Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

1976

The agent blended perfectly with shadow, sticking close to the sides of the building, his near-perfect memory effortlessly recalling security blind spots. He did not make a sound as he moved forward. The dim moonlight made it easy to see, but his keen night-vision didn’t hurt either. 

When the agent found his target, a large window looking into the second-floor of the mansion, he immediately began calculating how best to reach it. He could scale the wall easily enough, but hanging from the windowsill didn’t provide much cover, and would leave him woefully incapable of defending against an attack. He could try to enter the room, but hiding in plain sight required far more finesse than this particular agent was capable of—he’d been informed of this on multiple occasions. 

And then, the agent realized he’d missed a perfectly good solution: a large oak tree, planted very close to the building, with a branch elongated elegantly near the very window he needed to see into. Mind made up, the agent scaled the tree quickly, the rustling of leaves and branches covered up by the wind. He eased himself onto the branch, carefully inching forward before he lowered himself onto his stomach so he could get a good view inside. He used some of the straps tied to his belt to secure himself to the branch. 

Inside there was a six-year-old boy blissfully asleep, none-the-wiser to the silent watcher outside. The agent had to resist a snort, as it seemed this would be a very boring mission indeed. Intel gathering was an unfortunate but necessary aspect to an extraction of this caliber. But its necessity didn’t make the work any more stimulating. The agent reached for a cigarette. Not necessarily allowed for this type of work, but it’s not like his superiors were around to see it. And he hadn’t been explicitly ordered not to smoke. He tried to express his little freedoms whenever he could. 

He tried to use his lighter a few times, but the wind was too high for it to catch. With a sigh, he put the lighter away again. Nobody was around to see a small indiscretion, really. He could make his life just a little easier, just this once. 

He blew on the end of his cigarette lightly, a small flame bursting to life from his lips. It caught, and the heavy drag of smoke he inhaled was absolutely worth the discomfort in his throat that accompanied the use of his ability. 

The quiet night was still around the two figures, one not knowing of the other. 

That didn't last long, however. 

"Sir?" The boy said. The agent froze and realized he'd allowed himself to lose focus on his target. He was in deep shit now. "Was that a fire?" The boy didn't sound frightened, but actually rather amazed. He had moved from his bed to the window, leaning on the edge. He must have opened it when the agent had allowed his attention to drift.

The agent took a deep breath, doing his best to calm his nerves. A sighting from a child was not the end of the world, or the ruination of a mission, if you were able to spin it the right way. As long as he was creative, his superiors would never need to know about his fuck up.

“Yes,” he said, carefully untying himself from the tree so that he could sit up straight, attempting to make himself larger, more ethereal. “Would you like to see more?” He leaned forward in mock earnest. 

“Yes please!” the young boy cried, eyes alight with wonder and excitement. Got him.

The agent complied with a smirk, taking a deep breath before carefully exhaling another bout of flames. He hadn’t perfected his control yet, but he knew a trick or two he could manage. A bright ring of flames lit up the air around them, twirling and spinning in the air. His nostrils burned, but it would be worth it if he could convince the child this was just a fantastical dream. 

“Are you a dragon?” the buy whispered, shaking so wildly the agent worried he might hop straight out of the window. 

“Yes,” the agent said, allowing his smile to widen, revealing his razor sharp, ivory white canines. 

“Why are you here?” the boy asked, barely resisting the urge to reach forward feel the heat of the fire, to prove to himself that this was really happening. 

The agent had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. He’d never been fond of children, with their endless questions and incessant why why why. But he needed the boy to go back to sleep. 

“You are a very special boy, Anthony,” the agent purred, urging the flame to twist itself into a shining star. He watched as a spark flew toward the boy, hitting his hand, but assumed it must have missed. The child didn’t even flinch. “You are going to do miraculous things.” 

“Are you here to take me to some magic school? Or a special training? Because I’d have to ask my mom before going. She says school is important, but I know she’d be worried if I just left without saying anything.” The boy seemed nervous now, and the agent had to prevent himself from snapping at him. Of course the child would have to complicate things, of course he would try to blow his cover. He’d been informed the brat was too smart for his own good, that was why they wanted him. 

“No, I’m not here to take you,” the agent said carefully, hoping to avoid scaring the child. “Just to monitor your progress.” 

“Oh,” the child said, blinking his wide, chocolate-brown eyes. “Am I doing well?”

“Very well,” said the agent. “But now it is time for you to go back to sleep. We both want you to grow big and strong, don’t we?” 

The boy stared at him for a long moment, eyes wide, as if calculating just how much of this he believed. The agent hoped that his ruse had been effective enough.

Slowly, after far too long, the boy nodded. “Okay,” he said. “That makes sense. Good night mister dragon. Be careful flying home.” 

The agent stifled a laugh—he could not fly, that was not an ability that had been forced upon him—but he nodded. “Sweet dreams, Anthony. Maybe I’ll see you again, someday.” 

The boy smiled, shut his window, and tucked himself back into bed.

The agent waited a bit, waiting until he saw the steady rise and fall of the child’s chest before easing himself further from the window, safely out of sight behind a cascade of leaves. He was not permitted to leave before morning, but remaining too close would be foolish at this point. He needed this evening to pass as if it were just a silly, childish dream. Being seen again would not help with that.

The agent sighed. This would be a problematic report to deliver. He only hoped he wouldn’t be sent back to the lab for his failures. 

1978

Tony is eight years old, and the strange dream he’d had of a dragon vanished quickly from his mind. For a short time, he’d been convinced it was real: he’d even had a small burn on his hand to prove it! But when he’d shown his mom, she’d only shook her head and muttered about how she’d told his father that Anthony was too young for the workshop, it was far too dangerous for such a young boy. His insistence had been dismissed as childish fantasies, and eventually Tony forced himself to forget the whole thing. If it was real, he told himself, he’d see the dragon again. But that had never happened. 

But while his fantasies were childish, his daily activities were anything but. He was a scientist, according to his father, and an engineer. His role in this world was to confront reality and make fascinating new discoveries, not lose himself in ridiculous fantasies of strange creatures. 

Tony loved working with his father. His father was often sad, drinking his bourbon and getting louder and sadder. His mother insisted that it was perfectly normal, that he’d understand when he was older, but Tony wanted to understand now more than anything. Why would his father drink something that only brought him more pain? 

But in the workshop, Tony’s father was happy. At least, he was happier than otherwise. And he never drinks, not even a drop. While he’s not exactly kind to Tony, he isn’t angry, and that’s close enough. He is usually very patient, and a very good teacher, just as eager to show Tony how to do incredible things as Tony is to learn. 

Tony wished he could have his “workshop dad” all the time. 

But none of that really mattered at the moment, because Tony knew that he had to focus on the wiring before him. Someone his father knew had come to see the skilled child at work, and Tony was eager to please whoever was watching him. The man was silly, wearing a fitted suit, rarely smiling. He made idle comments, asking Tony about school (I'm homeschooled, my tutor is really nice) and the things he likes to do (I like to build, but I also like my music lessons. Mom likes when I play.) Tony liked the man, despite his intimidating appearance. He asked lots of questions and seemed to really like his answers.

“He’s rather impressive, isn’t he?” his dad said to the man, nudging his arm. “I know SHIELD is interested in him.” 

“He’s very young,” the man replied coolly. 

“He has potential,” his dad said. 

“Tony, why don’t you go play so that your father and I can chat?” The man said to Tony, leaning down to meet Tony’s eyes. 

Tony just nodded, and ran to the garden.

They had a very lovely garden at the manor house, his mother was very proud of it (and the gardeners she paid to design it for her.) In fact, his mother was there, tending the garden herself. She had hired help, but she always insisted on doing little things to keep it beautiful. She always said “lovely things take work, Anthony. You can’t just pass it all off to someone else.” Tony liked the garden, but he did not enjoy all the work it took to maintain. Sometimes his mom would ask him to help pull weeds or water the flowers, and he would, because he was a nice boy, but he hated it all the same.

Today, however, he was riding on the high of a good job. What better way to continue that than get even more praise for being helpful outside?

He giggled and ran over to his mother, waving and tripping over grass that seemed like it needed mowing. His mother wouldn’t do that, though. That sort of work was for the landscapers.

"Oh, Tony!" His mother smiled as soon as she saw him, beckoning him closer. "I was just about to take a break. Come, sit with me, right here!" Tony plopped onto the grass beside her, pulling a face when she kissed his cheek. "Oh, don't pull that mister. You're not too old for me yet." 

Tony smiled, rubbing at the kiss. "Mommm, your lipstick gets on my face!"

"I just want to share the color with my baby boy!" She said, eyes alight with amusement.

All was right in the world. The sun was shining, there were birds flitting about in the trees above. There was a nice, light breeze that meant the air was cool rather than oppressively warm. The adults were all very happy and proud of him, and his mother’s flowers smelled incredible this time of the year.

It was all very sudden, when the world fell apart. There was a loud, booming crash from the other side of the hedge. Tony felt his mother tense beside him. 

“Mom…?” 

“Stay right here, my love. Don’t move.” Maria stood up slowly, gingerly approaching the tall hedges, pressing in close to the plants to try and see through. 

A moment later, she was stumbling back, face drained of color, a perfect portrait of horror. 

“Mom, what is it?” Tony asked, stomach churning. He wouldn’t admit his fear aloud, wanted to be brave, but he couldn’t keep the trepidation from his voice. 

“We have to leave,” his mom replied, voice shaking. “Right now. Come on, come on.” She had a hand pressed to his back, leading him out of the garden, taking a brisk pace toward the back of the house. They weaved between various plants and structures, and Tony struggled to keep up with his mother’s long strides. He watched as his mother seemed to slowly crumble, her face contorting with body-wracking sobs within seconds as desperation clawed at her heart. They were enclosed here, in the garden. The only way to safety would be to go toward the house, but she wasn’t sure if there were more attackers there.

She didn’t know where to go, what to do.

“Tony…” a voice called, a sweet sing-song that urged him closer to the source. Tony tried to turn his neck, to look and see who was calling—maybe one of his fathers guards? Or even Jarvis, though the voice wasn’t quite right—but his mother screamed, lifting him into her arms with a strength she didn’t normally possess. He expected her to slow a bit, but she seemed to run even faster now, with fierce determination to reach the house. 

“Maria!” The man from before, who was watching him in the workshop, ran out from the house, coming straight for them. “Maria, I’ve already called for support but they need time to arrive. We need to get you all away from—”

But before he could finish, there was a world-shattering BANG that rattled the teeth in Tony’s skull. The man ducked low, and the brickwork where his head used to be exploded in a brilliant display of dust and debris.

“Shit,” he mumbled, fumbling for his gun. “Are you armed?” 

“Of course. I’m married to Howard Stark for Christ’s sake,” his mother snapped, gripping Tony even tighter. He almost couldn’t breathe from the pressure. 

“Come on, then, let’s go, I’ve got a car around back.” Maria began to run after him, Tony holding onto her neatly-pressed silk shirt as if his life depended on it. 

“Honey, don’t look, okay? Close your eyes for mommy.” He did as he was told, moaning with fear as he did. “Good. Good. Now I need you to try and cover your ears—yes, that’s right, cover your ears as tight as you can.” 

Tony forced himself to release the fabric, leaning forward so he was further braced against his mom. He felt his mom stop for just a moment, before a slightly muffled bang jerked him so badly he almost fell away. But soon enough they were moving again, more loud shots sounding in their wake. 

Tony tried to convince himself the quiet scream he’d heard was just a part of the ringing in his ears. 

Soon enough, Tony uncovered his eyes, trying to look and see where they were. The man had run ahead, shouting something to his mother that Tony’s confused, young mind couldn’t process. They were close to the front drive, but there was nothing around for miles, and still a wall of hedges and a gate to get through to escape. The man was climbing up the gate, and his mom was setting him carefully on the ground.

“Your father’s friends are coming to help us, darling, but right now I need you to hide, okay?” Tony nodded, eyes welling up with tears. “Don’t cry, don’t cry. Nothing is going to happen to you. You see those hedges over there? I need you to crawl deep, deep in, and stay perfectly still, and perfectly quiet. Can you do that for me?”

“Where will you go?” Tony sobbed, his little face reddening. Why was his mother abandoning him like this? “Mommy, please, I’m scared!” His voice was rising, a shrill sound of terror and desperation. 

Tony never called his mother ‘mommy’, and he never admitted when he was scared. But this was not a simple monster in the closet or nightmare needing to be soothed. This was his entire world being destroyed in an instant.

“Sh, sh… I'll be right over there, okay? We can't be together right now, the bad guys will find us. I'll come get you as soon as it's all over. Don't you worry, I'll be right back to get you. A man will come, a friend of your father’s. Go with him, or me. Nobody else. Okay? Don't even speak to anyone else." 

"What man?" Tony said, tears in his eyes. He was so confused, everything was moving so fast.

"He's got an eye patch, like a pirate. His name is Nick Fury. Do not go with anyone else, okay?" Tony nodded again, his mom looked over her shoulder again. "Go, hide. Now. I love you, baby." 

If Tony could speak, he would have told her he loved her too. Instead, he nodded again, like a felt puppet from his toy box. He scurried to the hedges and tried to entangle himself among the branches and leaves as quickly as possible without damaging them. By the time he settled himself in a thick tangle of plantlife, he heard heavy footsteps approaching. They’d wound up in the yard, similar to a park clearing. There was a box of hedges surrounding rich green grass, which held a few benches and a gazebo where he would tinker while his mom read a book. He always used to wish he had a dog to play with there. 

"Anthony," the intruder drawled, the word pulled out and infused with a forceful kind of sweetness that made Tony's stomach churn. "You remember me, don't you?" He spun slowly, eyes scanning the entire yard for movement. It was a dead end, Tony knew. The man wouldn't just leave. "We’ve met, you know." 

Tony couldn't look away as the man cackled and breathed fire at the gazebo. The structure immediately caught, its paint peeling and wood crumbling within seconds. It was the dragon, the one from his dream. At least, everyone told him it was a dream, but it very clearly was not because the dragon was right here. 

“We don’t wanna hurt you, little man,” the dragon said, eyes locking onto the hedge where Tony hid. But he didn’t approach. “Just wanna show you just how special you can be.” 

Tony couldn’t look away, his eyes locked on the figure. He looked different from last time—he had to strain his eyes, but Tony swore that his skin was different. Dryer, rougher. Almost scaly. The skin around his mouth and nose was scarred and taut, like it had been ruined and healed over and over. He was so focused on the man in front of him, he didn’t realize there was another person creeping up behind him.

He did notice, however, when the figure’s hands latched around his shoulders, dragging him painfully from his hiding place. Tony screamed, kicking out and trying to hold branches as he was dragged backward. The branches scraped and scratched him, but the person taking him didn’t seem to register his pain. 

Once he was removed from the hedge, the one who’d taken him began to drag him closer to the dragon. 

Tony screamed louder, sobbing freely, trying to wrench away from the crushing grip that held him, but he was only a child. There was only so much he could do. 

His mother burst from her own hiding spot, a gun in her hand. Tony recognized guns, knew what they did, knew that his father built them. They always looked so natural in his fathers strong, capable hands. His father had said that one day, Tony would learn how to shoot them, to make them. He never imagined he’d see one in his mother’s hands. The hands that wiped his tears when he cried, the hands that fixed his hair for their fancy parties. 

“Let him go,” his mother shouted, leveling the weapon at the figure holding him. “Let him go!” She screamed again. 

“We were told to limit casualties, Mrs. Stark,” the dragon said, cocking an eyebrow. “You don’t need to die today.” 

“Neither do you,” she retorted, but Tony could see the way her hands shook. The terror in her eyes. He knew their assailants could see it too. 

Before either could respond, there was a resounding CRASH, as a car drove straight through the reinforced gate. Bullets started flying, and Tony watched as his father’s friend from before hopped from the car, shooting his gun at the dragon, avoiding the one holding him. 

And Tony’s eyes widened, as the bullets seemed to barely affect him. Maybe that ruined skin was worth something. 

“You,” the dragon snarled, turning on the man, “are unimportant.” 

And then he blew an inferno straight at him. 

The man barely had time to scream before he hit the ground. 

His mother, however, was screaming up a storm. 

“I’ve had enough of this,” the one holding Tony hissed, tightening his grip. “We have the boy, we have a clear escape route. Let’s go.” 

The dragon huffed, glanced at Tony. “Knock him out. Handlers said the kid would probably be a hassle.” 

Moments later, the world went dark. 

When Fury arrived on the scene with a band of highly specialized SHIELD agents, they were met with a disaster. A smoldering car, gazebo, and agent were little more than piles of ash on the ground. Maria Stark was a hysterical, mumbling mess on the ground, whispering “what are you what are you what are you,” over and over again.

Howard Stark was unconscious along with the rest of his staff inside, though they seemed otherwise unharmed. 

Later, tox screens would reveal that a poisonous gas had been released in the building, effectively incapacitating all inhabitants inside. Maria, on the other hand, had been hit with a unique poison—one that seemed to have incapacitated her in a far crueler way, twisting and warping her thought processes until she could barely string a sentence together. 

His agent, a new guy, one who showed a lot of potential, had been burned alive.

Maria Stark was no help at all, claiming that a “beast” had killed him and taken her son. 

Her hallucinations were chalked up as a side-effect of her poison, as well as trauma. 

At least, that’s what the files said. That’s what Fury told the family.

He knew better. 

He had a suspicion of what had happened, though no evidence to back it up. A hunch, based on a grief-stricken woman’s wild fantasies and an old rumor that occasionally made the rounds through the intelligence community.

His suspicions were strengthened as weeks went by without ransom demands, or revenge plots, or any trace at all of a missing billionaire’s son.

Anthony Edward Stark, at just eight years old, was gone. 

Fury, despite his noticeably lacking strict religious conviction, found it in his heart to pray for the boy. To pray that his suspicions were wrong. 

To pray that Anthony Stark, the prodigy, the child, the beloved son, was not in The Forest. 

But his hunches were rarely ever wrong.

Chapter Text

2016

Bucky

Bucky always dreaded being called into Fury’s office. The first few times it happened, they were just check-ins. About 5 years ago, when Steve found him and convinced SHIELD to focus on his rehabilitation, his meetings with Fury consisted mainly of apparently well-meaning chats, asking how he was healing, what he remembered. Back then, Bucky had still been torn between his identity as the Winter Soldier and the young guy from Brooklyn Steve clearly wanted back. He struggled to separate them, to live up to the man that Steve wanted him to be. He was trying, though. And that had to mean something.  

But it was hard. He couldn’t remember everything that had happened when he was with HYDRA. Constant cryo and brainwashing is unsurprisingly effective at scrambling the mind like that. But he still had flashes when he tried to sleep, or when he let his mind wander. Blood in the snow, explosions and crafted auto accidents. Pain and heat and cold white labs. 

He tried not to let his mind wander too much. 

That’s why his meetings with Fury eventually switched from mental health check-ins, to begging for work to do. It took a while, and the first few jobs he was assigned were small-fry, recon missions with teams that were much larger than necessary. He’d never been sent somewhere where HYDRA was expected to be; the risk was too high that someone might know the words that controlled him.

Until a year in, there was an attack on New York. Aliens, which meant it was an all-hands-on-deck situation. He joined Steve, as well as a crew of other agents or heroes who called themselves Avengers, and he killed a bunch of aliens. 

Apparently, work like that puts you in the clear. Brands you as someone worth trusting, worth saving. Bucky was officially part of the team. 

Being part of the team, he started getting more difficult jobs (not more difficult than aliens, of course, but more difficult than recon on an empty building) with Steve. Apparently, Captain America was a strong enough force to not require an entire team of babysitters, because they were often sent alone. 

Sometimes, he even worked with the other Avengers. Apparently, New York was a hot-spot for villainy, both of this world and outside of it. He liked those missions, liked feeling like he had a purpose. Liked feeling like he was a part of something bigger again, like when he and Stevie fought with the Howling Commandos back in the War.

It was all a distraction, really. Easy enough jobs, things that kept him focused on the present rather than the past. Bucky wanted to uncover his past… eventually. But he hated when it snuck up on him, hated the lack of context. He wanted to know what he did, but on his own terms. 

And as much as Bucky appreciated the work that SHIELD gave him, he hated the way Fury looked at him when he assigned the missions. He always asked if Bucky thought he could handle it, or if they were making progress with the deprogramming sessions. 

Bucky had no clue if the deprogramming was working. They couldn’t test it without the words, and he didn’t know them. Not that he particularly liked the idea of trying them out for fun, anyway.

His salary from SHIELD wasn’t earth-shattering, but it was enough. He could afford food, some books. He had a nice enough place in Brooklyn, something SHIELD hooked him up with, nearby where Steve lived. Apparently, a place to live, one with conveniences like his emotional-support super soldier, were a small price for the American taxpayer to pay in order to aid a sad, recuperating prisoner of war. Surely it had nothing to do with SHIELD's desire to keep extensive tabs on him.

Steve had knocked on his door that morning, carrying coffee, wearing a soft expression.

“Up for a meeting?” He’d asked, pushing the cardboard carrying tray forward. A bribe. 

“Meeting with who?” Bucky grumbled, still half asleep. 

“Fury’s got a briefing for us,” Steve answered, pushing his way inside. “We’re already running late, so you should probably start getting ready.” 

Bucky swiped a hand across his face with a groan, trying to brush the sleep off of him. “Why did you show up here instead of calling?”

“I called you three times,” Steve said, setting his offerings down on the counter. “You didn’t answer.” 

Bucky froze, hand almost wrapped around his coffee. He would have checked his phone, except he wasn’t sure where he’d left it. 

“Sorry about that,” he eventually mumbled, “I must’ve been sleeping.” 

More honestly, it had been a rough night filled with very little actual sleep. He’d spent the night catching small pieces of memory, constantly waking up from a splatter of gore or a gut-wrenching cry. 

It had been very hard to rest, as of late. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve shrugged. His posture was casual, relaxed. But Bucky could read his face like a book. His eyes shone with overflowing concern. Fuck’s sake, he was practically pouting. 

An irrational wave of anger washed over him, momentarily seeing his friend in a much harsher light. “I’m gonna take a shower,” he mumbled, before stalking off. 

Bucky always showered with the water as hot as he could—he knew it would never wash away all the blood and grime on his skin, the sticky sickening mess that he never stopped feeling. But at least it reminded him that he was here, in the present moment. The heat was grounding, if nothing else. 

He couldn’t believe that he had slept through Steve’s calls: he was usually a very light sleeper, accustomed to rousing at the slightest twitch or noise in his surroundings. You couldn’t stay asleep if there was a risk of being flanked or found by an enemy. So what had kept him so deeply under?

Bucky focused on the scalding water that washed over him. He counted the tiles on the wall, flexed his feet against the textured floor. He was home, in Brooklyn. Steve was just outside the bathroom door, waiting for him to finish getting ready so that they could receive a new mission from Fury.

He was centered. He was calm.

He tried to remember what he dreamed of, then. 

Brown eyes, sharp smile. Bright blue light. White labs, a high-pitched ringing that rattled him to his bones. 

Blood. A heart on the floor. Screaming, growing louder and louder. 

Metal slab and leather straps. More screaming. 

A voice, distant, called from outside the bathroom. Bucky didn’t hear it. 

A bit lip, calloused hands. Run!

You’re not as scary as you look, you know.

Run.

Run!

I’m sorry. 

The voice again, louder this time. A heavy banging on the bathroom door. Bucky’s chest felt tight, his throat raw.

A metal arm on a tan throat, riddled with thin blue lines. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry—

“Bucky!” Steve’s called out, standing in the shattered remains of his bathroom door. Bucky looked up, noting that the water of his shower had gone cold. He took in each piece of his surroundings, one by one, slowly putting together a picture of what happened. 

1. Steve had broken in the door. Splinters littered the floor from where the lock had shoved through the frame. The handle was sitting on the floor, the door wide open. 
2. Steve looked afraid. Panicked. He must have been calling Bucky’s name for quite some time.
3. His metal arm was embedded in the shower’s tile wall. Pieces of plaster and porcelain were still falling to the floor. 

Bucky let his arm drop, and a huge chunk of tile fell down after it. 

He was going to have to figure out a way to explain this to... whoever was in charge of his place. A landlord? Or was it an agent? Or he could get it fixed without anyone ever knowing. He decided that that problem could be resolved later. After coffee, after work.

He cleared his throat. “Sorry about that,” he mumbled. His throat felt like it had been torn to shreds with safety scissors. Ugly, jagged cuts. Nothing neat and clean like a sharp blade might manage. Had he been yelling? “Guess I should probably get this cleaned up.” 

Steve’s eyes were still wide, his chest heaving slightly with exertion. Bucky, almost clinically, wondered if it was an emotional or a physical toll. He wondered if Steve was as tired as he was.

“What was that?” Steve asked, and Bucky realized that he was still standing under the ice cold spray, naked as the day he was born. He couldn’t make himself feel ashamed—it’s nothing Steve hadn’t seen before. They’d been in the army, for Christ’s sake. Shit like that helped you get close, to know more about someone than you’d ever want to.

“Nightmare,” Bucky said. “You can go. I’ll clean this up.” 

“Go get dressed,” Steve said slowly. “I’ll… clean up, figure something out for… all of this.” He eyed the scene, lips flattening. “That is, if you’re up for going.” 

Bucky felt his shoulders tense. He didn’t want to be considered too broken to work. Besides, a new mission would give himself something new to focus on. Some new blood to coat his hands, cover up the old stuff. 

There would always be blood. There would always, always be blood. 

“I’ll be ready to go in ten,” he replied, fleeing the room as soon as possible. 

Steve filled him in with all of the information he had on the way to SHIELD headquarters, but it wasn’t much. They were going on an intel-gathering mission, accompanied by Natasha and Clint. 

“All four of us? For intel?” Bucky asked, struggling to understand. “Intel isn’t exactly an Avengers level threat.” 

“It’s not an Avengers mission,” Steve said. “Bruce and Thor aren’t going.” 

“Still, why all three of you? And why me?”

“I’m not sure,” Steve shrugged. “Must be important.” 

They met the others in the hallway in front of Fury’s office. Clint leaned casually against the wall, fiddling with one of his guns. Natasha was flipping a knife, stationed directly in front of the door. 

“You two are concerningly attached to your weapons,” Steve admonished. 

“I love my weapons,” Clint gasped with mock offense. “Nothing concerning about that.” 

“You’re late,” Natasha directed her words to the newcomers, pointing her knife. Always very friendly.

“Slept in,” Bucky mumbled back. She didn’t seem to believe him, if her glare was anything to go by. 

They entered the office without knocking. There was no point to it, really, the director already knew they were there. Fury knew everything that happened at SHIELD. 

“Sit,” Fury said. He leaned back in his chair, fingers forming a triangle in front of him. His legs were crossed casually, but his expression was grave as ever. 

“Why are we doing this here instead of a meeting room?” Natasha asked, ignoring his order and standing near the door. 

“It’s highly classified,” Fury replied. “Too classified to reserve a room for.” 

“Yeah, because nobody will notice that you have four of the Avengers posted up in your office,” Clint said. 

“I have you on the calendar for a ‘performance review.’” Fury said. Bucky couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

“Well, how is our performance?” Clint asked, though most seemed to ignore him. Bucky was, unfortunately, kind of curious what the answer would have been.

“What’s the mission?” Steve asked, leaning forward. Except it wasn’t quite Steve anymore. This was Captain America, as much a man as he was a legend. The fearless leader and soldier. Bucky knew by now that this was the man they’d be seeing for a while, that he wouldn’t relax until the job got done. He didn’t really mind it. Captain America didn’t seem to worry about his questionable stability as much as Steve did.

“Romanoff led an operation on an old HYDRA base last week,” Fury began, reaching for a file folder and sliding it over to Steve, who picked it up and began scanning the page eagerly. Clint leaned over and read over his shoulder. “While there, she found this file.” 

“It’s almost entirely redacted,” Clint pointed out, glancing up at his boss. “What are we supposed to do with it?” 

“Forensics were able to lift some information from it, but we didn’t get everything. But we’re interested in it for the one phrase that hasn’t been marked off.” 

“‘Training facility’?” Steve read, glaring at the paper as if he could see through the black bars with sheer force of will. Bucky knew the man was stubborn enough, it was a wonder it didn’t work. “You think it’s another base?” 

“The techs found some information in the second paragraph: Some coordinates located in South America, and subject numbers. We think that those subject numbers may be specialized units.” Fury was speaking slowly, carefully. 

“More super soldiers? Like Barnes?” Natasha pressed, not trying very hard to keep her dull exterior intact. 

“Most likely,” Fury said. “I need you all to find the location and confirm it still exists. We don’t know how old this file is. You will scout the place out, see what you can find, but do not engage without backup. This is meant to be a stealth mission, not an attack.” 

“Why the four of us?” Bucky asked. Really, he meant why me? But he wouldn’t ask that in front of the others. Fury never sent him anywhere near HYDRA, he wasn’t confirmed safe. He was still too vulnerable to their attacks. 

“I don’t know what they’re keeping there, if anything. I suspect that this place was, at some point or another, a breeding ground for highly specialized forces. It makes sense to send my own highly specialized ops in, just in case.” Fury’s face was impassive, but his voice was low and tense. “And this mission is highly classified. Whatever you find there, you report back directly to me. I will decide what we do with it going forward.” 

“You’re not telling us everything,” Natasha said, brow furrowed. “What else is there?” 

Fury met her eyes. “One paragraph contained a few disconnected phrases. I can infer their meaning without context. We found ‘Lab’, ‘subject number 42’ and 'experimental success.’” 

“They’re experimenting on people?” Steve asked, face morphing with disgust. 

“Most likely. There have been whispers of an experimental facility in the past, which produces highly specialized mercenaries at the cost of humanity. Given the location, and the file information, I think that you are heading into The Forest.” Fury gave them all a look, waiting for recognition to show. Natasha was the only one who seemed to understand his words. 

“That place is only a rumor. A horror story HYDRA spread to sow fear and division. Nobody has ever confirmed if it’s real,” she hissed, voice low and threatening, as if daring him to defend his assumption.

“Nobody has ever seen it and escaped to tell the tale,” Fury corrected. “I think it’s very real. That’s why I do not want you to enter the facility, should it be active. I just need confirmation that it’s there.” 

“And that requires four of us?” Clint asked. 

“Out of an abundance of caution, yes. It does.” Fury’s eyes darkened. “You will go in and out, unseen and unknown. Capture is not an option.” 

“Capture is never an option,” Bucky said. He couldn’t explain why, but the direction the conversation was heading seemed to curl around his lungs, his heart. He felt shattered tiles against his skin, and became acutely aware of the extra weight of his metal arm. Part of him wanted to leave, to run. 

He couldn’t run, could he? Not if he wanted the others to continue to count on him. Not when it seemed Fury was finally ready to trust him again.

“There are rumors that this organization is especially unkind to intruders.” Fury looked positively grave. “Do you accept the mission?” 

They all agreed, though Bucky couldn’t seem to get the words past his throat. He nodded along while the others confirmed details: they would be using SHIELD issue aircraft to get there, Clint would pilot. They would arm themselves heavily, even though things shouldn’t escalate to confrontation. 

When they all got up to leave and gear up, Fury held him back with a simple “Barnes, stay a moment?”

The others left. Steve shot Bucky a concerned glance over his shoulder. It seemed Captain America was taking a backseat, for the moment.

“Yes, sir?” Bucky stood, arms crossed behind his back like the good soldier he was. He still felt like he was choking on something bitter. 

“You seem concerned,” Fury said. He stood straight, ever a commander, his impassive gaze so sharp Bucky felt it would cut straight through him. 

“Why me?” Bucky finally managed, shocked by how hoarse and broken his own voice came out. 

“You’re a highly skilled agent, Barnes. You seem the perfect fit for a job like this.” Bucky knew that that wasn’t the whole truth, was frustrated by the tip-toeing. 

“You never send me on HYDRA missions,” Bucky snapped. 

“You’ve made incredible progress,” Fury said. “Besides, I felt that your history might aid the team in this instance.” 

“I’ve never heard of this place,” Bucky said, but he knew it was a lie, knew that Fury could tell. Just the phrasing, the idea of going there… The Forest. He couldn’t pinpoint a memory, couldn’t place a time or a face. But the words made him nauseous, sent a searing pain through his jaw that vividly reminded him of the chair. He must have been there, had to have seen it. But when he tried to grasp why, it slid straight through his fingers. 

“I don’t know how I know this place,” Bucky corrected, not waiting for Fury to call him on his lie. 

“Work on it, see what comes back to you,” Fury said. “Or, you could stay home. You don’t need to take the job if you can’t handle it.” 

Bucky bristled—of course he could handle it! He’d handled everything this damned organization had thrown at him so far, a scouting expedition was nothing compared to that. 

Besides, if something came up while they were there that could help the team, he wasn’t going to let them down by benching himself. 

“I’ll go,” Bucky said, turning to leave. 

Bucky, Steve, Natasha and Clint touched down about a mile away from the target coordinates, opting to go on foot the rest of the way in the interest of stealth.

They were silent the whole trek, giving Bucky far too much time to think. He recognized the trees, he thought. Or maybe they just looked like every other tree that existed. The ground below was littered with debris and branches, and the soil below was soft underfoot. The sky was nearly blocked out by the thick cover of leaves up ahead. 

The unsettling thing, though, was the quiet. The only noise was their own soft footfalls on the ground, and the wind rustling branches against one another. Bucky kept his eyes peeled, desperately searching for any who might follow, but there was not a living creature around. No animals, bugs, or people. He shoved aside some leaves from a large plant beside him, kicked a log over to check for bugs, but found nothing. 

“What are you looking for?” Clint asked, sidling up beside him. His voice was low as if he was afraid to disturb the serene landscape. 

“There’s nothing alive,” Bucky murmured back. “No bugs. You’d think we’d be surrounded by pests in this heat, yet there’s nothing.” 

“Guess I packed my bug spray for nothing,” Clint whispered back. 

“You don’t think it’s weird?” Bucky retorted. 

“Of course it’s weird,” Clint said, shrugging. “This whole place gives me the creeps.” 

Bucky fell quiet again, noticing that Clint stuck close by. He appreciated his companionship, feeling slightly more at ease with someone by his side . 

After walking for a while, Steve (who was leading the group) held up a hand, indicating for all to stop. “Up ahead,” he said, so quietly that even Bucky had to strain to hear it. He wondered if Clint could understand at all, or if he was just following Bucky’s lead. 

Bucky squinted into the distance, eventually noticing a large, plain looking complex in the middle of a messy clearing. 

“I’ll scout ahead,” Natasha murmured, moving forward. 

“Not too far,” Steve warned.

“I’ll be within earshot,” she agreed. 

“I’ll try to get up in a tree,” Clint said, pointing up. “Get a new vantage point on it, see if I can spot their defenses.” 

Bucky nodded sharply. 

Steve glanced at the two, then at Bucky. “We’ll stay here and serve as backup. Meet back here in ten minutes, no later. Understood?”

The two SHIELD agents nodded in agreement, before rushing off on their respective missions. 

Bucky crouched low on the ground, resting on the balls of his feet. Steve came to stand beside him. 

“How are you doing?” Steve asked, quietly. He wasn’t quite hovering, but he was awfully close to it. 

“I don’t like this,” Bucky said slowly. “Something here isn’t right.” 

“Do you… do you remember anything?” 

Bucky shook his head. “No. But this place… it’s wrong. It’s dead.” 

“I don’t think the land itself is toxic,” Steve said. “The plants seem healthy enough.” 

“But that’s all there is.” Bucky shivered. “How are they keeping everything else away?” 

Steve was silent. 

Bucky grew uneasier with every passing minute. 

Where are the bugs? Where are the birds and animals? Why did we let them go off alone, when we should all be a team here? This place isn’t safe, there’s danger lurking around every corner.

If only he could remember what the danger was. 

Eventually, Natasha returned, looking incredibly suspicious but noticeably unharmed. 

“The place is a ghost town,” she said slowly. “No vehicles outside, no guards posted. I didn’t hear any noise coming from the building.” 

Bucky looked up and saw Clint carefully coming down from his own perch, looking confused. “Nothing,” he said. 

“There are no windows,” Natasha continued, “so I can’t tell what’s going on inside. It might be soundproofed. Or it's just a shell, and they’re hiding underground.” 

“We could try and get a closer look,” Steve said, “but I don’t know if it’s a good idea without backup.”

“The place seems completely abandoned,” Clint pointed out, “we might be able to get inside and take a look around.” 

“Something isn’t right,” Bucky murmured, but the others didn’t seem to hear him. 

“I’ve got a device we can use if there’s a mechanical lock on the door,” Natasha said. “We could stick together and try to stake things out.” 

“We’d need a clear escape route,” Steve replied, eyes distant as if he was already formulating a plan in his head. “If something happens, we need to know exactly how we’re getting back out again, especially if we only know of one entrance.” 

“Something isn’t right,” Bucky tried again, louder this time. He felt like something was crawling on his skin, which was impossible, because there was nothing there. How could there be absolutely nothing in the middle of miles upon miles of woods? The hair on the back of his neck was standing, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. 

Still, nobody seemed to hear him. “We can do a controlled search of the premises,” Natasha said. “One room at a time. I’ll collect any evidence that we can find. I’ve got some drives, so if we can find some computers that would be ideal.” 

“If we need immediate retreat,” Steve began, “and we are separated, we will meet one mile East of this spot. I’d rather not lead them directly to our exit strategy if possible, so if you’re being followed, try to draw them away from the jet rather than toward it.” 

