he was just about to shut them when—

He felt it.

A shift in the air, the unmistakable weight of a presence behind him.

He moved on instinct.

Jason twisted, snatching the first thing his hand landed on—a pen. Not ideal. But it would do.

His body snapped into motion, swinging in a tight arc, aiming for the ribs of whoever had made the mistake of sneaking up on him. The move was calculated—not meant to kill, but to hurt. To keep his space. But his attacker was faster.

Natasha Romanoff sidestepped the strike like she had read his mind, her body barely shifting as the pen cut through the air just inches from her.

Jason didn’t hesitate. He followed through, shifting his stance mid-motion, pivoting his weight onto his back foot as he aimed a sharp elbow toward her ribs. It was a well-practiced movement, fluid and purposeful. She dodged—again—because of course she did. She was Black Widow.

Jason barely had time to register his next move before she was already countering, her hands shooting out toward him. His mind raced, training kicking in as he twisted, narrowly avoiding the first grab—

Too slow.

Her fingers snared his hair.

Jason gritted his teeth, a curse barely held back as she yanked hard, using his own momentum against him. His vision tilted for a fraction of a second as she pulled him off balance. He lashed out, his foot shooting toward the back of her knee, aiming to knock her footing out from under her.

Natasha shifted at the last second, her stance barely faltering. But Jason caught something—a half-second opening in her defenses. He pressed forward, twisting against her hold, aiming a sharp jab toward her forearm with the pen still gripped tight in his hand.

It was close—closer than she probably expected. The tip of the pen scraped against her sleeve before she let go, fluidly dodging and slipping to the side. Jason didn’t waste the opportunity. The second he was free, he took a step back, hands already shifting into a defensive stance.

He could make a break for it—call for Bucky. He just needed a single second—

Cold metal pressed against his ribs.

Jason froze.

A knife.

He didn’t need to look down to confirm it. He could feel the sharp press of the blade against his shirt, dangerously close to skin.

Natasha’s grip was firm, her body still angled slightly to the side, keeping herself in the optimal position to counter anything he tried. Her breathing was steady. Unbothered.

Jason clenched his jaw, his muscles coiled tight, but he didn’t move.

"Call for him," Natasha murmured, her voice a quiet challenge, "and this gets messy."

Jason swallowed hard. His heart was still hammering from the fight, but his mind was already shifting gears, searching for an out.

Natasha's eyes locked onto his, cool and unreadable in the dim lighting. "Relax. I'm just here to ask a few questions. Since you’ve got nothing to hide, that shouldn’t be a problem… right?"

Jason’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. His breathing was even, controlled—but beneath it, his pulse thrummed with something colder.

He gritted his teeth, his breath coming sharp through his nose as he glared at her.

"Go to hell," he snarled. "I ain't tellin' you shit."

Natasha didn't so much as blink. Her grip on the knife remained firm, the blade still pressed right against his ribs. Close enough that he could feel the faintest drag of steel as he breathed.

"You don’t have to," she said smoothly. "I already know what you are."

Jason’s lip curled. "Oh yeah?"

"You’re a soldier," she stated, voice cool, certain. Accusing. "Maybe even a Hydra experiment. Something they sent to infiltrate us, get close to Bucky, make him trust you. That’s what you probably do, isn’t it?"

Jason’s fingers twitched at his sides, his breath coming faster, the pressure of the blade holding him still.

"You know," Natasha continued, tilting her head slightly, studying him, "Bucky’s only soft on you because he sees himself in you. But me?" Her eyes sharpened. "I know what you really are. A good soldier."

Something cold twisted in Jason’s stomach.

His vision blurred at the edges, something hot clawing its way up his throat, rage and something worse hitting him all at once.

The knife at his ribs should’ve kept him still. Should’ve forced him to think. But he wasn’t thinking anymore.

He was moving.

With a sharp twist, Jason lashed out, his arm knocking against her wrist, forcing the knife away

His grip clenched around the hilt, but Natasha was faster. She twisted his wrist in a way that made his fingers spasm involuntarily, the knife slipping from his hold before she tossed it clean across the room.

Then they were grappling.

Jason shoved forward, but she was already countering, using his own force against him. He barely had time to dig his heels in before—

His foot caught something.

The shopping bag.

The one he still hadn’t removed from the floor.

His balance shifted, his body tilting—and then he was falling.

Jason hit the bed and before he could even react—before he could even move—

She was on top of him.

Her knee pressing into his leg, her hand at his chest, pinning him down.

Jason’s breath hitched.

Suddenly, he wasn’t in his room anymore.

He wasn’t here.

The weight on him, the pressure, the way his limbs felt caged beneath hers—

His vision flickered, the edges going dark, and then—

Jason couldn’t breathe.

The weight on top of him, the firm press of a body pinning him down, the way his wrists twisted as he tried to move—he had been here before. Not in this room. Not under her. But somewhere else, sometime before, when everything had been colder, darker, and no matter how much he had fought, no matter how much he had begged, it hadn’t mattered.

His chest rose in sharp, panicked bursts, his ribs struggling to expand against the pressure holding him in place. His vision blurred, his surroundings shifting, distorting, dragging him under. Natasha was gone. The dim room, the soft glow of the city lights beyond the window, the faint scent of burgers still lingering in the air—all of it gone. Instead, he saw her.

Talia.

Her long, dark hair spilling down, strands tickling his face as she leaned over him, smiling. Soft hands smoothing over his arms, trailing down his sides, nails scraping against his skin. Jason remembered how he had tried to push her off, how his muscles had strained with the effort, but she had been strong. Stronger than him in that moment, strong enough that when she forced him down, he couldn’t do anything but freeze.

She had spoken to him in low, coaxing tones, her voice laced with something like amusement as she told him to stop fighting. Told him it would be good for him. Told him this is what men wanted, so why was he being so difficult? He had shaken his head, had tried to tell her no, but the words had barely left his mouth before she had hushed him, lips brushing against his jaw as she continued.

His body had betrayed him. He had felt wrong, hot and fevered, but not in the way she thought—never in the way she wanted. His limbs had felt too heavy, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts as his skin burned from her touch. His throat had ached, tight with unshed tears, his vision hazy, his mind splitting in two—one part here, the other part somewhere far, far away.

And she had moaned.

Soft, breathy sounds of satisfaction, of pleasure, her body grinding down onto his, her weight suffocating, her fingers tracing over every inch of him as though she had a right to him. Every time he flinched, every time he tried to turn his head away, every time his breath hitched on a sob he had tried to swallow, she had just smiled. As if his suffering, his reluctance, was just another part of the game for her to win.

nonononononono

GET OFF ME

_____________________

Bucky shut off the water, the rush of heat disappearing as he exhaled, running a hand over his face. The steam curled around him, thick and heavy in the light of the bathroom. Grabbing the towel, he worked it over his shoulders and chest, not bothering to dry his hair completely. Instead, his attention flickered to the red hoodie sitting on the counter.

His lips twitched up—not quite a smile, but something close. When he had walked into his room earlier, he hadn’t expected to find it neatly folded on his bed. The sight had caught him off guard, and he’d stood there for a moment, just staring at it.

Jason.

He didn’t need to ask. There was no one else who would’ve done it.

Sliding it over his head, Bucky smoothed a hand down the fabric, adjusting it over his frame. It was warm, comfortable.The thought unsettled something in his chest, so he pushed it down, reaching for the towel again, this time intending to dry his hair properly—

Then he heard it.

A scream.

Panic. Sharp, raw, desperate.

Jason.

The towel dropped from his fingers, forgotten as his instincts roared to life. His heart slammed against his ribs, his feet moving before his mind could catch up. The bathroom door nearly ripped off its hinges as he threw it open, the cold air hitting his damp skin as he charged down the hall.

His metal arm whined as his fist clenched tight, the mechanics shifting, responding to the spike in his pulse. He didn’t register the sound of his own footsteps, only the pounding in his chest.

his bare feet pounding against the floor as he sprints towards Jason’s room. the worst possibilities tear through his mind.

Jason is hurt.

That’s the only thought that matters.

The door to Jason’s room barely slows him down. It flies open with a force that makes it slam against the wall, the loud bang barely registering as his mind zeroes in on the scene before him.

Jason is on the floor, pressed against the side of his bed, his body curled in on itself like a wounded animal trying to make itself small. His chest is heaving, panic written in every trembling muscle, and his face—God, his face is contorted in pure terror. His eyes are wide, wet with tears, unfocused as he sobs and chokes on his own breath. His hands scramble at his clothes, yanking his shirt down with frantic desperation, one hand darting back to grab at the blanket, dragging it down from the bed to shield himself.

To cover himself.

Bucky’s entire body locks up, realization slamming into him so hard that for a split second, he forgets how to breathe. His gaze drops to Jason’s shaking hands, to the way he’s clawing at the fabric of his own shirt, not in an attempt to protect from an attack—no, not from a fight. He’s not shielding his ribs or his face or his throat. He’s trying to cover his crotch, hands pulling, tightening, desperate to hide himself.

He’s expecting someone to take something from him. To do something to him.

Bucky feels something inside of him snap.

His head whips to Natasha, who stands a few feet away, her hands raised slightly in front of her, palms open. A defensive posture. But she isn’t in control here—not in the way she usually is. Her face, normally so composed, so sure, is stark with confusion, guilt—panic. She isn’t moving. She isn’t even looking at Bucky, her gaze fixed on Jason like she’s suddenly realized just how badly she fucked up.

Bucky doesn’t care. Not right now. His vision tunnels, anger flooding through him so hot and fast that it makes his fingers curl into fists, metal groaning under the pressure of his grip.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

His voice is a roar, filled with something raw, something murderous. He’s barely holding himself back, standing at the precipice of something uncontrollable. His entire body is vibrating with fury, the need to act, to protect, to destroy whatever is making Jason look like that.

Natasha flinches. Flinches. And she—she never flinches.

“I—” she stammers, her mouth opening and closing before she presses her lips together, eyes darting back to Jason. She looks at him—really looks at him now—and whatever she sees there has her taking half a step back, like the weight of what she’s done is finally sinking in.

“I don’t know,” she says, and she sounds just as shaken as she looks. “I don’t—”

She takes a step closer, but the second she moves, Jason screams. A broken, choked sound that tears through the room like a blade. His hands yank the blanket up higher, trying to wrap himself in it like a shield, his arms locking around his own body as if bracing for something he can’t fight off.

Bucky nearly sees red.

“Don’t,” he growls, the warning in his tone sharp as a knife. “Don’t fucking move.”

Chapter Text

Bucky’s snarl still lingered on his face, the sharp edge of his anger refusing to dull as he stared Natasha down. She wasn’t meeting his gaze now, her normally sharp eyes wide, her mouth opening and closing as if searching for something—anything—to say.

“I don’t—” she started, then faltered, looking down at her hands like they held an answer she didn’t know how to grasp. “Bucky, I don’t know what to do.” Her voice was quiet, unsteady. “Tell me what to do.”

Bucky barely heard her. His attention snapped back to Jason, still curled up against the bed, his breath coming out in harsh, gasping sobs. The shaking in his frame hadn’t stopped. His fingers were clenched tight around his shirt, still yanking it down over his crotch, his arms coiled tight around himself like he was trying to hold himself together before he fell apart completely.

The sight made Bucky feel sick.

Jason’s eyes flickered up toward him, but there was no recognition in them—only fear. And they weren’t the usual sharp, deep blue Bucky had come to expect. Instead, an eerie, unnatural neon green glow stared back at him, shining even in the dim light of the room.

Bucky stopped in his tracks.

What the hell—?

His heart pounded against his ribs, his mind racing to connect the dots. Jason was still sobbing, voice hoarse as he begged them to stay away, shaking his head frantically.

“I don’t—I don’t want to—” Jason’s voice cracked. His fingers dug into the fabric of his clothes, his whole body trembling violently.

He didn’t have to finish the sentence.

Bucky knew exactly what he was afraid of.

Bile rose in his throat.

“Shit,” Bucky muttered under his breath, forcing himself to move carefully, deliberately. Jason’s breathing was erratic, every muscle in his body coiled like a cornered animal about to lash out. Bucky knew that feeling all too well. Knew what it was like to be lost, trapped in a nightmare that wasn’t really happening but felt more real than anything else.

He needed to get through to him. But how?

Jason wasn’t seeing him. He wasn’t seeing Natasha. He was somewhere else—somewhere dark, somewhere horrifying, somewhere that made him believe he had to defend himself from something Bucky couldn’t see.

Bucky sucked in a deep breath. Slowly, he dropped to his knees, lowering himself onto the floor, making himself smaller. Less of a threat.

Jason’s wild, glowing eyes snapped to the movement instantly, his body tensing further, pressing himself even harder against the bed. His breath hitched, his hands trembling violently where they gripped his clothes.

“Jason,” Bucky said, keeping his voice low, steady. “It’s okay.”

Jason's breath hitched, his sobs breaking into uneven gasps as he stared at Bucky. His chest rose and fell in rapid succession, his frame trembling as if he were trapped between two realities. The neon glow of his wide, unseeing eyes flickered under the dim lighting, and for a moment, there was silence—thick, suffocating.

Bucky didn’t dare move. His muscles were coiled tight, every inch of him wired to react, but he forced himself to stay grounded, to keep his voice even when his throat burned with anger and fear.

“Jason,” he tried, voice softer than he felt, hands still where Jason could see them. “It’s me. It’s Bucky.”

Jason's body jerked as if electrocuted. His gaze flickered but remained vacant, unfocused, stuck in something Bucky couldn’t see.

Before he moved like a predator gone rabid—fast, reckless, and completely unhinged in his panic. His eyes burned with neon green light, his face twisted in something raw and unrecognizable.

The second Bucky took a step forward, Jason lunged, snatching up the knife from the floor and slashing at him without hesitation. The blade cut through the air in a vicious arc, but Bucky barely had to move. A simple shift to the side, and the knife missed entirely, but Bucky still had a quick thought of how if he waited just another second, if it had been anyone else who was slower than him, that blade would have carved him open.

Jason didn’t slow.

His feet were unsteady, his body trembling with the weight of exhaustion, but his attacks were ruthless. Every movement was sharp, controlled, his muscle memory kicking in despite his mind drowning in terror. He wasn’t just swinging wildly—he was attacking with trained efficiency, his body knowing exactly where to aim. Throat, ribs, arteries. Each slash was meant to cripple or kill.

Bucky dodged all of it, barely. even with how shaky Jason is he was still ruthless in his attacks.

Bucky’s face was blank, his body moving with precision, slipping just out of reach every time Jason struck. Compared to the enemies Bucky had fought before, Jason came a close second in his precision and ruthlessness when attacking, and that was for only one reason in Bucky’s eyes—his panic made his attacks predictable. If Bucky wanted to end this fight, he could do it in seconds. One well-placed strike, and Jason would be on the floor, unconscious or worse.

But Bucky didn’t strike back.

Another swing. Another dodge. Jason was panting now, tears still running down his face, his vision must be blurry,  his breath coming in ragged, strangled gasps. When he realized his blade wasn’t landing, he switched tactics. His free hand grabbed whatever was nearby—a lamp—and threw it at Bucky.

It didn’t matter. Bucky dodged it.

Jason let out something between a growl and a sob, grip tightening around the knife as he lunged again, this time going for Bucky’s stomach.

Before he could reach, Natasha moved.

She must have thought she could help. Maybe she thought she could de-escalate things, but the second she shifted forward, Jason’s reaction was instant.

He flinched—hard. His entire body jolted like he’d been struck, his breath catching in his throat as he let out a sharp, broken sound. His legs buckled beneath him, his grip on the knife going slack for half a second. His expression twisted into fear.

Bucky’s stomach dropped.

“Natasha, get the fuck out!” His voice was sharp, cutting through the chaos like a gunshot.

She hesitated.

Jason was still trembling, gasping for breath, his eyes darting between them wildly. Natasha had gone pale, her hands raised slightly, like she wasn’t sure whether to move forward or step back.

“Now!” Bucky snapped, his voice a growl.

Natasha took a sharp breath, hesitating for only a second longer before turning on her heel and disappearing through the door.

Jason didn’t calm.

He was still breathing too fast, still bracing himself like he was about to be taken. His grip on the knife tightened again, his body coiling like a spring—

Bucky made his decision.

He let Jason get close, let the blade come within inches of his side before his vibranium arm shot up. The knife collided with metal, and Bucky’s fingers snapped shut around the blade. A sickening crack filled the room as he crushed the weapon in his grip, shards of metal clattering to the floor.

Jason barely had time to react. Bucky turned grabbing the blanket off the floor it had piled on, and wrapping it around Jason in one fluid motion before he yanked him forward, his grip unbreakable, he had Jason trapped in his arms, pinned against his chest, but still mindful not to touch him with the blanket separating them.

Jason lost it.

He thrashed violently, screaming, kicking, his fingers clawing at whatever he could reach. One hand yanked at Bucky’s hair, ripping it back hard enough to make Bucky grunt in pain, some of his hair now in clumps in Jason’s hand as he goes to reach for other sections to rip. The other hammering at Bucky’s ribs, a few cracks can be heard in the air between them each time Jason’s fist connected with his side, Bucky just grit his jaw shut tightly, a few pained grunts leaving him with each hit.

He didn’t let go. But he would be lying if he said he knew what he was doing, for all he knew he could be making it worse.

He locked his arms around Jason’s torso, using his superior strength to keep him wrapped in the blanket and in place. Jason fought like a wild animal, all instinct and terror, his sobs wracking through his body. His legs buckled under him, but Bucky held him up, lowering them both to the ground, keeping him wrapped up in his hold.

Jason’s strength started to give. His struggling turned into trembling, his grip on Bucky’s hoodie no longer trying to push him away but instead clinging to him. His fingers twisted into the fabric, knuckles white, his body still shaking with adrenaline and fear.

Bucky tightened his hold just slightly, his voice a low murmur. “I got you.”

Jason sobbed into his shoulder.

Bucky said, his tone rough but steady. “Nobody’s touching you.” He’s relief at Jason calming down clear in his tone, a part of him glad his actions didn’t escalate Jason’s panic.

Jason hiccupped, his breath coming in shallow, broken gasps. His fingers twisted tighter, his body curling in on itself in the blanket, still clinging to Bucky like he was the only solid thing in the room.

"She’s gone," Bucky murmured, voice steady but quiet. "Natasha left." He still tried to make sure he isn’t making any actual contact with Jason’s skin unless it’s through the blanket separating them.

Jason was still shaking against him, his fingers no longer clawing but instead curled weakly into the fabric of Bucky’s hoodie. His sobs had quieted to ragged, choked breaths, but the weight of them still pressed against his ribs, his chest rising and falling unevenly.

Bucky swallowed, feeling Jason trembling with every inhale. He exhaled slowly, keeping his voice as level as he could. "No one’s gonna touch you like that. Not here."

Jason sucked in a sharp breath, a broken little noise catching in his throat as if he were trying to hold in another sob. His face, still wet with tears, pressed against Bucky’s chest, but it wasn’t enough. He burrowed deeper, his forehead nudging under Bucky’s chin, as if trying to disappear entirely.

Bucky let him, let his chin rest gently on top of Jason’s head, his metal arm still locked around his back.

"You're safe," Bucky whispered, voice barely above a breath. He pressed his vibranium fingers against Jason’s back, not tight, just solid. Just there.

Jason didn’t respond, not with words. His breathing was still uneven, still hitched every few seconds, but the tension in his body was slowly unraveling. His shoulders weren’t hunched as tightly. His grip in Bucky’s hoodie wasn’t as desperate.

Time passed—Bucky wasn’t sure how long, only that eventually, Jason stopped shaking. His sobs quieted, his breath evening out until the only sound in the room was the faint hum of the city outside.

He was still. Completely still.

Bucky hesitated, then slowly, carefully, began to pull back.

Jason didn’t react.

His hands had slipped from Bucky’s hoodie. His eyes were open but empty, staring blankly at the wooden floor. He wasn’t trembling anymore, wasn’t making a sound.

Bucky frowned.

"Jason?" he tried, watching closely.

Nothing.

Jason’s fingers twitched, barely noticeable, his expression blank and distant, like he wasn’t even in the room anymore.

Bucky clenched his jaw, his gut twisting. He could handle Jason fighting him. He could handle Jason screaming, crying, struggling. But this—this empty stillness, this quiet that felt too much like surrender—he didn’t know what to do with it.

He glanced around the room, looking for something, anything to ground himself, but all he saw was shattered glass, a broken knife, and the remnants of a fight neither of them had really won.

His eyes landed back on Jason.

"You should get some sleep," Bucky said eventually, keeping his voice calm, casual.

Jason didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

Bucky exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his hair before trying again. "Do you want me to leave?"

The reaction was instant.

Jason’s hand shot out, grabbing onto Bucky’s sleeve in a tight, vice-like grip. His head barely moved, but his fingers curled into the fabric, a silent answer. His expression didn’t change, but there was something tight in it now, something strained.

Bucky’s chest ached.

"Alright," he murmured, his voice quieter now. "I’ll stay."

Jason didn’t say anything. He didn’t loosen his grip either.

Bucky let out a slow breath and settled in.

Bucky knew they couldn’t just stay there on the cold floor, surrounded by shattered glass and the remnants of their fight. And leaving Jason in this room—where everything had just happened—didn’t sit right with him either. Even with his limited understanding of people, he knew that much.

He shifted slightly, metal fingers tapping against his knee. He didn’t want to startle Jason, but the longer they sat in silence, the more uneasy Bucky felt.

"Jason," he said, voice steady but quiet.

No response.

Bucky exhaled slowly and tried again, this time with a gentle nudge against Jason’s covered shoulder.

Jason barely reacted. His grip on Bucky’s sleeve hadn’t loosened, but he wasn’t looking at him either, his glowing green eyes still hazy and unfocused, staring past Bucky as if he weren’t even there.

Bucky hesitated, then made a decision.

"I’m gonna pick you up, alright?" he said. His voice was soft, careful. "Just gonna get you out of here."

No reaction.

Bucky frowned, watching Jason closely. He didn’t know if Jason could even hear him like this, but he wasn’t going to just haul him up without some kind of warning.

"Okay," Bucky murmured more to himself than anything else, shifting his grip carefully. He grabbed the blanket, placing it better around Jason’s huge frame, braced an arm under Jason’s knees, the other sliding behind his back. Slowly, he lifted him, pausing when Jason tensed slightly in his arms.

Bucky froze.

Jason didn’t fight. Didn’t pull away.

But his fingers twitched against Bucky’s sleeve, and his breathing hitched—just barely, but Bucky caught it.

He swallowed, tightening his grip just a fraction, making sure Jason was secure before standing fully. Jason wasn’t heavy, not to him atleast, but Bucky still adjusted his hold instinctively, careful not to jostle him too much. He glanced down, eyes flickering over Jason’s face, searching for any sign of panic.

Jason’s expression was blank.

His eyes were open, still glowing, still distant. But he wasn’t pulling away. He was just… there.

Bucky didn’t know if that was better or worse.

He carried him out of the room, walking with slow, steady steps down the hall and into his own room. It was quiet, the only sound the faint shuffle of fabric as Bucky moved.

Bucky reached his bed, hesitating for a brief second before lowering Jason down carefully.

Jason let go of his sleeve the moment he was on the mattress. His hands curled against his chest, shoulders drawn inward, his body still wired even as he laid there. His eyes flickered slightly, but the glow remained, dim but still present even as he blinked slowly up at Bucky.

"You should try to sleep," Bucky said after a moment, straightening.

Jason didn’t react.

Bucky sighed through his nose, dragging a chair over and sitting down beside the bed, close enough that Jason would know he wasn’t going anywhere. He rested his arms against his knees, keeping his posture relaxed even though his body still burned with residual anger. His mind was still reeling, still stuck on Natasha, still remembering Jason screaming, crying, trying to claw his way out of his own skin—

Bucky clenched his jaw, exhaling slowly through his nose. He could deal with Natasha tomorrow. Right now, Jason was more important.

Jason’s gaze flickered to him. He stared at Bucky for a long moment, like he was trying to decide something.

Bucky watched him back, resisting the urge to say something, to ask if Jason needed anything, if he was okay. He didn’t know if Jason wanted to hear anything right now.

Then, Jason gave a small, barely-there nod.

Bucky felt something in his chest loosen. He let out a slow breath as Jason turned onto his side, facing him, his body curling slightly in on itself. The blanket was pulled up to his shoulder, but even as his eyes closed, Bucky could still see the faint neon green glow behind his eyelids.

Bucky exhaled, leaning back slightly in his chair.

___________________________

Bucky hadn’t moved.

The chair he sat in was stiff, he was unmoving, in the kind of position that would have made any normal person uncomfortable after a night of staying in one place. But Bucky wasn’t normal. He was used to it. The conditioning had made sure of that. Hours, days—however long they told him to stay still, he stayed still. He didn’t shift, didn’t fidget. Didn’t complain.

His eyes were trained solely on Jason, watching his face carefully, studying every flicker of expression as he slept. The tension in his features had eased slightly, but Bucky didn’t let that reassure him. He wasn’t taking any chances.

Then, for a split second, his thoughts strayed.

Hydra.

The chair beneath him felt different. Metal restraints clamping over his wrists. The sterile air of the cell, cold and suffocating, the sound of a voice speaking in Russian just before the pain started again—

Bucky blinked sharply, his brow twitching as his grip on his thigh flexed. He took a slow, deep breath, grounding himself, forcing his mind back to the present. Back to the quiet of the room, to the soft sound of Jason’s breathing.

his side where Jason had kept hitting his ribs burned, even panicked Jason was still strong enough to deliver blows that could render a lesser man and normal rouge useless with one hit.

Bucky can’t even begin to imagine the force Jason could be at full strength when he had all his wits about him. Soo far every time they fought or had something resembling a fight either with him or the others, Jason was either malnourished, injured, or panicked, and more often than not he still was able to out do them in some way.

Bucky let out another slow breath, just wanting to sit in the silence of the room and keep an eye on Jason for now, everything else can wait, epically thoughts of how dangerous Jason could be if he wanted to. Bucky doesn’t want to think of anyone being a weapon, he’s been treated that way for long enough to not wish it on anyone else.

Then his phone rang.

The sudden noise shattered the silence, and Jason flinched awake so violently that Bucky nearly reached for a weapon that wasn’t there.

Jason bolted upright, his breathing sharp and uneven, eyes wide with panic. Bucky barely registered his own relief when he saw that Jason’s eyes were back to their usual deep blue—no neon glow this time. But that relief was secondary.

snatching the phone from the bedside table and shutting it off in one swift movement. His gaze flicked to the caller ID just before the screen went dark.

Steve.

His jaw clenched, thumb moving quickly to type out a short message. later.

Immediately, his screen lit up with multiple replies. Messages that Bucky didn’t check. Couldn’t check. The familiar thump in his chest at the thought of Steve was ignored, shoved aside as he focused back on Jason.

Jason was still breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling rapidly, but when his gaze locked onto Bucky—just Bucky—something changed.

The fear ebbed.

His breathing slowed. His shoulders dropped slightly, muscles still tense but no longer coiled like he was preparing to fight or flee. Bucky noted it immediately.

Jason’s hand twitched, then he pushed the covers off, moving. Before Bucky could react, Jason shifted across the bed and wrapped his arms around him.

Bucky stiffened.

The position felt awkward—Jason still kneeling on the bed, his head barely reaching Bucky’s chest, arms wrapped tight around him. Bucky was thrown off by it, caught in a moment of hesitation he didn’t usually allow himself.

Jason must have felt it because he started to pull away, his movements going rigid with uncertainty, with embarrassment. His arms loosened, his head tilting slightly as if bracing for rejection.

That’s when Bucky moved.

His arms wrapped around Jason, slow and unsure, nothing firm or tight.

"You feeling better?" Bucky asked, voice low.

Jason shifted against him. "Yeah."

His voice was raw, scratchy, clearly torn up from all the screaming the night before. The sound made them both cringe slightly.

Jason looked away, but Bucky had already forced his own expression back to neutral. No point in making Jason feel worse about it.

"Alright," Bucky said, nodding once.

Bucky felt Jason pull back, his arms loosening first before he fully withdrew, his gaze dropping to the bed covers instead of looking at him. His fingers curled slightly against the fabric, his posture stiff, like he was hesitating to speak.

Then, finally, Jason asked, “Are you leaving today… because of… her?”

His voice was rough, strained from the night before, each word dragging slightly like it physically hurt to push them out.

Bucky stared at him for a second, then exhaled through his nose and lowered himself to the floor in a slow, deliberate motion. He didn’t crouch—he fully sat, folding his legs beneath him so that when he looked at Jason, their gazes were level. He kept his expression neutral, unreadable, waiting until Jason’s eyes flickered toward him before he spoke.

“I’ll stay,” Bucky said, his voice steady, “if you want me to.”

Jason blinked, looking slightly caught off guard. His mouth opened, then closed, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. Embarrassment? Maybe. But then his expression shifted into something more resolved.

“I want to come with you,” Jason said.

The response was immediate. “No.”

Bucky’s voice was hard, edged with finality. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t waver. He wasn’t putting Jason in the same room as Natasha—not until he had spoken to her, not until he was damn sure she wasn’t a threat to him.

Jason scoffed at that, his throat scratching against the sound, before forcing himself to speak again. “I can protect myself.” His voice cracked slightly, but he pushed through it. “She just caught me off guard.”

Bucky sighed, rolling his shoulders back slightly as he let out some of his frustration through a slow breath. “I’m not risking it,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind. “You should stay here where it’s safe.”

Jason’s expression darkened at that. He shifted slightly where he sat, his hands pressing into the covers as his jaw clenched. “Safe?” he rasped, then gave a humorless laugh that immediately sounded painful. “Yeah, real safe. She got in just fine, didn’t she?”

Bucky’s expression hardened, a flicker of irritation in his features—but he reined it in, forcing himself to relax his jaw before responding. Jason wasn’t wrong.

“I’ll deal with Natasha,” Bucky said instead, his voice lowering. “If you don’t feel safe in your room, you can stay in mine.”

Jason exhaled sharply, his fingers flexing slightly where they rested against the fabric. His shoulders were still tight, still tense, but he didn’t argue immediately.

Bucky took that as a win. For now.

Jason pouted slightly, his lips pressing together just enough that it was noticeable. Bucky was sure he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

The image of a sulking puppy flashed through Bucky’s mind, and before he could stop himself, a quiet breath of amusement left him.

Jason’s eyes snapped up to him, questioning.

Bucky just shook his head and stood up, lifting his hand instinctively—but the second he did, he froze. What the hell was he doing? His brain stalled, unsure of what his own intent had even been.

Jason, however, didn’t react negatively. He just raised an eyebrow at the outstretched hand, his head tilting slightly.

Bucky hesitated for a second longer before moving again, slower this time. He reached out and placed his flesh hand on Jason’s head, ruffling his hair slightly. The action was light, brief—meant to be reassuring, maybe, or just instinctive. He wasn’t sure.

Jason let out an exasperated breath, immediately swatting Bucky’s hand away. “I ain’t a kid,” he muttered, more embarrassed than actually annoyed.

Bucky just stared at him for a moment, something thundering in his chest, uncertain what this small, strange interaction was making him feel. He gave Jason a short nod in response.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said. “Steve keeps texting and calling. But when I get back, we can do something. Your choice.”

Jason blinked, clearly surprised by the offer. He hesitated, then gave a small nod, his lips pressing together before shifting—just slightly. It wasn’t quite a full smile. It looked painful, like the act itself was something unfamiliar when done intentionally.

Bucky felt something tighten in his chest at the sight.

He gave a small nod back before turning to leave.

________________________

Bucky stepped out of the elevator, his body coiled with tension, his expression cold and unreadable. His boots hit the floor with deliberate weight, each step sharp, controlled.

The second he entered the common room, his eyes locked onto Natasha.

Steve, Stark, and Natasha were already there, their conversation halting the moment they saw him. Bucky barely acknowledged the others—his focus was set entirely on her. A slow, boiling rage curled in his chest, making his jaw tighten, his lips drawing into a thin, near-snarl.

His steps were quick, purposeful, and his hands clenched at his sides as his body coiled with the barely contained need to strike. The plates of his metal arm groaned as he flexed his fist, the whir of hydraulics sharp and deliberate, the faintest creak of strained metal under pressure filling the air. The mechanics in his wrist shifted, a sound he knew well—the sound of his arm preparing for a fight.

Steve reacted first.

The moment he saw Bucky’s advancing posture, his tightened shoulders, the way his jaw locked—Steve moved. He stepped directly into Bucky’s path, planting himself there, broad shoulders squared. His hands lifted slightly, not in a defensive stance but a warning.

“Bucky.” His voice was firm but not hard. “I know you’re angry, but you need to take a breath.”

Bucky didn’t.

From the side, Stark let out a sharp breath, running a hand down his suit jacket before taking a step forward. “Alright, let’s not break furniture, people. How about we talk this out like the adults we allegedly are?”

Bucky’s lip curled as he shot a glare toward Stark. “She didn’t handle it like an adult,” he growled. “So why the hell should I?”

Steve pressed a firm hand to Bucky’s shoulder, holding him in place as he made a small but clear push backward, trying to create even an inch of space. Bucky didn’t resist, but he also didn’t back off. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, his shoulders rising and falling with deep, measured breaths.

His eyes flicked back to Natasha.

She hadn’t said a word.

She stood there, her expression unreadable but her weight shifting, a subtle tell of unease. Her arms were crossed, her usual confidence muted, her jaw tense in a way that Bucky recognized. It wasn’t defensiveness. It was guilt.

Stark exhaled again, brushing down the front of his shirt, clearly trying to ease the tension in the room—though his attempt at defusing things was anything but delicate.

“Look, what Romanoff did was beyond out of line,” Stark started, his voice carrying that casual, dry tone he always had, though there was clear irritation underneath. “Not only did she sneak into what is supposed to be a highly secured apartment—which, by the way, Natasha, I’m gonna need you to tell me how the hell you did that so I can make sure it never happens again—but she also managed to piss off our resident murder chihuahua.”

Bucky’s head snapped toward him so fast that Stark actually took a step back.

A sharp, warning growl rumbled from Bucky’s chest, his already flaring temper seething into something more lethal. His fingers twitched, and for a moment, he actually considered throwing Stark across the damn room.

Stark held up his hands, backtracking quickly. “—That was affectionate,” he added. “Kinda.”

Bucky’s breath came out through gritted teeth, his shoulders shifting, a sharp exhale cutting through his nose. His fingers flexed once before tightening back into a fist.

He didn’t look at Stark again. His focus returned to Natasha, his voice dangerously low.

“You don’t get to be silent now,” Bucky muttered, his words sharp, slicing. “Say something.”

His tone carried an edge, his entire body a coiled threat just waiting to be set off.

For a long, tense moment, Natasha said nothing.

her eyes flickering between Bucky’s unreadable, cold expression and Steve’s expectant, but wary one. Stark was watching with a quirked brow, his lips pressed together as if already trying to form some quip to cut through the tension.

Then, finally, she spoke.

“…I was wrong.”

Her voice was quiet, but firm. The words weren’t rehearsed—they weren’t an excuse or an attempt to defend herself. There was genuine guilt laced through them, an admission rather than an apology, though both were ultimately the same thing.

“I let my paranoia control me,” she continued, her fingers pressing against her arms where they were still crossed over her chest. “I thought I was being careful, but I wasn’t—I was reckless. I didn’t stop to think. And I hurt him.”

There was a flicker of something sharp in Bucky’s gaze. His jaw ticked, but he said nothing. He wanted to be satisfied with that answer—wanted it to be enough—but it wasn’t.

Natasha took a slow breath, her next words coming out shakier.

“…I didn’t realize,” she said, then hesitated. “I didn’t think… that my actions would make him think I was going to—”

She stopped.

The words nearly lodged in her throat, but she forced them out.

“That I was going to rape him.”

The air in the room shifted.

Steve stiffened in front of Bucky, his brows drawing together sharply as his lips parted slightly, as if words should have followed but none did. Stark, who had been leaning slightly against the back of the couch, visibly straightened, his casual stance faltering. His lips parted as well, but nothing immediately came out, his brows furrowing deeply.

Natasha swallowed, her eyes flicking toward the floor.

“I had no idea,” she admitted, quietly. “I had no idea that he was a raped before.”

She let the weight of that sit for a moment before shaking her head. “Not that it’s an excuse. Even if he wasn’t, what I did was still wrong.”

There was another pause.

Then Stark, ever incapable of letting tension sit for too long, let out a sharp breath and muttered, “Okay, not to be a complete asshole here—but how exactly were we supposed to know that?”

His tone was casual, but there was something underlying it—something guarded, uncertain. His fingers twitched slightly, and he was already preparing to fire off another quip if the moment called for it.

Natasha hesitated again, looking at Bucky uncertainly before answering.

“His reaction made it obvious.”

She didn’t elaborate.

She didn’t need to.

Stark, after processing the information, immediately tried to cover up whatever was running through his head with a sharp breath and a dry, deflecting response.

“Well,” he exhaled, brushing a hand over his face. “That’s… that’s great. Just great. Fantastic, actually.” He let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “You guys are really making this harder and harder for me to hate the kid.”

Bucky shot him a look.

Stark held up a hand. “I mean, really. You’re all just going to keep dropping trauma bombs on me like this? You trying to guilt me into liking him? Is that the game we’re playing now?” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “And you guys seriously need to stop triggering him.”

Steve, still processing, turned toward Bucky.

His voice was quieter when he spoke. “Is he okay now?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away.

His eyes flickered slightly, the way they always did when he was sifting through his own thoughts. He didn’t want to discuss Jason with them—not after all of this, not when he was still so fucking angry at Natasha, not when Stark had the audacity to act like Jason’s suffering was some sort of obstacle in his personal grudge against him.

But after a moment, he exhaled and answered.

“…He’s better now.”

Bucky’s fingers curled slightly at his sides as he leveled Natasha with a look.

Bucky spoke, his voice flat but edged with something sharp, “what were you talking about when I came in?”

Steve exhaled through his nose, slowly lowering his hands from Bucky’s shoulders. The loss of contact was immediate. Bucky’s body almost instinctively leaned forward, the urge to follow the touch foreign but strong—but he caught himself. He forced himself still, jaw tensing as he shoved the feeling down.

Steve cleared his throat, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Natasha was saying that Jason should be allowed to have weapons on him,” he admitted.

Bucky’s brows twitched slightly in surprise, though it didn’t show much beyond that.

Stark scoffed, throwing a hand up. “Oh, yeah, fantastic idea. Just brilliant. Let’s give the guy who now has every reason to hate both her and me a weapon. What could possibly go wrong?”

Bucky expected more pushback from him—expected Stark to be firm in his refusal, to dig his heels in and throw out every reason why arming Jason would be a disaster. But he wasn’t. The sarcasm was there, sure, but the argument wasn’t.

Steve shifted slightly, his expression tight. He hesitated, then spoke again.

“We didn’t think it was a good idea before,” he admitted, carefully. “But… after everything…” His jaw clenched, his shoulders drawing up slightly, but he forced himself to continue. “I think he might feel like he needs extra protection. Against us.”

The words weren’t said with guilt, but Bucky could hear it all the same. It sat heavy in the air, unspoken but present.

They had demonstrated to Jason exactly what they were capable of. They had proven that they could hurt him—and in Jason’s eyes, that meant they eventually would.

Natasha took a step forward, pulling something from behind her. Stark let out an irritated sigh, running a hand down his face before giving her a short nod and looking away, as if unwilling to watch whatever she was about to do.

Bucky’s gaze flickered downward as she held out a gun and a dagger.

For a moment, he simply stared at them.

Then his eyes lifted, meeting hers.

“This doesn’t buy me forgiveness,” Natasha said, her voice quiet but firm. “I know that. But I hope it’s a start.”

Bucky didn’t respond.

His fingers closed around the weapons, his grip firm but controlled as he pulled them from her hands. He turned slightly, shifting his focus to Stark.

“I want Jason to have access to the entire building,” he said. “As compensation.”

Stark let out a sharp, incredulous sound. “Oh, come on, are you serious?”

Bucky didn’t waver.

Steve and Natasha turned toward Stark almost immediately, Natasha’s expression neutral but expectant, Steve’s much firmer.

Stark exhaled sharply, rolling his eyes as he threw his hands up in irritation. “Fine! Whatever. But I don’t want him anywhere near the floors where my staff works. They don’t need the distraction.”

Bucky nodded once, but before he could turn away, Stark paused.

He rubbed the back of his neck, his lips pressing together as if fighting against whatever he was about to say. Then, finally, he sighed.

“…He can use the shooting range,” Stark muttered, as if the words pained him. “As long as someone’s with him.”

He tried to sound nonchalant, but there was something almost begrudgingly… considerate about it.

Bucky studied him for a long moment before nodding again, his tone softer than before. “I think Jason will like that.”

Stark scoffed, immediately throwing up a hand. “Don’t tell him I’m the one who said it. Last thing I need is him thinking I’m not suspicious of him.”

Bucky huffed, shaking his head slightly as he turned away. He moved toward the elevator, ignoring whatever Stark muttered under his breath next, his mind already back on Jason as the doors slid shut behind him.

_________________________

It hadn’t even been half an hour before Bucky found himself back at the apartment.

He stepped inside, rolling his shoulders slightly before bending down to unlace his boots. He tugged them off, placing them neatly by the door before exhaling softly through his nose. The moment he was inside, his enhanced senses kicked in, the sounds of the apartment filtering through his ears with ease. The faint hum of the refrigerator, the distant muffled noises of traffic below, and—most importantly—the steady, familiar rhythm of Jason’s heartbeat.

Bucky’s head tilted slightly. Jason hadn’t moved from his room.

knowing Jason was there, Bucky called out.

“Jason.”

He heard the slight shuffle of blankets first. Then, after a few beats, footsteps—reluctant but steady—making their way toward him.

Bucky was already in the living room when Jason emerged.

The younger man looked slightly better than when Bucky had left, though that wasn’t saying much. His shoulders were still drawn up, tension woven into his frame, and his movements, while not hesitant, were still careful—measured.

Bucky didn’t comment on it.

Instead, he gave Jason a nod before motioning toward the orange chair. “Sit.”

Jason’s gaze flicked to the chair, immediately narrowing.

Bucky watched with mild amusement as Jason glared at the piece of furniture as if it had personally offended him.

After a few seconds, though, Jason sighed through his nose and finally sank into the seat, arms crossing over his chest in a show of reluctant acceptance.

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “It’s my favorite chair”

Jason’s lips curled down slightly, but he didn’t answer.

Bucky let it go.

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “I talked to the others.”

Jason’s expression immediately hardened. His fingers curled slightly where they rested against his arms, his jaw clenching just the slightest bit.

Bucky pressed on.

“Natasha feels sorry for what she did.”

Jason scoffed sharply, his eyes flashing with irritation as he shot Bucky a glare.

Bucky expected that reaction. He didn’t pause.

“That’s why she asked Stark to allow you to carry weapons on you,” he continued, his voice even, calm. “For self-defense.”

That, however, made Jason freeze.

The shift was immediate.

Jason’s breath hitched just slightly, his entire body stilling as his eyes snapped to Bucky’s. The anger from before was momentarily wiped clean, replaced with something almost… uncertain. His brows furrowed, his lips parting just slightly as if he wasn’t sure he heard Bucky right.

When he spoke, his voice was rough from strain. “You’re serious?”

Bucky didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he reached into his jacket, pulling out the gun and blade Natasha had handed him earlier. He placed them onto the coffee table with a soft thud, the sound of metal and polymer meeting wood filling the space between them.

Jason’s eyes locked onto the weapons.

Bucky slid them forward, closer to Jason. “Stark and Steve agreed.”

Jason swallowed.

His gaze flickered up to Bucky’s face, searching, as if silently asking for confirmation. For permission.

Bucky gave him a short nod.

Jason’s fingers twitched slightly before he finally reached out, hesitantly at first, then more sure of himself as he took the gun into his hands.

The change in him was almost instant.

Bucky watched as Jason’s shoulders relaxed, the tightness in his frame easing as his fingers ran over the weapon with practiced familiarity. He turned it over in his hands, feeling the weight of it, his thumb brushing along the smooth grip. His other hand moved to the slide, pulling it back with ease before checking the chamber. His movements were precise, careful, muscle memory kicking in as he tested the mechanics, feeling the way it handled in his grip.

Then, he did the same with the knife.

Jason ran a thumb along the flat of the blade, testing its edge. He flipped it once in his palm, feeling the balance of it, his lips parting slightly as he exhaled a slow, controlled breath.

Bucky recognized that sound.

Satisfaction.

It wasn’t much. It wasn’t some huge shift. But it was there.

A small, easy smile tugged at Jason’s lips—natural, unforced.

He glanced up at Bucky, giving him a short nod, as if to say, Yeah. This will do.

Bucky met his gaze.

“You’re also free to roam the tower now,” he added, watching Jason’s reaction carefully. “No more restrictions.”

Jason’s expression turned suspicious, Bucky could tell immediately he is waiting for the catch in the suddenly generous freedom he has all of a sudden.

“You can also use the shooting range,” Bucky continued. “As long as someone’s with you.”

Jason’s brow arched. “Seriously?”

Bucky nodded. “Stark’s the one who said it.”

Jason’s lips parted slightly, his expression shifting into something almost annoyed. “Stark said I could?”

Bucky exhaled. “Yeah. He told me not to tell you, though.”

Jason huffed a short, agitated breath, his fingers still toying with the knife. “Figures.”

Bucky just shook his head again, watching as Jason continued to examine his weapons, the air between them lighter than before. But Bucky knew they needed to talk about what happened last night, about what triggered it.

”we need to talk about-“ he immediately noticed how Jason’s expression turned dark, already knowing what he was going to refer to. Bucky had a split second to take in how Jason’s open body language began to shut down before he made a decision-

“-the cooking lessons…you need to learn how to cook” 

god he is hopeless when it comes to Jason…

Chapter Text

Jason scrolled through his phone, half-focused, his thumb lazily dragging down the screen. Now that he had more access to the tower, it only made sense to push for more. It had taken a few sharp conversations—mostly with Bucky acting as the middleman—but eventually, Stark caved.

So now, Jason could actually use the damn thing properly. Unrestricted internet access. No more firewalls blocking anything remotely crime-related. He could even make a social media account if he wanted, though that was probably the last thing he’d ever do. No way in hell was he putting his name anywhere public.

It had been two days since the whole mess with Natasha. Two days since he got the gun and the knife, since Stark grudgingly agreed to let him carry weapons. He hadn’t gone to the shooting range yet. Hadn’t even properly explored all the floors. But he had gotten a general layout of the place, enough to work with.

The tower had ninety floors. The top ones were for living quarters, the mid-levels were where things got more interesting. That was where Jason had been focusing his attention lately.

Because for all that Jason had figured out about this world, there were still gaps. Sure, he’d done some research before getting caught, but that was surface-level stuff—locations, players, the general landscape. Not the history. Not the deeper intel that could tell him what the hell he was actually dealing with.

And the mid-levels? That was where the Intel Archive was located.

Which was exactly what he needed.

The research and development (R&D) of the stark industry floor was also on the mid-levels, but Jason wasn’t stupid. Stark’s little science playground had security tight enough that even thinking about sneaking in was a joke. But the archive? That didn’t have nearly the same level of security. It wasn’t open access or anything, but it was way more manageable.

And if he played this right, he’d be walking out of there knowing a hell of a lot more than he did now.

Jason tapped his fingers against the side of his phone, staring at nothing in particular as the screen dimmed. He knew what he had to do, had already started forming a plan in his head. But he hesitated.

Breaking into the Intel Archive wasn’t some high-risk, impossible job. Hell, it barely counted as a job at all. If he wanted to, he could probably get in and out without raising a single alarm. The problem wasn’t the how. It was the why.

Because, if he was being honest, he shouldn’t need to do this.

He should be able to just—ask. He should be able to go up to Bucky, or Steve, or even Stark if he really wanted, and demand answers about this universe, about its history, its wars, its conflicts. About Hydra. About the things he knew they were avoiding telling him. And they probably would tell him, some of it at least. But he also knew it wouldn’t be enough.

The way they talked to him, the way they handled him—it was all too careful. Like they were afraid of giving him too much. Like they were shielding him.

And maybe it wasn’t wrong. Maybe they thought they were helping. Maybe they just didn’t trust him enough yet. Jason wasn’t stupid—he got it. He wasn’t owed anything here. But it didn’t sit right with him. Never had.

He wasn’t used to being given information. He was used to working for it. Fighting for it. Digging through whatever cracks he could find until he had exactly what he needed. It was instinct, muscle memory. And the longer he ignored it, the worse it got.

That was the real problem.

Jason ran a hand through his hair and exhaled, forcing his foot to stop bouncing against the floor. The itch under his skin had been getting worse every day, a restless, burning energy that wouldn’t settle no matter what he did.

It was the lack of work. The lack of purpose.

He hadn’t fought anyone, hadn’t broken into anything, hadn’t done anything in weeks.

Back home—his home—even on his worst days, he was still moving. Still chasing leads, still hunting, still fighting. If he wasn’t patching himself up from a fight, he was planning for the next one. If he wasn’t watching over Crime Alley, he was shaking down the people that made it worse.

But here?

Nothing.

And it was starting to drive him up the goddamn wall.

Bucky had been… nice. Too nice. It was almost unnerving. Not because Jason didn’t appreciate it, but because he didn’t get it. Bucky didn’t ask him for anything, didn’t expect anything, didn’t push him in ways Jason was used to being pushed. If anything, Bucky held him back. He was careful with him, deliberate. He treated Jason like he was someone worth looking out for, which—what the hell was Jason supposed to do with that?

Jason knew how to handle distrust. He knew how to handle hostility, suspicion, even reluctant tolerance. But this? This weird, steady presence? This quiet, unwavering support?

He didn’t know what to do with it.

And that wasn’t Bucky’s fault. It wasn’t.

But it made this feel… wrong.

Going behind his back. Sneaking around. It felt wrong.

But Jason couldn’t stop himself. He needed something. An outlet. A fight. A job. Anything.

So the Intel Archive would have to do.

The itch under Jason’s skin wouldn’t go away. It wasn’t just some passing frustration, some mild annoyance he could shake off. It was deep. A constant, crawling restlessness in his bones that made him feel like he was burning from the inside out.

He’d tried to work it off in the gym. And at first, it helped—kind of. The sharp burn in his muscles, the rhythmic repetition of movement, the exhaustion that came after a few hours of pushing himself—it was something. A distraction. But that was all it was. A temporary fix.

Because the second he was back in his room, alone, with nothing to do but think, it came back worse than before.

Jason let out a sharp breath through his nose, pushing off the bed. His body felt like it was vibrating with the need to move. He pulled on a black hoodie, tugged on his boots, one of the outfits he got from the shopping trips with Bucky, and was out the door within minutes.

Bucky wasn’t here. Hadn’t been for the past two hours.

Didn’t matter.

Jason had been given some freedom to move around the tower—more than he expected, honestly. He could go anywhere, well mostly anywhere, except for the ground floor exit and several floors that were restricted, like the intel archive for example. He could even be alone, so long as he wasn’t heading to the sparring areas or the shooting range, and as long as he wasn’t armed.

It was better than nothing.

As he approached the door, he half-expected it to deny him like it had when he first got here, back when he had tried to force his way out. But it slid open immediately, and Jason felt the relief in his chest. Even if it wasn’t freedom, at least the place wasn’t a glorified cage anymore.

He stepped into the elevator, hitting the button for the Intel Archives without hesitation.

But the doors didn’t close.

Instead, the cool, ever-calm voice of Stark’s AI filled the space.

"I’m afraid I cannot grant access to that floor, Master Todd."

jason expected this, he would be stupid if he hadn’t. Jarvis, aside from the actually alarms he doesn’t want to trip and security he has to avoid, was the biggest obstacle. But Jason also knew that if he convinced Jarvis of assisting him he wouldn’t have to worry about the alarms atleast.

Jason blinked, then narrowed his eyes. "Why the hell not?"

"Your clearance does not permit entry to the Intel Archive. While you do have access to the majority of the tower, there are certain floors that remain restricted. The Intel Archive is among them."

Jason scoffed. "You’re telling me most of the staff here can’t get in either?"

"Correct. Unless their roles require access to classified information, entry is unnecessary."

"Unnecessary," Jason repeated, rolling the word over his tongue. "See, that’s interesting."

Jarvis remained silent, waiting.

Jason leaned back against the wall of the elevator, crossing his arms. He wasn’t about to throw out some weak, loophole-that-wasn’t-really-a-loophole argument. This was an AI. A highly intelligent, incredibly advanced AI. If he was going to win, he had to be smarter.

His mind worked fast, combing through everything Jarvis had just told him. Clearance. Relevance. Access based on necessity.

And then it clicked.

Jason straightened. "Alright, J. Let’s talk necessity."

"I am listening."

"You just said access is restricted based on relevance to someone's role. That makes sense. A janitor doesn’t need to know mission details. A lab tech working on a jet engine upgrade doesn’t need to read Hydra files. People get access based on what’s necessary for them to function within the tower, right?"

"That is correct."

"Cool. Then tell me—what’s my role?"

A beat of silence.

Jarvis responded, "You do not have an official designation within the Avengers Initiative."

Jason smirked. "Exactly. I don’t work here. I don’t have a job title, don’t have assigned duties. Which means my access isn’t based on what’s relevant to my role—because I don’t have one."

"That is an accurate statement."

Jason tilted his head. "So, if my access isn’t dictated by necessity in the way it is for employees, what is it dictated by?"