“I don’t think this place is abandoned,” Bucky said, this time with enough force to gather everyone’s attention. 

“Why not?” Clint asked. “Dude, if it was really some top-secret mercenary breeding ground, they’d have guards posted outside.” 

Bucky couldn’t pinpoint why, but that didn’t feel right. “I feel like we’re being watched, right now.” 

“There are no cameras,” Natasha said. 

“Buck, if you don’t think we should go in, then we won’t. We’ll go back and report to Fury what we’ve found,” Steve said placatingly. 

Now all eyes were on him, expecting him to make the decision. He hated it, hated their expectant eyes, waiting for an answer he didn’t know how to give. How could he explain the feeling in his chest, the thing telling him to run far, far away from here and never look back?

How could he explain the voice in his head, screaming at him to go inside against every one of his instincts?

Something was in there, some key to a life long-forgotten. Could he tell them that, though, without somehow implying that he’d been compromised by the enemy? 

“Let’s go in,” Bucky said finally. His throat burned with all the things left unsaid. “But let’s go in with a plan.” 

The others all nodded in agreement. The group began plotting their next move. 

Natasha walked in front, having opened the door with a single-use EMP. Bucky followed directly behind her with Clint beside him, while Steve fell back to the rear. 

Immediately inside it seemed like the building truly was abandoned. The walls and floor were scuffed and marked with grime, and dust covered every surface. Everything was made of smooth material that would have shined if they were cleaner. The lights were embedded in the ceiling, flickering fluorescents that were dark more often than they were light. It was completely silent, without even the skittering of a stray rat or squirrel to mark that anything living remained. 

Natasha pushed open one of the first doors to her left, finding an empty room. The next door revealed the same: another empty room. 

“This place has been cleaned out,” Clint muttered under his breath. “It was a waste of resources coming here.” 

“There might be something further in,” Steve replied. 

“Or they’re just trying to draw us deeper,” Bucky muttered darkly. 

He recognized this place, he was sure of it. Not filled with life or tech or agents, but empty, exactly the same as it was. With every step he took, his heart beat a resounding no no no turn back. 

Natasha gripped her gun tighter and prepared herself to fire, but kept moving forward. 

At the end of the hall was another door, opening into a larger room, almost like an atrium. The walls were lined with identical unmarked doors. 

“Whereto first?” Natasha asked, looking over her shoulder. She asked the question as if it were for the group, but she held Bucky’s gaze as if she expected him to answer. 

He ran his eyes around the room, trying to find some kind of recognizable detail in the failing light. He knew the room, but couldn’t pinpoint where any of the doors led. His instincts told him nothing except get out get out get out while you still can get out get out get out. 

“Dealer’s choice,” he told her. He couldn’t organize his thoughts enough to give any clearer direction. 

She nodded, pushing forward, choosing the door directly across the room from them. When her hand fell on the handle, she took a deep breath before turning it. 

And that’s when everything went to hell. 

The lights fell all at once, plunging them into darkness. An animalistic howl resounded from far down the hall, accompanied by the quick thumping scrape that signaled that something was approaching fast. 

“Retreat,” Bucky said, voice weak even to his own ears. He couldn’t explain the weakness in his knees or the tremble in his hands. “Fucking retreat now.” 

Nobody waited for him to say it again. They turned, planning to head back out the way they came, but there was a group of agents running in through the door, fanning out to effectively block their exit. 

“Where the fuck did they come from?” Clint snapped, raising his bow and letting an arrow fly. It clipped the shoulder of one of the soldiers, but he seemed unaffected. Even more were entering the room. 

“We can’t take them all,” Natasha murmured, gun raised. She wasn’t shooting yet, but she looked like she really, really wanted to. 

“We can’t go through that door,” Bucky insisted. 

“What’s through that door?” She asked, voice level.

“We can not go through that door.” Bucky flinched as he heard the sound behind them grow louder and louder, finally reaching back in a rage to slam the door shut. 

“Fine, that’s fine,” Steve huffed. “We can’t go back the way we came, can’t go forward.” 

“Let’s pick a different door, then, gang, because standing around here is not an effective solution.” One of the soldiers stepped forward, and Clint let loose another arrow at the same time that Natasha shot her gun. 

“To the left,” Natasha murmured before bursting into a sprint toward a random door. The others followed. 

They continued like that: enter a door, see far too many enemies that they had no realistic hope of facing, bolt through another door. 

“We’re trapping ourselves,” Steve yelled after a few attempts at the genius strategy. “This place is a labyrinth, we’re not going to be able to find a way out!” 

Clint shot another arrow, suddenly frighteningly aware of how many he’d already lost. “Got any better ideas?” he shouted, ducking under an agent’s swing. Natasha growled, firing a shot at his attacker before pushing herself to run even faster. She hit another door, opening it and flying through while barely slowing down. 

“We’re going to have to fight at some point,” Steve insisted. 

Bucky used his shoulder to ram someone out of his way, stumbling back a bit when they were heavier than they first appeared. The attackers were odd—they were coming at them from all sides, yet none were firing weapons. They closed in quickly, but never got too close. With a sickening lurch in his stomach, Bucky had a realization. 

“They’re herding us,” he called, hoping to get Natasha’s attention. She was the most likely to understand how absolutely fucked they were in such a high-pressure situation.

Natasha shot a look at him that made him think she’d figured it out a long time ago. 

“We need a plan,” she growled, shooting another agent. “We need a minute to stop and regroup.” 

“Well if you see a pit-stop while we’re running for our lives, please let me know!” Clint huffed, swiping the sidearm off of one of their pursuers and firing a few quick shots into the crowd. Bucky knew he hadn’t hit much, there was no time to really take aim. But at least it forced them to scramble, to slow for a second.

Natasha’s eyes narrowed, searching. She had rejoined the group so they ran in a thick clump rather than a neat formation, guarding each other on every side rather than creating openings for attackers to slip through. “They’ve got to be coming from somewhere,” she muttered. 

Bucky nodded, clenching his jaw. He let his own eyes wander away from their pursuers and scanned the floors, the walls. Even the ceiling. He couldn’t see any seams or openings, not when the lights kept flickering out, not when they were passing through so quickly. Still, he searched. 

He spotted a door, then. Identical to all the others, but still… it called to him. He didn’t think he knew the door in particular, didn’t feel like he’d seen it before. But he felt as if there was a tether pulling him toward it. “Over here,” he grunted, already turning on his heel to follow the urge. 

He was relieved to hear the others following him. 

“What is it?” Steve asked, exertion coloring his tone. He shouldn’t have been winded this easily, not from running alone, but Steve had been taking on more than his fair share of defense responsibilities. He broke away often, shoving and slicing with his shield so nobody got anywhere near the team. Bucky was pretty sure he’d even heard Steve throw someone. 

“Something…” Bucky trailed off, taking a deep breath to buy some time to come up with a convincing answer. “Something about it feels right.” 

Steve seemed unimpressed, but didn’t argue. 

Bucky was the first to enter the room, realizing that it was a dead end. The others filed in quickly after him, Natasha slamming the door. She looked around, trying to find something to barricade the door with, groaning with frustration when she found nothing. 

“They managed to corner us,” she growled, pacing the length of the room. It was pretty small, Bucky estimated about eight feet on each side. 

“We can get out of this,” Clint said, but he sounded more than a little breathless. “We just need to collect ourselves and come up with a plan of attack.” 

“We’re outnumbered and outgunned, and we don’t know if these guys are enhanced,” Steve muttered to himself, flexing his fist over and over again. 

“Really boosting morale there, Cap,” Bucky snapped, eyes scanning the corners. “There’s something here.” He could feel it, the tug in his gut telling him that this place was exactly where he needed to be, that he needed something that was here. 

“The room is empty,” Natasha reported, voice flat. Bucky could feel the frustration rolling off of her. She looked like a lion pacing her enclosure at a zoo. “There are no seams or switches to reveal a hidden passage, there is no gear to stock up on. The only way in or out of this room is through that door, and on the other side of that door is a hoard of enemies.” 

“What are you even looking for?” Clint asked, glaring at Bucky. 

“Something is here,” he insisted again, stomping over to one of the walls. He pressed his hand to the smooth surface, searching for some kind of sign. Of life, of a door, of something. “I knew that we had to go here.” 

“It’s okay, Buck, it’s not a big deal if you had a bad hunch. This is what we wanted: a moment to plan. We just need to put our heads together and figure out how we’re going to get out.” Steve approached and laid a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky fought the urge to shrug him off. 

“And we gave them a moment to gather outside,” Natasha snapped. “We need to think, fast.” 

“Why haven’t they just followed us in?” Bucky asked, raising his voice as he turned to face them. “The door isn’t locked, or hidden. They saw exactly where we entered. They haven’t tried to kill us this whole time.” He realized he was breathing hard, that the desperation was turning him into someone harsher, crueler, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. “They’ve been fucking around with us this whole time. And now we’re here, and nobody’s come after us, giving us a break. Why would that be?” 

“They have us cornered,” Natasha said slowly. “They’ve got us exactly where they want us.” Her eyes widened by just a fraction. “There must be something here.” She spun around on her heel, following Bucky’s lead and running her hands up and down the wall. 

“So we’ve walked into a trap?” Clint said, raising a brow. “‘Cos I’m not seeing any traps here.” 

Just then, the dull, flickering light went out, and didn’t turn back on again. 

He just had to say something, Bucky thought.

The room filled with the sound of a dull, mechanical click, followed by the almost imperceptible scrape of stone against stone. 

“You shouldn’t have come here.” 

The voice was a soft hiss, almost a caress against Bucky’s skin. He tried to will his eyes to adjust, to witness what was approaching, at least what direction it was coming from, but he was left without his most valuable sense. The voice swirled around him, seemingly from every direction. The words were drawn out, elongated to the point they ran into each other. 

“Youuuuu shouldn’thaaaavecoooooooomeheeeeeeeeeeeere.” 

A flash of light. Then, the room erupted into chaos. 

Natasha took advantage of the rare moment of clarity, using the split-second illumination to spot the direction the enemies were coming from. “On your six!” She called out, immediately raising her weapon and firing as well as she could. 

Another flash of light. 

Clint whirled around, pulling out a knife—if he could get close enough to an assailant, his lack of sight wouldn’t be a problem. He saw four silhouettes in the doorway: three men of average build, and one… taller. Waspish and pale. Way too thin. They were approaching quickly, silently. Clint knew that he wouldn’t be able to hear them approach, but he would feel it. 

Another flash of light. Bright blue, filling the air with a static charge that had Bucky’s hair standing up. The light felt alive, oppressive. 

One of the figures approached Steve, barreling forward like a freight train. Steve threw his shield up and the figure slammed against it. Steve tried to brace himself against the impact, but it was far, far heavier than he had expected it to be, and the floor was too smooth to get any real purchase. He slid back, barely catching himself from falling to the ground. The figure before him snarled, and Steve caught a brief glimpse of razor sharp teeth. 

Another flash, lasting longer this time, long enough that Bucky had a moment to get his bearings. Enough that Bucky was able to see the source: a man, walking casually into the room. When the room’s lights lit up, so did his eyes, a brief spark of electric blue, trained on Bucky. 

Bucky also realized that each flash of light was accompanied by some other effect: Natasha’s widow's bites malfunctioned, sparking on her wrist. His metallic arm twitched, fingers loosening on the grip of his gun. The opening on the wall, one that had somehow been constructed so seamlessly to be rendered completely invisible in the light, twitched open and shut. 

Bucky focused his attention on the source: if he could subdue him, maybe they could get some light. 

Bucky kept his eyes trained on the exact spot where he expected the man to be, straining to see him in the complete darkness. There was a dull, almost imperceptible glow, flecks of color amidst the black. He ran straight for it. 

Natasha grunted as someone wrapped their arms around her middle. The agent’s mistake was giving her a clear target. She used the butt of her gun to swing backward, smiling viciously when she heard the sharp snap of a nose crunching under the force of the impact. He reeled backward, and she used the momentum to break from his hold, gripping his arm and swinging her attacker over her shoulder. She rolled forward, crouched on top of him, lowered her gun, and shot. A few times, just to be safe. 

“Status?” She called out, voice interrupted by an ear-splitting wail. 

Clint sensed a presence behind him, a spot of cold that spread goosebumps across his skin. Every muscle in his body tensed with anticipation, as if preparing him to run far, far away from this place. He buried the urge, and swung out with his knife. He felt when he made contact and pushed closer, despite his body screaming at him to fall back. He slashed wildly, felt a rip against a thin, papery material.

The room filled with a long, high-pitched scream that seemed to echo off the walls. 

Steve felt his assailant slam against him a second time, but this time Steve let the momentum take him to the floor. As soon as his back made impact, the attacker was on him, pinning him to the floor. Steve felt hands wrap around his skull, slamming his head back so hard he felt his brain rattle in his skull. A sharp, burning pain exploded in his left shoulder, and he felt a hand press against the wound, digging fingers in—Steve grabbed blindly for one of the hands, snapping the wrist backward with efficiency and ease. The figure reeled back, and Steve utilized the new space between them to swing his shield forward, shoving the weight off of him. He pushed himself up into a crouch, willing his dizziness to subside quickly. When he heard the footsteps approaching him again, he swung his shield in a wide arc, sending his assailant flying off to the side, hitting the opposite hall with a loud thwack. 

When the light flashed again, Steve used its momentary glow to orient himself. When it was dark again, he heard Natasha call for a status report. Before he could open his mouth to answer, he heard his own voice call “a little help here would be nice!” 

The voice had come from the other side of the room, from the man who he had just thrown off of him. 

“Widow, that wasn’t me!” He shouted, before barreling forward. Whatever that guy was, he needed to be taken down now. 

Bucky didn’t hesitate in his path to end the man with the glowing blue eyes. He focused on the small blue flecks in the dark: now that he had seen them once, he wouldn’t lose them again. 

Bucky felt a twitch in his arm, more of a spasm than he was used to. It had never malfunctioned before, never failed him, and he tried to will it to continue its long streak of reliability. He felt his fingers flail, his gun falling from his hand, just as he made contact with his target. 

“Fucking—Ah!” A pain shot through his malfunctioning arm. “Stop that!” He gasped, fighting through the pain.

Surprising him, the man actually stopped. Bucky used the moment of reprieve to wrap his metal arm around his neck, muting the man’s growl. He felt an arm wrap around his other wrist, the one made of flesh and blood, and felt a strong jolt of electricity run through him. 

His body seized, frozen from the unexpected jolt, and his opponent shoved him back, pushing himself to stand and deliver a swift kick to Bucky’s chest. Bucky grabbed the man’s ankle, dragging him down, hitting and blocking as much as was possible as he struggled to clamber on top of his enemy. 

Bucky didn’t know where his gun went, and couldn't restrain the man long enough to find a different weapon.

“How are you messing with the lights?” Bucky huffed, but the man didn’t answer. He’d assumed that would happen, but had hoped to at least distract him. He did not manage that. 

“Shut up,” the man growled back, before Bucky felt a sharp pain in his side. The fucker just stabbed him. Bucky grabbed blindly for the hand with the knife, found it with his metal arm, and squeezed the wrist as hard as he could, until he heard pops and cracks and knew he’d broken something. But the pain didn’t slow the man down; he fought harder, more viciously. 

Natasha heard Steve’s voice and blindly made her way toward it, pausing only briefly when she heard it again.

Voice emulators were not unheard of in intelligence, she’d used one once or twice. Steve’s voice was public, well known enough to get a good sample. But Natasha also knew that those emulators worked best over recordings or phone calls, knew that it helped hide the slight mechanical-tinge. That voice she’d just heard a perfect recreation. 

It certainly complicated things when she couldn’t see who she was speaking to. 

Still, she sprinted forward, shaking her wrist as her widow's bites malfunctioned again, shooting sparks that would have burned her if not for her gloves and suit. While she didn’t think they were entirely useless in this state, she knew they weren’t going to work reliably. With all the malfunctions, there must have been an EMP in the room, scrambling their signal. 

She hoped Clint’s hearing aids were still working. 

She came upon a body by running straight into it, quickly grappling it to the floor as soon as she made contact. She raised her gun, ready to make a shot, when she was thrown to the side by a thick metal disc.

“It’s me, it’s me,” she said quickly, raising her hands, gingerly reaching forward. “I recognize the shield—” the lights flashed again, and she saw that she was face to face with Steve. At least one thing was going right. “Stick close, try to maintain contact so we don’t lose each other.” 

“Do you know how many are left?” Steve asked, pressing his back against hers so there was no chance either could be snuck up on. “My eyes won’t adjust. The lights—”

“I took out one,” Natasha said, a little breathless. She was staring a little desperately into the dark, cursing when her eyes were just as useless as before. She heard another high pitched wail, this one shaking her eardrums. She hoped there wouldn’t be damage. She heard scuffling and cursing on the floor, which meant Bucky was still locked into his own brawl. “If yours is still up, that would leave three.” 

“Let’s take him down, then,” Steve said. “I don’t know what we’re up against, but something tells me we’re better off getting this done sooner rather than later. Any ideas on where he went?”

Before she could respond, she felt a boot kick at her ankles, a poor attempt at sweeping her off her feet. She barely resisted the urge to shoot, couldn’t risk accidentally hitting one of her allies. She slammed her sparking widow’s bite high, making contact with a skull. It wasn’t the full force of the taser she was used to, but it managed to burn the attacker, who cried out in pain. Steve followed the cue, spinning forward and slamming his shield while the man was still reeling, sending him to the ground. Natasha fell forward, blade already in hand, when the man spoke. 

“Natasha, it’s me! Barton!” 

She hesitated on instinct, couldn’t prevent the stutter in her arm. That was a mistake. 

The figure lunged forward, grabbed her hair, and swung her hard against a wall. 

Clint, meanwhile, was a whirlwind. The thing he was attacking (because it couldn’t be human, it was too fast, too shrill, too strange) kept moving, faster than he could keep track of. His hearing aid was cutting in and out, occasionally letting out a high, distressed whining noise as if it were dealing with interference. He was left without his most important senses, forced to fumble and swing and hope that he made an impact. 

He slashed, felt some kind of response, before he felt a hot ripping pain on his bicep, as if he’d been clawed at by a large animal. He swung again in that direction, felt resistance as his knife cut through something, felt a small tremor as something hit the floor. Dimly, he registered another screech. 

Something latched onto his shoulder, stabbing pain shooting from five separate puncture wounds. Clint switched his blade to his non dominant hand, swinging over his shoulder until he felt it go in. 

The pain let up, so he took that to mean he did something right. He spun in another circle, trying to ignore the heat of the blood running down his arms and back. He tried to hone in on the floor, on any impacts the thing might be making in the room. 

Steve followed the sound of Natasha’s voice as she was swung through the air, quickly finding the arm of the man who had grabbed her. He ripped it back viciously, felt the limb pop out of its socket, and tried to ignore the way his stomach turned at the feeling. This was an enemy, he was going to kill them. Any amount of force was necessary in a situation like this.

Resolved, Steve hooked an arm around the attacker’s neck and squeezed with all his strength. 

It didn’t take long for the body to go limp.

The attacker with the glowing blue flecks in his eyes managed to get on top of Bucky, but Bucky wasn’t going to go down that easily. He fumbled for a weapon, but the man seemed to have somehow seen exactly where he was reaching and intercepted, slamming Bucky’s hand to the ground. Bucky swung blindly with the other, making contact with the thing’s jaw. The lights flickered on again, for just a moment, and Bucky realized a correlation. Get the man to lose concentration for a second, things go back to how they should be. 

He could manage that. Probably.

He surged upward, wrapping a hand around his opponent’s neck and pushing back, throwing him to the floor. He did not release his grip, squeezing, and saw the light flick on for another second, the glow in the man’s eyes dulling for just a moment.

But something in his stomach twisted, a sour taste filled his mouth. He’d killed hundreds, many in this exact way, but this felt wrong. He felt like something was deeply, deeply wrong with this moment, this kill. 

“Turn on the lights,” Bucky growled, desperate to see. To understand. He felt bile rise in his throat as the man started to go lax beneath him, the fight began to fade from his body. “Turn on the fucking lights.” 

He didn’t know why or how this man was responsible for the dark, couldn’t explain why he needed him to fix it or thought that he could. He was guessing, following another hunch, just as he’d been doing since they arrived at this hellscape of a facility. 

But he had guessed correctly in this instance, because somehow, the lights came back on. They were still dim, flickering, but they were on. Bucky looked up, for just a moment filled with a sense of dread he couldn’t explain.

That was a moment too long. His hand had loosened, and the man beneath him took the opportunity to free himself, landing a hard slug to Bucky’s jaw. He shot away, spinning to face the others in the room. 

His three allies were dead on the floor: Two men who looked relatively normal, dressed in standard tactical gear, lay dead on the floor. Surrounded by bright red spots of blood was a crumpled, bleeding pile of stark white cloth. A dismembered hand, long and sharp and gnarled as a claw, sat about a foot away from it. 

Steve and Natasha were pressed back to back, eyes darting from corner to corner, squinting against the sudden intrusion of light. Clint was hunched in a corner, leaning heavily against a wall, snapping his fingers beside his ear. 

The agent had been taught to go for the weakest link.

He sprung toward Clint, catching him momentarily off guard, knife already poised and ready to strike. Before he could reach him, Natasha leaped onto his back, the momentum forcing him to fall forward to his stomach. Her gun was already in her hand, ready to strike. 

“Stop!” Bucky shouted, and she did. She turned back, about to ask him what the hell he was doing, when the agent rolled her off, stumbling to his feet. 

He immediately kicked out, catching Natasha’s chest and sending her sliding back. She rolled to her knees quickly, raising her gun again, taking a shot. The agent ducked low, going for Clint’s knees. The sound of her gun filled the room. 

Bucky was reeling. Something is wrong, his mind hissed, over and over. Something is really, really wrong. He knew that face. He knew the agent. He felt the nonsensical urge to protect the man, to keep him close and keep him safe. Something in his mind was begging to be remembered, but it was locked far, far away. But he knew, he knew there was something there. 

Clint and his attacker grappled on the floor, and Natasha growled. “I can’t get a clear shot,” she barked, Steve already rushing forward to help. 

“MOTO4, stop!” Bucky didn’t know where the callsign came from, the words tumbling out as if they were implanted there by someone else. But they didn’t work. The agent, now disarmed and growling like an animal, punched and clawed at Clint, who was delivering blows of his own. Steve grunted as he gripped the man from behind, an arm around his neck and the other around his middle, holding his hands to his sides. He hauled him back, holding him with a super soldier’s strength. He had no hope of escape. 

Except he did escape. No normal mercenary would have the strength to get away from Steve, but he did, flicking his wrist with a second, previously concealed blade, drawing a thick wound across Steve’s leg. Steve was startled enough to loosen his hold. The mercenary rolled forward, armed with one of Clint’s guns, and aimed straight for Natasha. 

They were in a standoff. Bucky realized, with a horrified jolt, that the mercenary wouldn’t care. He’d take the shot whether it would kill him or not. 

The words left him like an expulsion, spewing forth with no rhyme or reason. 

Thick Russian, guttural and hoarse as if from a voice rarely used.

“Heel.” 

And somehow, the agent responded. Froze, in fact, the arm carrying the gun flagging before falling, the agent looking enraged at the way his body responded to the words. 

Steve took the chance to get the man on the ground, and Bucky finally got a good look at his face.

Large, chocolate-brown eyes, broken up by little flecks of dim blue light as if there was circuitry hidden underneath. Wavy brown hair, messy from the fight but exactly as it was, whenever he had seen it last. The defined nose with evidence of a previous break, the sharp jaw of a man on top of his form. Somehow, Bucky knew that if the man lowered his collar, he’d see a scar of a bite mark over his pulse. He knew that if he peeled back the layers of tac gear, he’d see lines identical to those in his eyes plastered over his heart, reaching out across his chest. A man with the make of a machine, with the ability to connect with them in a way entirely inhuman. 

“Steve, stop,” Bucky said, voice hoarse and small. Steve looked up, an incredulous look on his face. “Stop!” He barked at Natasha, whose gun was still trained on the still body on the floor. 

Natasha looked about ready to bite his head off, Clint was glaring while still nursing an injured shoulder. Steve had his enemy firmly planted on the ground, even though he wasn’t fighting anymore.

Bucky dropped to his knees, eyes trained on the man who had been trying to kill him and his team. 

“I know you,” Bucky said, voice shaking. “I know you.” 

The man gnashed his teeth, remaining limp on the floor. 

“Why do I know you?” Bucky pleaded.

The agent didn’t respond.

Chapter Text

Tony

The Agent did not have a firm grasp on his memories. He knew things, but not how he learned them. He had pieces of a past that seemed to belong to somebody else. Moments that stuck out, devoid of context. He knew where he was but not where he came from. He knew that it wasn’t here: The Forest, The Order. A prisoner. A successful experiment.

But never quite successful enough to be free. To go home, whatever that meant.

1978

Tony woke up in a featureless white room. He did not see a door, or a window. There was no furniture inside. He was wearing his clothes from home, and he was horribly afraid. 

“Mom?” he called out, voice already cracking with tears. 

It’s just a nightmare, he told himself, you just need to wake up. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to open them again to see his bedroom, with his robot sheets and Jarvis at the door with a smile and a cup of tea. He convinced himself he could hear the sounds of his father’s workshop beneath him, could feel his soft pillow under his head. 

But when he opened his eyes, he only saw white. Above and below, coating each wall. 

Tony was a small boy, not ready to face horrors such as this. He began to cry. 

And he cried for a long, long time, with nobody coming to see. No mother to wipe his tears, no Jarvis to offer a cookie. No father to tell him to ‘man up.’

Eventually, Tony found a corner that looked protective enough and squeezed himself into it, curling his legs against his chest and holding them tight. His mind was a whirlwind of terror, every monster he’d ever imagined in his closet arriving front and center in his brain. He knew they were going to get him, and he had nobody there to help him. 

He was all alone; the only sound in the room was his sniffles. 

Hours after he woke up, as he was closing his eyes against the exhaustion weighing him down, he heard something sliding in the room, the dull scraping of mechanical pieces pulling things together.

When he forced his head up, he saw a door-shaped opening on the wall that hadn’t been there a moment ago. In that opening stood a man. He was tall, with a bushy mustache and muscles that bulged against his navy jumpsuit. 

“Ah, the young mister Stark,” the man said, stepping into the room. His arms were crossed behind his back, his step was even and assured. He carried himself like one of the military men his father had meetings with. “Apologies for keeping you waiting.” 

Tony didn’t reply, but felt every atom of his being respond to this man’s presence: his muscles locked up, his lungs refused to take in more air. His mind went immediately flat, like he’d been powered off with the simple click of a button.

“I know these quarters are not as lavish as those you are used to, but it is necessary right now. You are not ready for mixed company at this point.” The man crouched low on the floor, getting as close to Tony’s level as was possible with his hulking figure. “Do you know why you are here?” 

Tony shook his head, though he didn’t know where he found the strength. 

“You are very special, Anthony. For many, many reasons. We just want to ensure that you live up to your full potential.” He tried to meet Tony’s eyes, but the child ducked his head to avoid his gaze. “Are you afraid of me?” His voice was sickly sweet, almost mocking. 

Tony nodded. 

“There is no reason to be afraid,” the man said. He reached a hand out, gently holding Tony’s shoulder. It was similar to the touch Tony would have leaned into from his father, or a tutor, someone reassuring him that he had done a good job. “I am Jebediah, and I will be your friend here. I will help you.” 

Tony lifted his head slowly, despite every instinct telling him to hide. 

“Why don’t I give you a little tour? You got here a bit earlier than expected, your true quarters weren’t prepared yet. Would you like to see your room?” Jebediah had a small smile on his face, his hand was still on Tony’s shoulder. 

Tony, against his better judgement, nodded. 

It took him a long time to pick himself up off the floor, even longer to make his legs remember how to walk. But eventually he was led by the hand out the same strange opening the man had appeared from.

As they traveled down the halls, Tony tried to look around, but found there wasn’t much to see. Each passage was identical to the last, each door unmarked. It was reminiscent of one of his nightmares, where he kept running away from a monster, but the hallway in front of him kept getting longer so he could never actually escape. 

Eventually they reached a blank area of wall. Jebediah tapped lightly on it three times, and another opening appeared, part of the wall sliding aside as if it were being inhaled by the neighboring side. 

Jebediah pulled him inside, where Tony found a neat little living space. There was a small, plain bed, sheets pulled primly to the corners. There was a set of drawers and a mirror, and a small bathing area shoved in a corner. 

“This is where you’ll be staying when you aren’t at your lessons or exams,” Jebediah explained, gesturing around. “You have your own private space.” 

“Lessons?” Tony asked, voice small. 

“We want to ensure that your education is continued with as much strength as you would have had at home. Just because you are taking some time away doesn’t mean you get to slack off.” 

“Time away?” Tony perked up, standing a little taller. “When do I go home?”

“You will go home, Anthony, when you live up to our expectations.” Jebediah stood, retreating from the boy. “Get some sleep, now. You have a big, big day tomorrow.” 

Tony told himself that he would be a dedicated student, the best student they’d ever seen. 

He was going to go home and see his mother. He was going to go home and build in his father’s workshop again. 

He was going to go home. 

For the first year, Tony lived the life of a monk, deep in his studies with nothing to his name. He studied languages and math, engineering and biology. He had a revolving door of teachers, all built like soldiers, all with even less patience than the last. 

When he messed up a word in Russian, his knuckles were slapped with a ruler. Later, when he forgot how to conjugate a verb, he was sent to bed without dinner. He excelled in the maths and sciences, trudged through strategy lessons that seemed meaningless to him. At the end of each week, he was brought before a council of leaders: one of his teachers, a tall man in a lab coat, and Jebediah. Jebediah always told him he did a good job at the end, but Tony knew that he had failed again. Knew that he wasn’t ready to go home yet. 

When his results were delivered later, another failure, he told himself he would try harder the next week. 

Even as he was being punished, with Jebediah solemnly shaking his head to the side, Tony was determined. 

Tony, when he wasn’t focused on his lessons, learned to listen to the adults around him. He’d gathered that they were impressed with his intelligence, knew that he was a genius, yet they still spoke somewhat freely around him. 

They said that were pleased with his progress, which was puzzling to Tony, as he’d only failed the day before. They said he was growing stronger with his treatments, yet Tony could not recall seeing any doctors. 

Jebediah was always pushing to move Tony onto ‘stage 2’ whatever that meant, yet his colleagues kept insisting that he wasn’t yet ready. 

Tony hated this. He figured that stage 2 was one step closer to his goal, to going home. Yet Jebediah was the only one who believed in him.

After his first year of being in the facility, Jebediah greeted Tony in his room, rather than sending one of the tutors. 

“Today will be different, Anthony,” he said, crouching down to Tony’s level. “There will be no lessons, no exam for you to pass.” 

“Have I met your expectations?” Tony asked, nearly vibrating out of his skin. 

“Not yet,” Jebediah said, shaking his head. “But you’re getting closer! We’re moving onto the next step of your lessons.” 

“Stage 2?” Tony asked, looking up with wide eyes. 

“So you have been listening,” Jebediah said, patting his head with fond admonishment. 

“S—sorry,” Tony stuttered, quickly correcting himself. He’d been punished once, for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong…. He didn’t want to go through that again. 

“Don’t apologize,” Jebediah said softly, “it’s an important skill to have, eavesdropping like that. Making yourself invisible. But you must learn to be more careful with who you reveal your spying to.” 

Tony nodded, not wanting to say anything else that might get him in trouble. 

“Today, we will be giving you a medical treatment to help you develop even more extraordinarily. It will help you get better faster.” 

“Good enough to go home?”

“You will still need to work very hard. But yes, it may expedite the process of getting you home.” Jebediah stood, already turning to leave the room. Tony followed without another thought; following Jebediah’s orders was as easy as flexing a well-exercised muscle. 

Tony was excited, eager to take this next step. 

1986

Tony hated the lab. 

He hated the injections and monitors, hated the tests they made him go through at the end of every treatment, an uncomfortable step toward another failed exam. 

He hated that he always left feeling exhausted, like his body was being pulled apart and put back together again. He hated the chair, and the way it scrambled his head, made it harder to think. 

Sometimes Jebediah, the man who he had recently learned was his assigned handler, would pull him out of his classes for an appointment. Tony would always ask what the doctors needed him for, and Jebediah would always ignore him. 

The man had been kind when Tony first arrived at the facility, and he still was not as cruel as the others. But he’d at some point decided that Tony was no longer a child who required coddling, and began to treat him as more of an adult. 

Maybe he just wasn’t very good with kids: Tony had never seen another child in the facility. 

One day, while Tony was in his Spanish lessons, Jebediah arrived to collect him as he normally would. This time, however, he seemed… excited. Which was a strange look on a usually stoic man.

“You are getting older now, Anthony. Stronger. It’s time for you to evolve.” 

“Evolve?” Tony asked, struggling to keep up with the larger man’s stride. Over eight years Tony had gotten taller, but was still nowhere close to the other man. Usually these walks were precise, measured, but today it seemed his mentor was eager to arrive at their destination. 

“You’ll understand soon enough, don’t you worry.” Jebediah led him to a door, rapping quickly three times. 

Tony had tried to imitate the mannerism once or twice, trying to figure out where all these hidden passages were, but it never worked, and he was swiftly punished for his efforts each time. 

The wall opened up, and Jebediah led Tony inside a lab he’d never seen before. 

He’d been in many different types of labs: those that looked like medical offices, others that were all sleek silver metal and trays of syringes. He’d seen labs that were fit for chemists and others that were like an operating theater. 

This lab was unique in that it was filled to the brim with people. White-coats bustled from monitor to monitor, speaking in hushed tones and gesturing at various charts. Soldiers were stationed in every corner, eyes watching each movement and occasionally nodding at the things being said. 

“What are they going to do?” Tony asked, bile rising in his throat. He had never seen anything like this. He usually had a single technician, taking his measurements and delivering his meds. He’d never had a team of doctors do anything for him. 

“They are going to finally accomplish the thing we brought you here to do, Tony,” Jebediah said, practically beaming. “It’s all led to this moment.” 

“What moment?” 

Before Jebediah could respond, a scientist rushed up to them, grabbing Tony by the shoulder and dragging him further in the room. 

“Come on, come on, we don’t have all day,” he huffed, shoving Tony into the hands of a woman in an identical white coat. “Get his vitals and get him ready to go.” 

The woman nodded, pushing Tony down onto a bench. Tony tried to ask again what was going on, but the woman just glared at him. “Your speech is not required,” she said in thickly accented English. Tony could not place the accent. 

She poked and prodded him, barking orders for him to move or lift his arms, to take breaths or hold perfectly still. 

Eventually, he was being led to a large chair at the center of the room. 

It looked like the one he had seen at a dentists office, elevated off the ground with thick armrests to the side. He was told to sit, to shut up. His wrists were strapped down, as were his legs and chest. Before he could try to ask one more time what the hell was going on, a piece of rubber was shoved between his teeth, strapped in place behind his head. 

“Subject is secure,” a voice called, and Tony huffed against the gag, chest hitching with panic when he tried to move and realized that he couldn’t, that the bonds were far too tight. “You are authorized to administer the serum.” 

A voice from behind Tony pitched up, and Tony flinched. He hated that he couldn’t turn to see, and tried to focus all his energy and panic on listening to the conversations around him. 

“He is not ready for the serum yet, you haven’t connected him to anything.” 

“Yes, sir, sorry sir.” 

There was movement around him, and someone approached him with a huge machine sprouting more wires than it could possibly require. His finger was pricked as the wires were attached to sticky marks on his chest. A small cuff was secured around his finger, taped in place so he couldn’t shake it off. 

“Omega, place the IV on the left side.” 

“Yes sir.” 

“His heart rate is spiking already.” 

“Most likely a fear response. It will not interfere with the experiment.” 

Experiment. 

Tony tried to jerk away from the chair, tried to scream, but hands appeared out of nowhere. Far too many fingers wrapped around his shoulders, his elbow, his wrist, and an IV line was started on the back of his hand. 

“We need more restraints, the subject is fighting the procedure.” Dull, as if the speaker were bored.

More straps, more voices, swirling around him faster than he could keep track of. There was no fighting this mob, there was no escape. 

“Subject heart rate is dangerously elevated,” a voice called. “Oxygen is low!”

“We can’t administer a sedative, it will ruin the procedure.” 

Suddenly, there was another presence at his side: Jebediah, glaring down at Tony. His eyes were dark and his jaw was set. He leaned in close, close enough to whisper into Tony’s ear so only he would hear it. 

“Do you want to go home, Tony?”

Seven simple words. A tiny, empty promise that Tony had not yet learned to ignore. 

He immediately stilled, straining his eyes to look at his mentor. A high whine escaped from his throat, a pleading confirmation that he hoped would communicate his desperation. 

“Then you must behave. Do you understand?”

Another whine. Another nail in the coffin. 

Tony forced himself to stop fighting. He battled his own instincts and tried to push himself back into his chair. 

“Administer the serum,” Jebediah barked, “before it’s too late.” 

The IV was started. Almost as soon as the liquid hit his veins, Tony felt fire burning inside his body. 

He began to scream. 

His body jerked involuntarily, a desperate attempt to escape the pain, but he couldn’t escape because it was inside him, the pain was him. It was spreading with every beat of his heart, a sign of life and a seal of death. Because Tony knew that this would kill him, could feel himself dying. His body’s last reserves of strength were bursting forth, pleading with his mind to get away. 

The voices were still there, still speaking, but Tony could hardly comprehend what they were saying. His mind was a melting mess, focused only on pain pain pain. It hurts. You’re dying. 

“—stimulate his nervous system to—”

“—the body’s fight or flight will—”

“—needs direction, an idea of where to evolve—”

“—only at 25% percent, do not deliver—”

Tony heard a desperate sound, the kind that came from a dying animal. He wondered if there was a dog strapped down beside him, howling and barking and growling under the same serum that was ripping his mind and body to pieces. 

“—50% but—”

“—heart is stuttering—”

“—another minute, the body is not yet ready—”

The heat was insatiable, melting him layer by layer. He’d never been so aware of the subcategories of his anatomy before, had never felt his veins and capillaries (those had been the first to turn to ash, they were gone, he knew they were gone they had to be gone) each muscle was twitching independently, without direction. He felt his bicep curl away as if it could somehow escape the raging inferno inside him, felt his femur vibrate as it was crumbled away to nothing. His eyes were wide, bulging out of his skull, but he could not see what was in front of him. It was all red, red, red. 

“—wrong, we need to disconnect—”

“—so close, so close, just another minute—” 

“—prepare the device, shock in—”

Tony could feel his heart screaming in his chest, pounding away at where his ribs should have been but could not possibly be anymore. It was a thick muscle of pain, slamming against pain. He felt it begin to stutter, to give up, to finally fall victim to the wave of fire that had engulfed and destroyed the rest of him. 

If only he were an engine, he thought. If only he were an engine because they were so easily fixed. Overheating like this was treated with coolant. If only he could fix the failing pieces of his body like his father fixed his favorite car. He’d change the oil, figuratively of course. All this blood was poison, not an effective piece of the mechanism. He’d take the fire out and replace it with ice, enough ice that he’d be protected from being hurt like this again.

If he could control his body like he could control a machine, no scientist would ever lay a finger on him. He’d connect to their stupid EKG machine and explode it into a million pieces, the scientists would all get stabbed and die from the shrapnel. He’d steal their light and prowl in the dark, breaking them to pieces, deconstructing them to their most basic parts as if they were nothing more than faulty robots. 

His heart stuttered again, and again. It was slowing, it was failing. He was failing. 

Tony knew, then, that he would never go home. They were never going to let him go home. 

“—now, now! It has to be now, his heart—”

“—hold! I told you to hold! I will fucking kill—”

His heart barely beat now. A weak one here, a thin thump there. He was dying. He was going to die. 

He did not want to die here. 

Another beat. Silence.

Tony thought of his mom and dad. He wondered what they’d look like now, a few years later. He wondered if they still looked for him. He wondered if they’d recognize him. 

“—preparing shock, everyone hold—”

One more beat. The pain was still present, but it was quickly dimming. Easier to manage. Tony was floating above it all, as if this torture was being experienced by a different person entirely. 

“Now!”

And Tony’s world exploded, shifting from red to blue. 

Something deep inside, buried beneath layers of skin and muscle and bone, snapped. 

A vital switch was flipped. 

His chest ached, his heart screamed. Something else screamed, too, but Tony didn’t know what. 

“Again.”

The pain was reigniting, sparking to life and bubbling beneath his skin. He hadn’t been aware he had any skin left. 

“Again.” 

He still couldn’t see, but now it was not red that was blocking his vision. There was a blinding light in front of him, burning his eyes. He thought about reaching out for it, smashing it and shutting it off. 

And the light, oddly enough, exploded. 

It felt like all the air had been sucked out his body, like the force of it had ripped his lungs straight from his chest and thrown them across the room. 

It hurt. Oh, god, it hurt. 

There was shouting in the room, anger and astonishment that all blended into a dull haze that Tony didn’t care to keep track of. Among the noise was a high-pitched squealing sound, irritating and grating against Tony’s nerves (what was left of them, anyway.) He wanted the noise to stop.

The noise stopped. 

Tony couldn’t feel his fingers, couldn’t feel his heart anymore. He couldn’t feel much of anything. Not the fire, not the desperation. 

Finally, blissfully, Tony let darkness take him to somewhere softer. Somewhere peaceful.

Finally, Anthony Edward Stark died. 

1988

“Again,” his instructor barked, shoving Anthony hard enough that the mercenary had no choice but to fall to his knees. 

He had no choice but to get up again. The chip made sure of that. 

With shaking hands, he pushed himself to his feet, picking up his gun and facing his target. It was far, too far for the average shooter to see, let alone hit with any accuracy. He was not the average shooter (the operation last week had made sure of that). 

He raised the weapon, adjusted his stance, and fired. 

He clipped the edge of the target. 

His instructor slapped the back of his head, growling viciously “again.” 

Anthony swallowed. He hated this instructor. Hated him with such intensity it was almost a physical sensation, a burn in the back of his throat. He could taste it, something coppery and floral. A lovely taste, really. A motivating one. 

He shot the gun again. He hit the target straight through its ugly, condescending, looks-a-lot-like Stanley’s paper chest. 

Stanley was not impressed. “Again.” 

He obeyed. He had no choice. 

He never had any choice. 

At the end of the session, Jebediah was there. Jebediah was always there.

He hated Jebediah in a different way, it had a unique flavor. Like honey mixed with dirt, or sugar cubes drenched in motor oil. It was bitter and hot and Anthony needed it. He was pretty sure, almost certain, that without this hate he would die. 

“How did he do?” Jebediah asked the instructor, speaking as if Anthony weren’t there at all. They all did that, spoke as if he wasn’t there. As if he wasn’t human. 

“Poorly,” Stanley spat, “I recommend we intensify its weapons training, it is lagging behind.”

Ah, it. That had started recently, after his last programming session. As if his layers of humanity had already been all but stripped away, and he was nothing more than a dog to train to perfection. 

Anthony still felt human. He knew he was human. He couldn’t control humans, it wasn’t part of his abilities. If he were an object, a machine or weapon, he’d probably have more control over his actions. 

Jebediah nodded sharply, already turning to leave the room. Anthony knew he was meant to follow, so he did. 

“You will report for your reprogramming with humility and obedience today, agent. You will not talk back, you will not fight. Do you understand?” 

The order triggered a dull hum in the back of his head, an electrical purr right where the base of his skull met his neck. He wanted to reach toward it, to grab it and turn it off. But he couldn’t. 

That had been one of his first orders after receiving the chip. “You can control power.. circuitry, electricity, machines. But you must never touch the circuitry within your own body. The world of technology is at your fingertips, but you are prohibited from ever touching your own. Do you understand?”

It still hadn’t worn off; they refreshed the order at least once a week. 

Still, Anthony tried to fight the order. He hated reprogramming. They were trying to steal his name, the last piece of his personhood he had any kind of grasp on. 

He focused hard, prodding at the edges of the words. You will report for your reprogramming with humility and obedience today. He would have to, at some point, report for the session. That was already in his head, the anticipation burning in his legs, drawing him to the room. Jebediah had not, however, specified a time when this appointment had to happen. That meant he could push it off, giving him time to try and find a loophole or conflicting order to follow.

You will not talk back, you will not fight. There went his secondary goals, of making the session as painful for his torturers as it was for him. The ‘no talking back’ order, he’d learned from Jebediah, was very specific to him. Not every mercenary was given it. Anthony had just maintained a certain spark of personality, a gift for getting under peoples’ skin. His handlers hated it. Anthony thought of his smart mouth as his most valued possession. His only possession, really.

Anthony nodded along to his handler’s words, giving himself a rest from investigating the command. Pushing back on things always gave him a headache, exhausted him. He’d need to keep his energy up for his next session. 

Anthony still had sit-down classes, particularly concerning language and technology, math and science. He’d been given some sort of stimulant, starting when he was still young and continuing later, that sped up his learning process enough that he was able to master languages within months, to understand chemical reactions and components within minutes. He’d been smart before, but he was practically a machine with it now. It had the upside for his handlers that his fluency was so high (that was a very valuable skill indeed). It had the downside that it also increased Anthony’s cleverness for defiance, flipping his mischief from irritating to dangerous. 

These classes were now interspersed with physical lessons as well. Withstanding various poisons (these were always at the end of the day, and left Anthony sick and weak for hours or days), shooting various types of guns, hand-to-hand combat, knife play, disguise. Everything a successful assassin might need to know to get the job done. 

He despised these lessons, had no desire to hurt anyone outside the monsters who held him. But he couldn’t refuse, and did his best to view these as training for revenge. 

Jebediah left him at a door, nodding at him to open it. Anthony sighed. He’d learned shortly after his evolution (even thinking the word made him nauseous) that the 'openings' he had seen were a highly sophisticated mechanism of a hidden door: it wasn’t that Jebediah was opening the doorways with his knocks, he was simply signaling to the technicians who watched to unlock it. 

Anthony figured out very quickly how to open these doors, to search the walls until he felt the pistons, to ease them carefully forward. The first time he’d tried, he’d broken it and been beaten for insubordination. The second time he’d been joyously successful, and then beaten for insubordination. 

Jebediah was the only one who encouraged the practice, wanting Anthony to keep his skills sharp. As Jebediah was usually the one leading him from place to place, getting through was as easy as breathing. 

If only he could make sense of the place, memorize the layout of the identical hallways and hidden doors. But he was constantly moving from place to place, taking strange pathways he didn’t recognize. The facility was a labyrinth, curling in on itself and twisting in and out of its own passages. Anthony was working on constructing a map, but each reprogramming stole a little bit away, again and again.

It seemed the only things the reprogramming didn’t touch was how to say “who do you work for” in every language, or how to kill someone with a very fashionable silk tie. 

Anthony sighed, reaching out with his mind, brushing against the wall before pushing through, finding the mechanism. He barely touched it: just a small tap, a single thought, before the door was sliding open. 

Jebediah nodded, pleased. “You’re getting faster,” he said. 

Anthony didn’t respond, and entered the room without looking at his handler. 

Inside, there was a ring. There were no mats or cushions, just an elevated platform, with long poles marking the edges and thick cords closing in the space. Anthony knew, from personal experience, that those cords could be electrified. 

His usual instructor was there, a tall woman with far-too-green eyes and a strange birthmark marring her face, thick lines of pink skin like tiger’s stripes. 

But there was someone else in the room, too, and that was new. 

A tall boy, who looked to be around Anthony’s age. Bulky build, blonde hair, blue eyes. He wore the same thing that Anthony wore: Grey sweats, white tee shirt. Thick boots laced with precision. He stood next to his—their—instructor, hands loose by his sides, face impassive. 

“Today, you will fight,” the instructor said, “until you cannot fight anymore. Do you understand?”

Anthony’s palms felt sweaty, his heart kicked up a notch. His instincts ordered him to leave because something was not right. But he could not run. She had issued an order of her own: you will fight until you cannot. 

Anthony nodded and approached the ring, and the other boy followed. 

“On my signal,” she began.

“Are there rules?” the other boy asked, glancing in her direction. Anthony watched him closely: he was nervous, too, but not hiding it very well. There was the slightest tremor in his hands, his jaw was too tight. 

The instructor ignored him, raising a hand. Anthony knew that when she lowered it the fight would begin.

She slashed her hand downward, and Anthony sprang into action. 

He was on the other boy in seconds, swinging his fist out to catch his jaw. The boy ducked, making a jab for Anthony’s stomach. The hit landed hard, the impact forcing Anthony to double over. He charged again, this time wrapping his arms around the boy's middle, shoving him back until he hit the cords that surrounded the ring. 

It was one of Anthony’s favorite tricks to use. He reached for his ability, urging the dim, negligible power to surge in that spot, creating a shock that sent the blonde to his knees. Anthony jumped back to avoid falling victim to his own power surge—even if it was his own, if he wasn’t focused, getting shocked still hurt like a bitch. 

The boy was on his feet quickly, vibrating with rage and residual electricity. He swung another punch, Anthony blocked it.

He quickly realized the predictable aspects of his opponent: swing, block, swing, try to sweep the feet, grapple, swing—

He was not as skilled a fighter as Anthony was, and they both knew it. 

The fight didn’t last long after that, after a few good hits and a couple grapples the blonde made a mistake, and eventually Anthony was able to get the other boy on the floor, slamming his head back with enough force to confuse him. While the boy was dazed, Anthony wrapped his hands around his neck, squeezing his windpipe until the boy fell unconscious. 

Anthony rolled off his opponent, focused only on catching his breath. 

“Very good, agent,” his instructor said, approaching the platform. “Turn off the charge on the ring.” 

Anthony nodded, reached out until he felt that familiar tug in his gut, cutting off the power source. 

She hopped up with ease, approaching slowly until she stood directly beside the fallen boy. 

“Kill him,” she said, meeting Anthony’s eyes. 

“What?” Anthony croaked out, doing his best to ignore the familiar buzz in the back of his head that accompanied an order. 

“Kill him. His performance was unsatisfactory, he is of no use to us.” 

Anthony rocked back on his heels, felt heat creeping down his neck. “That wasn’t part of the exercise,” he tried, voice hoarse from the effort it took to speak. 

“Now it is. I am ordering you, Agent, to kill him. It will be easy, he is helpless.” 

Anthony felt his hands shake, felt his body begin to obey the demand even though his mind was trying to force him to still. 

He focused on each of his limbs, begged them to still themselves. His hands shook from the effort. He clenched his jaw, teeth grinding painfully together, and he focused on the pain. He was a person. He had free will. He was a person. 

The boy didn’t stand a chance, he wasn’t as good. That didn’t mean he deserved to die. 

“No,” he growled, pain shooting down his spine, contorting his frame until he was face down on the floor gasping. “No, I won’t, it’s not his fault.” 

“Why are you fighting me, agent? Did I not make a demand?”

“You did.” He felt as if he was going to vomit, his eye twitched in a way that seemed only vaguely concerning at the moment. 

“And when I give an order, you are supposed to obey without thought, without question. Is that correct?” 

“It is.” His body was wracked with a searing pain; he fell completely to the floor, curling into the fetal position on his side. 

Kill him kill him kill him don’t kill him kill him kill him don’t 

“This is your last chance. Kill him now, or die. It is up to you. That is your choice.” 

His body screamed, but no sound left him. He kept his lips pressed firmly together, aware that if he released them the noise that came out would be far from dignifying. He felt like something in him was short circuiting, as if the strain was damaging something vital and necessary. He pushed out, searching for some way to ease the burden. He pushed, and pushed, until something cracked. 

“NO!” He shouted, and the lights embedded in the ceiling all shattered at once. The coils around the ring snapped and swung in the air like live wires. His skin buzzed, his eyes burned, and he couldn't see. His chest felt hot, his heart stuttering along to the tune of the now-exposed wiring of the room, and he felt it radiate out through his ribs, warming him, sapping everything from his body. The order, power, control, humanity—until he was gone, transformed into an exposed circuit, shorting out. 

The instructor stumbled backward, putting some distance between herself and the bomb on the floor. 

With a flat look, she pulled out a gun. 

He thought that he wouldn’t mind dying like this. His death would, at least, be swift. 

The shot echoed around the dark room, (and Anthony's vision was returning, just as strong in the dark as the light thanks to an operation the week before) but Anthony did not die. 

The blonde was gone in an instant, gore spraying and staining the ring in the place where his head used to be. 

The door to the room opened, and Jebediah stepped inside. 

“Your pet is a liability,” his instructor spat, taking aim. Anthony didn’t have the energy to feel offended, didn’t have the willpower to move out of the way. 

“The agent will be repaired,” Jebediah replied. “I am here to escort him.” 

“It is unpredictable.” 

“We have been too lax with his training. Clearly, that ends now.” 

Anthony felt his eyes grow heavy, felt his limbs succumb to pins and needles. He was out of fuel, out of hope. He didn’t react when he was lifted from his place on the floor, or when he was dragged from the room. His vision wouldn’t focus, couldn’t comprehend where he was being taken. 

He was strapped to a chair, hooked up to a machine. A man in a lab coat smiled at him, serene. 

“You’ve got some bugs, agent, but don’t you worry your silly little head over it.” 

The scientist glanced at Jebediah, who met Anthony’s eyes. “You will not touch the equipment with your power. You will not attempt to escape. You will not use your power at all. You will listen to the doctor, and you will follow his every word. Do you understand?”

Anthony didn’t have the ability to resist another command. He could barely keep his eyes open. He did his best to nod, barely moving his head. 

“You may begin, doctor. Please, be thorough.” 

“I most certainly will be,” the man in the coat said. 

Anthony’s screams could be heard from down the hall. 

Who was your father?

I don’t know.

What did your mother look like?

I don’t know.

Where are you, right now?

I don’t know.

Who are you?

I—

What is your name?

How old are you?

Where do you belong?

Here.

Who do you belong to? 

The Order. 

Will you obey your masters?

Yes.

Will you die for your masters?

Yes.

What is your name?

Subject number 358. 

1990

Subject 358 was integrated with a group of other trainees: fifteen others, each with unique abilities and strengths. It was only his second time meeting others that were not handlers or scientists. 

358 was not thrilled at first, his instincts screaming that others were pain, they were punishment, they were danger. But he did not have a choice, he was ordered to move to the group barracks. 

They all trained together as a class. They fought one another, but did not kill. They practiced various languages and completed chores to keep their barrack running. They were not friends, were hardly even allies. But they were something. Community. Interaction. Equals.

358 was suspicious of most of them, mindful of their temperaments. There was a girl who could leap over twenty feet in the air, or cross a room in a second flat, with a temper that often led her to starting altercations with others. There was a boy with skin as hard as metal, but all the confidence of a small, helpless child. He was often the target for harassment and jokes, something that 358 tried to avoid. 

There was another boy, though, that 358 got along with quite well. They weren’t close, there was no such thing as close for anyone there. But they often trained alongside one another, and helped one another with classroom assignments. The boy was what 358 would later call a Mimic: strong and fast, but not as much as others. Razor sharp teeth, but not as sharp as the more beastly initiates in their ranks. His true talent was his voice: with just the smallest taste of blood, or enough face-to-face interaction, and he could perfectly imitate someone’s voice. Their cadence, their language, even the patterns of speech they were most prone to use. It was unsettling at first, but 358 quickly grew used to it. They were all unsettling in their own ways, and 358 was not in a place to be particularly choosy about allies. 

He called him Simon, after the game Simon Says (though he never used the nickname where others could hear—they would both be punished for an infraction that severe.)

Once, when they were alone and practicing their Mandarin, 358 drew up the courage to say something truly insane. 

“All of us together, they wouldn’t be able to control us if we decided to do something.” 

Simon shot him a harsh look, leaning in close. “Best not let anyone hear you say that. You know what they do to the problem cases.” 

“I don’t, actually,” 358 said. It was not technically a lie: he could hardly remember at all what had happened last time he disobeyed an order. 

“They send you back to the labs, make you a brand new experiment. Turn you into a beast.” 

“What do you mean, a beast?” 

“My handler told me about it to encourage me not to slip in my studies. The failed experiments, either too weak or too defiant, are either disposed of or sent back to the lab for gene-splicing.”

“Aren’t we all a product of gene-splicing?” 358 wasn't sure if that was true, was just digging for information by that point. Jebediah never told him anything, barely spoke to him anymore. He told him he was a mutt, a product to be used, that he had no right to be asking questions or seeking answers. 358 hated not knowing things, and tried to get information in whatever way was possible. 

“It’s not the same,” Simon shook his head. “We are the result of directed mutation, or proven things that work. You were chosen specifically for your treatment, all the subjects with abilities are. I was given one that had proven efficacy, they do it all the time. All of us, the sixteen here, are the best of the best in our subject area. But those who aren’t the best become guinea pigs. Mixed up with whatever they have in the lab, twisted up on the DNA level until they aren’t human anymore.”

358 felt bile rise in his throat. “Why did your handler tell you all of this?”

“Probably because I behave.” 

“I behave!”

“You talk back. If you weren’t so damned talented, you’d probably be half-dog by now.” 

358 couldn’t come up with a good response to that. 

The trainees still received various treatments: something to make you faster, or enhance your hearing, or improve your healing speed. 358 quickly lost track of all the little tweaks and nudges made to his biology, just grateful none of them involved his teeth (because though Simon was cool and all, his razor-sharp smile wasn't exactly nice looking). 

Over the years, 358 felt himself growing used to the rhythm of things: train, learn, practice, treatments, punishment, train, programming, train. A year passed and he had formed a shaky alliance with another girl called 298. Another year passed and he had a harsh rivalry with a boy called 356. 

He was getting better at the work, he was losing little pieces of himself along the way. He couldn’t look in the mirror, horrified by the small cracks of light that had begun to show in his irises, or the glowing blue lines that spread across his chest, emanating from his heart. The doctors said it was a side effect of him blowing out his power, but he couldn’t remember doing that. The memory was likely taken from him. 

He stopped fighting, for the most part. He was beaten down, repeatedly, until he didn’t speak much at all when his handlers addressed him. He stopped caring when he was ignored, finding the smallest bit of comfort that at least he had his fellow initiates on his side. 

1994

Four years after they all met, 358 was informed that it was time for graduation. 

When he asked what that entailed, he was ignored. He was used to it by then. 

Jebediah entered his room, the bunks he shared with three others: Simon, a fire-breather, and a Hunter, ordering him to get up. The other handlers were there as well. Without a word, they followed.

This memory was particularly fuzzy for 358, not because they were stolen from him. He'd have gladly given them away if he'd had the choice. Graduation had taken a piece of him, something very, very important. Something very human. 358 had felt a shift in his psyche, a crack in the core of him. Moments like that were hard to hold onto if you want to maintain any imitation of sanity. 

358 remembered flashes of the ceremony: 

He and his three roommates were led into a room and stood before a man none of them had ever seen before. They were told that it was the director of The Order. 

They were told that only one of the four would be graduating. 

358 knew that the fighting broke out immediately, knew that he’d sustained a severe burn on his arm. He remembered what it felt like to crush someone’s throat, to feel a body go lax beneath his hands. He remembered what it felt like to step over that body and go for another kill. 

He knew that he had been shocked by the ferocity that Simon had attacked him with. Knew that the Mimic had taken on Jebediah’s voice and ordered him to sit, stay, good doggy. 

He remembered what it felt like to feel those razor sharp teeth dig into his neck. 

He knew that he had reached out with his power, desperation trampling his physical limits as blood sprayed from his body, as Simon’s jaws tightened against his skin. He knew that he found that small, almost imperceptible spark of energy that lay within the chip they all shared, the chip that gave him a direct line to his only friend’s brain.

He knew that he pushed. 

He remembered what it looked like to watch a man’s brain overheat, to see someone writhe and seize and jerk until they were finally, finally still. 

He remembered lying on the ground, bleeding heavily. 

He remembered being the last one alive. 

He knew that out of sixteen initiates, only four remained.

They were ordained Mercenaries of The Order, numbered One to Four. 

358 was granted the title of MOTO4. 

358 remembered that in that moment, staring at his ally's lifeless body, a conversation they had once had came to mind. And 358 realized that it didn’t matter what the handlers and scientists did to those who failed. It didn’t matter if they played with their DNA or turned them into dogs. They had already lost their humanity. 

358 realized that he was an animal. A beast. 

And beasts must kill to survive. 

1995—2015

358, or MOTO4, was a very skilled mercenary. 

The Order continued their training, never allowing them to stop sharpening their skills. A new addition, however, was guest instructors. While many Order employees still taught the mercenaries, mostly those with powers complementary to or similar to the agents, they also brought in experts in other fields. 

They learned disguise from a master, learned to shoot from the best snipers in the intelligence community. 

358 couldn’t remember the guests well, however. They were not around very long, and with the frequency his programming occurred by that point, the details of their appearance or skill often faded, with only the skills learned remaining to show they had ever been there at all. 

Sometimes he thought he remembered some detail of a trainer—a flash of metal, darkly painted eyes, a vicious grin—but those memories were painful. Actually, physically painful. He was usually sick afterward, or left grappling with a headache that felt like a blade to the eye. 

Another new addition was the mercenaries’ ability to leave the Forest. Never unsupervised, always accompanied by a handler. 358 knew that missions occurred, knew that he was doing some job. But after he returned, they always ensured that the details were erased quickly after. Sometimes, he was told or allowed to remember pieces if they were particularly entertaining or useful. Those occasions were rare, and never very clear. 

358 knew that he’d seen the sky, seen outside again. But he didn’t remember what it looked like. 

He fine-tuned his power, under the strict supervision of his handlers. He rarely spoke, preferring to follow his commands so that he could get some time to himself. 

He no longer lived among others, back to having his own private rooms. 

He hated his handlers, hated the doctors who still did their treatments, even though he’d already won. He hated them so intensely that sometimes he thought it might burn him up inside, finally destroying the last thread that kept his mind tied to his body. He thought about drifting away, leaving everything behind. He thought about frying his own chip, just as he had done years ago to kill the Mimic. 

He was forbidden from touching his own tech, though.

He no longer had any thoughts of rebellion. Those had been stolen from him a long, long time ago.

Chapter Text

2016

Bucky

“Why do I know you?” Bucky demanded, leaning closer to the man on the floor. 

The agent practically growled, apparently finding a new source of strength as he tried to push up from the floor. Steve grunted, pressing harder against the imprisoned figure. The man narrowed his eyes and bared his teeth.

Natasha’s left widow’s bite sparked, slowly at first, before a sudden shower of light began flying from her wrist. She held her arm away from her body, reaching over to try and dislodge the device before it could burn her. Steve looked back, trying to find out why she had begun cursing up a storm.

It was exactly the distraction the agent needed. He jerked his shoulder up, temporarily throwing Steve off balance. He dislodged his arm, reaching up to try and do something, but before he could—

Bucky snarled out another short, guttural phrase, the Russian coming to him as naturally as breathing. The words flowed easily, without a thought. “I told you to heel.” 

The agent on the floor froze, his movement stuttering against his own will. He let his arm fall to the ground, his breathing grew labored, his eyes squeezed shut. He looked like he was anticipating a hit. 

Bucky felt his throat grow thick with something akin to guilt. But that didn’t make any sense, this man was an enemy. He wanted to kill his team, to kill Steve. If a simple command was enough to subdue him, then it was a necessary measure to protect everyone. 

So why did it feel so wrong?

The room was silent outside the hoarse drone of the agent’s heavy breathing, and the clang of Natasha’s widow's bite as it fell to the floor. 

Eventually, Steve looked up at Bucky, eyes hard. “Who is this?” 

Bucky knew why he was asking, he had the same question himself. Why did Bucky feel such intense familiarity with the man who was trying to kill them? With a man in a horrific place full of labyrinthine corridors and awful white creatures who screamed? The same man that was almost certainly controlling the lights and sabotaging their equipment? The man who listened to every word Bucky said, so long as Bucky said it the right way? 

Bucky knew that there were pieces of his past that were missing, moments in time that had been taken from him. He was doing his best to heal, to weave together his past and present in any way that made sense.

The memories from his time as The Winter Soldier, a prisoner to Hydra’s demands, were painful. Almost too horrific for him to bear. But he also needed them. He needed to know why some things hurt so much to see, to hear. To know why he felt like he was covered in a stain that he couldn’t remove. Because maybe if he knew, he’d figure out how to clean it off. He was trying to uncover everything, but the things that came back, the way they came back, made no sense. He saw flashes of faces and heard segments of conversations, he was plagued with phantom pains and emotions. 

Bucky knew that his recognition of the man, the bone-deep knowing devoid of any useful context, meant that he had met this person while under HYDRA’s control. 

But why? When? Why was this agent different, when the others didn’t ring any bells at all?

“I don’t know,” Bucky mumbled, squinting his eyes at the person in question. He was still, coiled and ready to spring but holding back. The glow in his eyes was dulled, almost imperceptible. If he focused, Bucky could trace the shape of their circuit-like patterns across the man’s iris. 

“Obviously you know him,” Clint argued, an arrow knocked in his bow. “You managed to talk him down.” Clint wasn’t aiming the weapon at anyone, Bucky was relieved to note. He didn’t know why he was so relieved that the mercenary was not in immediate danger. 

“He’s—I—” Bucky tried to breathe, running a hand through his hair. “I think I met him when I was…” 

Steve’s eyes widened with understanding. “Is he an ally or an enemy?”

Of course the mercenary chose that moment to actually growl.

Bucky found that his decision came rather easily: he did not appreciate having such a huge, glaring blind spot in his past. Ally or enemy, the man was important. He knew this to be true. He was determined to figure out why. 

Ignoring Steve’s question, praying that nobody would pry any further, Bucky turned his attention back on the mercenary. “Get up,” he barked. “You’re coming with us.” 

The man immediately moved to stand and Steve stumbled back, allowing the movement. Natasha glared at Bucky, Clint looked the most shocked Bucky had ever seen him. It didn’t matter though, not when the man stood at attention, chin raised with a glare of defiance. 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Steve asked, shield already held at the ready, prepared to defend at a moment’s notice. 

“He just tried to kill us,” Clint pointed out, irritation coloring his tone.

“He knows this place, knows what we’re up against,” Bucky snapped, raising an arm. “It’s got to be better than running around aimlessly into traps.” 

Natasha crossed her arms. “Can you control him?” She asked, glaring pointedly at her useless weapon on the floor. 

“I think so,” Bucky squared his shoulders, hoping he wasn’t being a complete idiot. He looked at the man, tried to make his voice as authoritative as possible. “You will lead us out of here.” If tone mattered, then this would prove it. If the orders required Russian, he could manage that. He just wouldn’t prefer it. “You will not attack any of the people in this room, or intentionally lead us toward any traps. Can you manage that?”

The man’s jaw tensed, he clenched and unclenched his fists. “Understood,” he snapped, voice husky and thick as if he were forcing it through a passage that hadn’t been used in a long time. “I can open a door.” 

“Then do that,” Bucky barked, watching as the man approached an empty wall. The passage he had entered through had long ago disappeared, sometime when they were distracted by the fight. The mercenary pressed a hand against the blank wall. 

A moment later, the wall was sliding away to reveal a long hallway. 

“Is it clear to go through?” Natasha asked, voice laced with suspicion.

“I’ll do my best,” the agent snapped. “But I’m not the only one who can open things. We’ll need to move quickly.” 

“How can we trust you?” Steve asked, stepping toward the man, eyes wide. It was clear he wanted this to work out, and wanted to trust Bucky’s judgement. The blind faith was almost enough to shake Bucky’s confidence entirely. 

“You can’t trust me,” the man said. “I was ordered not to lead you to a trap, so I won’t. That’s all I can guarantee.” 

“Gee, that’s comforting,” Clint muttered, adjusting his hold on his bow. 

“Let’s get moving,” Bucky snapped, “before more of them find us.” 

“You’ve already been found,” the agent said, flat and toneless. “You’re as good as dead.” 

“Lovely,” Natasha said. “Lead the way to not-certain-death, please.”

The man stepped into the passage. 

Of course, the team would not allow their prisoner to lead them all alone. Clint walked in front, eyes tracing every wall and corner for a hint of a secret passageway. Bucky was almost certain the doors were so well-hidden that even Hawkeye couldn’t spot them, but he didn't say so. 

Bucky walked directly beside the agent, shooting glances his way just about every other step. The man hardly looked up from the floor, walking with his head bowed. Every so often the man’s eyes shot up, and Bucky swore he saw some kind of emotion flash each time. Was it fear? Pain? Bucky couldn’t be certain, it was hard to discern any emotion in those strange, almost robotic eyes. 

Natasha was only a step behind them, knife gripped firmly in her hand, eyes glued to the back of the agent’s head. Bucky was pretty sure she was taking the loss of her tech pretty personally. Steve was by her side, shield in hand, eyes skating behind them every so often in an attempt to defend their flank. 

The agent’s eyes flicked rapidly corner to corner, occasionally stopping for a split-second on the people surrounding him. Occasionally he would grunt for them to stop, press his hand against a wall, and somehow make another passageway magically appear before them. 

“This place is like a maze,” Steve muttered, eyes sharp. Bucky agreed; he’d been trying to keep track of the directions they took, create a map by paces and turns as they walked, but it didn’t make sense. They’d been curling back and forth and over top of paths their whole journey. There was no way to tell if they’d repeated any of the hallways they traversed through as all were identical, the doors closing behind them as soon as they passed through. They were relying on blind trust to make their way through, and it was seeming a worse idea the longer Bucky thought about it. 

“The hallways move,” the agent grunted, “it’s not a trap.” 

“That’s a totally normal thing for hallways to do,” Clint mused, and Bucky could tell he was nearing the end of his rope. “Not a strange thing to say at all.” 

“How do they move?” Natasha asked, shoulders tight. 

“I’ve never been told the specifics,” the agent snapped, “but I can see the map.” 

“That’s also super normal,” Clint laughed. “Of course he can see the map. The map that totally exists, the map that we can all clearly see in front of him.” 

“Can you show us the map?” Bucky asked, trying to speak gently. He did not like the person he sounded like when he spoke to the agent, felt sick when he ordered him around. Bucky knew that it was a necessary evil, that the agent was an enemy within enemy territory. But he wanted to sound like that as little as possible. 

“Yes,” the agent said, though he made no indication that he intended to do so. They fell silent again. 

Bucky could feel the question bubbling out of Steve before he heard it, it was just that predictable. “What’s your name?” 

The agent ignored him, pressing his hand against the wall. 

Steve shot a look at Bucky, subtly tilting his head in the agent’s direction. He wanted him to ask. 

Bucky sighed, cleared his throat. “What’s your name, agent?”

The man scowled, hissing the answer through clenched teeth. “MOTO4.” 

“That’s a weird name,” Clint laughed. 

“That’s a callsign, not a name,” Bucky pointed out, a touch of dread coiling up inside him. 

“My friends call me ‘Subject 358’. 358 for short.” The agent’s face was flat despite the brighter tone of voice. Bucky couldn’t tell if it was meant to be a joke. 

“You don’t have a name?” Steve asked, eyes softening almost imperceptibly. Bucky felt something inside him loosen: Steve would always side with the little guy, the one who was beaten down by a system larger than himself. If nothing else, Bucky might be able to count on a little backup on his insane plan to keep the enemy close.

Though the agent did not seem to share in Bucky’s optimism. He actually growled at Steve. 

“358—” Bucky began, quickly cut off.

“We are not friends,” the agent reminded him. 

“MOTO4,” Bucky corrected, trying to pretend the words weren’t sour on his tongue, “what are you?”

“I am MOTO4. I am what I am called.” 

“But what does that mean?” Natasha asked, eyes narrowing. She idly twirled her blade between her fingers. Bucky had recently discerned that she did that when she was trying to work something out, when she felt like she was close to the solution but was still missing a piece. 

“Fuck off,” the agent snapped. It seemed the time for jokes was over. 

Natasha, impossibly, glared even harder. 

The silence seemed harsher, the vibe of the group inconsistent. Clint kept scoffing and chuckling to himself, as if their current situation was simply too ridiculous to comprehend. Steve was brooding silently, the heaviness of his empathy weighing against his desire to protect his team. Natasha was tense, thinking hard enough Bucky could almost see the thoughts as they swirled in a cloud above her head. 

It was impossible to get a read on their unwilling companion, Subject 358. He seemed both flighty and grounded, angry yet calm. 

Bucky felt rather conflicted. His chest was lighter, filled with some kind of dim relief at having the man by his side. Yet he also felt just about ready to shoot the next person he saw, whether it be a familiar face or not. He wanted to figure the man out, bonus points if doing so helped save his team. But he also didn’t want to be the reason they all got killed. 

It was impossible to tell the passage of time in the identical, windowless corridors. Bucky knew that they had arrived at the facility at dawn, knew that his frame was beginning to tweak from the early stages of exhaustion. He knew that they had been walking for a long, long, time, with the frequency of their guide’s twists and turns increasing exponentially over time. 

“Where are you taking us?” Bucky asked, glancing down at the man. His brow was furrowed with concentration, his gaze seemed distant as though he were viewing something far beyond the plain white walls around them. 

“There’s an exit, but it’s surrounded,” the agent huffed, tilting his head as if he were seeing something that confused him. “They are closing in on our location. It’s getting harder to avoid them.” 

“Are they surrounding us?” Natasha asked. 

“There is only so much I can do to keep them away,” he snapped. “Between the cameras, the doors, the map, I’m stretched thin.” 

“I think it’s about time we face facts and realize we’re not getting out of her without a fight,” Clint said. “Is there a way you can get us out of here, some kind of shortcut that limits our exposure to enemies without avoiding them entirely?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then we should go that way,” Steve said, voice firm. 

“I will not be able to help in a fight,” 358 warned. 

“You will if you want to stay alive,” Natasha said. 

“That’s not how it works,” 358 growled. 

Bucky’s stomach turned. “We’ll figure it out.” 

The constant mantra in his head grew louder:

Something is wrong something is wrong something is wrong

“Show us the shortcut, MOTO4.” Bucky straightened his back, checked his weapons. “We need to get out of here.” 

The agent frowned, but nodded. He pressed his hand to the wall, and they stepped through the door into another large atrium. “We need to cross to the other side,” the agent began, walking quickly, almost jogging. “But there are many entrances into this space, it’s only a matter of time before—”

He never got to finish his sentence. 

Within an instant, a dozen separate openings appeared along the walls, coming from every side of the room. People poured through, few matching their companions in outfit or descriptor. Some were soldiers, wearing dark canvas fatigues with heavy guns slung over their shoulders, heavy helmets concealing their features. There were more of the white things they had previously encountered, tall thin shapes with far-too-long arms and faces morphed into a permanent wailing mask. They were horrifying in the light. People came through dressed in sweat suits, looking human outside one or two odd features. There were people gnashing razor sharp teeth, people with eyes that glowed every color possible. 