Another pause. Longer this time.

Then, Jarvis answered. "Your access permissions were determined by Mr. Stark, with additional input from Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes."

Jason hummed. "Right. And that means my restrictions are based on their personal judgment, not an official clearance level. So technically, I’m not bound by the same classifications as tower staff. That means the only reason I can't access the Intel Archive is because of Stark's personal say-so.”

Jason keeps adding on, he is half sure he is bullshitting his way through this, but of well “What do you think is better to follow? Stark’s say so, or the clearance levels that have been put into place? Because if you follow Stark’s say so, then what about the people he hadn’t verbally put restrictions on? Can they access any place now? I don’t think so"

Another silence.

Then, the AI finally spoke.

"Your conclusion is not without merit."

Jason fought the urge to grin.

"However," Jarvis continued, "full clearance cannot be granted."

Jason expected that. "What can you give me?"

"I can authorize partial access. You may view low-priority mission reports and non-sensitive data."

Jason exhaled through his nose. It wasn’t everything, but it was a start.

"Fine. I’ll take it."

The elevator doors slid shut.

And this time, it moved.

The elevator finally came to a smooth stop, and the doors slid open with a quiet chime. Jason stepped out, scanning his surroundings with sharp, assessing eyes.

It was empty.

Not the kind of empty that meant abandoned or unused—more like sterile. Organized. The kind of space where people came in, did their jobs, and left without lingering. The room itself was large but lacked unnecessary decoration. Rows of sleek, black filing cabinets lined the walls, their labels precise and uniform. Desks with computers were set up in neat rows, each station unoccupied, monitors dark. Overhead lights cast a cool white glow, making the entire space feel almost clinical.

Jason took a cautious step forward, eyes scanning for cameras. He wasn’t stupid—he knew he was being watched. Even without direct surveillance, Jarvis was always listening.

"The accessible files are located in the third row of cabinets to your left, Master Todd," Jarvis’s voice broke the silence, smooth and composed as always. "Any attempt to retrieve restricted files will result in an immediate alert to Mr. Stark and the rest of the team."

Jason rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I got it. Don’t trip any alarms. I know the drill."

He followed Jarvis’s directions, weaving through the aisles until he reached the designated cabinets. With a firm tug, he pulled one open, eyes scanning the neatly arranged files inside. Mission reports. Some recent, some a few years old. All of them low-priority.

Jason dragged out a handful of them, flipping through as he leaned against the cabinet. His gaze moved over the details with practiced ease, absorbing names, locations, objectives.

Some of the reports were downright boring—"Routine extraction. No casualties. Mission success." Others had more weight to them.

A drug ring bust led by Clint Barton, assisted by Natasha Romanoff.
A minor terrorist cell takedown in Berlin, Wanda Maximoff and Steve Rogers involved.
An arms smuggling operation disrupted by Thor, though the details were frustratingly vague.

Jason frowned slightly, noticing a pattern. The big players—the ones with the ridiculous levels of power—had barely any information listed. Wanda, Thor, even someone called Vision. Any missions involving them were summarized in a few short lines, lacking details, as if the files were deliberately trimmed down.

Hiding something? Or just a way to avoid putting too much power-related information in one place?

Jason’s brow furrowed. He didn’t recognize those names. Didn’t read about them before. when he searched up information in the library, he focused only on the names he knew and now with all these new names popping up, names that seemed important with how many times they were repeating, Jason needed to find out more.

Either way, he hated the uncertainty.

Jason exhaled sharply, pushing off the cabinet and moving toward another set of files. If these people were important enough to be on Avengers missions, he needed to know who the hell they were.

He rifled through the cabinets, fingers skimming past old reports, redacted documents, and technical logs before landing on what he needed—individual personnel files.

Or, well, the closest thing to them.

What he found was barebones at best.

Jason pulled files out, skimming the contents. The more he read, the deeper his frown got.

Wanda Maximoff—some kind of enhanced individual with probability-based abilities, whatever the hell that meant. Former Hydra, which immediately made Jason’s interest spike. He wasn’t sure if that made her more interesting or more suspect. Either way, her file was frustratingly vague. It mentioned extreme power output but minimal combat training. That kind of imbalance always set him on edge. People who had way too much power and not enough control over it…it didn’t make for a good combination .

Then there was Thor. Jason had to blink at the file for a second, thinking he must’ve read it wrong. Asgardian? God of Thunder? Was that a title or was he actually supposed to be a god? The file barely scratched the surface, but the words “weather manipulation” and “enchanted hammer” were enough to make Jason grimace. Another powerhouse. Another untouchable. Jason had spent his entire life surrounded by people who had to fight tooth and nail just to get by. People who had to be smart because they couldn’t afford to be invincible. He never had much patience for the ones who never had to struggle in the first place.

Clint Barton was the most normal of the bunch, and Jason still wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. Expert marksman, close-quarters combatant, infiltration specialist. Used a bow, of all things. That made Jason snort under his breath. He already had enough annoying history with archers…not all archers.

Then there was Vision. Jason had to read that one twice. A synthesized humanoid? Created through a combination of AI and alien tech? The file described him as having enhanced physical attributes, phasing abilities, energy projection. Jason didn’t like the sound of any of it. Something about it made his skin itch. Artificial intelligence wrapped in a human shape, treated like a person—Jason had seen too many things go wrong with shit like that. And the ones that were still part-human? Those were always the ones that looked at him like he was a problem.

He scowled, snapping the file shut. The comparisons were already forming in his head, unwanted and intrusive.

They reminded him of people from his own world. People he never got along with. People who avoided him at best or outright hated him at worst.

It wasn’t even intentional—his brain just made the connections automatically. Because of course it did.

The “god” with the overwhelming power who probably never had to struggle a day in his life? Too much like Superman.The magic-wielding girl with unpredictable abilities? Zatanna. The archer? Oliver Queen…Roy’s father, And the AI wrapped in a humanoid form? Cyborg.

That last one made his jaw tighten, yet another piece of shit who treated him like a plague who made poor Nightwing’s life worse. Such loyal friends the titans are.

Jason tossed the files back into the cabinet with a little more force than necessary. The distaste settled deep in his stomach, heavy and sour. It didn’t matter that these weren’t the same people. It didn’t matter that this wasn’t his world.

The feeling was still there.

And it just made him more restless.

He rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the unease, but it didn’t help. He needed something else. Something to focus on.

His gaze drifted back to the files, scanning the labels. Most of them were routine, already solved, already wrapped up. Nothing he could sink his teeth into.

Then he saw it.

A red-marked folder.

Jason pulled it out, flipping it open. His lips curled into a smirk.

An unsolved case.

Low-level Hydra involvement. Three politicians suspected of working for them, but no solid proof. The case had gone cold.

Jason’s fingers tightened around the edges of the paper.

Now this…this was something he could use.

Jason shifts the file under his arm, fingers gripping the edges as he moves toward the elevator. He’s still riding the small surge of triumph—finally, something worth his time, something to chase, something that makes him feel like he isn’t just rotting in this damn tower. His mind is already working ahead, flipping through possible angles of attack. Who handled this case? Why did it go cold? What did they miss?

But just as he lifts his hand to press the button, the elevator doors slide open before he even touches it.

Jason’s body reacts before his mind does. Shoulders locking, muscles tensing, weight shifting to the balls of his feet as his brain immediately assumes the worst. His fingers twitch at his sides, instinct screaming at him to be ready for a fight.

Then he actually sees who steps out.

A man, dressed in a lab coat, glasses perched on his nose, eyes blinking in surprise when they land on Jason. He doesn’t look dangerous. Doesn’t move like someone who could put up a real fight. Jason can tell in an instant—his stance is loose, his steps are unguarded. A civilian.

Still, Jason doesn’t relax, even as the man’s surprise melts into something softer.

“Oh,” the scientist says, a kind smile slipping onto his face. “Didn’t expect to see you here.” His tone is light, casual, like they’re just running into each other in a hallway and not in a restricted section of the tower. “When I heard you had access to the building, I didn’t realize the intel archive was part of the deal.”

Jason barely has time to open his mouth, mind scrambling to piece together something believable—something that wouldn’t immediately raise alarms—before Jarvis beats him to it.

"Mr. Todd was not granted access to this floor. However, he presented a compelling argument that I was unable to refute."

Jason fought the urge to glare at the ceiling. He’d won, hadn’t he? Did the AI really have to make it sound like he had debated his way into a restricted area? I mean… he did, but is it that relevant?

The scientist looked—impressed. He nodded along, his curiosity obvious, and then stepped forward, offering his hand. "We actually met before. Briefly. You might not remember."

Jason did remember.

Or at least, he did the second the guy reintroduced himself.

"Bruce Banner."

Jason went rigid.

The name slammed into his chest like a gut punch. He didn’t react outwardly—at least, he hoped he didn’t—but something must have shown, because Banner’s easy smile softened, his head tilting slightly like he had just sensed Jason’s discomfort.

Jason forced himself to breathe. It’s not the same Bruce. His brain knew that. Not the same person. Not even the same world. And yet his fingers twitched, his pulse giving an involuntary jump before he shoved it all back down.

He hesitated for only a second before he took the offered hand, giving it a firm, brief shake before releasing it. No need for hostility. No need for anything, really.

Banner didn’t miss the stiffness. Instead of calling him out on it, though, he smiled slightly, withdrawing his hand. "If my name makes you uncomfortable, you can just call me doctor," he said easily, like it was no big deal.

Jason exhaled slowly through his nose and gave a single nod.

"Noted."

Banner raised an eyebrow as he moved toward one of the filing cabinets, pulling it open with a casual ease. "So, what exactly made you want to trick an AI into letting you down here?" he asked, sifting through the contents, his fingers flipping through the files as if searching for something specific. His voice wasn’t judgmental—just curious.

Jason leaned against the nearest desk, crossing his arms over his chest. "Because i knew it was the easiest way to get in without having to sneak around," he said plainly. "And I was gonna start causing problems if I kept feeling like a rotting corpse with nothing to do."

Banner hummed in understanding, pulling out a folder and flipping it open. "Yeah, I get that," he admitted. "I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I was suddenly dragged into an entirely new environment with all my research and work gone. Honestly, I’m kind of impressed with how well you’re handling it, considering the situation you’ve found yourself in."

Jason felt his chest puff out slightly at the words. It wasn’t often that he got genuine acknowledgment for his ability to adapt. He gave a short nod in appreciation. "Yeah, well. Not my first time getting thrown into a shitty situation and making do."

"What’d you find?" Bruce asked, motioning toward the file Jason was holding.

Jason hesitated. He wasn’t sure why—it wasn’t like he thought Banner would try to snatch it from him and run off tattling. But there was still that familiar voice in the back of his mind, whispering that he should keep it to himself. That information was power. That the fewer people who knew what he was doing, the better.

Still, Jason exhaled sharply through his nose and passed the file over.

Banner flipped it open, scanning through its contents before nodding, slipping a page between his fingers to flip to the next section. He didn’t pry, didn’t press for details. When he finally closed the file, he simply offered it back.

"If you need help, I’m available," he said, slipping his own file under his arm. "Whatever you say in my presence stays with me. You don’t have to worry about it being shared."

Jason took the file back, brows raising slightly. "So that means you’re not telling anyone I was here?"

Banner chuckled, shaking his head. "I’m a scientist," he said, amusement in his tone. "Whatever the others are worried about? I’m probably not. In fact—" He tilted his head slightly, regarding Jason with an almost genuine interest. "Right now, I’m a lot more interested in your universe than whatever you’re digging around for."

Jason narrowed his eyes slightly, skeptical. "What, you want my life story or something?"

Banner waved a hand. "No, nothing personal. Just the bigger picture. Timeline differences. Society. History. World events." He paused, then added, "Completely confidential, if you’re willing to answer a few questions."

Jason exhaled, tilting his head as he considered it.

Not a bad trade, really.

Jason gave a small nod, shifting the file under his arm. "Sounds reasonable," he said, tilting his head slightly. "You want to ask your questions now?"

Banner glanced at him, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "If you’ve got time, I’m not gonna say no."

Jason huffed a short breath, adjusting his stance. "I don’t really have anything else to do right now," he admitted. "I don’t have anything to do most times, honestly. Besides eating whatever Bucky makes and working out in the gym."

Banner let out a small chuckle, motioning toward the elevator as he handed Jason back his file. "Well then, let’s walk and talk."

As they stepped into the elevator, banner launched into an explanation, his tone shifting slightly—less casual, more educational. "The idea of the multiverse isn’t new to us. We’ve known about it for a while, thanks to Doctor Strange. The multiverse consists of alternate realities—versions of our world where events played out differently but are still built from the same fundamental structure. The same people exist, but their lives, choices, and circumstances vary. Some universes diverge only slightly, while others are drastically different. It’s all based on probability, branching paths, and cause-and-effect outcomes."

Jason nodded slowly, keeping up so far. "Alright…"

Banner continued, "But a different dimension—that’s an entirely different concept. A dimension isn’t just a variation of our reality; it’s a completely separate universe with its own fundamental rules, physics, and history. No shared origins, no common ancestry. If the multiverse is like having different versions of the same book with alternate endings, then a different dimension is an entirely different library with books that were never even written in our world."

Jason furrowed his brows slightly, absorbing the information. It made some sense, but it also felt like a lot of abstract theorizing. He had never cared much about this kind of thing—it wasn’t exactly relevant to staying alive back home. "So… you’re saying my world isn’t just another timeline of yours. It’s something else entirely? It’s something I already kinda of figured out considering you’re missing a lot of pretty known cities back in my dimension"

Banner nodded. "Exactly. If you were from an alternate reality in our multiverse, we’d expect to see at least some recognizable parallels. You might have been another version of someone who exists here, or maybe you’d have a counterpart. But from what we’ve gathered so far, no one in your world matches up with anyone here—at least, not in the way multiversal counterparts usually do. That suggests dimensional displacement rather than multiversal travel."

Jason exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. "Yeah, alright. I think I get it." Then he narrowed his eyes a little. "I heard the name Doctor Strange before. Who’s that? One of the Avengers?"

Banner glanced at him with a slightly amused expression. "In a way. He’s a sorcerer, He deals with all things mystical and inter dimensional. If anyone could make sense of your situation, it’d be him."

Jason made a face. "Great. A magic guy."

Banner chuckled. "Yeah, I take it you’re not a fan?"

Jason rolled a shoulder, exhaling sharply. "Magic types tend to be… annoying. Cryptic, vague, never giving straight answers." He huffed. "Always talking in riddles or acting like they’re too damn enlightened to explain things normally."

Banner raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. "Well, lucky for you, I’m a scientist. No riddles—just logic."

Jason snorted. "Yeah? Then logically, how the hell am I supposed to get back?"

Banner hesitated. "That… is something we’re still trying to figure out."

The elevator dinged softly, the doors sliding open to reveal a sprawling tech lab. Jason’s eyes swept across the space as he stepped out behind Banner, taking in the controlled chaos. Workstations were scattered throughout, some lined with vials of fluid in varying colors, others cluttered with wires, monitors, and devices he couldn’t even begin to name. Scientists moved about, focused on their tasks—observing, recording, adjusting equipment, completely indifferent to the two of them stepping onto their floor. It smelled like sterilized metal and something vaguely chemical.

Banner didn’t pause to explain, instead leading Jason through the lab toward a separate room enclosed by glass walls. The interior was sleeker, cleaner—more private. It reminded Jason of one of the containment rooms in the Batcave, except it didn’t hold prisoners, just more science crap.

Once inside, Banner dropped the file he’d grabbed earlier onto a steel counter before picking up a clipboard. He clicked his pen, gesturing for Jason to sit as he pulled up a chair for himself. Jason hesitated for a beat before relenting, sitting stiffly across from him.

Bruce wasted no time. "Alright," he started, scanning Jason briefly before putting his attention on the clipboard. "Let’s start with something broad—technology. What’s the general level of advancement in your world? How does it compare to what you’ve seen here?"

Jason exhaled through his nose, leaning back in his chair. "Well… depends where you are. Gotham’s tech is a mess—on the surface, it’s all outdated and falling apart, but underneath? The rich and powerful have access to stuff that’d make your head spin. And I’m not just talking about Wayne Tech."

Bruce gave a small nod, jotting something down. "Wayne Tech. That’s your world’s equivalent to Stark Industries?"

Jason’s jaw tightened for a second before he huffed.

"Yeah, you could say that. Wayne Tech is one of the biggest, but it's not the only company making cutting-edge stuff. LexCorp, Kord Industries, Holt Holdings—plenty of big names in the game. Wayne Tech just happens to be one of the more… publicly trusted ones." He kept his tone casual, but he could already feel Banner’s perceptive gaze on him, like he was picking apart every little hesitation. Jason wasn’t about to let him dig too deep.

Banner hummed, scribbling something down. "Interesting. And what about military advancements? Defense technology? Are we talking about widespread energy-based weapons, AI combat systems, nanotech?"

Jason scoffed. "Hell no. That kind of stuff isn't widespread—not unless you count supervillains and billionaires with too much time on their hands. Most of the world still runs on bullets and bombs. Sure, there’s advanced tech, but it’s locked up tight. Government, private hands. Even the League keeps a leash on the really dangerous stuff."

Banner looked up. "League?"

Jason exhaled through his nose. "Justice League. The team. Think of them as your Avengers, except more—" he waved a hand, searching for the right word, "regulated. They don’t answer to the government, but they have systems in place, rules. There's a council, oversight."

Banner raised an eyebrow. "So, a more structured approach to hero work?"

"Yeah," Jason muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "Something like that."

Banner tapped his pen against the clipboard. "And what kind of heroes are we talking about? From what you’ve described so far, it sounds like your world has a mix of advanced tech users and—" he paused, thinking, "—enhanced individuals?"

Jason smirked slightly. "We call them metas. Short for metahumans. Basically, anyone with unnatural abilities falls under that category. Some are born with powers, some get them through accidents, experiments, or some weird cosmic event. Then you've got the ones who trained their whole lives, built their own gear, or just have way too much money to burn."

Banner chuckled at that last part. "Sounds familiar."

Jason snorted, shaking his head. "Yeah, I figured. But it’s not the same. The whole ‘superhuman’ thing is a lot more—" he hesitated, his fingers tapping against the metal frame of his chair, "—complicated where I'm from. People don’t trust metas, not like they do here. There’s a lot of fear, a lot of pushback. Some governments have entire task forces just to keep them in check."

Banner frowned slightly, pen pausing over the page. "That… doesn't sound ideal."

Jason huffed a quiet laugh. "Understatement of the century."

Banner let the silence hang for a moment before shifting gears. "So, who are the biggest names? The equivalent to Thor, Captain America, Iron Man? The more widely known"

Jason immediately felt something unpleasant coil in his gut. He clenched his jaw, eyes narrowing slightly as he considered his response. He didn't want to talk about them. About him. But there wasn’t really a way around it, was there?

He exhaled sharply. "Superman. Batman. Wonder Woman. They're the Trinity—top of the food chain when it comes to hero work. Supes is your closest thing to Thor, powers-wise. Strength, flight, heat vision, all that god-like bullshit. Except he’s an alien, not a god."

Banner nodded along, absorbing the information. "And Wonder Woman?"

Jason shrugged. "Amazon. Literally. Immortal warrior princess, magic weapons, super strength. Basically your Cap, but way stronger and not some lab experiment."

Banner’s brows lifted slightly at that comparison, but he didn’t interrupt.

"And Batman?"

Jason’s fingers curled into his palm, his tone sharpening despite himself. "No powers. Just a guy in a suit who happens to be really good at what he does."

There was a beat of silence before Banner prompted, "And what does he do?"

Jason clenched his jaw, hating how the conversation had circled right back to this. He kept his voice even, detached. "Detective work. Hand-to-hand combat. Strategy. He’s got contingency plans for every possible situation, always ten steps ahead of everyone. People fear him for a reason."

Banner studied him for a long moment before nodding, accepting the answer for what it was. He didn’t press, didn’t poke at the raw edges of whatever Jason was holding back.

Instead, he glanced down at his notes. "And the Justice League—how do they operate? Are they government-affiliated?"

Jason exhaled, relieved by the shift in topic. "No. They work independently, but they’ve got connections with certain agencies. There’s a whole Watchtower in space—"

Banner’s head snapped up at that. "Wait. A space station?"

Jason smirked, leaning back slightly. "Yep. Monitors threats, serves as a base, got teleporters and all that fun stuff. You guys don’t have something like that?"

Banner shook his head, looking genuinely fascinated. "Not that I know of. We rely on satellites and ground-based facilities. That kind of setup would be a massive game-changer."

Jason shrugged. "Yeah, well. It’s not perfect. The League might look good on the surface, but it’s got its own mess. Politics, internal disagreements, power struggles." He scoffed, glancing to the side. "It’s not as united as people think."

Banner tapped his fingers against the clipboard. "Sounds like you're not exactly a fan."

Jason’s expression darkened slightly, but he forced a casual smirk. "Let’s just say I don’t play well with authority."

Banner gave him a knowing look but didn’t push. "Noted."

There was a brief lull before Bruce leaned forward slightly. "And what about you?"

Jason’s brow furrowed. "What about me?"

"You’ve told me about your world, your heroes, your technology—but where do you fit into all of it?"

Jason stared at him for a moment, fingers drumming against his thigh. His mind flickered through a hundred different answers, a hundred different ways to deflect.

Instead, he just leaned back, exhaled, and muttered, "Depends on who you ask."

Jason’s gaze shifted to the glass door, his leg bouncing in a steady rhythm against the floor. His fingers threaded together, then apart, then back together again— something to keep his hands busy. The conversation had gone well, surprisingly so, but there was still that nagging feeling at the back of his mind, the constant tension that never really left him.

Banner hummed softly, setting the clipboard down on the counter with a quiet clack. The sound drew Jason’s attention back to him, and he forced himself to still his movements, shoulders rolling back slightly as he straightened.

"You’ve given me more than enough," Banner said, his voice calm, genuine. "I really appreciate you being willing to share all this, especially when I know you haven’t shared much with the others." He paused for a beat, then added, "And I meant what I said—everything stays between us, including that file."

Jason studied him, searching for any hesitation or doubt in his expression. He found none. Banner wasn’t trying to manipulate him, wasn’t fishing for more than Jason was willing to give. That alone was rare enough that Jason wasn’t quite sure how to respond at first. Eventually, he just gave a small nod.

"Thanks," he muttered, quiet but sincere, before pushing himself up from his seat. He strode to the door, exhaling a slow breath as he pushed it open and stepped through, letting it click shut behind him with a soft finality.

Relief settled into his muscles, but it wasn’t the kind that loosened tension—it was the kind that came with knowing he’d dodged another fight, another accusation, another reason for someone in this damn tower to look at him like a problem waiting to happen. This was the first conversation he’d had since arriving with someone who isn’t Bucky that hadn’t ended with hostility or skepticism. No one glaring at him. No one questioning his every move. No one waiting for him to prove he was exactly what they thought he was.

And yet, as he walked toward the elevator, the thoughts still crept in.

You’re gonna fuck it up.

The words echoed in his head, bitter and familiar. They always did when things went too smoothly. When he wasn’t met with suspicion or aggression, when someone treated him like a person instead of a walking threat, a part of him braced for the inevitable backlash. It was a cycle he knew all too well.

His fingers curled at his sides, breath coming in just a little sharper as his vision tinged green for half a second—fleeting, but enough to make his chest tighten. He forced himself to blink it away, inhaling deeply through his nose before shaking his head and stepping into the elevator.

The door slid shut behind him, and he exhaled again, slower this time. His hands found the file tucked under his arm, and he adjusted his grip on it as he leaned against the wall.

Focus. That’s what he needed right now.

He had names to go through, intel to pick apart, and a whole lot of figuring out to do. Whatever the hell came next, at least he’d be prepared.

____________________________________________

Bucky sat on the edge of Steve’s couch, shirtless, as Steve crouched in front of him, inspecting his ribs with a grimace. The apartment was quiet, save for the occasional sound of cars passing outside. It was a temporary place, somewhere close to the tower but not quite in it—a ten-minute drive, maybe less if the traffic wasn’t bad. Close enough for convenience, far enough for space.

Steve exhaled sharply, pressing the tips of his fingers gently along the bruised and battered skin. “I don’t know how long this is gonna take to heal, even with your accelerated healing, maybe a couple more days” he muttered, his face pulled into something that looked like I’m just glad this isn’t me. “Jesus, Buck, this looks painful.”

Bucky let out a breath through his nose. “That’s ‘cause it is.”

His ribs were a mess, deep bruising blooming across his side like some kind of morbid watercolor. The worst of it was where Jason had gotten in a few solid hits—full strength, no hesitation. The kid wasn’t just strong, he hit like he meant it. Bucky was pretty sure at least five ribs had cracked under the force, maybe more. Moving hurt, breathing hurt, existing hurt. But he’d had worse.

Steve shook his head, lips pressed together as he grabbed the small container of cream he’d been using and smeared another layer over the bruises. It was meant to help with inflammation, but it felt cold against Bucky’s skin, making him tense for a second before forcing himself to relax.

“How the hell were you moving with this?” Steve asked, not looking up from his work.

Bucky gave a half-shrug and winced slightly at the pull on his ribs. “Didn’t have much of a choice.”

Steve sighed, finishing up before capping the container and sitting back on his heels. “You’re stubborn as hell, you know that?”

Bucky huffed, reaching up to pat Steve’s hands away from his ribs. “It doesn’t matter. It’ll heal.”

Steve snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah. Can you say the same about your hair?”

Bucky frowned. “What?”

Steve gestured to Bucky’s head, and Bucky instinctively ran his flesh fingers through his hair. He could feel the uneven patches where it had been ripped out, the places where Jason had yanked hard during their fight. Some strands were shorter than others, some areas just completely missing.

“It’s not that bad,” Bucky muttered.

Steve raised a brow. 

Bucky rolled his eyes. “It’ll grow back.”

Steve grinned. “You sure? ‘Cause it looks like—”

“It’ll grow back,” Bucky repeated, leveling him with a flat look. “Hydra used to rip out hair too. What Jason did didn’t come close.”

The moment the words left his mouth, he saw it—the way Steve’s expression shifted, how the easy teasing died on his tongue. His face went stiff, jaw clenching slightly, like he was trying not to react but was reacting anyway. The mood in the room shifted, the air turning heavier, more suffocating.

Bucky exhaled and rubbed a hand over his face. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to bring them up.”

“Don’t,” Steve said quickly. His voice was firm, leaving no room for argument. “You don’t have to apologize for that. Ever.” He met Bucky’s eyes, steady and unwavering. “You have every right to talk about what happened to you.”

Bucky held his gaze for a moment before nodding slightly, though he didn’t say anything. He knew Steve meant it—he always did. But that didn’t change the fact that sometimes, bringing it up just felt like pulling the air out of the room.

Steve held the silence for a beat longer before sighing and pushing himself to his feet. “C’mon, I’ll make you some coffee. Not gonna speed up your healing, but at least you’ll have caffeine.”

Bucky snorted softly, shaking his head as he stood up, albeit slower than usual. “You just want an excuse to make me drink that garbage.”

Steve grinned over his shoulder as he walked to the kitchen. “Damn right.”

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching as the coffee machine sputtered and hissed. The faint aroma of burnt beans filled the kitchen—not the best smell, but it was warm, and at least it was something. He turned his head slightly, looking toward Bucky, who had settled at the dining table with a quiet sigh. His movements were careful, still stiff, though he tried not to make it obvious.

Steve poured the coffee into two mismatched mugs and walked over, setting one in front of Bucky before sitting down across from him.

“So,” he started, fingers curling around his own cup, “how’s Jason been doing?”

Bucky exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face before resting his elbow on the table. “Less tense,” he admitted. “Not carrying around the gun or knife, at least. Hasn’t used them either.” He took a sip of coffee before continuing. “Sleeping less, though. And he’s been out of his room more. Spends more time in the living room now.” His brow furrowed slightly as he glanced toward the window, his metal fingers tapping lightly against the ceramic mug.

“That’s a good thing, right?” Steve asked, tilting his head.

Bucky huffed softly. “Maybe. I mean, I like that he’s out more. Doesn’t talk much about himself, but it’s… something. Just sitting there. Existing in the same space.” He let out a slow breath, his jaw tightening. “But I know why he’s doing it.”

Steve frowned slightly. “Because of what happened?”

Bucky gave a small nod. “Yeah. He doesn’t feel comfortable in his room anymore. And I don’t blame him.”

Steve didn’t say anything for a moment, just quietly turning the mug in his hands. Then he shook his head and sighed. “Damn mess, all of this.”

Bucky hummed in agreement, staring into his coffee like it had all the answers. Steve watched him for a beat before shifting slightly in his seat.

“What about you?” he asked. “You doing okay?”

Bucky gave a tired half-smirk as he leaned back a little. “Yeah. I’m good. Ribs’ll heal in a few more days. Hair’ll grow out.” He reached up and ran his flesh fingers through the shorter strands, his smirk fading slightly. “Jason’s the one I’m worried about.”

Steve nodded, waiting for him to go on.

“At first, the excuse was that he might be Hydra,” Bucky muttered, shaking his head slightly. “Now it’s that mixed with that we can’t let a person that could possibly be from another dimension roam around free without knowing anything about them.” He scoffed softly, setting his mug down with a dull thunk. “But it doesn’t sit right with me.”

Steve watched him carefully, his expression unreadable. “You think we should let him go?”

Bucky clenched his jaw, his metal fingers flexing slightly before he shook his head. “No. Not yet.” He exhaled through his nose, rubbing at the tension building in his temple. “But we need to stop treating him like a damn caged animal.”

Steve nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “So what do we do?”

Bucky sighed again, dragging a hand down his face. “Hell if I know.”

He leaned back in his chair, his fingers tightening around the mug as he exhaled through his nose. “I think it is good that we’re keeping him with us,” he admitted, his voice quieter now, more measured. “If Hydra or any other organization finds out about him, they’ll be tearing each other apart trying to get their hands on him. We both know how that would go.”

Steve nodded, his expression grim, but he stayed silent, waiting for Bucky to continue.

“But…” Bucky trailed off for a second, running his tongue over his teeth before shaking his head. “I don’t know, man. It just feels like—” He paused, searching for the right words. “Like he’s got nothing to him right now. No real purpose. No direction.”

Steve frowned slightly, tilting his head. “What do you mean?”

Bucky sighed, setting his mug down. “He just exists in the apartment most days. Gets up, eats, watches whatever’s on TV—doesn’t even seem to care what’s playing, just stares at it. Checks the phone he barely uses. Goes to the gym in the tower for a couple of hours.” He shook his head again, rubbing his temple. “That’s it. That’s all he does.”

Steve’s frown deepened as he listened.

“It’s not even like he’s resting or taking time to adjust,” Bucky continued. “He just… looks bored. Like nothing catches his attention, nothing holds it. He doesn’t talk about what he wants to do because I don’t think he knows what he wants to do other than the time he said he wanted to return home.” He runs his hand down his face “which I’m not sure I even want him to do after seeing how extensive his injuries were when he arrived from said home”

He tapped his fingers against the table, his metal hand making a dull clicking sound. “Jason’s obviously used to doing something. Being out there, being in the middle of things. And now?” His jaw tensed. “Now he’s just stuck here, watching the world move without him.”

Steve let out a quiet breath, nodding in understanding. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I get it.”

Steve exhaled, rubbing his hands together before settling into the chair beside Bucky. “You know Stark would have both our heads if we even suggested Jason join a mission—hell, if he even sits in when we talk about them.” His lips twitched, but it wasn’t amusement, more like frustration. “But…” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I don’t know. The way he’s stuck in that apartment, not knowing anything about this world—it has to be isolating.”

Bucky’s fingers curled around the edge of the table as Steve continued.

“I mean, I felt it too,” Steve admitted, staring at the dark liquid in his cup. “Waking up seventy years later, nothing familiar, no one I knew—it messed with me.” He sighed, shaking his head. “And I wasn’t even in a different dimension like he is.”

Bucky swallowed, nodding slightly.

Steve reached over, his hand resting lightly on Bucky’s shoulder. The touch sent a sharp, electric tingle through Bucky’s nerves, something familiar but different in a way that made his heart pick up pace. He ignored it, forcing himself to focus on Steve’s words instead.

“Maybe you should start telling him about some of the missions we’ve been on,” Steve suggested. “Nothing too crazy, nothing too classified. But just enough for him to feel like he’s involved in something.”

Bucky looked at him, considering.

“…Yeah,” Bucky murmured after a long pause. “Maybe.”

Steve watched Bucky for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression, before his lips quirked up into a smile. He shoved at Bucky’s shoulder—not hard, just enough to make him sway slightly in his chair. “You know,” Steve started, tone laced with amusement, “I think you’ve gone soft since Jason showed up.”

Bucky scoffed, taking a sip of his coffee. “The hell are you talking about?”

Steve leaned back, arms crossing over his chest. “I’m just saying, you never cooked for me as much as you cook for him. It’s a little unfair, considering I’ve known you a hell of a lot longer.”

Bucky gave him a flat look. “Steve, you’re a grown man. You should be able to cook your own damn food by now.”

Steve raised his eyebrows, looking offended. “Jason’s a grown man too!”

Bucky shook his head. “Jason’s still growing.”

“Oh, come on.” Steve threw his hands in the air. “Have you seen him? He’s huge. He’s built like a tank! If that isn’t grown, I don’t know what is. He’s almost as big as us.”

“Almost,” Bucky said, his tone a little smug, which only made Steve huff.

“That’s not the point,” Steve shot back. “The point is, you’re babying him.”

“I’m not babying him,” Bucky muttered, rubbing a hand down his face. “I’m making sure he doesn’t waste away on whatever processed garbage you people keep around here.”

Steve scoffed. “So now you care about healthy eating?”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “I’ve always cared about eating right.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve tilted his head. “You care so much that you snuck out of camp how many times to get chocolate when we were kids?”

“That’s different.”

Steve barked out a laugh. “How is that different?”

“It just is.” Bucky took another sip of his coffee, his expression the same deadpan look he always gave Steve when he was being particularly stupid.

Steve shook his head, still grinning. “You’re ridiculous.”

Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose. “You just now figuring that out?”

“At least Jason gave you a half-assed haircut that doesn’t look terrible,” Steve said, reaching out to push some of Bucky’s hair behind his ear without thinking. “You’d look good with any haircut, though.”

Bucky froze.

And so did Steve.

The conversation had stopped—no more dumb arguments, no more bickering. Just silence.

Steve was close. Too close.

Bucky could feel his breath against his skin, warm and steady, and for a split second, Steve’s eyes flickered down to Bucky’s lips.

Bucky didn’t move at all.

His fingers twitched slightly where they rested against the table, heart hammering in his chest.

Then Steve coughed, abruptly pulling away and stepping back with a too casual laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh—right. You should finish your coffee before it gets cold.”

Bucky says nothing, though his pulse was still pounding in his ears.

Steve turned away quickly, and Bucky just stared at the table, fingers flexing once before curling into a loose fist.

He wills his thoughts to focus on something other than whatever just happened, like what he could tell Jason about…yeah that sounds better. Or what he should make for lunch and dinner, he’s sure stark sent him a couple more cooking tutorial videos and Jason liked the octopus sausages so it must mean that Stark’s approach is working.

he reached for his coffee, lifting it to take another sip.

Steve might suck at cooking but at least he can make a half decent cup of coffee…

Chapter Text

The door shut behind him with a quiet beep as the locking mechanism slid into place. Jason exhaled, tension he hadn’t realized he was holding easing slightly from his shoulders. The apartment was empty. No Bucky. Good, he has time to look through the file before he gets back.

He toed off his boots leaving them at the door and made his way through the space, heading straight for his room. Even knowing it was empty, his body remained on edge the moment he crossed the threshold, every muscle coiling like a wound-up spring. The air inside felt stale, the memory of Natasha pinning him down and shoving a blade at him clinging to the walls like an oil stain. He had changed the sheets, rearranged things on his desk, even started using an air freshener to change how the room smelt, but it didn’t help. It still felt wrong.

Ignoring the unease prickling at his skin, he moved to the desk and set the thin file down, pulling out the chair with a soft scrape. Jason sank into the seat, rubbing at his face before flipping the file open.

Three men stared back at him from their respective profiles, clipped and stapled into place. Senator Ethan Lockwood, Congressman David Hess, Governor Marcus Trask. All three were powerful, well-connected, and had just enough dirt buried in their pasts to be suspicious but not enough to get them charged with anything significant.

He skimmed the initial reports. Lockwood, a seasoned senator with a track record of voting against bills that threatened corporate monopolies, had deep pockets and an even deeper list of private donors. Some of those donors had ties to shell companies that might—might—have Hydra connections. But nothing solid. No paper trails leading directly back to him, no whistleblowers willing to talk. Just speculation and convenient loopholes.

Hess was younger, but just as slippery. His record was spotless on paper, a perfectly curated image of a politician who "fought for the people." But behind the scenes? Associates disappearing, funds being redirected into vague “campaign efforts” with no clear end, backdoor meetings with known operatives from questionable organizations. Again, though, nothing concrete. No proof, just gaps and missing pieces.

Then there was Trask. Of the three, he seemed the most openly corrupt, but also the most protected. A governor with a reputation for being untouchable, always managing to dodge accusations before they gained any real traction. He had connections in law enforcement, intelligence agencies, even the military. There were rumors that some of his personal security detail had former Hydra ties, but rumors weren’t evidence.

Jason huffed, flipping through the pages, scanning for something—anything—that tied these bastards to something real. But that was the problem. It was all just smoke. whoever the hell had compiled this, they knew these men were dirty. They just couldn’t pin them down.

He drummed his fingers against the desk, frustration curling in his chest. If this was all they had, they weren’t going to get anywhere. Bureaucratic assholes like this didn’t make mistakes. They had people covering their tracks, cleaning up messes before they could even be noticed.

Jason leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing at the pages in front of him. exhaling sharply through his nose, he unlocked his phone. If the file had nothing, maybe he could find something himself. He pulled up a search engine and started typing in their names, one by one. Ethan Lockwood. David Hess. Marcus Trask.

News articles, political interviews, photos from events—nothing stood out at first. Just the usual PR bullshit. Shaking hands, smiling at cameras, pretending to care about the people they were screwing over behind closed doors.

He clicked through images, scrolling past photo after photo. Fundraisers. Charity events. Speeches. More fundraisers. Their schedules didn’t seem to overlap much. They weren’t seen together often, if at all. And yet, they were suspected of working for the same organization?

Jason frowned, brows knitting together. That didn’t track.

If Hydra had their claws in them, why weren’t they ever in the same damn room? There should be something—small meetings, background interactions, at least some kind of link. But the more he scrolled, the more it seemed like these three were running in completely separate circles.

Except—

Jason’s scrolling slowed. He barely noticed it at first, just another background detail in a sea of forgettable faces. But as he kept flipping through images, something began to itch at the back of his mind.

A man. Young. Early twenties, maybe.

Jason’s fingers hovered over the screen as his eyes locked onto the face tucked into the background of one of Lockwood’s speeches. He looked out of place among the crowd of polished, aging politicians—clean-cut, dressed sharply, but there was something off about how he carried himself.

Jason scrolled to another image. A fundraiser. There he is again. Standing just a few feet behind Hess this time, watching the cameras instead of the man himself.

His pulse kicked up.

Another image. Another event. Governor Trask, standing at a podium—and there he is again.

Jason sat up straighter, tapping on the screen, zooming in. Who the hell are you?

He swiped between photos, trying to find any indication of who this guy was. There were no clear ties between the three politicians, yet this same man was seen with all of them? That wasn’t a coincidence.

Jason moved to search for him specifically, but it was like trying to grab smoke. No names in captions, no mentions in articles, no tags, no obvious identifiers. Just a shadow in the background.

His frustration mounted as he tried different searches, tweaking keywords, going through event guest lists—nothing.

“Fuck,” Jason muttered under his breath, tossing his phone onto the desk with a dull thud. He ran both hands through his hair, fingers gripping at the strands as he squeezed his eyes shut.

He was getting nowhere.

This should be easy. If he were back home, he’d have one of his men ask about a guy, go through connections, people who owed him favors, hell, even a rouge or two to pull some strings and run a facial recognition scan. He could tap into surveillance, hack into city records, do something.

But here? Here he was just some guy stuck in a tower, armed with nothing but a phone that barely scratched the surface. No tech. No network. No connections. Just his own damn brain and a whole lot of dead ends.

His hands dropped from his hair, resting on his thighs as he took a slow breath. Okay. Think.

He wasn’t useless. Not completely.

But if he wanted to figure this out, he was going to need more than just an internet search. He needed access. He needed a way out. Or someone on the outside.

Jason scoffed, shaking his head, his fingers drumming against his thigh. Someone on the outside. Yeah, that’d be nice. Too bad he didn’t have anyone.

Bucky was out of the question. Not because he wouldn’t help—he probably would—but because Jason knew he would be over bearing, he wouldn’t even let Jason have frozen food. and Jason wasn’t in the mood for a damn lecture.

Steve? Maybe. If he played his cards right. If he could guilt-trip him into it somehow, make him feel bad for how he’d treated Jason so far. But then Natasha’s words slithered into his mind, uninvited.

"Steve’s not exactly fond of him."

Jason’s jaw clenched. His fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palms.

Yeah. No. He wasn’t about to grovel to Captain America…even when Bucky told him that what she said held no actual truth.

Natasha was an obvious no. Stark? Even more so. If Jason asked him for anything, he’d just get a sarcastic remark and a smug expression, and Jason would end up decking him in the face.

there is literally no one-

Thud.

Jason was on his feet before he even processed what he heard, his chair screeching across the floor as he pushed away from the desk. His muscles coiled tight, instincts screaming at him as his eyes darted toward the window. The room wasn’t safe. Not since—

His breath came short and sharp. The curtains blocked his view, but he could see the outline of a man pressed against the glass.

And then—knocking.

Jason’s shoulders tensed, fists curling at his sides. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but when he did recognize it, he almost groaned.

For fuck’s sake.

He didn’t need to pull back the curtain to know who it was. That persistent, too-chipper energy radiated through the damn glass.

Jason did it anyway, scowling as he ripped the curtain aside—

And yep. Just as he thought.

Fucking Spiderman.

The idiot waved at him through the window like they were old pals, like he wasn’t hanging dozens stories in the air with absolutely no concern for his life. Jason’s scowl deepened as his eyes flickered down to the small notepad and pencil in Spider-Man’s hands.

The hell was this now? 

Swear to god, if it’s another ugly sketch of some sad flowers or some shit-

Spiderman , completely unbothered by Jason’s murderous expression, clicked his pen and started writing, nodding to himself before flipping the notepad around.

Jason couldn’t stand him.

It wasn’t just the stupid overly attention grabbing costume or the ridiculous way he moved, like physics were more of a suggestion than a rule. It was the energy. That relentless, easy confidence. That damn enthusiasm. Like nothing ever got to him. Like he didn’t take anything seriously.

like nightwing.

Jason’s fingers twitched. His whole body itched with the desire to slam something in his face. Preferably his fist.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he stood there, glaring at him, feeling his blood pressure rise by the second as he read whatever the hell the idiot had scribbled down.

Jason’s eyes dragged over the note stuck to his window, his scowl deepening with every word.

“You never replied to my last notes. Kinda rude, man.” 

fuck…he even added punctuation and everything.

He exhaled sharply through his nose, giving Spiderman a look before flipping him off without hesitation.

His reaction? A little head tilt, like he was hurt by it. Jason rolled his eyes, hand already reaching for the curtain to shut him out.

He almost did it. Almost yanked the damn thing closed and ended whatever this was supposed to be.

But then, he hesitated.

Wait…

His fingers curled tighter around the fabric. His mind worked fast, gears turning, pieces snapping into place.

This was stupid. He was being stupid. He’d been sitting here, racking his brain for a way to get information, someone on the outside, any damn resource—

And it had been sticking like a damn insect on his window this whole time.

Jason ripped the curtain back open, making Spiderman jolt slightly, his body tensing like he hadn’t expected Jason to actually come back. Jason took a second to process that reaction.

Spiderman wasn’t intimidating. Not in the slightest. Not with that stupid mask or that boy next door energy he had going for him. Jason remembered what he looked like back in the mall—the kind of face that belonged in yearbook superlatives like Most Likely to Lend You a Pencil or some shit. He didn’t even have any actual muscle like Jason did.

Jason didn’t waste time. He grabbed a notepad and pen from his desk and started writing, not bothering to sit down again.

Need your help.

Before he could hold it up, though, there was a light tap against the glass.

Jason’s eyes flicked back to Spider-Man, who was already scribbling something before flipping his own notepad around.

“Y’know, I can hear you through the glass.”

Jason blinked.

Then his brows furrowed, his brain catching up to what the other was implying.

Enhanced hearing. Of course.

Jason already knew Bucky had it, and it made sense for Spiderman to have something similar. That’s what he got for assuming this guy was just some average twink— okay Jason will admit, more like twunk— in a red-and-blue suit.

With an annoyed huff, Jason tossed the pen and notepad back onto his desk and crossed his arms.

“I need your help.”

He watched the way Spiderman’s posture immediately changed. The guy practically vibrated at the words, like a dog being told it was time for a walk.

Jason could see him visibly trying to restrain the excitement, but his mask did nothing to hide the quick twitch of his shoulders and the way he straightened up.

Another note was flipped around.

“Anything.”

Jason eyed the word, the eagerness practically dripping off it.

He had to fight back the urge to smirk.

This might actually work.

Jason didn’t bother sugarcoating it.

“I need you to find out something about someone,” he said, voice low and firm. “Name, job, family—everything.”

Spiderman, who had been practically vibrating with enthusiasm just seconds ago, suddenly stilled.

Jason could tell immediately that this wasn’t what he’d expected. His body language shifted—shoulders no longer bouncing.

He grabbed his notepad, scribbled something, and pressed it to the glass.

“Why?”

Jason’s jaw tightened.

“You don’t need to know,” he said, his tone sharp. “It’s none of your business.”

Spiderman didn’t react right away. He stared at Jason through the mask, his head tilting just slightly, like he was weighing whether or not to push the issue. Jason could see the hesitation creeping in, his fingers tapping absently against the window.

Shit.

Jason couldn’t afford hesitation. He needed this to work. He can’t go back to doing nothing, now that this might end up a dead end for him.

So, he changed tactics.

Jason let his shoulders drop slightly, shifting his expression just enough to make it look like this was a bigger deal than it actually was. His lips parted like he was about to say something, then shut again, like he was hesitating. Thinking. Maybe even struggling to ask for help.

He had been trained by the best in the world—Talia al Ghul among them. She had taught him how to bend people, how to guide them exactly where he needed them to go without them realizing it.

But don’t think about her. Don’t-

His spine stiffened at the stray memory, but he forced it back down.

Instead, he sighed, glancing down like he was reluctant to even be asking this. He let the silence stretch, just long enough to make Spiderman feel guilty for hesitating.

“You just said you’d do anything,” Jason murmured.

Spiderman tensed. Even with the mask, Jason could see the conflict.

It worked.

Spiderman let out what looked like a defeated sigh before giving a short nod.

Jason didn’t allow himself to look too pleased. He simply turned to his desk, and grabbed his phone pulling up the images he’d found earlier. He turned the screen toward Spiderman, tapping the photos to cycle through them.

“This guy.” He pointed at the young man in each image, the one standing close to all three politicians at different times. “Find out everything you can about him.”

Spiderman studied the photos, then nodded.

Spiderman didn’t argue, though Jason could tell he wanted to. Instead, he pulled out his notepad again, probably to confirm the details—except the second he started writing, the wind snatched the paper from his fingers.

Jason watched as Spiderman fumbled spectacularly, twisting and lunging to grab it, only for the damn thing to keep flying further away.

For a long minute, he just… hovered there.

Jason stared at him, unimpressed, eyebrow raised.

Spider-Man eventually turned back to him, visibly awkward as hell, before attempting to communicate with a series of exaggerated nods, thumbs-ups, and jerky hand gestures.

Jason ran a hand down his face.

“Just don’t tell anyone,” he said flatly.

More enthusiastic nodding. A double thumbs-up for good measure.

Then Spiderman shot a web, slinging himself away into the city, disappearing into the skyline.

Jason let out a slow breath.

Well.

That was either the smartest thing he’d done all week… or the dumbest.

Jason grabbed the case file he had shoved aside and carefully put everything back into place, smoothing out the pages before shutting it. He let his eyes flicker around the room, scanning for a hiding spot.

Somewhere Bucky wouldn’t think to check.

Under the bed? Too obvious. Behind the dresser? No. Jason’s gaze landed on the vent near the floor—too cliché.

His eyes narrowed before trailing up to the top of the closet.

There.

Jason grabbed the file, stepped up onto the bed, and reached for the closet shelf. Instead of placing the file on it, he nudged his fingers into the tiny gap between the shelf and the top of the closet, feeling the space widen slightly. The shelf wasn’t fully attached to the walls—there was just enough of a gap to slide the thin file between the wood and the ceiling.

It took a bit of maneuvering, but he wedged it in securely. Even if someone checked the shelf, they wouldn’t see it unless they actively pried the entire thing off the wall.

Perfect.

He stepped back down, taking a deep breath—only to nearly jump out of his skin when his phone started ringing.

“Shit—” He fumbled for it, heart slamming against his ribs as he grabbed at the device. He didn’t even realize he had been holding his breath until he saw the caller ID.

Bucky.

Jason ran a hand down his face, trying to settle himself before answering. He kept his voice as neutral as possible, though it still came out a little awkward.

“Yeah?”

“What’re you doing?” Bucky’s voice was steady, casual.

Jason shifted, glancing at the closet like the damn file was still out in the open. “Uh… just in my room.”

Bucky hummed like he was thinking about something. “Did you explore the tower today?”

Jason hesitated.

Technically, he had been out of the apartment. Just… not in the way Bucky might expect.

He forced himself to sound casual. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Bucky prompted, waiting.

Jason scrambled for something believable. His fingers curled against his pants. “Talked to Banner for a bit.”

“That’s good.” Bucky sounded approving. “You should socialize more.”

Jason rolled his eyes. “You sound like a damn therapist.”

That earned him a quiet huff of amusement.

“What else?” Bucky asked.

Jason froze for half a second.

Why was this hard?

He had never had trouble lying before. It was second nature, instinctive. He had lied to Bru—to Batman—without hesitation, to the other Bats, to everyone he had ever worked with.

But for some reason, right now, with Bucky, the words felt stuck.

Jason clenched his jaw. Get it together.

“I—” He caught himself, voice faltering slightly. He swallowed hard and forced a hurried, dismissive, “Not much.”

A second of silence.

Jason’s stomach twisted before Bucky finally spoke again. “I’ll be back soon.”

Jason nodded even though Bucky couldn’t see it. “Alright.”

A beat. Then they both mumbled goodbyes before the line went dead.

Jason let out a slow, steadying breath, staring at the phone in his hand.

He didn’t like this. The hesitation. The weight in his chest. The way his mind had immediately gone back to Batman like a live wire sparking in his brain.

Jason wasn’t scared of him. He wasn’t.

His fingers tightened around the phone.

He shoved the thought aside.

________________________

Bucky shuts off his phone, his fingers lingering on the device for a second longer than necessary before slipping it into his pocket. When he turns back, Steve is still standing near the dining table, hands curled loosely around his coffee cup.

"I need to get back to the tower," Bucky says, already reaching for his shirt to put it back on.

Steve’s expression doesn’t change much, but Bucky catches the subtle shift in his shoulders—the way they drop just slightly, like a quiet exhale of disappointment. He doesn’t call attention to it, though.

"You could at least finish your coffee first," Steve says, a casual enough statement, but Bucky knows him too well. He’s trying not to show that he’d rather Bucky stay a little longer.

Bucky hesitates, then pulls his shirt on anyway. "Jason sounded weird on the phone," he explains. "I need to check on him."

Steve doesn’t argue. He just nods, setting his coffee down, fingers tapping idly against the rim of the mug.

Bucky shifts on his feet, After a pause, he clears his throat. "Pretty sure he wouldn’t mind if you joined us for dinner this week."

Steve blinks, caught off guard. His eyebrows lift just slightly, and for a second, Bucky thinks he’s going to ask if he’s serious. But instead, Steve’s mouth curls into something small, something pleased but not over the top. He just nods.

"Yeah?"

Bucky shrugs, adjusting his sleeve. "Yeah."

Steve’s quiet for a moment, but the shift in his posture is obvious this time. His disappointment from earlier is gone, replaced by something lighter. He picks up his coffee again, taking a slow sip before setting it back down.

"I’ll look forward to it, then," Steve says simply.

They stare at each other for a long minute, something hanging in the air between them. Then Bucky nods, gripping the doorknob. "I’ll see you later."

"Take care of yourself, Buck," Steve replies.

Bucky doesn’t look back as he steps out, but the warmth in Steve’s voice follows him all the way to the elevator.

________________________

Bucky walked through the front doors of the tower, the cool air-conditioning washing over him as he stepped inside. The plastic bag in his grip crinkled slightly, the weight of the ice cream pint shifting with each step. Vanilla—simple, no fuss. Maybe it’d do something to lighten Jason’s mood, whatever mood he was in.

It was a dumb thought, maybe. Ice cream didn’t fix shit. But back in the day, when he and Steve were just two scrawny kids scraping by, it had been enough.

He could still remember it, clear as day—the way they’d sit on the curb outside the corner store, splitting a single scoop between them because that was all they could afford. Steve, always stubborn, always insisting Bucky take the bigger half. Bucky pretending not to notice when Steve shivered through the last few bites, his small frame no match for the chill, even in the summer.

The thought softened something in Bucky’s chest.

Shaking it off, he reached the elevator, giving a nod to the receptionist as he passed her.

The elevator doors slid open, and he stepped inside, pressing the button to his floor. As the doors shut, he leaned back against the wall, exhaling through his nose.

Then the elevator jerked to a stop.

Bucky immediately tensed, his grip tightening around the bag. Instead of moving up, the panel indicated they were descending.

He frowned, pressing his floor button again. Nothing.

Before he could try again, Jarvis’s smooth, artificial voice cut through the silence.

"Sergeant Barnes, your presence has been requested with haste by Mr. Stark."

Bucky closed his eyes briefly, inhaling through his nose before exhaling slowly. "Tell Stark he can wait until I put the damn ice cream away before it melts."

"I'm afraid that will not be possible," Jarvis replied.

Bucky clenched his jaw. "Jarvis—"

"Mr. Nicholas Fury is waiting as well."

Bucky stiffened, his back snapping straight as instinct took over. That was a name that demanded attention. What the hell is the head of S.H.I.E.L.D doing here?

Fury’s presence meant very few things, none of them good.

His hand flexed at his side, fingers twitching like they wanted to wrap around someone’s throat and squeeze.

"Mr. Rogers has also been notified and is en route," Jarvis added.

A cold weight settled in Bucky’s gut.

Silent, he gave a single nod as the elevator reached its destination, the doors sliding open with a mechanical hiss.

The Mission Control floor was dimly lit, monitors casting a bluish glow against steel walls. Stark stood with his arms crossed, expression unreadable. Beside him, Nick Fury was a looming figure of authority, hands clasped behind his back, one eye sharp and calculating.

And Natasha.

Her gaze locked onto him the second he stepped out, as impassive as ever, but Bucky knew her well enough to see the tension in her stance yet he can also notice her eyes softening slightly when they landed on him. Whatever this was, it wasn’t routine.

The air was thick, heavy with something unspoken.

"Alright," he said, voice flat. "What’s going on?"

Bucky stepped fully into the room, walking to stand besides Natasha, preferring to stand. Ext to her than next to stark. setting the plastic bag down by his feet, forgotten. His gaze flicked to the elevator as it dinged, announcing another arrival.

Steve stepped out, expression unreadable, but he gave Bucky a nod in greeting—like they hadn’t just been sitting across from each other less than an hour ago.

Nick Fury wasted no time. "Barnes. Rogers," he acknowledged, motioning for one of the staff to hand him a file. "We’ve been tracking Hydra activity, as always, but we’ve been looking in the wrong places. Too focused on the big movements. What we didn’t notice were the smaller ripples underneath."

Steve folded his arms, brows drawn together. "If it’s small, and it didn’t matter, then we wouldn’t be here."

Natasha, standing with her arms crossed, let out a sharp breath. "It was stupid to ignore them in the first place. Anything involving Hydra is a problem, no matter the size."

Bucky remained silent, listening, but his eyes flicked to Stark. The man hadn’t said a word since he walked in, and that alone made something in Bucky’s gut tighten. A quiet Stark, one without a single quip or snide remark, was a rare sight.

This was bad.

Fury gave Natasha a curt nod. "She’s right. We should’ve paid more attention. Because now, looking at the bigger picture, those smaller movements weren’t just random. They were steps leading to something." He opened the file, flipping through it with practiced efficiency. "Two nights ago, one of our compounds was hit. A research site in Pennsylvania. It wasn’t public knowledge, wasn’t on any official records—meant to be untouchable."

Bucky’s jaw clenched.

"They knew it was there," Fury continued. "Went in with purpose. No alarms tripped. No distress signals sent out. By the time our people realized what was happening, the whole place had been gutted. Everyone inside was killed."

Steve inhaled sharply, but didn’t speak.

"They didn’t just want bodies," Fury said, flipping a page. "They took the scientists. Left the agents dead and dragged the researchers with them. By the time backup arrived, they were gone. But"—he paused, glancing up—"they weren’t fast enough to cover their tracks completely. A satellite picked up a trail. We’re tracking it now."

Silence settled over the room, heavy and suffocating.

Bucky’s fingers twitched at his side. His metal arm feeling heavier at his side, body locked tight. It’s been quite a while since he was personally involved in dealing with hydra. These past few months S.H.I.E.L.D had taken over the entire thing. While it had bothered him at first, he was…busier now with something—someone—else, not having time to think much of hydra and what they were doing.

now he can’t ignore it anymore.  

Nick Fury closed the file. "This isn’t just another hit. It’s calculated. Hydra’s up to something, and we need to figure out what before it’s too late."

Nick Fury’s gaze shifts to Bucky, sharp and expectant. "You got any ideas on what Hydra might want with those scientists?"

There’s a beat of silence before Natasha scoffs, arms crossing tight over her chest. “Why ask him?” Her voice is sharp, defensive. “He’s not with them anymore. He wouldn’t know what they’re up to.”

For the first time, Stark speaks up. "I’m gonna have to agree. I’m not in the mood for any disrespect or insinuations about someone on my team." His voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it.

Nick Fury doesn’t waver. He just keeps his focus on Bucky, steady as ever. “I asked because I thought he might have insight—because he knows how they work, what they prioritize. You all should know me better than to act defensive with me. If I wanted to accuse someone of something, I’d say it outright.”

Bucky takes a breath, keeping his expression unreadable. He thinks. Runs through the possibilities. Then, finally, he speaks.

“There’s only a few things I can think of,” he says, voice steady, calculated. “One, they want them to recreate the serum. Steve’s serum.” He doesn’t have to look at Steve to know he’s gone tense beside him. “Two, they need them to make or modify tech—something from S.H.I.E.L.D. or Stark, maybe. Some of those scientists have probably worked under or with Stark before.”

Nick nods slightly, considering. “The serum angle makes the most sense,” he says after a moment. “No one can replicate Stark’s work except Stark himself, and even if they could, it wouldn’t stand a chance against the real thing.” He pauses, frowning. “But none of these scientists have ever worked on the serum. They wouldn’t know where to start.”

The room falls quiet for a second, the weight of that realization settling in. Something isn’t adding up.

And Bucky doesn’t like it.

Steve leans forward slightly, brows drawn together. “Then what were the scientists working on?”

Nick Fury hesitates. It’s brief, but it’s there. Then, with a measured tone, he answers. “They were conducting research alongside Doctor Strange himself. A handful of them had reached out to study interdimensional and multiversal travel—without the use of magic.”

There’s a shift in the room, something tense and unspoken crackling between them.

Stark looks up sharply, his casual stance gone in an instant. “That’s news to me,” he says, voice serious. “And if that kind of thing was possible, I’d have already built it.”

Nick nods once. “I thought the same. It should be impossible. But Hydra might not think so.”

Natasha frowns. “Why would they even care about other dimensions?”

Steve shakes his head, exasperated. “What could they gain from that?”

The discussion unfolds, questions and theories thrown between the four of them—Nick, Steve, Natasha, and Stark. None of them settle on anything concrete, frustration mounting as the pieces refuse to fit together.

Bucky stays silent. He watches, listens, his mind working through the possibilities. Something cold settles in his gut. He knows how Hydra thinks. How they survive.

And then, finally, he speaks.

“They’re running out of options,” he says, his voice cutting through the conversation. The room falls silent as all eyes snap to him. He keeps his expression blank, but his grip tightens at his sides. “Their numbers are smaller. We’ve been hunting them down. Every time they try to rebuild, they’re taken out before they can get anywhere. They know they can’t keep this up.”

Realization starts settling in. He can see it in the way Stark’s jaw tightens, the way Natasha shifts, brows furrowing.

“They want to start over,” Bucky continues. “Somewhere else. Somewhere we can’t reach them.”

The weight of the words sinks in, pressing heavy over the room. If Hydra manages to pull this off, if they do find a way—then it won’t just be this world dealing with their poison. It’ll be every world they can sink their claws into.

Stark is the first to break the heavy silence. “If they think this is possible, then they must’ve been working on something like it before.” His tone is clipped, frustrated. “Hydra’s not exactly known for taking wild shots in the dark. They must know something we don’t—some research, a breakthrough, something that makes them think this is doable.”

Nick exhales slowly, his one good eye sharp as he considers Stark’s words. “Well, we don’t know shit,” he says bluntly. “And we won’t know shit unless we get our hands on one of these Hydra bastards. So unless we have someone around here who just so happens to know anything about traveling dimensions without the use of magic or has experienced it…” He pauses, looking at each of them expectantly. “Then we’ll just have to sit in the dark until we do.”

Silence.

It lasts long enough for Nick to notice something shift in the room. The way Stark crosses his arms, the way Natasha’s lips press into a thin line. But it’s Steve’s reaction that stands out—the slight clench of his jaw, the flicker of defeat in his eyes.

And all of them? They’re looking at Bucky.

Bucky doesn’t need them to say it. He already knows.

His entire body goes rigid, a deadly storm flickering in his expression.

Nick’s gaze sharpens. “Something I need to know?”

It’s Stark who answers when the others don’t. “We… might have someone like that.”

Bucky’s head snaps toward him so fast it’s a miracle something doesn’t break. His voice is low, deadly. “Jason has nothing to do with this.”

Nick’s eye narrows slightly, but his posture remains perfectly even. “And why are you so sure of that?”

Bucky steps forward, his metal arm shifting slightly with the movement. “Because I would know,” he grits out. “If Jason was Hydra, if he was one of them, I would know.”

Nick hums. “So his name is Jason.”

Bucky’s eyes darken. “We’re not questioning him.”

Nick’s voice is calm, level. “That’s not up to you.”

“Yes, it is,” Bucky snaps, his voice like ice.

Nick doesn’t react immediately. He just studies Bucky for a long, assessing moment before he speaks again, tone cool. “You got a hell of a blind spot for this kid, Barnes.”

Bucky moves.

It’s a shift, barely more than a step forward, but there’s something dangerous about it. The air in the room shifts, tension spiking as his metal fingers curl into a tight fist, the plates flexing in a way that suggests violence barely being held back.

Nick stays where he is, unflinching, but Natasha has subtly shifted just enough to be in position if she needs to act. Stark’s hands twitch, like he’s considering going for something but isn’t sure if it’s necessary yet.

And Steve—

Steve moves as well.

He steps between them, his hand coming up, firm but non-threatening. “Buck.”

Bucky’s eyes snap to Steve’s, wild with fury.

Steve doesn’t back down, doesn’t move away. He just looks at him, steady. “Don’t.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches so hard it aches. The tension in his frame doesn’t fade, but his fists slowly, slowly unfurl.

A long silence stretches between them all. Then Nick exhales through his nose, adjusting his stance slightly. “We are going to talk to him,” he says evenly. “That’s not a threat. That’s a fact.”

Bucky glares at him, but this time, he doesn’t move. He just stands there, radiating silent fury.

Nick nods once, like that’s settled. Then he turns slightly, eyes flicking to Steve. “Get your boy under control, Rogers.”

Bucky’s lip curls, but Steve doesn’t let him react.

Nick’s expression remains unreadable as he speaks. “It can’t be a coincidence that this Jason appears with what I assume is seemingly no magic involved, and now Hydra decides to take scientists who have been working on dimensional travel. I will get answers, and it will not be up to you whether I do or not.” His tone is firm, final, like he isn’t used to being argued with.

Bucky’s fingers twitch, his metal arm clenching into a fist at his side. His whole body is coiled, ready for a fight, and it takes everything in him to stay rooted in place. He doesn’t like this—doesn’t like Nick even thinking about questioning Jason, doesn’t like the way the conversation is heading. He keeps his gaze locked on Fury, unblinking, jaw clenched so tight it’s a wonder his teeth don’t crack.

Before he can say something that will make things worse, Steve steps in, his voice steady but carrying that same undeniable authority that’s kept people listening to him for years. “I understand why you need to question Jason,” he says, his words careful. “But you need to understand that Jason is under Bucky’s care. And whether or not you agree with it, everyone here has grown to respect that or in some cases at least tolerate it. So if you want our cooperation, you’ll do the same.”

The weight of the words lingers in the room. Nick looks between them, assessing, but Steve doesn’t waver. Neither does Bucky. The tension is thick, unspoken challenges hanging in the air.

It’s clear that while Nick might not like it, he’ll Bucky understand why, dozens of his people were killed, but he won’t get far without the rest of them backing him.

Nick lets the silence settle before he speaks again, his tone measured but firm. “Alright. Since Barnes is so against it, I won’t personally question him.” His gaze flicks between them, lingering on Bucky, assessing the tension that still coils in his shoulders. “But I doubt any of you will be able to look at this objectively. Whether you like the man or not, your judgment might be clouded because of your relationship with Barnes.”

Bucky bristles immediately, stepping forward before Steve subtly places a hand near his chest—not touching, just a warning. Nick doesn’t even acknowledge the movement.

“I want someone else questioning him,” Fury continues. “Someone with no prior knowledge of him. And since he could be lying, I’m not going to take any chances. I want Wanda Maximoff here to look into his mind.”

Bucky’s fists clench. “Absolutely not.”

Nick raises a brow. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”

“You think you can just force your way into his mind?” Bucky’s voice is low, sharp, like a blade pressed against a throat. “You think I’m just going to let you do that?”

“If he has nothing to hide, then there’s no problem,” Nick says evenly. “If he’s telling the truth, then we’ll all sleep better at night.”

“You don’t get it,” Bucky snaps, taking another step forward. “He’s not some random suspect for you to interrogate. He’s mine” the last word forced out with possessiveness painting it. “You don’t know what he’s been through, and I’m not going to let you rip through his head like it’s some open book for your convenience.”

“Bucky.” Steve’s voice is pointed. A warning.

Fury exhales sharply. “I’m not asking Wanda to rip through anything,” he says. “I want her to look. And she won’t know about his relationship with you or any of them beforehand. That way, she’s not biased.”

Bucky shakes his head, his jaw tight. “No. Find another way.”

“I am finding another way,” Nick says. “One that doesn’t involve putting blind faith in a guy none of us know, who just so happens to land in our world the exact same time Hydra is trying to figure out how to cross dimensions, this isn’t a damn coincidence.”

Natasha, who’s been mostly silent, finally speaks up. “I don’t like it either, but Nick has a point.”

Bucky turns to her sharply, his expression one of pure betrayal.

She holds his gaze, unreadable. “If it was anyone else, you’d be questioning them too.”

Bucky’s breathing is heavy, uneven, his mind racing. He doesn’t trust anyone in his own damn head, and now they want to put someone inside Jason’s? It makes his skin crawl. He can’t- no, he won’t-

Steve exhales. “Bucky.”

He looks at him, and for a moment, there’s nothing but silence between them. Steve’s expression is steady, unwavering. Trust me, it says.

Bucky swallows down the rage bubbling under his ribs. His metal fist flexes, his whole body tense with the force of keeping himself in check. Then, finally, through gritted teeth, he says, “Fine.”

Nick nods, satisfied. “I’ll call her in.”

Chapter Text

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. The only sound was the faint hum of the refrigerator and the occasional soft clink of a spoon against the plastic pint of ice cream sitting between them. It had melted a little, turning into more of a thick, sugary soup than anything else, but neither of them seemed to care.

Jason stole a glance at Bucky. The guy looked... off. Not that Bucky wasn’t normally reserved—he was. But usually, there was at least some effort to break the silence, however awkward it might be. Tonight? Nothing. No small talk, no tired attempts at conversation. Just the occasional glance down at the ice cream, his metal fingers resting idly against his knee, his flesh hand loosely gripping the spoon.

he was wearing the red hoodie Jason had given him. The matching one Jason had for himself, the one he was wearing right now as well. It shouldn’t have made his chest feel weirdly tight, but it did. Bucky's hair was a mess, pulled into a half-assed ponytail that was already slipping apart, strands of brown falling loose around his face. The whole thing made Jason feel... off-balance. He didn’t like that.

The silence stretched, thick and unmoving. Jason shifted uncomfortably, scraping the spoon against the sides of the pint just to make some kind of noise. Then, before he could stop himself, he cleared his throat—loud, too loud in the quiet—and said the first thing that came to mind.

“So, uh… trouble in paradise?”

Bucky blinked at him. His expression was blank, unreadable. “What?”

Jason rolled his shoulders, suddenly wishing he’d just kept his damn mouth shut. “You know, relationship problems. You and Steve, That why you look like you just got hit by a truck?”

Bucky stared. Jason almost regretted speaking. Then Bucky, still staring, said, flat as hell, “I’m not in a relationship.”

Jason frowned, pausing mid-bite. “Wait, seriously?”

Bucky didn’t react, just lifted another spoonful of melted ice cream and let it drop back into the container, his gaze distant. “Yeah.”

Jason let out a short breath, trying to process that. “Huh.”

He’d just… assumed. He figured Bucky and Steve were at least on their way to being a thing, if not official yet. The way Steve looked at him, the way Bucky always seemed to drift toward Steve, even when he didn’t realize it—it was obvious. Or at least, Jason thought it was.

sure at first he thought they were just good friends- who was he kidding, no he didn’t- but seeing them interact the very rare times he sees Steve…well you can’t blame a guy for assuming after that.

“So… you and Steve,” Jason started slowly, watching Bucky carefully, “you’re not—?”

“It’s complicated.”

Jason blinked. The words were quiet, but firm.

“…Right.” He scraped at the ice cream again, suddenly unsure what to say. “Complicated. Got it.”

Bucky didn’t say anything. He just stared down at the pint, spoon turning over absently in his fingers. Jason had expected—hell, he didn’t know what he expected. Some kind of snarky comeback? A dry remark? Instead, he just got this tight, almost reluctant quiet, like Bucky wasn’t even sure if he wanted to be having this conversation at all.

And for some reason, that made Jason feel even more awkward.

He bit the inside of his cheek. Normally, he’d push. But tonight? He let it drop.

The silence returned, heavier than before.

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose, rolling his shoulders before digging his spoon into the ice cream again. The silence between them felt too heavy, pressing down on his chest like a weight he couldn’t shake. He wasn’t good with this—just sitting in whatever this was, he was used to getting it from other people, not bucky.

So, he tried again.

“I was thinking about going to the range tomorrow.”

Bucky didn’t look up. He barely even moved, still toying with his spoon, watching melted ice cream drip from it like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

Jason waited a beat. Nothing.

He licked his teeth, then added, “Figured maybe you’d come with.”

Bucky’s fingers twitched slightly against the metal of the spoon. It was small—barely even noticeable—but Jason caught it.

Still, Bucky didn’t look at him. “Not a good time.”

Jason frowned. “Why not?”

Bucky finally lifted his head, eyes dark. He stared for a moment before shaking his head slightly. “Just isn’t.”

Jason tightened his grip around his spoon, tapping it lightly against the rim of the container. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting—maybe a yes, maybe some excuse—but not this. Not the same distant, detached quiet Bucky had wrapped himself in all night.

He exhaled, sitting back against the couch. he muttered, more to himself than anything. “Just figured it’d be better than sitting around here doing nothing.”

Bucky said nothing. Didn’t even react.

Jason clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to press, to demand an actual answer.

Still, he couldn’t stop himself from trying one last time. “It’s just a test run,” he said, deliberately casual. “Wanted to see how the gun black widow gave me works.”

Something flickered across Bucky’s face then, something quick and hard to pin down. But just as fast as it came, it was gone, swallowed back into that same unreadable expression.

“Not a good time,” Bucky repeated.

That was it. No further explanation, no indication that the conversation would go anywhere else.

Jason sat there, spoon in hand, poking at the half-melted ice cream. His eyes flicked up to Bucky again. Still nothing. The guy had barely spoken a word since he got back, just short, clipped responses.

Something was wrong.

Jason's mind ran through the possibilities. Did Bucky somehow find out about him sneaking into the intel archives? No—he couldn’t have. Unless… Banner told him? No, that didn't make sense. If Banner had a problem with Jason sneaking in there, Jason would have been able to notice it in his body language… right?

Yeah. Yeah, that had to be it.

Then what the hell was it? What else did he do? He racked his brain, trying to figure out what could have put Bucky in this kind of mood. The answer wasn’t coming to him, and Jason didn’t like the feeling creeping up his spine.

He should just ask. That was the rational thing to do, right? Just ask. Bucky would tell him. He wouldn’t keep it to himself—not like Bru—

Jason clenched his jaw.

Not like Batman.

Bucky wasn’t like them. He wasn’t. He was good to Jason. He gave a damn. He wouldn't pull the same cold, silent treatment that Jason was all too familiar with.

Right?

Jason can’t handle anymore dinners full of tense silence, where someone sat across from him and made him feel like a ghost at his own table. He was supposed to be past that. He had enough of that back home, enough of it to last him a damn lifetime. He couldn’t—

The words were out before he even realized.

"You pissed at me?"

Bucky blinked, startled out of his thoughts. His head snapped up. “What?”

Jason narrowed his eyes. “You mad at me? Because you sure as hell are acting like you are.”

Bucky’s brows furrowed, confusion flashing across his face. “No. Of course not.”

Jason didn’t believe him. His grip on the spoon tightened. “Then why the hell are you acting like I killed your damn dog?”

Bucky, ever the literal one, frowned slightly. “I don’t have a dog.”

Jason grit his teeth. His chest tightened, his breath growing uneven, frustration flaring. “That’s not the point, Barnes.” His voice sharpened, his hands flexing. His vision blurred slightly at the edges, green flickering at the corners of his eyes. A creeping heat settled in his stomach, something that made his pulse thrum too hard against his skin.

The pit.

Bucky noticed. Of course he did.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like that,” he said, voice lower. “Something happened, that’s all. You don’t need to worry about it.”

Jason narrowed his eyes. “Bullshit.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, but before he could say anything else, Jason pushed on.

“What, is this because I haven’t been talking as much since what happened with Black Widow?” His voice had an edge to it now, but not like before—not angry. Just frustrated. “If it’s bothering you that bad, you should’ve just said something. I would’ve— I don’t know, started talking more, or something.” He gestured vaguely, exasperated. “But this? Acting like I actually did something wrong when apparently I didn’t? This doesn’t make any damn sense.”

Bucky frowned, about to say something else, but Jason was already moving past it, his breath coming quicker, his mind racing ahead of him.

“You can’t— You can’t treat me like the others.”

Bucky straightened slightly, confused. “Jason, I won’t. The others, they’re just trying—”

“No!” Jason’s voice cracked slightly as he cut him off. His chest was rising and falling too fast now, his hands curling into fists. “Not them! Not Stark, not Steve, not Natasha—my family. You can’t—”

He sucked in a sharp breath, but it didn’t help. His pulse was thrumming in his ears now, the room feeling too tight, too small. It wasn’t Bucky sitting across from him anymore—it was Bruce, it was Dick, it was all of them, staring him down, waiting for him to slip up, waiting for him to be the problem again.

He couldn't— He wouldn’t go through that again.

Jason isn’t sure when his heart started pounding in his ears, but he can hear it now, an ugly, thrumming rhythm that only makes everything feel heavier.

god he wants to hit something.

Break someone.

god it’s been what feels like forever since he cracked someone skull.

the green painted his vision. He tried to reel it in.

Bucky is looking at him with his brow drawn, his mouth slightly parted like he’s piecing something together but doesn’t know where to start. It makes Jason’s stomach churn.

“Your family?” Bucky finally says, slowly, carefully.

Jason’s fingers twitch against the edge of the table. “No,” he snaps, quick, sharp. “They aren’t.”

Bucky’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes shifts. “They aren’t?” he repeats, just as slow.

Jason’s mouth opens, then closes. His throat tightens. “They were,” he says instead.

Bucky tilts his head slightly. “So they aren’t anymore.”

Jason nods. Then shakes his head. His jaw clenches. “I don’t know.” His voice grits out between his teeth. “Maybe I deserved it.”

The ice cream is completely forgotten now, the pint sitting between them on the table. Jason stares at the spoon in his grip, the way his fingers are curled too tightly around it, the metal already bending from his too tightly grip. His thoughts spiral fast, one bleeding into the next before he can stop them.

Bucky is quiet.

Jason’s fingers twitch again. Right. He’s realizing it now, too, isn’t he? That Jason isn’t worth it. That he’s too much. Too much trouble, too much effort, too much of a fucking mess.

His chest constricts, something sharp clawing up his throat as he shoves back from the table abruptly, the spoon slipping from his fingers and clattering onto the table.

“You’re supposed to not be like them,” he spits, and he hates the way his voice catches, the way his breath feels too short, like something is crushing his ribs inward. “You aren’t like them. You’re good.” His fists curl at his sides. “And yeah, they’re good too. Technically. Their heroes for fucke sake, hero’s are good— just not to me, never me.” His breath stutters. “But you—”

His words cut off as Bucky suddenly moves, standing and rounding the table toward him. His movements aren’t quick or aggressive—nothing about him is—but it still makes Jason’s stomach lurch, makes the voices in his head set off alarms.

He doesn’t look like he knows what to do. His mouth is pressed into a tight line, his shoulders are drawn up slightly, his jaw tense. But there’s something else there, too, in his face, in his eyes—something uncertain.

God he isn’t being fair to Bucky is he? Jason can’t deal with his own self, the rare times he has a fucking breakdown. and here he is doing what, exactly? Expecting Bucky to…comfort him? Make these thoughts, these voices stop? God he’s pathetic.

Jason swallows hard, standing frozen as Bucky stops a few feet from him. He’s just standing there, looking at him like he’s trying to figure out what to say next.

Jason knows what he’s going to say.

He knows exactly what’s coming.

He knows because he’s been telling himself the same damn thing for years. Because he’s heard it before. Because he knows, knows, what people eventually decide about him when they get too close.

He isn’t worth it.

He waits for Bucky to say it.

Jason stares at Bucky’s chest, his breath uneven. He’s still waiting for it—the words he’s sure will come. The confirmation of what he already knows, what he’s heard before, what he’s spent years convincing himself of.

But then Bucky speaks.

“What happened with Natasha isn’t your fault.”

Jason clenches his jaw so tightly his teeth ache. His shoulders stiffen, his fingers curling at his sides. His mouth opens, the sharp retort already forming, ready to argue, to tell Bucky he doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about. But Bucky doesn’t let him get a word in.

“What happened with Steve and Stark? Also not your fault.”

Jason swallows, hard. His stomach twists. He wants to argue, wants to tell Bucky he’s full of shit, that there’s no way he’s just going to let him off the hook for any of that. He ran from the Tower. He didn’t listen. He made things worse. That’s on him. He knows it is. But then—

“When you ran from the Tower, that wasn’t your fault either.”

Jason sucks in a sharp breath, his fingers twitching.

Bucky’s voice is steady, firm but not unkind. “Everything you’ve done since you got here? You were reacting to something someone else did to you. I’m not angry at you, Jason. I would never blame you for any of it.”

Jason doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until his chest starts to ache. He exhales sharply, staring down at the floor, at Bucky’s boots, anywhere but his face. The words settle in his stomach uncomfortably, like they don’t quite fit. Like they aren’t meant for him.

Bucky pauses before continuing, his tone quieter but just as resolute. “And something tells me that what happened to you before you came here wasn’t your fault either.”

Jason’s breath stutters. He’s silent for a long moment, his mind racing, his thoughts spiraling too fast for him to latch onto anything concrete. His throat feels tight, like his body is rejecting the words before he can even speak them. Finally, he forces something out.

“You might be wrong.”

Bucky doesn’t flinch. “Am I?”

Jason lets out a sharp, humorless breath. “I’ve killed people.” His voice is low, bitter. “I’ve tortured people. I’ve done shit that should put me behind bars forever.”

Bucky is quiet for a long moment, and Jason doesn’t know if he prefers that silence or hates it. Then, finally, Bucky speaks.

“You’re smart,” he says, and Jason tenses at the shift in his voice. “You must have at least heard about what I’ve done. Or some of it, at least.”

Jason’s eyes flicker upward, finally meeting Bucky’s face. The older man’s expression is unreadable, but his eyes are sharp, unwavering.

Bucky exhales slowly. “No matter what you’ve done, you’ll always be a better person than me.”

Jason’s fingers twitch again. He shakes his head. “That’s not true.”

Bucky’s expression doesn’t change. “It is.”

Jason’s jaw clenches. “It’s not.”

Bucky doesn’t argue. Instead, he simply states, “No matter what I do, I will always be worse than you.”

the green, he doesn’t know when it disappeared from his vision. But it’s gone now. The voices stopped, the alarms going off in his head did as well.

Jason is silent for a long minute, his thoughts churning. He doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t know how to process the certainty in Bucky’s voice, the way he says it like it’s an undeniable fact. Jason isn’t used to people believing in him. Not like this. Not when he doesn’t deserve it.

His fingers curl at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. Finally, he mutters, “You’re the person who’s treated me the kindest in years.”

Bucky’s brow furrows slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“You’re not bad,” Jason continues, his voice quieter now, but still laced with frustration. “Besides… no matter what I do, if we were back in my universe, people would still think you deserve more of a chance at redemption than I ever would.”

Bucky’s jaw tightens slightly, but he stays quiet.

“So,” Jason says, his voice bitter, his chest aching, “you’ve got to be better than me.”

Silence stretches between them. Jason forces himself to hold Bucky’s gaze, waiting for a reaction, waiting for the moment Bucky finally gets it—finally understands that Jason isn’t worth this much effort.

But then Jason sees the shift in Bucky’s face. His expression hardens, his lips pressing into a firm line, his eyes darkening—not with judgment or pity, but something else. Something heavier.

Anger.

Jason stiffens, suddenly unsure if it’s directed at him.

He opens his mouth to ask, but before he can, Bucky speaks.

“Get your things.”

Jason blinks. “What?”

Bucky’s voice is firm. “We’re leaving the Tower.”

Jason blinked at Bucky, unsure if he heard correctly. Leave? Now? His brain struggled to keep up with what the hell was going on as Bucky turned away from him and headed for his room.

“What?” Jason called after him, stepping forward but hesitating before following. “Wait—what the hell do you mean, we’re leaving?”

Bucky didn’t answer, disappearing into his room. Jason heard the closet door open, followed by the sound of fabric rustling. Bucky reappeared a moment later, shrugging on a jacket, his expression unreadable. He stopped in front of Jason, looking him dead in the eyes.

“Get your stuff. Whatever you want to take with you. We’re going.”

Jason crossed his arms. “Going where?”

“Somewhere else.”

“That’s not a fucking answer.” Jason’s brows furrowed, irritation creeping into his voice. “Why the hell are we leaving?”

Bucky exhaled slowly, like he was holding something back. “It doesn’t matter why.” He turned sharply, striding past Jason. “I’m not letting them touch you.”

Jason’s heart stuttered for a second, confusion flaring. What the hell was Bucky talking about? He pivoted on his heel, watching as Bucky disappeared into his room. He heard the sounds of drawers opening and closing before Bucky’s voice carried out to him. “Where’s the gun and blade Natasha gave you?”

Jason threw up his hands. “Under my pillow—what the fuck is happening, man?”

Bucky reappeared, weapons in hand. He checked the gun, movements quick and mechanical, before shoving it into his belt and pocketing the blade.

Jason felt his pulse quicken. “Bucky, seriously, what the hell is going on?”

“You should be happy,” Bucky said, not looking at him. “I thought you’d be glad to get out of here.”

Jason scowled. “I—what? I was supposed to stay here so they could figure out how to send me back home!”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “And you just said the people back home wouldn’t give you a chance at redemption! So why the fuck would you want to go back?”

Jason took a step forward, anger flaring. “That’s not the point, and you know it! I don’t need a damn second chance from them, but I do need a way to get back!”

Bucky finally snapped his gaze to Jason, his eyes dark and stormy. “And I’m telling you, we’re leaving.”

Jason clenched his fists. “You’re not fucking telling me why!”

Bucky snaps, voice loud in the closest thing to him yelling Jason has heard since he appeared here “Because they’re getting someone to look through your mind!.”

Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence.

Jason felt his breath hitch. His blood turned to ice. “What?”

“They still suspect you of being Hydra,” Bucky said, voice quieter now but no less severe. “And they’re bringing in someone to dig through your mind to find out.”

Jason clenched his jaw, inhaling sharply through his nose as his brain scrambled to process what Bucky had just said. He took a single step back, eyes narrowing. "Fucking stop for a second," he snapped, his voice sharper than he intended. He muttered a quiet, "What the fuck," under his breath, turning on his heel before his legs could buckle under the weight of everything.

He needed a second. He needed something—anything—to focus on, something tangible, something normal, something that didn’t involve his mind being cracked open like a fucking safe. So he walked toward the table, ignoring the way his limbs felt heavier than they should. The air felt too thick, and his thoughts buzzed like static in his skull. His hand curled around the nearly-forgotten pint of ice cream and the spoons they had used. He moved with an eerie sort of purpose, placing the spoons in the sink and shoving the vanilla ice cream back into the freezer, shutting the door with a little more force than necessary.

Bucky was behind him. Jason didn’t need to turn around to know that. He could hear the steady weight of his footsteps as he followed him into the kitchen, could feel the presence of the soldier lingering in his periphery as Jason turned on the faucet. 

He scrubbed the spoons with methodical precision, watching the water swirl down the drain like it had the answers he needed. He just needed to focus on something, to steady his thoughts. This was nothing. This was fine. 

He barely registered that his hands had stopped moving until he forced himself to rinse off the last of the soap, then placed the spoons down before bracing himself against the counter. He took a deep breath, let it sit in his lungs for a moment before he exhaled, forcing himself to speak. 

"Why the hell would you choose to leave with me?" His voice was rough, the exhaustion creeping in. "I mean, seriously—Stark and Natasha? While I don’t exactly have the best impressions of them, they’re your friends. Your comrades. And I’m gonna go out on a limb and say Steve doesn’t even know about this, right? That you were ready to just up and leave for someone like me" 

He turned then, facing Bucky properly, searching his face for something—anything—that made sense. "Why would you choose to disobey orders? Because I’m guessing you’re not supposed to be telling me shit about this. Why leave your friends and team behind for me?" 

His voice didn’t break, but it was close. He felt drained, he’s been feeling drained for quite a while now. Today was supposed to be better. He got a case to work on, he talked to someone normally for the first time since he got here who wasn’t Bucky. And now? Now his day was turning to absolute shit, crashing and burning before he even had time to catch his breath.

Bucky's words settle in the air between them like the weight of a loaded gun.

"They will understand," he says. "They’re under stress, it the only reason they agreed to it. After some time they will understand, They know what my priorities are."

Jason scoffs, sharp and incredulous. "Yeah? And what the hell are they?"

Bucky doesn’t hesitate. "You."

Jason freezes.

He’s said it before—God, he’s said it before. But each time, it hits Jason like a fist to the gut, like something he can’t quite hold onto. It’s like hearing a language he doesn’t fully understand, the words familiar but the meaning just beyond his reach.

His breath shudders out of him.

And then the thoughts start creeping in, uninvited. Bucky is willing to leave his team for him. Bucky is ready to disobey orders, to sever ties with people who trust him, who rely on him—just for Jason. And what does Jason give him in return? A couple of half-hearted hugs? An occasional sarcastic quip that barely scratches the surface of gratitude? Fuck, it’s pathetic.

No.

No, he can do something. He can actually do something for once.

Jason sucks in a deep breath, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling before squeezing his eyes shut. He can do this.They’re just checking. He just has to prove, once and for all, that he isn’t Hydra. Someone has to look through the mess in his head? Fine. Quick peek, get it over with. How bad could it be?

“I’m staying.”

Bucky lets out a sharp, confused sound. “No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am,” Jason counters, jaw locking. “I’m not letting you drive a wedge between yourself and your teammates for me.”

“It’s my choice.”

“And this is my choice!” Jason bites back, eyes burning. “I can handle someone going through my head. I’ve been through worse—this doesn’t even reach the top fifty of shit I’ve been through.”

Bucky’s expression shifts, sharpening. There’s a coldness creeping into his face.

“I don’t like this,” Bucky says, voice edged with something Jason can’t quite place. “No one should have the right— if it was me-”

“It’s my decision,” Jason interrupts. “You’re the one always telling me I have choices, right? So this is my choice. And if you want me to leave, you’ll have to drag me out of here kicking and fucking screaming.”

Bucky’s jaw tightens. The silence between them stretches, tense and heavy, like a wire pulled too tight, seconds from snapping. Something flickers in Bucky’s eyes, something raw, before he finally exhales sharply, like the fight is bleeding out of him.

“I don’t like this,” Bucky says again, softer this time. “But it’s your decision.”

Jason watches as Bucky withdraws into himself, shoulders hunching slightly, his posture going tense. That look—Jason recognizes it. It’s the same damn look he’s seen in himself a thousand times before.

So Jason moves before he can think better of it, reaching out and taking Bucky’s hand in his.

Bucky startles.

Jason doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t hold too tight.

“I’m sure everything’s gonna go fine,” Jason mutters, trying for something lighter. For his sake and Bucky’s as well. “Besides, you’ll be there, right? If I need help, I’ll give you a yell, yeah?”

Bucky doesn’t react to the attempt at humor. He just stares at their hands before finally looking up, something serious and unwavering in his gaze. “I’ll get you out if anything happens.”

Jason swallows at the intensity in Bucky’s voice. Before he can respond, Bucky adds, “And if it comes down to it… the others will stand with you too.”

god Jason wishes he could believe that, but he doubts it.

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose, eyeing Bucky with something caught between exasperation and exhaustion.

"When?" he asked, voice steady but tight.

Bucky didn’t hesitate. "Tomorrow."

Jason blinked. "That soon?"

Bucky nodded. "It’s their top priority after recent events."

Jason quirked a brow. "Recent events?" He crossed his arms, shifting his weight. "What recent events?"

Bucky's face was unreadable, his mouth set in a firm line. "I can’t say. Not this."

Jason felt his patience fray at the edges, but after everything today, he didn't have it in him to pick another fight. They’d argued enough. His chest still felt heavy, thoughts still gnawed at the back of his skull, but this? He could shelve this for later.

For now.

He let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders before shrugging. "Alright. Whatever."

Bucky watched him carefully, like he was waiting for Jason to snap again, to dig his heels in. But Jason just nodded once, dropping the subject for the moment. He wasn’t letting this go—he would find out what the hell Bucky was hiding, just not now.

He pulled his hand away from Bucky’s grip, stepping back. "I should probably get some rest." He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a dry, humorless chuckle. "Gonna need it."

Bucky was quiet for a second before he nodded. "Yeah."

Jason turned to leave, but Bucky’s voice stopped him. "You sure you don’t want to leave?"

Jason glanced over his shoulder, a tired smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Yeah, I’m positive."

As positive as someone in this situation can be.

Chapter Text

Jason’s fingers twitch, restless, useless. His hands clench and unclench at his sides, an old habit, muscle memory reaching for something that isn’t there—a gun at his hip, the comforting weight of cold metal beneath his palm. Too bad he doesn’t have one right now. The only one he does have is with Bucky, and Jason’s pretty sure if he asks for it back right now, he’s getting a look instead of a pistol.

Bucky is standing near the window, phone pressed to his ear, face turning blank in that way that makes Jason’s stomach twist. When he picked up the call, he put a single finger to his lips, a silent order for Jason to keep quiet, and Jason had obeyed—for once. He knows what this is about. Doesn’t need super hearing to put the pieces together.

His knee bounces under the table as he waits. Every second stretches, heavy and sluggish, like time itself is dragging its feet just to mess with him.

When Bucky finally ends the call, Jason doesn’t ask who it was. Doesn’t need to. Bucky turns to him, eyes steady.

“It’s time.”

Jason exhales sharply through his nose. “Yeah. Figured.”

It’s midday. Hours of sitting, waiting, stewing in his own nerves have left his stomach a tight, uncomfortable knot. He pushes to his feet, flexing his fingers again as if that will shake off the crawling feeling under his skin. It doesn’t.

As they head for the door, Bucky speaks again. “You need to remember—you’re not supposed to know about this. Act surprised. Or at least like you weren’t expecting it.”

Jason scoffs, rolling his shoulders, trying to force the tension out of them. “Yeah, yeah, I got it.”

Bucky stops just short of the door, turning to look at him properly. Jason doesn’t like it. It means something serious is coming, and he’s had enough of that for one lifetime.

“I won’t be in the cell with you.”

Jason’s mouth snaps shut. His stomach drops, but he forces his face to stay neutral. “Yeah?”

Bucky nods. “I’ll be in the same floor, watching everything. I’ll see what’s happening. If anything—anything—happens and you need out, you yell for me. I don’t care what’s going on, I’ll get you out.”

Jason lets that settle. Feels himself exhale, a little tension bleeding out of his shoulders. Bucky isn’t just saying it. He means it. If Jason calls for help, he’ll come. No hesitation.

That’s… more comforting than Jason wants to admit.

He forces a smirk instead, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Relax, old man. I can handle myself.”

Bucky just stares at him for a beat, then nods once. “I know.”

Then the door opens, and Jason steps out, Bucky right behind him as they head for the elevator.

His hands are still clammy. His heart is still pounding a little too fast. But he swallows it down, squares his shoulders, and forces himself to play along.

One more performance. What’s the worst that could happen?

________________________________

The elevator doors slid open, and Jason stepped out into the common room alongside Bucky, immediately clocking Steve and Natasha waiting for them. His body tensed before his brain even caught up to why. Instinct. Muscle memory. He hadn’t seen Natasha since she drove him into a panic.

His eyes locked onto her, sharp and full of unspoken words, a heated glare digging into her face, but she didn’t meet it. Instead, she gave him a single nod—acknowledgment, nothing more, nothing less. And for the first time, she wasn’t looking at him like he was a puzzle missing half the pieces, like she was trying to strip him down to gears and clockwork to figure out what made him tick.

He didn’t let that calm the spike of anger bubbling beneath his ribs.

Steve, ever the damn diplomat, stepped forward, his expression pulling into something that was supposed to be a smile. But Jason knew what was actually happening, knew what was waiting for him, and now it was easy to pick apart the nervous edge to it, the slight tightness in Steve’s jaw. It wasn’t obvious—not to anyone who didn’t know better. But Jason had spent too long reading people, looking for the tells that let him know when shit was about to go sideways.

"Jason," Steve greeted him, like this was any other normal day. "Something came up. We need Bucky to come with us. You can come too, if you’d like."

Jason raised a brow, not giving him the satisfaction of an immediate answer. "Where to?"

Steve’s hesitation was barely a breath long, but Jason caught it anyway. "Lower levels. Underground."

Jason’s fingers twitched, not in fear, but in agitation. That was a hell of a way to phrase ‘we’re about to dig through your damn skull.’ He almost laughed. Almost. But instead, he let himself feed into the irritation curling in his chest and asked, "Why?"

Not because he needed the answer—he already knew it—but because he wanted to hear Steve try and lie to him. Wanted to hear how he justified it.

Steve’s mouth pressed into a tight line for a fraction of a second before smoothing back into something less severe. "Nothing too important," he said, too carefully, like he had rehearsed it. "We just need Bucky’s input on something."

Jason might’ve pushed harder if not for the tap of fingers against the back of his hand. Barely noticeable. Quick, like a warning. Bucky. Telling him to stand down.

Jason let out a subtle breath through his nose, fingers twitching again before tapping back in acknowledgment. Fine. He wouldn’t start anything. Not yet.

Silence settled between them, thick enough to choke on. Natasha cleared her throat. "We should head down."

Her voice pulled Jason’s glare back to her, but she didn’t meet his eyes. Just gestured to the elevator like this was a goddamn office meeting.

Jason’s jaw ticked, but he said nothing, stepping forward as Bucky moved in tandem with him. As they passed Natasha, Jason made sure to shoulder past her a little harder than necessary.

She didn’t react. Just let him pass, like she had expected it.

The doors shut behind them, locking them in, and Jason let himself settle into the tense silence, his fingers flexing at his sides.

He didn’t need to say it.

He knew exactly where this was going.

The elevator ride down is silent. None of the four say anything. Natasha and Steve stand in front of Jason and Bucky, their backs to them, facing the doors of the elevator. Jason watches them, jaw tight. The weight of what’s coming presses down on him, and the longer the silence stretches, the heavier it gets.

Bucky’s fingers tap against the back of Jason’s hand, a small, steady rhythm, his flesh hand making the contact. The touch is meant to be soothing, Jason assumes, but when he turns his head slightly to glance at Bucky, the man isn’t looking at him. He’s staring forward, expression neutral but Jason still spots the slight furrow in his brows, like he’s already preparing himself for something Jason isn’t going to like. Jason looks back toward the front of the elevator, drilling a hole through Steve’s back with his glare before his own fingers shift, tapping Bucky’s hand in return. The touch lingers a second longer than necessary, Jason hoping that if it was meant to ground him, maybe it could do the same for Bucky too.

The soft mechanical chime of the elevator signals their arrival. The doors slide open with a quiet hiss, revealing a space unlike any other Jason’s seen in the Tower. His boots step out onto cold, gray flooring, and he finally takes in the room properly. 

It’s underground, that much is obvious—the air feels still, artificial, lacking the warmth of natural light. The ceiling is low, lined with dim, recessed lighting that barely does enough to illuminate the space. The walls are sleek metal, dark and industrial, a clear contrast to the Tower’s usual polished aesthetic. The entire floor is sparsely furnished, almost eerily empty, except for the most striking thing in the center of the room: the glass cell.

Jason’s breath catches, just for a second.

It’s circular, thick reinforced glass forming an airtight barrier between whatever’s meant to be inside and the rest of the world. The cell glows under an almost blindingly bright white light that emanates from overhead fixtures, casting stark, clinical illumination that makes the inside of the enclosure feel detached from everything else. Compared to the rest of the dimly lit floor.

His stomach turns.

Jason stays rooted in place as the others step forward, the weight of realization settling like stones in his gut. He knows what’s coming. Of course he does. He’s known since last night, but now that he’s actually standing here, staring at the cell, that knowledge twists into something colder, something more real. 

Are they going to tell him to just step inside? Like it’s no big deal? Will they try to ease him in, convince him this is all necessary? Or are they just going to force him? Knock him out, drag him in, lock the door behind him while he’s too dazed to fight back? 

He isn’t sure, but he knows one thing with certainty—one way or another, that’s where he’s going to end up.

Inside that cell.

Jason cast a glance towards Bucky, but before their eyes could meet, Steve stepped in front of him, blocking his view. Jason clenched his jaw, biting down his instinct to shove Steve aside. Instead, he schooled his face into something confused, something questioning. He knew how to do this. He could feign ignorance, act the part, play the game.

Steve hesitated before speaking. That, more than anything, told Jason what he already knew—Steve didn’t want to be doing this. Too bad. He was.

“We just need to ask you some things,” Steve finally said, his voice steady, but not quite as firm as it should be.

Jason resisted the urge to scoff. He was disappointed, in a way he probably shouldn’t be. A part of him had hoped—stupidly—that whatever shaky thing they had between them was improving. That it would have been Natasha who would be the one to pass down the sentence, But Steve was still here, still playing the part of the righteous soldier doing what needed to be done.

Jason inhaled deeply, then let his expression shift into something sharp and frustrated. He narrowed his eyes, let his mouth pull tight. “And you couldn’t just ask me upstairs?” he snapped, voice carrying just the right amount of annoyance and disbelief.

Natasha was silent.

Jason turned his gaze toward her, locking onto her with a glare, but she didn’t meet his eyes. He scowled. Coward. She had no problem voicing her suspicions before, cornering him, pushing at him like he was something to be dismantled piece by piece. But now she was quiet? Now she couldn’t even look at him?

Steve sighed. “It’s necessary,” he said, and Jason could hear the way he was trying to sound reasonable, to convince himself as well as Jason, the way he was trying to soften the edges of what was happening. “We couldn’t put it off anymore. You’ll understand soon enough.”

Jason let his fists clench at his sides, shoulders tensed like he was barely holding back his anger. He tilted his head slightly, like he was thinking, before scoffing. “And what, this is for my benefit?” he asked, voice laced with sarcasm.

Steve’s expression remained frustratingly even. “You’ll be cleared from suspicion after this,” he said. “It’ll make things easier.”

Jason barked out a bitter laugh before shaking his head. “Right. Cleared.” He exhaled sharply, before shifting his weight onto one foot, crossing his arms.

Steve’s shoulders stiffened for just a fraction of a second before he inhaled. Then, finally, he said it. “We brought in an expert.”

Jason stared at him for a moment, his jaw locking, heart hammering against his ribs, but he didn’t let it show. Instead, he forced a slow breath out through his nose, eyes dark with something unreadable. Then, finally, he let out a quiet, humorless chuckle.

“Yeah,” Jason muttered, “figured.”

Jason just nods, playing at the sight of defeat. He lets his gaze sweep the room, as if he’s weighing his chances, pretending to measure every escape route, every possible opening—before slumping his shoulders and letting out a shallow breath. He makes sure to let hesitation flicker across his face, like he’s only now realizing there’s no way out of this.

“Am I supposed to go into the damn cell?” his voice quieter than before, feigned reluctance lacing his words. 

Steve almost looks pained as he answers, nodding once. "Yeah."

Jason makes sure his shoulders stay slumped as he moves toward the entrance of the cell, his steps slow. He keeps his gaze down, fists clenched and then unclenching at his sides, like he’s trying to steel himself. He knows how to make it look like fear instead of focus, uncertainty instead of control.

Then, just as he’s about to step inside, a hand snaps out, firm and unyielding as it holds his arm. Bucky. 

Jason stops, looking up to meet his eyes. There’s something there, something hard to read—worry, maybe, or a silent warning. Jason swallows.

“It’s alright,” Bucky says, voice steady but low. “Whatever happens, the both of us are gonna be fine.”

Jason takes in a breath, and for a second, the nervousness he was faking feels just a little too real. He nods, reaching up without thinking, gripping Bucky’s hand that still holds onto his arm. Bucky squeezes back, tight, grounding. Neither of them move for a long second.

Then Steve steps forward and places a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. 

Jason watches as Bucky immediately tenses, his entire body going rigid before he shrugs Steve’s hand off without a word. Jason knows that look on Bucky’s face—it’s sharp, cold… disappointed, he knows because he wore the same expression so many times himself. And Steve… Steve knows it too, the way he exhales sharply, the way his lips press together.

“We need to step away from the glass,” Steve says, his voice measured. "Wanda and Fury will be here in a minute."

Jason catches the flicker of something in Bucky’s expression, the barely-there twitch of his jaw, the set of his shoulders. He doesn’t look at Steve when he steps back. He doesn’t say anything, either.

Jason lets out a breath, turning his attention back to the cell. His hands twitch at his sides before he steps forward again, crossing the threshold into the bright, sterile light.

As the glass panel of the entrance twitches and closes shut, everything Jason could hear from the outside of the cell turns quiet. Even as Steve’s mouth moves, Jason can’t hear anything. Noise-blocking. He already figures out that the glass is bulletproof from how thick and reinforced it looks.

He turns, startled, as something shifts under him. A block rises smoothly from the ground of the cell, seamlessly emerging from the floor. Jason waits for a long second, expecting something to happen—but nothing does. He glances at the figures outside and meets Bucky’s eyes. Bucky mouths a single word: Sit.

Jason exhales slowly, reluctant but knowing he has to keep up appearances. He hesitates another moment before lowering himself onto the block, testing its stability before settling. It’s cold beneath him, the material smooth and unfamiliar.

That’s when more figures begin filling the room. The three of them—Steve, Bucky, and Natasha—are no longer alone. Within moments, nearly three dozen people crowd the space beyond the glass. 

Most of them are dressed in black combat attire—not overly reinforced, but tactical enough to send a message. They’re prepared for something. Jason keeps his expression neutral, scanning each face until his eyes land on two individuals who stand out from the sea of black.

At the forefront stands a woman with striking red hair. Wanda—she must be. The woman Steve mentioned. Jason recognizes her name from the file he managed to skim through back at the archives. She’s the one they brought in for this.

And beside her, a man who commands just as much attention—if not more. The eyepatch certainly draws attention to him. Fury. Jason’s sure of it. The man has a permanent scowl, his one good eye sharp and analyzing. He looks angry, though Jason wonders if that’s just his default expression. Maybe that’s why they call him Fury. Jason scoffs quietly to himself, amusement flickering in the back of his mind, anything to distract himself from what’s about to come.

He grips his knees, fingers pressing into the fabric of his pants, and steels himself. It’s starting.

Jason shifts slightly, his grip tightening on his knees as he watches Wanda and Fury…argue? What the fuck?. The way Wanda gestures—sharp, frustrated movements—tells him enough. She’s not happy about this. Whatever this is.

He resists the urge to scoff. He already knows he’s not getting out of here easily, no matter who is on his side. He casts another glance at Fury, whose expression remains unreadable. The man hasn’t moved much, his stance solid, arms crossed over his chest like an immovable force. But Jason knows better than to mistake stillness for inaction.

His gaze flickers back to Wanda just as she turns, her face still set in frustration, but something has shifted. She’s calmer, or at least, trying to be. Her shoulders are squared, her chin lifted. Jason follows her line of sight as it moves past Fury—towards Steve, Natasha, and Bucky.

Natasha’s expression is unreadable, but Jason notices the slight shift in her stance, the subtle way she angles herself. She’s paying attention, but she’s also bracing. Steve’s lips are moving now, his expression measured. He’s explaining something to Wanda, and whatever it is, it’s working.

Bucky, however, remains silent.

His gaze is fixed on the concrete floor, his expression carefully neutral. To anyone else, it might seem like indifference, but Jason knows better. He’s been around Bucky long enough to recognize the quiet tension in his frame, the way his jaw sets just a fraction too tight, the way his fingers curl into loose fists at his sides before relaxing again. Jason doesn’t need to hear anything to know Bucky isn’t pleased.