“Shit,” Clint mumbled, raising up his bow. 

“I thought we told you to limit exposure,” Natasha hissed, checking her gun’s ammunition. 

“You also asked for a shortcut,” the agent snapped. 

Bucky could hardly process the scene in front of him, the mass of impossible people that were quickly surrounding their group. “How many of you are there?” He asked, voice low. 

“Thousands,” the man said. “They’re going to have me to kill you, by the way.” 

“What?” Bucky turned quickly on his heel, and noticed the way the man flinched. 

“Unless you get ahead of it, maybe. Give me your own orders.”

“I don’t know what you—”

“Shut up and think. You’ve been doing it this whole time, you have the clearance.” The agent was still as stone, all apart from his eyes. They were scanning the room, occasionally pausing on individual faces and figures in a crowd that was nearly indiscernible to Bucky. He seemed distracted, calculating something in his head, solving some problem that Bucky wasn't privy to. “You know exactly what’s about to happen.” 

Bucky felt something in his head click. The words tripped on his tongue, but fell out all the same. Thick Russian, syllables that were well-practiced despite Bucky feeling almost certain they’d never passed his lips before. 

“Protocol 022. Defend this team. Lethal force permitted.” 

The mercenary nodded, the corner of his lip quirking up in a way that wasn't happy but was certainly... something. His took his gun in his hand. He murmured something that Bucky couldn't quite make out through the clamoring of bodies filling the space, but by reading his lips, it looked an awful lot like "finally." 

It was impossible to say with any sort of chronological certainty what happened next. 

The lights went dark for only a moment before flickering back to life, as the doors along the wall began opening and closing with stuttering uncertainty. All except one: a door along the opposite wall, directly in the center. It hung open as an invitation, a clear indication of their next direction. 

The legions fell in quickly, devoid of formation as guns, claws, and screams filled the air. Natasha began to shoot in rapid succession, swinging around, trusting her team to protect her six. Steve ran forward, always on the front line, shield a red-white-and-blue blur that cut through waves of figures. Clint was a whirlwind, lunging and spinning and rolling about, bow never empty for longer than a second. An explosion went off in one direction, a flare burning away enemies in another. 

358, their… hostage? ran forward, slit a throat, and stepped over the body without hesitation, not sparing a thought for the person who was, at one point, his ally. Which was probably a great indicator for how positively he viewed Bucky and the team. 

Bucky had only one goal: forward. Whatever they did, whatever it took, he was going to ensure his team crossed that room. 

He shot his gun with one arm, using his metal limb to push and toss anyone who got too close. A man covered in sharp spines tried to ram into Natasha’s side, but Bucky lifted him up and threw him into the crowd, hardly acknowledging the cries that followed. One of the thin white creatures appeared by their side within the blink of an eye, and Bucky focused his energy on landing a shot. It moved quickly, blinking in and out of existence, but it was still human. It still bled.

It took four direct shots to the chest to take it down.

Bucky felt something leap onto his back, pushing him forward and almost onto his knees. A moment later the weight was gone, the only presence behind him being their allied agent, spattered with blood. 

Without a word, he was diving back into the fray. 

Bucky lost track of how many he killed: It seemed for every step they managed to take forward, they were soon forced another three back. Their enemies seemed to understand their relentless push and fought hard to keep them in place. If before they were fighting to subdue rather than kill, they were far beyond that now. Bucky had been slashed and battered, forced to focus on his own life and slowly neglecting defending the others. 

He kept one eye on the agent, however: how quickly he moved, the ferocity he used to fight. Bucky watched as he snapped a neck, stabbed a throat. He was aiming to kill, not maim, not disarm. He was a ruthless force of focused brutality, catching enemies off guard that didn’t expect his attack. He barely acknowledged the team, who he was meant to defend. It seemed he’d taken the lethal force command very seriously. 

Bucky growled as a man tried to bite his metal arm, growing even more frustrated when he saw that the teeth actually scraped the material. He swung his fist, feeling bone crack beneath the impact. 

He heard Clint cry out somewhere behind him and swung around, already running in his direction. He was surrounded by figures in sweats, features a mix of mangled and average, builds all leaning toward buff. None were visibly armed, yet somehow they had gotten a highly trained assassin on the ground. 

Clint writhed on the floor, and Bucky spotted a flash of metal. Bodies were descending, piling on top of his teammate while he was down. Bucky sprinted, ducking limbs and bullets without a second though, shoving bodies aside without registering who or what it belonged to. 

Clint screamed and cursed, and the sound shook Bucky's entire frame. He saw Natasha approaching from another side before her form was completely blotted out by a swarm of enemies. Steve was focused on his own fight, too far to help. 

Bucky pushed himself to run even faster. 

He was far, too far, he could see blood pooling on the floor, saw one of the attackers fall limp, but there were so many of them. He couldn’t see Clint, couldn’t see how bad the injury was. 

A hulking figure blocked his path; Bucky tried to duck around it without processing what was even there. A mistake; a massive fist, easily the size of his own head, rammed into his side. Bucky fell hard; he could already feel the bruises forming along his hip. His head slammed against the floor, his vision whiting-out at the impact. As soon as he could see again, he looked up and was momentarily stunned by what he saw: 

It was a...figure, easily the size of three men put together. Its limbs were wrong, arms far too long for its body with hands the size of boulders, while its legs trembled and bent under its incredible weight. Veins popped grotesquely against its skin, and its teeth protruded at odd angles from a mouth that took up three-quarters of the beast’s face. It was like the Hulk but distorted, a fun-house mirror reflection of a valued ally and teammate. 

The colossal thing stomped, and Bucky had to roll out of the way or risk being crushed. He rose to his feet, squinting through the near-blindingly painful concussion he'd surely agitated with his movement. It would heal itself quickly, if he actually had a chance to heal, but Bucky wasn’t entirely confident that would happen. He’d lost his team in the wave of bodies, they were separated to the point Bucky wasn’t even sure he could find them again. But he could find Clint: all he had to do was follow the shouts and curses, only a few feet away.

With renewed vigor, Bucky aimed his gun and fired half a dozen rounds. Each shot met its mark, landing across the beast’s broad chest and shoulders, but they seemed to have little effect. The beast slapped at the wounds, huffing as if they were as consequential as mosquito bites, even as blood began to drip down its skin. He raised a fist, throwing it down quickly enough that an average man would have been crushed. 

Bucky was, not for the first time, very glad he was not an average man. 

He fired again, grateful that it at least served as a distraction as he tried to find a way to get the thing down. Everything had a weak point, a vulnerability to exploit.

The beast roared when Bucky’s bullet landed a direct hit at a previous wound, and Bucky realized exactly where he needed to target. He aimed for the thing’s mouth, trying to fire before it shut it again. He was too slow. 

It barreled straight for him, a horrifying battering ram that forced Bucky to maneuver out of the way again. It was a game of cat and mouse: shoot, dodge, shoot, roll. Luckily, it seemed to trample a few of its companions as collateral damage in its pursuit. But Bucky was getting tired, and the beast was not, and he needed to end this now.

The beast roared again, throwing its head back with rage. 

Bucky aimed. 

The shot landed, barreling straight through the roof of its massive maw, exiting out the top of its skull. It crumbled immediately, falling to the floor as if in slow motion. It crushed at least three enemies when it hit the floor. 

Bucky didn’t waste time watching the body grow cold: he looked around, desperately trying to reorient himself amongst the chaos that surrounded him. He had to find Clint, Clint was down and injured and he had lost him.

Bucky didn’t stop shooting as he desperately scanned the room, straining his ears for the sound of his friend. He couldn’t be dead, not yet. Clint was a strong fighter, even on the ground. Bucky had only been distracted for a minute, that wasn’t enough time for—

Bucky spotted the pile of bodies on the floor, with more crowding in on the same spot. He beelined without a second thought. 

But he was far, further now than he had been before, forced to move around when fighting his own enemy. There was more blood pooling, bordered by boot marks that tracked to and from the spot in a grotesque demonstration of just how screwed Clint was.

He saw a body crumple back, but another took its place within seconds. 

Bucky shot into the crowd. He got in a hit or two, but it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t enough. 

Then, there was a flash of light, a blur, and an enemy fell. A writhing commotion as another body joined the fray, picking off enemies quickly and efficiently. Bucky wondered for a moment if Natasha had made it before he did, but then he saw the blue. He knew that blue. 

Subject 358 was on the pile, yanking bodies back by the hair, leaping onto backs and slamming his knife into enemies. The attackers seemed confused at first, unsure whether they were meant to fight back. The agent took the opportunity to destroy them. A blade to the chest, a duck under a plume of flame. Grabbing his assailant’s skull and directing the flame to obliterate another group of attackers. He was thinning the crowd with a blank face, killing as if he weren't from the same crop that they were. Maybe he wasn’t, for all Bucky knew. He was certainly more skilled, more aggressive than they seemed to be. 

Bucky reached them when there were only a few left to pick off, snapping bones and crushing windpipes without sparing a thought for the lives he was ending. He felt it, then. The Winter Soldier, the ice-cold bloodlust that had led his life for so long. For the first time, he leaned into it rather than away. It was needed. It was a horrible thing, something he’d lie awake remembering for weeks to come. But it was necessary for his team to make it out alive. 

When he was finally able to see Clint, his stomach flipped. He was pale, bleeding heavily from one shoulder. It was hard to see the severity of the wound through the black tac gear, but Bucky knew enough about first aid to recognize that it wasn’t okay. He leaned down, grabbed the forearm of Clint’s good arm and lifted him up. He pretended not to see a flash of pain and nausea cross his friend’s face. 

“Can you still shoot?” He growled, leaning in close. 

Clint nodded slightly. “Not my bow. But I can use a gun.” His voice shook. 

Bucky nodded resolutely, placing himself firmly on Clint’s bad side. He would not allow them to be separated again. 

Subject 358 appeared at his side, stopping Bucky from moving with a shove to his chest. “They’ve noticed me,” he said. 

“Ignore them,” Bucky growled. 

“That’s not how it works,” 358 spat, gripping his gun tightly. His eyes flicked to the side; with machine-like precision he fired twice. 

“It is now!” Bucky mustered all the authority he could muster, his desperation and his anger. He couldn’t find his team, they were already half a man down. They could not lose another person and make it out alive. “Their words mean nothing to you, their orders are meaningless. You report to me.” 

The agent nodded, something flickering in his gaze. Bucky had seen it before: something akin to resignation, to submission. To fear. He paused, as if to say something. But he just nodded before turning away.

A moment later he was gone, back in the fray. “We need to regroup,” Bucky said to Clint. “I’ve lost the others.” 

Clint nodded, setting his jaw and raising his gun. “Off we go, then.” He was trying to hide it, but Clint was graying at the edges, flagging. Adrenaline was likely the only thing keeping him on his feet. Bucky really hoped it would last. 

It was harder to move and orient himself while also keeping track of Clint, who was moving slower than they could afford. Regardless, Natasha was soon by their side, the tips of her hair burnt, parts of her suit gashed to reveal shallow cuts that lazily oozed blood. If he looked closely, Bucky could see that she was favoring one foot over the other.

“We’ve hardly made progress,” she said. 

“We need to keep pushing,” Bucky said. 

“Where’s Steve?” Clint asked, looking around. 

“Up ahead. He’s been pushing through with his shield.” Natasha shot a look at Bucky, and unfortunately he understood exactly what she was trying to convey: there were too many of them, they were too unpredictable. They were already worse for wear, still shooting even as they conferred with one another. She wasn’t sure they were going to get out. 

“We can’t go back,” Bucky said. 

To their left, Bucky heard a commotion. 

“I gave you an order, MOTO4! Retreat to your quarters immediately!” 

Bucky swung around to find the source, watched as their ally spasmed and fell to the ground, gritting his teeth. A moment later he was stumbling back to his feet, swiping a gun off someone nearby to shoot the officer who had said the command. He fled back into the crowd, burying himself in the fray before anyone could properly react to his actions. 

“They’re going to go after him,” Natasha said blandly, already beginning to push forward. “We should try to lose him, escape while they’re distracted.” 

“Tash,” Clint began to say, but shut his mouth when she shot him a nasty look. 

“I made him do that, I’m not just going to leave him to get killed!” Bucky argued, slamming someone aside as they continued forward. 

“Maybe you should focus more on getting your team out alive, instead of the enemy that led us into this mess!” Natasha shouted, ramming her remaining widow's bite into someone’s skull.

Before Bucky could respond, the agent in question appeared at his side, slashing someone’s throat as he ran. “They’re going to execute a force-disengage in about thirty seconds,” he said, speaking quickly. He sounded the most frantic he had since they’d commandeered him. “Any experiments in the room—which includes most of us, by the way—will be incapacitated immediately, to assure that there are no other breaches of programming. They have no choice, not after I killed my handler. You’re welcome, by the way.” He didn't seem to broken up about it. He seemed more like he'd been given a shot of adrenaline.

“Wait, your handler—what do you mean force-disengage, what’s going to happen?” Bucky tried to train his attention on the man, but as they pushed forward the throng of enemies grew thicker, more aggressive. It was impossible to keep his eyes in one place for more than a second. 

“We don’t have time,” 358 hissed. “When you hear the signal, that will be your chance. Use whatever means necessary and get out. I will try to keep the door open, but I can’t guarantee that my control will hold when I go down. That’s all I can do to protect you.” 

“Your control?” Another shot, another duck.

358’s eyes were faraway, yet he still managed to dodge an incoming blow. “Get your friends and run like hell, don’t look back. Not everyone will go down, but don’t go out of your way to take anyone out. Once you get outside, they’ll likely stop their pursuit. You’ll be on your own, so—”

“I’m not just going to leave you behind,” Bucky snapped, glaring for the second he was allowed. 

“You won’t have a choice,” the agent said. “I’ll be disengaged.” 

“I still don’t know what—”

Bucky was unable to articulate his frustration, because the room was soon filled with the most ear-splitting, high-pitched tone he had heard in his life. Immediately, bodies began to hit the floor: those in casual sweats, the sharp-toothed soldiers, the people who looked slightly-less than human. The agent beside him grunted once, face twisting, before he too fell to his knees. 

Bucky could hardly think past the noise, it was vibrating his brain inside his skull. It came from every direction, closing in until all Bucky could think was get away make the noise go away.

He took another step forward, ready to run. Then he stopped. He looked down. Bodies were still falling, writhing on the ground. Subject 358, MOTO4, the man who Bucky knew that he knew, was among them. Writhing. In pain. 

Because Bucky had ordered him to sacrifice himself for the team. 

Because Bucky had demanded he turn himself into canon fodder. 

He really had no choice in the matter. 

Bucky leaned down, hauled the man over his shoulder, and broke into a sprint. Clint and Natasha were just ahead, not bothering to check and see if he followed. He could see Steve now that the crowd had thinned considerably, waiting ahead for them with wide eyes. Bucky realized, suddenly, that the man had no clue what was happening. 

There were still soldiers in the room, the men with guns, but they were easier to avoid now that they were clearly marked. Bucky leapt and stepped, doing his best to avoid tangling his legs in the bodies on the floor. 

“What’s going on?” Steve shouted to be heard over the racket that surrounded them. 

“Just run!” Bucky shouted, shoving him forward. He glanced at Clint and Natasha, who had fallen in closer. Clint’s face was twisted up in pain, and Bucky watched as he nearly tripped while passing a soldier. One blocked their path, and Bucky spotted the source of the noise. 

Steve rammed the soldier with his shield, throwing him aside. “Grab his radio!” Bucky shouted, and Steve complied, looking confused. With the sound so close to the group, Clint looked like he was about to vomit. Natasha muttered something to him, gesturing to her ears. Clint’s eyes widened, and he raised his hands, wincing as he jostled his ruined shoulder while turning his hearing aids off. 

They reached the doorway, which had remained open despite the agent’s limp form on his shoulder. They fled down the hall in a dead-sprint, not stopping even when Bucky could feel his lungs screaming for air. The body on his shoulder twitched, whined. 

Bucky ran even harder. 

“There’s a door up ahead!” Steve shouted. 

“Run through it!” Natasha shouted, face flushed with exertion. He could see her limp more clearly now, her stride faltering with each step on the polished white floors. 

Steve didn’t have to be told twice. 

They burst outside, chests heaving, the radio still shrieking the same ear-splitting tone. Steve grimaced, fiddling with the switches until the sound stopped. Natasha signaled to Clint that it was safe to turn his hearing aids back on. 

It was dusk, the sky a dim orange-pink. The trees looked more imposing at night, long stretches of shadow painting stripes of black and gray on the ground.

“We need to move,” Natasha gasped, voice gravelly. It was easy to see how banged up she was in the relative calm of the evening. She was more out-of-breath than Bucky had ever seen her, leaning heavily to one side to avoid placing any weight on her left leg. She had bruises along her jaw and likely more hidden beneath her clothes, which were torn and stuck to her body with blood. “They’re probably mobilizing a party to find us by now.” 

“We need to rest,” Steve argued, gesturing to the state of the group. Clint was pale, leaning heavily against Steve as if he would fall over if forced to carry his own weight. Bucky tried to inspect the wound on his shoulder, but between the dim light and black of his gear it was impossible to see how bad it really was. 

Even Steve was worse for wear: the middle of his suit was stained red, enough that a not-super-soldier would likely be on the floor. His hair was a mess, and long gashes marked his face, arms, and legs. 

Bucky, taking stock of himself, noted that he was dizzier than was absolutely normal, the concussion he had so stiffly ignored forcing itself into the front of his mind. His metal arm was scratched and dented and he felt some sort of wound stinging on his back, though he didn’t remember getting hit there. His body was desperate to shut down, fatigue settling into every single muscle in his body. 

Subject 358 was still limp and twitching on Bucky’s shoulder. He had a wound on his side from 358 stabbing him, though based on the agent’s current state, he figured he could forgive him.

“We have medical supplies on the jet,” Natasha snapped, “which the non-serumed members of this team need fast.” 

Clint sighed, looking at her softly. “The plane is a mile out, Tash. I don’t know that I’ll make it that far right now.” 

“I’ll drag you if I have to,” Natasha growled. 

“I think we can all agree,” Bucky said, hoping to make peace, “that staying here is not an option. We can’t just sit here waiting for them to come out. We’ll start in the direction of the plane and rest if we need it.” 

“And you will leave him behind,” Natasha said, narrowing her eyes. 

Bucky felt his arms tighten involuntarily on the still form. “Why would I do that?”

“He works for them,” Natasha argued. 

“He risked his life to get us out of there,” Bucky snarled. 

“Because you did some mind-control bark at him!” Natasha said. “We don’t know that it’ll hold up going forward. We don’t know if he’s part of some trap meant to trick us into letting our guards down.” 

“He killed his handler and it was the Hail-Mary we needed. I didn’t tell him to do that,” Bucky said, desperation weaving through his voice. He couldn’t just let the man go now, not after everything. Not after he risked everything to free them. He was aware that it might be a trick, some masterful play to bring the team down, but he didn’t think that was right. It didn’t feel right. 

The man lying on his shoulder, limp and beat up but alive… that felt right. It felt like something that should have happened a long, long time ago. 

“He could have been lying,” Natasha argued. 

“I’m not leaving him, they’ll kill him,” Bucky said, resolute. Determined. “He’s coming with us.”

“Buck, I know you want to save everyone—” Steve began, eyes soft, hands raised placatingly.

“Not everyone,” Bucky cut him off. “Just him.” 

“Why?” Steve asked, searching.

“Oh, can we give it a rest,” Clint groaned, slumping further against Steve. “Just take him. He’s literally helpless right now. We have the radio to do the force-disengage thingamajig. We’re wasting what little daylight we have left arguing about it.” 

“But—” Natasha was already gearing up for another argument.

“No.” Clint looked as if he were trying to glare without the strength to back it up. “The guy saved my life. If Barnes wants to keep him around, fine. I don’t care. Let’s just go.” 

Natasha looked absolutely furious, but nodded. 

“To the plane, then,” Steve said, wrapping an arm around Clint’s waist. 

They walked silently through the woods, Steve doing his best to navigate them in the right direction by the small amount of sky he could see. 

They only managed to go for about ten minutes before Clint started flagging. 

First his legs started to fall out from under him with every step, stumbling noisily through the underbrush. Steve adjusted them so he was carrying more of his weight, but it was a very temporary fix. They moved even slower, before Clint finally rasped “I can’t—”

Steve immediately started lowering Clint to the ground, leaning him up against a tree. 

“We need to treat his wound,” he said gravely, squinting through the dark. “He’s lost a lot of blood.” 

“We don’t have any supplies,” Natasha snapped. “We need to get him to the jet.”

Bucky took the moment of rest to gently lay the agent on the ground. The man was still unconscious, apparently out cold for the time-being. He rolled his shoulder: the joint where metal met flesh was growing sore. He crouched beside him, wishing he could see better so he could check the man for injuries. Night was thick by that point, and the harsh cover of trees meant that what little moonlight there was did little more than dramatize the shadows. 

“Use my jacket,” Bucky said quietly, “it’s thick, canvas. Not exactly clean but the closest we’re likely to get. We can cut it up with a dagger.” 

Natasha looked like she wanted to argue but stopped when she saw Clint’s eyelids droop. She nodded and set her jaw. 

“I should go ahead, see if I can grab some supplies and bring them back,” she said, already moving to stand. 

“We are not splitting up,” Steve snapped. “If there’s one thing that’s kept us alive this far, it’s that we stuck together. You need to stay here.”

She sat down with a huff, snatching Bucky’s jacket from his outstretched hand. She focused on making clean, neat strips out of the sleeve. 

Steve carefully pulled Clint’s clothes away from the wound, apologizing quietly when Clint hissed. 

“I wish we had water,” Steve said, grimacing as he wrapped the fabric around the archer’s shoulder. 

“We’ll make that a priority,” Bucky assured him. 

“There’s water on the jet,” Natasha mumbled. “And antiseptic.” 

“We’ll get there in the morning,” Bucky said. 

Clint’s eyes were falling shut, and Bucky felt his own body grow heavy. 

“We should make camp for the night,” Steve said, looking at the ragged crew around him. “We can’t go any further like this. I’ll take first watch.” 

“I’ll join you,” Bucky insisted, even as his limbs refused to follow his commands.

“No, I will,” Natasha said, eyeing the agent on the ground. “I’ll keep an eye on him better than you would.” 

“I’ll make sure she doesn’t kill him in his sleep,” Steve assured Bucky gently. 

Bucky didn’t have it in him to argue any further. “Wake me in three hours,” he said, “I’ll switch out with one of you.” 

The others mumbled agreement, and Bucky finally allowed his body to shut down.

Chapter Text

2016 

Tony

358 woke up as the first hints of the sun’s rays began peaking through the branches, laying a veil of warmth across his eyelids he hadn’t experienced since…

Well, he wasn’t entirely sure. But he was certain he recognized the sensation. 

It wasn’t entirely unexpected. He knew that Jebediah was capable of creativity when it came to punishing him for his failings, and a cruel trick was definitely within the realm of impossibility. 

Except Jebediah was dead now. 358 had killed him.

He held perfectly still, urging his limbs to relax, forcing the rise and fall of his chest to remain even and measured. 

In.

Maybe his masters would view the misstep with kindness, see it as a malfunction rather than a misdeed. He hadn’t had a choice… it wasn’t his fault. He’d been ordered…

Out.

It wouldn’t matter. He was going to be reprogrammed, or destroyed. He had been compromised, swayed by a voice from someone outside the order. He had done something unforgivable.

In.

The look on Jebediah’s ugly fucking face was plastered to the back of his eyelids, the stench of blood still clung to the back of his throat. He had been so mad, bright red and panting, mouth agape as he fell, blood dripping from his eye into that stupid mustache as he went down. He would never look down on 358 again. He wouldn't look at all.

Out.

Whatever they planned to do to him, it would be worth it. They could rip him apart and put him back together in whatever configuration they liked, wipe him clean or feed him to the wolves. It wouldn’t change the fact that that bastard was dead.

In.

Every part of his body hurt, as if he had been wrung out like an old cloth. Every inch of his torso was tender and raw, beaten to a pulp. He felt a gash across his calf, itching as it knit itself back together. There was a throbbing in the knuckles of his left hand. Broken, then. He would have to set those, if he was given the chance, before they healed wrong. There was blood caked to his face, thick and stiff as it dried. They hadn’t cleaned him up, hadn’t healed him. Not necessarily a problem: he healed quickly enough on his own. 

There was a dull ringing in his head, the remnants of a shut-down. The tension still buzzed in his bones. And he ached. Being disengaged was always a pain.

Out.

“I know that you’re awake,” someone said. The voice was husky, feminine. “You can stop pretending.” 

358 opened his eyes slowly, ready to face the lab, to take his punishment with dignity. 

What he saw instead was somehow a thousand times worse. 

Trees rose up on every side, and for the first time, he realized he was laying on soft earth, the skin of his hands and neck tickled by plants and twigs. The sky overhead was bright, the beginnings of dawn painting it a dull gold. 

He was in the Forest, then. 

Had he been sent away for his compromised state, rather than destroyed? That didn’t make sense, the Order would never allow that to happen. Maybe this was the punishment, left to be hunted slowly and painfully, torn apart by the monsters that lurked within. It was cruel, crueler than a quick bullet to the head. They had done it before, though. 

His eyes danced across the scene, counting heads as he did so: 

A red-headed woman, an assassin based on her performance the day before. Very skilled, she would give many of the trainees a run for their money. But she was injured, so he was certain she could be evaded or incapacitated. 

A blonde man, bulky, standing out like a sore-thumb in his bright red-white-and-blue attire. Captain America: they’d learned about him. He was to be avoided at all costs. Partially due to his own elevated abilities, and partially due to his ties to the American government. He looked rough around the edges but better off than the others. 358 thought it would be best to slip away while he was distracted doing something else.

Another blonde, darker hair. He looked sickly, weak. His shoulder was wrapped messily with fabric, though his eyes were alert. More capable than he looked, a good shot. Running away from him would be risky without some kind of cover. 

And finally, The Handler. He was definitely some kind of handler, though 358 had no memory of ever meeting him. He had a metal arm, a stronger weapon than it appeared. Just looking at him filled 358 with a sense of fear and revulsion: avoid at all costs, run away as fast as possible, it hurt. 358 felt phantom pains in his hands, his skull, his everything every time he looked at him. And his voice…

He had to be a handler. 

It would explain why 358 was there: despite being a rogue agent, the man had clearly found some use for him. Rather than leave him for disposal, he had brought him along to enlist his services. 

Not an exciting prospect at all, traveling along with a band of the Order’s Most Wanted. Especially as he would serve as their attack dog, a distraction to allow the others to escape. 

He knew his place. Protect the team. He wondered if the command still held, or if killing them was possible. He wondered if it was worth finding out. 

“You’re creeping me out,” the injured one said. 

“You didn’t leave me?” 358 asked, choosing to ignore the comment. Let them be cautious, let them fear him. Maybe then they would keep their distance. 

“You saved us,” the Handler said. He had dark bags under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept. 358 assumed he hadn’t, it would be stupid to rest in The Forest. Any ally of The Order would know that. 

“You commanded it,” 358 said. “I assumed our proximity with one another would end there.” 

“I wasn’t going to leave you behind after that,” the Handler said. He was emotional, which was strange. His superiors didn’t normally let such things show, but perhaps it was a manipulation tactic. An attempt to excite sentimentality, to lower his defenses. “They would have killed you.”

“They will, now that I’ve defected.” 

“You say that like you’re sure,” the red-head said. 

“I am sure. We are all dead men walking.” 

At least that seemed to shut them up. 

“That sound, the tone. It did something to you and all the rest. What was that?” Captain America spoke softly, as if he were speaking to a child. At least, 358 assumed that was how one addressed a child. He’d never actually met one, couldn’t remember ever being one. 

358 grunted, tired of their games. The questions, the answers. It didn’t matter, they were trapped. Nobody ever escaped The Forest, and all their little plans and questions were just delaying the inevitable.

The handler spoke. “MOTO4, what does that radio tone do?” 

358 felt that familiar tug at the base of his skull, his tongue moving to form the words before he could consider otherwise. “It targets a transmitter that each subject is injected with, scrambling our brains and rendering us immobile. It’s a fail-safe measure.” The words were bitter.

“Can it be used to get us safely away from your headquarters?” Captain America asked, appearing earnest. 

358 decided it wasn’t worth fighting anymore, he might as well spend his last hours spilling what few secrets he knew. If he cooperated, at least he could pretend it was his choice to say things. He could try and ignore the presence of the Handler beside him. “If you want me to be as useful as a chain around your ankle, then yes, you could use the signal. It’ll work to disengage the worst of what’s out here.” 

“It puts Clint at a disadvantage,” the redhead said, “it interferes with his hearing aids.” 

“So the radio is not a solution,” Captain America said decisively. “How would you suggest we get away, then?”

358 felt laughter bubbling up in his chest. What a ridiculous question! “Use the signal,” he scoffed, grinning at the assembled group. They really had no clue! Did they not think it odd that no one had come after them? That they were barely away from The Order, and remained intact and unpursued? “Otherwise, you will die.” 

“But it hurts you,” the Handler said. “It doesn’t just knock you out. It hurts you.” 

“They will hurt me worse for helping you,” 358 growled, all amusement vanishing from his body. Hurt him, what a ridiculous fucking thought. As if any of his masters had ever cared that he was hurt. Out of commission, yes. Useless to their cause, yes. But hurt. That was as meaningless to them as whether he wanted to sleep in or train. Of course the signal hurt. It felt like electricity coursing through his veins, completely out of touch from his abilities. It ruined his body, ached like a truck to the back (which he’d been informed he’d actually experienced while on a mission in Moldova.) Through all his fear and his unease, he felt rage. How dare this man pretend he didn’t know exactly what he was doing? “You need to leave me behind.” 

The redhead looked at him sharply, “why would you want to stay?” 

“I don’t want anything,” 358 hissed, gritting his teeth. How were they still confused by this?

“They control you?” The injured one asked, seeming uneasy. Ah, it seemed at least one of them had a brain. 

The asset nodded, unsure why he told them this. He had no fondness for the Order, had hated them as long as he could remember (which was, admittedly, not that long.) But that didn’t mean he was willing to commit treason. He'd already gotten a gift: he was allowed to kill a lot of them, which was good. But then, he'd had plausible deniability. He no longer had that, not now. Not after leaving. He’d definitely be sent to the labs if they found out he'd cooperated. 

“How?” Captain America had a strange look to him, then. He was angry. 358 did not think that the anger was directed at him, but one could never be sure with military types. They were generally angry people, could point it any direction at the slightest provocation.

“Ask him,” 358 snarled, jerking his chin at the Handler beside him. “He’s been doing it since I found you.” 

The handler’s mouth gaped open, stupid faux-shock plastered across his stupid face. The color drained from his skin as he stammered “I didn’t realize—I mean, I didn’t mean to, at first—”

358 cut him off, patience growing far too thin for the lies to continue. “I don’t know who you are or how you did it, but you have the clearance of a Handler.” 

“A handler?” he asked, face white, “like the person you shot?”

“How does someone get that clearance?” The redhead cut in, eyes hard. 

“By working for The Order,” 358 answered. It seemed a rather obvious answer to give. 

358 watched as the handler leaned heavily against a tree, despair written across his features. He didn't know why the man seemed so surprised, he’d been the one to do the work. It was the only explanation for why his voice had the pull that it did. Unless he was a Siren, but he really didn’t look like a Siren. He was quite tan rather than pale white, he had no tinges of blue in his eyes or lips. And he looked very alive, if a little banged up. 

He must have been programmed into the chip. The only strange thing was that 358 had no memory of him, just a dull thrum of terror in the back of his head whenever he so much as looked at the man. But that alone was a pretty good signal that he was a handler of some kind.

The man looked up suddenly, eyes wide. “This is the zoo,” he said quietly, an undertone of terror lacing the words. 

The woman’s head shot up, snapping “the zoo isn’t real.” She looked as if she'd said that before, and was irritated to have to reiterate the point.

358 began to laugh, a creaking sound that started out light, but quickly grew beyond his control, wracking his frame, the sound of his delight weaving through the trees. “The zoo!” He guffawed. He even felt a tear, there in the corner of his eye! “I wasn’t aware of the name!” He continued to laugh, enough that Captain America began to shush him. “They always did call us animals—” he heaved, grinning dangerously. The injured one shot him a look, but 358 did not allow that to dampen his good humor. “—or beasts.” 

The handler was shaking like a daisy in a thunderstorm, knees weak. He looked positively helpless, nothing like a soldier that would work for the Order. “I spoke to you like...” He took a deep breath, letting his eyes fall closed. “I knew what you were.” 

“Someone tell me what the zoo is, and why it’s so horrible,” the injured one snapped, eyes darting between the assembled members of his team. 

The handler fell to a crouch on the ground as he spoke. His voice was slow and robotic, reciting the words as if they were from a story he had been told long, long ago. “Fury guessed right when he sent us here, the Forest and the Zoo are just different names for the same thing. They are known for performing experiments on human captives. There has never been proof that it is real, not many believed it was. They do not want world domination, their only aim is to create and sell engineered soldiers.” He took a deep, steadying breath. “The problem is, the experiments are not always stable, many malfunction or go wrong. Not all of the resulting creations are still people by the end.” 

358 scoffed, rolling his eyes at the tirade. “None of us are people anymore. The doctors made sure of that.” 

“So… like mutants, but intentional?” The injured one looked uneasy again. The redhead had stilled, face like stone. 

“Not like mutants,” the handler said. 

“More like mutts,” 358 said lightly. He met the injured man’s eyes and grinned, cruel satisfaction filling his chest when he flinched. “That’s what my handler used to call me. Before I blew off his head, of course.” 

“So what did they do to you?” Captain America looked a little sick, and 358 found that funny. There he was, faced with the almighty Captain of the United States, and the man looked as if he were going to lose his lunch! 

“They did many things to me,” he grinned, “none of which are any of your business.” 

“You do something with technology,” the redhead pointed out, “that’s how you sabotaged our weapons, and how you led us out.” 

358 decided he liked her. She was pretty clever, compared to the rest of them. “I’ve always been told I’m a very talented individual,” he said.

“You’re fast,” the injured one said. Less astute, but points for trying, he supposed. 

“I’ve also been told I’m very attractive,” 358 said. That wasn’t strictly true, but the agent was beginning to loosen up. These people were clueless, absolutely harmless to him. The handler still looked as if he might pass out, so there was no danger in talking back. He was going to die very soon, he had exacted a small bit of revenge, and he had seen the sun again. He had nothing left to lose!

He was almost high with the feeling of it. Not quite freedom, but the closest he’d ever felt. Jebediah was dead! He’d been dragged from the only prison he’d ever known! These people had no clue what he was!

He was not going to trust them, but he would not kill them, he decided. It might be amusing to watch them try to survive. And it wasn't like he had anything better to do.

He was eager to see the looks on their faces when they realized he was the least of the horrors they would find in the forest. He thought that would be a very agreeable last sight indeed. 

“Lower your collar,” the handler suddenly snapped, glaring daggers at the asset. 

That gave him pause. He considered the request, and decided he did not like it. There was no reason to show the man his neck. He would not freely give the submission demanded of him. “What do you mean?” He asked, voice tighter than it had been before. 

“The collar of your shirt,” the handler insisted. “Lower it.” 

“No,” 358 growled. He felt the barest hint of an itch at the back of his neck. Not a command, then. But a suggestion. One that was very nearly extremely persuasive.

“Show me your throat,” the man said, voice cold. 

Ah, there it was. 

Mouth pinched down at the corners, 358 complied, roughly tugging down the collar of his shirt. He even raised his chin, offering a clearer look. He had no choice but to do so. 

He did not know what the man was looking for. There were scars, of course, all of the Order’s pets had scars on them. There were the crescent shaped punctures from his graduation ceremony, a slash where someone had tried to do him in. A burn from a training exercise gone wrong. Nothing interesting. 

Still, it burned his insides that he’d been forced to show it. 

The handler seemed to realize, ducking his head quickly. 

“I’m sorry,” he groaned, rubbing a hand across his eyes. 

“Don’t apologize to me,” 358 snapped. He replaced his clothing as it was before. What an insult, to speak to him as if he were an equal moments after ordering him around like a dog. 

The handler flinched. 

Head still bowed, the handler began to speak. “We need to keep him with us,” he said. “He has the most insight into where we are and what we’re facing.” 

“You seem to have a good enough understanding of what we’re up against,” the redhead said. 

“I don’t remember—” the handler began, words building up to a roar. He caught himself, took a breath. When he spoke again, his voice was low. “He knows this place better than I do. I’ve only got stories to go off of.” 

“I’ll take any help we can get,” the injured one said, already trying to push himself off the ground. Captain America moved as if to catch him. 

Captain America stared at the handler for a long moment. Interesting. Then he turned his gaze to the agent. “Can we trust you?” 

“I never agreed to help you,” 358 pointed out, tilting his head. 

“Like it or not, it sounds like your best chance of survival lies with us,” the injured one said. 

“I couldn’t care less whether he survived or not,” the redhead deadpanned. 358 definitely liked her. 

“Do you have any sort of plan?” He asked, curious. He would not answer them, not yet. He was having too much fun watching them fumble around, too stupid to realize how doomed they were. 

The handler stood, jaw set. “We will go to our jet—” he began, but was cut off by the asset’s laughter. 

“Oh, there’s no jet,” he snorted. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Captain America asked. 

“They would have destroyed that by now,” 358 said, tilting his head. “Most likely while you were still inside.”