Wanda exhales sharply, her frustration giving way to something else—resignation, maybe. She stands still for a long moment before finally turning her attention to Jason.

Jason meets her gaze, expression turning blank.

The cell suddenly feels smaller, brighter under the harsh artificial lighting. He keeps his breathing even, shoulders squared, as he waits for whatever happens next. He’s used to interrogations, to people trying to pick him apart, looking for the cracks.

the glass between them reflecting the bright lights above. Jason watches her carefully, not giving anything away. His fingers twitch slightly where they rest on his knees, but he keeps his posture steady.

Jason watches as she steps closer, the soft hum of the mechanism filling the air as the glass panel slides open for her. She moves with carefully, but there’s something in the way she carries herself—calm, composed. The moment she crosses the threshold, the glass swooshes shut behind her, locking them in together. Alone.

Jason takes a moment to really look at her now that she’s closer.

She’s… not what he expected.

She’s small. Delicate-looking. There’s a softness to her, something almost too gentle for someone standing in a room like this, under these circumstances. She doesn’t look like she belongs in whatever the hell this is. He wonders, briefly, if she works for Fury, or if she’s with the Avengers. Maybe she’s just someone they call when they need extra hands. He doesn’t know. 

And God, does he hate not knowing.

They let her in here alone. The thought sticks with him, festering. He shouldn’t be surprised, but a part of him is. They’re so sure he can’t do shit that they let her walk in here without hesitation. He doesn’t know if that says more about her or about him. Maybe they think he looks weak. Maybe he is weak compared to her. He read her file, what little he could find of it. There wasn’t much, but what was there made one thing clear—she’s powerful. Ridiculously so.

Wanda takes another step forward before stopping, tilting her head slightly as she studies him. Then she smiles, small and placating, like she’s trying to ease him into this. 

“Hi.”

Jason doesn’t move. Doesn’t react. He keeps his expression blank, watching her carefully.

She tries again. “How are you?”

Jason exhales, slow and measured. Then, with a tilt of his head, he says flatly, “How do you think I’m doing?”

Wanda’s smile falters just a fraction, but she nods like she understands. Like she gets it.

Silence stretches between them. It’s not uncomfortable, not really, but it’s something. Something tense. Something careful.

Finally, Jason breaks it. “When they said they were bringing someone in to interrogate me,” he says, “I didn’t expect… well. You.”

Her smile returns, a bit dimmer this time. “No?”

“No.” Jason exhales through his nose, shifting slightly where he sits. “I expected someone who—” He gestures with a nod towards the figures outside, eyes landing pointedly on Fury. “—looks like that guy.”

Wanda follows his gaze, and for a second, something flickers across her face—amusement, maybe, or just understanding. Jason doesn’t know which. He just knows Fury still looks as bitch-faced as he did the moment he walked in.

When Wanda turns back to him, her expression is unreadable. Jason keeps his own neutral, watching. Waiting.

Jason watches her carefully, Wanda tilts her head slightly, considering him. Then, with a soft sigh, she says, “You’re not the only one who was surprised.”

Jason narrows his eyes. 

“When I was called in for this,” she continues, “I was told it was to check someone who could be a Hydra agent.” Her gaze flickers over him, studying. “I didn’t expect a child.”

Jason bristles. The word strikes a nerve, raw and deep, and for a moment, it isn’t Wanda he hears—it’s someone else. 

Bucky.

His jaw clenches, his hands curling into loose fists on his knees. Instinctively, his eyes flick toward the figures outside the glass, scanning the small crowd until he finds him. Bucky stands a few paces away from Natasha and Steve, rigid as ever. Their eyes meet—just for a second—before Jason tears his gaze away, forcing himself to focus back on Wanda.

“I’m not a damn child,” he mutters, his voice low, clipped.

Wanda doesn’t react, at least not visibly. Instead, she simply asks, “How old are you?”

“Twenty,” Jason snaps. “I’m fucking grown.”

She smiles again, small and almost regretful. “You’ve still got a lot more room to grow.”

Jason exhales sharply. He doesn’t bother arguing. What’s the point? He already has a certain someone who refuses to see reason when it comes to this, and he doubts Wanda is any different. He’s not about to waste his energy trying to convince her. Look at me, he wants to say. Look at what I’ve been through. Look at what I’ve survived and let’s see if you still think I’m a child afterwards. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he sighs, shifting slightly on the cold block beneath him. “So,” he says, his tone edged with impatience. “What are you gonna do?”

Wanda’s smile fades just slightly. She steps closer, deliberate but not threatening. “I just need to take a quick look into your mind,” she says. “That’s all.”

Jason scoffs. “No questions, then? Just straight to checking?” His lips curl into something bitter. “Should’ve fucking seen that coming.”

Wanda presses her mouth into a thin line, and for a second—just a second—Jason almost regrets saying it. This would’ve been easier if she was acting like Natasha, if she was accusing him, cornering him, pressing him into a fight. But she’s not. And somehow, that makes it worse.

He exhales slowly, forcing himself to push the frustration down. “Fine,” he mutters, straightening his shoulders. “Let’s get on with it.”

Because the truth is, he doesn’t have a choice. So might as well get it over with.

Wanda steps closer, her movements slow and deliberate, hands rising toward his head. Jason expects her fingers to weave through his hair, to touch his skin, and the very thought sends a sharp shiver down his spine. Nausea coils in his gut, thick and suffocating, bile clawing its way up his throat.

But she doesn’t touch him.

Her hands hover just above his skin, close enough that he can feel the warmth radiating from her palms. And then, all at once, the air shifts.

Scarlet swirls into existence, soft and curling, like tendrils of smoke drifting in slow, hypnotic patterns. It should make him uneasy—it should have him flinching back, instincts screaming at him to run—but instead, something unexpected happens.

His body… relaxes.

The tension that has been wound tight in his muscles for what feels like forever uncoils, melting like wax under the gentle heat of a flame. His eyes droop, heavy, the edges of his vision blurring at the corners. A haze settles over him, light and warm, something he could almost—almost—sink into.

What the fuck?

His thoughts feel sluggish, thick, as if he’s been drugged, like he’s floating somewhere just between awake and asleep. Wanda’s magic—it feels like her. Soft. Sweet. Is this what it’s always like?

The moment the thought crosses his mind, everything changes.

A sharp, electric jolt rips through his body, and suddenly, his muscles seize, locking up so tight it’s like he’s been caught in a vice. His spine stiffens, his jaw clenches—he wants to scream but he can’t, trapped in place as fire scorches through his veins.

His breath catches. The red swirls of Wanda’s magic still dance in the air, but now—now something else seeps into them. A neon green, slicing through the crimson like a blade, bleeding into the space between them.

It’s wrong. 

It’s too bright, too sharp, too familiar. It burns into his retinas, staining his vision, sinking into his mind like poison. The color of his nightmares. The color of his rebirth. 

The color of him.

A choked noise claws its way out of Jason’s throat, his fingers twitching uselessly at his sides. His breath shudders, and for a brief, terrifying second, he swears he can smell it—can feel the Lazarus Pit swallowing him whole all over again.

And then—

Darkness.

__________________________

Jason is clutching at his neck, fingers slick with blood, his throat slit wide open. The wound burns, his body shaking as he gasps, chokes, tries desperately to hold himself together. The air is thick, humid, reeking of sweat and copper and decay. The dingy apartment walls seem to close in on him, suffocating, the dim light flickering above casting erratic shadows that dance like specters.

And then—

The cackle.

Jason almost wanted to laugh as well, because he never expected the batarang to the neck. Is this what joker feels like when delivering the punchline to a joke?

It echoes, rattling inside his skull, too loud, too close, digging into his bones like a parasite. The Joker’s laughter—wild, unhinged, ecstatic—spills through the room, wrapping around Jason like barbed wire, tightening, tightening, tightening.

And underneath it—

Tick, tick, tick.

The sound creeps into his ears, burrows into his chest. The ticking of a bomb. Fast, too fast. Too familiar.

Oh god. Oh god. Why?

His breath stutters, eyes darting, searching—heavy footsteps. Boots against concrete. Bruce.

Bruce is here. Dad is here.

Jason’s vision blurs, his body thrumming with pain and hope all at once. Bruce will save him. He has to. He’s his kid, goddammit. His chest heaves as he tries to call out, tries to move, but the blood in his throat gurgles up, chokes him, silences him. No, no, no, he just needs to hold on—

And then—

Bruce moves.

But—

Not towards him.

Jason’s breath catches, his stomach plummeting. Bruce isn’t running toward him. He isn’t picking him.

No—

No, no, no—

Jason watches, helpless, as Bruce surges forward—

Not for his son.

But for him.

The Joker.

Jason’s mind screams, every nerve in his body alight with a pain so raw, so deep, it feels like it will tear him apart. Bruce grabs the Joker, shields him, covers him—

And leaves Jason to die.

He was supposed to save him.

He was supposed to pick him.

But he didn’t.

And Jason—

Jason is just a kid.

Just a kid.

And then—

Fire. Pain. A blinding, deafening explosion—

Jason wakes in the rubble, his body buried beneath slabs of concrete and shattered beams. His ribs scream, his skin burns, and his throat is raw—whether from the explosion or from his attempts at screaming with a slit throat, he doesn’t know. Sirens wail in the distance, close but not close enough. The taste of smoke and blood clings to his tongue.

He blinks through the dust, vision swimming, and what he sees steals the breath from his lungs.

Bruce. Digging Joker out of the wreckage.

Jason watches, frozen, throat tightening as he chokes on something ugly and aching. His fingers curl into the dirt beneath him, nails scraping against debris. His heart hurts.

Bruce isn’t looking for him. Of course he isn’t. Because he just grabs the joker and leaves.

Who would want a son like him?

Jason forces himself to move. His muscles scream in protest, but he clenches his jaw and shoves the pain down. He presses a shaking hand against his torn throat, barely holding the wound together, as he shifts the debris trapping his body. Every inch forward feels like agony, his limbs stiff and broken, burns searing across his skin. He is so hot, yet so cold.

Like a beaten animal, Jason drags himself away, slipping into the shadows—into hiding, where he has always belonged. Where he can fix himself, because no one else will.

He swallows back a sob, the taste of iron thick on his tongue. His body shakes as he clutches at his torn skin, at the pain in his chest that isn’t just from the explosion.

He wants his dad.

Where is his dad?

He wants him.

He needs his dad.

__________________________

The air was crisp on the rooftop, the kind of cold that seeped through armor and bit at exposed skin. Jason barely noticed. His scar itched, a phantom pulse against his throat, but he ignored it, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he kept his eyes on the skyline. Lookout duty. He’d been assigned as a damn lookout.

It was their way of keeping him on a leash, he knew that. The truce he’d built with the Bats was still fresh, still unsteady. They didn’t trust him not to put a bullet in someone’s head, not yet. Dick had told him otherwise—said they trusted him, that they just needed him to show progress. Rebuild it. Step by step.

And it was okay. His big brother said it was okay, so it had to be. Dick wouldn’t lie to him. He wouldn’t.

Jason had to believe that.

Tim had been different. He hadn’t said much, hadn’t looked at Jason unless he had to. It was a quiet kind of nervousness, not shaking hands or stiff shoulders but something else, something Jason understood. He’d beaten Tim half to death once, back at Titans Tower. He remembered the fear in Tim’s eyes back then, the blood. He understood why Tim wouldn’t trust him yet.

He just had to prove himself. Show them all that things were different now. That he wasn’t the same. That it was okay.

Then the explosion ripped through the air.

The building across from him shuddered, fire and debris bursting outward in violent shockwaves. Jason’s ears rang, but his body moved before his mind caught up. His grapple line shot out, zipping him across the gap. He scanned the area fast, looking for them—looking for the others.

Tim. Red Robin.

Jason spotted him just in time to see his form drop from a shattered window, barely catching the ledge of the adjacent rooftop. Jason landed hard, boots hitting concrete, and sprinted forward.

Tim was slipping.

Jason reached for him, arm outstretched, hand grasping—

A body slammed into his side.

Jason hit the ground with a grunt, rolling with the impact before twisting back up onto his feet, hands already raised, ready for a fight. He whipped his head around to his attacker, heart pounding.

But it wasn’t an enemy.

It was Dick.

Jason froze. Dick was in front of Tim, arm out like a shield, body positioned between them like Jason was the threat. Jason’s breath hitched, his stomach twisting sharply, a different kind of pain settling in.

Why? Why was he looking at him like that?

Jason glanced at Tim, who was still gripping the ledge, eyes wide, uncertain. Jason had just been trying to help. He was going to pull him up. He wasn’t—

Dick laughed, awkward and forced, turning to hastily pull Tim up without giving Jason his back fully, as if he didn’t trust him with that opening in his defenses. “Sorry about that, Jay. Reflexes, y’know? Thought—I dunno, thought you were someone else for a sec.”

Jason’s hands curled into fists.

He knew it wasn’t an accident.

Dick hadn’t hesitated. He hadn’t even thought. His first instinct had been to protect Tim from him.

Jason swallowed, his mouth dry. The explosion was still burning, the city lights flickering against the smoke-filled sky, but all he could see was the way Dick had looked at him in that split second.

Like he was dangerous.

Like he wasn’t family.

Jason exhaled slowly, forcing a smile onto his face, despite him wearing a helmet that hid it. “Yeah. Reflexes.”

He knew it was a lie, one he wanted to believe so bad he convinced himself to.

_________________________

The night was quiet. Too quiet for Gotham.

Jason was used to Crime Alley’s usual symphony of distant sirens, muffled shouts, and the occasional crack of gunfire. But tonight, it was slow. Almost peaceful.

He wished he was alone.

Instead, Damian stalked beside him, his short frame brimming with irritation, hands twitching as if he was aching for a fight that just wasn’t coming. Jason had been patient—more patient than usual. He had ignored the brat’s attitude, his constant interruptions, his blatant disregard for instructions.

Because Bruce had asked him to do this.

Because despite everything, Jason still tried.

But when Damian startled a kid—barely a teenager—who had been stuffing his pockets with stolen food from a convenience store, Jason finally put his foot down.

“Ease up, Gremlin.” Jason stepped in as the kid bolted. “Scaring some half-starved kid doesn’t make you a better crime fighter.”

Damian frowned, but didn’t lower the blade in his hand. “He is a thief.”

“He’s hungry.”

“Semantics.” Damian huffed, crossing his arms, the dim light from the streetlamps casting sharp shadows over his face. “A criminal is a criminal.”

Jason’s jaw tightened. “You don’t terrorize some kid because he stole a meal.”

Damian’s expression twisted, a sneer curling on his lips as he turned to face Jason fully. “Of course you would say that.”

Jason’s stomach coiled. He knew that tone. Knew exactly where this was heading.

But Damian kept going, his words cutting like a blade slipping between ribs. “You see yourself in them, don’t you?”

Jason’s fingers twitched at his sides. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

“They’re just like you,” Damian continued, voice dripping with disdain. “A lost cause. Criminals with no future, no potential. There’s no point in treating them as anything other than what they are.” He tilted his head, eyes gleaming under his mask. “What they’ll always be.”

Jason inhaled sharply through his nose. “You’re treading on some mighty thin ice, kid.”

Damian scoffed, his arrogance never wavering. His confidence, so sure of itself, radiated off of him like he was untouchable. He didn’t even see the knife he was twisting. He is Talia’s son through and through.

“You know,” he mused, as if speaking to himself, “I understand why Father chose Grayson. He’s acrobatic. Charismatic. He gives people hope. He was what Father needed at the time.”

Jason clenched his fists.

“Even Drake,” Damian continued, “I can admit he is intelligent. A genius, even. I see why father kept him.”

Then Damian turned, looking Jason dead in the eye. “And I am the blood son, his true born heir”

“But you?” He let out a breath, shaking his head. “That, I don’t understand.”

Jason went still.

“Nothing good ever came from you. You were given a chance not many here would get and yet you still turned out like this” Damian said simply, like it was fact. “That’s why you were so easy to replace. It’s why I’m so sure that everyone here who would never get the opportunity you had been handed, will turn exactly the same”

Something inside Jason snapped. Not with rage. Not with violence.

Just—emptiness.

He didn’t even give Damian the satisfaction of a response.

He turned and leapt off the rooftop, landing hard on the next building over, his mind buzzing with static.

​________________________

The heat was suffocating.

Jason could feel sweat trailing down his face, dripping past his jaw to his collarbone. His clothes clung to him, damp and stifling, the thick desert air weighing down on his already exhausted body. The sun was merciless, beating down without relief, and the sand beneath him was painted with blood. His latest teacher—no, opponent—lay still, body cooling as the heat stole the last remnants of life from him.

It was over. He had won. He always won.

His throat was raw, parched beyond belief, and the simple act of swallowing felt like dragging sandpaper over an open wound. How long had it been since they let him drink? The last sip he’d had was a distant memory, blurred at the edges like a dream slipping through his fingers.

Movement caught his eye.

Talia rose gracefully from her shaded seat, the silk of her robe shifting as she beckoned him forward. Jason’s stomach twisted, something cold slithering up his spine despite the oppressive heat. He didn’t want to go near her.

Not after yesterday.

Not after what she made him do.

But refusal wasn’t an option.

Disobedience meant punishment, and Jason had learned early on that there were worse things than death.

His feet carried him forward against his will, a marionette pulled by invisible strings. His body ached, a dull, throbbing exhaustion settling deep into his bones, but his thirst was louder. It burned.

She lifted a delicate crystal cup, filled to the brim with clear, cool water. Jason’s breath hitched, his gaze locked onto it, every cell in his body screaming for relief. He reached out, fingers barely brushing the cool surface—

And she pulled it away.

The smirk on her lips was knowing, cruel in its familiarity. She shifted back into her seat, legs spreading ever so slightly, as if she was getting comfortable. Jason’s stomach lurched.

“You must earn what you are given,” she said smoothly, voice honeyed venom.

Jason clenched his fists at his sides. His nails dug into his palms, desperate to ground himself, to fight against the bile rising in his throat. He didn’t want this. He never wanted this.

But he was too tired. Too thirsty. Too broken to do anything but obey.

His knees hit the scorching sand, and he forced himself to look up at her.

It was always the same. It would always be the same.

And Jason didn’t know if he would ever escape it.

for now he settled himself between her thighs so he can earn a drink.

__________________________

Jason sat at the kitchen counter, bathed in the soft glow of the overhead light. The scent of fresh-baked bread lingered in the air, wrapping around him like a childhood memory. For the first time in what felt like forever, he felt warm. Not the kind of warmth that came from standing under the blistering sun or from the blood pumping too fast in his veins after a fight—this was something deeper. Something gentler. Something that reminded him of before.

Before he died.

Before everything.

Alfred stood at the stove, moving with practiced ease as he stirred a pot of soup. Jason found himself caught in the familiar motions, the rhythmic chopping of vegetables, the subtle hum Alfred made under his breath. It was almost enough to make him believe that nothing had changed. That he was still that scrappy, eager kid who found solace in the kitchen because it was one of the few places in the manor where he felt truly at home.

Alfred turned, placing a firm yet warm hand on Jason’s shoulder. His grip was steady, grounding. Jason looked up and was met with the proud glint in Alfred’s eyes, the same one he used to see when he got a recipe just right or when he managed to keep his elbows off the table during dinner.

“I’ve missed you, my boy,” Alfred said softly. “Things have been rather dull without someone to share my birthday with, as we always used to.”

Jason felt something flutter in his chest, something painfully close to hope. He let out a small chuckle, shaking his head. “Yeah, can’t have that now, can we? Wouldn’t want you getting bored, alfie.”

Alfred hummed, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Indeed.”

For a moment, Jason allowed himself to bask in the warmth, in the easy companionship. The sting of being shooed away from the mission prep earlier that evening faded into the background, made insignificant by the comfort of being here, with Alfred, where things felt right.

Jason leaned forward, resting his arms on the counter. “You miss cooking with me?” he asked, a teasing lilt in his voice.

Alfred let out a slow breath, feigning exasperation. “Of course, I do. You are my sweet boy, after all. The only one I trusted to step foot in my kitchen without catastrophe following.” He paused. “God forbid I ever allow Master Damian in here again. The manor barely survived his last attempt at culinary artistry.”

Jason laughed, a genuine, unguarded sound. “Sounds about right. What did he do this time?”

Alfred sighed, shaking his head. “The family dinner yesterday was nearly ruined because he decided the turkey was taking too long to cook. He turned the oven up far too high, nearly setting it ablaze.”

Jason’s amusement stalled. His smile faltered.

“What family dinner?”

Alfred hesitated.

Jason sat up straighter, suddenly tense. “Alfred,” he prompted, his voice quieter now. He already knew the answer, but he needed to hear it.

Alfred exhaled, his gaze heavy with regret. “Master Bruce… he believed it best if you sat this one out. He didn’t want this to be tense.”

Jason felt the words hit him like a punch to the gut. He swallowed hard, clenching his fists beneath the counter. “Right. Because he didn’t want things to be ‘tense’ for his kids, huh?” His voice wavered at the end, betraying the hurt he was trying so damn hard to swallow down.

”did you agree with him?” Jason asks, fingers feeling cold now despite the warmth of the kitchen.

Alfred opened his mouth as if to say something but hesitated, eventually closing his mouth.

That silence told Jason everything he needed to know.

He pushed back from the counter, the stool scraping loudly against the tiled floor. Alfred watched him, sorrow etched deep into the lines of his face. Jason grabbed his helmet, his fingers tightening around the cool metal before he slipped it over his head, obscuring his face, hiding whatever expression he couldn’t control.

“Thanks for the chat, Alfie,” he said, voice hollow now. “But I should go.”

Alfred didn’t try to stop him. Didn’t call him back.

Jason left the kitchen, the warmth that had settled in his bones now nothing but a ghost.

______________________

The Joker is cackling, and Jason can’t breathe. His ribs feel like they’re splintering, jagged edges digging into his lungs with every shallow, wheezing inhale. Blood pools in his mouth, thick and coppery, choking him. His body is screaming, but no sound comes out. His throat is too raw, too torn from the agony of it all. One of his eyes is swollen shut, the other so blurry he can barely make out the figure standing over him—his mother.

His mother, holding a gun. Pointed at him.

And the Joker is still swinging. Backhand, forehand. Backhand, forehand. The crowbar cuts through the air with a sickening whoosh before it meets his body, bone crunching under its force. Again. And again. And again.

He’s just a kid.

He’s just a kid. What was he thinking?

What made him believe he could do this, that he could find her and save her? That she would even want to be saved? He wants his dad. Where is Bruce? When is he coming?

Would he even want to come after Jason left?

Jason doesn’t have the energy to scream anymore.

Somewhere in the haze of pain, the Joker moves, his shrill laughter filling the empty space where Jason’s cries should be. His vision is too warped to tell when it happened, but his mother is tied to a pole now, her body bound and trembling. Jason wants to laugh, almost. He must’ve gotten his stupidity from her, then.

The apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Maybe that’s why, when the Joker finally leaves, Jason doesn’t crawl toward the exit. He doesn’t try to save himself. He drags his battered, broken body toward her instead, fingers shaking as he fumbles with the knots binding her. His mother—his mom—is sobbing, voice frantic as she tells him to run, to go, to get out while he still can. That at least one of them should live.

Even she sees how useless this is.

Why is it now, of all times, that she decides to be a mother? When she’s trapped and afraid, when it’s already too late? Why now?

Jason doesn’t get it. He doesn’t.

Why couldn’t any of his parents love him enough to keep him?

Then there’s a sound, a deep, thunderous boom, rattling through the walls, the floor, his bones.

An explosion.

And everything goes dark.

__________________________

Jason is screaming in his coffin, his raw voice swallowed by the suffocating earth pressing down on him from all sides. His fingers claw at the wooden lid above, nails breaking, skin peeling, blood smearing against the surface as he struggles. The air is gone, his lungs burn, his mind is frantic. He is trapped. Buried alive. Left to rot in the dark.

Then suddenly, he is falling.

The darkness gives way to a searing, blinding neon green. The liquid engulfs him, swallowing him whole. The Lazarus Pit. It’s burning, it’s filling his lungs, and he chokes as it rushes into his mouth. He tries to scream, tries to cough, but the liquid seeps deeper, forcing its way inside him. It’s green. So green. Like Joker’s hair, like the sickly glow of a nightmare that never ends. His body spasms, his nerves ignite, and his mind feels like it’s being shattered into pieces.

And in the swirling, bubbling abyss of the Lazarus Pit, he sees something else.

Scarlet. Swirling. Power crackling like embers in a dying fire. It bleeds into the green, twisting, turning—

Wait.

What?

Wanda’s magic. Red as blood, curling through the air, meeting the neon green. But—

Who’s Wanda?

What magic?

The realization crashes into him like a punch to the gut. He isn’t in the Pit. He isn’t in the coffin. This isn’t real. It’s memory, it’s the past, it’s happening all over again and he’s stuck. No, no, no, he has to get out. He has to get back. Back to the present. Back to—

The world tilts violently, like he’s being ripped from one reality to another. And then—

_____________________

He gasps.

His body is heavy, aching, exhausted. The cold stone floor beneath him is real. His breath rattles in his chest as he forces his eyes open. The cell. He’s back in the cell.

His vision swims, blurred at the edges, and then—

Wanda.

She’s there, her body sprawled a few feet away, unmoving. The glass behind her is fractured, spiderweb cracks branching outward from an impact. What impact? What happened?

His mind races. He remembers the scarlet. Her magic, swirling in the air. And then the green. The wrong green. The wrong, wrong green.

And then—pain.

Jason shudders. His heartbeat is thunder in his ears. He forces himself to move, to push himself up and forward, toward her, toward answers.

What the hell just happened?

Jason’s breath came in sharp, shallow gasps, his entire body coiled with tension as the cell door slid open. The sharp sound of metal scraping against metal sent a jolt through his system, and his hands twitched at his sides, fingers curling into fists. The agents moved in, a wall of black armor and cold steel, their guns trained on him with the kind of precision that sent his hackles rising.

“Stay put! Hands up!” one of them barked, the command sharp, cutting through the ringing in Jason’s ears.

But Jason couldn’t. Couldn’t move, couldn’t obey, not with so many of them, not with their weapons aimed right at him like he was some kind of rabid animal. The Lazarus Pit’s rage crawled beneath his skin, coiling tight in his chest, suffocating, consuming, wrong. Everything felt wrong. His heart pounded against his ribs, his pulse so loud he could barely hear them, and yet at the same time, he could hear everything—the shuffle of boots, the click of a safety being flicked off.

Someone moved toward Wanda, pressing two fingers against her throat while still aiming their gun at him. Jason barely registered the check for her pulse before another guard advanced on him, barking orders he didn’t process. He was too busy drowning, too busy suffocating on the wrongness of this moment.

The green flashed in his vision, and suddenly, it wasn’t a guard anymore. It was him. The Joker. The crowbar gleaming in the dim light, swinging down, cracking against bone—

Jason moved before he even knew what he was doing. His hand shot out, gripping the guard’s rifle, twisting it free with brutal efficiency. The gun came up, and he fired before the guard even had a chance to react. The body crumpled, a dead weight collapsing to the floor with a dull thud.

Everything went to hell in seconds.

A shot rang out, pain searing through Jason’s side as a bullet embedded itself into flesh. He staggered, teeth gritting against the sharp agony, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Someone was shouting outside the cell, orders barked in a voice he didn’t recognize, but none of it mattered.

All that mattered was survival.

His gun came up, and he fired. Again. Again. Again. The guards barely had a chance to react before they were dropping, lifeless, blood pooling beneath their bodies. The scent of gunpowder filled the air, thick and suffocating, but Jason barely noticed. He was already moving.

Wanda.

His breath hitched as he turned, eyes locking onto her unmoving form on the floor. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out everything else. He didn’t know why he was relieved, didn’t know why the sight of her chest rising and falling, shallow as it was, sent something deep inside of him unclenching.

But it did.

And he didn’t have time to question it.

Jason stands in the center of the cell, the bodies of the guards he’s already taken down sprawled around him, their blood thick and pooling at his boots. But there’s no time to focus on that. Not with more guards filing in, their rifles raised, safeties clicking off in unison.

A voice barks an order. Jason doesn’t hear it. He just raises his gun and pulls the trigger—

Click.

Shit.

The clip is empty. His heart lurches, body moving before his brain catches up. He ducks, grabbing one of the fallen guards and hauling him up just as a spray of bullets tears through the air. The body jerks against him, soaking his hands in fresh, hot blood. He waits, heart hammering against his ribs, until the gunfire halts—reloading.

That’s all he needs.

Jason shoves the corpse down, covering Wanda’s unconscious form beneath it. His legs burn as he sprints forward, slamming his weight into the nearest guard and knocking him into the others. Fists swing, bones crack beneath his knuckles, and Jason wrenches a rifle from someone's grasp before whipping it up and firing point-blank into their chest.

The Lazarus Pit’s rage hums beneath his skin, the green curling at the edges of his vision. God, it’s been so long since he’s killed—before this, even before he was thrown into this hellhole. He was holding back, trying, but now—

He has to. He has to.

They were going to kill him first. He had no choice.

That’s what he tells himself as he moves, as the gun kicks in his hands and another body drops, as he twists a knife free from a belt and drives it into a throat, hot blood spraying across his face. Justifying it with every breath he takes.

More guards rush in from the elevator, rifles raised, barrels pointed at him. Jason freezes, panting, body aching, head swimming with green and scarlet. There are too many of them. He can’t see a way out. Can’t run. Can’t fight his way through all of them.

He’s not stupid. He knows the odds.

Bodies. Bodies. Bodies.

Blood at his feet. Brains, bits of bone. The air smells like iron and gunpowder, and the green in his vision is growing, swallowing the room. And Jason—Jason can’t breathe.

The Joker’s laughter echoes in his head.

Kill them. Kill them all.

Guns cock in front of him, a line of barrels gleaming under the cold fluorescent light. Jason braces, muscles locking up, breath caught in his throat.

This is it.

And maybe—maybe whatever happens here is better than what would happen if the Bats found him again. Better than Arkham. Better than a cage. Better than being trapped with the Joker’s laugh ringing in his ears for the rest of his life.

Maybe this is better.

Suddenly, a back moves in front of him, wide and imposing, blocking his view of the guards. Jason’s breath catches, and for a split second, everything feels like it stops.

The gunfire begins, rapid, but muffled. Bodies fall, the sound of thuds and screams echoing around him, but through it all, Jason only hears his own pulse pounding in his ears.

Then, silence.

The whole world seems to freeze for a moment, the ringing in his ears loud in the stillness. It takes a second to realize it—the shouting, the chaos, it’s all gone. The room is eerily quiet now except for the harshness of Jason’s breath, his chest heaving as his eyes flicker to the person in front of him.

It’s Bucky.

Jason’s breath hitches, and for a moment, his heart stutters in his chest.

Bucky turns, his broad back shielding Jason from the guards, standing tall and unflinching as he raises a pistol, the sound of it firing into the air sharp and cutting through the tension. Slowly, deliberately, Bucky speaks, the words quiet but steady.

"Hey, hey, hey." His hands are on Jason’s shoulders now, the touch firm, grounding. Bucky’s gaze holds Jason’s, trying to get him to focus, pulling his attention away from the chaos around them. Bucky's voice is soft, so soft.

Jason tries to look away, his mind screaming to escape, to just—anything—but Bucky’s hands move to gently catch his chin, guiding his face back to face him. His fingers are warm against Jason's skin, surprisingly steady, as he wipes the blood off Jason’s face. It's almost tender, the way Bucky does it, even in the middle of everything going to hell.

"Look at me, Jason," Bucky says again, his voice quieter now. "I know, I know it’s bad, but it’ll be okay. I’ll make it right."

Jason feels like he’s drowning, like his body is heavy and his mind is fighting against him. His mouth is dry, his words thick and sluggish in his throat, but they finally come out, cracking on the edges.

"Everything went to hell," Jason mutters, his voice shaky, the panic still clinging to him like a second skin.

Bucky’s expression softens, and his hands move to Jason’s face again, pressing gently against his temples as if trying to steady him. "I know. But I’ll fix it. I’ll make it right."

Jason wants to believe him, he does, but there's this gnawing fear deep inside that he can't shake. How could it be okay when everything is broken?

But Bucky’s there, his presence solid, like a lifeline. And for the first time since the chaos started, Jason feels his chest unclench, just slightly.

"Okay," Jason whispers, though he’s not sure he believes it.

Bucky shifts, turning his back to Jason again, standing like a wall between him and the rest of the room. But Jason isn’t small, not anymore, and with them being nearly the same height, he can still see past Bucky’s shoulder if he wants. And he does.

His gaze flickers across the room, taking in the tense standoff.

Steve and Natasha stand firm, abarrier between Jason, Bucky and the dozen or so armed soldiers staring them down. Natasha holds her batons tight, her stance coiled, like she’s ready to strike if anyone so much as twitches the wrong way. Steve, however, doesn’t have anything in his hands—he doesn’t need to. He just stands there, broad and unshaken, the sheer presence of him enough to make the soldiers hesitate.

Jason isn’t sure if they’re holding back because they’re intimidated or because Steve and Natasha are still considered allies. Either way, no one moves.

Then there’s Fury.

He looks as collected as ever, but Jason can see it—the tension in the set of his jaw, the weight behind his words before he even speaks. He’s pissed, but not the kind of angry that comes with shouting. No, this is something colder, something more dangerous.

"Hand the boy over, Barnes," Fury says, his voice carrying over the quiet room, firm and authoritative.

Bucky doesn’t hesitate. "Not happening."

Fury exhales sharply through his nose, his patience thinning. "You know there will be consequences if you don’t."

Bucky’s shoulders square, his entire posture shifting into something just as immovable as Steve’s. "You really think you can take me down, Fury?" His voice is low, steady. "You really think you and every damn soldier in this room can win that fight?"

The silence that follows is heavy, stretching long enough for Jason to feel it pressing against his chest.

Fury watches Bucky, his single eye assessing as he weighs his options. Then, with a measured breath, he speaks again. "This building is surrounded," he says, his voice even. "SHIELD agents are on damn near every floor. The boy—" he doesn’t call Jason by name, just ‘the boy’— "has already killed several of my agents. And somehow, he knocked out Wanda." His lips press together in a thin line. "You’re being naive if you think I’ll let the only lead to what happened to our scientists and our base slip away just because you’re too blind to see the bigger picture."

Jason’s fingers twitch. His breathing is slow, controlled, but his mind is racing. Fury wants him—he knew that already, but hearing it laid out like this? It makes his stomach churn.

Bucky doesn’t respond immediately. His hands flex at his sides before curling into fists.

Jason swallows. The air is thick with tension, and for the first time since this all started, he wonders how the hell they’re getting out of this.

Jason’s jaw tightens.

He knocked out Wanda?

That doesn’t make sense. She’s supposed to be some all-powerful being, right? And a former hydra like Bucky to add to that. What the hell could he have done to take her out? The last thing he remembers is pain—searing, suffocating pain before everything went black. He doesn’t remember attacking her, doesn’t remember anything but drowning in memories that weren’t supposed to surface.

Yet here he is, blamed for something he doesn’t even recall doing.

Bucky speaks, his voice steady, unwavering. "You’re gonna have to stand down, Fury." He keeps his stance firm. "I don’t want to hurt you, but if you give me no choice, I will."

Fury doesn’t flinch. He holds Bucky’s gaze, his expression unreadable. Then, after a beat, he says, "Some people might start wondering if you’re still Hydra if you keep acting like this."

That does it.

Bucky moves without hesitation, pistol raised in a second, the barrel aimed directly at Fury’s head.

Jason recognizes the gun now—Natasha’s.

"Jesus Christ, Bucky!" Steve’s voice cuts through the tension, sharp and urgent. "Put it down! We can still talk this out!"

Bucky doesn’t lower the gun. If anything, his grip tightens, his breathing steady but fast, in a way that tells Jason he’s barely keeping himself in check. A sound leaves Bucky’s throat—not quite a growl, but something close.

"I shouldn’t have listened to you," Bucky mutters, his tone cold. "I knew this was gonna end badly. But I did it anyway—because you asked me to trust you." His jaw clenches. "Now look where we are."

Steve’s expression shifts, something like guilt flickering across his face. "I thought—" he starts, then exhales, trying again. "I thought this was the best way to finally settle things. To stop people from questioning if Jason’s Hydra."

Jason barely hears the words before Steve turns to him, like he’s trying to explain to him now, trying to make Jason understand.

But Jason doesn’t want to understand.

There’s a sharp, uncomfortable pang in his chest. Not quite betrayal. Not quite anger. Something in between.

He shouldn’t care. He shouldn’t care.

It’s not like he and Steve were ever close.

But, fuck—he does.

Bucky lets out a sharp breath through his nose, like he’s holding something back—frustration, anger, something heavier. But he doesn’t lower the gun. His stance doesn’t waver.

“Move.” His voice is steady, controlled, but there’s an edge to it. A warning.

Fury stands his ground for a moment too long. Jason doesn’t know if it’s pride or sheer stubbornness that keeps him there, but eventually, after a long stretch of silence, Fury steps aside. His expression darkens. “You’re gonna regret whatever mistake you’re about to make, Barnes.”

Bucky doesn’t acknowledge it. He doesn’t give him a glance, doesn’t waste breath on a response. Instead, his metal arm reaches back, fingers closing around Jason’s wrist, a firm pull guiding him toward the elevator. Jason follows without thinking.

The elevator doors slide open automatically, and Bucky pushes him inside, stepping in beside him before the doors seal them off from the chaos of the room outside.

“Jarvis,” Bucky orders, his voice still steady. “Take us to Stark. Now.”

“Affirmative, Sergeant Barnes,” Jarvis responds smoothly. “I have already notified Mr. Stark of the situation.”

Bucky nods once, exhaling. The elevator hums softly as it begins its descent.

Now, in the stark white lighting, Jason notices the blood on Bucky’s clothes. It’s not as much as the blood covering Jason’s own, but it’s there. The sight sends a sharp spike of anxiety through him.

“You good?” Jason asks, his voice rough, edged with worry. “Did you get hit?”

Bucky shakes his head. Instead of answering, he presses a hand into Jason’s side. Jason sucks in a sharp breath, body tensing on instinct. Fuck. Right. He got shot.

How the hell did he forget about that?

The pain is unmistakable now, a deep, searing throb spreading through his ribs. Jason lets out a slow, shaky breath.

“Keep pressure on it,” Bucky says, voice softer now but still firm. “Until we get to Stark.”

Jason nods. He grips at the wound, pressing down. It hurts like a bitch, but it keeps his hands occupied, gives him something to focus on. “What now?” he asks. “What the hell are we supposed to do?”

Bucky shakes his head, his jaw tightening slightly. “Whatever we have to. Whatever it takes to keep you safe.”

Jason doesn’t know what to say to that.

Instead, Bucky reaches into his belt and pulls something out—Natasha’s blade. He hands it to Jason without hesitation. A silent reassurance. If shit goes south, you’re not defenseless.

Jason takes it, his fingers curling around the handle. But before he can say anything, Bucky’s gaze sharpens, studying him more closely.

“Your eyes,” Bucky murmurs. “They’re green.”

Jason damn near recoils at that, his hand flying up to rub at them, as if wiping at them would somehow fix it. Change them back.

Bucky catches his wrist, his grip firm but not forceful. He shakes his head. “Hey. It’s okay.” His voice is steady, careful. “I’ve seen them before.”

Jason hesitates.

Jarvis’ voice comes through the elevator’s speakers, smooth and composed as ever.

“The floors have been evacuated of all staff,” he informs them. “However, S.H.I.E.L.D. agents remain stationed on every level. The floor Mr. Stark is currently in is empty, aside from Dr. Banner.”

Bucky nods once. “Got it.” He finally turns away from Jason just as the elevator slows to a stop.

The doors slide open, and the first thing Jason hears is Stark’s voice cutting through the empty space, sharp and irritated as he yells into a phone.

“I don’t care what the hell you want—get your agents out of my damn building. Now.”

Jason steps out slowly, eyes flicking around. He recognizes this floor. It’s where Banner brought him before, when he first asked about his universe. The layout hasn’t changed—glass-walled offices, long lab counters—but the atmosphere is different. The workers have been rushed out. Desks are abandoned, glass vials left uncapped, papers scattered where they shouldn’t be. It’s messy.

Banner stands near Stark inside the glass office, his posture more tense than Jason remembers.

Bucky moves first, his strides long and purposeful as he crosses the room. He pushes open the door, stepping aside and motioning for Jason to enter first. Jason hesitates for only a second before stepping in. Bucky follows closely behind, shutting the door with a quiet but firm click.

Now, Stark’s words are even clearer.

“I don’t give a shit what your orders are,” he snaps. “If someone’s in my building, I’ll deal with it. And in case you forgot, he’s on my team.”

Jason swallows, his throat dry.

Banner is the first to move, his eyes flicking over Jason and Bucky before he steps toward them. Jason instinctively shifts back, but a firm hand on his back—Bucky’s—keeps him from retreating too far. Instead, Bucky pushes him forward slowly.

Banner’s gaze is calm but assessing, concerned. “You okay?” he asks, already motioning for Jason to sit down.

Jason exhales through his nose and doesn’t argue. He moves toward the chair Banner gestures to, lowering himself into it stiffly.

Without wasting any time, Banner retrieves a first aid kit. He pops it open, his hands moving efficiently as he pulls out a pair of forceps—used to remove bullets—and a sterile needle for stitching.

Jason clenches his jaw, watching as Banner preps his supplies. This is going to suck.

Jason’s eyes stay locked on Stark, choosing to focus on him rather than on the way Banner lifts his shirt just enough to see the bullet wound.

A part of him wants to yank his shirt back down, to cover the web of scars stretched across his torso. But he forces himself to stay still. Maybe the blood will be enough of a distraction. Maybe Banner won’t even notice. And besides, he’s only lifted it a little.

Stark’s voice, sharp and unyielding, keeps Jason’s attention.

“You’re not just trying to get one of my team members,” Stark snaps into the phone, pacing now. “You’re also trying to take a guest under my watch. The boy—as you like to call him—is my responsibility, and as long as you don’t have actual proof that he’s Hydra, he’s staying under my protection.”

Jason’s eyes narrow slightly.

“I was the first one to throw that accusation around,” Stark continues, “and even I’m starting to doubt it.”

Jason’s stomach twists—not from pain this time, but from the unexpectedness of Stark’s words.

He didn’t expect Stark to defend him. If anything, he assumed Stark would be the first to throw him under the bus, especially with how much he hates Bucky.

But here he is. Standing his ground. Defending Jason—if not out of personal concern, then at least because it’s happening in his building, to his people.

Jason doesn’t get the chance to analyze it any further.

A sharp, burning pain rips through his side as Banner starts removing the bullet, and Jason groans through clenched teeth. His hands grip the edges of the chair before something warm and solid covers one of them.

Bucky.

Jason blinks down at their hands, finding both of Bucky’s—metal and flesh—wrapped around his own, firm but careful. A grounding touch. A silent reassurance.

Jason squeezes back, mostly because of the pain—but also, maybe, just a little, for Bucky’s sake.

Banner murmurs a quiet “Hang on, almost go it,” as he works as quickly as possible.

By the time Jason grits his way through another wave of pain, Stark has shut off the call. His phone clatters onto the desk as he throws it aside, a string of very creative curses leaving his mouth.

Jason doesn’t need to hear the other side of the conversation to know whoever was on the line didn’t take Stark’s response well.

Stark turns toward them, his usual sarcasm sharpened to a blade’s edge.

“Oh, just perfect,” he drawls, eyes flicking between Jason and Bucky with something that isn’t quite disgust but isn’t far from it either. “Not only do I have to deal with Tin Man over here, but now I’ve got Junior Roadkill bleeding all over my floors.”

Jason stays silent, jaw tight as he sucks in a sharp breath when Banner finally pulls several bullet shards out of his side. The metal clinks softly against the tray, but it feels like it’s rattling inside his skull.

Stark curses at the sight, actually wincing as he takes in the damage. "Shit. Christ. You got any other bullet holes I should know about, or are we just sticking with this one for now?”

Jason looks at him flatly. “What the hell are we supposed to do?”

Bucky is silent beside him, his presence heavy, but for once, the usual animosity between him and Stark takes a backseat. Maybe because right now, they both know they don’t have the luxury of their usual bullshit.

Stark exhales sharply and waves a hand. “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it—for now.”

Jason barely has time to scowl at that before Stark winces at the sight of Banner picking up the suturing needle and surgical thread.

Jason knows the look on his face before he even speaks.

“He gonna do this without pain meds?”

Banner doesn’t get a chance to answer before Jason groans slightly as the first stitch goes in. He grits his teeth. “I’ve had worse. This is nothing.”

Stark nods, dragging a hand down his face like this is all just so much for him to deal with.

It doesn’t take long for Banner to finish, knotting the last of the stitches and applying a clean bandage before tugging Jason’s shirt back down. Jason lets out a slow breath, the ache still present but slightly dulled now that the wound is patched up.

Banner stands back up just as Stark, once again, finds something else to latch onto.

“Okay, yeah, while we’re on the topic of weird shit, why the fuck are your eyes neon-fucking-green?”

Jason clenches his jaw.

Stark gestures vaguely at him, voice dripping with irritation. “Seriously, are you and Banner somehow related? Because I swear to God, if I have to deal with another rage monster with anger issues, I’m out.”

Jason keeps his mouth shut, fingers curling slightly where they rest against his leg.

what the fuck does banner have to do with this?

Banner shoots Stark a disapproving look before turning his attention back to Jason. Jason doesn’t meet his gaze.

Banner keeps his voice soft, his tone careful as if speaking any louder might make Jason bolt. “Jason, let me take a look.”

Jason exhales sharply but relents, tilting his head up just enough for Banner to get a good look at his eyes. He scowls, but the expression is more for Stark than Banner.

Banner hums thoughtfully, taking in the neon green color before murmuring, “I definitely remember these being blue last time we talked.”

Jason lets out an unamused huff. “Is this really the time for this?”

A unanimous, deadpan “No” fills the room.

Stark rolls his eyes before turning to Bucky. “Fury isn’t taking ‘no’ for an answer. He’s dead set on this whole Jason works for Hydra thing. And while we’ve been a little more laid back about it—”

Jason scoffs, and Stark immediately cuts him a glare. “Don’t start. We are Laid-back compared to Fury.”

Jason doesn’t disagree.

Stark continues. “Point is, Fury isn’t playing. And after several of his agents got wiped off the map, God knows what he’s willing to do to get answers.”

Bucky’s voice is cold, final. “I can take care of the agents.”

Stark sighs, rubbing his temple. “Jesus, chill the fuck out.”

But then he pauses, considering. “Okay. Maybe not all of them, but you might need to deal with some. Elevator’s locked down—Jarvis isn’t letting them up—but the stairs are fair game.”

Bucky nods, sliding the magazine out of his pistol, checking it, and snapping it back in place. His metal arm flexes, fingers rolling into a fist.

Jason is about to say he’s going to help too, but before he can get the words out, rapid footsteps echo up the stairwell. A lot of them.

He moves without thinking, standing too fast—pain slicing through his side. He barely registers it as he grips his knife, bringing it up in preparation.

But before he can do anything, something comes flying through the room—a sleek piece of red and gold metal, moving with a speed Jason can’t track.

It slams into Stark, locking around his chest and shoulders. Then another piece slams into his legs, another onto his arms. The armor builds itself around him, part by part, wrapping around his limbs with mechanical whirs and metallic clicks. A final section—his helmet—shoots across the room, snapping into place over his head with a sharp hiss.

Jason barely breathes. "What the fuck?"

Banner yanks Jason back behind him, and Jason is this close to yelling at them to stop pulling him around when—

BANG.

The stairwell door bursts open.

Agents pour in, rifles raised, tactical gear gleaming under the bright lights. Their movements are precise, disciplined. Shields come up, surrounding the glass office in a tight formation, weapons aimed directly at them.

One of the agents steps forward, voice firm and unwavering. "Hand over the Hydra agent."

Jason stiffens, his grip tightening on his blade.

He barely registers Stark moving until the billionaire, now fully suited up in that robot suit—guess he’s the Tin Man here and not Bucky after all—tilts his helmet slightly and replies with pure, dripping sarcasm.

"Oh, of course! And would you like him gift-wrapped with a bow, or just tossed out like last week’s garbage?"

The agent’s expression hardens. "This isn’t a joke. Hand him over. No one else needs to get hurt."

Bucky’s only response is the sharp, unmistakable click of his pistol cocking. The air shifts—every agent who had slightly lowered their rifles now raises them again, fingers twitching near their triggers.

Stark sighs heavily. "Right. So. Here’s the deal: the only people getting hurt here are you if you don’t turn your trigger happy little asses around and leave."

The agent hesitates, fingers flexing around his rifle. Jason can see it—the slight falter, the crack in his resolve. But then his jaw sets, his back straightens. "I have orders."

Stark tilts his head. "Orders. Right. Now, tell me, are those orders more important than your life? Because, spoiler alert—you're about to lose it."

The agent’s response is swift. "Safeties off."

A loud click-click-click echoes through the room as dozens of agents flip their rifle safeties off in unison.

Stark simply nods. "Alright. You’ve got your orders." Then, his tone shifts, smug and laced with something that sounds almost gleeful. "And we have a Hulk."

Jason barely has time to process that sentence before Stark turns his head slightly, glancing at Banner. "So, Doc—feeling angry right now?"

Banner exhales through his nose, stepping forward as he shrugs off his lab coat. His voice is calm. Steady. "I’m always angry."

Jason watches, wide-eyed, as Banner’s muscles seize. His body trembles, veins bulging beneath his skin as it shifts—darkening, thickening. A low, guttural growl rumbles from his throat as his back arches, bones cracking and realigning in a grotesque, unnatural rhythm. His skin ripples like it’s alive, shifting from pale to deep green in mere seconds.

Then his limbs expand, thickening with raw, monstrous muscle. His jaw stretches unnaturally wide, eyes glowing a furious, burning green. With one final, bone-shaking roar, Banner is gone—replaced by something massive.

Jason barely breathes. "Holy shit."

Hulk’s roar shakes the walls, a deep, guttural sound that rumbles through Jason’s chest like a shockwave. The agents falter—stepping back instinctively—before one of them shouts into his earpiece, calling for reinforcements.

Then the gunfire starts.

The sharp, deafening cracks of bullets tearing through the air are almost drowned out by the sound of shattering glass. The sleek, modern walls of the office explode into shards as the first wave of bullets rips through them.

Jason barely has time to move before something heavy and metallic slams into him.

Stark.

The Iron Man suit encloses around Jason like a damn human shield, Stark’s arms wrapping around him in an uncomfortably protective grip. The impact nearly knocks Jason’s breath out. He can feel the unyielding weight of the suit pressing against him, hear the hum of repulsors charging.

"Get off!" he snarls, pushing at Stark’s chestplate, trying to twist free. But Stark doesn’t budge, the bastard doesn’t budge,and Jason may as well be fighting a brick wall painted in loud, obnoxious red and gold.

More bullets whiz past, clinking uselessly against Stark’s armor. In the chaos, Jason strains to hear—to see—where the hell Bucky is.

The moment the gunfire lessens, Stark releases him just enough for Jason to turn his head.

His eyes immediately lock onto Bucky.

He is a storm of precision and violence, moving with terrifying efficiency. Jason watches as Bucky’s metal arm caves in a man’s skull with one brutal, crushing punch—blood and bone spraying into the air before he shifts, seamlessly dispatching the next target.

Some of the agents, the smarter ones, are already running. Others—less intelligent or simply more suicidal—keep firing, their bullets bouncing uselessly off Hulk’s thick hide as he tears through them like paper.

Then, Jarvis’ voice cuts through the chaos, cool and controlled over the speakers.

"Sir, additional S.H.I.E.L.D. reinforcements have breached the lower floors. They are moving quickly."

Stark curses before twisting towards the fucking Hulk.

"Banner!" he shouts, voice sharp over the carnage. "Grab Jason and get him the fuck out of here!"

Stark lets out a string of creative curses before twisting towards Hulk.

"Banner!" he shouts, voice sharp over the carnage. "Grab Jason and get him the fuck out of here!"

The Hulk turns, his massive form shifting as he drops the two agents still clutched in his fists. Their bodies hit the floor with a sickening, lifeless thud. There’s a moment, a brief second where Jason swears he can still see the twitch of a muscle, the lingering tension of bodies that had been alive just moments ago—before Hulk lifts one colossal foot and brings it down with a brutal, echoing crunch.

The sound of breaking bones and crushed flesh is enough to make even the most hardened men flinch.

Jason doesn’t flinch. But he does suck in a sharp breath as Hulk turns, now lumbering straight toward him and Stark.

He had seen Banner just minutes ago, the soft-spoken doctor with kind eyes and an even kinder voice. But there is nothing of Banner left in the massive thing in front of him. Jason sees only rage, raw and unchecked, wrapped in dense, green muscle and anger that simmers just beneath the surface, ready to erupt at a moment’s notice.

And it’s coming right at him.

Jason barely has time to think, let alone react, before a massive hand swings toward him. He tries to move—he really does—but it’s pointless. Hulk’s fingers close around him with terrifying ease, and suddenly Jason is lifted off the ground like he weighs nothing. His stomach drops, the world tilting wildly as he’s hoisted into the air.

“Put me the fuck down!” Jason snarls, thrashing, trying to pry himself free. Futile. Hulk’s grip is unbreakable, his hold firm but not crushing—at least, not yet. Jason’s arms are pinned to his sides, and he can feel the heat radiating off the creature’s skin. His heart hammers in his chest, wild and erratic.

"Not liking this, not liking this at all,” Jason grits out, twisting to try and look, to see what the hell Banner’s plan even is. He can’t fit through the damn stairwell, so how—

His blood runs cold as Hulk’s head turns toward the window.

The fucking window.

Jason swears under his breath, heart clenching as he realizes exactly what’s about to happen. "No way—No fucking way—”

Bucky’s voice breaks through the panic. “Jason! It’s fine!” He’s yelling over the chaos, but his tone is steady. Assured. “I’ll find you after this, alright?! Just stay low. Stay low. I know you can do that.”

Jason’s chest tightens, and he wants to yell something back—but he doesn’t get the chance.

Hulk moves.

The ground trembles beneath his massive feet as he barrels forward, charging straight for the window. Jason barely has time to let out a curse before Hulk collides with the glass, shattering it with ease. Then there’s nothing but open air, nothing but a dizzying drop beneath them as Hulk leaps from the building.

The world vanishes beneath Jason’s feet.

He is falling.

Gravity clutches at him, yanking his stomach up into his throat as they plummet from dozens of stories above the city. The wind roars past his ears, tearing through his hair, stinging his eyes. His body lurches with every shift in velocity, and for a moment, there’s this horrifying sense of weightlessness—this unbearable suspension—before the inevitability of the ground rushes to meet them.

Hulk lands with the force of an earthquake.

The impact rattles everything—Jason’s bones, his organs, the pavement beneath them cracking under the sheer force of the landing. The shock of it vibrates through his skull, momentarily disorienting him, his vision blurring from the jarring force. For a split second, all Jason can do is breathe, his body trembling from the sheer adrenaline still surging through him.

Jason barely has time to do anything before something slams into Hulk’s back.

Gunfire.

The unmistakable clack-clack-clack of bullets unloading into Hulk’s thick skin. The rounds do nothing—merely ricocheting off with useless, metallic pings—but the damage is already done.

Hulk roars, a sound so loud, so furious, it shakes the air itself. He drops Jason immediately, turning with unfiltered rage towards the agents still firing at him. His body coils with fury, muscles tensing, and then he charges.

The moment he moves, panic erupts around them.

The streets, once occupied by unsuspecting civilians, explode into chaos. People scream. Cars screech to a halt, tires squealing, doors slamming open as terrified pedestrians flee in every direction. Some drop their belongings in their mad dash to escape, bags and phones trampled beneath desperate feet. The once-busy road becomes an arena of pure panic as Hulk barrels through it towards the agents.

Jason is forgotten.

Good.

He wastes no time. His body aches, his side still burns from earlier, but none of it matters. The agents are closing in—he sees their movements, their intent to box him in—and Jason knows he has seconds to make a decision.

Then he turns to the crowd.

A moving tide of bodies, fleeing, chaotic and uncontrolled. Perfect.

Jason grits his teeth and runs.

He throws himself into the sea of people, shoving past panicked civilians, moving with the chaos instead of against it. The agents will have to be insane to start firing into a crowd, and Jason is counting on that hesitation. His heart is hammering, his body screaming at him to stop, but he pushes forward, weaving through the masses like a ghost disappearing into the night.

Bucky said he’d find him.

And if he doesn’t?

Jason will find him.

But right now? Right now, he just has to disappear.

The last thing he hears before vanishing into the chaos is the thunderous sound of Hulk’s rampage and the distant, desperate shouts of agents trying to regain control.

Chapter Text

The cell still stinks of blood.

Not even two hours ago, Jason had been locked in here. Now, Bucky stood in his place, his wrists weighed down by reinforced cuffs that clamped around his forearms and dug into his skin with every subtle twitch. They hadn't even cleaned the place up—just dragged out the bodies of the agents. The floor was still streaked with blood, red smears and splatters painting the concrete like some kind of grotesque mural.

Bucky stood in the center, unmoving. His breathing was even, slow, practiced. He focused on the faint sound of the ventilation hum rather than the sticky squelch of his boots in the blood or the scent of iron that clung to everything like a second skin.

Across from him, Nick Fury stood with his hands clasped behind his back, a thunderstorm barely concealed behind that one-eyed stare. The silence between them was dense, electric. Fury didn’t speak. Neither did Bucky. But neither of them looked away.

It hadn't taken much. Just one agent caught off guard, one radio grabbed. Bucky's voice, low and cold as frost, had cut through the panic—“Tell Fury I’ll surrender if he calls his people off.”

Fury hadn't wasted a second. Stark had, of course, tried to argue. Told Bucky he didn’t need to do this, that they were winning anyway. But Bucky wasn’t interested in winning. He was interested in stopping the bloodshed. Jason had gotten out. That was all that mattered.

The cuffs were heavy, designed for people like him. Meant to keep the Winter Soldier down. They clicked shut with a finality that felt familiar. Too familiar. Like slipping into an old nightmare.

The elevator chimed.

Steve entered first, his pace brisk, chest rising and falling as though he’d run the last stretch. Natasha followed, her face blank, and Stark brought up the rear, muttering something under his breath that was lost in the hum of tension. Banner looked like hell—still half in a daze, his shirt torn, blood on the sleeves. None of it his.

Steve stepped into the cell with too much urgency, eyes scanning Bucky before settling on the cuffs. "Are you okay?"

Bucky took a single step back, not a stumble, not fear—just enough to draw a line in the dust. The look he gave Steve wasn’t angry. It was colder than that. A quiet warning.

“Don’t,” he said flatly.

Steve stopped, hands halfway to reaching. They fell to his sides, and the concern in his expression twisted, confusion tugging at the corners of his mouth. He didn’t understand. He never really had. Even though Bucky knows he tries, everyday he tries.

"You didn't have to do this," Steve said, softer now. His eyes on the cuffs.

Bucky didn’t answer. Stark did, with a bitter scoff and a dry, "He thought it would save us all a headache. No more body count. Sound logic. Even if I didn’t agree it first”

Fury still hadn’t moved. His eye was calculating, like he was picking Bucky apart with every second that passed.

"Where is he now?" Fury asked, voice sharp as glass.

Bucky tilted his head, lips pressed into a thin line. "Gone."

"That’s not what I wanted."

"It’s all you’re getting."

Fury took a step forward, but Natasha's hand on his arm stopped him. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. The tension in the room pulsed like a heartbeat.

Bruce let out a quiet sigh. He looked at the glass, at the stains that hadn't yet been scrubbed away. "He wasn't Hydra."

"We had agents die."

"Because they were ordered to shoot a kid," Bucky snapped, the first crack in his control since he stepped into the cell. "A panicked, half-conscious kid who couldn’t even stand upright before your agents thought it would be a good idea to corner him."

Silence again. It stretched long and taut.

Fury stepped forward once more. "Where is he headed?"

"I don’t know."

It’s true, he didn’t.

Fury’s boots echoed in the silence as he stepped into Bucky’s space like he owned it—like this cell belonged to him, like Bucky belonged in it. His one eye burned with righteous anger, a storm held back only by the thinnest threads of necessity.

“You’re lucky we still need you.”

The words dropped between them like a loaded gun.

“If it wasn’t for that mission—if we didn’t need someone to as informed as you when it came to Hydra—you’d be dealing with the consequences of killing my men.”

Bucky didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. His breathing didn’t change, but the silence he gave in return wasn’t empty. It was heavy. Full of defiance. Of calculated rage tempered by the only thing that mattered right now—Jason was out. Gone. Free.

Fury stepped in closer, trying to force something out of him—guilt, remorse, a crack in that flat expression Bucky wore like armor. But there was nothing. Just the Winter Soldier, still and cold behind those sharp eyes.

Steve stepped between them before the tension could snap into something worse. He pushed Fury back with one hand and the kind of calm voice that barely masked his irritation. “He did what he felt was necessary.”

Fury’s jaw clenched, then he reached into his pocket and threw a key toward Steve. It he caught it before he turned toward Bucky, meeting his eyes briefly before leaning closer and unlocking the cuffs. His hands lingering on Bucky even after the cuffs dropped…Bucky pulled away first.

The reinforced metal hit the ground with a dull, weighty thud, and the cold air against Bucky’s wrists did nothing to cool the heat still radiating in his chest.

Fury turned on his heel. “We leave tomorrow. We’ve got a lead—Hydra last seen at a location about sixty klicks north of the border. You’re going in. You mess this up, Barnes—disobey a single order, mine or anyone else’s—you’ll be dealt with accordingly.”

The air shifted again. Steve took a step forward, his voice firmer now. “That’s not going to happen. Nothing is going to be done to Bucky.”

But Fury was already halfway out the door, no reply given. Just a heavy silence left in his place.

“Always a pleasure,” Stark muttered, dragging a hand down his face before he snapped his fingers in mock applause. “Boy Scout showdown number fifty-seven. Very compelling stuff. I give it four stars.”

He turned toward the rest of the room, clearly ready to get the hell out of here. “Gear up, rest up—whatever it is you people do before missions. We’re moving at dawn.”

He stopped just short of the door and glanced at Natasha. “Try and find out where our problem child landed, would you? Quietly. I don’t need a full-on manhunt.”

Natasha didn’t say anything at first—just gave a slow, deliberate nod before she slipped out behind Fury, her presence vanishing the way only she could manage. One moment there, the next, smoke.

And then the room was quiet again. Bucky rubbed at his wrists absently, skin chafed red from the cuffs. He didn’t look at Steve. Not yet.

Because even though Jason was gone, free for now, it wasn’t over.

It never really was.

His kid better be safe.

Jason's always been good at reading a room—good at surviving when everything goes sideways. He can handle this. He better be handling this. Because if he isn’t—if something got to him out there—then Bucky is going to make sure someone pays for it. 

He steps out of the cell without looking back, brushing past Steve, who falls into step beside him like he always does. Too familiar. Too close.

“Bucky,” Steve says, voice low. “Come on, talk to me.”

Bucky doesn’t answer.

“You’re upset with me. I get that. But… you don’t actually blame me, right?”

That’s what makes him stop.

He turns on Steve, jaw tight, trying to force the look on his face into something that won’t light a fuse. His eyes narrow, the words coming out sharp.

“You shouldn’t have asked me to trust you on this if you didn’t know what the hell you were doing, Steve.”

Steve opens his mouth, but Bucky’s not finished.

“You knew my priority was Jason. You’ve seen what happens when people try to corner him. So what did you think would happen? Huh? That everything was gonna calm down if I just sat tight and waited while Fury’s men pointed guns at him?”

The hallway feels smaller. Tighter.

“You told me there was another way—but there wasn’t. And from now on, whatever happens with Jason? That’s my call. Mine alone. If I say no, then it’s no. Doesn’t matter if you agree. Doesn’t matter if anyone agrees.”

He takes a breath. It doesn’t make him feel any less on edge.

“You want to support me? Fine. Do that. But if you’re gonna second-guess me when it counts, then stay out of it.”

Steve’s jaw works like he wants to argue, like he’s chewing on words he’s afraid to say.

“I was trying to fix it,” he says instead, quieter now. “I just wanted to help.”

Bucky straightens up, eyes on him, and he almost—almost—reaches out. Because he knows Steve means it. He knows it. But good intentions don’t make up for bad judgment.

“I know,” Bucky says, the heat in his voice cooling to something heavier. “But your help has been making things worse with him. We’ve talked about this already. You need to back off.”

Steve’s shoulders slump. It’s not much, but it’s enough to see he heard him. That it landed.

“Don’t give me your opinion unless I ask for it.”

A pause. Then Steve nods, short and stiff, eyes somewhere on the floor.

Bucky doesn’t stay to ease the blow. He turns and steps into the elevator, hits the button, and doesn’t look back.

_______________________________

Jason's legs burned. His lungs ached, pulling in short, harsh breaths as he ducked into another alley, the sounds of the city still loud in his ears—car horns, footsteps, conversations, and somewhere in the distance, sirens. He pressed his back to a damp brick wall and exhaled through his nose. Two hours. Two fucking hours of nonstop ducking, weaving, disappearing into buses, diving into crowds and keeping his head down. His body was starting to wear down, even with the pit still buzzing like a second heart behind his eyes.

But at least he was far. He couldn’t see the tower anymore—no more distant glint of glass and steel looming over him like some cursed reminder. Just buildings now. Normal ones. Apartment complexes, laundromats, a corner deli that smelled like stale grease and burnt coffee.

He glanced down, running his hands over his clothes. Stiff fabric. Some blood—someone else’s, not his. His hand paused when it touched the outline of his phone in his pocket. Huh. Right. He still had it. He did shove it in his pocket before he and Bucky left the apartment.

His first instinct was relief. Then logic caught up and sucker-punched him in the gut.

Stark could track him. Or worse—Fury. That one eyed bastard could probably have a satellite feed locked on him within five minutes if they found out he had it on hum. He tugged the phone out with a clenched jaw, flipping it over in his hand, thumb hovering over the screen.

One contact.

Just one.

Bucky.

Jason stared at the name like it might morph into an answer. Or a lifeline. A part of him itched to press the call button. Just one ring. Just to hear Bucky’s voice. Just to know he wasn’t on his own.

But no. No way. The whole point of this was to stay hidden.

With a breath he didn’t want to let go, Jason shut the phone off and slipped into the nearest alley. He glanced around—empty. Good. He raised his arm and smashed the phone into the brick wall. It cracked with a sharp crunch, the screen splintering under his fingers. Pieces stabbed into his palm, but he didn’t stop. He dropped it to the ground and stomped on it twice, grinding the remains into gravel.

Gone. No tracking. No calls. 

He leaned back against the wall and slid down until he was crouching, arms draped over his knees, breathing deep. He stared at the broken phone for a second longer, then looked away. It felt final. Like something stupidly symbolic, even though he didn’t have time for poetic bullshit.

God, what now?

He had no money, no safe house, no change of clothes. Just the blood under his fingernails and the echo of Bucky’s voice telling him to stay low.

Who did he even have?

Bucky.

Just Bucky.

He pressed his palms to his eyes. “Fuck.”

This was bad. This was so—

Fuck.

A loud laugh from the street startled him, and Jason blinked rapidly, turning his head just enough to peek out from the alley mouth. A crowd passed by, loud and colorful—some kind of event. Maybe a street fair? God, New York never slept.

Then he saw it.

A bunch of kids in red and blue suits. Web patterns and masks. Some were cartwheeling like idiots. Others were posing for selfies.

Spiderman.

Jason blinked.

Holy shit.

Why the hell didn’t he think of that sooner?

Peter. Peter… whatever. Spider-kid. Insect boy. That gangly, looking kid with the soft eyes and the college boy outfits.

Peter hadn’t been inside the tower. Jason tried to remember—he was pretty damn sure he’d only seen Peter in the Tower once. Just once. It was when he came back with him and Bucky after the mall trip. Other than that he never glimpsed him around… he could be wrong though, the tower is pretty big.

But… maybe he wasn’t involved?

Jason leaned his head back against the wall, exhaling through his nose. Was it worth the risk?

Was showing up at Spider-boy’s door and hoping he didn’t slam it in his face a good idea?

No.

Absolutely not.

Which meant, obviously…

Jason rolled his eyes at himself, pushing off the wall and shaking out his limbs.

“Yeah, of course I’m doing it,” he muttered. 

He pulled himself up and stepped out into the street, blending in with the crowd once more. Now all he had to do was find the bug.

_____________________

It was easier said than done.

Hours had passed, and Jason was still wandering the city with no real direction. Just his own increasingly frayed nerves and the gnawing, silent anger living under his skin, hissing at him every time he slowed down. He circled the blocks near the grocery store where he’d first run into the kid—Peter. It took longer than expected to find the exact street again. Everything looked the same when you were exhausted and trying not to look suspicious.

The store still stood there, unchanged. Jason lingered out front, eyeing the door like it might bite him. Eventually, he stepped inside, trying not to fidget, trying not to look like a guy who’d once been tackled outside this exact spot mid-robbery. The owner didn’t seem to know him—small mercies—but that didn’t make the exchange any better.

When Jason described the kid—as best as he could—the owner just shook his head. Said there were too many guys like that, all thin frames and baby faces. Said they came and went all the time.

Then he looked Jason over, real slow.

And pointed at the “cash only” sign taped to the counter.

Jason had to physically resist the urge to roll his eyes. Yeah, I get it, I look like shit. Thanks for the memo. Fucking new Yorkers

He left without saying another word.

The rooftops had been his next best bet. He climbed three, then five, then seven buildings, scaling fire escapes and crossing narrow gaps just to get a better view. He figured if Peter was out swinging around, he’d catch a glimpse of red and blue somewhere above the city noise.

But no. Nothing. Just pigeons, laundry lines, and a couple of feral cats.

He hadn’t expected to find the kid the same day, not really. But his nerves were burning out of his skin, and the idea of notmoving—not doing something—was unbearable. The thought of going back to Bucky now felt like cheating at survival. Like crawling back when the whole point was staying away, staying hidden.

Then he saw them again.

Another damn group of Spiderman lookalikes, flooding out of a community center like a low-budget superhero parade. Full costumes, masks, shirts. Someone even had Spiderman balloons. What the hell?

Jason followed them from a distance, hood pulled up, keeping to shadows. It didn’t take long to hear the word “club” tossed around. Apparently, this wasn’t a one-off thing. These people met up. They talked about the guy like he was a celebrity.

Jason had half a mind to turn around. But something made him stay.

Peter didn’t strike him as the type to actually attend these things. Honestly, he looked like the kind of guy who would die of embarrassment if someone brought up his superhero alter ego even in private. But Jason was out of ideas. He didn’t have time to be picky.

So that’s how he ended up inside a cramped, overheated little meeting room stuffed with Spiderman fans and enough red-blue spandex to give someone a migraine.

Someone—Jason couldn’t remember their name—thrust a folded T-shirt into his hands the second he stepped in.

“Here! For new members! You’re huge, dude, this was the biggest size we had, sorry!”

Jason stared at the shirt. Bright red, blue logo across the chest, slightly faded spider emblem. Looked like it had been washed a few too many times. He glanced down at his own blood-streaked, torn shirt and made a face. Fine.

He ducked into the corner, swapped shirts fast, and shoved the old one into the trash. The new one was tight. The sleeves stretched around his biceps, and the fabric pulled across his chest just enough to be annoying. A size too small, maybe two. Whatever. He could breathe. That was enough.

He found a spot near the back and kept quiet, half-listening as people gushed about sightings, theories, fanart. Some kid was making a felt board with different “Spiderman moods.” Jason had to clench his jaw to keep from groaning out loud

Son of a bitch.

Jason could feel his teeth grinding themselves into dust as his eyes scanned the cramped little room for what had to be the hundredth time. No Peter. No familiar mop of brown curls. No dorky college kid pretending to be subtle. Just dozens of people way too enthusiastic about someone who probably didn’t even know half of them existed.

If he had to stay here any longer, he was going to snap and punt the next foam finger he saw into the sun.

One more hour, he promised himself, hands clenched tight in his lap. One more hour and he was gone. Hell or high water.

The hour dragged.

He stayed hunched in a cold, metal chair in the back corner, dodging conversations like they were bullets. Every time someone tried to pull him into a retelling of their favorite Spiderman sighting, he gave them a blank stare and the kind of tone that screamed do not engage. It worked. Mostly.

The final straw came when some overly eager twig of a kid—face half-hidden under a cheap Party City mask—sauntered over, acting like he was the real Spiderman. Jason blinked at him, expression going flat as the guy offered to sign the too-tight T-shirt Jason was currently wearing like it was some sacred relic.

Jason stood up without saying a word.

Just walked right out the door, shoving past a pair of girls debating whether Spiderman’s webs came out of his wrists or… somewhere else. Thanks for the fucking mental imagine…for fucks sake what is wrong with people?

By then, the sun was gone. Fully tucked behind the skyline, replaced by the yellow glow of streetlamps and neon signs flickering to life. Night had bled into the corners of the city without him noticing, and the air had cooled. Just a little.

He sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, eyes heavy with exhaustion he couldn’t afford to feel.

Should’ve just done actual research from the start, he thought bitterly, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He hadn’t even meant to get this far off track. The fan club idea had been desperate at best and humiliating at worst. He wasn’t doing that again.

Library it is.

The air had gone from cool to shit-this-sucks in the span of a few blocks. It cut through the thin cotton of his Spider-Man shirt like knives, leaving his skin prickling and his jaw clenched tight. Not that he was cold. No. He was fine. Absolutely fine.

Totally ignoring the fact that he could probably blind someone with how stiff his nipples were through the damn shirt.

He hated New York. With a passion. Everyone looked too long, stared too hard, didn’t know how to mind their damn business. Every pair of eyes that lingered on his too-small tee or the faint trace of blood crusted near his waistband made him want to disappear into the concrete.

So, yeah. He walked fast. Real fast.

By the time he shoved open the library doors, warm air hitting his face like a blessing from whatever deity he didn’t believe in, he let out a breath through his nose and went straight for the computers.

Except.

Of course someone had to intercept him.

Jason tensed the second he caught sight of movement in his peripheral. A woman—middle-aged, soft in the kind of way that says she bakes cookies for the neighborhood and maybe owns a whole fleet of cats—was heading toward him like she knew him. He kept his stance firm, one foot already shifting behind the other, fingers twitching near his side like he could still reach for a holster that wasn’t there.

Agent? Hydra? Shield? Stark in a knit sweater disguise?

But she stopped a few feet away, concern etched into her face like she didn’t even notice the tension he was trying very hard to suppress.

“You look like you need something warm to wear,” she said kindly, like they were old friends. “A young man like you shouldn’t be walking around in weather like this in a T-shirt like that.”

Jason blinked at her. For a second, he didn’t know what to say. He was still waiting for the punchline.

“We’ve got a knitting club that meets in one of the study rooms,” she continued, gesturing vaguely toward the back of the library. “Anyone who joins can keep what they make. Or what others donate. We’ve got plenty of extras. You’re welcome to stop by.”

A club. Another damn club. Of course.

He almost laughed. Almost.

But she was still standing there, eyes soft and patient. Just honest concern, and maybe a little nosiness—but the harmless kind.

Jason gave a half-smile that probably looked more like a grimace and nodded. “Uh, thanks,” he muttered, trying to smooth his tone out into something that wasn’t get away from me.

She didn’t seem fazed. Just turned and walked, clearly expecting him to follow.

And, yeah. He followed. Because he wasn’t stupid, and free warm clothes sounded pretty damn good right now. He tugged his shirt down a little to hide the faint spots of dried blood clinging to the skin near his waistband. His side still throbbed—hot, sharp, angry—but manageable. For now.

Still, he’d need to find some bandages soon. Or duct tape.

The woman led him through the quieter back section of the library, past shelves lined with dusty old books and into a tucked-away room typically reserved for over-caffeinated college students pretending to study. The glass walls were fogged slightly from the warmth inside, and Jason could see yarn and needles and an almost comical number of half-finished scarves draped over chairs.

He exhaled slowly. Let the tension bleed off his shoulders just enough to keep moving forward.

Could be worse.

The moment Jason stepped into the room, it hit him like a soft, warm slap in the face.

The temperature was noticeably better in here—like stepping into a heated blanket after being out in the cold too long. His shoulders dropped a bit without him meaning to, tension bleeding out with every step as the door clicked shut behind him. It even smelled kinda nice in here—like old wood, wool, and faint hints of lavender or something floral. Calming. Domestic.

Inside were at least six women, all older. Like, older-older. The youngest looking was probably in her late thirties, maybe forties, and the rest were definitely pushing past retirement. They were scattered around the room in soft chairs or scooted up close to small folding tables, wool bundles and colorful yarn piled up like they were preparing for a winter apocalypse.

The woman who brought him here pointed at an empty seat next to a very small elderly woman with thick glasses and a pink cardigan that looked like it had tiny hand-stitched birds on it. Jason gave a short nod before stepping fully inside.

“Just one sec, hon,” she said, already rustling through a large woven basket near the door. “I know I had a green one in here somewhere…”

That’s when the questioning started.

“Oh my, look at those shoulders—do you work out, sweetheart?”

“What’s your name, darling?”

“Are you in school nearby? NYU?”

Jason stiffened in the chair as the voices came from every angle, like an ambush of well-meaning grannies. He looked around, blinking, trying to answer without getting overwhelmed.

“Uh—uh, it’s Steve ,” he said quickly, he almost bit his younger off once he realized who’s name he said, but it was too late to take it back. “Just Steve .”

“Steve?” one of them repeated, smiling. “That’s a nice strong name. Are you local?”

“Kind of,” he deflected, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just…passing through. Not really here for school or anything.”

He shifted awkwardly in his seat, casting a quick glance at the door like he could still make a run for it—but no, the woman was coming back now, something forest green folded in her arms.

“Alright, here we are,” she said, stepping back over and holding out the jumper. “Not sure if it’s your size, but I hope it’s close enough.”

Jason reached out, brushing her fingers by accident as he took it. “Thanks,” he mumbled, cheeks warming a bit—not from the temperature this time.

The women cooed again, but the lady waved them off like they were a pack of gossiping pigeons. “Alright, alright, leave the poor boy alone. Let him breathe.”

Jason huffed a breath of gratitude and quickly pulled the jumper over his head, wiggling his arms through the sleeves. It was warm. Really warm. Fit a little snug around the chest, but not uncomfortably so. And soft, too—softer than anything he’d worn in a long time.

He relaxed a bit more once he wasn’t just walking around in a too-small Spiderman shirt. The jumper even smelled like fresh laundry. He glanced down at it and then back at her.

“You made this?”

“I did,” she said, clearly pleased. “One of my better ones, if I say so myself.”

Jason nodded, lips twitching into something faintly resembling a smile. Even if slightly forced. “It’s... nice. Thanks.”

It reminded him, faintly, of the old nursing home he’d volunteered at back when Batman first adopted him. There was a lady there—Mrs. Pattel—who’d always made him tea even though he hated it, and would knit him weirdly shaped hats and mittens during the holidays. It made his chest ache a little, but not in a bad way.

The woman handed him a pair of wooden knitting needles and a thick ball of dark gray yarn—soft and fluffy. Jason took them like they might explode. He shouldn’t stay here, he should go back to researching, he got the clothes, done and over. Get up and leave is supposed to be the next go to move….

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

She chuckled. “You’re gonna learn to knit, sweetheart. You’ve got the hands for it.”

An hour slipped by without Jason even noticing.

Well—he noticed in the sense that his “knitting” looked like a mess of loops and knots that not even the most generous grandma could call a scarf. Maybe if you squinted it could pass for a tiny sweater for a lopsided cat. Or like…a weird sock with anxiety.

But the rest? The slow, steady voice of the woman next to him, the muted clack of needles around the room, the warmth of the jumper and the even warmer glances passed between the other ladies—it was easy to get lost in it.

He still hadn’t asked her name. He probably should’ve, but she seemed so focused on walking him through the steps—"wrap, pull, loop, again"—that it felt wrong to interrupt.

A gentle hand landed on his shoulder.

Jason’s body tensed before he could stop it—every muscle jerking tight like a rubber band pulled too far. His side lit up with a sharp jab of pain, the wound there flaring hot under the pressure. He felt the sudden urge to lash out and hit.

He forced himself to breathe instead. Relax. It was just a touch. Just a kind, harmless touch. He let the tension drain out of his body like a switch had been flipped.

But she’d felt it.

Her hand withdrew quickly, not offended, just…concerned. Her eyebrows pulled slightly together in a quiet frown as she looked at him like he was a puzzle missing too many pieces. She didn’t say anything about it, just let it hang in the air while the rest of the group finished packing up.

“Meeting’s over,” she said gently, and Jason nodded. He’d figured that out ten minutes ago when the chitchat started winding down and the sound of chairs scraping against the floor replaced the soft knitting rhythm.

He placed the needles and yarn—now a mildly cursed lump of fabric—back on the table and stood, adjusting the green jumper as it settled around his frame again. “Thanks,” he said, meaning it. “For inviting me.”

But before he could turn, she stopped him with a soft voice.

“You have somewhere to stay tonight?”

Jason blinked. He opened his mouth, didn’t hesitate, then gave the half-truth. “I got a place in mind.”

She tilted her head. “Where?”

He looked away, suddenly finding the floor very interesting. “It’s not far.”

There was that disappointed vibe again. Not harsh, just…worried. The kind of worried that made him feel younger than he was. Smaller. Like he was back in Gotham getting patched up by Mrs. Garcia, the nurse at the school Batman put him in who used to smuggle him juice boxes and extra gauze when he came back scraped from P.E lessons.

“I’ve got a couch,” she said softly. “Or my nephew’s bed—he’s out of town, won’t mind sharing it for a night. My place isn’t far.”

Jason opened his mouth to decline. The words were there—Thanks but no thanks, I’m fine, I’ve got this. All of them felt like lies, and he was just too damn tired to say them with the kind of conviction that would make her believe it.

He hesitated. Thought about the library. Thought about those sharp, high-backed chairs and the fact that the Avengers knew he’d stayed there before. Thought about how his side still ached like hell, and how much colder it would get tonight.

“…Alright,” he said eventually, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Thanks.”

She smiled, not smug or victorious. Just kind. “Come on, then.”

They gathered up her things in silence, Jason helping her carry the heavy basket despite her insisting she could manage. They waited by the door while the other women trickled out, waving their goodbyes and giving him a few playful comments about how he’d better be back next week with something recognizable on his needles.

He gave them a tight smile and a short nod. Probably wouldn't happen—but the idea didn’t sound terrible.

The woman locked the door behind them, humming softly as they stepped out into the colder night.

And for once, Jason didn’t feel like he was running.

The walk was quiet.

Fifteen minutes passed slow and cold, Jason trailing half a step behind the woman like a shadow. Every alleyway they passed felt like it might suddenly sprout an agent with a tranq gun. Every rooftop loomed like a sniper perch. His fingers were curled tight around the basket.

But by the time they reached the apartment complex and started up the stairs, he forced himself to breathe. To shove those thoughts down where they belonged, buried under the present moment and the weight of wool yarn tucked in a wicker basket.

The apartment wasn’t anything fancy, but it was warm and smelled like something sweet had been baked in it recently. Cookies, maybe. Or cinnamon something. He stood beside Aunt May as she juggled with her keys, then decided to be useful and finally said something.

“…I should’ve asked your name earlier.”

She let out a soft, amused laugh, glancing at him sidelong. “You can call me Aunt May.”

The door creaked open, and she gestured him in. “Just drop that by the door, sweetheart.”

Jason stepped inside, basket still snug in one hand, and did as asked. His eyes flicked around, catching the layout in seconds—habit, instinct. To the left was a low cabinet with shoes neatly lined up… except for one pair of worn-out sneakers that had been kicked off and left in a lazy sprawl on the floor.

He frowned.

“Who does those belong to?”

May turned to look, then smiled, her whole face lighting up. “Oh, my nephew must be home after all! Thought he’d be out, but he never tells me anything.” She waved it off like it wasn’t a big deal. “You can still take his bed. He won’t mind crashing on the couch.”

Jason nodded stiffly, trying not to feel weird about that.

She walked further into the apartment, calling over her shoulder, “You can take off those boots and make yourself at home.”

He bent down, tugging off the worn leather boots and setting them beside the messy sneakers, resisting the urge to line both up properly. He could hear her voice in the distance, followed by the sound of a door opening.

“I thought you weren’t coming back until later,” she said, her voice fond.

“No one was answering their phone, so…” the other voice mumbled—young, casual, slightly sheepish. “…I didn’t really have anything else to do.”

“Well, come say hello,” May told him, lightness in her tone. “We’ve got a guest.”

Jason straightened up fast, suddenly standing there in the hallway like some awkward cousin no one told the family was coming over. He didn’t move, just listened to the footsteps heading back his way. And when May rounded the corner again, smiling like this was the most normal thing in the world…

…he saw the figure trailing behind her.

Familiar.

Painfully familiar.

Jason’s brain screeched to a halt.

Fucking Peter.

Peter, wearing sleep-soft clothes and bedhead hair, froze in place when their eyes locked. His whole face went slack, and then his mouth dropped open like someone unplugged him mid-thought.

Aunt May turned and gave Peter a gentle little swat on the arm. “Peter Benjamin Parker, where are your manners? Say hello.”

“What—what—” he stammered, looking back and forth between Jason and his aunt like someone had just teleported a ghost into his living room. “What are you—?!”

“Peter!” Aunt May scolded.

“I—hi! Uh—hi?” Peter squeaked, shoulders jumping like a startled cat.

Jason, for his part, didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there in his socks, eyes narrowed slightly, like his brain was buffering. The universe had a real sick sense of humor.

Peter looked like he wanted to fall through the floor. “What are you doing here?!”

Jason exhaled. “...Looking for you.”

Peter’s expression twisted in real time—like he’d short-circuited completely.

Chapter Text

Jason didn’t have time to react before Peter all but yanked him by the sleeve and shoved him into the room, slamming the door behind them. The sharp click of the lock made Jason’s shoulders tense before he forced himself to breathe. No one's trying to shoot him. Yet.

Peter turned on him immediately, face scrunched with concern. “Okay, what happened? You look like you’ve been dragged through five dumpsters and back.”

Jason blinked, deadpan. “How the hell do you not know what happened?”

Peter looked genuinely thrown for a second. “Because no one tells me anything, apparently?” he shot back, throwing his hands up. “Seriously—how are you even allowed out of the tower without, like, I don’t know—an escort or something?!”

Jason narrowed his eyes, ready to bite back until Peter quickly rushed out, stumbling over his words, “—I mean, not that you shouldn’t be allowed! Obviously! You’re a grown man—probably older than me, actually—but I just—didn’t expect—Jesus.”

Jason ran a hand through his hair and leaned back against the desk, the solid wood pressing into the bruises on his back. “Relax. Bucky’s not standing outside the window with a sniper rifle, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Peter immediately turned to glance nervously toward the window anyway.

“No,” Jason continued, jaw tight. “Some one-eyed bastard who calls himself Fury tried to fucking raid the tower. Came in with some strike team or whatever. The others got me out.”

That got Peter’s attention. He straightened from where he was trying to shove a hoodie under his bed and blinked at Jason. “Wait. What?”

“I was told to stay low.” Jason’s voice dipped. “I didn’t know where to go. So I looked for you.”

Peter looked like someone had just unplugged his brain. He blinked again. “Fury raided the tower?”

“Yeah.”

“No—no, that can’t be right,” Peter said quickly, voice rising as he tried to push clothes back into his closet and closed the door only for the clothes to immediately fall back out. He caught them with an annoyed grunt. “You must’ve misunderstood. Fury wouldn’t do that—he wouldn’t, not unless—”

“I’m sure, bug.” Jason’s voice dropped, cold and low. “I’m sure of what I saw.”

Peter froze, still holding a pair of jeans in one hand, his wide eyes fixed on Jason like he didn’t know whether to panic or argue. Jason just stared back, breathing heavily but silent, jaw clenched.

The room felt way too hot now, like the heat from the library room had followed him. Only here, it sat heavy with something else—confusion, nerves, tension that pressed in from all corners . Jason ran his thumb across the edge of the desk, trying to keep himself grounded.

Peter broke the silence first, voice quieter. “...You said ‘the others’ got you out?”

Jason nodded once. “Banner. Romanoff. Even Stark. Didn’t think they would.”

Peter’s mouth parted slightly, but no words came out. He set the jeans down, much slower this time, like his brain had finally caught up with everything Jason had said.

“Yeah,” Jason muttered, folding his arms across his chest, wincing slightly when it pulled on the wound under his ribs. “Shit hit the fan. And I didn’t know where else to go.”

Peter ran a hand through his hair, muttering a soft “Jesus Christ…” under his breath as he turned in a slow circle like that might somehow help him process.

Jason stayed quiet, eyeing the door for a second like he wasn’t sure he should’ve come after all.

Peter didn’t look at him this time, but his next words were soft.

“You did the right thing.”

Jason clenched his jaw, the tension spreading up through his temples as he watched Peter go right back to tidying his room like a man possessed. He folded a pair of socks that definitely didn’t need folding, shoved another hoodie into the closet—which groaned in protest from the strain—and reached for a stray comic off the floor like the world might implode if something was left out of place.

“Cut it the fuck out,” Jason snapped, voice low but edged sharp enough to slice.

Peter winced—barely—but didn’t stop. “I can’t,” he said quickly, his words light but his movements jerky, a little too fast. “I’m nervous.”

Jason blinked, momentarily thrown off. “I’m not gonna hit you,” he muttered, tone flattening as he straightened up from where he’d been leaning against the desk. “So stop looking like I’m about to.”

Peter didn’t look at him. Instead, he gave the closet door one last aggressive shove to keep it closed and muttered, “That’s not why I’m nervous.”

Jason frowned. Something about the way Peter said it—not afraid, just tight—had him confused. He tilted his head slightly. “Then what is it?”

There was a short pause, just long enough for Jason to notice the subtle twitch in Peter’s fingers before the guy turned around and made his way to the bed. He started smoothing out the comforter with both hands, a little too focused, like it mattered how straight the folds were.

“I just haven’t had someone like you in my room before,” Peter said offhandedly, voice quiet but not uncertain.

Jason froze. His eyes narrowed. A spike of heat hit his chest. “Like me?” he repeated, voice rising slightly. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Peter’s head snapped up. His eyes went wide, hands hovering awkwardly over the half-made bed as if he’d forgotten what he was doing. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, almost too quickly. He didn’t retreat but Jason could see the way his shoulders locked, like he knew he’d screwed up but wasn’t sure how badly yet.

Jason stepped away from the desk, now standing fully upright, arms tensed at his sides. Not in a fighting stance, but damn near close. He didn’t like being categorized. Labeled. He’d been labeled a weapon, a killer, a threat his entire goddamn life. “What the hell does ‘like me’ mean to you, Parker?”

Peter looked… cornered. But then, to Jason’s surprise, he didn’t deflect. He just said it—blurted it out, like he’d rather throw himself into the fire than let the silence hang any longer.

“Cute!” Peter said, voice cracking just slightly under the weight of the word. “I meant—I haven’t had anyone cute in my room. Like, ever.”

Jason froze, breath catching in his throat as the word bounced around in his head like a grenade that hadn’t decided whether to go off or not. His eyebrows pulled together sharply, expression shifting into something halfway between disbelief and—offense? Because, what the hell?

His brain ground to a halt. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His body language said it all—stiff, awkward, defensive. He wasn’t blushing—he wasn’t twelve—but his face twisted like he’d just been insulted by accident. Cute? Seriously?

What the fuck was he supposed to do with that?

He quickly shut his mouth again and looked away, eyes darting to the nearest wall like it might offer him some sort of instruction manual on what to do next. The tightness in his chest hadn’t left—it was just… different now. Tense in a way he didn’t fully understand. His brain spun, trying to get its bearings, but the terrain had just shifted under his feet and left him stranded.

Peter, to no one’s surprise, didn’t take the moment to shut up.

“I didn’t mean that in, like, a weird way,” Peter added quickly, his voice climbing in speed with every syllable. “Not that there’s something wrong with it if it’s meant in a weird way, which this isn’t, I swear—I just—look, you’re objectively—look, what I mean is—”

Jason looked back at him with a raised brow and an expression that said you’re making this worse.

Peter clearly registered it but kept going anyway. “You’re just—attractive, alright? You’ve got the whole bad boy thing—I’m allowed to notice stuff! Doesn’t mean I’m—doesn’t mean anything, really—just—ugh.”

Jason stared.

Peter buried his face in his hands. “I hate everything I’ve just said.”

Jason, still tense and upright, rubbed a hand over his face, fingers dragging down like he was trying to keep from combusting. “Jesus,” he muttered under his breath.

He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with any of this. He wasn’t used to people—especially people like Peter—saying shit like that to him.  And Peter didn’t seem like the type to be playing games. He just seemed… painfully, excruciatingly earnest.

Jason opened his mouth again—maybe to say something cutting—but the universe, mercifully or cruelly, decided to interrupt.

A knock came from the other side of the door, followed by Aunt May’s voice—bright, cheerful, completely unaware of the emotional garbage fire simmering in the room.

“I made tea for you boys—come out when you’re ready!”

Jason gave Peter a look—somewhere between weirded out and thoroughly done with this entire situation—before he finally turned on his heel and made his way to the door. Behind him, he heard the rustle of Peter scrambling to catch up, the unmistakable sound of something being kicked across the floor followed by a low curse and a stumble. Jason didn’t look back.

He reached the living room, slowing slightly as he passed the front door and stepped into the modest kitchen. The warm scent of chamomile and something floral met him first, and then Aunt May turned from the stove, her smile gentle and kind.

“Take a seat, sweetheart,” she said warmly, already slipping on an oven mitt to lift the hot teapot from the counter. Her tone held no pressure—just soft welcome—but Jason still hesitated, glancing around like this was somehow a trap. It wasn’t. Just a kitchen. Just a kind woman.

He sat down.

Behind him, Peter entered the kitchen in a shuffle of too-long limbs and anxious energy. He let out an awkward cough, the kind meant to break tension that only ever made it worse, and offered Aunt May a crooked smile. Jason turned in his seat just long enough to catch the end of it—eyes wide, lips pulled taut.

Jason shook his head, nose scrunching up as his brows pulled together. His expression stayed tight, worn in, the edges of his wariness visible even now. “Thanks for the tea,” he said to Aunt May, voice quieter than usual but still even. “You didn’t have to go out of your way.”

Aunt May waved him off with a light laugh, carrying the pot to the table. “Oh, if I’d known you were one of Peter’s friends, I would’ve done a lot more to prepare! A nice dinner, maybe a cake—” She caught herself, chuckled again, and added quickly, “Not that I wouldn’t have treated you kindly otherwise, of course.”

Jason gave her a small, tentative smile—tight around the corners, unsure but honest. “It’s fine,” he said. “I appreciate it. Really.”

She placed the teapot carefully in the center of the table, setting it on a cork trivet with practiced hands. Peter took the seat across from Jason, avoiding eye contact. His fingers fidgeted against the edge of the table.

Aunt May returned with three mismatched mugs a moment later—one with faded cartoon cats, another with a chipped rim, and the third looking suspiciously like it had come from a hospital gift shop. She placed one in front of each of them, Jason’s getting the cartoon cats, and began to pour.

She sat down beside Jason instead of across from him, and he tensed out of instinct, posture going a touch straighter as he resisted the urge to shift his chair slightly. 

Aunt May didn’t seem to notice—or if she did, she gave him the gift of pretending not to. She simply poured herself a cup and gave him an encouraging look, eyebrows raised as she gestured lightly toward his mug.

Jason blinked, then dipped his head slightly, blowing on the tea. It smelled good. Not too strong, not too sweet. He took a small sip, and the warmth slipped down his throat with a surprising ease, loosening something in his chest he hadn’t realized had gone tight.

“That’s... really good,” he said after a second, voice more genuine this time, caught off guard by how comforting it was.

Aunt May’s face lit up, the kind of joy that came from nurturing someone without expectation. “You’re so sweet,” she said with a smile.

Jason shrugged and looked down at his mug, watching the steam curl up from the surface. Silence fell over the table for a moment—peaceful, but still.

It was Peter who broke the silence first, voice light and uncertain as he glanced between Jason and Aunt May. “So… what are you planning on doing now?”

Jason flicked his eyes up, cutting him a sharp look. His gaze slid briefly toward Aunt May, still seated beside him, sipping her tea with an air of practiced calm. The message in his glance was clear—watch what you say. Peter’s lips parted into an ‘oh’ of belated understanding, his eyebrows shooting up.

“Oh—uh,” Peter stammered, rushing to clarify, “Aunt May already knows about the whole... Avengers thing. Like, the big picture. She’s kind of in the loop. Not all of it,” he added hastily, “but, y’know. Enough.”

Aunt May glanced up at that, her expression shifting—no longer politely distanced, but touched with open concern as her eyes turned to Jason. “Are you involved in that? The Avengers?”

Jason’s mouth pulled tight, his fingers curling slightly around the cat mug again. “I’m not... exactly part of the team,” he said slowly. “I’m just a guest. Right now.”

It was vague, and he knew it. But it was also the truth—at least, the part of it he was willing to hand over.

Peter picked up the thread, eager to make things smoother. “Mr. Stark took him in. Just to, like, make sure he’s okay while they figure out his... situation.”

Jason didn’t look at him. His jaw flexed once, and the muscle there twitched as Aunt May asked, kindly, gently, “What situation?”

His hand tensed around the mug again, knuckles whitening just for a second. He forced himself to let it go, easing his grip, rolling his shoulders slightly to release the pressure building in his spine. Not here. Not now. He didn’t want to talk about it.

He didn’t answer.

Aunt May noticed, of course she did. She gave a slow nod, her voice low and sincere when she said, “You don’t have to explain anything, sweetheart. Only if you want to.”

Jason exhaled, and it came out almost like a sigh. A quiet beat of gratitude passed over him before he turned his eyes back to Peter.

“I was planning on staying low,” he said. “Until Bucky shows up. after the mess is resolved.” He tried to sound matter-of-fact, like it was a solid plan. But he could already feel the cracks in it, the uncertainty that bled in around the edges.

Peter tilted his head, frowning. “How long do you think that’ll take?”

Jason’s expression darkened. “I don’t know,” he snapped. The word had more bite than he meant it to, and he knew it the moment it left his mouth.

He looked down again, embarrassed, jaw working.

“I’m sorry,” he said a second later, the words flat but not insincere. “Didn’t mean to...”

Aunt May shook her head, brushing his apology away with a warmth that managed not to feel condescending. “It’s alright. You’re upset, and I don’t know what you’re going through, but I imagine it’s more than enough to lose your temper over. You don’t need to apologize for being human.”

Peter leaned forward. “Where were you planning on staying?”

Jason didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

His silence was enough, the way his gaze dropped and stayed down, the slight twitch of his mouth as if thinking better of giving a lie. He hadn’t planned that far. Other than the library, he had nothing. He could figure it out—he’d done it before. It wouldn’t be safe, and it wouldn’t be reliable, but it would be something. Crime Alley had taught him how to survive with even less. He’d made nests in half-burnt basements, fire escapes with a view of nothing but rust.

He didn’t need comfort.

He just needed a corner that wasn’t on fire.

He was starting to spiral with the thoughts when Peter’s voice cut through again, softer this time, unsure but sincere.

“You can stay here. If you want.”

Jason looked up sharply.

Peter held his hands up, eyes wide. “I mean—I mean it. You can take my room. I don’t mind the couch. Aunt May won’t either, I promise.”

“Absolutely not,” Aunt May said from beside him—and Jason’s heart jumped—but she continued without pause. “You’re not sleeping on the streets, sweetheart. Not while we’ve got room. You stay as long as you need.”

Jason stared at them both, caught in the strange dissonance of it.

 Across from him, Peter stirred awkwardly in his chair, and Jason kept his eyes trained on the rim of the cat mug, the ceramic warm against his fingers.

“I can stay,” Jason finally said, voice low but steady. The words felt strange in his mouth. No one said anything for a beat, and then Aunt May smiled.

The room settled again after that, the quiet folding over them like a soft blanket that didn’t quite reach the edges. It was peaceful in that odd, unfamiliar way—the kind that didn’t demand anything of him. Still, Jason didn’t let go of his mug.

Aunt May cleared her throat gently, then said, like she’d been waiting for the right moment, “You know, you’re still welcome to come to the knitting classes if you’d like.”

Jason’s hand stilled. His spine straightened a fraction. it flushed some heat into his face that he wasn’t prepared for.

He didn’t say anything. Just blinked down at his tea and blew on it again even though it had already gone luke warm.

Peter looked over, eyebrows raised. Not mockingly, but definitely surprised.

Aunt May caught the expression and clicked her tongue. “Don’t give him that look, Peter. You’ve come with me before and are a regular.”

Peter made a choked noise in his throat. “I’m not judging! I’m not—I was just surprised, that’s all. I mean, that’s cool. Really.”

Jason scoffed softly, shooting him a look over the rim of the mug, but he didn’t say anything. The sound was more breath than laugh.

He still didn’t join the conversation—not really. Peter and Aunt May tossed a few more lines back and forth, something about wool getting stuck to their laundry again, but Jason just sat there, quietly sipping the tea that had already lost heat. His eyes moved between them occasionally, like he was tracking their voices more than their words, the edges of the room blurring just slightly at the corners.

_________________________________________________

Peter was elbow-deep in his own closet, one hand bracing the pile of clothes like it might all collapse and swallow him whole if he tugged one hanger too hard. Which, judging by the mess Jason had seen earlier, wasn’t exactly out of the question. Every now and then, Peter let out a strained noise or a muttered curse as he tried to locate something wearable—something that looked like it wouldn’t immediately tear at the seams if Jason so much as breathed too hard in it.

Jason leaned against the wall, arms crossed, gaze slowly drifting around the room now that he had a moment to actually look at it. It was... definitely a teenage boy’s room, even if Peter wasn’t exactly a teenager anymore. It still had that stubborn flavor of teen awkwardness and mild chaos. There was a small shelf jammed with textbooks and notebooks, a cluttered desk where a half a sandwich sat on a plate. But what made Jason's lip twitch was the posters.

Big, full-color ones. Iron Man. Captain America. these were clearly official fan merch. A wide-eyed Steve Rogers looking off into the distance with perfect hair, and Tony Stark mid-flight, arms outstretched like he was the world’s gift to mankind.

Jason exhaled, short and unimpressed. “Cute shrine you got goin’ here,” he muttered, nodding toward the Iron Man poster. “Real mature taste.”

Peter glanced over his shoulder with a small frown, a pair of grey sweatpants clutched in one hand. “It’s not childish,” he said, a little too defensively, turning back to the closet before anything else could escape it. “They’re... iconic. And limitedd addition”

Jason didn’t reply. He just shook his head a little, lips pressed together like he was trying not to make another comment. Instead, he reached down and tugged the forest green jumper over his head, the one Aunt May had given him earlier. It came off easy, soft and warm, and—oh.

Oh.

He forgot.

Underneath the jumper, stretched skin-tight across his chest, was that damn Spiderman fan-club T-shirt. the material hugging his body in a way that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. It was wrinkled, but still very, very there.

Peter turned, catching sight of him just as the jumper came off, and promptly choked on his own breath.

Peter was staring. Not in a weird way, more like he was short-circuiting and trying not to make it obvious. He cleared his throat. “So, uh... didn’t realize you were such a big fan.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed, and his whole expression soured. “I didn’t have a lot of options,” he said flatly, snatching the sweatpants and shirt from Peter’s outstretched hands. “It was either this or stick with my others clothes which were covered in blood.”

“okay!,” Peter said quickly, hands up like he was surrendering. His eyes flicked to the shirt again as if he couldn't help it.

Jason shoved him. Not hard, but with enough force to push Peter back a step toward the door. “Out.”

Peter blinked. “Seriously? It’s my room.”

Jason didn’t answer. He already had a hand on the door and was pushing it shut with a loud slam. From the other side, Peter’s voice came through faintly, half-muffled, “Still my room, by the way.”

Jason rolled his eyes and turned the lock. His face still felt like it was burning. He dropped the sweatpants onto the bed and sat beside them for a beat, running both hands down his face before muttering to himself, “Stupid shirt.”

Jason didn’t rush as he dressed. The borrowed clothes fit well enough—a little snug around the shoulders, but they smelled clean and felt softer than he expected. His fingers brushed a familiar scar near his ribs as he tugged the shirt down, and for a second, he paused. The skin there was pale and slightly raised, the texture interrupting the smoothness of the fabric. He blinked hard and pulled the hem down with more force than needed, trying not to think about it.

Outside the room, Peter was still talking.

“So, uh... that guy you asked me to look into, the one from the photo—” Jason could hear the shift in tone in Peter’s voice, slightly more serious now. “I started digging around, got a couple leads. Nothing solid yet, but I think—”

Jason opened the door. Peter cut himself off mid-sentence, turning slightly like he hadn’t expected him to actually come out that second. His eyes briefly darted down to the trash bin next to the desk, where the too-tight Spider-Man shirt now sat in a crumpled heap. He didn’t comment on it. Just raised a brow and gave Jason a knowing look, his mouth twitching like he was resisting the urge to say something.

Jason didn’t give him the chance.

“Now’s not the time for that,” he said, voice low. “Put it on hold. Too much heat right now.”

Peter nodded almost instantly. “Yeah. Yeah, you're right. We’ll wait till things cool down.”

Jason gave a quiet hum in acknowledgment, his arms crossing over his chest. The silence that followed felt like walking a narrow alley—tight, deliberate, a little suffocating. Neither of them moved at first. Jason didn’t know what to say and Peter seemed unsure if he should say anything at all.

Then Peter broke the silence. “You can take the bed tonight,” he offered. “You, uh… look like you need it.”

Jason’s jaw shifted slightly, but he gave a short nod. He wasn’t about to argue, not when he was staying under their roof, in their room, in clothes that weren’t his. 

Peter gave him a lopsided smile, it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Alright. Cool. I’ll, uh, be out here.” He pointed at the door with both hands, fingers mimicking guns, before he clicked his tongue and winced at himself like he knew how stupid it was.

“Goodnight, man.”

He didn’t wait for a response. The door shut behind him with a soft click, leaving Jason alone.

The room was warmer now, quieter too. Still a little messy, but it had a kind of lived-in peace to it. Jason stood there for a beat, looking at the bed. Sheets still rumpled from Peter’s hasty attempts at tidying.