“Why should we believe you?” the redhead snapped, already moving to stand. The asset noticed a flinch that she tried to conceal. 

“Why would I lie?” 358 shrugged. “You can go check, they’ve probably left it by now. We don’t like to be in The Forest longer than necessary.” 

“We will go,” she practically growled. 

358 grinned. “I’ll join you.” 

“You weren’t invited,” she said. 

“I was, actually,” 358 pointed out. 

“We have the radio if we need it,” Captain America said, supporting their injured member against his side. 

“I don’t trust him,” she snarled. 

“You shouldn’t!” 358 chirped. 

“You are not very convincing,” the injured one said. 

“Let’s just go,” the handler groaned. “I’d rather we move in daylight.” 

“The sun will not save you,” 358 said, already moving to stand. It hurt more than he would have liked, but he wasn’t going to let them know that. “But yes, it is best to move during the day. The creatures here can see better in the dark than you.” He did not add that he could see in the dark. They had no reason to know that, not yet. 

The redhead scowled, stalking forward into the woods. Captain America followed afterward, hovering around his injured friend as if the man would collapse at any moment. The asset did not think he would. His walk was stiff, he was cradling his arm. But he was alert, carrying his own weight. It was unlikely he had been cut by a poisoner; he’d be babbling like an idiot by now. 

The handler brought up the rear, with 358 directly in front of him. A prisoner’s march, then. He did his best to walk with his head high. He would not allow the man to intimidate him. 

He tried to assess their surroundings as they walked. 358 assumed they would be safe this close to headquarters, the creatures of the forest were repulsed by it. They did not have many memories, or even coherent thoughts, but they had instincts like everyone else. And anyone with good instincts would stay far, far away from the labs. He wondered if these people had stupidly ignored them, or if they had no instincts at all. 

The idea seemed unfathomable to him. He’d relied on his own for survival for so long. 

The walk was not long, less than a mile.

358 could smell the smoke before the others, the scent of fuel in the wind. He grimaced. It was an unpleasant sensation, to know the heartache they would soon face. He held no fondness for the group, but it wasn’t fun to be forced to contend with desperation. That moment when survivors finally realized that all was really lost. 

A few minutes later, the redhead at the front of the group paused. “What is that?” she asked. 

“Your jet,” 358 answered. “It's gone.” 

She began to run forward. 

“Nat—ah, shit, come on,” the injured one grimaced, pushing himself to speed up. His face twisted up with pain, but he ran anyway.

Captain America jogged to catch up, the handler remained by 358’s side. 358 felt no need to run, arriving sooner would do nothing to change what they found. 

“Come on,” the handler muttered. “We should keep up with the group.” 

His voice was soft, gentle. 358 found that it did not read as a command. Interesting. 

He grunted, but jogged to catch up anyway. 

The jet appeared exactly as he'd anticipated: a smoldering pile of warped, melted material, smoke still rising from the twisted metal that used to be engines. 

“What happened to it?” the redhead asked, staring with wide eyes.

“I’m not sure,” 358 shrugged. “I wasn’t part of the convoy sent to destroy it.” 

“Why would they do this, but still let us live?” Captain America’s voice was hard, eyes sweeping across the wreckage.

“The only other way to leave the forest would be on foot. It’s unlikely that you’ll survive the journey. No one has before.” 

“Come on,” the injured one said. “We should search for supplies. We’ll need as much as we can get our hands on for this.”

The group all swarmed on the wreckage within seconds, like vultures descending on a bloated corpse. 358 hung back, watching their process. It was a slow, methodical search, poking around and turning over any collapsed areas, digging through ruined material with a growing sense of desperation. 

He did not help them, because did not see a point in doing so. 

A few minutes later they all returned to the place he stood, carrying handfuls of materials in their arms. 

“Let’s take inventory, see what we have,” Captain America said, dropping to his knees on the ground. He had a large backpack in his arms, which he turned over and emptied on the ground. “I found an emergency pack,” he said. “A little burnt but still intact. There should be a fully stocked first aid kit, some water and rations. Not much, but enough for us to go for a few days.” He poked through, counting things out under his breath. “There’s a flashlight and a sleeping bag.” 

“You packed for camping?” 358 asked, tilting his head. “Did you assume you’d be spending so much time here?”

“We packed for any situation,” Captain America replied. “It never hurts to be cautious.” 

The handler was next, dropping a pile on the ground. “No bag, we’ll have to arrange everything some other way. But I found some food: apples, bread. Some jerky. The jet’s first aid kit was... well, melted, but I saved what I could: bandages, a little scorched. Tylenol, antibiotics, burn cream.” 

The redhead was next, carrying her own bag. “I found another pack. There’s some water inside, but I think we lost some to the heat. Less medical supplies, but there’s an antiseptic, and an ace bandage. A spare jacket, large enough to fit myself or Clint. A foil blanket and some batteries. A hunting knife and a taser.” 

Finally, the injured one. His pile was smaller, he’d carried it over with his one good arm. “I found some spare ammunition and a handgun. A water bottle, but it’s empty. And some chocolate, mostly melted, but it seems relatively contained in the wrapper.” 

358’s eyes danced across the pile, frowning. It was better than he expected; the envoy must have rushed the destruction of their vehicle. It still was not enough. 

Captain America began carefully packing things away, arranging the contents so space was used efficiently. He left some of the medical supplies out, as well as two of the water bottles, the taser, and the hunting knife. The rest was confined within the packs. 

“How is everyone doing with weapons?” The handler asked, glancing around at the assembled group. 

The redhead spoke first. “I have two loaded guns, no additional ammunition. Four daggers. One widow's bite.” 

The injured one was next. “Twelve arrows left, I’ll need to try and collect the ones I can if we go on for much longer. I have two handguns, they’ll work with the ammo I found. I’ve got a longer knife in my boot.”

Captain America seemed sheepish when he replied “I only have my shield.” The redhead slid the hunting knife in his direction. 

The handler nodded. “I’ve got this gun,” he said, gesturing to the bulky machinery on his shoulder, “and two hand guns. I’ve got a dagger on my belt.” He turned his eyes to 358.

“You are a well-armed group of adventurers,” he said, tilting his head. Maybe they were less helpless than he first believed. 

“What do you have on you?” Captain America asked. He sounded tired. That did not bode well for his chances, they had only just started their journey. 

358 rolled his eyes. “Why am I suddenly included in show and tell?”

“You decided to tag along. If you want to stay, you have to participate in group discussions,” the injured one said. 

358 took a second, weighing his options. He did want to participate in group discussions… “Fine. I have 3 daggers, which I am very good at using. I’m down to one gun, I lost the other inside. And I’ll take the taser.” He grinned. “It’ll be more useful to me than any of you.” 

The redhead looked like she wanted to protest, but the handler kicked it towards him before she could. 358 smiled. He liked it, could feel the power humming inside. 

The handler sighed. “Steve, I never thought I’d be so grateful for your neurotic packing practices,” he said. 

“I wish you didn’t have to be,” Captain America—or Steve, apparently—said. He turned his eyes to 358. “What’s our next step for getting out of here?”

“I know that Fury has a bug on me,” the injured one said. “They should be able to track us down eventually, assuming we survive long enough to be tracked.” 

358 almost pitied them. “Your trackers won’t work here, the signal will be scrambled. And after the extravagant display yesterday, the Order will be doing everything in their power to divert anyone else from finding this base. There is technology and special abilities at work right now, ensuring that any extraction crews or backup who seek out this base will pass right through without even realizing it.” He watched as the color slowly drained from their faces. Yes, he pitied them. They had come here with far too little intel to actually know what they were dealing with. “Your best bet is to get through the forest itself. Their reach ends just outside the wooded limits, then your backup should be able to track your location.”

The injured one groaned. “And just how far will we have to move?”

“I’ve never traveled the entirety of it,” 358 said, “but it’s easily hundreds of acres, stocked with horrors beyond your wildest imaginations.” 

“Hope you all wore your hiking boots,” the redhead muttered. 

“What kind of horrors are you talking about?” Captain America said. He looked as if he had swallowed a frog. 

“Why would I help you?” 358 scoffed. “You all basically signed my death warrant. I got you out of there, I don’t owe you anything.” 

“If you help us escape, we’ll take you with us when we get out. We’ll get you away from here for good.” The handler spoke with conviction, fire burning in his eyes. It made sense, his masters never liked his little displays of defiance. 

358 didn’t believe him, not really. The idea that he might ever escape The Order was too ridiculous to comprehend, a pipe dream he had given up on a long time ago. The most he’d ever allowed himself to dream of was killing someone, taking them down with him, and he’d already achieved that. Asking for anything more was greedy, it was stupid. 

But. 

This handler had clearly been affiliated with the Order, and now was not. His attack was proof enough of that. 

He had gotten out. 

If anyone stood a chance at getting 358 away, it was him. 

Despite his dislike of the man, 358 wanted. He wasn’t used to wanting. 

He really, really wanted to believe him. 

It was not hope, not exactly. But he felt something almost like it, as hesitant as he was to look at it directly. The offer was simply too tempting to pass up. 

If this was some elaborate test of 358’s loyalty, he was about to fail it. 

“If you swear that you’ll take me with you…I’ll help you escape,” 358 said slowly, locking eyes with the handler. He trapped his gaze, did not allow him to look away. This was far too important. “But you need to promise something else.” 

“What is it?” Captain America asked, eager at the idea of making any sort of progress. 358 ignored him, focused only on the handler. He would be the only one to understand, he knew the horrors. If the pain in the back of 358’s head meant anything, he had participated in those horrors himself. 

“If we get trapped in a corner, if it looks like they might try to take me back to headquarters, you won’t let them.” 

The other man’s eyes hardened, his jaw clenched. 

“What do you mean ‘won’t let them’?” The injured one asked, eyes flying between the two locked in their own private standoff. “If you’re with us, you’re with us. We won’t just let them have you, especially if you’re our ticket out of here.” 

“I mean,” 358 spoke carefully now, desperate to ensure he was not misunderstood, “if I am captured, you need to kill me.”

The handler was unwavering. “Capture is not an option,” he replied gravely.

The air was tense with the implication, heavy with promises that may or may not be kept. Until the injured one cleared his throat. 

“Well, if we’re going to be traveling together, we need something to call you. And I am not calling you MOTO4. It sounds like a cheap cellphone model.” 

358 let the tension fall away, tried to replace it with ill-fitting ease. It was uncomfortable, strange. He needed their trust, now. Or at least, their animosity would do nothing to serve him. He would play nice. He would play the part of the obedient dog. Anything to get away from this place, to force them to keep their promise. 

He would not go back. He would not let them break their promise. 

“I guess we’re close enough to friends now,” he said lightly. “Trusting one another with our lives is as good a reason as any to be close. You can call me 358.” He pointed at their captain, eager to show that he was not as ignorant as they were. “You are Captain America.” 

The captain shuffled, looking uncomfortable. “Why do you know that?”

“The patriotic costume is a pretty strong indicator,” 358 pointed out. “Mercenaries were instructed on what you were. We were meant to avoid you, because you work for the American government. The American government is trouble.” 

The captain’s mouth thinned. “Well, I don’t really—that’s not—” he grimaced, made a decision. “You can just call me Steve. Steve Rogers.” 

“Have you ever heard of Hawkeye?” the injured one asked, leaning forward. 358 shook his head, and the man looked almost offended. “Best sniper in the world? Hero, agent extraordinaire? Devilishly handsome Avenger?” 358 shook his head again. The man scowled. “Well, you can call me Clint, then. Or Hawkeye, best shot in the West.” He jerked his head at the redhead, adding “and that’s Natasha, who I’m introducing because I know she won’t do it herself—”

She smacked the back of his head, but he just grinned. 

“You can call me Bucky,” the handler said, “everyone does.” 

“Bucky?” 358 wrinkled his nose. “That’s a strange name. Who goes around calling a kid ‘Bucky’?”

358 thought that the handler was hiding something, but did not call him out. Now was not the time to make waves, not while he was too busy trying to make trust. Maybe he just had a name that was somehow more embarrassing than Bucky. 

358 grinned, clapped his hands. “Look at us! Fast friends! I think we’ll all get along just fine!”

“Where should we head next?” the captain—Steve—asked, already shrugging the larger of the backpacks over his shoulders. The self-sacrificial sort, then. A dangerous trait to have, one that he had been trained to exploit. His former comrades-in-arms would note the flaw as well. 358 considered, for a moment, saying something to him about it, but bit his tongue. He would table that discussion for now.

“Well, that depends. Would you rather die sooner or later?” 358 shrugged. 

“Do you ever just give a straight answer?” Natasha snapped. 

“Only when I’m forced to,” 358 replied with a grin. “You have two options: continue heading East from this point, ensuring we are at least one mile closer to the border. Or head North, cutting a longer, more horizontal path, but potentially creating a more difficult track to follow.” 

“I thought you said they wouldn’t follow us,” the hero, agent extraordinaire, said. Clint. 

358 was really trying to get their names down. Names seemed important to these people. 

“Yes, well. I don’t think any mercenaries will follow, or handlers or leaders. But there will almost certainly be Hunters.” 

“Hunters?” That one was Bucky. Such an odd name for a killer. 

“Hunters are… like me, in a way. They’re modified, genetically engineered to be the perfect trackers. They notice signs that others would not. They have the sense of smell of a blood-hound and the eyesight of a hawk—sorry, Hawkeye, I’m sure you thought that was your thing. They’re usually dispatched in cases where loose ends manage to wriggle away. They are very, very dangerous, particularly if they’ve tasted your blood. And they are some of the few who have explored these woods and returned to live in the facility.” 

“Tasted?” Clint’s face screwed up with disgust. 

“It helps them attune to your body in a way that… it’s very specific. I don’t know all of the details, I’m not one of them.” 358 wondered if they were beginning to wish they had found a more agreeable mercenary, one who had access to more information. He wasn’t actually told much. 

Not that he'd let them know that. He was trying to make them befriend him.

“So they know the forest well?” Steve asked. “How well do you know it?”

“Not as much as them, but more than you.” There, hopefully that would affirm his value to the team. “We’re not permitted to spend much time outside the facility. I’ve run through some training exercises here, once or twice.”

He didn't think it was necessary to mention that he’d run with the Hunters, just once. He couldn’t remember all of the details: there had been a defector, a rogue agent in the initiate class after his graduation. 358 had actually taught him some basic hacking. They’d sent him as a test of loyalty. He remembered the rush, the break-neck pace, the adrenaline. How giddy his companions were, the air that tasted of copper. The thrill and the laughter that followed when the target was trapped.

Bringing up a story like that would likely lower morale. 

“Is there anything else we can do to throw the Hunters off, besides forge an unpredictable trail? Because while that seems like a good enough idea, I also think it’s just as likely to get us lost.” Clint lowered himself to the ground, sensing that they might have hit a rest point. He really was in bad shape, it was clear despite his best efforts to hide it. That was not good at all. Enemies would target his weakness.

“Unfortunately, based on the amount of… scrapes on each of you, it is likely the Hunters have had a taste of at least one person’s blood. Since we’re traveling in a group, that’s bad news for all of us. We should try our best to clean away as much of the blood on us that we can, but that’s only going to minimize an already extreme risk. We should leave as little trace possible so we’re not leaving an easy path to follow. And most importantly: we must keep moving. Rest is necessary, but it must be kept to a minimum. Because while we may stop, they will run tirelessly until their prey is found.” 

Bucky eyed their meager rations of water, then the amount of blood caked to each team member's clothes. It seemed a lot now, but between the heat and exertion, that water would disappear real fast. They couldn’t afford to waste it all on cleaning. “Is there any fresh water in the forest we can use to clean ourselves up?” he asked. 

“It’s a forest,” 358 stated as if it were obvious. Because of course it was: how else would its inhabitants survive? “Otherwise nothing would live here.” 

“There is no wildlife,” Bucky pointed out. 

“I disagree,” 358 said. “There are lots of wild things that live here. Just not this close to the base.” 

Steve had already turned to Clint, peeling back the make-shift bandages in order to properly inspect his wound in the daylight. “We’re going to have to clean this,” he said quietly, pity clear in his tone. 

“I know,” Clint said. The captain cut another strip from the ruined jacket, dampening it with some of their water, wasting as little as possible. He began to gently dab and swipe at the blood surrounding the wound, revealing relatively neat, but concerningly deep wounds below, as if something had tried to tear muscle from bone and been interrupted halfway through. 358 almost felt a pang of sympathy, it looked like a few Wraiths had gotten ahold of him. They had nasty claws. 

While the captain treated his friend, apologizing every time the man hissed at a swipe of antiseptic, Natasha set to work wrapping her ankle with an Ace bandage. It was mottled with bruises and swollen, likely a bad sprain rather than a break. It would certainly hurt to walk on, though she didn’t seem to let it slow her down much. 

358 set to work on his hand, snapping the bones back into their proper place, grateful that they hadn’t healed yet. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from hissing, unwilling to show his weakness in front of the others. 

“Do you want a rag?” Bucky offered quietly, eyes trained on the agent’s quiet work. 

“For what?” 358 said, refusing to look up. He did not like looking at Bucky. 

“For your face… It’s—you—” 

“Oh, the blood.” 358 smiled and shook his head. “I forgot it was there.” Still, he took the jagged cloth. Smelled it: just water, dirt, and sweat. Nothing dangerous. 

He scrubbed his face, unable to see how well he had done. 

The others seemed to finish their work quickly, the captain moaning about their lack of needle and thread to stitch up some of the deeper wounds. Bandages were limited, so smaller cuts and scrapes were left to be protected by clothing alone, cleaned up as well as was possible between drops of water and the remains of a bottle of hand sanitizer: they wanted to save the stronger stuff, the antiseptic and antibiotic cream, in case more serious injuries occurred. 

They all still smelled like blood, but 358 didn’t tell them that. He was very, very concerned about morale. He would try to find clean water so they could wash off properly. He was almost certain there was a river, or brook, or something. He couldn’t quite remember. But he knew the Hunters didn’t like the water, knew it threw off their hunt. 

The team conferred, deciding to head away from the site of their destroyed jet before moving East again. 

358 did not disagree, which was assumed to mean agreement. 

Everyone stuck close together, eyes darting around the forest. 358 suppressed a chuckle when the captain actually tripped. The man glared at him, he must have noticed. “Not much of a hiker, then?” 

“My focus is a little stretched thin already,” Steve muttered, shaking his head. 

“Fair enough. As far as I know there aren’t any tiny critters to bite your ankles, so ignoring the ground should be safe enough.” 

Clint shot a look back at them from the front, where we walked with Natasha.

358 grinned back. 

He was sandwiched between Steve and Bucky, and briefly wondered if it was because they didn’t trust him. He amused himself by figuring out how he would escape them.

He would probably go for Bucky first, get him down and reeling before he had a chance to open his big mouth. Steve would react quickly, dodging would probably be most effective. Maybe he could climb a tree! That could be interesting. The two in the front looked like they’d be able to follow in normal circumstances, but Clint’s shoulder and Natasha’s ankle would slow them down. 

What would he do in a tree, though? As far as he knew, there weren’t any enemies that would live in trees, at least not here where the woods were thinner. Maybe he should mention that as a good place to camp. Except without any way to secure themselves, it would probably be more dangerous than protective. 

“Can I ask you something?” Bucky asked, voice quiet. 358 blinked away his thoughts of fleeing.

“You can do whatever you want, remember?” 358 only glanced at him for a second, noticing that it made his hand twitch. But it hurt less. Maybe controlled exposure would lower the severity of these attacks. Whatever they were. 

“I’m trying not to,” Bucky said. He sounded frustrated. “I don’t—it’s not right to strip your autonomy, not if we want to act like a team.”

358 paused for a moment, mulling it over. He did his best to discern any tinge of deception or mockery in the statement, finding that he couldn't detect any. That didn't mean it wasn't there, but it was confusing. “You are a very strange handler,” he said.

“That’s actually what I wanted to ask you about,” Bucky said. 358 could feel Steve watching them. “You keep talking about the handlers, but you haven’t given any specifics about who they are or what they do.” 

Steve was not looking at 358, he realized. He was looking at Bucky with the strangest look on his face. They sure did look at each other a lot. And usually they looked concerned, or sad, or both. There must have been some sort of history there.

“The handlers are a unique fixture,” 358 began slowly, trying to gauge just how much to divulge. He did not trust the man, and was still considering if he was a retired leader sent to test him. But he also needed them to trust him, on the off chance that this was all real, and he really stood a chance of escaping. It was a delicate balance to maintain, but imperative until he managed to gather more intel on the group. 

“Unique how?” Bucky pushed. 

358 sighed. “They are not leaders, so they are not above the rules that the rest of us have to follow. But they have more power and freedom than the subjects. They serve as a sort of intermediary force, meant to manage our trainings, cull the weak. They are with us our entire lives, managing our assignments should we graduate to mercenary status.” 

“And you graduated?” Steve asked suddenly. 

Ah, there it was. That strange feeling in his stomach. A twisting, aching sensation. He did not know what to call it. “Yes. I did.” 

“So you’re a mercenary?” Bucky asked. 358 glanced up; the others were listening in now. Just great. 

“Yes. I am.” 

That admission probably caused a drop in morale. Just what he’d been trying to avoid. 

Bucky cleared his throat, clearly desperate to get the conversation back on his intended course. 358 found he didn’t mind the shift. “These handlers, are they modified? Like you are? Like the other mercenaries?” 

“Everyone receives treatments, but everyone does not receive the same treatments. There are some that are more well-tested, safer than others: strength, speed, eyesight. Basic physiological enhancement. Handlers receive those. But anything more… experimental or risky gets left to us. I don’t have the skills of a Mimic, and my handlers don’t have the same skills that I do. Not everyone survives the process to become a successful project, and those of us who do were likely selected to serve a particular purpose. The handlers—and this is really just a guess, not a confirmed piece of information—were most likely picked for their extraordinary bitchiness and nagging capabilities.” 

He heard Clint snort. He grinned, or at least he tried. Based on the uneasy look on the Captain’s face, it was probably something harsher. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t have a lot of practice with smiling. And he wasn’t exactly in a joyful mood. 

“I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this, though, you probably know it already. You’ve got all the markers of a handler yourself.” Ah, the pain in his intestines. It intensified. His hand twitched. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Steve demanded, pulling 358’s attention away from his own troubles. Gee, he must have hit a nerve. 

358 gestured to Bucky. “You're strong, battle-tuned. You have that impressive piece of machinery attached to your torso.” He waved his hand, “oh! And your voice activation! That’s just a tiny little detail, barely anything at all!”

Bucky swallowed. “Yes, I have those things. But I didn’t get them from your organization.” He fiddled with his gun, suddenly uncomfortable. “Is there anyone other than handlers who would have clearance to give you orders? Anyone at all?”

“Of course. Heads of the order and a select few world leaders, powerful people. They wouldn’t want us accidentally assassinating an ally. That would just be embarrassing.” 358 couldn’t be certain, but he was pretty sure he had tried that once. It was a little foggy. He did remember getting a reprimand for excessive collateral damage that could have harmed an important asset to the operation of the organization. 

“What about outsiders? Anyone who was not directly tied?” Bucky’s voice was shaking, desperation creeping in. 

“Clients were granted temporary access if they threw enough of a fit about it,” 358 said. “Some did not like the idea of getting to their attack dog through a liaison.” He tilted his head, considering if he was missing any, as well as how much he cared about smoothing out the fear in Bucky’s eyes. “Instructors, too.”

“What did the instructors do?” Bucky asked. 

“Most of them were part of the order, initiates who were promising enough to live but not enough to work on the outside. People who were really good at one thing but mediocre with the rest. After graduation, though, there were guests. Working assassins who had some skill to share, and either did not directly oppose The Order or were strictly neutral.” 358 glanced at Bucky. “If you weren’t a member of the Order, that means you were either a client or an instructor.” 

“I was not a client,” Bucky replied. He looked sick. 

“Good,” 358 turned his attention straight ahead. “I hated them.” 

Bucky just nodded. As if he understood. As if he were capable of understanding.

Chapter Text

2016

Bucky

“So…” Clint sidled up beside Bucky, rolling his shoulder. He’d been doing it near constantly since they’d bandaged the wound, complaining that the joint was stiff. Bucky was pretty sure he was just torturing himself, but he didn’t think it was necessary to point that out. Spirits were already pretty low. “What do you think of the new guy?” 

Bucky glared at him, then glanced at the “new guy” in question. 358 was up ahead, having grown tired of Bucky’s desperate questioning, forcing Bucky to untangle the implications of what was said all on his own.

Had he been an instructor? Had HYDRA loaned him out to teach some fellow victims how to shoot, how to kill with the highest efficiency? Maybe he’d been a strength trainer of some sort, or a martial artist. He wished he knew.

Everything 358 said… they were so similar, in some ways. Different masters, but their circumstances lined up alarmingly. And to think Bucky had somehow been involved in harming people in that way…

But it had to be instructor. He hadn’t had the agency to hire someone like that while under HYDRA, and he never would have done it otherwise. And he did not work for the Order. He would’ve been a loaner.

“He has some good intel,” Bucky finally replied, shrugging. There. He didn’t start screaming about the pseudo-psychic knowing that he’d been doing, or mention his desperation to understand the man with the bite on his neck. He was put-together and cool. 

But the bite. Who bit him? Who would bite someone on the neck hard enough to leave a scar?

And why had Bucky known exactly where the mark was?

“He does,” Clint agreed, and Bucky was drawn back to the conversation at hand. Clint. Clint was asking about the agent. Everything led back to the agent. “Personally, I think he’s creepy.” 

Bucky’s mind skidded to a halt. “I thought you were okay with him coming along,” he said. He couldn’t deal with any more in-fighting, he didn’t have the energy for it. 

“Oh, I am,” Clint said. “I’m just saying, he’s kind of creepy.” 

“He’s—” Bucky remembered that the agent was right up ahead and lowered his voice to a hiss. “He’s not creepy.” 

“He keeps talking about how we’re all gonna die,” Clint argued, following Bucky’s lead and lowering his voice “and he laughs all the time, even when he didn’t make a funny joke.” 

“He’s been through a lot,” Bucky said. It was a weak retort, and they both knew it.

Clint shrugged. “I guess he hasn’t had many opportunities to practice normal socialization."

“You know that I can still hear you, right?” 358 called back. He was smiling. 

Clint looked like he’d sucked on a lemon. “Did not know that,” he replied.

“I’m highly skilled, remember? Very talented in a variety of areas? Enhanced to be a perfect killing machine?” 358 seemed positively gleeful to remind them.

“Didn’t know that meant super hearing,” Clint mumbled.

“It means super hearing!” 358 laughed. “And super sight, and a particularly keen sense of smell.” 

“Smell?” Natasha wrinkled her nose. 

“Yes. You all reek.” 358 said. “But I won’t hold it against you. It’s a very hot day.”  Bucky couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

“You’re not exactly fresh yourself,” Steve said. “Don’t need ‘enhanced smell’ to get that.” 

Bucky carefully monitored 358’s reaction to the playful rib, scanning for micro-expressions or signs of offense. But as far as Bucky could tell, the words barely registered. 358 just shrugged and went back to scanning the forest in front of them. 

“Creepy,” Clint whispered. 

Natasha walked beside them, not contributing to the conversation, eyes burning holes into the back of the agent’s head. “Are you okay?” Bucky asked, nudging her shoulder. She glared at him. 

“I don’t like these woods,” she said. 

“Neither do I,” Bucky agreed. He felt like there was something there. Always behind him, always watching. 

“And I don’t like him,” she snapped. “And I don’t care if he hears it.” 

Bucky sighed. “He’s our best shot at getting out of here,” he said. It felt like if he just kept saying it, the others would be more likely to agree. He just needed 358 to do something to convince everyone he was necessary, then he might be able to calm down. Stop worrying so much, stop feeling like he had to jump up and defend the guy who had stabbed him. 

“So, 358—if that is your real name—” Clint began. 

“It’s probably not, but it’s the only one I know,” 358 interrupted him. 

“It was a joke, but whatever, I wanted to ask you—” 

“Wait,” 358 said, pausing. “I hear something.” 

“I don’t hear anything,” Steve said, battle-forged concentration immediately taking hold.

358 frowned and took a slow step forward. “It’s… there’s a clicking noise. Soft. Rhythmic.” He imitated the sound under his breath, taking another step forward. 

Clint shivered, watching. 358 tilted his head, and Bucky was distantly reminded of a hunting hound, locked on its prey. The agent kept ticking, slowly inching forward. “Stop that,” Clint hissed, but the agent ignored him. Bucky wondered if he even realized he was doing it. 

The others still hadn’t moved, but 358 had dropped to a crouch. “I don’t know what it is,” he muttered. “It’s not alive; it doesn't breathe or move. I think it's underground...” 

“Creepy,” Clint hissed, drawing the word out dramatically. Steve shot him a hard look and stepped forward to stand beside 358. 

“What are some possibilities?” Steve asked.

358 ignored him, too. He stood back up, started to run. His head twitched minutely to each side, scanning the woods. 

Steve turned back to look at the rest of the team, absolutely bewildered.

Natasha was the first to follow. Her mouth was a hard line, barely flinching with each jostle to her injured ankle. Bucky soon followed suit, cursing himself the entire time. Of course the guy wouldn’t communicate the actual danger, or take a second to consider how a team might respond to a threat. No, he was all every-man-for-himself, run and see what’s happening and plan later. Bucky should have fucking known—

Except that wasn’t actually true. He had no reason to know this. But he felt like it was perfectly in character. 

Steve caught up to him first, shouting something about “teamwork” and “communication” that Bucky personally agreed was a good lesson for the agent to learn, but felt that maybe he wouldn’t be too receptive to it at the moment. 

358 growled something back, pushed harder. Natasha cursed, glancing at Clint who was struggling more than normal. She turned to Bucky, who nodded and fell into step beside the archer. They would not be leaving anyone behind. Natasha growled and ran with renewed strength, only a few feet behind Steve and 358 now. 

“What are you looking for?” Bucky heard Steve shout.

“It’s fucking clicking! Can’t you hear it? It's underneath us, clicking, preparing to pounce,” 358 shouted. It sounded strained, as if his voice wasn’t used to being used in that way. It made something crack in Bucky’s chest, but he forced himself to stay by Clint’s side. He needed to support them all, not just the man who held the keys to a horrific chapter of his life.

Steve suddenly sped ahead, and Bucky knew immediately that he was going to try to cut the other man off, force him to have a conversation. Bucky did not see this ending well. “Wait!” he called, but nobody listened to him. 

Steve was fast, but 358 had a head start and was still going full throttle. The agent’s chest was heaving, his face beginning to flush. He was wearing himself out on whatever ridiculous impulse he’d insisted on following. But he showed no sign of slowing down. 

Bucky knew that if Steve wanted to, he could overtake him. And eventually, he did. 

The speed they were moving meant that noticing any details or threats was impossible. Natasha was deftly leaping over clumps of weeds and fallen tree limbs, and Bucky was pretty certain that he was just crushing any obstacles in his way. But Steve had already turned, moving backward far faster than was reasonable, trying to break through to their newest companion. 

But that meant his attention was split too many ways, his focus scattered outside his purpose of a meaningful conversation. 

“Cap—St—You fucking idiot stop!” 358 screamed, lunging forward to grab at Steve. 

But he was too late. 

Something snagged against Steve’s ankle—but snagged wasn’t the right word, not really—Bucky was pretty far away, but even he could see that it had been some kind of plant or vine. And it had moved. Not shuddered by the wind, not snapped aside as if it were moved by an animal. It slithered, whipping forward and curling around Steve’s ankle, before yanking back, throwing the man on his stomach. 

Natasha gasped inaudibly, but Bucky saw the hitch in her chest. For her, it might as well have been a scream. She tried to run faster but she was already at her limit, pushing it even. Her step faltered just once, but Bucky knew that it meant the pain was beginning to burn through her. Bucky turned to Clint, who just jerked his arm forward, giving Bucky all the indication he needed. 

Bucky ran like he’d never run before. His feet ghosted over the uneven brambles and crevices that covered the forest floor, he barely processed his surroundings as he passed. All he saw was Steve, his best friend, the man who had saved him. Steve, who was jerking and twisting and trying to grab at the vine that was dragging him deeper into the forest. Steve, whose fingers were caked with dirt, whose fingers couldn’t reach the vine. 

Until suddenly, someone was on top of Steve. 358 had leaped forward, landing hard on the other man’s back. Bucky was closer now, could hear them scuffling and bickering as 358 tried to orient himself to see the vine, digging one of his knees in the small of Steve’s back. “Stop moving,” 358 snapped, struggling to free one of the knives from his belt. He dropped low, reaching forward until his knife just barely scraped against the vine. 

“I’m going to grab him,” Bucky called. He was so close. He was two, maybe three arm’s lengths away. 

“Do that and you’ll rip his arm off!” 358 shouted. 

“You said it clicked,” Steve called, cursing and rubbing dirt from his eyes. “It’s a machine, control it!”

“This part isn’t the machine!” 358 argued, inching forward, gripping Steve’s thigh when he was nearly jostled from his perch. 

Bucky was nearly on top of them now, and he could see what the agent must have felt long ago: a large break in the ground, a sudden drop. A deep cavern slowly grew wider and wider, opening up as if to swallow its prey whole. The sides were lined with wicked metal spikes, almost like teeth. Almost like the forest itself was going to eat his best friend. And Bucky heard the clicking now, even though the blood pounding in his head nearly drowned it out. It clicked and it opened and there was a mass of plants in the center, one vine thrown out to steal his friend. 

“You need to stay back,” 358 called back. “I’ve got him!”

Yeah, right! Bucky watched as Steve got a mouthful of dirt, watched as he clawed uselessly at the ground. Watched as he registered that Bucky had seen some threat that he hadn’t seen. The agent inched forward again, taking no care in the comfort of the man underneath him, focused singly on the vine around his ankle. 

Bucky snarled, ready to retort. In that moment, another vine snapped forward, coming straight for him. He ducked low, rolling to continue his momentum. He quickly rose to his feet, but the vine was whipping toward him again. Bucky dodged left, then right, but it just kept coming. He was losing ground, forced to move out of the way of the seemingly sentient plant that attacked him.

He focused again at Steve, who was struggling again, nearly jostling the agent off his back. Trying to reach Bucky, to save Bucky. Again. Because Steve would always save Bucky, would always look out for him. And Bucky would always fall short. Bucky felt something building, something like desperation. Like anger, like longing and terror and hopelessness. 

“Fucking help him!” Bucky screamed, and he knew. He saw the moment the order took hold. He watched as caution went out the window, when the agent stopped accounting for his own life. 

358 lunged, grabbed onto the vine, and hauled himself forward, cutting into it viciously with his blade. When it didn’t get through, he slammed it again, and again, and again.

Unpolished and desperate, the slashes still worked. Eventually the plant’s limb detached from his friend’s. Steve was free, sliding back in the dirt from the momentum.

358, chest heaving, tumbled to the ground. He landed right on top of the vine, now cut into a blunt stump at the end.

The vine that, despite being cut, still had life. Within the blink of an eye, it wrapped around 358's torso. He jerked forward, eyes alight, and Bucky felt the ground tremble beneath him. The gaping maw in the earth jerked back and forth, but it didn't fully close. 

Bucky was frozen in place, feeling like he might lose what little food still remained in his stomach, along with all the bile and hell, probably a couple organs too! 

358 was lifted few feet into the air, arms trapped tight against his sides. He still struggled, twisting and spitting and cursing.

Bucky watched and he panicked. He had done this. This was his fault. The agent had been forced to act before he was ready, and now he was trapped.

The hole jerked again, ripping the ground from under Bucky's feet, knocking him off balance, hands and knees hitting the dirt hard as a wave of earth pelted his eyes. 358 had his eyes squeezed shut, fists clenched tight enough to turn his knuckles white. 

Bucky had to do something, had to help. But he couldn’t move. He’d never done this—this nothing before. He always had a plan, he took action even when the odds were stacked against him. But he couldn’t. 

Steve ran forward, eyes locked up. Bucky watched as he jumped, taking hold of a lower section of the vine. 

Steve would help. Steve was a hero. 

Bucky was just the one who made the mess, Steve would always clean it up. Clean him up, clean his life up, make it so the whole world thought that Bucky was someone who could help instead of destroy. 

Steve had his shield strapped to his arm, was grunting and climbing the vine like a jungle-gym despite its writhing movement. When he got close enough, he lifted his shield and slammed it against the vine. It cut through in one smooth motion.

358 fell to the ground, rolling hard on his shoulder, grunting with pain at the impact but already moving to right himself. He stayed on his knees, glaring at the spikes that looked like teeth. Even when Steve dropped beside him, he didn’t move. When the vine came back, narrowly fended off by Steve and his shield, he still didn’t move. 

358 dug his hands into the dirt and grit his teeth. He began to breathe heavier, chest hitching unevenly. 

And suddenly, the hole began slowly, methodically sliding shut. The vines whipped around, and Bucky found his feet again. He pulled out his gun, aiming near the base to try and kill, or distract, or whatever was possible to do to something like this. He dodged vines, and rocks, and roots that were roiling as the ground seemed to stitch itself back together into one complete surface. He was suddenly aware of Clint and Natasha, who had caught up and were staying a safe distance back from the chaos. 

Eventually, the hole was forced shut. It snapped apart any vines that were still sticking out. 

Bucky looked down at 358, who was still on the ground. He’d fallen forward, pressing his forehead against the dirt. His shoulders were raised high against his ears, his back jerking as he tried to breathe through his exertion, twitching as if controlling the "mouth" had created aftershocks that were still ripping through his muscles. Steve moved as if to put a hand on his shoulder, but thought better of it. 