He moved toward it without a word and sat at the edge, shoulders hunched. The faint sound of the city buzzed through the window. Somewhere down the hall, Aunt May’s soft voice filtered in and out  as she moved around, maybe cleaning up, maybe just getting ready for bed.

Jason rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking toward the door Peter had just walked through.

"Goodnight," he muttered belatedly, not sure if it was for Peter or just the silence itself.

The bed creaked under him, the metal frame giving a soft protest after who knew how many years of use. Jason didn’t care. He laid back anyway, slowly, carefully, until his head met the pillow and his eyes found the ceiling. a bit uneven in places, with a hairline crack running across the corner near the closet.

He let out a breath that had been stuck in his chest since the tea—since before it, really. Maybe since this morning. Maybe longer. His hands drifted to his side, fingers brushing the bandage through the borrowed shirt. He winced slightly.. It still ached, sharp at first but now dulled by sheer exhaustion and the weight of everything else. He could ignore it. He had to.

The ceiling blurred slightly as his eyes lost focus.

He thought of Bucky.

If he were back at the apartment by now, Bucky would be in the kitchen. Making something. Probably dinner, even if Jason didn’t want any. He always cooked anyway, muttering about keeping routines and staying sharp and needing food to develop the mind and body. Jason would hover near the doorway or slump into the chair by the dining table -never the ugly, orange chair- listening as Bucky fumbled his way through a conversation, something Stark would've told him Jason would be interested in. Jason could always tell when he was trying too hard.

But it was kind of funny. Weirdly sweet. And more than once, Jason caught himself laughing under his breath because of it. Bucky always heard it.

He missed that. Not just the food, though Bucky’s pancakes were arguably elite. But the silence that came after—the good kind, the kind that didn’t press on your ears or sit heavy on your shoulders. Just… quiet. Comfortable. Like he could breathe properly.

He missed the dumb little animal-shaped food Bucky would make every morning, like it was normal. Like they were normal.

Jason blinked, eyes narrowing slightly at the ceiling.

But it was fine. Bucky was fine. He had to be. He was smart, and if anyone could track him down, it’d be him. Jason didn’t need to do anything. Just keep low. Stay out of trouble. Heal. Let things settle.

And when the dust cleared, Bucky would come find him.

_________________________________________________________________

The soft hum of the jet was the only constant sound, a low mechanical purr that ran beneath the occasional clicks and beeps of Stark’s tech. Bucky sat rigid in one of the seats bolted along the left wall, his metal hand resting on his knee, fingers unconsciously curling and flexing in slow rhythm. Across from him, three steps away, Steve sat with his hands loosely clasped between his knees, posture taut despite his attempt at appearing relaxed. The air between them was stiff, the silence not easy.

Tony stood further down the aisle, hand resting on Bruce’s shoulder as the two quietly examined a cluster of readouts being projected mid-air from the glowing blue interface. Stark wasn’t wearing the full suit yet, just the legs and torso, arms locked in place, light bleeding softly from his arc reactor. He was tapping his foot, metal-on-metal echoing with an agitated rhythm that made Bruce glance at him once, saying nothing.

"We’re one klicks out," Bruce murmured, eyes not leaving the readings. "Still no sign of movement on satellite sweeps."

"We’re sixty klicks north of the border," Stark added, turning toward the others now. "So unless Hydra decided to dig a beach resort underground, this place should be deserted by eyeryone expect them. Barren land, zero population, zero roads. The closest civilization is a ghost town fifteen klicks west."

He paused, then his helmet clicked into place with a mechanical hiss and locked down over his face. When he spoke again, it was through the modulated voice of Iron Man.

"We're going down in three. Get ready."

Bucky stood, metal arm humming as he flexed the joints, the faintest vibration dancing up his shoulder. He could feel the tension in his chest, coiled and low, not from nerves about the mission, but from what he left behind.

Jason.

Bucky hadn’t stopped thinking about him since the moment the jet lifted from the Tower. Was he safe? Was he warm? Did he have something to eat? The pit in Bucky’s stomach told him he didn’t know the answers and wouldn’t until they got back. Or until Natasha found him, whichever came first. He hated that. Hated that he was forced to leave him behind to clean up Fury's mess.

Jason had looked so scared when Hulk jumped with him out the window. the way his body curled into itself when he found out what Bruce was planning to do—Bucky had seen it all, and it hadn't stopped playing in his head since. or the fact that he was shot, that he was bleeding, and the wound could be open by now if Jason had been running, and he didn't have anyone to help and-

he needed to stop thinking about it

He moved forward, adjusting the straps on his gear, checking the secure harness over his chest. The floor beneath him vibrated as the ramp at the back of the jet began to lower, decompressing the interior with a sharp hiss. A rush of air filled the space.

Light burst through the slowly lowering door. The sun was barely over the jagged skyline of mountains in the distance, casting the land in dull lines of gold and grey. The terrain below was exactly what Stark described—flat, broken, and dead. Cracked soil stretching out endlessly. It was Hydra’s old playground, from the days when they didn’t have to hide as much.

Steve stood now too, closer than before but still giving him space. His eyes were searching Bucky’s face, trying to gauge something.

Bucky didn’t return the look.

He didn’t have the energy to deal with Steve’s guilt, not now. Not when the mission was moments away from starting. Not when every step farther from New York felt like he was leaving Jason behind.

He knew Steve meant well. He always did. But meaning well didn’t change the fact that Jason had been hurt. That guns had been pointed. That Steve had stood there and said, "Trust me."

That trust had teeth now.

The ramp locked into place with a final clunk, wind tugging at their clothes and gear. Stark moved to the edge, his suit humming louder as the landing thrusters calibrated. He looked over his shoulder once, nodded.

Bucky took a deep breath, adjusted the strap across his chest one more time, and stepped up beside him.

No parachutes. Just Stark tech strapped to their boots.

The wind caught in his hair, cold against his skin as he leapt into the open air.

And behind him, he could feel Steve follow.

The clouds swallowed them whole as the jet sped off into the distance, utterly silent, lost in sky and light. The wind was the only sound now, whistling past their ears as the four of them dropped toward the earth. The fall was controlled. Stark counted down through the comms, voice clipped and calm.

“Three… two… now.”

The thrusters in their boots hummed to life, catching them just before they made impact. Each one landed softly, knees bent against the pressure, feet sinking slightly into the dry, cracked ground beneath them.

The terrain stretched wide in every direction, empty, bare. Nothing but the dull rise of mountains far behind and the sharp, angular lines of the Hydra base sprawled ahead. The lights lining the perimeter glowed cold and clinical, making the structure too visible for comfort. It was massive—clearly operational, even if so far away from the rest of the world.

Bucky scanned the area, assessing everything. No guard towers. No open patrols. Not yet. Which meant either confidence or tech. He didn't like either.

“We move now,” he said, his voice low but firm through the comms. “The sun’s already rising. Any more light and we’re walking targets.”

No one argued. They followed behind him as he started forward, each step steady, deliberate.

But then the obvious problem became… more obvious.

There was no cover. No trees, no boulders, not even the pathetic excuse of bushes. The base was built like it was meant to be seen, the kind of design that said  “we’re not hiding—we dare you.”

Bucky stopped, eyes narrowed on the building as he considered the perimeter. The others gathered near him again. Stark was already pulling something up on his forearm display, scanning the area.

“You got something?” Steve asked, quiet.

“Give me a second,” Stark muttered, fingers tapping. “The whole building’s shielded—signal-blocked and radiating enough EM that if you sneeze the wrong way, they’ll know someone’s here.”

“Then we don’t go through the front,” Bucky said.

“I wasn’t planning on it from the start,” Stark replied dryly.

But it wasn’t Stark who found the answer. It was Banner, quietly speaking up from behind them.

“The land’s artificial,” he said, pointing toward a section of ground roughly twenty meters from the edge of the base. “That incline—unnatural slope. I’d bet good money there's a ventilation grid running under it. Maybe maintenance access. Something that connects underground.”

Bucky followed his gaze. 

“How do you know?” Steve asked.

Bruce adjusted his glasses. “Because I helped fury build his last SHIELD base on a similar geological foundation. You can’t build this wide out here without hidden infrastructure. You don’t put your front door on display unless you’ve got a back one that really matters.”

Tony blinked, then snapped his fingers. “JARVIS, scan for temperature variance along that elevation line—look for anything exhaust-related.”

A few seconds of silence, then the AI confirmed it, a narrow vent system, shielded from radar but not perfectly sealed. There was access—through a grated maintenance hatch.

“Still no cover,” Steve said. “They’ll spot us crossing to it.”

“Not if we’re not standing upright,” Bucky replied. “We go low. Stark, you throw a sound decoy ten degrees east. Something small. Make them look the other way.”

Tony grinned and pulled a small orb from his belt. “I love when you give me permission to blow things up.”

“No explosions,” Bucky growled. “We need the base quiet. Just make them think some coyote tripped a line.”

“Fine,” Stark muttered, flicking the orb outward. It landed soundlessly, then clicked to life and began emitting soft, randomized animal-like movement and sound.

“Let's move,” Bucky said. He dropped into a crouch, legs coiled as he moved low to the ground. Steve mirrored him almost instantly, shield on his back, eyes forward. Stark and Banner followed—Tony’s suit adapting into a lighter mode for silent mobility, Bruce still human, his breath tight but steady.

They crossed fast.

The base loomed larger with every breath, and by the time they reached the slope, Bucky was already prying at the edge of the hidden hatch. It took effort, but his metal arm made short work of it.

Stark covered them from the rear, monitoring the thermal readings. No movement yet. The decoy was doing its job.

“Inside,” Bucky ordered.

Bruce went first, followed by Stark. Steve went next, and Bucky last, closing the hatch behind them just as the first hints of sunlight caught the edges of the mountains.

The air inside the shaft was dry, still, and narrow—but safe. For now.

They were in.

The metal corridors were cold and humming with electricity, faintly lit by the red glow of emergency bulbs lining the baseboards. 

Bucky moved first. One hand gripped his sidearm, the other flexing unconsciously at his side — metal fingers twitching every time the base creaked. Behind him, Steve shadowed close, shield magnetized to his back, eyes alert. Bruce followed a half-step behind, tense and quiet, avoiding the sharp edges of metal piping along the wall. Stark took up the rear, suit still in low-power stealth mode.

“JARVIS, give me a visual of the entire east wing. Come on, sweetheart, I know you’re smarter than Hydra’s firewall,” Stark muttered, his voice low.

“Working on it, sir,” came the AI’s reply. “The system is layered with redundancy. They’ve increased digital security since your last incursion.”

“Yeah, probably because the last time I left a nice little 'fuck you' gif looped on their primary monitor. Banner, remind me to keep my genius antics to a minimum.”

“Noted,” Bruce said dryly, glancing down at his watch, fingers tapping gently to keep track of bio-readings and vitals — mostly his own.

Bucky held up a hand — a closed fist. They froze immediately. Ahead, two Hydra agents passed down the adjoining corridor, rifles slung over their shoulders. Their footsteps echoed off the walls, their conversation muffled but casual — too casual.

“They’re not expecting company,” Steve murmured behind Bucky.

“Let’s keep it that way,” Bucky replied without looking back. He waited until the agents turned the corner, then motioned with a subtle wave of his hand. They slipped forward, keeping close to the wall.

Tony finally broke the silence again.

“Okay, got in. Partially. JARVIS is working on looping the hallway cams now—give him twenty seconds. The base layout’s a labyrinth, but our lab target is two levels down, east wing. Looks like there’s heat signatures inside—likely our scientists, or at least bodies warm enough to fake it.”

“And security?” Bucky asked, not slowing down as they took a hard left down another hallway.

“Heavy around the perimeter of the lab. Infrared sensors at the main entrance, two manned posts. But… lucky us, there’s a utility maintenance shaft that runs under the floor of the lab. Drops off twenty meters back that way.” He jerked his chin toward the hall they’d just passed.

“You waited until now to mention that?” Steve whispered, shooting him a sharp look.

“I was busy tangoing with Hydra’s version of malware,” Tony shot back. “Relax. You’ve got time.”

Another pause. The click of boots again.

This time the patrol wasn’t casual.

Three Hydra agents. Full armor. Tactical. One of them carried a scanner in hand — glowing, pulsing slowly with each sweep.

“Shit,” Bucky muttered under his breath, pushing Steve back with a light but forceful touch. They ducked into a supply alcove, barely six feet across, forcing all four of them to press close into the metal shadow.

Bucky felt Steve’s shoulder brush his as the agents passed.

“Scanner might pick up heat,” Bruce whispered, quiet enough to be mistaken for breath.

“Not if I cycle my suit’s thermal dampener,” Stark replied, already tapping at his gauntlet.

The scanner passed by the alcove entrance. One second. Two. Then…

“They’re moving on,” Bucky said, eyes narrowing. His voice was barely audible.

The patrol turned a corner.

“Alright,” Tony exhaled, “looping the last two cameras now. You’ve got two minutes of ghost time to get to the hatch.”

They doubled back the way they came, this time with purpose. The shaft Stark mentioned was well-hidden — a small vent opening behind a false wall panel. Bucky crouched, grabbed the panel, and yanked.

Metal groaned. The opening gave.

“Steve, you’re first. Then Banner. I’ll cover the rear,” Bucky ordered, voice low but resolute.

Stark rolled his eyes. “I’ve got built-in guns and a metal suit, but sure, soldier boy leads.”

“You’re louder than you think,” Bucky said. “Stick to the back and keep the toys quiet.”

Tony raised his hands in mock surrender, backing off. “Fine. Be the brooding boss.”

Bruce crawled into the shaft without complaint. Steve followed, glancing back once at Bucky before disappearing into the dark. Bucky lingered for a half-second, letting his eyes trail down the corridor again. No movement. No more agents.

Yet.

He ducked in and pulled the panel back into place behind them.

The shaft was tight, just enough for them to crawl single file. Dust and disuse clung to the walls — it hadn’t been accessed in a long time. Perfect. Stark's voice cut through the comms.

“Fifty feet ahead. Left drop. Should open right beneath the lab’s southern wing. That’s our access point.”

Bucky nodded to himself as he crawled, eyes sharp even in the low light. The further they went, the closer the pit in his gut settled.

The grate clanged softly against the concrete floor as they dropped one by one into the lab.

Bucky landed silently, crouched low as his eyes swept the room with the kind of calculation born from years of training he’d rather forget. The others followed — Steve rolling his shoulders to ease the tension, Bruce dusting his shirt off, and Tony’s suit releasing a soft pneumatic hiss as his boots disengaged from flight mode.

But none of them spoke. Not at first.

The lab stretched wide — too wide, too open for comfort. Stark’s repulsors glowed faintly in the dim blue lighting cast from the machinery lining the walls. Workstations stood half-abandoned, tools left mid-process, data pads still lit with diagrams and lines of code.

But what grabbed Bucky’s breath and locked it in his throat stood at the far end.

A circular structure, about ten feet in diameter, encased in black steel, cables snaking from its sides like veins to the floor. Thin white rods of light circled its outer ring in segments, blinking faintly in an idle state. It sat anchored on a base of polished obsidian plates, humming so low it was almost indistinguishable from the silence around it.

A portal. Unactivated, but very real.

Bucky didn’t move. His shoulders locked up, his hands curled into fists. He’d seen too many classified files, too many whispered threats from Fury about what these scientists were forced to build. But seeing it now—standing in front of it—it felt more real.

“Whoa,” Tony said, voice clipped and low, not a trace of his usual snark. “Okay. That’s... that’s not some backyard wormhole concept. That’s the real deal.”

Bruce let out a breath, slow and quiet. “Energy readings are stable, but it’s dormant. Looks like it hasn’t been tested yet. Or… maybe just not recently.”

“It looks like something out of a bad sci-fi novel,” Steve muttered beside Bucky, but there was unease in his voice, not amusement.

“Guess Hydra got tired of taking over the world one country at a time,” Tony added, this time dry. “Let’s skip borders and go multiversal, huh?”

No one laughed.

Steve turned toward the rest of them. “We need to find the scientists. Get them out. Then we blow this place to hell.”

Tony frowned but didn’t argue. “Copy that, Cap. But I’m pulling a data dump before we blow this popsicle stand.”

“Fine. Make it fast,” Steve muttered, already moving.

Bucky didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He was still staring at the archway, unmoving as a memory—no, a phantom—coiled itself around his spine and squeezed.

"Ржавый. Печь. Девять. Рассвет."
("Rust. Furnace. Nine. Daybreak.")

He blinked hard.

The corridor was gone. The base. The mission. All of it dissolved, overwritten by cold steel restraints and fluorescent lights humming above a metal slab. The smell of disinfectant burned the inside of his nose. He remembered the sting of a needle being pushed into his neck. The hum of machinery turning on behind him. The surgeon's muffled voice. The scream that never made it past his lips.

He shuddered.

Not here. Not now.

He could feel the Winter Soldier’s breath down his neck — clinical, emotionless, obedient. His limbs itched with a phantom weight, like chains. His jaw clenched as he felt the sharp edges of an old instinct clawing its way back up through his ribs.

The part of him that didn't think. The part of him that waited for orders.

“Bucky.”

Steve’s voice.

It sounded closer now. Not an echo in the dark. Not a handler's bark.

Real. Present.

Bucky blinked again, and his lungs remembered how to move. His metal arm flexed at his side, curling tight. He felt sweat bead along the base of his neck.

“I’m fine,” he muttered. Not sure who he was talking to. Steve, maybe. Or himself.

“Hey,” Steve said again, quieter. Closer now, just beside him. He didn’t press. Just stood there.

Bucky’s eyes snapped from the portal to the rest of the room — sterile walls, dust swirling in the low light. The others had started moving. Tony was already dragging a console over, working on it while muttering under his breath. Bruce had moved to check one of the rear doors, peeking into the hallway beyond. The mission hadn’t stopped.

Neither could he.

He gave a short nod, pulling himself out of the trance. Shaking the Winter Soldier out of his skin like he’d done a thousand times before.

But the portal stayed in the corner of his vision.

And some part of him — the small, cracked part — wondered if that was the same kind of machine that had ripped Jason into this world.

The same kind of machine that could tear him back.

He didn’t say that out loud.

Instead, he fell back into formation, breath shallow, pulse sharp.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said.

The halls turned colder the deeper they went.

They moved in practiced formation — Bucky leading with Steve just behind him, Tony and Bruce following closely. Tony’s gauntlet stayed half-raised, glowing faintly as he tapped at the holographic map he’d pulled from the base’s internal system. His brow was furrowed, the blue light painting harsh shadows across his face.

“Far side of the complex,” he muttered. “Holding cells. Makeshift. Not a great security system — which is weird for Hydra. I’m thinking they were rushed.”

“Or they didn’t expect company,” Steve replied.

“Let’s get this over with,” Bucky said under his breath, gaze flicking to every corner they passed. His muscles were coiled tight beneath his gear. He didn’t like the feel of this place. It was too still. Too deliberate. Like it wanted them here.

They turned down a narrow corridor, walls sterile and humming low, and reached a sealed doorway. A red indicator blinked on the side panel, but Tony didn’t wait for orders — stepping forward, he pressed his palm to the interface. With a few hasty taps, the door slid open with a pneumatic hiss.

Inside was a containment wing.

A long glass wall stretched across the far side, clean and clear, without so much as a fingerprint on it. Behind the glass stood six people in lab coats — gaunt, pale, and tired-eyed. Scientists. Some of them stepped forward when they saw them, faces alight with relief.

A group of at least seven men and women, pale and disheveled, stood behind a thick wall of reinforced glass. No visible door, just a panel with bio-scan access and no way to open it manually. They looked up in alarm as the group approached, pressed together like they weren’t sure if what they were seeing was real.

One of the scientists stepped closer to the glass. “You—You're not HYDRA.”

Tony moved to the control panel. “Nope. We're the bad influence your mom warned you about. Let’s get you out of here.”

Steve stepped closer to the glass. “We’re here to bring you home. Sit tight.”

Bucky scanned the room beyond the glass again. Something felt—off.

The moment snapped when one of the figures inside shifted.

And from behind the cluster of white coats, a figure stepped forward—bald, sharp-jawed, trench coat unmistakable.

Nick Fury.

“Shit,” Tony muttered, taking a step back.

Steve’s jaw tightened. “Fury?”

Fury’s eyes locked with theirs through the glass. His expression was tight, voice muffled slightly but still audible through the intercom. “It’s a trap. You’ve got to get out of here—now. They already know you're in the building.”

“What—” Steve stepped forward, but the lights above them flashed red, and that familiar wail of sirens exploded through the hallway behind them.

Bucky spun around, gun raised.

“INCOMING!” he shouted.

The hallway flooded with Hydra agents — more than they’d seen on the floor plans, more than they could’ve expected. Flashes of black and silver, tactical rifles raised, voices barking in unison.

“Shit!” Tony cursed, his helmet snapping into place with a click-hiss. “JARVIS, defensive mode—!”

Gunfire erupted.

It didn’t come from their side.

The agents were shooting first — rounds sparking off the walls, some bouncing off Tony’s armor as he launched forward. Steve’s shield was already up, bullets ricocheting off it. Bucky dropped low, firing off controlled bursts, aiming for the heads and necks.

Beside him, Bruce let out a long breath — and then it started. That sharp growl clawing from his chest, bones shifting, skin burning green. A moment later, the Hulk roared to life, swinging into the closest squad and sending men flying.

But they weren’t slowing.

Not like before.

"Fallback point! Lab! Move!" Steve yelled, leading the retreat back the way they came. The scientists remained behind the glass.

They made it back into the large lab, the massive dormant portal still looming.

But they weren’t alone.

Hydra had already rerouted. Dozens of agents filled the space. More than before. 

"You gotta be kidding me," Stark breathed.

He raised his hand, powering up for a blast—but nothing happened.

Bucky snapped his head toward him. "What’s wrong?"

Stark tapped the side of his gauntlet, then the arc reactor. "They're jamming the power core… electromagnetic interference. They fried my internal systems remotely. No way to bypass."

"You didn't see this coming?" Bucky hissed.

"You want to write my tech diagnostics while we get shot at? Be my guest."

the hulk roared as it moved to slam into the squads of HYDRA but something slammed into him — a beam of radiant white energy shot down from the ceiling and expanded outward in a dome, locking around the Hulk in an instant.

A containment field.

He roared, throwing his weight against it, but the field shimmered like water — flexing, not breaking.

He tried again. Nothing.

“Banner—!” Steve started, but Bucky grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back as another round of gunfire hit the wall they’d just been standing beside.

“We need to move!” Bucky barked, dragging Tony’s inert suit with one hand.

They retreated fast — slipping out the far door just as more agents spilled in.

They ran, barely able to think, let alone breathe.

Back through the corridors, alarms still screaming in their ears, boots pounding hard against concrete. Stark cursed the whole way, trying to reroute power to his systems. Bruce was still trapped. Steve kept glancing back like he could just will them to fix this.

And Bucky—Bucky couldn’t stop feeling himself slip away.

Until he heard it.

Another set of boots. Many. The whirr of weapons charging.

Bucky skidded to a halt.

The corridor behind the lab was flooded with agents now. And they weren’t just regular foot soldiers.

Heavily armed. Body armor. Helmets with tinted visors.

They were waiting.

Trapped again.

He raised his gun slowly.

“This is bad,” Tony muttered from inside his powered down suit.

“No shit,” Bucky breathed.

Behind him, Steve raised his shield. 

They’d have to fight their way out.

If they even could.

Bucky’s breathing was sharp as he scanned the halls.

He could get out of here. He knew he could. Every instinct screamed it at him. His body was already planning how—where to strike, how many shots it would take, how fast he’d need to move to tear the line of agents down before they could even scream. He could do it. His mind, the part of it still wired by Hydra’s brutal training, fed him the sequence like a memory. 

But the sequence didn't include Steve and Stark leaving with him. 

Bucky clenched his jaw, dropped a pair of smoke bombs at their feet, and pulled Stark by the arm. he isn't abandoning his team.

“Move!”

They didn’t waste time. The smoke swallowed the hallway, giving them just enough cover to bolt. Bucky led the way, dragging Stark and motioning for Steve to follow.

But they were blind now. Stark’s HUD was down, and without the suit feeding him the map, they had nothing. Every hallway looked the same. flickering lights, closed doors. No signs. No windows.

“Tell me you remember the way,” Steve said as they ran.

“I don’t,” Bucky replied, voice low, tight. “They’ve changed the layout or—I don’t know. We’re turned around.”

They kept moving anyway.

Every squad that blocked their path was taken out quickly — Bucky handling most of them with brutal efficiency, a knife between the ribs, a bullet to the throat. Steve covered him when he could, shield deflecting rounds and swinging clean. Stark tried to help when the suit responded, but it kept stuttering, his repulsors firing weakly or not at all.

They turned left. Then right. Then down a flight of stairs. Then up another.

And then they were there.

Back in front of the glass wall.

The containment room.

The scientists were still there, still pressed to the glass. Fury stood behind them — the same look on his face.

Bucky froze. His boots stopped against the floor with a hard thud, echoing down the hallway. He took a single step forward.

The floor beneath them hummed.

And then the glass slammed down from the ceiling.

four thick, seamless walls trapping him. his eyes snapped behind him which two more bangs sounded behind him. 

Both Steve and Stark were now also each in their own glass box

Each of them was trapped.

Bucky spun around and slammed his metal fist against the clear surface. “Shit!” 

His heart pounded in his ears. His metal fist flexed and tightened until he could hear the strain in the gears.

Not again.

He stepped back from the the glass he hit. Slowly. Breathing heavy.

The cage was quiet — but his mind wasn’t.

This was what Hydra trained him for.

To be alone. To be trapped. To obey.

He could still feel it. That pull at the edge of his thoughts. Like something just beneath the surface wanted him to give in, let go, become that thing again. The thing they used, so he can get out.

He leaned forward and pressed his forehead to the glass, his hand flattening against it.

He had promised himself never again.

Not like this.

“Goddamn it,” he whispered to himself.

Across the way, he saw Steve’s face. Lips moving, but Bucky couldn’t hear the words.

Didn’t matter.

Hydra had him.

Again.

Chapter Text

Bucky had been pacing his cell for what felt like hours. Probably was. The space wasn’t small, but it still felt like it was caving in on him. Same setup as the one Fury and the scientists were kept in. Sterile, clean in that gross clinical way, and way too fucking quiet.

He paused near the edge of the glass wall. From here, he could see across to Steve’s cell. The walkway between them was dimly lit, and beyond that, if he tilted his head just right, he could just make out part of Stark’s own cell. Not that the guy was doing much—after they stripped him out of the ruined Iron Man suit, they left him in whatever compression layer was underneath. He was Still mouthy,  but definitely more fragile without the metal.

They hadn’t been hurt. Not yet, at least. No high-ranking Hydra agents had come in to gloat or monologue or whatever they did these days. And Bucky knew that was the point. They were being made to wait. Left alone with their thoughts. The silence was a weapon. And, hell, it was working.

He ran a hand through his hair, metal fingers twitching slightly like they were itching for something to grab onto. He hadn’t even noticed he was pacing again until the click of his boots echoed too loud in the stillness. He stopped in the middle of the cell and just stood there for a second, jaw clenched, eyes locked on nothing.

Jason.

He should’ve been with Jason. Should’ve never come out here in the first place. What the hell was he thinking? Letting Fury talk him into this? They all should’ve seen this trap coming—the empty corridors, the weird silence, the convenient “captured scientists.” It had trap written all over it. but he was much more eager to get back to jason that he sweeped it out of his thinking process.

And now here they were. Stuck. Steve unarmed. Stark suitless. Bruce no where to be seen, And Bucky—

Bucky was right back in the kind of cage he thought he’d never see again.

He exhaled through his nose, trying to shake the crawling feeling under his skin. This wasn’t like before. Steve was here. Stark, too. And Jason—Jason was out there. Safe. At least, he hoped to hell he was. He had to be.

The door outside his line of sight hissed open, the mechanical noise sharp in the quiet. Bucky’s spine straightened. He moved instinctively to the center of the room and faced the glass wall, planting his feet apart, squared and ready—not that there was much he could do in here, but he’d be damned if he didn’t look like a threat.

He caught a glimpse of Steve straightening too, his body going rigid, shoulders squared like always. Steve’s eyes flicked to his for a second, but Bucky looked away. He didn’t need the Captain America™ look of solidarity right now.

His hands balled into fists. His mind, meanwhile, wouldn’t stop trying to measure the cell, test the strength of the seams in the glass with just his eyes. It was a habit. Bad one. Useful one.

The sound of footsteps was unhurried against the metal walkway. Bucky didn’t even have to see the owner of it to know it wasn’t some grunt.

He looked up just as the guy stepped into view—middle-aged, suit under the coat, silver streaks in his hair like they were painted in, sharp eyes that didn’t blink nearly enough. Hydra, obviously. But not just any Hydra—he walked like he owned the place.

The man stopped right in front of Bucky’s cell. Back to Steve. Ignoring Stark completely, even though Tony was throwing barbed comments from his cell. None of it seemed to register.

“он стал мягким”
He’s gone soft.

The voice was smooth. Too smooth. The man didn’t even look directly at Bucky at first—just stared through the glass like he was peering into a cage at the zoo.

“Когда он был с нами, его осанка была лучше.”
When he was with us, his posture was better.

Bucky didn’t move. Jaw clenched. Fists tighter. His shoulders straightened in spite of himself.

“Ноги шире. Руки напряжены. Он был оружием.”
Legs wider. Arms tense. He was a weapon.

Steve called out from behind the guy, tone sharp, demanding to know what was going on. “Hey! Back off, talk to me instead!”

He was ignored. Just like Bucky knew he would be.

The Hydra man’s eyes finally met his. And smiled. Just a little. Like someone inspecting a broken toy.

“Но по крайней мере...”
But at least...

the man tilted his head.

“...он все равно выглядит как убийца, когда смотрит вот так.”
...he still looks like a killer when he glares like that.

The look faded then. The amused twist in his mouth vanished. He straightened his posture, took a step forward, and switched to English, voice cold as steel.

“Where’s the boy?”

Bucky blinked. Boy?

His stomach dropped a little as it clicked.

Jason.

He meant Jason.

Bucky flashed his teeth in something that definitely wasn’t a smile. His metal arm flexed at his side, humming faintly under the skin like it could sense the shift in his mood. He didn’t say anything.

The Hydra agent didn’t even react. “Where is he?”

Steve jumped in then, voice tight. “What do you want with him?”

The man finally turned to face him, slow and measured, raising a brow like Steve had interrupted a private conversation. “That’s classified,” he said with a hint of amusement. “Though considering what you found downstairs, you should have some idea.”

Steve’s mouth was a hard line. “The portal.”

The agent didn’t even bother confirming. Just turned back to Bucky again like Steve was a minor annoyance. He leaned in closer, his voice lowering like they were about to share a secret.

“Where is he?”

Bucky stared at him, unmoving. “Go to hell.”

The man nodded once. “Fine.”

Then he stepped back and began speaking in Russian again. Slower this time. Measured. The words were like punches to the ribs.

“Ржавый.”
Rust.

Bucky’s whole body locked up, his lungs stuttering like something seized them.

“Печь.”
Furnace.

He sucked in a breath. His vision swam at the edges.

“Двадцать семь.”
Seventeen.

His jaw snapped shut so hard his teeth ached. He could feel the words crawling through his brain like rot. The white-hot static behind his eyes was pulsing now.

“Рассвет.”
Daybreak.

His knees wobbled. Just for a second. He took a step back without meaning to, hands clenched so tight they shook.

“Девять.”
Nine.

Bucky pressed the heel of his metal hand against the side of his skull like it might slow the pressure building in his head. He couldn’t breathe. The walls felt like they were closing in again, and his chest was tight—too tight—and all he could hear was static and the man's voice.

“Возвращение домой.”
homecoming.

He slammed his back against the wall of the cell and held—held himself together with everything he had, every ounce of strength that wasn’t being devoured by the scream clawing in his throat. He couldn’t let go. He wouldn’t let go.

But the words kept coming.

“Доброкачественная”
Benign

His legs nearly buckled, and god his teeth. He was going to grind them into dust. He saw the metal chair. The red book. Cold hands. Cold everything. He could feel the trigger clawing at the edge of his thoughts—scratching, begging to be let in.

He was so close to the edge he swore he could see the Winter Soldier’s eyes in the glass—his own reflection, but not.

The voice outside the glass was quiet now. The last word hung in the air.

“Грузовой вагон.”
Freight car.

Everything in him snapped tight.

White. Nothing but white.

His hand was shaking. Left hand. The real one.

Not this time.

He wasn’t going to lose this fight.

Not to them.

Not again.

He held on.

Somehow, he held on.

Steve's voice broke through the white noise, not clearly, not even fully formed—more like a shape in the fog. Muffled. Like underwater. Like trying to hear through a wall. But it was something, and right now that was enough. Bucky’s gaze, heavy and shaking at the edges, tore away from the man in front of him and dragged itself over to Steve.

Steve had his hand pressed to the glass. His mouth moved, brows pulled together in that familiar way—concern written all over his face like he thought he could somehow hold Bucky together just by looking at him hard enough. It was stupid. It was Steve. 

The Hydra agent paused, expression unreadable now. He looked Bucky up and down one more time, then nodded once—like some twisted form of respect. Bucky didn’t return it.

“You should enjoy the last few hours of self-awareness,” the man said, stepping closer, voice low like he was sharing a secret. “That’s how long it’ll last. After that…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

He turned to his soldiers and barked out an order to start prepping the asset.

Bucky flinched at the word.

Asset.

The word felt like cold water down his spine.

His eyes snapped toward the men as they moved, and then back to Steve. Panic flared in his chest like fire licking up his ribs, and it took everything not to show it. Not to give them the satisfaction. Not to sink back down into that glassy-eyed, mind-wiped shell of himself.

They were going to wipe him.

They were actually going to do it. Again.

He didn’t realize he’d stopped breathing until his vision blurred around the edges. His knees threatened to give out but he didn’t let them. Couldn’t. They were watching. Always watching.

He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek until the taste of iron spread over his tongue. 

Steve’s face was still there behind the glass. Still talking. Still trying to reach him.

But Bucky couldn’t hear a goddamn thing anymore. Just that high-pitched ringing, screaming through his skull like a drill, deafening him. His thoughts weren’t even thoughts now, they were flashes. Fractures.

He saw the metal chair. The clamps. The lights. White, blinding, constant.

The voice echoing around him.

He saw himself from outside himself. Mouth slack, eyes empty, blood down his chin.

“Ready to comply.”

No. Not again. Not again.

He’d spent years climbing out of that hole. He’d built something—someone—out of the pieces Hydra left behind, and now they were going to burn it all down in a single session.

His stomach twisted. He didn’t know if it was rage or terror.

He couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

All he could do was stare at Steve, jaw clenched so tight it hurt, and pray to a god he didn’t even believe in anymore that someone would stop this.

That someone could.

Because he couldn't do this again.

He wouldn't survive it.

________________________________

Jason’s head is still foggy from sleep when he snaps his eyes open to an unfamiliar ceiling. His whole body tenses in the span of a heartbeat, fingers flexing on the sheets like he’s ready to reach for a gun. It takes him a few seconds — eyes darting around Peter’s cluttered room, taking in the half-shut closet, the stupid posters — before it clicks into place. Right. Peter's place. He breathes out, jaw clenching, irritation simmering low in his chest at how easily his guard slipped.

The knock on the door makes him flinch, just slightly, and his eyes narrow at the sound of Peter’s hesitant voice. “Hey, uh— you good? I heard you moving around—”

“Creep,” Jason mutters, low under his breath as he scrubs a hand over his face. He doesn’t even try to hide it. The small squawk that comes from the other side of the door almost draws the ghost of a grin to his lips. Almost.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed, rolling his shoulders until a few satisfying pops crack through the quiet. The relief is short-lived — a sharp hiss tears from his throat when the wound at his side tugs wrong, a reminder that he’s not as fine as he’d like to believe. He lifts the hem of the shirt Peter gave him, eyes narrowing at the fresh red blooming through the bandages. Perfect.

Another knock. “Jason? Everything okay in there?”

He snaps, a little harsher than he means to. “It’s fine — fuck off, bug boy.” He can practically feel the kid flinch through the damn door.

“…Okay,” Peter says after a beat, voice thin. “ just worried. Sorry man.”

Jason presses his palm flat over the bandage, taking a steady breath. He ignores the prickling edge of guilt that tries to slip through. He forces it down, unlocks the door, and pulls it open just enough to loom there in the frame.

He knows the way he looks — rumpled, glaring, broad enough that his form fills the door, which is barely wide enough to contain him. The doors here are narrower than the ones back in his apartment with Bucky. Peter’s eyes flick up to meet his, a flicker of awkward tension tightening the kid’s shoulders.

“I’m fine,” Jason grits out, his glare sharp and cold. He watches Peter’s lips part, watches him fumble for words, but Jason doesn’t give him a chance to spit out another apology. He tips his head down just slightly, voice dropping to something flat, final. “Don’t hover.”

Jason stays planted in the doorway for a second longer, shoulders drawn tight like he’s deciding whether it’s worth slamming the damn door in Peter’s face, despite it being his room's door. But the kid just clears his throat — the sound too loud in the quiet hallway — and steps back, giving him space like he’s read the tension coiled in Jason’s neck.

Peter lifts his hands a little, palms out, voice dipping softer. “Uh, so — I made you something to eat. You know. If you… want it.”

Jason arches an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. “You cook?”

That gets Peter puffing up, his spine straightening like he’s been personally challenged. “Yeah — I’m an amazing cook, actually.”

“Sure,” Jason drawls, voice dry as concrete. His lip curls just enough to say he doesn’t buy it for a damn second. The way Peter’s nose scrunches at that almost drags out the ghost of a grin, but he buries it quickly.

“I am!” Peter snaps, a bit too defensively for someone who just called himself amazing. He rolls his eyes, muttering under his breath as he turns on his heel and heads down the hall. “Whatever. You can eat or you can sulk in my room. Up to you.”

Jason doesn’t bother with a reply. He stays rooted there for another beat, then drags a hand down his face and sighs through his nose, heavy and sharp. He follows — slower — the floorboards creaking under his steps as he stalks into the kitchen.

Peter’s already half-buzzing around, pulling plates out and clinking things together with all the energy Jason wishes he had this early in the morning. peter points at a chair, and Jason drops into it, the wood groaning under his weight as he sits, arms folded tight across his chest.

Then Peter slides a plate in front of him. And Jason stares.

It’s sandwiches. A whole damn pile of them, stacked like he’s about to feed a family of four. Jason’s jaw ticks, teeth scraping together as his eye twitches at the sight.

Peter closes the fridge door with his hip, carton of orange juice tucked under his arm. He glances back just in time to catch Jason’s look — the one that would make most grown men piss themselves.

Jason lifts a finger at the plate, voice low. “What the fuck is this.”

Peter blinks. “Sandwiches,” he says, tone caught somewhere between obviously and duh.

“Yeah, no shit.” Jason leans in, index finger stabbing the bread like it’s personally offended him. “What’s on them.”

Peter makes a sound like he just remembered. “Oh! Right — I, uh — I drew, um… y’know. cat faces.”

Jason’s stare sharpens to something murderous. He shifts in his seat, muscles tense, like he’s physically restraining himself from chucking the plate back at Peter’s smug head. “Why?”

Peter shrugs like it’s the most normal thing in the world. He sets the juice on the counter, arms crossing as he leans back and tilts his head. “When I go on patrol with Bucky — or visit the Tower — he always goes on and on about how much you like it when he does, y’know… cute shapes with foods. Or draws animals.”

It’s like someone yanked the air straight out of Jason’s chest. He feels the back of his neck heat up, the tips of his ears going pink. He snaps back faster than he wants, words stumbling out like rocks hitting pavement. “That’s not true.”

Peter perks up, pushing off the counter, eyebrows raised. “You don’t like Bucky’s food?”

Jason’s jaw works, throat tight. “I didn’t say that.”

“So you do?”

“Yeah, I do, but—”

Peter interrupts, one eyebrow arched up,  “Then how’s it not true?”

Jason’s fingers curl tightly around the edge of the table. He looks like he wants to sink through the floor. “you know what I mean—”

The kid just watches him squirm for a second, then glances at the sandwiches. He tilts his head back, eyes flicking up to Jason’s. “So… you don’t want them?”

Jason’s mouth opens — then shuts. He feels cornered, caught in something stupid and childish that he can’t claw his way out of. “I didn’t say that.”

“Then why’re you making a big deal out of it?” Peter tosses it out so casually, voice lighter than air.

“I’m not—” Jason snaps, then cuts himself off, exhaling a rough breath through his nose. He shifts again, uncomfortable in his own damn skin. “I don’t care.”

Peter just points at the plate, eyebrows up like he’s calling his bluff. “Eat then.”

And for a moment Jason just sits there, glaring at a mountain of cat-faced sandwiches like they’re personally mocking him — because, in a way, they are.

Jason’s glare could cut glass — he levels it straight at Peter like it’s the only thing keeping him from actually throwing hands over a goddamn breakfast. He snatches up one of the sandwiches, the little cat face on the bread practically smirking at him, and bites into it with an annoyed snap of his teeth.

It’s good. Annoyingly good. Not that he’d ever admit that out loud — it’s still a damn sandwich. He chews slowly, jaw working as he narrows his eyes at Peter who’s leaning his hip against the counter, arms folded like he’s waiting for Jason's opinion.

Jason swallows, tongue pressing against his cheek as he jabs the sandwich in Peter’s direction. “So let me get this straight — you think slapping together a pile of sandwiches makes you a good cook? Even kids know how to make a sandwich.”

Peter doesn’t answer right away — his mouth twists like he wants to fire something back, but then his foot starts tapping against the floor, fingers drumming on his bicep like he’s not sure what to do with himself. He looks… oddly nervous.

He clears his throat. “I just… I dunno, man.” He shrugs, eyes flicking to the plate before darting back up. “I wanted to… You know, make up for that time. The first time we met.”

Jason pauses mid-bite, his jaw slowing as he fixes Peter with a look, sharp and searching. He doesn’t need the details — the memory’s burned in clear enough.

He works his tongue over his teeth, pulse drumming somewhere deep in his chest. “You still thinking about that?” He tries to make it flat, tries to keep the edge out of it. “That was nothing. Let it go.”

Peter shifts his weight again, rolling his shoulders. He looks unconvinced. “You sure? Because you’re still kinda acting like—” He gestures loosely at Jason’s whole frame. “—like that.”

Jason’s eyes sharpen into something more dangerous as he sets the half-eaten sandwich back on the plate, leaning back in his chair. “Like what?”

Peter holds the look, doesn’t flinch — he’s not a kid, even if he keeps refering to him like that in his mind, and Jason’ll give him that much credit at least. He just lets out a short huff, lips pulling thin. “Like you wanna knock my teeth in every time I breathe.”

Jason scoffs, low and mean, his fingers drumming against the table edge. “I already acted like that before I knew you were Spider Boy.”

Peter’s mouth parts, eyebrows jerking up. “It’s Spider-Man. Not— whatever— boy.”

Jason’s lip curls, voice cutting in with a sneer that’s all teeth and quiet venom. “I’ll call you a man when you grow a couple more inches.”

Peter’s face goes taut, eyes narrowing, but his chin lifts stubbornly. “My height is excellent, thanks. I’m literally an inch above average.”

Jason just laughs — sharp and humorless — mouth twisting around the words like they taste bad. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you say, Bug Boy.”

Peter doesn’t seem to want to continue that line of conversation — he just clicks his tongue against his teeth, gaze steady, like he’s deciding whether to rise to it or let Jason sit in his own bite.

Peter shook his head, a small sigh escaping him as he leaned against the doorway, crossing his arms. “Alright, then—why were you acting like that before you found out I was Spiderman? I mean, the first time we met, when I was just some civilian, I was being nice.”

Jason paused, his jaw tightening as his mind flicked back to that day—the trip to the mall. His shoulders tensed, his gaze dropping as he recalled what he’d thought when he first saw Peter talking to Bucky after leaving the changing room. His mouth worked over the words, hesitating, unsure how to say it out loud. He picked up another sandwich and took a bite, trying to keep his tone steady.

“I thought… Bucky was cheating on Steve with you,” he finally said, voice low and rough.

Peter almost dropped the orange juice he was holding, his face flushing a deep red. His eyes widened, and he let out a horrified, “What?”

Jason avoided looking at him, knowing how ridiculous it sounded. He kept his gaze fixed on the sandwiches, rubbing a palm over his ear in mild annoyance. The heat crept up his neck.

Peter wasn’t done, though. “What… gave you that idea? Seriously?” He blinked, then leaned forward slightly. “Wait, are Steve and Bucky even together?”

Jason shrugged, silence hanging heavy as he didn’t want to talk about it any further.

Peter stared at him for a moment, clearly processing. Then he said with a tone of disbelief, “I would never even think of that, I mean, seriously? Besides, Bucky’s not my... type.”

Jason caught the shift in the conversation and was grateful for the chance to step away from the awkward subject. His gaze sharpened as he pressed, “What’s your type, then?”

Peter went quiet, His face reddened, the silence stretching between them, thick and awkward.

Before either of them could say more, the front door swung open, and Aunt May stepped in. Jason almost felt a relief wash over him—his chest tightened, thankful for the interruption before the conversation could go any further.

Aunt May’s warm voice filled the kitchen as she set her purse aside. “Oh, I’m glad to see you boys are already eating. Usually, Peter here needs to be reminded to feed himself before he runs off doing… whatever it is he does.”

Jason scoffed, sharp and low, less out of any real amusement and more just to needle Peter, who shot him a look, his face flushing a little as he sputtered, “That’s not true, Aunt May! I eat just fine on my own.”

Aunt May waved him off without even glancing his way. She started unloading the groceries onto the counter. “Mhm, sure you do.” Then her eyes flicked to Jason with genuine curiosity. “Do you know how to cook, sweetheart?”

Jason shifted his weight and leaned against the table, crossing his arms loosely. “Used to,” he said, tone casual, though the way his eyes dropped to the floor betrayed something else. “Haven’t really had to for a while. Turns out I’m pretty bad at it now.”

May paused, a little crease forming between her brows. “Oh, that’s no good. How did you get your meals, then? Don’t tell me you’ve been living off cheap fast food—terrible for you.”

Jason’s mouth twitched like he might smile—almost. He shook his head and pushed himself off the table to step closer and start helping her unload the paper bags. “Nah. People back in my neighborhood gave me food. Whenever they had leftovers or extra stuff, they’d pass it my way.” His heart gave a painful lurch. fuck... when was the last time he even thought of Crime Alley?

his hands froze over some apples in the grocery bags. what could they be doing now? where do they think he is now? do they even miss him? 

do they care?

or did they stop when Batman must have tried to preach his holier-than-thou opinion on what he thinks must have happened? his eyes stung at the sudden onslaught of thoughts of his home.

his home. his people.

but he got snapped out of it by Aunt May's voice.

 “You’re really lucky to have people look out for you like that. If Peter were off somewhere, all helpless in the kitchen, I’d hope someone would do the same for him.”

Jason let out a quiet, short chuckle, the sound more real this time as he forced his thoughts to focus on the now. “Yeah. I guess so.”

Behind him, Peter crossed his arms, looking between the two of them with a faint frown. “Hey, I’m a great cook,” he mumbled under his breath, mostly to himself, but Jason just kept unpacking the groceries without giving him so much as a glance.

May glanced around the kitchen, checking over the neat little piles of veggies, boxes, and cans they’d just sorted together. She clapped her hands once. “You know, sweetheart, if you’d like, I could teach you how to cook a few basic dishes. Nothing fancy. Just enough to feed yourself properly.”

Jason let her finish before he shook his head, an automatic scoff leaving him. “Nah. No need for that.” He shrugged, a hand waving vaguely through the air like it was obvious. “I’ve got Bucky now. So. I don’t need to.”

It came out so easily—too easily—and Jason felt his own words hit him a second after they left his mouth. The certainty of it. The way it sounded like a fact. He had Bucky now. He didn’t have to wonder if dinner would be cheap gas station sandwiches or something half-burned in his dirty apartment, which he barely stayed in. He didn’t have to ration instant noodles or trade favors for warm leftovers.

He had Bucky. He had someone here.

Jason’s hand drifted up to rub at the side of his neck, heat crawling under his skin. He could feel Peter’s eyes on him for a second, but didn’t bother to look. It was Aunt May’s gentle laugh that made him finally glance up. She pressed her fingertips to her lips like she was trying to hide her grin, but failing spectacularly.

“Oh, honey,” she cooed, voice warm and teasing, but not unkind. “I never would’ve guessed Mr. Barnes would be so… domestic. I’m glad for you, though. Really. Peter’s told me plenty about him—always going on and on every time he comes home after seeing him.”

Jason felt his face burn hotter, the tip of his ears going pink as he looked anywhere but at her. Aunt May reached out, brushed her hand gently over his shoulder like she might say more, but instead just let out another soft chuckle.

“Well, finish your sandwiches, sweetheart,” she said, starting toward the hallway. As she passed the table, her eyes caught the plates. She paused, her smile growing sly when she spotted the faint little cat faces Peter had drawn on the bread. “These are adorable, by the way. Peter always did have a knack for little details.” She slipped out with that.

Jason’s head snapped toward Peter, his eyes narrowed into a vicious glare that promised death—or at least mild bodily harm. Peter, had the audacity to spin around on his heel and busy himself rummaging in a cabinet, his back turned like he hadn’t heard a thing.

Jason clicked his tongue and dragged a hand over his face, forcing down the embarrassed heat in his chest before it could choke him. God. Fucking cat faces.

___________________________________________________

Aunt May left right after lunch, fussing over Jason’s shoulder about whether he was warm enough and if he needed anything before she slipped out with that big canvas bag. Jason had managed a tight, polite smile and told her he was fine. He was fine.

Then there was Peter. Hovering. Like a stray dog that just wouldn’t get the hint. Every half hour—like clockwork—Jason heard that voice: “Hey, do you need anything? Are you hungry? Do you wanna watch something? Should I make tea?” It was endless.

By the third time, Jason had felt that familiar twist of heat in his chest—the one that usually ended in yelling or someone getting punched. And Jason was really trying not to blow it, not here, not in the apartment of the nice lady who opened her damn home for him. So he’d locked himself in the bathroom instead.

The porcelain tub was cold against his back but it did the trick—sort of. He lay there, arms folded across his chest, eyes closed. He’d almost dozed off once until the knock came. Again. Peter’s voice muffled through the wood. “Hey, uh, you okay in there?”

Jason’s eyes snapped open, blood boiling in that slow, familiar way. He let it go once. Twice. But the third time a knock came through the door, he slammed his palm against the side of the tub and barked out, “Leave me the fuck alone—I’m jerking off!”

The silence was glorious. He could practically feel the aura of Peter’s embarrassment through the door, and that, at least, was enough to make him grin for a second. He leaned his head back again, the tub under his skull, and let himself drift.

Half an hour later, though, his neck was starting to ache, and the tiles were digging into his shoulder blades. So he finally got up, ran a hand through his hair, and unlocked the door.

He stepped out, eyes immediately landing on Peter, who was so obviously pretending to be busy. He’d migrated to the armchair across from the sofa, laptop perched on his knee, notebooks spread out like he was doing intense research—except his eyes kept darting up to Jason and then away just as fast, his ears visibly pink.

Jason just raised an eyebrow, muttered something under his breath, and stalked to the sofa opposite Peter. He dropped onto it with a huff, letting his shoulders sink back into the cushions, head tilted up against the soft fabric. He closed his eyes, letting himself try to just be for once.

That lasted maybe ten seconds.

“Did you… wash your hands after… that?” Peter’s voice cut through the quiet.

Jason’s eyes flew open, his head jerking forward as he leveled the most offended look he could muster at Peter. “Excuse me?”

Peter’s jaw snapped shut like he’d just heard himself. But the idiot kept talking. “I mean—I didn’t hear the sink run. So I just—wanted to check. Hygiene, you know? It’s important. I’m not saying you’re unhygienic—just—like—sometimes you forget, I guess? I mean, not you specifically, just people—some people—”

Jason’s lip curled, eyes narrowing to slits. “You were listening?”

“No! No, no, no—I mean—yes. But not on purpose—it’s not like I had my ear pressed to the door or something, Jesus—” Peter’s hands flailed, one nearly knocking his laptop off his knee. He caught it, mouth still running like a train with no brakes. “It was just—really quiet in there! Which is fine—I mean, everyone does their thing differently—some guys are loud, some guys are quiet—some guys don’t—God, why am I still talking—”

“Peter.”

Peter froze, face in a grimace.

“Shut up.”

Peter cleared his throat, voice cracking slightly as he gestured weakly at the kitchen. “You want tea? I can make tea.”

Jason didn’t answer. Just leaned back again, eyes closing like maybe if he pretended Peter didn’t exist, he’d vanish altogether.

“Right,” Peter muttered to himself. “I’ll… go do that. Tea.”

Jason can hear the shift of the armchair cushion when Peter stands up, the soft thunk of the laptop being set aside on the coffee table. He doesn’t bother opening his eyes—he’d figured Peter was gonna go hover in the kitchen again. But then there’s this sharp, sudden breath.

Jason’s eyes snap open, his head coming up to see Peter standing stiff, shoulders squared, eyes locked on the window near the kitchen. Not moving, not blinking, just locked in. It’s that look, that focused look, that makes something cold crawl down Jason’s spine.

Peter’s hand flicks out, gesturing, fingers slicing through the air—get behind me.