“We need to keep moving,” Natasha said, still slightly breathless. “We can debrief this whole situation while walking.” 

“Tash, I think we can afford to give the guy a few—” Clint’s eyes were wide, forlorn. 

“I’m fine,” 358 grunted, though he didn’t move immediately. It took him a few seconds before he slowly, slowly pulled himself upright. He raised to one knee first, and Bucky could see that he was still breathless, chest heaving with greedy lungfuls of air. His hands shook as he brushed them off on his pants, dragging himself up to stand. Each movement was halted, effortful. It looked as if he were in a lot of pain. The blue specks in his eyes were alight, the glow dimming slowly. It looked like he’d popped a blood vessel in his eye, leaving a dark pink smudge against the pearly white surface.

When he finally stood, he looked at Bucky. And for the first time, Bucky did not find the expression hard to read at all.

It was hatred. Pure hatred.

Steve stepped close to the agent as if he meant to offer support, but 358 turned away from him, glaring straight at Bucky. 

“If you want me to be of any actual use out here, if you want me to function to the best of my ability, you need to stop doing that,” he hissed. His voice was hoarse, broken. 

“I know,” Bucky said. “I didn’t mean to, I just—”

“I don’t actually care if you meant to or not,” 358 said. He seemed to calm himself, somehow. Still catching his breath, still looking as if he might fall over. But a layer of cold focus fell across his features. As if he were made of iron, as if anger were somehow beneath him. Bucky didn’t know if it was restraint or exhaustion that produced such a minimal response, because it was very clear that he was outraged. “If you do it again, I’ll cut your tongue out.” 

Natasha stepped forward, but Bucky raised up a hand, desperate to keep her back. He deserved this. He deserved this. 

“I didn’t mean for you to get hurt,” Bucky said. 

“I had a plan.” 358 was still shaking, but it seemed different than before. Forcefully controlled, rather than weak.

“That’s part of the issue,” Steve said, stepping between them. “You had a plan of attack, you had an idea to seek out that noise, but you didn’t communicate it to any of us.” He glanced over at the agent, and Bucky couldn’t shake the feeling that his gaze was softer than it had been before. “You can’t just run off and expect us to follow.” 

“You didn’t have to follow me,” 358 argued. “I was scouting. I knew something was going to happen, I didn't know where. I was trying to figure it out.” 

“We're sticking together,” Steve said. “You’re part of a team here, like it or not. Which means that you tell us your ideas, and you keep us close.” 

358 took a slow, deliberate breath. “Fine.” He did not seem entirely pleased. 

Steve then turned to look at Bucky, nodding at him slightly. He wanted to talk, but later. Separate from the group. “Let’s get moving, then,” Steve said. “And let’s go around the pit, please. I don’t love the idea of walking on top of a spikey cavern.” 

“This one shouldn’t open again,” 358 muttered, kicking the ground vindictively. “I killed it.” 

“I still think we should go around,” Clint piped up. “For peace of mind, you know?” 

358 sighed, but didn’t say anything when Steve led them parallel to the opening. 

“How do you do that?” Natasha asked the agent, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. 

“How do I do what?” 358 asked. He was walking alongside them, keeping pace, but he looked exhausted. Depleted. Maybe a little pouty after being chastised by Steve. Bucky wondered how much longer he could go on before he collapsed. 

“Close the gap in the ground, open doors and play with lights,” Natasha started listing off, crossing her arms. 

“I just do,” 358 said, voice flat. 

Bucky would be lying if he said he wasn’t curious about the ability, but he didn’t think that this was the best moment to ask. The agent was ragged, raw. The chances that he would snap rather than submit to the line of questioning were high. 

“Why don’t you ask?” Natasha said, turning to Bucky. 

Bucky shook his head. Not again, not for something so ridiculous. He would not betray 358 again so soon, not while the wound was still fresh. Bucky wasn’t a monster, didn’t want to hold the agent’s will in his fist. He hated that he had that ability, hated that he’d used it willingly and unwillingly.

It sent a shiver down his spine. He’d been a puppet for so long, and now he held tight to someone else’s strings. It was a cruel irony, a wicked twist of fate. He wondered, if anyone was watching him from above, if they were laughing at him. 

Bucky realized that his silence had power in and of itself: a pinch of tension fell from the agent’s shoulders. 

“The logistics aren’t important,” Steve said, and Bucky knew that those words hurt him, knew that he was itching to understand exactly how the ability functioned, how it could help the group. “All that matters is that it works, and that you can control it.” 

“It works,” 358 snapped, “and I am entirely in control. It’s a talent, really: some have said that I was born for this.” 358 snorted, though his voice held little humor. “Not that I know what that means.” 

“Are there others like you?” Clint asked, rolling his bad shoulder again. Bucky really thought he should stop doing that, it couldn't feel good. “Like, psychic-techy type stuff, not mercenaries in general.” 

“I am the only person who can do what I do,” 358 said. “It’s a very rare skill, according to the doctors. They tried to do it before my time, as well as replicate it after I was created, but they haven't managed it yet.” 

“So there’s some innate skill required?” Bucky asked, considering. He wondered what trait he had that could be elevated and exploited by some horrific experiment to produce a powerful ability. Maybe he would kill better, or have a super-guilt complex. 

It was hard for Bucky to view himself in an objective light. 

“Maybe,” 358 said, “or it might be a piece of genetic code that allows a certain change to happen. I’m not sure, I was never allowed to read the charts or calculations.”

“I wish we could have swiped some of their files,” Steve muttered, “so that we had some kind of understanding of what they’re doing.” 

“What, so you could replicate it?” 358 immediately turned to the super soldier, eyes alight with rage. “So that your government could perform the same procedures, but in the name of freedom and justice rather than murder and monetary gain? Because your bosses are so much more noble than the scientists in that lab?” He had stopped walking. 

“That’s not what I—of course nobody would ever replicate what they’ve done,” Steve protested, “but it helps to defeat someone when you understand them.” 

“I’m sure that’s all the files would be used for,” 358 spat, turning on his heel and stalking forward again, scoffing and muttering understanding derisively under his breath.

“You think it should all be destroyed?” Bucky asked. 

“Yes. The building, the forest, and all the monsters inside.” 358 crossed his arms, refusing to look up from the ground. 

“You were inside,” Clint pointed out. 

“If you want to destroy me once I get you all out of here, be my guest!” 358 threw his hands up. “The world would be better for it. All of us who lived there, who grew there, we’re a stain on existence. A fucking crime against humanity.” 

Bucky had an awful feeling he was repeating things he'd been told before.

“That’s not true; you can do good,” Bucky protested, but he was ignored. Again.

He needed to believe that it was true for 358, because if it was true for him then it could be true for Bucky, too. Then maybe he could believe that he was capable of atoning for every misdeed he’d committed when he was a prisoner.

Steve gave Bucky a look that held a million thoughts of pity and pain and hope. Bucky felt lucky to have a friend like that, someone who could believe in him even when he didn’t believe in himself. 

He didn’t know why, but he wanted to be that for 358. The one who knew him. The one who supported him. The one who made him want to be something better. 

Natasha was staring at him, too, though she lacked Steve’s distinct softness. She was calculating. Piecing something together that Bucky couldn’t understand. 

“I think we should stop and take a breather,” Clint said suddenly. “My shoulder is bothering me,” he tacked on at the end. But he wasn’t rolling it, wasn’t adjusting his stance. He was just watching 358, whose steps had begun to drag. 

“Let me check it,” Natasha snapped immediately, walking quickly to his side. Clint let her manhandle him, protesting only when she went to undo his bandages. 

“Hey, you just did these this morning,” he said, pushing her hands away. “We don’t have enough to rebandage it yet, give it a day.” 

They bickered quietly while the rest of the team dispersed, though remained within eyesight of one another. Bucky leaned heavily against a tree, letting the fatigue of the day finally catch up with him. Steve was soon by his side, passing him one of the water bottles that had been left out. Bucky took a hesitant swig, mindful that they had a limited amount and still had not found a source of fresh water. He passed it back and watched Steve take an equally tentative drink. 

358 sat on the ground, legs stretched out in front of him. When Steve passed him the bottle he looked surprised, and took it slowly. He took a small sip, and was about to hand it back when Steve shook his head. 

“Have more,” Steve protested. “You look exhausted, and we need you back to best form as soon as possible.” 

For whatever reason, 358 looked suspicious but had another drink. 

“Okay,” Steve said. He glanced at Clint and Natasha, who were now fussing over each other, Clint no longer sitting back and letting her prod at his bruises. “We need to talk about the issue with the orders.” 

Bucky tensed but forced himself to nod stiffly. He couldn’t look at 358, couldn’t face his own disgust. 

“It needs to stop,” 358 huffed. “What else is there to say about it?” 

“We can talk about why it happens,” Steve insisted. “It doesn’t always work. And it’s not practical for Bucky to avoid speaking to you at all.” 

358 was quiet for a long time, considering.

“If you can think of anything I can do,” Bucky said softly, “please just tell me. I don’t want to do that to you, I don't want to hurt you.” 

“You had no problem with it when you wanted me to save your asses in the lab,” 358 sneered. Okay, definitely a little pouty, though Bucky didn't think it necessary to judge him for it. The mercenary had plenty of reasons to be upset. 

“That was when you were still trying to kill us,” Steve replied diplomatically. “We all trust each other now, we’re all on the same side.”

“Right,” 358 said. 

“It wasn’t right of me to do that, even then,” Bucky cut in. “I… it’s not okay that I forced you to do something so dangerous, I basically left you with no choice but to follow us. I swear that I will do whatever I can to make it up to you.” 

“You’ll make it up to me when you get me out of here,” 358 said. His eyes were downcast, he pulled his knees up to his chest. He seemed smaller. Still sharp and edgy and angry, but also a little desperate. Exhausted physically, but also on a much deeper level, something that couldn't be solved with a bit of rest.

Bucky felt a small swell, an inch of hope enter his chest. He could do that. Totally. The odds weren’t stacked against him, just a simple hike and he could fix at least one of the transgressions he’d committed in the past. Easy. 

“It’s something in the tone you use,” 358 said suddenly. “When you get angry, or focused, or use certain words. It was most effective when you’ve used well-practiced phrases: heel, for example—” Bucky flinched "—or you call me by my title. I can't... those phrases are very powerful."

“I can’t guarantee that I won’t slip up, especially in battle,” Bucky said slowly, “but I will try to be more mindful of how I speak to you.” Bucky knew exactly what tone he meant, but couldn’t make himself admit it. It was the cold, forceful bark of the Winter Soldier that did it. It made his stomach flip into his throat to think that his voice was just another piece of his body that had been used to twist him into something wrong. 

“Until we can think of a better solution, I can try to translate battle plans to you,” Steve said, glancing at 358 “if you’d prefer that.”

358 seemed to consider it, turning the idea around in his head as fast as the horror was swirling in Bucky’s gut. “That’s fine,” he said finally. He didn’t expand on his reasoning. 

Bucky just nodded. He’d said enough for one day. He stood back up, glancing back at Clint and Natasha who were conversing quietly. There was something heated between them, an argument brewing. He took the water bottle from Steve, tossed it to the group. Clint caught it, barely looking up. He took a swig while glaring at Natasha, passing it to her. 

Before standing, Clint said one more short phrase. It was quiet enough that Bucky couldn’t hear what was said, but he was skilled enough at reading lips that he thought he understood. 

Leave him alone. 

Bucky tried to push his suspicion down, tried to ignore the feelings swirling in his gut. Dusk was descending, elongating the shadows and making any twitch of the wind feel like an imminent threat. His eyes kept skating toward Natasha, who was cutting an apple into quarters in her palm as she walked, passing the pieces around before starting on a second one. When she passed him a quarter, Bucky took it. He savored the bite, letting the flavor sit on his tongue. He was hungry, they all were. They planned to eat more when they made camp for the night, but Bucky knew they had to be careful. Nobody knew if there was anything edible in the forest. 

“Why do you keep staring at me?” Natasha asked coolly, deftly swiping her blade through the apple again. The piece came off, and she tossed it to the agent. He caught it from the air before taking a huge bite. 

“What do you have against him?” Bucky asked quickly, before he could think better of it.

“Hm, I don’t really know,” she replied, voice light. She cut another piece of the apple off, passing a second one off to Steve. “It might have something to do with how we met—maybe we just started off on the wrong foot, but someone holding a knife to my neck makes me irritable in the best of circumstances.” She cut off another quarter, passing Bucky a second piece as well. “Or maybe it’s who he spends his time with. It’s all too easy to judge someone quickly by their friends.” She cut the remaining pieces off, passing one to Clint and, surprising Bucky, throwing the last piece to the agent up front. “Or maybe it’s the way you two have clearly shared some type of history, yet you’re both staying very tight-lipped about it.” 

“Okay, I get it—” Bucky started, but she just raised her voice to speak over him. 

“Or maybe it’s just his sense of humor! Or the way he dresses, or walks.” 

“Nat,” Bucky tried again, but she just snapped her head to glare at him. 

“You don’t get to hold my very reasonable reaction to his strangeness against me, Bucky. You of all people know exactly how fucked we are if you were wrong to trust him.” 

“Did you just call me strange?” The agent asked, looking back. He took a bite of his apple slice, apparently unbothered.

Natasha raised a brow to Bucky as if to say ‘you see what I mean?’ 

Bucky just swallowed, nodded. 

“Because of all the ways people have tried to describe me, strange is a new one,” 358 continued. He seemed to mull it over, before smiling. “You’d think that one would have come up before!” 

“Given your previous company, I can see how you might have been considered the normal one,” Clint said, bumping his shoulder against the agent’s. 

“You haven't met MOTO2,” 358 said. “She's very good at normal. You can have a conversation with her and almost forget that her blood's toxic.” 

“How would that be useful?” Clint asked. 

“She told me about a mission once; she was supposed to take out an entire organization. You can imagine the kind of planning a job like that can take. She posed as a cook, worked in their kitchens for weeks waiting for the right moment.” 358 was leaning closer to Clint, hands moving as he spoke as if he were communicating a particularly exciting tale. “Then, it happened: a meeting of members, mandatory for all to attend. She helped prepare their dinner.” He pulled back, holding up his index finger. “One drop per dish: that’s all it took. A knick of the knife, a forgettable accident. And by the end of the night, all attendees were on the floor.” 

“Is that true?” Steve asked, eyebrows knit tight.

“Probably not,” 358 said, dropping his hand. “She liked to lie, did it as much as she could get away with. But at least it makes for an entertaining story.” 

“How do you know she liked to lie?” Natasha asked, suddenly engaging in the conversation. “Was she bad at it? Because if she was good, you’d never know.” 

Bucky already felt that she shouldn’t have asked.

“She lied to the wrong person,” 358 said, frowning. Clearly he didn’t like the current direction either. “She uh… she was asked to make a public apology.” 

And then he closed back up. 

“We should start looking for a good place to make camp for the night,” Steve said. “It’s been a long day, and we can’t keep going on like this forever.” 

Clint nodded, already peeking up at the trees, apparently hoping to find one suitable to sleep in. Bucky didn’t love the idea of sleeping all the way up there. His night terrors were usually enough to throw him around a bit, and could easily knock him out of a tree. He’d rather find somewhere nice and cozy on the ground, where he could be stabbed to pieces by rocks and branches, unable to catch more than a few minutes of rest at a time. 

Bucky didn’t really feel he needed rest yet, he would have preferred to keep moving. He knew that Natasha probably felt the same, as antsy as she was to get out of there. But he also knew that the others needed it, and Steve could see it. As much energy as 358 had regained over time, he was still slumping with the effort it took to keep moving. Clint was in pain, and his body wouldn’t heal properly if he kept moving it so much. And whether she would admit it or not, Natasha could barely move her ankle anymore, eye twitching with every painful step. 

But Bucky and Steve, they were different. They could do more, no fault to anyone else. Their bodies were stronger, built for this type of thing. Built to keep moving even when all they wanted to do was lie down and break down. 

Bucky couldn’t say for certain that that’s what Steve wanted to do, of course. But it was definitely what he wanted. Even though physically he was fine, the mental strain was starting to get to him. To rip him to shreds, and tear at the sinews and jostle every organ in his body. His mind was buzzing with energy, every thought felt like a zap. Every urge in his body told him to kneel at the feet of the agent, to cry and beg for answers he knew he wouldn’t receive, couldn’t receive. He wanted to talk to the man until something jogged his memory, shake him until something came loose. 

Anything to help that nagging feeling that wouldn’t leave him alone, the feeling that this man was important. Potentially more important than anything else he’d ever remembered or recovered, more important than any mission they might have had in coming here. 

Despite Steve’s assertion that rest was needed, they walked a few more miles before Clint finally declared he’d found the perfect spot. It was a heavily wooded area, providing ample cover. That was the only attribute that differentiated it from any other. Bucky opened his mouth to ask why that was the place, when Clint’s stomach growled. Ah, that answered that question.

Steve immediately went to work digging through his bag, sorting out rations for the group and setting aside a flashlight. 

Bucky grabbed the light, moving to hold it up so Steve could see what he was doing, but it wouldn’t turn on. “I think it’s dead,” he said, shaking it. 

“Give it to me,” 358 snapped, snatching it from his hands. He held it tight, glared at it, then flicked the switch. It turned on. 

“Thanks,” Bucky said, taking it back. The agent just grunted. 

“I can’t believe we got a portable charger,” Clint said. “That must come in handy, if your phone ever dies.” 

“I don’t have a phone,” 358 said. 

Steve handed out handfuls of food to each person: some beef jerky, a hunk of semi-stale french bread, and half an apple. Bucky glanced at the remaining supplies: split between the five of them, there wasn’t much there. He also placed the remaining water in the center of their little circle. “We’ve only got four bottles left after this,” Steve explained. “Until we can find a reliable source for more, it’s best we make it last as long as possible.” 

Clint took a bite of the bread, frowning at the texture. Natasha didn’t comment, happily chewing her jerky. Bucky took a bite of his own: tough, flavorless. The bread was the same. At least the apple provided a much-needed palate cleanser. 

358 tore into his food, not saying a word. He was the first to finish. Clint silently gave him the remainder of his bread, and the agent inhaled that too. 

When he noticed the eyes on him, he looked up. “Every time I do my little magic tricks, it uses up a lot of energy. Food is energy.” 

“I just thought the bread was nasty,” Clint shrugged.

“We should discuss watch shifts,” Steve said. “We don’t know exactly what we’re up against, but we know it isn’t good. We can’t afford to let our guard down, not even to sleep.” 

“I can take first watch,” 358 said. 

“You looked like you were about to keel over less than five minutes ago,” Natasha said. 

“That was before food,” 358 pointed out, “I’ve got a couple hours left in me now.” 

“Still, you deserve to rest too,” Bucky protested. 

The agent rolled his eyes. “Look, I’m a good choice, promise.” He grinned, and Bucky could barely make it out in the dimming light. “I can see in the dark.” 

“What do you mean you can see in the dark?” Clint asked. He flicked off the flashlight. “How many fingers am I holding up?” 

“Three,” the agent said. “And you’re sticking your tongue out at me.” 

“Lucky guess,” Clint said. 

“We’ll go in pairs, just in case someone falls asleep,” Steve said. “I’ll take first watch with you. In about two hours, we’ll wake our relief.” 

Bucky wanted to protest, to volunteer to join Steve. He wanted some time alone with his friend, to talk through everything that was bugging him. But he also didn’t want to step on 358’s toes, not again. 

He, Natasha, and Clint settled in close, laying the foil blanket on the ground to keep the worst of the debris away from them. The sleeping bag was unrolled and laid horizontally under their heads, Clint and Natasha both added rolled up scraps of the spare jacket to keep comfortable. Bucky laid flat on his back, staring up at the sky above him. 

Every so often he spared a glance toward their guards: they were sat close, not speaking. But it wasn’t a hostile silence, far from it. They looked like two soldiers, intent on their duty to protect. 

Maybe 358 was more similar to Steve than to Bucky.

Bucky decided to lull himself to sleep with thoughts of what he might do when they eventually made it out. He would never step over a sidewalk crack again without wondering if it might open like a mouth. He would never take a peaceful hike without looking over his shoulder, either. He would make himself a really nice sandwich. With soft bread, and really nice cheese. Loaded with turkey and bacon. 

He would blow that fucking facility to the ground, not just because the agent wanted to. But because he wanted revenge for whatever the hell they made him do. Because they tried to kill his team. 

And he would have a stiff drink. Never mind that he wouldn’t feel the effects, he would just do it to remember the flavor. He’d crack one open with Steve, pay homage to the old days when they were just two soldiers, cogs in the machine of a world war. 

As his eyes drifted shut, Bucky thought about his warm bed, he thought about game night (which they’d be missing) and he thought about Bruce and Thor, who had likely been informed about their going on a mission, and informed that they had still not returned. He thought about being someone who would be missed, and how empty his life had felt before he had that. 

Bucky’s dream was a swirling mass of light, color, and sound. There was no timeline, no conversation was complete. The memories came in flashes, moving from one scene to the next with no clear connection to before or after. Words he had said and words that had been said to him blended, faces combined to a faceless mask. Half-remembered pain ached like bruises against his skin, and electricity crackled beneath his skull. 

Harsh Russian words echoed against tall ceilings and plain walls.

“I told you to run!”

“I told you to stay!”

The feeling of someone's wrist cracking in his fist, of sharp teeth scraping against the painted star on his shoulder. A duck, a turn, a crushed throat. 

“Soldier, you are here to make these recruits better. They have few missions under their belt, little experience in the world. You need to prepare them for more complex work. You need to take them from dull kitchen knives, to the kind of blade that can efficiently kill. Do you understand your parameters?”

“Yes sir. Hail HYDRA.” 

“You are weak. You hesitate. Take this gun and kill him. If I see you hesitate, if you flinch, I will make you do it again.” 

“Acceptable. Now again.” 

A hand in his hand, blue glow lighting up the darkened hallways. “They're closing in,” he says. “They will kill us.” 

“I won’t let them take you, I promise.” 

“I will tell them I stole you,” the man said. “You must revert to your training, Bucky. They'll kill you.” 

“And what? You stay here? That's not an option—”

“Revert to your training now.” 

A fiery pain, and vision ruined with light. 

“Spar with me, mercenary. It's time for you to prove you're not as useless as I've been told.”

Every order, every thought taken away. Every word. Until someone new emerged. 

“Where am I?” 

“Give me your hand. This, you see this: this is your best weapon. Learn how to use it effectively, and you’ll never be unarmed.” 

“You will be out of here soon enough. Me? I’ll be here ‘til the day I die.” 

“I know you can do better than that. Come on, hit me. Like you mean it.” 

“But I don’t.” 

“I’m not going to break. If you want the plan to work, you need to be ruthless.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“What did you do to me?” 

“You said your name is Bucky? That’s a very strange name.”

Bucky’s eyes shot open, and it took far too long for him to realize where he was. But the branches spiraling above, the soft sounds of breathing on either side, oriented him soon enough. He pushed himself upright, realizing only then that his heart was beating into his ribs. He tried to suck in a breath but his chest felt too tight, too full. He was gasping like a fish on dry land when Steve appeared in front of him. 

“Bucky, breathe,” he said softly, landing heavy hands on Bucky’s shoulders. “Look at me, it was just a dream. You aren’t there. You’re here with me, Clint, and Natasha. Do you know where you are?” 

Bucky tried to nod, but his neck felt stiff. “Of course,” he choked out, annoyed at how weak his own voice sounded. He forced air down his throat, focused on how it almost burned. He gripped Steve’s hand, focused on the warmth radiating off his skin. He always ran hot, a product of his metabolism. It was almost stifling in the heavy humidity that surrounded them, but that only made him hold tighter. Something real to hold onto in a situation that almost felt too surreal to exist. 

“I’m fine, Stevie,” Bucky said finally, as soon as he got his breath back. “But I’m too wound up right now to go back to sleep. Come on, let’s switch out. I’ll finish out your watch.” 

“I’ll stay up with you, let him get some rest—”

“No thanks,” 358 said, though nobody had actually spoken to him. “My night-vision is too valuable to cut it short just because someone had a nightmare. I'll keep up my watch. Steve can rest.” 

Steve glanced at him, questioning. The agent just nodded. 

“Alright then,” Steve said slowly. “Let’s swap out. It’s been a quiet night so far, so hopefully you’ll have nothing to worry about.”

“Well, now we will. You’ve jinxed us,” the agent said. “You just had to go and say that, now we’ll be eaten by a swarm of giant mosquitoes while you’re all resting your pretty little heads.” 

“Is that a thing?” Bucky ground out, pushing himself to his feet, trying to shake the remains of sleep from his frame. 

“Not that I know of,” 358 shrugged. “But by saying that, I’ve probably jinxed us again.” 

Steve shook his head, small smile playing on his features. When had those two become so close? Last he saw, they were sitting in manly, stoic silence. Now Steve was laughing at his jokes, listening to his preferences for watch shifts? 

What did they have to bond over?

“If only we had bug spray,” Bucky said, moving to sit heavily beside 358.

“Or a flame thrower,” Steve mused quietly, settling as quietly as possible on the foil blanket. By the next time Bucky looked, he had already closed his eyes. He’d gotten pretty good at grasping for sleep wherever he was, with what little time was allowed. Bucky hoped he managed to get more rest than he did. 

“You can sit over here, if you want,” 358 said suddenly. “Or you can keep standing there like an idiot. Whatever you prefer.” 

Bucky ran a hand through his hair, unsure why the offer flustered him. It wasn’t like the man had extended some grand gesture of forgiveness. He hadn’t even been particularly kind. But it still made something in Bucky’s chest loosen, made his shoulders feel a little lighter. He crossed the few-steps distance between them, sitting about a foot away from him. 

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

“For what?” 358 shrugged. He didn’t speak as if he were doing something kind and trying to play it off as nothing, or as if he felt any particular way about the action at all. He said it as if he truly had no idea what Bucky could possibly be talking about. 

“Never mind,” Bucky groaned, rubbing a hand across his face. The dreams had him on edge, he could still feel them vibrating beneath his skin. He felt the heat, he felt the longing. He felt desperation clawing up his throat. As if something inside was trying to scrape its way outside of him, into the space between them where nothing lay except tension and uncertainty. “Do you really remember nothing?” He gasped. His tongue felt scorched by the words.

358 rolled his shoulders back, but remained silent. He had an odd look on his face. Searching. Making a decision. “Nothing about you,” he said finally. “I wish I could give you what you’re looking for, Barnes. But I really can’t.” 

“Barnes?” Bucky repeated. “Did Steve tell you that?” 

“He did.” 358 leaned back on his hands, groaning quietly as he stretched out his back. He looked up at the sky, the moon’s barely-there light highlighting the edge of his jaw. Apparently satisfied, he glanced back at Bucky. “So, what kinds of horrifying things manage to keep the big scary Winter Soldier up at night?” 

Bucky’s eyes were still adjusting, he couldn’t clearly discern any emotion from the faded outlines of his companion’s face. The only feature he could clearly make out were the other man’s eyes: those dim blue flecks breaking through a blanket of warm brown, not quite glowing yet somehow still alight. His eyes might have been beautiful, Bucky thought, if he didn’t know the horrific circumstances necessary to create an effect like that. As it was, they were most definitely captivating.

“Steve tell you that too?” Bucky groaned, feeling the weight of the day settle into his bones. Of course Steve would tell him that, of course Steve and his big heart would see an opportunity for connection and chase after it. But Bucky wasn’t sure that that was a good way to connect. He thought it might be too soon. 

Really, he was just ashamed. If 358 knew the Winter Soldier, Bucky knew it couldn’t have been good. He didn’t want the man to know of Bucky’s actions until Bucky knew of them himself. 

“He also said that you were scrambled in the head, made to do things against your will.” 358’s voice was devoid of feeling or inflection. He was simply stating a fact, recounting a conversation. 

“Yes. I was.” Bucky felt as if ants were crawling all over him, itching beneath his clothes and up his nose. His only comfort was that that was impossible, as there were no ants in this forest. There were no bugs at all. 

It wasn’t as comforting a thought when he dwelled on it for too long. 

The agent was silent for a long time, and Bucky wished he could see into the man’s brain, understand the thoughts he kept so safely protected behind those eyes. Bucky wished he knew how to actually forge a connection with him, tie them together in some way that would make the agent feel safe enough to talk to him, really talk to him. 

Nobody ever felt safe talking to The Winter Soldier.

“They did something similar to us, you know.” Bucky almost jumped at the sound of the agent’s voice, but he hoped he hid it well enough. He didn’t want to spook the guy back into silence. “But we called it reprogramming.” He kept talking, that was good. Bucky must have hidden his alarm pretty well. “Reprogramming is where they scoop out your insides—figuratively, I mean—leaving you a clean slate. But we didn’t have nefarious trigger words, didn’t need them when we had these.” He ran his hand along the back of his neck. Bucky traced the movement as well as he could. He swallowed past the lump in his throat. 

“I—I was dreaming about you, about the facility. Just flashes, disconnected pieces. Not enough to paint a clear picture, but...” he shifted, uncomfortable, “it means I’m starting to remember.” 

“You can’t trust your dreams, Soldier. I once dreamt I was the king of the moon, but you don’t see me wearing a crown.” The words might have sounded cruel coming from someone else, but 358 just sounded tired. Maybe a little pitying, even. As if he thought Bucky were simply a lost soul, grasping at straws for something impossible. 

“I know by now how to separate fiction from reality,” Bucky argued, feeling as his hackles slowly raised at the insinuation. As if he hadn’t been playing this game for years, as if he hadn’t learned yet how to understand his own damned mind, his own damned history. 

“I wonder how that feels. To know the difference between nightmare and waking.” 358 did not match Bucky’s defensive tone, just replied as languidly as he had the rest of the conversation. But Bucky was teaching himself how to pick apart the man’s moods, his language. 

He could tell that 358 still pitied him, still thought lowly of his sanity. But he could also tell that 358 was feeling camaraderie. 

Maybe Steve was right to talk to the agent after all. 

“You could help me, you know. And I could do the same. I know that neither of us can remember the other clearly, but I know there’s something there. I can feel it. And I think you can feel it, too.” There it was: the big push. The hope that if he extended the hand, that maybe the agent would finally trust him enough to help him. 

“Why do you think I can help you?” 358 shifted, Bucky could hear him scuff against the dirt, saw his eyes bob in the dark. “What, we try a little ‘blind leading the blind?’ See who can come up with the nicest story to accept as our collective reality?” He was mocking him now. “I just told you all that I know, Soldier: Nothing. I can't give you something I don’t have.” 

Bucky forged onward, refusing to accept the answer. He was right, he knew it. They knew each other. They had met. He just had to figure out how to dig it out of them. “These wipes, or reprogramming as you call them: they’re not perfect. The human mind is stronger than that.” That had been a line from his therapist, actually. A professional, someone who worked with many combatants who dealt with extreme cases of trauma. “If we hit the right cues, press the right buttons, lots of what’s been lost can be unburied.” 

“What do you suggest, then, hm? You put your hand around my neck, see if that brings anything up?” He was angry, Bucky could hear that much. “Or you could order me to remember you, maybe that would do the trick. It’s not like I haven’t heard your voice before, but maybe next time it’ll work.” 

“I’ll tell you something I can remember, and you can tell me if it sounds true or not. And if it jogs anything in your memory, you can tell me more. I’ll do the same for you.” He pushed forth with his idea, doing his best to ignore the hurt that rang in his chest at the insinuation. 

“Where’d you come up with a silly game like that? There’s no way to know that I’ll be right in whatever answer I tell you. I could lie. I could have been programmed to remember things differently. You have no way of knowing.” 

Bucky sighed deeply. On the outside he was flagging, while inside his heart was fanning the flame of hope that his idea might somehow still come together. “It was my therapist’s idea, actually. To do something similar with Steve. It helped to recover some of who I was before HYDRA.” 

“Except Steve’s mind is still intact, and mine is not,” 358 reminded him. 

“Yes, it’s not exactly the same,” Bucky said. “But with some adjustments, and some patience, it might still work.” 

The agent groaned. “Fine, then. I'll play your game. But I make no promises that I will be of any real help.” 

Bucky felt a smile, a real one, hit his face for the first time since they’d entered that god-forsaken forest. It quickly fell away when he let his mind wander back to the dream. “How does this sound: The Winter Soldier was there to prepare you to translate classroom skills to real-world missions.” 

“I don’t—” the agent quickly cut himself off, groaning quietly. As if he’d been hit with a sudden pain, as if the words had been stolen from him. “I think you’re correct,” he ground out, speaking through his teeth. 

“Are you—”

“I’m fine,” 358 snapped. “Just a headache.”

“I… do you remember anything? Does that help?” Bucky felt, very suddenly, much less confident about his plan. He knew that the memory was causing some kind of discomfort for 358, maybe even pain. And that just... that wasn't right. But was it not right enough to stop? He'd never claimed to be an un-selfish person.

“Just shut up for a second,” the man hissed. Bucky couldn’t see his eyes, assumed they must have been shut. The man groaned again before straightening up. “You used to have a star on your shoulder. It was red. It isn’t there anymore.” 

Bucky nodded, assuming the man could see it. “I did. It was a symbol, painted on while I was under the control of HYDRA. I got rid of it when I got my freedom.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay?” 

“I said okay.” The agent was on a short fuse, now, only seconds away from exploding at the slightest provocation. “I don’t know what else you want from me, that’s all I got. A fucking star.” He stood, body alive with energy. “It’s your turn again. Say what you want to say.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Just fucking—out with it, come on.” 

Bucky rubbed his palms against his knees, trying to piece fragments with inferences that felt almost like they made sense. “You were a capable student, talented enough to get through initiation and graduate to mercenary—”

“Obviously.” 

“I wasn’t finished!” Bucky glared at him, returning to his thoughts, trying to jam them back together before he lost them again. “You were a very capable student, but you were a reluctant one. You didn’t want to kill anyone, so you were made to do it often.”

The agent made a noise in his throat as if he were choking on something particularly bitter. “I can remember that well enough,” he heaved. It sounded like he was gagging. “I was frequently assigned to dispose of failed projects.” 

“And you didn’t want to do it?” Bucky asked, leaning forward.

“What I wanted didn’t matter.” 358’s voice was strained. “All that mattered was that I was eventually desensitized to ending lives. You made me do it too, so don’t sound so sanctimonious about it.”

“You remember me doing it?” Bucky asked. “I triggered something, then? You remember?” 

358 growled low in his throat. “I remember a gun and a red star,” he hissed. “I remember a man on his knees, pleading.” 

“I—”

“I remember your voice,” he hissed. He sounded like he might vomit. “I did it, I know that I did it. But it wasn’t enough. Because I hesitated.” 

“That wasn’t me,” Bucky tried. 

“It was your fucking voice.” 358 sat heavily on the ground. “I remember it.” 

“Do you also remember knowing my name?” Bucky said quickly, leaning forward, only a step away from pleading. 

“Your name?" 358 laughed, cutting it off quickly. Bucky wondered if he was afraid to wake the others, or if he could hear his own hysteria. “Why would that matter at all? I know your name now, I know that you are Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier, the red star… in my dreams.” He whined low in his throat, clutched his head. “It hurts.” 

“What hurts?” Bucky said, moving closer to the man. 358 flinched back, Bucky's hands shook; he couldn’t figure out how to help. “What hurts?” 

“Everything,” the man groaned. “Stay away from me.” He curled up tight, pulling at his hair. “I won’t do it again.” 

“Do what again?” Bucky knelt down but kept his distance. 

“I’ll stay. Please. Let him go.” 

Bucky was lost, now. Absolutely lost. “Let who go?” The agent whined, Bucky saw that he was clutching the base of his skull. 

Bucky felt sick. He’d gone too far, introduced too much too soon, and now he was pretty sure he’d trapped the man in his own head. 

He knew what he had to do. He just hated it. 

“Calm down, MOTO4. You are safe. You will not come to harm.” The words were harsh, authoritative. Russian. The effect was immediate. 

358’s muscles relaxed one by one, the whining growing softer and softer with each passing moment. 

Soon enough, the man was sitting back up. 

“I’m so sorry,” Bucky said. “I’m so sorry I did that to you.” 

358 didn’t answer, just took a few long, deep breaths. “You hurt me, I think,” he said. His voice was ragged, broken. “It wasn’t you. It was the Winter Soldier. But you hurt me.” 

“You remember me now, though?” 

The man laughed, the sound short as if he were swallowing it. “Yes. I remember you. Not completely. But I remember you.” 

“Why did I hurt you?” Bucky asked. 

“I don’t know.”

Bucky could hear that the conversation was done. 

They sat beside one another again, though the air between them was heavy with anger and words unsaid. 

“You should get some rest,” Bucky said eventually. “Wake Clint, he can take a shift.” 

“I’m not tired,” 358 snarled. It was a lie.

“It’s been a long day, you’re clearly exhausted, why won’t you just—”

“Shut up.” 358 had frozen, words a sharp hiss in the silent night around them.

“No, this one-man show of strength is honestly getting ridiculous—”

“Shut. Up.” 358 glared, words barely a whisper. “I hear something.” 

Bucky immediately clenched his jaw, swallowing the harsh words before he could cause even more damage. He strained his ears, held his breath. Far away, almost imperceptibly quiet, he heard it: A snap. A rustle. 

Something was out there. Within seconds 358 was on his feet, knees bent, slowly dragging himself toward the sound, footfalls silent on the forest floor. 

Bucky immediately grabbed the man’s wrist holding it back. “What do you think you’re doing?” He hissed. 

“Investigating,” 358 said, as if it were obvious. 

“Not by yourself you’re not. We literally just talked about this: you need to communicate your plans, you can’t keep running off on your own.” Bucky pushed himself to his feet, the agent’s wrist still firmly in his grasp. 

358 shook him off, but didn’t try to move away again. “Listen Barnes, it isn’t personal. But you’ll only slow me down.” 

“You seem to forget who trained who, here,” Bucky snapped. “I’m more than capable of keeping up.” 

“We can’t just leave them undefended. Someone needs to stay and guard the group: thus, divide and conquer. Whatever it is, I can’t see it yet. I can’t see as well in the dark, but that means it’s still pretty far off. If I’m careful, I can take it by surprise and dispatch it before it draws undue attention our way.” 

“I’ll wake them, then. They’ll hold the base, we’ll go investigate.”

“That’ll take too long, it might alert it to our presence. We need to be fast. Efficient. Silent.” 

Bucky felt his frustration rising to nearly dangerous levels. “Stay here,” he hissed. “Wait for me.” Bucky crept over to where he knew Steve was sleeping, knelt down. Touched his shoulder lightly. Steve stirred before opening his eyes silently. 

Of course he’d been awake. Of course he’d been listening. 

“He thinks something is out there, we’re going to investigate. Keep watch here. We’ll be back soon, if it takes longer than 15 minutes send backup. Understood?” Bucky met his friend’s eyes; now that he’d been awake for a while, his eyes had started adjusting to the dark. He could see when Steve nodded stiffly, moving to sit up. 

“Signal if you need backup sooner,” Steve said. “I’ll be watching, listening. Longer than 15 minutes, I’m waking the others and coming after you.” 

“Thanks,” Bucky said, already moving back to the waiting agent. He returned to 358’s side, moving silently in tandem through the forest. 

358 did not speak as he moved, and Bucky was too busy concentrating on searching and listening for sounds to come up with anything either. Up ahead, a little east, there was another snap. The sound of an exhale. 

They walked for about five minutes, moving slowly and methodically, before 358 began to whisper. “I think it’s alone, which is odd. It’s a wolf. The others are probably nearby, hunting. It would be best if we dispatched this one quickly before it finds us and alerts the pack to a nearby meal.” 

“Where is it?” Bucky asked. “Point me in the right direction.” 

Bucky felt delicate hands on his jaw, carefully turning his head just slightly to the right. “About ten yards up,” 358 whispered. “You have your gun, right?”

Bucky nodded, knew the agent could feel it. His fingers were still lightly pressed against his skin. 

“I’m going to sneak up ahead, I’ll flash a light. That will give you a direction to point and shoot at. If you don’t miss, we should be able to kill this thing before it signals to the pack that it’s been caught.” 

“I won’t miss,” Bucky said. He had never been more confident of anything in his life. 

The hands disappeared, and Bucky watched as the man quickly inched forward, crouched low on the ground. Bucky stayed on his feet, cautious steps carrying him forward at a much slower pace. 

Then he saw it: now only about ten feet away, a large, hulking figure, hidden entirely in the shadow of a particularly heavy copse of trees. Bucky slid himself behind a tree, weapon already in his hand. 

It was far too large to be a regular wolf. That was a misconception many people had about wolves, that they were big, dangerous. In groups they might act like a furry hoard of death, but on their own wolves didn’t seem particularly menacing. Large for a dog, yes, but smaller than one might expect. Bucky raised the weapon to his eye, watching through the scope. He lined up a shot he knew would take down an average animal. 

He did not know if this was an average animal. 

Suddenly, movement ahead. Scuffling sounded across the ground, and Bucky watched as a figure leaped on top of the wolf. Heard the beginnings of a whine, a growl. He saw that 358 had straddled the thing's neck and wrapped hands around its muzzle.

358’s eyes flashed. A signal. An invitation. 

Bucky pulled the trigger only once. 

The shot cracked through the woods, far too loud to ears that were attuned to listen for the slightest noises. He heard a quick whine, a thump as a large body fell to the forest floor. Bucky lowered his weapon, jogged to meet his companion. 

358 was dragging himself off the corpse, wiping slobber and blood off his hands. Bucky glanced down at the body: it was dead, shot straight through its eye. Through its now limp jaw, Bucky saw at least three rows of teeth. 

“You were a sniper, back then,” 358 said quietly. “That’s true, right?”

“Yeah, that’s true.” 

They walked back together in silence.

When they returned to camp, both Clint and Natasha were awake beside Steve. 

“It’s time to change watch shifts,” Natasha said quietly. “What did you find out there?” 

“Wolf,” Bucky and 358 answered at the same time. “It’s taken care of,” Bucky added alone. 

“Yeah, we heard the shot,” Clint said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Do you think there were others?” 

“Probably,” 358 answered, “but I didn’t see any. Keep alert, if you see or hear more, try to take it out as quickly and quietly as possible.” He was already approaching their makeshift sleeping arrangements, taking the jacket Clint handed him. He folded it carefully. 

“My bow is a lot more subtle than your gun,” Clint shrugged. 

“Can you shoot alright with your shoulder?” Bucky asked.

“Honey, I could shoot this baby with my feet if I had to,” Clint grinned. 

Bucky settled in Natasha’s spot, beside Steve who rested in the middle. He heard as 358 tried to lay quietly against the foil, could practically feel his frustration when it continuously crackled beneath them. 

“I know you want to know what happened back then,” 358 said quietly. “And I understand. I know what it—your past is a lot to lose.” It took Bucky a second to realize that he was talking to him, not Steve. Steve was already back to pretending to sleep, even though he was sure both of them knew he was listening in. “I will try to help you. But I—” he broke off. “My programming makes it difficult. You will have to get comfortable with my pain, if that’s what you really want from me.” 

Bucky closed his eyes, feeling guilt and relief in equal measure. “Thank you,” Bucky said. “I will try not to hurt you.” 

“Yeah, well,” 358 sighed. “You can try all you want. And, Rogers?” 

Steve didn’t respond. 

“You’re really not as good at eavesdropping as you think. You need to regulate your breathing better if you want anyone to actually believe you’re asleep.” 

Even without night vision, Bucky knew Steve was smiling. 

Chapter Text

2016

Tony 

You’d think that after all he’d been through, 358 would have fallen asleep easily. Instead, he spent hours turning over everything he’d learned and said. The Winter Soldier was now a lost puppy, sniffing around for answers. Captain America thought 358 could be saved: he’d said as much, almost directly.

He wondered how seriously the Captain would take his latest project, he wondered if he had a habit of collecting strays. 

He wondered and wondered, his conversation with Steve playing over and over again in his mind. 

Steve and 358 sat side by side, nothing but the sound of the wind piercing the tense silence between them for quite some time. Until, of course, Steve Rogers decided to speak. 

“I wanted to thank you,” he started, murmuring in the dark, “for saving me from that trap earlier.” 

“You don’t need to thank me,” 358 replied. “I didn’t have a choice, remember?” The bitterness tasted vile in his mouth, but he couldn’t get rid of it. He had been trying to do the right thing, trying to be helpful. And with a few simple words, what he had tried to do didn’t matter anymore. All that mattered was what Bucky wanted. 

“You were doing your best to get me out before Bucky said anything,” Steve pointed out. “My back might never feel the same again—I mean, really, the roughest massage I’ve ever had—but you got me out. And some bruises are well worth it if it means not getting torn to pieces.” 

358 was surprised. He hadn’t expected any sort of acknowledgement for his attempts. “Yeah, well. That’s what I’m here for. Get you idiots out of here alive.” 

“Well, you’re doing a bang-up job so far.” 

358 let the praise wash over him; he wasn’t used to it. 

“I was surprised, actually,” 358 heard himself say, not really processing the words as they passed through his lips, “that you came after me when everything backfired. I—” he took a moment to compose himself, pulled his thoughts together. “I couldn’t focus on closing the doors and freeing myself from it at the same time.” He felt the need to explain himself, explain why he had so nearly failed. He’d always been required to do so before. 

“Closing those doors seemed to take a lot out of you,” Steve said carefully.

358 nodded. “It was a big machine: lots of complex moving parts deep below the ground. I… it was hard to make a connection, especially so high up. I needed to be on the ground, touch the earth myself. Try and find the heart of it. And stopping something like that... it's all about energy, give and take. And I don't have a limitless supply to give.” There. A gift, a little bit of personal information as a thanks for the Captain's kindness. Maybe it would even help him out: if they understood that he had limits, they'd be less likely to expect him to perform any miracles.

Steve nodded. Took a deep breath. “Of course I came back for you, 358. That’s what being part of the team means. We help each other.” 

“Oh, I’m part of the team now? I was thinking of myself as more of a hostage than a trusted friend.” 

Steve did not seem put off by the statement. “Our method of recruiting you was definitely unorthodox, and potentially problematic. But you are still here by your own choice. And we keep you with us, by ours. That’s as good a start to building a team as any.” 

358 glanced at him, calculating. He didn’t seem like he was lying, but 358 had never been very good at figuring out these kinds of things. “I thought you might regret bringing me along,” he finally said. 

“I don’t regret taking you at all,” Steve said. “ And I don’t regret freeing you from that crazy plant. I promise that I will do anything in my power to make sure you get away from this place for good.” 

“I will try to communicate dangers better, rather than trying to confront it on my own,” 358 murmured. “That was a stupid thing to do, it just led to you getting caught off guard. It almost got me killed, and then I would be no help to anyone.” 

“And you would never have your freedom,” Steve interjected. “That matters, too.” 

“Nobody really cares about my freedom,” 358 argued. Except him. Even though he didn’t really believe it was possible, he cared. Just enough to keep trying, but not enough to crush him when it didn’t happen. A perfectly safe amount. But there was no point in pretending the team's relationship with him was anything other than strictly transactional, regardless of their silly platitudes and insistence otherwise. 358 had been captured, and given the option to help and potentially escape, or refuse and die. 358 didn't mind it, really. It was clear-cut, as easy to understand as any other mission.

“I do.” Steve was firm. “I care. I will continue to care.” 

And it was stupid, really, how honest he sounded. 358 wished he could lie as effectively. But... even though he knew they could not be true, the words still nearly had the agent breathless. “I want to see the world,” he admitted quietly. “I want to see it during the day, and be allowed to remember it.” 

He said it because the captain was clearly a bleeding heart. That was the only reason. Really.

Steve nodded. “Well, I can show you New York, at least. We can discover it together: I’m still figuring it out myself.” 

“That's a very generous offer,” 358 said. 

“It’s not, really. I want to help you. You remind me a lot of someone I care about. Someone very important.” 

“You mean Bucky,” 358 asserted, already preparing to roll his eyes. He just couldn’t escape the man and his poor, wounded expression. His wide eyes that could go cold within seconds, and then back to feeling sorry for himself as soon as he’d gotten his way. 

“Yes, I mean Bucky. His full name is James Buchanan Barnes. Does that ring any bells?” 

358 shook his head. 

“Look, I don’t know what happened between you two. I don’t think you know either, though you hate him for it anyway.”

358 scoffed: hate was a strong word. He certainly felt disdain. Revulsion, for sure. But hate…That was reserved for people far more heinous than the pitiful sap who couldn’t control his own damned voice. 

“Whatever happened, I think you need to understand something about him before we move forward.” Steve’s voice was hard, flush with authority. 358 prepared himself for a lecture about how the man was a hero, how he would never harm a fly, let alone another human being. But that isn’t what Steve said. Not even close. “He… he was a prisoner, like you, for a very, very long time. He was broken down, changed. He did a lot of things against his will, awful things that he still can’t move on from.” 358 was listening now. “Have you ever heard of HYDRA?” 

358 nodded. They’d worked with the organization before, they were technically allies that they were not supposed to reveal existed at all. Jebediah had not liked HYDRA, didn’t approve of their showmanship or their methods. But money was money, at the end of the day. And HYDRA had plenty to throw around.

“HYDRA did something to him. They didn’t give him a chip, nothing like yours. But they scrambled his brain and inputted a few words: just a few simple words was all it took to remove a good man’s free will, and force him to act like a monster. This monster was titled the Winter Soldier: that is who you knew. Not Bucky Barnes, not my best friend.” 

358 watched Steve closely; noted the catch in his throat. He said that Bucky was still hung up on all that history, but it seemed like Steve was too. Interesting. 

“He’s free now, but he can’t always remember the things that he did—the things they made him do. But he wants to, he wants to know and he wants to be better. Doesn’t that count for something?” 

“I don’t know,” 358 answered honestly. “I’m not exactly a beacon of moral superiority here. I kill people for a living.” 

“But you also saved my life, and Clint’s—I know you got him out of that facility. I just want you to know that I can see that you want to do better, just like him. So I won’t give up on you.” 

Was he trying to be better? 358, honestly, couldn't say. His only cognizant goals were to survive and/or ensure he never returned to the labs, not save lives for the hell of it. But he was in uncharted territory, acting outside of the Order's commands for the first time. He'd never needed to have a motivation behind his actions before. He just... he wanted to survive. 

358 was rendered speechless by Steve's words, as they seemed to imply a conscious choice 358 was making to define himself. It felt... warm. When he finally figured out what to say, the words were so jumbled they were barely comprehensible.“You don’t know me at all. You have no reason to hold me in such high regard.” 

“I know him,” Steve said, jerking his chin towards Barnes, who was twitching in his sleep. “And I know that he hurt people, he probably hurt you. I know he’s different now. I know that he won’t hurt you again; he isn’t capable.” 

“I don’t know what he’s capable of,” 358 said. “I’m sure you don’t either.” 

“I swear on my life that he won’t do anything to intentionally cause you harm. I’m even more confident that he will risk his own life in order to help you.” Steve’s voice was grave as he said it. 

358 wished he could say he’d ever been as sure about something. Anything, really. 

“It hurts to look at him,” 358 admitted quietly. He didn’t know why he told the Captain: he just had that kind of energy, he supposed. Like the man on the other side of a confessional. Like a handler who wanted all the answers, even the ones you didn’t want to give. Even the ones they had to drag out of you syllable by syllable. 

Steve only responded with a soft, questioning hum. 358 guessed that was as good as permission to continue. 

“Every time I look at him, every time I hear his fucking voice… it hurts. In every part of my body, in every fiber of my being, it’s just… searing, radiating pain. Like I’m on fire. Like my bones have been snapped, like I’ve been ripped to pieces.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t know what he did to me, it’s another thing that was taken away from me. Maybe I gave it freely, I’ve done that before, when things were bad enough... just let the programming wash it away. All I know is that it hurts. And my instincts are telling me that I need to run away from him, or I might die.” 

“But you’re still here,” Steve said. 

“Because you’re right. Our best chance of survival is in traveling in a pack. And I... want to be free. More than anything else I’ve ever wanted before. It might be the only thing I’ve ever wanted before.” If he was being honest, might as well get it all out on the table. Admit to himself, and Steve. There was something about this night, something that felt safe, secure. 

“You will be free,” Steve said. 

“That’s the goal. And in order to do that, I will keep saving all of your asses, and you will keep saving mine. I’ll even help Barnes out if it comes down to it. But I can’t trust him, can’t ignore my instincts. They’ve saved my life too many times for me to turn my back on them now.” 

“I understand,” Steve said, but he sounded broken down. Devastated. 

And then, of course, the man of the hour had woken up in a panic.

As ridiculous as the whole conversation had been, 358 unfortunately realized that Steve had managed to achieve his goal: to soften the agent up, to make him see Bucky’s side of things. To confess those traitorous feelings of his, leaving him vulnerable to giving into the bastard’s pathetic demands.

And look where it had gotten him: a raging headache, and sore joints, and a throat that felt swollen and scalded as if he'd been screaming. And he'd had a break down, shown weakness to the very person who least needed to see it. It just gave him even more reason to distrust the Winter Soldier.

Bucky had wanted to play his stupid memory game, and the agent managed to remember pain and broken bones, and that stupid painted star covered in blood. He remembered the Winter Soldier leaning over his shoulder while he tried to make a really difficult shot. He remembered eyes that looked as if they hadn’t slept in months, and the grip of a calloused hand against his wrist.

Except not crushing, not that time. Soft. Light. He wasn't going to tell Bucky about that one. Not until he figured out what it meant.

He didn’t know what to make of it, not when his other memories hurt so badly. 

When 358 closed his eyes, he just saw the Winter Soldier. His stupid fucking arm, his stupid fucking eyes. 

The same eyes that Bucky had. But so, so different.

358 finally fell asleep with those same damned eyes floating behind his eyelids. Warm, then cold. Soft, then hard. 

He thought he might have seen them before. The softer version. Maybe a smile around the edges.

But that was impossible. Steve had said as much. 

Hawkeye seemed in much higher spirits by morning, popping dry crackers into his mouth by throwing them into the air and stumbling to catch them when they fell. Really, it was impressive how many he managed to catch while still keeping pace with their endless movement.

358 was used to long, arduous journeys with little to stimulate the mind beside battle plans and contingencies, but this hike was already starting to wear on him. They were technically on day three of their efforts, and already 358’s patience for stoic contemplation and paranoid hyper vigilance was growing thin. 

His companions were entertaining enough, all in their own ways. It was interesting to, on occasion, glance at Steve, make a random face, and watch to see what reaction that elicited. Once he’d raised a brow, and Steve had nodded. 358 wondered what the man thought he’d agreed to, but hadn’t asked. That would only give away the game. 

Sometimes he threw things at Clint, increasingly amused by how consistently the man caught them from the air without looking or stumbling. Clint even threw things back, holding back a snort when 358 leapt as high in the air as he could to grab one. It was childish, pointless. But it broke up the monotony of the journey.

Watching Natasha wasn’t growing old: he began to see her tells, her ticks. Things he was sure she didn’t want him to notice. Her hand twitched for her gun whenever one of them stepped on a branch and snapped it, her eyes snapped to her companions whenever one breathed too loud or made a sudden sound. She was highly attuned to her environment, more than any of the others.

358 briefly considered messing with her like he did Steve, but shelved the idea. He didn’t need to raise her suspicion toward him any more than it already was. If he wanted to visit New York City with Steve Rogers and see all the wonders the wider world had to offer, he needed all the help he could get. And getting stabbed in his sleep by one of the most impressive assassins he’d ever met would not be helpful. 

But he did need to keep watching her… in case she seemed especially inclined to murder him.

And of course, there was Bucky Barnes, the assassin formerly known as the Winter Soldier. He was interesting to watch for a different reason than the others. Probably a worse reason. 

It was just… the man looked so tortured. So sad. He was alert, focused on his environment. But his eyes held a weight that 358 had only seen before on experiments who’d faced the worst punishments. He looked at Steve like he was desperate for instruction, and looked at 358 like he was desperate for salvation. He had the face of a kicked corgi and all the power of a Rottweiler. 

And 358 was not ashamed to admit that the sadness and fear and despair that radiated from the man filled him with a cruel satisfaction. It was a soft glow in his chest that bled to the tips of his fingers and toes. It eradicated the fear and loathing, softened that raging pain to something more manageable. Because it weighed the power imbalance his way, just a bit. 358 had nothing to fear from the Bucky Barnes, no matter how badly he’d hurt him in the past. He was soft now. Pathetic. Needy. 

358, just by existing, was hurting Barnes almost as badly as Barnes hurt him. 

While some may call it an impasse, 358 called it a win. Because he could handle pain, he’d lived in it for so long. But clearly the emotional turmoil was tearing the other man apart. It was obvious in the sloping heaviness of his shoulders, the slight drag of his feet when he looked at 358 for too long.

It tasted like success. He’d had a cup of coffee once, while on a mission. He had to blend in while stalking a target, and he’d been allowed to order one. He didn’t remember much about that day but he’d held onto that one little thing. Coffee. Because it had been delicious. Bitter and hot, scalding his tongue. He’d finished the cup without allowing it even a second to cool, ordering a second with sugar. 

Success tasted a lot like that: painfully hot coffee loaded with tiny paper sugar packets, the kind that left his hands a little sticky after he tore them open. 

It was his favorite flavor he’d ever tasted. 

He glanced at Steve, walking up ahead. Cleared his throat. 

“Captain, do they have coffee in your city?” It couldn’t hurt to ask, really. It would give him something to fight for at least. Not like he had much else waiting for him on the outside.

But coffee… that was something to live and die for. To taste that every day, to get a sip of success whenever he wanted… 

“Coffee?” Steve asked, faltering a bit in his roving searching to shoot a glance over his shoulder. “Of course they have coffee in New York. There’s practically a cafe on every corner.” 

“And in most people’s homes,” Clint added. “I’m pretty sure there’s coffee just about anywhere you can go in the world.” 

“That’s the first thing I want to do if we get out,” 358 sighed. “I like coffee.” 

Steve frowned, but it wasn’t with anger or frustration. He looked sad. Almost as sad as Bucky Barnes. “When we get out,” he corrected firmly, “First thing after medical checks and debriefs, I’ll take you to my favorite cafe.” His voice was firm, authoritative, despite the softness in his eyes and the olive-branch of his offer. 

“If we have to do medical and meetings first, then it won’t technically be the first thing you do,” 358 pointed out. 

“I’ll get you a cup on the evac if it’s there,” Clint said. 

“Or from the SHIELD cafeteria if it’s not,” Bucky added. 

It was very odd, these people. He’d made a request, only half seriously, to have something he’d only once enjoyed, and they were practically jumping over each other to ensure he felt he could have it. Was it because he was creepy, as the archer had said? Or maybe because he was dangerous, as Natasha claimed? Maybe they thought he would fly off the handle if he was denied anything. 

Silly heroes. It took more than that to make a trained mercenary lose his cool. 

“I think the first thing I’ll do is take a long, hot shower,” Clint said, sigh evident in his tone. “I swear, there is dirt coating every inch of my body. It’s in crevices—”

“Nobody wants to hear about your crevices,” Natasha rolled her eyes. 

“A shower sounds nice,” Steve replied. “I’d like to take a shower.” 

“Well, it’ll have to wait until after your coffee date,” Clint sniffed. “You’ll have to visit Marcy smelling like blood and sweat. Possibly tears, too, depending on how things go going forward.” 

“I think I’ll probably hug my bed and never let go,” Bucky chimed in. “I never thought I’d miss that awful SHIELD-issue mattress.” 

“I caved and bought my own years ago,” Natasha nodded sagely. “It’s not good for your back to sleep on a thing like that.” 

Bucky groaned. 

“I want to sit in the middle of times square,” Natasha admitted, apparently shocking Clint. 358 couldn’t lie, he was a little shocked too. He hadn’t expected her to speak at all during their trek today (she seemed very tense), let alone participate in a conversation that he’d started. “I’m tired of wildlife.” 

“You’ve been on longer missions than this,” Clint said. 

“I’ve never been so… isolated, I think. Like this. I’d always had a contact on the outside in the past.” She shrugged, glancing back at 358. “Besides, most targets don’t reside in the woods. When hiring an assassin like me, the targets are usually more high-profile.” 

“You’ve never had to get a nut who lived in the woods?” 358 asked, tilting a head. He wasn’t going to miss an opportunity to pick her brain a bit, not when his opportunities were so few and far between. She was intriguing. She was creepy, like him, but also not. “No paranoid recluses?” 

“There was a man,” she said slowly. “In the Alps. But that was over quickly, only a day or two. I didn’t have to extend my time there too long.” 

358 nodded. “I had a mission once, I think it was in the Northwest USA. I had to track a target through his property in the woods. He somehow knew that I was coming and ran off, and his land was completely covered in traps. He was a real nut job.” He rolled his eyes. “Took me days to trek through it all without setting any off.”

It had been very cold, then, with only a few short hours of daylight. His gear had been so bulky it took him a while to get used to moving in it. He'd been allowed to remember it, which was a surprise to him. Jebediah had wanted him to share with some trainees the strategies he'd used to move stealthily and efficiently in a hostile environment. 

It was one of his only memories of outside, and most of it was focused on how it felt to slowly lose feeling in his fingers. 

Natasha looked at him strangely. “My missions in recent years have been more populated. They involve more undercover work.” 

“I never did much of that,” 358 shrugged. He glanced at Clint; winked. “Probably because I'm unsettling.” 

“You do have an unsettling vibe,” Clint defended weakly, yelping when Steve lightly smacked the back of his head. 

“Are we really doing mission talk right now? Is that what it’ll take to get you two to get along?” Bucky asked, looking between 358 and Natasha. 

“You should compare knives, see whose is bigger—” Clint started, yelping again when Natasha flicked a small pebble to the back of his head. 

“It’s one thing we all have in common, isn’t it?” 358 asked. “You all were on a mission when you found me. I assume it’s what you do for work.” 

“But not quite the same as… we’re not mercenaries, 358. I mean, most of us—we all have our pasts. But now we do our work for a single agency, one with goals to protect and serve the world at large.” Steve spoke as if he were trying to explain some overly complex topic, but 358 wasn’t having it. 

“Doesn’t matter who you work for, at the end of the day,” 358 said. “It’s still the same work: go somewhere, bash some heads in, go home and drink some coffee.” 

“But it does matter,” Steve said. “We don’t do it without question, we have values we uphold. The work is important, we help people.” 

“I mean yeah, if I was your boss I would say that too,” 358 rolled his eyes. 

“SHIELD isn’t like that,” Clint said. 

“Sure,” 358 said. He didn’t like this anymore, was ready to move on from the conversation. He felt something bitter and vile roiling in his gut and he wanted it gone. 

Of course they thought they were better than him, who wouldn’t? They were heroes that saved the day. They kicked ass in the good way, not the evil, morally bankrupt way he’d been forced to maintain his entire adult life. How stupid of him to think they might have something in common. 

It wasn’t like he was proud of his work, or even particularly fond of it. But it was his work. It was all of him. It was one of the only things about himself he could confidently say he understood, one of the only things he was good at. Sure, sometimes he’d have freakish nightmares about jobs he could barely remember, the kind that left him sick and retching until his handler beat the revulsion out of him. 

But it was his. 

“I—” Bucky bit the inside of his cheek, clearly weighing his next words carefully. “Look, we’re not trying to kick you while you’re down, agent. I know… you haven’t had a choice. This has been your life for a long time. It’s what you know. Trust me: we understand what you’ve dealt with more than you might think.” 

“We’ve all worked for bad guys,” Natasha said, seemingly surprising even herself. It was the slightest twitch in her lip that gave her away, an almost imperceptible furrowing of her brow. Like she wasn’t certain of her next words, but would say them anyway. “What matters most is what you do after you get away.” 

“I have no clue what I’ll do,” 358 answered honestly. It didn’t seem worth it to lie. “I’ve never thought about it before.” 

Maybe he’d just go back to what he did now, but as an independent contractor. Kill people for money, except he’d keep the money. 

The thought was sour. 

“We… we will try to help you figure it out,” Steve said. “SHIELD can help you. That’s their job.” 

358 wasn’t sure of that. He’d been warned in the past that foreign governments didn’t take kindly to people like him: elevated, changed. Powerful. That he’d likely face a cage if he were caught, if not the wrong end of a gun. But he didn’t say that to them, not out loud. 

He was still very concerned about morale, after all. 

“So, what is it about coffee?” Clint finally asked, taking a crack at the tension.

“I like it,” 358 answered. “Do I need more explanation than that?” 

“I guess not,” Clint replied. 

The group fell into silence again, their brief foray into easy companionship quickly forgotten in the face of horrible reality. 358 didn’t know how to get them on his side, didn’t even know if he wanted to. Every time he tried to share his experience, it only seemed to push them away, make them feel like honorable saviors rescuing the sad stray rabid dog. 

They just wanted to fix him. Make him something palatable, something easy to understand and want to help. But 358 wasn’t palatable. He hardly knew the definition of the word. 

He was 358. The mercenary, the freak. The animal who murdered on command, and no longer thought twice about who he was killing, or why. 

Bucky Barnes, at the very least, should have understood that. He had helped beat the lesson into him, after all. 

But Bucky was, of course, still too busy feeling sorry for himself to consider that he was the only one in a position to understand exactly what kind of thing he was dealing with. He just refused to do it. 

358 was still silently fuming when Bucky decided to invade his space again. 

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

“For what?” 358 snapped. 

“It feels like you were, um. Offended. By the way we spoke to you. The way I spoke to you.” Bucky was fidgeting, awkward. How had 358 ever perceived him as a threat? He could barely rip his eyes away from the dirt long enough to pout in his direction. 

“I wasn’t offended,” 358 said. But it was a lie, he knew that. “You aren’t better than me,” he added. 

“No, I’m not,” Bucky shrugged. “But I’ve had more time to try and find myself than you have. Can you honestly say that you know who you are?”

358 nearly gagged at the implication. Outside, though, he just grit his teeth and made a low noise of discontent that vibrated in the back of his throat. Here we go! We're not better than you, you're just broken! You just need time, you just need to be saved! Then you'll be good! 

358 was going to ruin him. He was going to rip out his tongue before he could say another vile, cruel word. So what if Bucky was pathetic? That didn't mean he was allowed to walk all over him. 

He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. He had made progress. He was concerned with morale. Mauling Bucky Barnes would be horrible for morale. 

“What do you do when you’re not on a mission?” Bucky pushed, clearly uncaring for the ticking time bomb he continued to poke. 

“Train,” 358 grit out. Dream about tearing my masters apart in a brilliant display of blood and fire, he did not add, though it would have been the truth. 

A breath in, a breath out. He was cool. Bucky was pathetic, he was useless. He was harmless in his current state.

“What else?” Bucky asked. 

358 felt something inside him snap. Oh well. You tried.

“I am not a person. You realize that, right?” He turned quickly, forcing Bucky to meet his eyes. He let them flare up a bit, just enough to emit a dim cadence of blue that overlaid Bucky’s features. “I do not have hobbies, I do not have free time. I sit when I am told to sit, I bite when I’m told to bite. You, of all people, know that. Why do you think there is something more here?” He stalked forward, wrapped a hand around Bucky's jaw, forcing him to look down. He dug his nails into the super soldier’s skin. “Would it make you feel better to think you stole someone who could be saved? Is it not enough to hold my life in your hands? You need a good life?”

“358, I think—” Steve tried, but the agent snarled in warning without bothering to look back. The captain stopped speaking. 

Good. 

“What do you want me to be?” 358 asked, allowing a small current to run through him. Not much, not enough to shock the man or burn him. Just a small crackle of static electricity, pins and needles that would stick to his skin until 358 decided to let him go. "What are all of you looking for, here?" How can I be good? How can I make this work without hating you all as much as I hate them? Why do I care so much what you think?

“I want you to be honest,” Bucky said. He seemed much less pathetic, now. Maybe all he needed was a little manhandling to remember he was a fucking adult. “I don’t think you're being honest when you say that this is all you are. Because you hate this, I know you do. It makes no sense! Why are you holding on so tight to a mask that makes you sick?” 

Well, that was enough of that. 358 turned a dial in his mind, felt the man’s muscles tighten as the electric current’s intensity shot up all at once. 

Bucky’s knees buckled, and he twitched as he fell to the ground. 

358 was distracted shaking the dull buzzing from his hand, and the next thing he knew, Natasha had thrown herself on top of him. Her legs wrapped around his middle, using her weight to force him back. She already had a knife in her hand, which she swung without hesitation toward his face. 

358 grabbed her wrist, wrenching her arm to the side so hard he wondered for a moment if he dislocated it. She wasn’t being smart; she was acting too quickly, with too much emotion. He rolled her to the ground and held her arms above her head so she couldn’t reach for another weapon. 

Natasha swung her head up, connecting her forehead to his nose. 358 fell back as she scrambled for her weapon, crouching low, ready to jump up again. 358 raised a hand to his nose: she’d broken it. 

Not again, he thought, mourning the shape of his face before focusing on his attacker. He would not leap first, would not antagonize.

But he would not tell her to stop, either. He needed this. 

He needed it. 

She shot forward, and 358 raised an arm to block her from swinging that blade of hers at his throat. He deftly stepped over her kick when she tried to sweep his leg, threw his fist so she was forced to dodge. 

She pulled an interesting move, doing a weird flip while kicking up at him. He ducked low and rolled to the side, sending out a kick of his own. He missed, of course. She was very quick. He rolled onto his feet, threw a punch, felt her arm waver when she threw it up to block him. She spun, throwing an elbow that caught his mouth. Ow. 

He could play dirty, though. He'd never claimed to be a hero. 

He wrapped a hand in her hair, ignoring her hands as they instinctively scrambled to tear his fingers away. He used his leverage to toss her back against a tree, a giggle creeping out of his throat when she let out a small oof at the impact. But she didn’t stay back for long, already approaching him again, now brandishing two knives.

Someone was speaking behind him, adjusting themselves among the detritus of the forest. He ignored the voice, tuned it out so the words were just a dull drone in the background. Natasha, she was all that mattered. She was his opponent. 

A fight. It’s what she wanted, after all. Every bruise shook loose some of his nausea, untangled the doubt from his ribs. He felt awake, he felt alive. He felt free. 

She was on him quickly, swinging her weapons. He had to focus to avoid the sharp bits, couldn’t afford to think of an attack. He didn’t actually want to hurt her. Just wanted to show them, finally make them understand, that this is what he was. Maybe then they’d stop pushing, stop trying to force him into the mold of a victim. 

He gnashed his teeth, swung a fist. Every attack was ruthless, animalistic. One of her knives slashed through the fabric of his uniform when he didn't move away fast enough, while the other planted itself firmly into his thigh. The voices behind him were louder now, but to him, they might as well have not existed. 

358 gripped the knife’s handle, yanked it out of his leg. Twirled it for dramatic effect. Not that she noticed, of course she didn’t. He tasted blood in his mouth, spit it on the ground. He kicked her feet out from under her, backed away when she tried to wrap around him again. He threw a punch that caught her jaw. She barely flinched, but 358 was quick. He was already moving again, throwing a kick toward her ribs. She grabbed his ankle, then completed a series of moves that were almost too fast to follow. He ducked, he swerved, but her knife found his ribs, slashing deep into his side. It knocked him to the side a little, hissing at the pain. 

But she didn’t stop. She swung again, and 358 focused on dodging and disarming her. He slammed her wrist back but she already knew the trick and held fast to her weapon. 

Fine, then. No more going easy. 

He threw another punch, strong enough that her block wasn’t enough to stop the momentum. They scrapped on the ground, her slashing with her knife and him hitting back with brute force. He dropped his weapon, though. He didn’t want to stab her. Just rough her up a bit. 

They were back on their feet, somehow. She was twirling through kicks and stabs with a grace that only came from years of experience. He was throwing himself forward with blind exhilaration and rage. Until eventually, he slipped. 

She feinted left, he fell for it. She caught him hard on the side of his head with her elbow, shoving him back against a tree by continuing the momentum. She had a knife to his neck, another poised at his side, pressed in the divot between his ribs. 

358 grinned at her, tasted the blood that coated his teeth. “Do it,” he taunted. “You know you want to.” He winked at her, knowing he was basically signing his death warrant. At least he could prove a point. “Show them what you are.” 

She had said they all had pasts, but it was what came after that showed who you really were. 358 wasn’t stupid, he knew what that meant. She had been similar to him, once. She thought she had changed. 

358 didn’t believe that change was possible. She was going to prove it. 

Her eyes hardened, her hand twitched. 

“—enough! Natasha, I said that’s enough!” The captain was shouting, raving. He wrapped an arm around her middle, hauling her off of him. She went limp in his arms. 

It was fucking hilarious. Laughter ripped through him, sending a searing pain through the slash wound, nearly buckling his leg. Damn, she’d gotten him deep. It burned at the edges. He kept laughing, though. The pain was grounding. 

What the hell was he doing? What were any of them doing here? 

“358, you need to calm down,” someone said. He didn’t know who, didn’t care. He was too busy trying to catch his breath, trying to push himself to stand on his own weight. Without the adrenaline, each bruise and slash was really starting to smart. She had gotten him a few more times than he had actually noticed.

He forced his eyes to open, watched Natasha fume in her place between Steve and Bucky. Bucky was whispering to her, muttering “I’m fine, I’m fine,” over and over. She was standing unevenly, her hair was standing on end. There was already a dark bruise blooming across her jaw. He thought, looking at her, that maybe he had also gotten her a few more times than he'd realized.

But he hadn’t stabbed her! He counted that as a win. 

Clint was in front of him, glaring hard. “What the hell was that?” 

“She attacked me,” 358 pointed out, wincing. He put a hand up to his side, peeked. Oh, he was bleeding. A lot. 

“You—” Clint started, but Natasha cut him off. 

“You tased Barnes,” she snapped. 

358 threw the knife he’d taken back to her. She caught it by the handle. “He’s fine,” he said, waving a hand. 

He wasn't actually trying to hurt Bucky. He was just trying to prove a point. Just letting out a little frustration. 

“You can’t attack us whenever we hurt your feelings,” she growled. “Because I swear, next time I won’t hesitate. Next time I will kill you.” 

“You can certainly try,” he said. He could see it, though. Something that he’d said had gotten to her. Wiggled something far deadlier than a blade through her ribs. Doubt. Insecurity. Fear. “I bet you could do it.” 

Bucky stepped forward, face hard. “That’s enough,” he snapped. “358, you need to—” he cut himself off hard, enough that the agent was left wondering if he bit his tongue. Bucky looked to Steve. 

Steve stepped forward, putting a hand on Clint’s shoulder. “I’ll deal with him,” he said quietly, letting go. “Go check Natasha for injuries. Talk to her.” 

Clint seemed to deflate as he walked over. 