Jason doesn’t move at first. He stands, slow, steps forward instead of back. He doesn’t give a shit about Peter’s directions—he needs a weapon. His eyes catch on the knife drawer in the kitchen, already mapping how fast he can get there—

Peter’s hand clamps around his forearm like a vice, tugging him backward so sharp it jolts Jason’s balance. He’s about to snarl, shove Peter off him, but the strength in that grip—Jesus Christ. He knew Peter was stronger than he looked but feeling it? That’s different.

He finds himself half behind Peter now, taller frame awkwardly shadowing him, and it’s fucking backwards, it should be the other way around. Jason clenches his jaw, tries to twist his arm free, low voice cutting sharp between his teeth. “Let go. I’m not hiding behind you. I need a weapon.”

Peter doesn’t even look at him, eyes still pinned to the window, grip not budging. “You’re not going near that window.”

“Let go.” Jason’s voice drops lower, dead calm. “I’m not standing here empty-handed if something comes through that glass.”

“I said you’re not going near it,” Peter snaps back, voice low but firm. “I can handle it. You’ll just get in the way.”

Jason’s laugh is short, humorless. “You’re gonna take that chance? Maybe it’s Fury’s people, you think your webs are gonna do shit if they come in shooting?”

The voice cuts in so smooth it’s almost eerie, slicing right through the tight coil of Jason’s chest.

“—no need to be so tense, boys. It’s just me.”

The window’s already sliding open as Natasha leans in, one arm braced on the sill. Jason watches Peter’s shoulders drop, all that tight, ready energy bleeding out of him in an instant. He even lets go of Jason’s arm.

Jason stare locks onto Natasha’s green eyes. his shoulders were tense for an entirely different reason now.

“Where’s Bucky?” The words leave his mouth before he can even think to filter them.

Natasha’s lips twitch— not into a smile exactly, but something knowing, like she’d bet money that’d be the first thing out of his mouth. She tips her chin, casual, cool as ever. “Don’t worry. Everything’s under control. It’s all being handled.”

“Where. Is. He.” Jason spits it out again, every word heavier than the last. He doesn’t care that his shoulders are squared up like he’s ready to fight her. He is.

She sighs, pushes her hair back from her face, eyes flicking over Jason’s posture like she’s clocking every twitch of muscle. Her voice stays smooth. “He’s on a mission right now.”

Jason’s jaw flexes. “What mission?” He doesn’t bother masking the venom this time. “Where did that one-eyed bitch send him?”

Peter shifts beside him, tries to cut in, and Jason’s hand snaps up, palm out, a sharp, don’t. But Peter does it anyway—of course he does.

“Jason,” Peter says, softer than he should. Trying to be the buffer. “You need to chill. You’re acting like she’s your enemy—”

Jason’s head swivels so fast it makes Peter tense as if he is expecting a fight. His glare lands hard, zeroed in, the threat so thick it cuts the air. “Shut up.” He breathes it out like smoke. “You don’t get it. Don’t fucking tell me to calm down.”

Peter lifts his hands, palms out. “i do get it, and I’m just saying there’s no need to—”

“Don’t.” Jason’s chest heaves once, twice, rage rattling inside him, the pit clawing at the edges, but no green fills his vision yet. He drags his eyes back to Natasha. “Where. Is. He.”

Natasha watches him for a second. Her voice stays maddeningly even. “It’s classified. And you know exactly why you can’t know every detail.”

Jason scoffs. “Don’t pull that shit with me. You’re talking in circles. You show up through a fucking window and expect me to just sit here and nod along like I wasn't shot at and chased through a fucking building by a dozen fucking soldiers?” He takes a half step forward, ignoring how Peter shifts behind him. “You think I’m stupid? course I know it's classified, I'm saying I don't give a shit.”

“I think you’re scared,” Natasha says, and that almost makes him flinch. Almost. “You’re worried. That’s good. Means you care. But Bucky’s handled worse than this. He knows what he’s doing. He’ll be back before you know it.”

Jason’s lip curls, frustration bubbling up until it feels like it might choke him. “How the hell would you know that?” a part of him knows he is being ridiculous, and knows that the only reason he is being this hostile is because it's Natasha, despite her...attempts at making whatever their relationship is, better.

Natasha just tilts her head, studying him like he’s a skittish stray with claws half-bared. “Because I trained with him longer than you’ve known him. Because he told me to tell you he’d handle it, and that you should lay low. Which you’re doing well enough for now, by the way.”

Jason’s fists clench at his sides. He wants to throw something—put his fist through the wall, through the window, through her. He takes a sharp breath instead, jaw tight enough to ache. “When.” The word scrapes out rough. “When is he coming back?”

Natasha shrugs one shoulder, small, infuriating. “When he’s done. You know how this works. There’s no countdown clock, Jason.”

Peter tries again, quieter this time, like he’s testing the ground before stepping on it. “Hey, she’s not wrong. You can’t—”

Jason cuts him a glare so vicious it shuts him up on the spot. He doesn’t even bother looking back at Natasha now, shoulders tight, every muscle vibrating with the need to do something. Instead, he folds his arms across his chest, pressing them tight like he can hold himself together with pure force.

The room feels too small. The window’s too open. And his head’s screaming that he should be anywhere but here. 

Peter’s voice slices through the thick quiet like he’s desperate to pivot the tension to anything else. “Uh—Natasha, do you want some tea? I was just about to make some.”

Natasha’s eyes flick up at him—something like amusement but softer, more polite than her usual edge. “Tea sounds good. Thanks, Peter.”

“Cool. Great. Sit, I’ll bring it over.” Peter throws Jason a glance on his way past, a silent you good?  that Jason pointedly ignores. He stays where he is—shoulders tight, feet planted on the living room floor like he’s bracing for a fight that never comes. He listens to the kettle click on in the kitchen, the faint clinking of mugs being pulled down, all while keeping his eyes pinned on Natasha now.

She takes the offer like she lives there, slipping onto the couch with that easy grace of hers as she watches him watch her, unbothered by how stiff he’s standing. Jason doesn’t move to sit. He stands across from her, arms crossed, jaw tight, that need to do something still buzzing under his skin.

“Why aren’t you with them?” His tone’s sharp but quieter than before, rough like gravel in his throat.

Natasha lifts a brow, like she expected the question. “Because I was asked to find you. So that’s what I did. Besides—” She leans back into the couch, shoulders loose. “Bucky, Steve, and Stark can handle it.”

Jason drags his eyes away from hers, looking down at the floorboards, tracing the grain with his boot like it might ground him. Handle it. He wants to believe that. Part of him does—just enough to keep him standing here and not tearing the place apart. "They should have sent someone else to find me," he says voice low as he shakes his head almost as a way to distract himself.

“You really don’t know when they’re coming back?” His voice dips low, quieter now.

Natasha’s eyes soften. She shakes her head, fingers drumming against the couch's arm. “If I knew, I wouldn’t hide it from you.”

Before Jason can spit out anything else, Peter’s back, balancing three mugs of tea. He sets one in front of Natasha, then holds one out to Jason. Jason just glares at it, then him.

“No,” Jason says flatly.

Peter’s brows furrow like he wants to push back but he just nods and sets it down on the coffee table anyway. He drops back onto the armchair he’d claimed earlier, brushing his notebooks aside to clear space, careful eyes flicking between the two of them.

Jason shifts his weight, arms crossed tightly as he watches Natasha blow on her tea. He hates how normal it looks—like they’re just catching up.

“How’s the tower?” He asks suddenly. The question grinds out like he has to yank it up from his gut. “After…everything.”

Natasha hums around the steam from her mug, taking a sip before she answers. “Tense. Fury’s people are the only ones there now. Stark’s staff was told not to come back ‘til it’s safe. Jarvis is keeping an eye on the SHIELD agents—no one’s pulling anything stupid without him knowing about it.” She gives Jason a look over the rim of her mug. “We’re holding the line. That’s what we do.”

Jason just nods, eyes drifting to a point on the wall behind her. The knot in his chest loosens a fraction—only a fraction. He doesn’t say thanks. Doesn’t think he has to.

Peter’s voice is the first to break the quiet, low but insistent, like he’s been holding it back the whole time. “So… Fury. Why did he even do that? What was the point? He’s not usually like this, right?”

Natasha doesn’t flinch. She rests her elbows on her knees, mug balanced in her hands, eyes sharp but not unkind. “No. It’s not like him to act so rashly. But you have to understand—one of our bases was ransacked. Scientists were taken. It… pushed him. He lost people he thought he could protect.” She shakes her head, her tone dry, a tired honesty behind it. “Doesn’t excuse the way he went about it. But it’s why.”

Peter nods, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve like he’s chewing the thought over. Jason stays still, eyes steady on Natasha as something colder curls around his ribs. He almost lets it drop, but it’s been gnawing at him since she showed up—he needs to know.

“The redhead,” Jason says, his voice flat, like he’s pulling the words up through mud. “Wanda. Or whatever her name is. What happened to her?”

That’s the first time Natasha allows her body language to show hesitation. She lowers her mug slowly, her lips pressing together for a moment before she speaks. “She’s stable. Physically, she wasn’t injured. But… something with the spell went wrong. She withdrew. Into her own mind. She’ll wake up—eventually. But it might take time.”

Peter’s brows snap together, his eyes flicking between Natasha and Jason. “How does that even happen? I mean—it’s Wanda. She’s—she knows what she’s doing.” His gaze lands on Jason, searching. “You were there, right? You were with her when—?”

Jason’s jaw tightens. He shifts his weight, arms crossed over his chest like a barricade. “Yeah. For what? Ten minutes? Before shit went south. Don’t look at me like I did it.”

Natasha’s eyes narrow a fraction, not accusing—just assessing. “I’m not saying you did. But did anything feel off? Did you see anything? Wanda doesn’t overstep. She wouldn’t push too deep unless she had to. So what happened?”

Jason’s shoulders stiffen. He looks away, down at the spot on the floor he’s practically memorized by now. The muscle in his jaw ticks as he blows out a slow breath through his nose, like he’s trying to force the memory back into its box.

“I don’t know,” he says finally, voice low and rough at the edges. “I don’t know how this mind magic bullshit works. So how the hell am I supposed to know where it went wrong?” He lifts his eyes to meet Natasha’s, and there’s no apology in him. “I remember it being… peaceful. For a second. Then everything hurt. All at once. It was too much. That’s it.”

Peter leans back in his chair, worry carved into the lines of his face, but for once, he doesn’t say anything. Natasha just studies him, her fingers drumming once against her mug before she lets out a quiet hum—like she’s filing it away for later.

Jason doesn’t flinch under the weight of it. He just crosses his arms tighter, bracing himself for whatever the hell is supposed to come next.

Natasha’s eyes flick to Peter for just a split second, and Jason can tell she’s weighing something—whether she should say it in front of him or even say it at all. But she doesn’t waste much time. She looks right at Jason, steady and cold.

“Do you have any idea,” she starts, her voice careful but sharp around the edges, “why something green started mixing with Wanda’s magic?”

It’s like a switch flips. Jason’s mind doesn’t race—it shuts down. He goes still, his breathing measured. His body language, the angle of his shoulders, the blank look on his face—everything is that perfect League-trained calm. Dead calm.

For a while now, he’s been slipping. Getting soft. Letting people see more than they should. talking, snapping, reacting like some greenie half-trained soldier. But this—this is muscle memory when he he feels like he needs to slip back into it. The old mask slides on easily, heavier than a cowl ever was.

He doesn’t let himself flinch, but the thought claws at the inside of his head anyway. Lazarus. The pit. It’s magic. Rotten, wild, unnatural magic that clings like mold. Of course. Of course that’s what it was. The green that seeped into Wanda’s spell—him. All this chaos,  people dead, the tower gutted from the inside out—

Because of him.

Bucky is gone, trying to fix it all. The Avengers are scrambling to cover the hole he ripped open. Jason’s fingers twitch where they’re folded across his chest, but he makes his face stone. He can’t slip up now. Not when it comes to this. Not this.

When he speaks, his voice is flat, smooth as black glass. “No idea.”

Natasha narrows her eyes at him, and for a second, the silence feels like a blade pressing just under his jaw. “You sure?” she asks, her tone deceptively casual. “Because before the others left, they told me a detail about you—”

Jason’s voice remains calm. “People should learn to mind their own fucking business. You included.”

"your eyes-" her wristwatch beeps. The soft digital sound cuts through the tension like a wire snapping. Natasha’s eyes drop to the tiny screen, and for a heartbeat, her whole posture shifts. She goes still, then rigid, her face shuttered.

Jason knows that look. That’s the look you get when shit’s gone sideways—bad.

She stands up, all smooth soldier’s muscle, her mug forgotten on the table. “I have to go,” she says, and her voice is tight in a way that prickles every hair along Jason’s neck.

Jason bristles, his tone sharp enough to cut. “Don’t fuckin’ walk away from me. What’s going on? is it Bucky?”

Peter stands too, his hands half-lifted like he’s trying to catch falling glass. “Natasha—? What’s happening?”

She barely glances at him. “Stay low. Stay put.” She’s already pivoting, steps angled for the window she came through—

Jason’s moving before he can think, every bit of that old violence snapping to the surface. He grabs a chair, his pulse pounding so hard he feels it in his teeth. He doesn’t care that she’s the Black Widow—if she thinks she can drop some half-truth and ghost him like this, she’s out of her mind.

She slows, just for a breath, like she feels him behind her. He lifts the chair, ready to smash it down to make her stay, to force an answer out of her—

Peter’s voice cracks through the tension like a whip. “Jason!”

He wedges himself between them at the last second, palms up, blocking Jason’s path as the chair hovers, inches away from him, where Jason holds it still in the air, tense and heavy in his grip. Jason’s eyes snap to him, wild.

Peter plants his feet, one hand closing around the chair’s leg, voice low but firm. “ Jason—don’t.” He pulls, not rough, but enough to break the moment. “We’ll figure it out. Just—let it go.”

Jason breathes through his teeth, the mask cracking at the edges with a quiet, shaking rage he doesn’t know how to smother. He stares over Peter’s shoulder at Natasha, who’s already abandoning the window, heading for the door instead, like she can’t get out fast enough.

“Stay here,” she says, glancing back once, her eyes catching Jason’s for just a beat. “Please.” Then she’s gone.

And Jason’s left there, still clutching the chair, Peter’s grip on it the only thing keeping it from crashing to the floor or being thrown at a wall. The cold weight in his gut coils tighter.

Jason’s jaw ticks so hard it feels like his molars might just shatter under the force. His eyes stay locked on the door Natasha slipped through, his breathing ragged, pulse drumming in his ears like gunfire. His free hand flex and curl at his sides.

Without thinking, he drops the chair, walking towards teh door with long strides, fingers reaching to curl around the knob. He’s halfway to tearing it open when Peter’s suddenly there, planting himself between Jason and the door, like a damn guard dog.

“You’re not leaving.” Peter’s voice is low.

Jason’s eyes narrow to slits, teeth bared just enough to look feral. His tone goes flat and lethal, every word like glass. “And how the fuck do you plan on stopping me, bug boy?”

Peter's shoulders roll back, chest squaring up like he’s bracing for impact. “Think about it,” Peter snaps, sharp but controlled. “What exactly are you gonna do once you get out there, huh? Natasha’s gone. She’s the Black Widow, Jason. You think you’re gonna run her down on foot?”

Jason glares at him. No plan. He’s running on pure heat and bone-deep anger and panic, but no plan. And Peter knows it.

Peter softens just a hair, voice dipping lower but no less firm. “The best we can do is stay low. Give them time to fix it—”

Jason barks out a sound, somewhere between a scoff and a cracked laugh. He steps back just far enough to rake his eyes over Peter like he’s something on the bottom of his boot. The shift in his tone is sharp, cutting, every syllable dripping with mocking disdain. “Of course, that’s what you’d say. You’re used to being left out of the loop, huh? What’s it like, Peter—being the good little boy who sits in the corner while the people you care about are out there in danger?”

Peter flinches, just the tiniest flicker across his face, like the words land deeper than he wants to show. He tries to get a word in, but Jason steamrolls right over him, voice low and venomous.

“You know what? Stay here. Make your tea. Play house while the rest of us do what needs to be done.” Jason shoves him aside, palm flat to Peter’s shoulder; he doesn't need to put force in his push for Peter to move, he does so without effort on Jason's part. Peter doesn’t fight back. His eyes drop, his mouth parts like he wants to say something, but the words die in his throat.

Jason grabs for the door again, ready to rip it open and put as much distance between him and this place as he can before Aunt May came back and tried to talk him out of it—

“Wait.” Peter’s voice cuts through, sharp but tired now. Jason stops, teeth gritted so tightly his temples ache.

Peter stands there, chin tilted down, not quite looking at him. He doesn’t even try to close the distance again. “I can hack the Tower network,” Peter says, the words almost too calm, too stripped down. “I can find out what the mission was. Where they went. But you have to stay.”

Jason’s eyes flicker over him, takes in the blank mask Peter’s trying to keep on. He is doing a miserable job, he doesn't have half the training he or someone like Natasha have. The way his hands curl around the hem of his shirt, like he doesn’t know what to do with them. The smallest shred of guilt scratches at Jason’s ribs, but he ignores it.

He steps back from the door. Slow. Deliberate. “You got a deal,” Jason mutters. but he doesn’t move to leave again.

Peter nods once, jaw flexing, eyes fixed somewhere behind Jason’s shoulder like he can’t stand to look him in the face just yet.

the room feels like a cage with the tension that has built up in it, But this time—Jason figures—it’s one he put himself in.

Chapter Text

Peter had been typing for nearly an hour straight, the glow of his laptop casting pale light over the cluttered desk. he had made just enough room to work, but the mess still lingered. Jason stood behind him, eyes following the movement of his fingers.

At first, Jason tried to follow what Peter was doing. He wasn’t exactly a stranger to hacking. He had broken into the Tower’s system once, back when he was hiding out in the library, but he’d only managed to scrape the surface. What Peter was doing, though, was on an entirely different level. His fingers flew across the keys, quick and sure, and the screen kept shifting through layers of code Jason couldn’t keep up with. Somewhere around two days ago, he gave up and let Peter do his thing, while he (im)patiently waited for answers.

Ten more minutes ticked by, the room filled only with the steady click of keys. Then, finally, a page loaded up. Peter exhaled a sharp, almost relieved sigh, his shoulders sinking.

Jason leaned down before he could think better of it, face close enough to Peter’s ear that he felt the kid tense under the sudden proximity. But Peter didn’t move. His eyes stayed on the screen as Jason scanned it.

It wasn’t what he expected. 

His brows drew together, a confused frown settling over his face. “What the hell is this supposed to be?”

Peter’s fingers didn’t stop moving, pulling up more lines of code with fluid speed. “It’s a staff list. Well, sort of. They scramble letters, numbers, assignments, everything. Makes it look like a database no one would care about.”

Jason stared harder at the mess of names and IDs filling the screen. “This is how they hide missions?”

“Yeah,” Peter said, still typing, “if you know what you’re looking for, you can read between the lines. And if you know how to take it apart—” His fingers moved in a blur again, lines of gibberish flickering and rearranging, until finally the page shifted. “—you get this.”

The screen reloaded, revealing what Jason had been waiting for, mission details.

Peter’s eyes swept over the text, scanning quickly, his face set but focused. “Steve, Bucky, Tony, Bruce,” he read aloud.

“Keep reading,” Jason snapped.

Peter swallowed, tilting the screen slightly down like he could shield the words from him.

“Peter.”

The name came out low, sharp, dangerous.

Peter exhaled slowly and read. “Mission status…” He hesitated again, then forced the words out. “Extraction failed. Team compromised. ”

His voice faltered.

Jason’s hands clenched into fists.

“Say it,” he ordered.

Peter looked away, gaze fixed on nothing, voice quieter now. “captured by Hydra. Current status… unknown.”

Jason barely registered trying to leave before He was halfway across the room, heat rising in his chest, before a hand clamped around his arm. Hard.

Jason snapped around so fast Peter had to dig his heels into the floor just to stay upright.

"Let go," Jason bit out, low and warning.

Peter didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. "What are you gonna do?"

Jason’s lips curled back, not quite a snarl, but close enough. "Get Bucky."

Peter let out this laugh, short, sharp, more of a scoff than anything. "How?"

Jason didn’t answer, not right away. His chest rose and fell, slow at first, then faster when he realized Peter wasn’t backing off. Finally, Jason muttered, "I’ll figure it out."

Peter’s grip tightened, his fingers digging in like he thought Jason might actually bolt if he didn’t. "Yeah, not good enough. You’re not leaving until we come up with something that makes sense. Not just… whatever half-ass plan you think you’ve got."

Jason’s eyes darkened, a shadow cutting across his face as he leaned forward, voice dropping even lower. "Get your hands off me or I’ll break them."

Peter swallowed, but to his credit, didn’t move. He stared up at Jason, eyes steady, knuckles whitening around his arm. "Then try it."

The silence between them stretched, hot and sharp like a pulled wire ready to snap. Jason could feel the thrum of adrenaline in his veins, his muscles wound tight like coiled springs. But when he looked at Peter, really looked, he saw no give. No fear either. Just stubbornness and something else, the slight reddening of his cheeks. 

Slowly, carefully, he exhaled and let his shoulders loosen. 

Peter caught it. He eased back, but only a little, and straightened up like he had something to prove, shoulders squared, chest forward, like that extra inch of height was gonna do him any good.

Jason almost laughed. Almost. Instead, he leaned back enough to put space between them, rubbing the spot where Peter’s hands had been like it burned.

His skin still crawled.

The air between them felt like it could cut skin, sharp and heavy with everything neither of them was saying. Jason didn’t turn his head back to face peter, didn’t look at him, he didn’t need to. He could feel the kid’s gaze drilling into the side of his face, hot enough to make the back of his neck prickle.

Jason let out a long, slow breath through his nose, like maybe he could push some of that weight out of his lungs. He couldn’t.

He finally spoke, voice rough like it hadn’t been used in years. “When did they leave?”

Peter blinked. The question caught him off guard—Jason could tell by how long it took him to answer. “Leave?”

“For the mission,” Jason clarified, still not looking at him. “When did they leave?”

Peter hesitated again, then pushed back from where he’d been leaning against the table. He moved to his laptop, the soft click of keys filling the silence. “Same day you showed up here,” he said finally, eyes scanning whatever files he had pulled up. “Which—uh, makes sense, I guess. Everything went sideways at once.”

Jason nodded once, slow and deliberate, trying to piece the timeline together in his head. His hands came together in front of him, fingers lacing tight, knuckles pale with tension. “When was it marked as failed?”

Peter clicked through another page, then another. Jason could hear the rapid tap of keys, the soft whir of the laptop fan kicking on.

“Two days ago,” Peter answered after a moment, brows furrowed. “The day Natasha showed up. But…” His voice trailed off as he leaned closer to the screen.

“But?” Jason pressed, shifting his weight like he might bolt at the first excuse to move.

Peter hummed under his breath, still staring at whatever intel he was digging through. “It looks like they were captured hours before the update even hit the system. Like—whoever flagged it waited. Natasha wasn’t the first to know either, ‘cause…” He scrolled further, muttering half to himself. “Yeah, see? They were already dropped at the Hydra hideout that morning. Natasha didn’t find out ‘til late that night.”

Jason moved closer, his shadow falling over the desk. “Morning?”

“Yeah. Like early morning. There’s no way they were just hanging out in the base all day before Hydra grabbed them. Not how they work.” Peter leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, still talking fast like his brain couldn’t keep up with itself. “Which means whatever went wrong, it went wrong fast.  And knowing them? it means…”

Jason hummed low, more of a rumble than anything, eyes narrowing. “They were set up.”

Peter nodded, still scrolling through screens like maybe the answer was hiding somewhere between lines of code. “Yeah. Feels like it. Just doesn’t make sense otherwise. And the worst part? There’s nothing here about where they were dropped off for the mission. Not a single note, not even a trace of transport. which means we have no idea where they are, but maybe Natasha does?.”

Jason’s fingers flexed against each other, the urge to move gnawing at him like an itch under his skin. He hated this. Hated standing here, doing nothing while they were out there, wherever “there” was. It felt exactly like when he first dropped into this world, out of place, helpless.

"we dont need Natasha's help, besides she wouldnt tell us anything anyway. you've known her longer, you should know this already"

Peter must’ve noticed the way Jason’s jaw tightened because he sighed and leaned forward, elbows braced on the table. “Look, I know you want to storm out there and… I dunno, start shaking down people ‘til one of them talks. But that’s not gonna work. You don’t even know where to start.”

Jason’s eyes flicked to him, sharp and cold. “I’ll figure it out.”

Peter groaned like the words physically pained him. “That’s not a plan, man. That’s a bad idea.”

Jason almost scoffed, but didn’t. He was too focused on the numbers running through his head, the days, the gaps, the missing pieces. Every second felt like one too many.

Peter kept going, words spilling faster now, like he couldn’t stop himself. “I mean, you don’t even have access to the same intel Natasha does. You’re not on the clearance list, you’re not—hell, you don’t even have an ID as far as i know. You think you’re gonna break in and out of a Hydra facility without backup? Without help—”

Jason shot him a look that could’ve stopped a train. But Peter didn’t back down. Not this time.

The room felt smaller by the second, like the walls were inching closer, the air pressing heavier against Jason’s ribs. He wanted out, wanted to hit the street, hit something, anything, but instead he stood there, hands still knotted tight, trying to swallow the feeling like it wouldn’t choke him.

Jason’s foot tapped against the floor in a rapid, impatient rhythm, jaw clenching and unclenching as if he was chewing through the tension in the air. Finally, he exhaled through his nose and said, low and deliberate, “We need to find out where the Hydra hideout is.”

Peter leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing. “Okay… yeah, I agree that should be the first thing we do, but how? That info isn’t in the tower files, it’s not in the system, and I don’t know another way we’re gonna get it.” He ran a hand through his hair, trying to keep his voice steady, calm, but there was tension under his skin.

Jason stared at him, chest tight with the thought of admitting he didn’t have a better idea either. He wanted to push past Peter’s hesitation, wanted to say something, anything that would get them moving. And then it clicked. His eyes sharpened. “What about the guy you found in the case file I gave you? You said you found something about him, right?”

Peter’s head snapped up, eyebrows shooting high. “Wait, you mean—yeah, I did! Hold on—” He spun on his heels and practically bolted to his bed, leaning down and rummaging under it. Jason’s eyes followed every movement, a flicker of distrust curling in his chest as he watched Peter pull out something.

Peter flipped open a notebook with a soft click, the corners of the pages well-worn, scrawled notes filling the margins. Jason raised an eyebrow at it, puzzled. “Iron Man notebook?” he asked, the edge in his voice unmistakable.

Peter glanced up, a little sheepish but still focused, and shrugged. “Yeah, it’s what I’ve been using. thought it’d be easier to jot down a few leads myself. Don’t look at me like that.”

Jason shook his head but said nothing, his eyes already back on the open pages as Peter tapped a few lines and started reading out loud. “Okay… so I only found a few leads. Nothing concrete about where he’s staying or where the hideout might be. But…” He hesitated, flipping to a different section, then glanced at Jason, eyes brightening slightly. “…we do have a name. Ethan Strong. That’s something, at least.”

Jason let out a small, almost imperceptible exhale through his nose, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Good. That’s a start,” he said, his tone clipped but measured, a spark of the old calculation returning to him. He leaned a little closer, tilting his head as he processed the information, mentally tracing the possibilities.

Peter mirrored his intensity, hunched slightly over the notebook, hands braced on the edge of the bed. “Yeah, it’s not a location yet, but if he’s connected to Hydra, chances are he’s tied to the hideout. We just need to figure out how to track him.”

Jason’s mind was already turning over options, weighing risks, considering what he could do if they found Ethan Strong and how to make that lead work for them. The room still felt thick, almost suffocating, the tension between them unspoken but sharp.

“I’ll track him,” Jason said finally, the words flat but confident, like a promise he was making to himself as much as to Peter. “You help me pull everything you got on him.”

Peter nodded immediately, before he paused. “Actually, I think I have something which would be faster, it's one of the people Ethan is suspected to work with, that Hess guy.”

jason nodded and looked at petTheer "the faster the better, if Hess is easier to reach than Ethan, then it's who we are going after."

heleaned back slightly, weight shifting to one leg, arms folding across his chest as his eyes flicked to the door and then back to Peter. The air in the room already felt heavy, like it was pressing down on him. Finally, he exhaled through his nose and said, low but firm, “We need weapons.”

Peter blinked, his brows knitting together. “Weapons? Wait, why?”

Jason didn’t answer right away. Instead, he gave Peter a flat look, one that was sharp enough to cut through whatever optimism was lingering in the younger man’s tone. He tilted his head slightly, as if to say Do I really need to explain this?

“I need a gun,” Jason said finally, voice firm, like he was reciting a fact rather than making a request. “Knives, blades, hell—brass knuckles if that’s all I can get. Anything I can use.” He shifted his stance, the tension running down his arms into his clenched fists. “You might not need it because of… whatever’s wrong with you—”

Peter tensed and his jaw tightened at the phrasing but didn’t interrupt.

“—but I do.”

Peter hesitated, staring at him, then slowly shook his head. “No, you don’t.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

Peter gestured loosely with both hands, like he was trying to explain something obvious. “I’ve seen you fight. A weapon isn’t exactly… necessary. You’re not exactly helpless without one.”

Jason stared at him, the room going utterly still for a second, his expression tightening into one of quiet disbelief. “When have you ever seen me fight?” he asked, voice clipped, low, and sharp in a way that made Peter shift back slightly, like he was sensing he’d just stepped on a mine.

Peter opened his mouth, hesitated, and then said, far too quickly to sound casual, “I, uh… watched you. On the gym cameras.”

Jason froze, posture going rigid.

Peter immediately realized what he’d just admitted and looked like he wanted to shove the words back into his mouth. His eyes went wide, hands twitching before he shoved them into his hoodie pocket like that might make him look less guilty.

Jason’s jaw dropped slightly, his voice dropping into a dangerous whisper. “…Excuse me?”

Peter waved his hands out in front of him now, panicked. “Wait, wait, hold up, it wasn’t like that. I swear. It wasn’t creepy or—ugh, okay, it sounds creepy, but it wasn’t, like… that kind of creepy. I was just… curious?”

Jason took a slow step forward, scowling, arms falling to his sides, his whole stance changing, less casual now, more like he was ready to bite Peter’s head off. “You spied on me?”

Peter immediately started talking faster, his words tumbling over themselves. “Not—okay, not like spying-spying! It was just…we met, and you were caught by us and everyone was super cagey about you, and they wouldn’t tell me why—like, at all. Zero explanation. And I mean, come on, can you blame me for wanting to know why they’re all weird about this new guy who i felt really bad about stealing back stolen food from who just shows up?”

Jason’s scowl deepened.

Peter threw his hands up, rambling even faster now. “So I went into the security room—just once! Okay, technically more than once, but not like… long term or anything. A week. One week. That’s it. I just wanted to see what the big deal was, and then I saw you training and, holy crap, by the way, like, you’re insane. I mean, I’m not saying I was impressed—well, okay, I was impressed, but not in a creepy way. Just, like… ‘wow, this guy is terrifying but in a cool way’ impressed, you know?”

Jason just stared at him, face blank, though his silence was far heavier than his glare.

Peter winced at the lack of reaction and kept going anyway, because stopping now felt like walking into a firing squad. “And, uh… yeah. Then Mr. Stark found out I was in the security room. Told me not to do it again. I didn’t! Not after that. I swear. Cross my heart, hope to—uh… well, you get it.”

Jason blinked once, slow. “…You’re telling me… you broke into a secured room just to watch me work out for an entire week?”

Peter groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Okay, you make it sound way worse when you say it like that.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Because it is worse.”

Peter raised his hands in surrender, backing up a step. “Look, I’m admitting it, okay? Not exactly my proudest moment. But in my defense—again, in my defense—nobody tells me anything around here. I’m like the intern of the Avengers half the time. I’m the kid they call when they need someone to crawl through vents or deal with loose alien tech in the basement. So when a mysterious guy shows up, looking like he stepped out of a R-rated movie—”

Jason’s glare sharpened. “excuse me?”

Peter froze. “…Crap.”

Jason tilted his head, voice dipping low. “you like digging yourself into deeper shit holes?”

Peter grimaced, "...no?”

Jason shook his head slowly to look at him, eyes cold. “…You’re lucky I don’t break your nose right now.”

Peter raised both hands again. “Fair. Totally fair. i promise i would never do it again.”

Jason stared at him a long moment before finally letting out a slow exhale, looking away. He didn’t say anything, but his hands unclenched slightly at his sides.

Peter relaxed—just barely—then tilted his head, trying for a smile. “So… still want those weapons?”

Jason shot him a look that said you’re an idiot. “More than ever.”

_____________________________________

Jason shifted the weight of the kitchen knife hidden in his hoodie sleeve, feeling the handle press against the inside of his wrist. It wasn’t what he wanted; hell, it wasn’t even close, but it was all Peter had been able to scrounge up on short notice. A combat knife would’ve been ideal. Something with balance, with grip, with a weight that wouldn’t shift with each step. Instead, he was walking around New York City with a glorified kitchen knife like some rookie trying to play tough.

He glanced to his side, where Peter kept pace, his own stride quickened to match Jason’s longer steps. Jason had a good half-foot on him, but Peter didn’t look winded, if anything, he looked like he was holding back, like keeping up with Jason was no challenge at all. 

Still, Peter should’ve been the one leading. He knew the city. He knew where they were going. Instead, Jason found himself navigating through the crowd, scanning faces and reflections in passing windows, while Peter trailed slightly behind..

Peter broke the silence first, his tone casual but edged with something sharper. “So… good news? As I said, I might have a lead on Hess. The guy in the file? I, uh, asked around. Not the usual way, either. I didn’t exactly hit up the Daily Bugle where he does interviews a lot and ask them to forward his mail.”

Jason shot him a sideways look. Peter didn’t notice, or pretended not to.

“I’ve got this friend—well, not friend-friend, more like a contact, who does freelance photography for newspapers and magazines. Fashion shoots, public events, and the occasional political campaign. You know, people who live for a camera. Anyway, I asked if they’d crossed paths with Hess lately, and turns out he was staying at a hotel in this area. Might still be here.”

Jason’s eyes flicked toward him again, sharper this time. “How recent?”

“Pretty recent,” Peter said, sidestepping a man carrying a stack of coffee trays. “Apparently, he wrapped up some public initiative thing last week, some ‘fight for the people’ campaign, all about community funding and urban development. Except…” Peter glanced at him, the corner of his mouth tilting down. “Except there are rumors about him skimming donations, funnelling cash somewhere off the books, maybe even meeting with people who don’t exactly scream ‘upstanding citizen.’”

Jason hummed low in his throat, remembering the case file. He’d read the same thing. Hess had a clean record, a charm that sold well in front of cameras, but a lifestyle that didn’t match his reported income. The youngest of the three suspects. The one most likely to underestimate the chances of someone coming for him.

“You think he’s still there?” Jason asked, scanning the crowd again. They were moving closer to the edge of the financial district now, where polished lobbies and tinted glass hid the kind of wealth that didn’t like to be seen.

Peter shrugged, but it wasn’t careless. “If he’s smart, he’ll have checked out by now. But… he’s also the type to linger. Keeps up appearances. Does little interviews, shakes hands with donors, plays the ‘man of the people’ thing until everyone forgets to look closer. People like that? They just keep smiling for the cameras.”

Jason didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Peter kept talking anyway.

“Look, I know what you’re thinking, this feels too easy. But it’s not. If Hess is connected to Hydra, he’s not just gonna hand us a map to their front door. Best case, we get close enough to figure out who he’s talking to. Worst case…” Peter trailed off, then sighed. “Worst case, we hit a dead end, and I get to say ‘I told you so.’ But I’d really rather not.”

Jason snorted under his breath. “You’d love to.” but he won't get a chance to, j,ason isn't letting another day go to waste. two days is already way to much for him; he is getting answers today, no matter the cost. He will shred Hess's face if he has to.

Peter grinned, quick, almost boyish, but gone in an instant. “Okay, yeah. A little. But i probably won't because you look like the kind of guy who hates hearing it.”

Jason didn’t answer, just adjusted his sleeve to feel the handle of the knife again. Not ideal. Not what he needed. But it would do.

Peter’s tone shifted, softening just slightly. “You don’t have to look like that, you know. Like we’re walking into a trap already. I mean, yeah, maybe we are. But I’ve done this before. I know how to move, how to look like I belong. And you…” He paused, looking Jason up and down. “You look like someone who doesn’t belong anywhere- not in a bad way! its just that you look angry most of the time, which is either going to be a problem or… kind of terrifying in a good way. I haven’t decided.”

Jason raised a brow. “You calling me terrifying?”

“I’m calling you ‘noticeable,’” Peter corrected. “Which is the last thing we need if this guy has someone watching the lobby. So maybe… try to look like a guy who cares about stock prices or coffee. You know. Blend.”

Jason didn’t answer immediately, but the words sat with him. Peter wasn’t wrong. He’d been trying to keep his posture smaller, shoulders slightly forward, steps quieter than usual. 

Peter slowed his pace slightly, letting a group of office workers pass before speaking again. “You’re thinking about what happens after we find him, aren’t you?”

Jason stayed silent.

“Yeah. I can tell. It’s the same look I get when Mr.Stark starts talking about liability clauses. Look, I know you want to go in hard. Get answers. Maybe shake him until he talks. But if this guy’s got connections, we have to be careful about how far we push. One wrong move and we won’t just lose him. We’ll tip off whoever’s pulling his strings.”

Jason exhaled slowly through his nose. Peter wasn’t wrong there either. but tipping off whoever is pulling his strings isn't much of a bad thing if it pulls there attension to Hess after they have already gone.

The crowd thinned as they turned onto a quieter street, lined with boutique hotels and high-end cafes.

“You sure about the hotel?” Jason asked.

“Sure enough to check,” Peter said. “But not sure enough to bet dinner on it. Which, by the way, I feel like I’m gonna owe you soon. I’m running out of excuses for why we haven’t just… told Natasha what we’re doing.”

Jason gave him a sharp look. “We’re not telling her.”

Peter nodded quickly. “I know. I know. Just saying—it’s not exactly a sustainable plan. If she catches on—”

“She won't, not unless you tell her. besides, she's busy right now trying to find the others, most likely anyway.”

The hotel lobby smelled faintly of fresh polish and burnt coffee. jason tugged at the cuff of his sleeve, the kitchen knife digging just enough into his forearm to remind him how ill-prepared he was. Not exactly what he wanted to walk into this with.

Beside him, Peter looked completely at ease. Jason’s longer stride kept him a half-step ahead until Peter lightly touched his elbow and nodded toward the reception desk.

“I’ll handle it,” Peter murmured before flashing him a grin.

Jason huffed under his breath, planting himself near one of the marble pillars and letting his gaze sweep across the lobby. He counted three exits, two elevators, a staircase tucked behind the concierge, and the front doors. The flow of foot traffic was steady but not overwhelming, tourists dragging luggage, business people in pressed suits. Normal. Except—

His eyes caught on a couple of men. Suits too crisp, postures too rigid, eyes moving the same way his did, always scanning. He knew hired muscle when he saw it. And the fact that they were here told him what he needed: Hess was definitely inside.

Jason’s jaw tightened as his gaze flicked back to Peter. The kid was leaning on the counter, arms moving as he talked animatedly to the receptionist. A beaming smile on his face, eyebrows lifting, hands sketching little shapes in the air like he was narrating a story only he could see. Jason felt his mouth pull into a small scowl before forcing himself to wipe it away. The receptionist had glanced up, eyes skimming over him, and he wasn’t about to make himself look like a threat right now.

Peter waved him closer, still mid-ramble. Jason sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets, walking over. He caught the tail end of what Peter was saying.

“…so, yeah, if you could just let Mr. Hess know that we’d love a few minutes of his time, like—ten minutes tops, I promise we’re not here to bother him, it’s just really important and, you know, it could help him too. A real chance to, uh, share his message with people, which is what he wants, right?”

Jason blinked at him, trying to piece together how Peter had managed to say that many words in one breath without passing out. The receptionist, however, didn’t look impressed.

Her expression was polite but firm, pleasant enough to hide annoyance, sharp enough to make sure you didn’t push. “I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Hess is unavailable. I’ve been instructed not to disturb him during this time of day. If you’d like to leave your details, I can pass them along.”

Jason glanced at Peter. The kid’s hopeful grin faltered just slightly before he pushed it back into place.

“Right, but it’s not just, you know, casual,” Peter said quickly, leaning a little closer over the desk like that would somehow change things. “We wouldn’t be asking if it wasn’t important. You see, there’s actually this—”

Jason cut him off by stepping forward, laying one hand lightly against the counter. Peter shot him a look, but Jason ignored it, forcing his shoulders to slump a little, softening his expression. He let his mouth tug into something shy, uncertain, like he was working up courage. It felt ridiculous, he knew how fake it was, but people ate this kind of act up when ever he used it.

“Hey,” Jason started, his voice quieter, almost hesitant. “Sorry. My friend gets a little carried away sometimes.” He glanced at Peter, adding a sheepish smile before looking back at the receptionist. “We really don’t want to cause you any trouble, I swear. It’s just—” He paused, letting his gaze drop, scratching the back of his neck like he was embarrassed. “We went through a lot to get here. And it would mean a lot to us if you could just…ask. Just ask him. If he says no, we’ll walk away. I’ll even take the blame if your boss gets mad. Say I insisted too much, whatever you need. Just…please. It would really mean a lot.”

Jason let his voice catch slightly on the last word, just enough to make it sound like nerves. He hated doing it, hated twisting his own body into something smaller, weaker, but the way the receptionist’s face softened told him it worked.

Her lips parted, then curved into a faint, almost flustered smile. She fiddled with the edge of her notepad for a second before nodding.

“Well…you can wait in the lounge area over there.” She gestured toward a cluster of couches near the windows. “I’ll call up to his room and let him know you’d like to speak with him. But no promises, alright?”

Jason let out a breath like he’d been holding it, dipping his head. “That’s more than enough. Thank you.”

“Of course,” she said, and—was she actually blushing?

Jason gave her a tiny, grateful smile before tugging lightly on Peter’s sleeve and steering him toward the couches.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Peter hissed, “did- did you actually stutter?.”

Jason dropped onto the couch, elbows resting on his knees. He shot Peter a flat look. “Shut up.”

Peter grinned, plopping down beside him. “No, seriously, you stuttered. You actually stuttered. I didn’t know you could do that without it sounding fake. Like—how did you even pull that off?”

Jason rubbed a hand over his face, resisting the urge to groan. “keep your mouth shut.”

Peter tilted his head, still studying him. “-And she bought it. Totally melted. I’m impressed. Slightly disturbed, but impressed.”

Jason glanced at him, letting his scowl return for real this time. “You couldn’t get it done. I fixed it. End of story.”

Peter raised his hands in surrender, though his grin didn’t fade. “Hey, I’m not complaining. You’re just better at this than I thought. Maybe I should start letting you do the talking.”

Jason snorted. “Don’t push it, Parker.”

It didn’t take long before the receptionist waved them back over, smiling way too much in Jason’s direction. “Mr. Hess would be delighted to speak with you,” she said, her voice almost nervous.

Jason gave her a nod, easy smile sliding back on like it wasn’t an effort, though his jaw felt tight. “Thanks,” he said softly, and followed after the two thick-necked guys who appeared from the side to escort them.

They didn’t bother patting either of them down. Jason’s fingers itched to touch the knife hidden in his sleeve, just out of habit. Arrogant. Hess thinks he’s untouchable. All these men standing around, but they don’t even check visitors? That’s not confidence. That’s carelessness. he’s so sure no one would dare try him that he doesn’t even bother. That kind of arrogance always begged to be cut down.

The elevator ride was quiet. The guard hit the button for the thirtieth floor without a word, his expression carved from stone. Jason leaned back, his shoulders loose, like he didn’t have a single care in the world. Beside him, Peter stood stiff, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets like he didn’t know what else to do with them. 

When the doors finally slid open, the air itself felt different. The floor itself screamed money, white marble shining under the lights, a chandelier dripping crystals above their heads, thick carpets that swallowed footsteps. The kind of place made to impress. Or intimidate.

And there he was. Hess. Standing with a wine glass like it was part of his hand, suit sharp. Arms open like he was welcoming them home, a smile stretched across his face, charming, Jason wouldve even called it even attractive if they were in a different situation and setting.

“Welcome, welcome!” Hess’ voice boomed warmly as if he’d been waiting for them all day.

Jason was the first to move, slipping into that soft, hesitant persona he’d used on the receptionist. His lips curved into something small, respectful, and he dipped his head just enough. “Thank you for seeing us, sir.” His voice carried a shy edge, like meeting Hess was some kind of honor.

Hess’ smile widened, like he’d just been handed exactly what he wanted.

Peter stepped up beside Jason, bright as ever. “Yeah, thanks for taking the time. Really appreciate it.”

Hess barely looked at him. His eyes were locked on Jason, drinking him in. “Of course, of course. Please, both of you, have a seat.” He moved with smooth grace toward a wide armchair, sinking down with his wine. He gestured at the couch across from him like it was a gift.

Peter didn’t hesitate, plopping down, posture trying to mimic casual but not quite pulling it off, despite the confidence he displayed in front of the receptionist at first, maybe his nerves are starting to get to him now that they are actually in front of Hess. Jason didn’t move. His eyes dragged to the guards standing stiff at the elevator.

He knew he and Peter could take them—hell, he alone could probably drop both before they had a chance to do any damage. But it wasn’t about whether they could. It was about the risk. Fights get messy, messy gets loud. Loud gets attention. No. Smarter to get them out.

Jason let his body shift, posture tightening up, his shoulders curling slightly like nerves were eating him alive. His eyes flickered to the guards and back again, not subtle.

Hess caught it, of course, jason meant for him to. “Something wrong?” His tone was teasing, curious.

Jason ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “No, it’s nothing. Just… I’ve never really talked to someone who has, uh, guards standing around before. Makes me feel like I’m… in trouble or something. Sorry. I’m not used to it.”

Peter’s eyes snapped to him, sharp and questioning, but Jason ignored him. He kept his gaze on Hess, a small smile tugging like he was embarrassed.

Hess laughed, warm and indulgent, like Jason had said the funniest thing. “You don’t need to apologize. If they make you nervous—” He waved a lazy hand toward the men without even looking at them. “—then they’ll leave.”

Just like that, the guards stepped back into the elevator. The doors slid shut, and Jason heard it hum as it began to descend.

Only then did he let his shoulders drop, his body appearing to loosen like the weight had been lifted. He flashed Hess a grateful, shy smile. “Thanks. I, uh… really appreciate that.”

Hess raised his glass, his eyes dragging over Jason like he was already convinced he’d won something. “Of course,” he said smoothly, taking a slow sip of wine.

Jason finally moved toward the couch and sat next to Peter. he leaned back into the couch, every muscle in his body telling him not to, but he forced himself. His skin prickled under Hess’s stare. The guy’s gaze was heavy. Jason made himself smile.

The room was too quiet, too wide. The chandelier light above them reflected on the polished floor, the wine in Hess’s glass catching the shine when he moved his wrist. Jason flicked his eyes around, still no one else on the floor. The guards were gone. He tilted his head slightly toward Peter, small and sharp.

Peter gave Jason the faintest nod in return, his chin dipping once, eyes forward. But Jason knew Peter had caught the signal.

Jason turned back to Hess. “So,” he started, his voice soft, like casual curiosity, “what kind of organizations do you work with?”

Hess didn’t even blink. “All of them are worth working with,” he said, the words rolling off his tongue like he’d said them a hundred times. He leaned back, legs crossing neatly, his smile easy. “Grassroots initiatives, local charities, community rebuilding projects—especially in underfunded districts. I fund shelters, schools, and programs to rehabilitate struggling youth. I’m always happy to invest in tomorrow. Because tomorrow belongs to them, doesn’t it?”

Jason’s jaw worked once, but he let out a little hum, like he was impressed. It was a polished answer, too polished. He’d heard men like this his whole life, back in Gotham, back in alleyways where money dressed itself up as salvation but stank of rot underneath. “Right,” he said, leaning his elbow against the back of the couch like he was relaxed. “And aside from those… there really isn’t any other organization you work with?”

He tilted his head just a little, let his words drag. “Because there have been rumors. That you’re tied up with more… shady groups.”

For a split second, Hess faltered. It wasn’t much, but Jason caught it. A twitch in the corner of his eye, too fast for anyone not looking. Jason’s peripheral caught Peter too, he saw it as well, if the slight fixing of his posture is to say anthing. Saw how Peter’s shoulders had stiffened, his whole attention locked on Hess.

Hess’s smile sharpened, thin now. “Rumors,” he said smoothly. “That’s all they are. Rumors spread by jealous competitors. People who don’t like progress always find ways to poison it. But me?” He put a hand to his chest, like the words were heavy with sincerity. “I stand for the people. If I let myself be bogged down by every baseless accusation, I’d never get anything done.”

Jason hummed again, but this time he didn’t bother playing the impressed act. He let his posture shift, spine curving as his body sank into the couch. His face smoothed out, dropping the shy, starstruck look like he was peeling off a mask. He stared at Hess, sharp and unblinking.

The effect was instant. Hess straightened in his chair, grip on his glass tightening. His scowl edged through the polished exterior. “What is this?” he demanded, voice dropping, smoothness gone.

Jason's voice came out flat, blunt. “What connections do you have with Hydra?”

The wine glass slipped. It shattered against the marble floor, red spilling across the pale stone like blood. Hess was already moving, body jerking forward as he bolted away from them, the suddenness almost pathetic. 

Jason was half up before Peter was moving. And Peter was fast. Jason didn’t even have time to push off the couch fully before Peter blurred forward, cutting Hess’s sprint in half like it was nothing. One hand shot out, fisting the back of Hess’s expensive suit jacket, yanking him backward with no effort at all.

The sound that left Hess wasn’t dignified. It was a sharp, pathetic yelp as his feet slid out from under him. He hit the ground hard.

Peter stood over him, chest heaving just once before he steadied himself, looking back at Jason with an expectant look. Jason didn't know what to give him in return so instead he went for Hess.

Jason finally got to his feet, slower now, eyes locked on the mess at their feet. Hess scrambled to push himself back, his shoes squeaking against the marble, but Peter kept one foot braced in front of him like he was daring him to try again.

Jason’s hands itched. He wanted to grab the guy by the collar himself, slam him into the wall until the truth bled out. He wanted to feel control in his hands, wanted to tear through the arrogance Hess wrapped himself in.

“You're involved with Hydra, aren't you?” Jason repeated, his voice low, sharp enough to cut through the thick quiet. “Because you don’t run from rumors like that unless they’re true.”

Hess shook his head quickly, his face tight. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jason crossed his arms over his chest, the knife still hidden up his sleeve a comforting weight. He tilted his head, staring Hess down like he was prey cornered in a trap. His lips curved into something thin. “You’re gonna talk. Whether you like it or not.”

Hess’s breathing was heavy now, sharp exhales that didn’t match the picture of the man he put up the image of. Jason could see the sweat starting to bead at his temple. He wasn’t built for pressure. He was built for pretty speeches and T.V interviews.

Jason stepped closer, his boots crunching faintly on the shattered glass. He crouched down just enough to be level with Hess’s eyes. “Tell me where Hydra’s base is.”

Hess slid himself back, his expensive suit wrinkling against the floor. His voice cracked when he finally spoke, trying to pull back some of that arrogance, but it rang hollow. “You don’t… you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

Jason’s jaw tightened, voice rumbling from his chest. “I know exactly what I’m asking for. Where.”

Peter glanced up at Jason, something unreadable flicking across his face at the tone Jason was starting to use. He didn’t stop him though.

Jason leaned closer until Hess had nowhere to look but into his eyes. “I’m not asking twice.”

Jason gripped Hess’s collar with an iron clutch, his knuckles pale where they locked into expensive fabric. The man thrashed weakly, sputtering in panic, but Jason dragged him with no effort, the sound of the broken wine glass crunching under his boots filling the room. He didn’t answer Peter’s voice calling after him. Couldn’t. All he saw was Hess, all he thought of was the Hydra, the way every wasted second stretched the distance between him and Bucky.

He shoved Hess into the chair, hard enough to make the legs squeal against the floor. Before Hess could suck in more air to cry out, Jason slipped the knife from his sleeve, flipping it into his hand like second nature. The blade caught the dim light as he held it out, steady.

“You can give me the answers the easy way,” Jason said, words sharp, deliberate. Then his mouth twitched into something dark, something almost like a smile. “Or the way I’m hoping this is going to go. The hard way.”

Hess leaned back so far the chair creaked, his eyes wide, skin pale under the flush of fear. His breath came ragged, chest rising and falling too fast. His perfect blonde hair was already a mess, sweat dampening his temples. He looked down at the knife, then back at Jason, trembling.

“You can go fuck yourself,” Hess spat, voice shaking despite the venom.

Jason chuckled, the sound low, humorless. “That’s the wrong answer.”

And then the blade came down, quick and merciless, burying itself through flesh and wood in one solid motion.

Hess’s scream ripped through the room, raw and ugly. He tried to yank his hand back, only to make the knife dig in deeper, the wood splintering around it. Blood spread fast, bubbling, thick and dark as it coated his skin and dripped onto the arm of the chair. Jason yanked the knife free with a wet sound that filled the silence between screams, Hess curling in on himself, clutching his ruined hand to his chest.

Jason stared, the knife slick in his grip, waiting for Hess to break.

But then fingers closed around the back of his collar, yanking him off balance. Jason snapped around, knife still in hand, to find Peter staring at him. Wide-eyed. Shellshocked. His voice broke into the air, loud and shaking.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Peter yelled, his chest heaving, his whole body tense in a way Jason hadn’t seen before. “We don’t—no, we don’t do things like this, Jason! We don’t—brutalize people!”

Jason shoved him back, hard enough to make Peter stumble a step but not fall, though a part of jason thinks that only happened because peter let him. His own scowl deepened, his voice rough and sharp with heat.

“We?” Jason spat. “Maybe it’s not what you do, but I need answers. And if this is how I get them, then it’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“Jason—”

“No!” Jason cut him off, the words snapping like a whip. He jabbed the knife toward Hess, whose sobs filled the edges of the room. “You think this is a fucking game? We don’t have time for your sunshine, ‘everything can be solved without violence’ bullshit. Bucky is out there. Hydra has him. And I’m not gonna sit around holding hands hoping some guy just feels like talking!”

Peter’s jaw worked, his fists clenching.His voice shook when he finally answered.

“And you think stabbing him is gonna make him talk? You think blood is some magic switch for the truth? That’s not how this works! That’s not how we, because like it or not we are together in this,  work!”

Jason barked out a humorless laugh, shaking his head as he stepped closer, knife still clutched tight. “Don’t preach to me like you know how this works, kid. You don’t know shit about the people we’re dealing with. They don’t break because you ask them pretty please. You hurt them until they crack—or you die trying.”

Peter’s throat bobbed, his eyes darting from the knife to Jason’s face, to Hess trembling in the chair. “That’s not—Jesus, do you hear yourself? you don't know them either, you barely know anything about Hydra, probably less than I do! what you're doing- That’s not justice. That’s—”

“They have Bucky!” Jason snapped, voice breaking sharp and ragged. He stepped forward again, close enough that Peter had to take a half-step back, their chests nearly colliding. “they have Steve, Starka and Doctor Banner. You think I like this? You think this is fun for me? I’m doing what I have to do, because nobody else will. Because every second we waste means Bucky is closer to being gone. And I’ll be fucking damned if I lose him.”

The air between them felt like it could snap. Peter’s chest rose and fell quick, his hands half-lifted like he didn’t know if he was going to grab Jason or shove him.

“That doesn’t give you the right,” Peter said, quieter now, but sharp enough to cut.

Jason’s eyes narrowed, his grip still firm on the knife. He angled his head toward Peter, voice low and sharp.
“go into a different room while I get the answers we need.”

Peter’s jaw tightened, his hands fisting at his sides. “That’s not happening. You need to back down.”

Jason stepped closer, shoulders squaring as he rose to his full height, deliberately towering over him. He looked down at Peter from the bridge of his nose, his expression caught between a glare and disgust. “Or what?”

The air went still, thick with their standoff. Before either could move, Hess’s strained voice broke in, ragged and venomous.
“You’ll regret this,” he hissed, his words slurred with pain. “I don’t know who you two work for, but I’ll make you pay.”

Jason didn’t even flinch. He rolled his eyes, almost lazily, and bent down just enough to drag the flat of his knife across Hess’s suit jacket. The blood smeared red against the crisp fabric as he wiped the blade clean.
“Put it on my tab,” Jason muttered.

Peter’s shoulders bunched up as he looked away, raking a hand through his hair. His body shifted like he couldn’t stand being in the same room with what was happening in front of him. His steps retreated a little, distance creeping between him and the armchair. He didn’t want to look at Hess clutching his mangled hand. Didn’t want to look at Jason, either.

When he turned back, his face was pale but his voice was steady. “We’re not doing this anymore. We’re going back home, waiting for news, anything but this.”

Jason barked out a laugh, loud and harsh, the kind of sound that carried no real humor. He leaned back slightly, the knife still loose in his grip.
“You think you can make me?” His grin was sharp, almost mocking. “Make me do anything?”

Peter stood his ground, though his throat bobbed like he was swallowing back words. “Yeah. If I have to drag you out of here, I will. But we’re not torturing anyone. I’m not letting that happen.”

Jason’s eyes flickered, narrowing. He tilted his head, voice dropping into a dark rasp.
“Then leave. You don’t want any part of this? Fine. Go.”

Peter’s nostrils flared as he shook his head, voice rough now. “It’s too late for that. I’m the one who dug up the lead that brought us here. That makes it my responsibility to stop you.”

Jason’s smirk twisted bitter, hollow of anything light. 
“Why?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” Peter shot back, chin lifting, though his eyes betrayed the uncertainty he tried to mask.

Jason’s laugh rang again, but this time it was hollow in a different way, like the echo of something long gone. His lips curved into a smile that didn’t touch his eyes.
“The right thing,” he repeated, almost tasting the words. He leaned back slightly, dragging his tongue along his teeth before he murmured, “god, you sound pathetic.”

Peter’s brow furrowed, confusion flashing across his face. But Jason had already turned back to Hess.

“do you think your life is worth something?” Jason asked suddenly, his tone razor sharp. “think before you answer me.”

Hess’s breath came out shallow, his body trembling as he pressed his bleeding hand against his chest. His face twisted, but after a pause he spat out, “Yes.”

Jason’s head dipped once, slow and deliberate. “how much?”

Hess’s lips stuttered around his answer, his voice shaky. “I… I help people. I make their lives better—”

Jason scoffed so loud it cut him off, his knife flicking back up like punctuation. “Spare me the speech. You wanna tell me no kids go missing while you’re running projects? Not a single one?”

Peter’s head snapped toward him, his voice strained. “What are you getting at?”

Jason didn’t look back. His eyes stayed locked on Hess, predatory and unrelenting. Hess stayed silent, his lips trembling as his chest heaved.

Jason finally turned, his gaze landing on Peter, sharp enough to cut. “Tell me what you see, huh? You really believe someone like him deserves to be questioned with dignity?” His voice dropped into a growl, his hand tightening on the knife. “This—this is the right thing. Treating him like what he is. a fucking animal that need to be put down”

Peter froze, his weight shifting as though he didn’t know where to stand. His hand dragged over his mouth, then dropped to his side again. He looked restless, jittery, like every part of him wanted to move but had no idea in which direction. His voice came out cracked but firm.
“You don’t actually know if he did anything. You don’t. We don’t have proof. We don’t— we don’t know!”

Jason just stared at him, his chest rising and falling hard, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscle jumped.

Jason snapped back around, the knife flashing as he pressed the cold steel against Hess’s face. He dragged it down , carving a deep red line down the man’s cheek. Hess screamed, a sharp, broken sound, scrambling to twist away, but Jason’s fist clamped around his collar and kept him pinned to the chair.

“You start giving me answers,” Jason growled, his voice low and deadly steady, “or I swear to God I’ll take your fucking eyes out one by one and feed ’em to you while you’re still breathing. And don’t you dare try to feed me bullshit, because I’ll know. You lie to me once, I’ll carve a permenant reason for you to never show youre face on T.V again.”

Hess let out another strangled sound, eyes wide, breath coming in short pants.

“Jason!” Peter’s voice cracked as he lunged forward, his hand clamping down on Jason’s arm. He pressed hard, yanking at him,dragging it back. “Stop, just stop—”

Jason’s arm jerked under the pressure, his knife hand being forced back just enough to give Hess a sliver of space. His teeth gritted, rage written in every tense line of his body. Then, quick as a whip, Jason switched the knife to his other hand and drove it down into Hess’s other arm, right above the elbow.

The blade sank with a sick sound, and Hess’s scream tore through the room, raw and high-pitched as his whole body jolted against the chair.

“Jesus!” Peter stumbled back half a step, eyes wide as his breath caught. His hands drifting up to his own face like he want to cover his eyes from the scene, though holding back and forcing them down, unsure what to do with himself. “What is wrong with you?!”

Jason’s eyes snapped up at him, wild, furious, and unrelenting. “What’s wrong with me? He’s Hydra. He’s scum. And he’s going to talk.”

“He’s bleeding out all over the fucking chair!” Peter shouted back, his hand cutting through the air as if pointing at Hess could somehow underline the insanity. “This isn’t—this isn’t normal, Jason, you can’t just—”

“Don’t fucking tell me what I can’t do!” Jason barked, his hand twisting the knife deeper before yanking it free. Blood poured, Hess clutching at his arm, his words choked out through his cries.

“I know! I know where the base is!” Hess sobbed, his voice shrill with pain. “I’ll tell you—just don’t—don’t—”

Peter froze for a second, his mouth hanging open, the words tangled on his tongue. He dragged his hand down his face, his voice breaking in frustration. “Jesus Christ, Jason. You didn’t have to-”

Jason turned on him, knife still dripping red in his grip. “The hell I didn’t! You think he was gonna spit it out just ‘cause you asked nicely? Look at him!” He jabbed the knife toward Hess, whose sobs were turning into pitiful whimpers. “People like this don’t talk unless you make them.”

Peter’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his whole body buzzing with restless energy. “you’re torturing him!” His voice cracked on the word, like it barely sat right in his throat. “You don’t get it, you’re—you’re losing it!”

Jason barked out a short, ugly sound. “I’m not losing shit. I’m getting answers. I’m doing what has to be done while you stand there wringing your hands like a kid.”

Peter’s face flushed red, his jaw tightening as he snapped, “I am a kid, dumbass! So are you! You’re twenty, not some hardened killer who gets to decide who lives and dies!”

Jason’s scowl deepened, and he stepped into Peter’s space, the knife loose but ready in his hand. “Don’t fucking talk down to me. You have no idea what the hell you’re saying. You think this guy deserves to walk away after everything he’s done?”

Peter’s voice dropped, shaking but sharp. “We don’t know what he’s done. We don’t know shit yet. You’re stabbing first, asking questions never, and that’s not right! its not right”

Jason shoved past him, leaning back over Hess with the knife again. “Shut up, Parker. You don’t know a goddamn thing about what is right and wrong.”

Jason took a deep breath, forcing himself to turn away from Peter, away from the judgment and disbelief in his eyes. His focus shifted to Hess, the man who still quivered in the chair, blood dripping from his arms and cheek. Jason’s voice dropped low, but deceitfully calm, stripping away the fire that had burned through him a second ago. “Where,” he said, “is it?”

Hess’s eyes widened, fear pulsing through him like electricity. “West of the border… over sixty klicks out… that’s all I know, I swear… I swear that’s all…” His voice cracked, and his hands shook as he tried to hold onto what little dignity he had left.

Jason’s gaze didn’t waver, and Hess’s shoulders quivered under the weight of it. Blood soaked the chair beneath him, spreading like a dark stain across the expensive fabric and wood. Jason’s jaw tensed, every muscle in his body coiled tight, but his anger felt tempered now by the need to focus, now that he had gotten what he had come for.

He finally nodded, slow, deliberate. “Alright,” he said quietly, looking back at Peter. “We’re leaving.” He spared one more glance at Hess, noting the small exhale of relief escaping the man’s lips. Hess slumped slightly, thinking he’d survived whatever storm had passed.

Peter didn’t wait for Jason to look back at him again. He strode toward the bathroom, grabbed towels, and returned in a rush, pressing them firmly to Hess’s arms. “Keep pressure on it” he ordered, his voice tight, urgent. Hess nodded, eyes wide, and obeyed. Peter straightened, and when his gaze shifted to Jason, it lingered. Not like he’d ever seen Jason before, but in that moment, he was looking at him as if he had no frame of reference, trying to process what he had just watched.

Jason met that stare head-on, sleeves now speckled with Hess’s blood, the knife still clutched in one hand. His expression didn’t soften. His chest rose and fell slowly as he let Peter take in the sight, let him digest whatever he was seeing in jason now.

Peter finally said, voice steady now, almost cutting through the room’s heavy tension. “Come on.” He started toward the elevator, eyes forward, trying to control his breathing. Jason followed, silent, letting the weight of his presence fill the space behind Peter.

In the elevator, Peter pressed the button for the ground floor, his hands gripping the rails on the elevator walls lightly. Jason’s eyes stayed fixed on the Hess, thinking about what needed to happen. And then, just as the doors began to slide closed, Jason’s voice broke the rhythm of the mechanical hum.

“We can’t let him go.”

Peter froze, turning slightly. “What?” His brow furrowed, confusion giving way to realization.

Jason’s hand shot out, flicking the knife with deadly precision through the still closing doors. Peter’s eyes went wide as the last thing they saw was the blade plunging into Hess’s throat. The man’s knees gave out almost immediately, collapsing as he struggled to catch his breath.

Peter screamed, hitting the button to reopen the doors, panic and horror laced in his voice. “No, no, no! Open the doors!”

Jason’s voice was low, flat, unmoving. “Stop. There’s nothing you can do.”

Peter’s hands flew up, trembling, face red, eyes watering as he yelled. “Nothing I can do? He’s bleeding out, Jason! You—he could’ve lived! You didn’t have to—”

Jason didn’t respond. watching Peter unravel a little more.

Peter swung a hand back in anger, frustration boiling over, and landed a punch right at Jason’s jaw. The impact cracked sharply, and Jason groaned, staggering back. His hand went to his jaw instinctively, feeling the shift, the dislocation. He could have dodged it; he’d seen it coming. The kid wasn't good at being subtle when he is emotional.

Jason forced his jaw back into place with a sharp groan, standing straighter, muscles coiling with anger. He looked at Peter, letting the silence stretch, letting the tension thrum between them like an open wire.

Peter’s chest heaved, fists clenched at his sides, still shaking from adrenaline and the surge of fear and fury. “You—you’re insane,” he spat out, voice cracking. “You can’t just… you can’t do this. You can’t just decide someone dies!”

Jason’s eyes narrowed, silent for a moment before he let a dry laugh escape. “You think I care what you call it? I don’t. I do what needs to be done. You think you’re in charge here? You’re nineteen.”

Peter took a shaky step closer, not backing down despite the blood on Jason’s sleeves, the aura of lethal intent surrounding him. “I’m not saying I know everything. I don’t. But this isn’t the way, Jason. You’re—you're—” He shook his head violently, searching for words. “You’re letting it turn into… something else. You can’t just go around cutting people up, someone will investigate this!”

Peter’s fists went up, trembling. “I’m not arguing morals! I’m saying there’s a line. You—god! You don’t get to just—” He swallowed, voice thick, shaking. “You don’t get to do whatever you want!” stepping back, hair falling into his eyes as he pressed his lips together, trying to breathe. “I… I don’t know what to do with you.”

The elevator dinged, doors sliding open smooth and silent. Jason stepped out first, sleeves still speckled with drying blood, he shoved his hands in his pockets to hide whatever he can from the eyes of security. Peter followed a half-step behind, shoulders stiff, eyes pinned on the ground like if he looked anywhere else, he’d throw up.

The lobby felt too bright, too ordinary after what just happened. The receptionist looked up as they crossed through, offering a polite smile Jason’s way. He forced one back. She didn’t look long enough to notice the stains on his shirt.

As soon as they were through the glass doors, the city air hit them, humid, full of traffic noise, life going on like nothing had happened upstairs. Jason dragged in a deep breath, but it did little to clear the tension out of his chest. He glanced at Peter. The kid looked pale, green around the edges, like he was still swallowing down bile.

Jason sighed. “You need to leave.”

Peter nodded once, sharp, not looking at him.

Jason shook his head, running a hand back through his hair. “It won’t be long before security goes up there. Finds Hess dead. We need to be gone before that happens.”

“Yeah,” Peter muttered, voice low, almost hollow. He finally exhaled a shaky breath. “We should… probably go back home. You shouldn’t be walking around with blood all over you.”

Jason glanced down at his sleeve, flexed his hand. Another sigh. “go to Natasha.”

Peter blinked, caught off guard, and looked up at him for the first time since they’d left the elevator. His gaze flicked to Jason’s jaw, where a bruise was already blooming dark under the skin. For a second, Peter’s face twisted—guilt, frustration—before it settled into something harder. He didn’t even try to hide it.

“Why? i thought you didn't want her involved,” Peter asked, wary.

Jason’s answer was flat, tired. “Because you and I probably shouldn’t work together. I got what I needed. I don’t need your help anymore.”

Peter’s brows knitted, his mouth pulling tight. “I’m not leaving you alone.”

Jason turned fully to face him, irritation sparking. “Why the hell would you want to stick around? After what you saw? After knowing what I’m willing to do?”

Peter’s lips parted, like he had something ready, but no words came.

Jason narrowed his eyes, voice dropping lower. “Even you said it. You don’t know what to do with me.”

That made Peter snap his mouth shut, jaw flexing hard as he ground his teeth together. His silence was louder than anything he could’ve said.

Jason shook his head, stepping back toward the street. “Go to Natasha. Or go home. I don’t care. Just… stay away from me. I'll get the others back.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Didn’t give Peter a chance to argue again. Jason shoved his hands in his pockets and disappeared into the stream of people, his shoulders swallowed up by the crowd until he was gone.

Chapter Text

Jason keeps his head down and walks fast, like the pavement might drop out from under him if he slows. People brush his shoulders, curse under their breath, a couple shove back when he bumps them, but he barely feels any of it. His nerves are shot raw, stretched thin enough that every sound ricochets inside his skull.

He keeps waiting for it.

For the footfalls of tactical boots behind him.

For the click of a safety being flicked off.

For someone to yell his name.

For Peter’s voice telling him the cops are coming.

Wouldn’t blame him. Hell, if Jason were Peter, he’d probably have done it already.

He drags a hand down his face, fingers trembling just slightly. Not from guilt. Not even from the fight. From the feeling that he’s exposed—like someone ripped his armor right off his skin and left him walking around naked in enemy territory. Every reflective surface he passes, storefront windows, car doors, he glances at. Not to check his appearance, but to make sure no one’s trailing him.

No red laser dot on his chest.

No shadow that doesn’t belong.

No sign of Stark’s people or SHIELD agents or whoever the hell runs this world.

He turns a corner too sharply and his shoulder clips a guy hard. The man snaps something annoyed, but Jason just mutters “sorry” and keeps walking. Doesn’t matter. None of these people matter. He got what he needed, where Bucky and the others are being kept. Sixty klicks west of the border.

At least he knows where to go.

Now he just has to figure out how the hell to get there without ending up dead before he even sees the place.

Weapons first. Not a pocket knife, not fists, not whatever improvisation he can scrap together. Actual weapons. Firepower. Rifles. Pistols. Ammo. Enough to not get flattened the second he’s spotted.

He angles into a more crowded street, eyes darting. Everyone looks like an enemy. Everyone looks like they’re staring at him, even when they aren’t.

His breathing hitches. He forces it level.

Think. Think, dammit.

He can’t walk around the city with a rifle strapped to his back. He needs a vehicle. Something he can move weapons in without being stopped. And a way to travel sixty klicks out without getting stopped that easily.

He rolls his shoulders, tension rippling through them like coiled wire. His jaw ticks. His fingers keep flexing open and closed at his sides, as if reaching for weapons that aren’t there.

If he had his old gear, shit maybe even some of his things that he had on him when he first showed up here, he’d already be halfway to the border, with shit ton less anxiety and concern. 

But nooooo, why the fuck would they give me my shit back when they barely even allow me out of the shit fuck tower?

“Okay,” he mutters under his breath, earning a weird look from a passing woman. He ignores her. Keeps moving. “Rifles. Pistols. Transport. Route. Then Bucky.”

He stops at a crosswalk, blinking against the too-bright lights. He feels sweat trickle down his back. Not from heat. From adrenaline that hasn’t had anywhere to go since he threw that knife.

He wipes his palms on his jeans and crosses the street with the crowd, keeping his head low. He blends well enough when he wants to.

His heart kicks hard in his chest as the thought hits him—

They could be watching him already.

They could be following him.

Had he been careful enough to not be spotted by cameras? Shit, did he accidentally look at one, and had his face spotted?

He picks up speed again.

He isn’t safe.

Not until he gets weapons.

Not until he gets a way out.

Not until he gets to Bucky.

And until then?

He keeps moving.

Because stopping means thinking, and thinking means spiraling, and spiraling gets people killed.

Ans yet he stops again, not fully, just enough that his stride stutters and his boot catches on uneven pavement. He wipes a shaky hand down his face, dragging the sweat across his cheek, grimacing at how disgusting he feels, before he forces his legs to keep moving. His head is buzzing too loud. Too many thoughts. Too many plans that fall apart the second he strings them together.

He could find a gang. Every city’s got them. Break into a stash house, raid their armory, take what he needs. But then he’ll have to steal a car big enough to hide what he takes. Drive it through the city streets without police or Fury’s men catching on. Stash the gear somewhere safe for hours until he’s ready to leave.

Too many steps. Too many ways to get caught. Too many places for everything to fall apart.

He could make a deal? Work with some gang, exchange favors? Maybe they let him borrow some rifles and a ride to the border?

Jason’s lip curls.

Yeah. Right. Like any gang is gonna give him weapons out of charity. And he’s got nothing to offer in return problems in his wake. No cash. No leverage. No turf. He’s a stranger here. An outsider. A liability.

His fists tighten at his sides as he clenches his jaw so hard it aches. He tries to force his brain to cooperate. Think. Think, goddammit. His pulse spikes. He can practically hear it in his ears. Bucky doesn’t have time for this. The others, Steve, Banner…Stark doesn’t have time.

“Think,” he mutters under his breath, breath shaky and uneven, pacing a few steps before forcing himself to stop and breathe again.

When he finally looks up, it’s not at a weapon store, not a car left running, not a shadowy alley offering something illegal, no.

It’s a poster.

Plain cheap print tacked onto the glass of the bus stop shelter. He doesn’t know why he walks toward it. Maybe the bold red heading caught his eye. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe desperation just dragged him by the throat.

He steps closer until he can read it.

MILITARY BASE – PUBLIC TOURS, DAILY AT 12:00 PM

For Future Recruits and Citizens Interested in National Defense

Jason stares at the words for a beat too long. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up. Then another for the meaning to actually settle in. His knees threaten to give out, a weak, disbelieving exhale falling from his chest as the backlash of adrenaline hits him square.

He forces himself to focus and scans the rest. Smaller text. Details. Restrictions. Times. Nothing he actually cares about, until he hits the address.

A military base… at the border.

He feels something almost like a laugh build in his throat, half hysterical, half relief, but it dies before it escapes. He doesn’t get moments like this. Nothing in his life falls together this cleanly. He actually looks away, looks back, as if expecting the address to change, to vanish, to reveal itself as something useless.

But it stays.

And military bases? They always have something. Helicopters. Trucks. Maybe even a jet he can hot-wire if he’s lucky and reckless enough. Guns. Ammo. A straight shot past civilian eyes.

It’s insane. Reckless. Suicidal.

It’s perfect.

His hands shake slightly, not from fear but from the sudden drop of pressure inside his chest, like his lungs finally remembered how to pull in air.

Then the reality slams into place.

He needs to get there. He needs to get there fast.

Jason tears his gaze from the poster and looks around, pulse still too fast. Bus stop. Right. He’s already at one. And it’s a long ride from here to the border. He’ll need to take at least three different lines, maybe four depending on how bad the transfers are. Could take two days, a day and a half at best to get from here to the border.

He swallows hard and runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back, trying to steady himself enough to think straight. His body still thrums with restless, frantic urgency, his foot tapping, his shoulders tight, his jaw clenching and unclenching—but there’s direction now. There’s a plan. A real one.

He steps into the bus shelter, the shade a small mercy from the glaring afternoon sun. The schedule posted beside him is faded, cracked from heat and age. He scans it quickly, tracing the lines with his finger as he mutters under his breath, stringing the route together.

He’ll have to ride all the way to the end of the line, cross over to a second route, take that north, then catch the express west toward the border. Hours. Too many hours, but it’s all he has.

He can feel it, the momentum returning. The panic easing into purpose. The world sharpening into something he can grip again.

This is the way.

This is how he gets there.

This is how he gets Bucky back.

He takes one last look at the poster, jaw set, then at the nearly empty street stretching ahead.

“Fine,” he mutters, stepping forward as the rumble of an approaching bus grows louder. “Long ride it is.”

He rolls his shoulders, straightens, and steps onto the bus the second the doors hiss open, mind already racing ahead to the next step.

Because he’s not stopping.

Not now.

Not until he gets him back.

__________________________________

He is underwater.

Or—

No.

He’s strapped to a chair.

Metal bites into his wrists. His breathing comes too fast, too shallow, like every inhale scrapes against glass. But everything is melting into everything else and he can’t tell if he’s drowning or burning or freezing or all three.

“Soldat.”

The voice crawls through his skull.

He flinches, he thinks he flinches, but he can’t feel his body enough to know. His legs are heavy. His arms are heavy. His head feels like it’s full of cement. He tries to lift it but gravity drags him back down.

“Mission report.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. No, open. No, they are open. Or maybe only one. The other feels glued shut.

Light flashes, white-hot, searing.

Then darkness like a curtain being ripped down.

His throat works around a sound that doesn’t make it out. He tries to form words, but they fall apart somewhere between his lungs and his tongue.

He hears something, boots? Footsteps?

Or gunfire?

Or the ocean?

Everything overlaps. One memory slams into another. He’s in the chair. He’s on a cold metal table. He’s in the snow with his arm gone. He’s falling. He’s screaming. No, someone else is screaming.

Maybe it’s him.

“Wipe him.”

The words echo through his skull like someone dropped marbles in it.

He jerks forward. Or maybe backward. Or maybe he only thinks he moves. The restraints dig into his skin, or metal. He can’t tell which arm is real right now.

He tries to breathe but nothing fills his lungs.

His heartbeat pounds in his ears, too loud, too slow, too fast.

A hand touches his shoulder, no, clamps it. No, drags him.

He can’t tell.

The pain crackles like electricity up his spine.

His jaw locks.

The lights flash again.

A different light, softer? Warmer?

A voice, gentle? Familiar?

He can’t hold onto it.

He tries to say a name but he only chokes on air.

“Успокойся, солдат.”

Calm down, Soldier.

His chest tightens.

His vision tunnels until there’s nothing but the outline of the man in front of him, no face, no features, just a silhouette burned into his brain from every nightmare.

He tries to swallow but forgets how.

“Mission report.”

He wants to tell them he doesn’t have one.

He wants to tell them to go to hell.

He wants to tell them—

Somewhere, metal grinds.

Somewhere else, someone screams.

Somewhere else, a voice he knows says his name—

He thinks it says his name.

He clings to it, reaching for it, but the sound slips through his fingers like water.

The restraints tighten.

Or he just feels them more.

His vision flickers.

White.

Black.

White.

Snow.

Fire.

A red star.

A hand reaching for him.

A voice shouting at him.

He can’t tell if it’s happening now or then or both.

His stomach lurches.

The chair tilts.

Or the room does.

Or his brain does.

He tastes blood in his mouth.

Or metal.

Or nothing.

His head hangs forward. He thinks he’s sweating. Or bleeding. Or crying. Or all of it.

Another flash of white-hot agony shoots through his skull so sharply he almost vomits.

He can’t tell if he screams.

The voice drills back in.

“You belong to us.”

His pulse stutters.

He tries to shake his head, does he? doesn’t he?, but the world sways anyway.

His eyes roll back.

He can’t stop it.

The world dissolves around him.

And the last thing he hears before the blackness finally drags him under is-

“Солдат…”

Soldier…

And God help him—

He almost answers.

__________________________

Jason hops off the bus just as it coughs a last puff of exhaust and pulls away, leaving him in a haze of dust that settles slowly across the barren ground. Beyond it, floodlights paint the front gates of the military base in harsh white, illuminating the checkpoint booth and the choke-point fencing. It’s five minutes before the “tour” is set to start, and a cluster of young men, all around his age, linger in a loose huddle nearby. They talk in low, eager voices, a mix of bravado and nerves. Most look like they’ve spent their whole lives imagining this place. Jason’s spent his whole life surviving places twice as bad.

he’s tired, barely ate anything the entire day and a half hes been traveling to get here. Had a snack given to him by an old lady a few towns over, and a hot dog, by a mother traveling with here brood of children, who were too picky to eat it.

god…he barely slept either, which he already regrets but there isn’t much he can do about it now.

He moves toward them, shoulders slouched just enough to blend in, gaze unfocused enough not to look threatening. As he approaches, one of the guys, tall, buzz cut, jittery foot tapping the dirt, glances over.

“Yo, you here for the tour thing too?” the buzz-cut guy asks.

Jason nods once. “Yeah. Figured I’d check it out.”

Another guy, broader, wearing a shirt too tight for his arms, grins. “Man, they better let us see the hand-to-hand demo. I’ve been training for it. Coach says my form’s getting tight.”

Jason huffs, amused. “What’s your background? MMA? Boxing?”

“Mostly Krav Maga,” the guy says, puffing a bit. “You train?”

“Here and there,” Jason replies casually. “Enough to know Krav’s good but… kinda predictable.”

That earns a round of laughter, all good-natured. The buzz-cut guy elbows him with a grin. “Damn, okay, mystery man. So what’s your specialty?”

Jason shrugs. “Not dying.”

The group breaks into louder laughter at that, assuming it’s a joke. Jason smiles faintly, letting them have it. They start rambling about which divisions they hope to see, which officers supposedly run the base, and crack a few jokes about military food.

The conversation vanishes when a shadow breaks away from the checkpoint booth.

A man steps forward, mid-40s, square jaw, shoulders like concrete pillars, uniform pressed so sharply it looks cut from steel. His boots strike the dirt with a crisp, rhythmic authority that kills every whisper. When he stops in front of the group, he speaks without raising his voice, but somehow the sound hits hard.

“Good evening,” he says, tone firm and clipped. “I’m Staff Sergeant Miller. I’ll be your guide this evening. You will follow my pace, you will follow my instructions, and you will not deviate from the cleared route. Is that understood?”

Everyone answers at once with a rushed, “Yes, sir!”

Miller nods once. “Good. You’re on an active base. That means every soldier here has a job to do and a standard to maintain. We train at all hours. We move with purpose. We keep our equipment maintained to the highest degree. If you see anyone running, it’s because something needs to be done fast. If you see anyone still, it’s because they’re doing something with their mind. You will not interfere with either.”

He turns sharply, motioning for them to follow. The cadence of his steps is rigid, mechanical, practiced over years of discipline.

Jason trails behind the group, eyes flicking everywhere, guard towers, crates, camo-netting over trucks, the long stretch of concrete leading deeper into the compound. His mind maps everything automatically. Escape routes. Blind spots. Timing.

Then he sees them.

Helicopters.

Several parked in an open landing zone, rotors inert except for one, blades slowly beginning to spin, the thrum building as the crew preps it for takeoff. Its lights blink rhythmically, casting long shadows.

Jason’s heartbeat shifts. Slows. Focus narrows.

He knows where he’s headed the second he gets his hands on weapons.

The sun is high and unforgiving by the time the military guide leads the group deeper into the base, his voice cutting through the heat with the precision of someone used to speaking over engines and gunfire. Jason keeps to the back of the pack, head slightly bowed, posture relaxed enough not to draw attention but tense enough that every muscle in his back feels like coiled wire.

The officer walks backward as he talks, one hand behind his back, the other gesturing sharply whenever he wants to emphasize a point.

“—this wing here houses our logistics operations. Everything that goes in or out of this base passes through that building. And ahead of us, to your left, you’ll see the barracks reserved for active duty personnel. No one enters without clearance…”

Jason nods along like the rest, eyes flicking between doors, exits, guard placements, blind spots. Every few seconds, his gaze jumps to the ceilings. Cameras. Always cameras. Some old dome models, some new thermal-capture ones. Hydra would have loved tech like this. The irony tastes bitter on his tongue.

“…and these red markers? They indicate sector changes. If you cross a red marker without appropriate ID, you trigger a sector alert. Keep that in mind. The MPs don’t play games here.”

Jason barely hears the last part. Because they turn a corner, and that’s when they pass it.

The armory.

A squat, reinforced structure tucked into the interior of the base like a bone protected by muscle. Four soldiers posted at the door, rifles locked to their chests, eyes hard, jaws tight with discipline. Above them, cameras angled downward. Another one at the far corner of the structure. Another behind them, watching the path.

Jason doesn’t even try to imagine forcing his way in. It’d be suicide. chaos he doesn’t have time for.

His eyes lower. A soldier’s gear. That’s manageable. Faster as well.

He turns away from the armory before he’s caught staring too long, swallowing the knot in his throat. The military guide keeps droning on about rank structure, chain of command, the expectations placed on soldiers who serve.

“We uphold discipline above all else,” the man says, his boots striking the pavement with hard, perfect rhythm.

Jason feels sweat gathering at the base of his neck, not just from the heat, but from the pressure building behind his eyes. Every minute he wastes here is another minute Bucky spends in whatever hell Hydra shoved him back into.

Move.

Think.

Do something.

He forces himself to breathe slowly. He needs the group to move farther. Needs a break in their formation. Needs—

There.

A narrow hallway branches off to the right. A maintenance corridor. No cameras at the entrance. Blind spot.

Jason drifts sideways with the casual ease of someone stepping out to take a phone call. No one looks. Not the officer. Not the kids excited about military life. They’re too wrapped up in the novelty of being allowed inside a place like this.

He steps into the hallway.

He walks quickly but not hurriedly, counting turns, memorizing paths, keeping the orientation of the base in his head. Each corner he rounds brings another surge of unease, like his body is urging him to sprint and hide at the same time.

He makes it almost thirty yards before someone steps into the hall from the opposite side.

A soldier. Fit. Alert. And already narrowing his eyes.

“Hey, what are you doing in this wing?”

Jason forces his shoulders to slump, adopts the sheepish, embarrassed expression he’s seen from clueless recruits before. He even throws in the faintest huff of a laugh.

“Sorry, man. Was trying to find the bathroom. Guess I took a wrong turn.” He nods back down the hallway. “Figured it couldn’t be that far.”

The soldier raises a brow, but his stance eases. Humor cracks lightly over his face.

“You guys always wander off during these tours.” He shakes his head and steps forward. “Come on. I’ll show you where it is. Ask next time. This base is a maze if you don’t know it.”

Jason follows. He doesn’t trust his voice to answer evenly.

The soldier leads him deeper through the corridor, boots echoing on the concrete. Jason’s mind latches onto the rhythm like a countdown. He keeps his breathing steady. Keeps his hands loose. Keeps checking corners and alcoves.

When they reach a restroom tucked between two storage rooms, the soldier pushes the door open for him.

“Here. Don’t get lost again, alright?”

Jason gives him a tight nod. “Yeah. Won’t happen again. Thanks.”

The moment the soldier turns his head, Jason moves.

His fist arcs up and crashes into the temple, hard enough to drop a man instantly but not kill him. The soldier goes limp before the pain even registers, collapsing forward. Jason catches him under the arms, lowering him to the tiles with controlled force.

He drags the body inside, shuts the door, locks it.

The room is small. Clean. Harsh fluorescent lighting washes everything in a sterile glow.

Jason works quickly.

He strips the pistol from the holster, a standard‑issue M17, slide matte black, polymer grip. He racks it once to check chamber, then pockets it. The magazines, three of them, go into the utility belt he unclips from the soldier’s waist. Next, the rifle, an M4A1, safety on, loaded. Two spare mags strapped to the vest.

He pulls the uniform free, tactical shirt, fatigues, boots, vest. The soldier is roughly his size. Lucky break. 

He changes fast, Sweat forms at his temples as he fits the vest snug against his torso. He checks his reflection in the mirror.

A soldier looks back at him.

He kneels, checks the soldier’s pulse. Strong. Unconscious. He positions him carefully behind the stall divider, out of immediate sight. Leaves him breathing, stable.

Jason stands, wipes his palms down the front of the uniform, and straightens.

He has weapons.

He has cover.

He has a path forward.

Now he just needs to get to a helicopter.

And then, Bucky. Bucky first. Everything else after.

He unlocks the door, steps back into the hallway, and walks with the steady, measured stride of someone who belongs here.

Jason keeps the soldier’s uniform collar high on his neck as he moves, the stiff fabric scratching faintly at his jaw each time he turns his head. It’s the only reminder he lets himself feel. Everything else, fear, doubt, second-guessing, gets shoved behind that wall he built for moments exactly like this.

The base tour group is long gone now, swallowed somewhere behind concrete walls. Good. He doesn’t need the distraction anymore. What he needs sits on the other side of the courtyard, four UH-60 transports, matte paint, angled rotors casting long shadows in the late afternoon sun. Soldiers move around them in steady patterns, maintenance crews, refuelers, pilots walking in and out of the operations building.

Get in. Get it started. Get in the air. That’s it.

He doesn’t think about how insane it is. Doesn’t have time.

Keeping the rifle slung over his shoulder helps. Everyone here has one. He moves with the purpose of someone given a task.

A small group of soldiers cross the walkway ahead of him, laughing about something he doesn’t care to know. He keeps his eyes ahead, posture straight, gait even. They barely flick a glance at him. Good. He slips behind a fueling truck as it rolls by, letting it hide him for two long seconds before stepping out again and angling toward the helicopters.

He picks the second helicopter in the row. The closest one is too visible, too many people around. The farthest one is too isolated, anyone approaching it will stand out. But the second, two mechanics on the opposite side, no one looking at the cockpit right now. Perfect.

He circles wide around to approach from the left, careful not to hurry. His pulse stays steady, almost slow. 

He reaches the open side door to the cockpit and slips inside smoothly, lowering himself into the left pilot seat.

The interior smells like hot metal, grease, and the faint trace of aviation fuel. He’s sat in a helicopter before, not this model, not exactly, but the controls aren’t foreign. Throttle, collective, cyclic. Digital systems instead of analog, but muscle memory fills in what it can.

Just get it running. Enough to lift. Enough to go. Bucky’s waiting. 

His fingers glide over switches, flicking through systems. Battery on. Fuel pumps. APU. He keeps the door pulled only partially shut to muffle the noise but not fully close it yet. He hears footsteps somewhere behind him, distant, not approaching.

The engine begins its slow, whining rise.

Good.

He’s almost at the point of engaging the engines fully when a voice barks from outside.

“HEY! You’re not on the flight roster, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Jason doesn’t look. He reaches for the starter switch.

Boots hit the deck fast behind him. Another voice joins the first.

“Soldier, step out of the aircraft right now!”

He flicks the switch.

The rotor system starts moving, slow at first, blades groaning as they begin to spin. That’s when the shouting escalates.

“BACK AWAY FROM THE CONTROLS!”

“GET OUT OF THE PILOT SEAT!”

Footsteps multiply. Shadows shift across the glass. He keeps his hands on the collective and cyclic, adjusting by instinct.

Someone grabs the edge of the cockpit door, yanking it open fully.

A soldier appears, face flushed, eyes wide. “What the hell are you—”

Jason drives his elbow backward, straight into the man’s sternum. The soldier folds, breath gone, and Jason pushes him out the door with one shove. He slaps the latch down, locking it.

Shouts explode outside.

“WEAPON UP, NOW!”

“HE’S STEALING IT, HE’S STEALING THE BIRD!”

He feels the helicopter shudder as someone grabs the skid outside trying to climb. Jason’s jaw clenches once. He doesn’t have time for them.

He slams the throttle forward.

The rotors accelerate, the vibration rising through the metal frame, rumbling through his boots and up along his spine. The helicopter begins to lift, slow, heavy, hesitant. It’s not ready to take off yet. It needs another thirty seconds.

He doesn’t have thirty seconds.

Glass cracks beside him as the first rifle shot hits the cockpit. A spiderweb blooms across the panel. Then another. Then three more. They’re firing to disable, not kill, at least not yet. They want him alive enough to court-martial.

He leans over instinctively as a bullet punches through the top of the cockpit and sends metal flaking down.

Come on. Come on. MOVE.

He forces the collective upward. The UH-60 lurches, nose dipping, then steadies as more power floods the rotors. The wheels lift half a foot off the ground.

Someone leaps and grabs the landing skid. The weight pulls the helicopter sideways.

Jason growls under his breath, grabs his rifle with his left hand, shoves the muzzle out the small emergency window, and fires one clean burst. The soldier drops off instantly. Jason throws the rifle aside and grips the controls again.

More rounds smash into the body of the helicopter, thuds, cracks, a harsh metallic ringing. One hits the glass beside his face, sending shards scattering across his shoulder. He doesn’t flinch.

The bird rises another foot. Then two. Then four.

“BRING IT DOWN!” someone screams from below. “SHOOT THE ROTORS!”

Jason doesn’t slow. If they hit a rotor, he’ll fall out of the sky, but stopping is worse.

He pushes the cyclic forward and up, hard, too hard, but he compensates quickly. The helicopter tilts nose-forward, climbs faster now, the wind beginning to scream around the frame.

Soldiers scramble away below as the wash from the rotors kicks up dust and debris across the tarmac.

A burst of gunfire pelts the underside of the bird. Jason feels the rattle through the pedals, but nothing critical gives out.

The UH-60 clears the ground by fifteen feet.

Then twenty.

Then thirty.

Shots still pepper it from below, but the angle is worsening for them. Someone fires a longer burst, Jason guesses a squad automatic weapon, but the rounds only chew into the tail laminate.

He keeps pulling higher.

The base shrinks beneath him. Soldiers scatter. An alarm finally begins blaring across the compound, late, but loud.

He gets the helicopter up past the hangar height, the wind hitting harder now, sweeping dust off the front windshield.

Breathing steady.

Hands steady.

Eyes locked ahead.

The second he clears the outer perimeter, he turns the bird sharply west, toward the border, toward Hydra’s hidden base, toward Bucky.

_____________________________

The rotors chopped through the air in a steady, brutal rhythm that vibrated straight through Jason’s spine. He kept his hands tight on the cyclic and collective, elbows braced against the seat just enough to keep the machine leveled. The horizon blurred in a hard line of sand and dead terrain, the sun punching into the cockpit glass with a glare he ignored by pure will.

Almost there.

That was all that mattered.

He’d been flying for maybe twenty minutes, maybe thirty, his sense of time wasn’t great when he was locked this deep into mission mode. Everything narrowed into straight lines and simple equations, fuel, direction, altitude, wind, distance. All the noise in his head, all the guilt and the panic and the shit he’d done, it was shoved down so deep his chest felt physically tight from how hard he was holding it together.

He didn’t even let himself think about Peter.

Didn’t let himself replay the look Peter gave him before he walked off.

Didn’t think about the bruise on his jaw or the knife he threw.

The desert opened under him in endless sheets of nothing. Perfect for hidden base. Perfect for getting shot out of the sky, too.

He adjusted the yaw a little, tried to squeeze one more knot of speed out of the machine—

Then a high, sharp beep cut through the cockpit.

Jason froze.

The radar lit up on the small panel, a cluster of blips forming behind him.

“Already…?” he muttered under his breath, jaw grinding.

Another beep. The nearest blip grew larger, closing distance fast.

Then the radio crackled, loud enough to make him flinch.

“UNIDENTIFIED HELICOPTER, THIS IS U.S. MILITARY CALLSIGN TANGO-3. YOU ARE IN RESTRICTED AIRSPACE. RESPOND IMMEDIATELY.”

Jason stared at the radio.

He didn’t respond.

For a second he hoped, stupidly, that maybe they’d lose him, maybe the desert glare was messing with their sensors, maybe—

“UNIDENTIFIED HELICOPTER, REPEAT. THIS IS TANGO-3. RESPOND OR WE WILL ESCORT YOU BACK TO BASE.”

The radar beeped again. This time three more blips appeared. He looked over his shoulder through the glass.

Shit.

Three helicopters in a loose pursuit formation. Black, wide-bodied, faster than the old bird he was flying. The lead chopper’s nose angled slightly down, telling Jason they were descending to tighten the gap.

“Of course,” Jason muttered quietly. “Of course they’d send a whole damn air wing.”

He reached for the radio. Hesitated. His fingers hovered over the switch.

He could lie. He could ignore them. He could run.

Running was all he fucking knew.

But a missile would end him before he even saw it coming.

He breathed out once, sharp.

Then flicked the comms on.

The radio hissed for a heartbeat before he forced his voice out. He made it steady. Flat. Controlled.

“—This is—” Shit, he needed a name. “—Echo-One. Emergency situation. I’m requesting airspace to continue my route.”

There was silence.

Then—

“Echo-One, that call sign is not registered. State your rank and name.”

Jason swallowed.

“…Negative. Classified.” He aimed for official cadence but knew he probably sounded like a stressed college kid trying to play soldier. “I’m on a rescue op. Not hostile. Just need this airspace cleared.”

A beat.

A confused, irritated beat.

Then—

“Echo-One, that is not how this works. You are flying a stolen UH-60 and have already evaded military personnel. Immediately adjust course to coordinates—” They rattled off a set. “—and prepare to land. Failure to comply will be treated as hostile intent.”

Jason’s grip on the cyclic tightened, tendons in his wrist standing out.

He forced his voice low.

“I can’t land. People might die”

More silence.

Then the lead helicopter angled closer. Jason could now see the pilots through the glass—helmets, visors, heads turned toward him.

The radio snapped again.

“Echo-One, clarify your mission. Who authorized your rescue?”

“No one.”

“…Repeat.”

“No one authorized it,” Jason said, calm to the point of cold. “I authorized it.”

The line went dead silent.

Jason kept his eyes straight ahead. He could feel sweat collecting under the collar of the stolen uniform, the bulletproof vest pressing tight against his ribs every time he breathed.

Finally:

“Echo-One… you have approximately ten seconds to give us a name, an organization, or a valid reason to stand down.”

Jason’s pulse thudded once, hard.

There was no winning this dialogue.

But he tried anyway.

“I’m going after a Hydra facility.”

That gave them pause.

A long one.

Then—

“Echo-One, that is not a recognized military op. Provide proof.”

“If I had proof I’d fucking send it.” Jason shook his head, eyes locked on the horizon. “Look, you wanna believe me? Don’t believe me? Fine. Doesn’t matter. I’m going either way.”

“Echo-One, if you continue forward, we will assume lethal intent. Adjust course. Now.”

Jason’s lips pressed into a thin, sharp line.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone. I’m not attacking you. I just need to get someone back.”

“Echo-One—”

Jason clicked the comms off.

The cockpit went instantly quiet except for the heavy thumping of the rotors. His heart pounded so hard it felt like it shook the seat with each beat.

He didn’t waste time regretting the call.

He pushed the collective up, rising sharply, gaining altitude to give himself at least some defensive distance.

Behind him, all three choppers reacted immediately, rising too.

The radar screamed.

He risked one glance back.

Three black silhouettes. Getting closer. Fanning out like wolves.

“Don’t do this,” Jason murmured under his breath. “Don’t fucking do this.”

The radio clicked back on by force — they overrode his manual shutoff.

“UNIDENTIFIED HELICOPTER, FINAL WARNING. LAND IMMEDIATELY.”

Jason clicked the comms on again, voice flat.

“Can’t do that.”

“THEN WE ARE CLEAR TO ENGAGE.”

Jason tightened his hands on the controls, but his voice didn’t even shake.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I figured.”

The first shot wasn’t a missile, thank god. It was a light burst of gunfire, meant to warn, to scare him into landing.

The rounds cracked past the tail of his helicopter, punching holes through the air with vicious snaps.

He dropped altitude sharply, pulling the machine into a fast dip that nearly slammed his skull against the window. The desert rushed up toward him and he leveled out at the last second, skimming low to the ground in a way no manual ever would’ve recommended.

The radio exploded with angry comms.

“ECHO-ONE, YOU ARE FIRING RANGE. CEASE EVASIVE MANEUVERS.”

Jason snarled under his breath.

“You shoot at me and I’m the problem?”

He cut the radio again.

Gunfire followed, closer this time, sharper, ripping through the air beside him. One round clipped metal near the tail boom. The helicopter lurched, stuttered, then righted when Jason wrenched the cyclic back into place.

He kept flying.

The military formation tightened behind him. He could hear one helicopter’s rotors over his own, close enough to drown each other out.

Jason checked his fuel, checked his distance, checked the terrain ahead. Hydra’s base was still far out, too far to walk if they shot him down. Too far to crawl. Too far to die short.

He breathed once. Steady.

“Not today.”

He shoved the helicopter into a banking turn so sharp the entire frame groaned. Sand exploded up from the ground as the chopper skimmed dangerously low. The helicopters behind him pulled hard to adjust trajectory, the line breaking formation for a split second.

He used that split second.

Pushing speed. Forcing the gap open.

Jason’s jaw locked so hard his teeth ached and his healing bruised jaw stung with renewed pain.

Bullets shredded across the side plating. One punched through the floor near his left boot and he jerked it back instinctively.

He pushed the machine to its absolute limit, the engine whining in protest, every warning light starting to flash like a damn Christmas tree.

The desert blurred beneath him in long streaks of gold and beige.

Behind him, the helicopters kept coming.

He checked the coordinates he’d written on his palm, the ones Hess had choked out.

West of the border. Over sixty klicks.

Jason glanced at the measurement on his display.

Only a few left.

Could he outrun them for another few?

Didn’t matter.

He had to.

Then, the distinctive whoosh of a missile launch reached him even over the rotor noise.

Jason didn’t think.

Didn’t have time to.

He yanked the helicopter into a violent right roll, nearly flipping it sideways. The missile streaked past him, detonating in a white blast of sand and shockwave that rocked his helicopter so hard his teeth clacked together.

His ears rang.

His vision flickered—

But his hands stayed steady.

The helicopter didn’t fall.

Jason didn’t fall.

He leveled the machine, panting through clenched teeth, and pushed it harder.

The military choppers regrouped behind him.

Jason kept flying.

And flying.

And flying.

He didn’t look back again.

He didn’t need to.

They’d come.

They’d keep coming.

They’d try to stop him.

He didn’t give a shit.

He was getting to Bucky.

Or he was dying on the way.

Jason watches the digital readout ticking down on the nav screen, 3 minutes from the portal site, maybe less with the wind behind him. The military birds behind him are getting bolder, closing in tighter, engines howling through the air like metal predators.

He’s given them every chance.

They didn’t take any.

Time’s up.

Jason shifts his grip, one hand steady on the cyclic, the other moving to the weapons console on his right, a rectangular panel with physical switches and small green LCD indicators. This model is old enough to still use hard toggles instead of touchscreen menus. Good. Less chance of missing something in the chaos.

Rows of guarded switches blink in standby

MASTER ARM – SAFE

MISSILE SELECT – OFF

RKT SYS – OFF

He flips the plastic guard up with his thumb and hits the MASTER ARM switch.

A sharp beep fills the cabin.

The light turns red.

“Alright,” he mutters under his breath, cold and focused. “Let’s do this.”

He toggles MISSILE SELECT. The screen beside it flickers and shows two available pods, left and right, each with a pair of guided missiles. Not many, but enough.

He reaches the small targeting control pad with his thumb, switching the seeker mode from HOLD to ACTIVE. Another short beep confirms the lock-on system is awake.

Behind him, one of the pursuing helicopters tries the loudspeaker again:

“UNKNOWN PILOT — LAST WARNING! REDUCE SPEED AND DESCEND OR WE WILL—”

Jason cuts them off by pulling the cyclic to the left and pushing the anti-torque pedal hard.

The helicopter snaps into a sharp spin.

He doesn’t fight the rotation.

He uses it.

The nose swings around — now he’s facing the pursuing birds.

Reverse flight.

Dangerous, unstable.

But he’s done worse with worse vehicles.

a part of him flashes images of himself driving the Batmobile whenever he was allowed it, how happy and giddy and on top of the world he would feel in these moments. He quickly pushes them back and  snaps a hand up to palm at the bruise on his jaw, the pain bringing him back to the present.

He adds power to the collective, letting the helicopter drift backward, blades biting into the air with a deep, shuddering roar. Alarms chirp at him in protest, but he forces the machine into compliance, fighting just enough to keep it steady.

On the radar screen, three signatures tighten formation.

Good.

Come closer.

The closest chopper opens fire first, short, warning bursts, tracer rounds cutting the air above his rotors.

Jason taps the targeting control. The seeker locks with a sharp tone.

[LOCK ACQUIRED]

He squeezes the trigger on the cyclic.

The missile drops from the pod, ignites, and streaks forward in a clean arc.

The pursuing helicopter swerves, but it’s too slow.

It hits.

A flash, a metallic bloom of debris, then fire spiraling down toward the desert.

The radio explodes with shouting:

“HE’S ENGAGING—!”

“Take him down, take him down!”

“Bird Two, break right!”

Jason ignores them.

Another tone.

Another lock.

He fires again.

The second helicopter tries to dive beneath the missile, but the seeker adjusts mid-flight. It slams into the tail boom. The rotor assembly shears clean off; the craft spins wildly, coughing smoke as it crashes out of view.

Only one more.

And this one is smarter.

It breaks formation immediately and climbs, pushing above his angle of fire.

For a second, they both drift in opposite arcs, predator and prey shifting roles by the second.

Jason pulls the nose down a fraction, then cuts the throttle just enough to let his helicopter drop, sinking lower in the air. The pursuing craft follows instinctively, keeping him framed.

Good.

Come closer.

Jason flips the switch from MISSILE to ROCKETS, unguided, but effective at close range. The console confirms

RKT SYS – ARMED

As they level out, the last helicopter unleashes a burst of machine-gun fire. Rounds stitch across the desert, kicking up lines of dirt.

Jason banks hard left, then pulls back into reverse flight again, nose almost perfectly aligned.

He doesn’t need a lock for these.

He squeezes the trigger.

A rapid-fire stream of rockets spits from the pods, streaking toward the advancing helicopter in a wide scatter.

Three miss.

One clips the landing skid.

The next hits the engine housing dead on.

The aircraft jolts mid-air, flame shooting out its left side before the explosion tears it apart.

Debris tumbles downward, spinning in broken arcs across the horizon.