Steve turned his attention back to 358. “Let me see your side,” he muttered. He moved to inspect the wound, but the agent shoved him off. 

“I can take care of it,” he snapped. Steve glared, moved forward again. 

“I don’t care.” He moved 358’s hands away, tried to see the wound. Saw the blood ooze now that 358's hand wasn't holding it back. “Can you take off your jacket?”

Was there even a point in arguing? Steve clearly had his mind set to get in 358's business. Trying to fend him off likely wouldn't work, and would only cause even more issues. So 358 shrugged his jacket off, letting it hit the ground. He glanced past Steve’s bulk, watched as Clint and Bucky tried to counsel Natasha. 

“He was antagonizing you,” Clint muttered. “That’s all it was.” 

“He’s lashing out,” Bucky agreed. “Nat, you know we don’t blame you for any of that. You’ve saved all of us dozens of times, you helped save the world.” 

“I don’t care what he says,” Natasha said, glaring right at 358. Of course she knew he was listening; when wasn’t he? 

“Sure,” Clint rolled his eyes. “And I’m the queen of England. Come on, help me steal some jerky from Steve’s pack. I’m starving.”

“He knows I can hear him,” Steve muttered, shaking his head. Louder, he called back, “bring me the first aid kit while you’re in there.”

“Aye aye captain,” Clint replied. He tossed the pack to Steve, along with a water bottle. Steve dumped some of the water over the wound, helping unstick his shirt from his skin. 

“Would you feel comfortable taking your shirt off, too? So I can dress the wound?” Steve glanced up, worrying his lip. 

“It’ll heal on its own,” 358 dismissed. It would. Maybe not as quickly as he was implying, but a little lying between friends was healthy. And 358 wasn't ready to let go of the pain, the rush. It was grounding, helped him feel more level-headed. It was familiar, comfortable. More comfortable than all the emotions, and pity, and prying. He knew blood. He did not know how to deal with this happening after.

“If your healing factor is anything like mine, not fast enough to stop you leaving a trail of blood behind us.” Steve said, tilting his head. “And I’m pretty sure it was you who said we should avoid that at all costs.” 

Fair enough. He'd failed to consider the aspect of 'we're actively running for our lives and being chased by bloodhounds.' Without a word, 358 peeled his shirt off, carefully unsticking it from his skin. He rolled it up in his hands, gripping it tightly. He did not like this, did not appreciate feeling exposed. All his bruises and scars on display for the world to see. 

But Steve did not comment. He spared a glance at the soft blue lines emanating from his heart, traced the sharp dips and curves the circuitry of his power traced across his chest. Noted the long line on his abdomen from a surgery he’d gotten for some purpose entirely unknown to him. Glanced at burns and bullet holes that he’d felt before his healing factor had been upgraded to the point where scars were rarely possible. 

Steve noticed them all, but remained silent. 

The captain rinsed the wound directly with water, taking the spare scraps they had to wipe away as much as possible. Blood still trickled past, oozing out with each twitch and breath that 358 took. But at least it wasn’t caked to his skin anymore. Then came the antiseptic  wipe, which burned as it was applied. “Don’t waste your supplies on me,” 358 muttered. 

“It’s not a waste,” Steve replied. 

“I was asking for it,” 358 said. 

“You were,” Steve nodded. “You still need to be treated, though.” He packed gauze against the wound, pressing it tight while 358 fought the urge to flinch. He used a strip of fabric to tie it tightly against his torso. 

When he was finished, he stepped back to observe his handiwork. “Not the best, but it's what I can do right now,” he admitted, eyes drifting up to 358’s face. “I think she broke your nose.” 

“Yeah, Captain Obvious, she definitely did.” He raised up a hand, felt the bend. “Do we have some sort of reflective surface I can use to try and put it back?” 

Steve shrugged, picked up his shield. On the inside, it was just slightly reflective. Good enough. Steve held it up in front of him, and 358 leaned in close. He poked at his nose, flinched. It did not look or feel good right then. He popped it back into place with a grunt, immediately tilting his head back to hold back instinctive tears and a new trickle of blood. 

“Your face is gonna look all kinds of fucked up by that,” Clint said, nodding sympathetically. 

“I’ll live,” 358 shrugged. He was going to have black eyes, at least for a little while. At least he wouldn't have to see it.

Natasha glared as if to emphasize a silent 'for now'. 358 ignored her. He ripped a piece off the scrap-jacket, the clothing looking more like a scrap than a jacket every day. He tied a knot, pressed it against the stab wound on his leg before securing it around his leg, tying it again. It would work for a bit, as long as he needed it to. She hadn’t hit anything too important, the stab was shallow. But walking would be a pain for a while.

“Why did you do that?” Steve asked.

358 didn’t know what he was referring to: why did he shock Bucky? Why did he let her destroy him in a fight? Why did he laugh it off, despite the fact that as the adrenaline faded, the wounds began to throb? 

Why did 358 push them all away?

Why did he refuse to admit what he was?

Because he was scared. Terrified, actually. That they were wrong. That he wasn’t someone worth saving. 

Them believing that he was more than he showed on the surface… it made him sick. It hurt more than a dozen stab wounds ever could. 

Because he didn’t believe them. 

Steve waited. 358 took a deep breath. Then shrugged. 

“It’s what I know,” he said. Good enough. 

“Well, here’s something new to learn: don’t tase your friends.” Clint rolled his bad shoulder at the same time he rolled his eyes. 

“We’re friends now?” 358 asked. 

“You called us friends already,” Bucky pointed out. 

“I was being sarcastic,” 358 deadpanned. 

“Too bad,” Clint said. “We’re friends now. And friends don’t hurt their friends.” 

“She stabbed me.” 358 felt that this was very necessary to point out. Maybe they didn’t realize the depths of their hypocrisy. It's not that he was upset about the stab, but it was the principle of the thing.

“Yeah, but she didn’t kill you,” Clint said. “That’s very friendly for her.” 

358 felt a smile slowly stretch across his face. To hell with it. He still liked her. After all, she’d only given him what he was asking for. And she really was the most likable. She was open about her intentions, she was clear-minded in her mistrust. She did not pretend he was a victim like the others. She saw that he was a threat.

“I’m honored,” he said, and to his own surprise, he meant it. He had no doubt in his mind that she could have killed him a dozen times by now: particularly the night before, when he rested while she sat on watch. Clint would have protested, but he likely wouldn’t have stopped her. He didn't need her to like him at all. He almost preferred that she didn’t. 

She felt like home. 

“Let’s just get moving,” Bucky sighed. He glanced at 358. “Can you walk alright with your leg like that?” 

358 shrugged. “It’s a shallow cut,” he lied. “I’ll be fine.” That was true.

“It’s not shallow,” Natasha pointed out petulantly. “The knife stuck.” 

“You’ll need to try harder than that to immobilize me,” 358 smiled. 

“I”ll keep that in mind.” 

She was funny. 

She did not move until he did, stationing herself firmly behind him. He did not feel nervous turning his back on her: the fight had irritated her injury, her limp was a little more obvious. He would hear her coming should she try to stab him in the back. He considered pointing this out to her, but felt that she would be offended by it. No need to antagonize her further. 

Their little group did not slow in their journey after that: 358 wondered if it was intentional. Steve seemed much less eager to talk, as did Clint. It seemed they did not think their tenuous grip on camaraderie could withstand any more conversation, and it was for the best that they focus all their energy on escape. 

That was perfectly fine by 358. The sooner he could get away from these people, the better. So what if their spooky government organization was just going to lock him up? At least they wouldn’t look at him like that. 

But now was not the time to dwell on his malcontent for various group members: Steve was right about one thing. His little stunt only served to paint a target on their backs. 358 could smell his blood on the air, and he wasn’t entirely confident that he was only getting it from his broken nose and bloodied lip. It was fragrant, wafting off of him. 

He had no clue what would be drawn to the stench, but he hoped it was something easy enough to handle. 

A few miles passed in tense silence, broken only occasionally by a member calling for water or rest.

Bucky tentatively cleared his throat during one of these water breaks, approaching 358. 358 decided not to avoid him or say anything too cruel. It was time to try and win some points back, get back in more positive standing.

“You’ve shocked me like that before, but worse,” Bucky stated without preamble. “I think you might have killed me.” 

358 snorted. “You wouldn’t be standing here if I killed you." 

“Unless you brought me back,” Bucky argued. 

“I’m an expert killer,” 358 said with a laugh, “not a nurse. I don’t save lives, Barnes. I end them.” 

“But I was your superior,” Bucky said. “Surely you would have feared the consequences of ending mine.” 

358 considered this, taking the water bottle absent-mindedly when it was passed his way. It was sound enough reasoning: 358 knew that killing a trainer was heavily frowned upon. He would have been killed, or worse. If a shock was enough to kill the man, then a shock could potentially bring him back. 

“Why did I kill you?” 358 finally asked. It wasn't entirely unbelievable. 358 surely disliked him enough now to justify his past decision.

“I don’t think you meant to,” Bucky said. “But I think… something changed when you did.” 

“Changed how?” 

“I think maybe… I think you knocked something loose.” Bucky was shifting awkwardly, losing confidence the longer he spoke. “I think you might have broken through my programming.” 

“That’s not possible,” 358 snapped. “Wouldn’t they have fixed you if I did that?” 

“If they knew, yes. But maybe they didn’t know.” 

“Where is this coming from?” 358 asked, digging through the tangled strands of thought in his head. He had no idea what the man was referring to, couldn’t fathom being able to do something so insane. 

“When you shocked me earlier, I remembered something. And it seems to connect with one of my dreams.” 

“We already talked about your dreams, Barnes. I don’t trust them.” 

“I do,” Bucky said. “And I know that you knew my name before. When you shocked me earlier, I got the other piece: You brought me back, and I was lost, confused. I told you my name.” 

“Your present might be tangled in your past,” 358 said. Something about this direction was making him uneasy. His left eye felt twitchy. 

“And after I told you my name, you panicked. You told me to pretend I was still under control,” Bucky continued, apparently unaware of 358’s discomfort. Typical, really. The man was so focused on his own issues he hardly had the brain space to take on the agent’s. “And I listened. I think I pretended. But after that, I wasn’t the Winter Soldier. I was Bucky Barnes, at least for a little while.” 

“If I broke through your programming, then how am I supposed to know which version of your split-personality I interacted with?” 358 growled suddenly. “How am I supposed to know which one of you beat me down, and which one…” he broke off, refused to say the words out loud. 

Someone had held him. Gently. Someone had stitched his wounds, someone had spoken to him softly. He couldn’t say when or why or how, but he felt it. Underneath the searing pain, the bruises long-since faded, there was warmth. 

But there was still pain. Still so, so much pain. 

“If it were up to me, I wouldn’t have hurt you, not after you helped me,” Bucky said desperately. “Something else must have happened.” 

“Sure,” 358 snapped. He really didn’t know what else to say, it was too much. 

He felt off-balance, like he had missed a step. For some reason, this man in front of him knew so much, remembered things that 358 couldn’t access. What information did he have that might be used against him? What conversations could he recall that 358 couldn't even imagine?

Did Bucky know who he was? Did he know his name?

How did Bucky escape when 358 never could? 

358 turned stiffly away from the man, pushing the thoughts from his mind. “Rogers,” he barked out. “I think we need to prioritize finding water. We need to bathe away some of this blood and sweat. It’s not safe to continue on like this.” 

“Okay,” Steve said, nodding. “Any ideas on where to start?” 

358 let himself get lost in the thought, trying to map in his mind where they were now, where that stream was. He sighed. “I can try listening for the water as we walk,” he offered meekly. “If we try to follow a slope down, we might stumble across it.” 

“The vegetation should get denser the closer we get,” Clint offered. “We can’t follow any animals, but—”

Something flashed in Natasha’s eyes. “We can follow signs of life,” she said. 

“There is no life,” Bucky said. 

“There are enemies,” she corrected. “They must drink somewhere. They may lead us to water.” 

“That’s a risky proposition,” Steve said slowly. “I don’t know if I like the idea of seeking out the things that want to kill us.” 

“It might be our best bet,” 358 interrupted. His mind was already whirring with possibilities. He could track a beast, that would be easy enough. Just go in the direction his mind screamed at him to avoid. “If we can track them, then we might have the element of surprise rather than the other way around.” 

“How do we know they camp out near water?” Bucky asked. 

“All life camps out close enough to a water source,” Natasha said. “It’s survival 101.” 

“And anything out here that’s made it this long was built to survive.” 358 tried to drown out their voices, focusing on the world around him. So far, all he could hear was wind, the breathing of the team. 

Then he caught a smell. Something sour, putrid. It was distant, but it was there. Just a little North of their current direction.

He couldn't place exactly what it was, but it didn't necessarily matter. Anything they found was going to try and kill them. 

“That way,” he said, pointing. “There’s something over there.” 

Clint moved his bow to his hand, Steve gripped his shield tighter. 

“Fine,” Bucky huffed. “Let’s try not to get killed, though.” 

358 was glad to see that Barnes was finally having a good idea. 

Chapter Text

2016

Bucky

Bucky knew that heading straight toward danger was a bad idea. He’d felt it in his bones. Yet somehow, he still let the team convince him it was a good idea. 

And right when he was beginning to settle, as soon as he let his mind wander back to the maelstrom of pain and uncertainty that plagued his every spare moment, they were attacked. 

A gnarled, clawed hand shot out from the ground, nearly grabbing his ankle. It swiped aimlessly in the air, quickly retreating back into the dirt when Clint shot it with one of his arrows. 

“Let’s move through here quickly,” Clint said. He glanced at the agent, hoping for confirmation. The agent opened his mouth to respond. 

Of course, the ground exploded before he could speak. 

Bodies dragged themselves from the dirt, ten hands that belonged to five figures exploded from the earth in a confetti-like display. The figures had mottled purple and corpse-blue skin, and arms that were far too long for their bodies. Their fingers were thin, curved claws, each one as long as Bucky’s forearm. The creatures were hairless and rough, with sightless black eyes and mouths warped and sagging as if unable to withstand the weight of their lower jaws. It looked almost as if they were nutcracker dolls with broken levers. 

358 stepped back quickly, only able to force out the words “don’t let them touch you!” before the creatures were upon them. 

Bucky felt a familiar focus wash over him, the kind of clarity he only ever had when in battle. His gun was already in his hand, aimed at the creatures. He fired a few rounds at one of the stumbling beasts, not knowing if it had a specific weak spot, ruining its midsection in the process. 

He also pierced some sort of growth. An organic bulb, edged by spindling lines that disappeared into the dead flesh. It burst, spraying a fine, powdery substance that coated Bucky’s body and face. It was dry and coarse, and burned a little against his skin. 

358 shot the thing in the head, downing it for good, kicking the creatures’ corpse aside in his haste to reach Bucky. “Don’t breathe that in,” 358 gasped, stopping a few feet away, face twisted it up with disgust. “Did you get any in your nose or mouth?” 

“What is it?” Bucky asked, already moving to wipe the powder off his face with his metal arm. It left a sheen of indigo on the material. “Is it toxic?” 

“It won’t kill you,” 358 spoke quickly, head swiveling to catalogue each creature that surrounded them. “It’s a mild confusing agent, a last-ditch defense to make competent enemies less effective.” 

“What do you mean by a confusing agent?” Bucky asked. But maybe he already knew. His head felt stuffed with cotton, the ground wavered a bit beneath his feet. 

358 looked into his eyes, frowned. “Your pupils…” he murmured, before squaring his shoulders. “You ever been high before, Barnes?” It was not said with the kind of humor Bucky would have expected with a sentence like that. If anything, the mercenary looked disappointed in him. 

“High?” Why did it feel like he couldn't keep up? His brain was crawling forward, failing to grasp and catalogue information as effectively as he needed it. 358 seemed faraway, too quiet, too... something.

358 cursed under his breath, moving as if to pat Bucky's shoulder, before frowning and dropping his hand before he made contact. “You’re about to be." He was already moving to leave, raising his voice to ensure he was heard. "Focus on defense, try not to get in the way.” Before Bucky could ask anything else, 358 was already spinning back into the fray, knife in one hand, gun in the other. 

Bucky moved to follow him, and the ground seemed to move before he could take a step. He looked up, and saw that the trees were wiggling, and bodies were leaving colored blurs as they moved around him. He raised his gun, but his eyes wouldn’t focus long enough to aim at a moving target. If this was what "high" felt like, Bucky was suddenly pretty grateful his biology made it nearly impossible.

But it was fine. He slung his rifle back over his shoulder and pushed forward. He would have to do this the hard way, then. 

Bucky wrapped his metal arm around a musty blue target that was circling around Natasha, throwing it back against a tree. He heard it scream, a sharp, hoarse noise that bounced and echoed off every corner of his mind. Natasha glanced at him, furrowed her brow at what she saw. But she didn’t ask, which Bucky was grateful for.

An arrow whizzed past his shoulder, landing in the skull of the creature he just dispatched. Bucky looked up, saw an archer in a tree. How had Clint gotten up there so fast? 

Another creature was already in front of him, slashing its creepy long fingers at his face. Bucky moved to duck, managed, though he also fell to his knees. He then realized he couldn’t stand as quickly as he was used to. It felt like his stomach had hit the ground and then filled with stones. From the ground, he kicked out a leg, bringing the creature to his level. He used his metal limb to grab one of its arms, used his other hand to fumble through his pockets for his knife. He tried to slice the hand off at the wrist, and he missed. His depth perception was, apparently, fucked. 

Bucky had to release the arm before it could close the small distance between razor-sharp claws and his body. He stumbled back, shoving himself back up to his feet as quickly as he was capable of. He slashed at the monster, growling when he hit air, again. 

‘Mild confusion’ his ass, he was completely useless. He ducked again, managing to keep his feet this time around, and focused on closing back in on the creature. He swung out with his fist and his knife at the same time, managing to catch the thing’s jaw with his fist while his knife pierced its ribs. If his hand shook as he hit it a few more times (just to be safe) that was his business alone.

When the creature went down, releasing nauseating hissing and popping noises as it died, Bucky tried to take stock of his team. 358 and Natasha were fighting back to back, a creature in front of each. It was shocking how in sync they were following their previous hostility, but they must have learned from one another. When Natasha kicked, 358 ducked. Natasha slid to the side so 358 could toss one of his knives at the monster in front of her. They were weaving and ducking, deftly avoiding the swinging claws of the monsters. Clearly they were on the defensive, but they were holding their own. 

Steve was up close with his opponent, smashing it away from him with his shield, using the disc to slash when he had some distance. Clint was still in the trees, trying to line up a clear shot, clearly struggling with all the movement. 

Bucky could sympathize, as he too wished everyone would just stop moving. The world was spinning, and he was finding it ridiculously hard to focus. 

The creature he thought he had killed was moving on the ground, dragging itself toward him, oozing a thick black liquid as it moved. Bucky, not having the time to deal with that, smashed its skull with a potentially excessively forceful stomp. 

The smell was absolutely sickening, the black ooze sticking to his boot like molasses. And while he didn't believe it was possible, the smell made him dizzier, unsteadier than before.

He heard someone cry out, their voice coarse and filled with air, as if the wind had been knocked out of them. It took him far too long to assign the noise to one of his companion's.

Natasha had a bleeding gash across her abdomen. She and 358 were side by side now, blurry forms blending in a confusing whirl as they defended their position. The creatures they were fighting spun in circles around them, a whirlwind of limbs and stench and far-too-long fingers. Steve had moved his own fight closer, finally dispatching his enemy, letting it fall to the ground beside them. 

Steve grabbed one of the creatures away from their little huddle, shoving it between himself and Bucky. Bucky advanced immediately, brandishing his blade and slashing wildly. Steve kicked out at it, shoving it right in range of Bucky’s weapon. Thank God, as he had momentarily lost sight of it.

“358, where are you going?” Clint yelled, and Bucky allowed himself to look up just long enough to see that the agent was breaking off into the woods, pursuing one of the last remaining creatures. 

“If any of these things get away, she’s as good as dead!” 358 shouted back, not wasting any breath to explain further. 

Bucky, distracted, barely avoided a blow from the monster in front of him. He couldn’t afford to worry about their newest companion, he’d have to trust that the man could handle himself. 

Steve hooked a leg around the creature’s ankles, kicking it back so it was lying on top of the body of its companion. He brought his shield down in one quick, brutal motion, taking off its head. 

With no enemies in sight, Bucky finally allowed his body to hit the ground. Nausea was thick in his stomach, the air felt heavy. He was... he felt that he should have been thinking about something, worrying, but he couldn't place what. Something had happened... and the ground was moving. 

He let his eyes fall shut, afraid that when he opened them again, he'd be lost.

“Bucky,” Steve said, crouching at his side in an instant. “Bucky, what’s wrong?” He held Bucky's shoulders, jostling him a bit to get his attention. Bucky wished he wouldn't, as it only made him feel sicker.

“Confusing agent,” he slurred, tongue heavy. “‘58 said s’not fatal.” How bad would it be to lie down? Surely the others would understand, if they knew what he was feeling.

“You're high?” Clint laughed, hitting the ground hard when he hopped down from his perch in the trees. Did it shake the world? Bucky could not say with certainty that it hadn't. He opened his eyes, moving to sit up straight. Even if he didn't feel it, he should at least try to look competent. Fake it 'til you make it, or whatever.

“How long is it supposed to last?” Natasha asked. She looked pale and shaky herself. Like she’d been hit suddenly with an intense flu. Bucky wondered if he looked the same, if she'd managed to make the same mistake he had.

“Fast metabolism,” Bucky slurred. It was so bright. A place as dark as this had no right to be so, so bright. 

Soon enough, 358 was heading their way again, dragging an oozing, deceased form behind him. The creatures looked right when they were limp and dead. Even when they'd been moving, they already looked dead. Like zombies. 

Had they been fighting zombies? Because Bucky had seen a lot, in his time, but that would be new. The thought did nothing to settle his warring stomach. 

The agent dropped the ankle he was holding near the pile, stalking toward the group with purpose. His eyes were trained on Natasha, wild urgency making him appear jagged and disheveled. “Which one of them touched you?” He asked, wasting no time on pleasantries or congratulations. He didn’t even seem to notice Bucky on the ground. 

Natasha opened her mouth as if to answer, then paused. She furrowed a brow. 

Instead of words, the only noise that escaped her throat was a thin, wheezing choke. Clint caught her when her knees buckled, gently lowering her to the ground. 

“Nat,” Clint said, voice thin, already panicked. “Nat, what’s going on? What happened to you?” He jostled her shoulder as if it would help her respond, but Natasha only coughed, raising a hand to her throat, pressing it in the universal sign for choking, eyes tearing up in the corners.

358 was on them in a second, shoving Clint away despite the archer’s protests. He kneeled in front of Natasha, and it looked like his hands on her shoulders were the only reason she remained upright. He leaned in close, his nose nearly touching hers. “Just point to it,” he hissed. “Show me which one cut you.” 

Her arm jerked, twitched, and fell like a stone back to her side. 358 growled, taking her wrist and moving it around the scene. Her fingers were heavy and shaking, unable to hold. “Give me a signal when I’m pointing to the right one,” 358 hissed. “Cough or choke or scream, I don’t care. I just need a signal.” 

When her hand hovered near the two corpses piled on top of one another, she let out a thin wheeze. 

358 dropped her immediately, Clint catching her before she was flat on the ground. He stalked to the pile, kicked at them with his boot. He seemed to analyze them, frowning. “Top or bottom?” He asked. 

Natasha's eyes were distant, far away. She didn't seem to hear him.

Bucky realized, even in his weakened state of mind, that they were losing her. 

“Top or bottom?” 358 repeated, growing frantic. He kicked one of the corpses in frustration again, ignoring the way is sticky-black good created a stringy connection between his boot and the body.

“Why does it matter?” Bucky bit, squeezing his eyes shut and opening them again, willing his faculties to return to him. Clearly things were bad, clearly they needed all-hands on deck. He couldn't afford to lose his shit. “What are you going to do, kill it again?” Panic squeezed around his neck, his hands began to shake. Natasha was going to die. She was already shaking and seizing on the ground, and Bucky couldn’t tell if she was able to breathe at all anymore.

358 ignored him, already on Natasha again. He shoved Clint’s shaking hands aside, ripping the small tear of her suit wider so he could look at the slash she'd sustained to her abdomen during the battle. Despite being further away, Bucky could see the wound clear as day. It was thin, drops of blood beading on the surface. It looked like it was barely a scratch. But from the wound came spiraling black lines, thick and dark, as if they were drawn on by a marker. If Bucky didn’t know any better, he would have thought they were a tattoo. But they were growing, steadily becoming larger and longer as they spread across her torso. 

“What the fuck?” Clint exclaimed, voice high and shaking. 

358 ignored him, already on a mission back to the corpses. He shoved up his sleeve, grabbed the wrist of the one on top. Before Bucky could open his mouth to protest, 358 was already slashing one of its claws across his arm, leaving a long bleeding gash.

Steve immediately rose to his feet, voice hard and booming between the trees. “What the hell was that, 358? What are you thinking?” 

358 seemed to not even hear him, just watching the wound on his arm as if it would reveal hidden secrets. “Come on,” he muttered to himself, shifting on his feet with impatience. “Come on, come on.” 

Then, Bucky saw exactly what he was looking for. Slowly, as if leaking from the wound, swirling black lines started reaching across his skin. 

“It’s this one,” 358 shouted. “This one has the antidote.” Without wasting any time, 358 hauled the body to the side, pulled out a knife, and pierced the corpse’s abdomen, right at the edge of its sternum. He dragged the blade down to the bottom of its concave stomach, with the same ease one might have when gutting a fish. He shoved his hand into the opening he created, hissing through his teeth. Bucky watched as he jerked his arm around as if searching for something, felt nausea rise as the corpse jostled and distended when 358's hand pressed against the edges of its flesh.

358 pulled his arm out of the opening, black ooze coating his skin and sleeve, dripping in stringy rivulets toward the ground. He held something small and round, no larger than a baseball, squishy enough to distend under the force of his grip. Steve immediately moved to his side, but 358 held him off with a look. “Stay back, don’t touch anything. It’s corrosive.” 

358 kneeled by Natasha’s side, and moved as if to grab the packet with the arm that he had previously infected. When the affected hand began twitching and jerking uncontrollably, he frowned before ripping the object open with his teeth. 

A bright purple liquid began spilling out the sides. With a grimace, 358 began dumping the contents over the wound on Natasha's stomach. When it was coated, he moved up, gripped her jaw open with his shaking hand, and dumped the remains of the pack into her mouth. Some spilled over the sides as Natasha began to cough and sputter, body jerking away from his harsh grip.

358 forced her head back as if to clear an airway, growling “swallow it. It’s disgusting, but you need to swallow it or die.” 

Her eyes widened, but she seemed to relax slightly. Less spilled out. 

Bucky saw the black spirals begin to fade away slowly, eventually disappearing under the thin sheen of purple. 

As soon as he saw that it worked, 358 released her, sitting back on his heels with a world-weary sigh. 

“What about you?” Bucky asked, eyes trained on the agent’s arm. He felt... steadier, more grounded. But not right. And he felt helpless. Slow. Lost. And 358's arm was still jerking and weak, the lines were still spreading across his skin. Bucky didn't know how to help.

358 looked up, exhaustion lining his features. “Let’s hope there’s another one.” As if gravity were more effective than before, 358 shoved himself up to his feet, trudging back toward the corpse. 

His legs collapsed after two steps. He forced himself onto his hands and knees, ignoring his arm which continually buckled beneath his weight. 

“Why are you deteriorating so quickly?” Steve asked, “Natasha was standing for a few minutes.” 

“I think I swallowed some of it's goo,” 358 groaned. “Don’t put strange things in your mouth, kids.” He dragged himself forward. 

Bucky tried to stand, but the world spun again, launching his stomach into the back of his throat. He fell back to his knees. 

Clint got away from Natasha, shoving himself toward the body. “Just tell me what I’m looking for,” he snapped, already kneeling down beside the corpse. “The antidote is inside, right? What am I looking for?” 

“It’s going to hurt,” 358 warned, but his arm finally collapsed, and he couldn’t seem to get himself back up. He lowered himself completely to the ground, seeming to give up. 

Clint held up his hand, “I’ve got more of a glove than you did, idiot,” he said, wiggling his fingers. “Besides, you’re about to croak. Tell me what you need before you can’t talk anymore.” 

358 nodded, jaw tight when he began to speak. The words were hoarse, forced, but still comprehensible enough. “Inside, there should be—attached to a wall, or rib or organ, you should feel—” he coughed, squeezed his eyes shut. “A pack!” He choked. “Something round and squishy. It’ll be cold.” 

Clint took a deep breath before plunging his arm into the chest cavity. He gagged audibly as searched around, whispering “oh god, ew, it’s an actual body” to himself before finally, he paused. He furrowed a brow before pulling back. “Is this it?” He held up a small, round, organic-looking object. 

358 choked in reply. Clint didn’t waste any time, making a hole in the object with his knife and loosing the contents onto 358’s arm. The wound was hard to see among the sea of black goo, so Clint sprayed a lot across the ruined skin. Then he moved to dump it in the man’s mouth. 

Later, much later, 358 would tell Bucky what the poison felt like. Like something had breached his body, planting roots in his blood vessels that reached and twisted and burned, stealing his motor function. How it crawled inside his lungs and spread like a disease, how it coated the insides and solidified the mucus membrane, making it impossible to inhale or exhale properly. How it shot up his throat, tying up his vocal chords so he couldn’t speak, irritating and swelling until nothing, not even air, could get past. How it reached the back of his tongue and he tasted his own unstoppable death, how it tasted like clover and copper and mud.

But Bucky didn’t know all of that at the moment. All he knew was that it seemed to hurt, and it was traveling at a horrifyingly rapid rate, and that 358 looked like he was dying.

358 gurgled a lot of the antidote up, his throat seeming swollen and closed. “Oh no you don’t,” Clint murmured. “Take your fucking medicine, asshole.” 

358 tilted his head. His lips were blue, his eyes were bulging. Dread and adrenaline worked wonders for sobering someone up, and Bucky's abilities seemed to return to him with the realization that the mercenary wasn't breathing.

“Swallow it,” Bucky hissed. He knew exactly what inflection to push, knew he was doing exactly the thing he'd promised not to do. He felt awful, but it was done. If it was at all possible, 358 was going to do it now. He was going to fucking live.

For far too long a moment, Bucky thought they were too late. He thought that maybe they had taken too long, that the stillness that seemed to grapple with 358’s frame was death. 

But then, 358 took a breath. Then another. He gagged and spat, and shook like he had been dunked in the arctic ocean. But he was breathing, and his arm was growing clearer. 

“What the fuck was that?” Steve snapped, apparently allowing himself to feel all the stress of the moment now that everyone was likely to survive it. 

358 gasped a laugh, the kind that wracked his body and curled him up into a ball. It sounded hysterical, delirious. He pushed himself onto his knees as tears started streaming from his eyes. 

“What’s so funny?” Clint asked. He was shaking off his hand, trying to remove the black ooze that coated his skin. “Cap, I think I’m gonna need a rinse. This shit itches.” 

“I didn’t think he cursed,” 358 admitted. He was grinning like he'd gone mad. 

“Why would you think that?” Steve asked. He seemed genuinely thrown. 

“You look like someone who doesn’t curse,” 358 said, still giggling to himself. “Your friend here will also need some water, or food,” he nodded toward Bucky. “It will help flush the toxin from his system.” 

Bucky muttered thanks when he was handed the remainder of the bread, as well as a bottle of water. He focused on chugging some water as the others attempted to settle, and 358 fought to regain control of himself. When it seemed things had quieted down, and he felt capable of throwing a coherent thought together, he figured he should probably try to get some answers.

“So, what were those things?” He asked, swallowing a mouthful of bread. His words weren't slurring, which was a good sign. It meant he was getting better. Slowly. But it felt ridiculous to worry about his own issues when he'd just watched two people nearly choke to death.

358 frowned. “I call them poisoners, but these are an older model. Not really made much today.” 

“That’s why they’re here?” Natasha asked. “They were disposed of?”

“Yes. The formula has been perfected since... these. The idea was to have soldiers who could be the poison. Undetectable, perfect killers. But the formula distorted them, turned them into mindless creatures whose only goal is to spread their disease. You can’t sneak those things anywhere, you’d provoke an international incident. Nowadays, you get things like MOTO2. She’s the best version." He accepted the water bottle when it was passed his way, drinking while trying to scrape some of the goo off of his clothes onto the dirt. "There are other poisoners, those who look human but are equipped with paralytics and death and things that make you lose your mind.” He shrugged. “These are death personified. One swipe, and it’s over for you.” 

“Why did you slash yourself with one, then?” Bucky asked through a mouthful of bread. 

“They all have unique poisons, no two are alike—it was early days, the doctors were trying a lot of things out. Each one has its own antidote inside its body as a failsafe, in case someone important gets hit. But because they’re all unique, you need to get the right antidote. The wrong one could do more harm than good.” 358 said it all like it was obvious, but Bucky thought it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. 

“But you didn’t know if you got the right one,” Steve pointed out, face pale. “You just poisoned yourself on a hunch?” 

“No, I poisoned myself to confirm a hunch,” 358 said easily. “Look, even if I was wrong, I still would have fixed her first. I had more time, I would have gone back to get mine.”

“Except the poison incapacitated you almost immediately,” Bucky said. He hated that plan. He checked the man again, as if to ensure that he was still alive, still breathing. His arm seemed clear of marks, outside the sticky black-and-purple ooze that seemed to irritate his skin. But his fingers still twitched idly. 

“Like I said, I swallowed some of it. Plus, I’ve always had a poor constitution,” 358 said. He did not seem to think it necessary to expand on that point. “Look, it doesn’t matter. I had a 50/50 shot, and I got it right! I'm alive, she's alive! We won!”

“You could have died,” Clint pointed out, speaking slowly as if the man were stupid. 

“Why did you do that?” Natasha asked, eyes narrowed. She was tense, suspicious. 

“I literally just explained why I did it,” 358 rolled his eyes. 

“No, I mean… why would you poison yourself to save my life?” Natasha’s hand absent-mindedly went to her stomach. 

358 shrugged. “I like you,” he explained, as if it were the simplest, most obvious thing in the world. 

Natasha’s eyes widened, but she didn’t say a word. Bucky would be lying if he said he wasn’t surprised.

“Well,” Steve sighed. “Now that you’re all covered in corrosive blood and everyone can walk again—” he glanced at Bucky, who assessed his head. He was pretty sure he was steady. He nodded at Steve. “We should probably find that water so you can wash off. I’d rather not waste all our drinking water on that.” 

Bucky shoved himself to his feet, took a deep breath to center himself. Natasha was standing in front of 358, reaching down. 358 looked at her hand, looked at her. He gripped her wrist, allowed her to lift him up. She steadied him when he swayed.

Bucky could see it in her eyes. 

She did not understand him, but she was going to try. She didn’t appreciate feeling indebted to someone. 

He didn’t let it bother him. Really, he was fine. The man still fucking despised Bucky, but he liked Natasha. Who had wanted to kill him a few hours before. 

That didn’t sting at all. 

Bucky trudged up to walk beside Steve, who was leading the group forward. 

“You didn’t get poisoned, did you?” He asked, elbowing his friend. The ground was stable now, exactly where it was supposed to be when he stepped. His mind was clearer (as clear as was possible in the forest, anyway). 

“No, I didn’t,” Steve replied. “I guess this shield is good for something.” He smiled at Bucky, glanced back at the people behind them. “It's lucky, really. Over half the team is already off their game.” 

“Natasha seems to be doing alright,” Bucky said, “and I’m not so dizzy anymore.” 

Steve laughed. “I can’t believe that took you out for so long. You could barely see what you were doing.” 

“At least it was solved with a less disgusting antidote,” Bucky said. Whatever it was the others had touched and swallowed, it had a cloying stench that followed them through the woods. 

“Do you think the bile-y rotten smell will ward off predators,” Clint mused, as if reading Bucky’s mind. “Because I can feel it on me still, and I’m just saying, it smells about as good as it feels.” 

“It might..." 358 droned, before frowning. "Let me see,” he muttered, grabbing Clint’s hand. His frown deepened. “It’s blistering,” he sighed. 

“Wicked,” Clint said. 

“He told you it was corrosive, and you still stuck your hand in it,” Steve said. 

“He did it,” Clint whined. 

358 held his own hand out to Clint, showing off his matching blisters. Upon closer inspection, he had irritation and burns around his mouth and chin, too. “High five,” he said. 

Clint slapped their hands together, hissing at the impact. 

Natasha shoved between them, rolling her eyes. “You’re both idiots,” she sighed. “We don’t have anything to treat chemical burns, so you’re going to have to wait until we can flush it properly. Until then, don’t make it worse.” 

Bucky turned back to Steve, who was smiling to himself. Bucky raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Life or death scenarios are the perfect thing to bring a group together,” Steve sighed. 

“You seem oddly calm about the whole thing,” Bucky remarked. Steve was worried, yes. He always was. But he didn’t fight the agent, didn’t try his own way to save Natasha. He’d just… watched. Let the whole thing play out. 

“He wasn’t going to let her die,” Steve replied, as if it were obvious. “And he wasn’t going to let himself die, either.” He glanced at Bucky. “We all have a common goal here, one which requires all of us to do it.” 

“Hence, life or death situations being a bonding experience?” Bucky snorted. “Seems awful risky.” 

“It’s worked before, hasn’t it?” Steve shrugged. “All it took to make friends with the Avengers was a few thousand aliens invading New York.” 

“They made comics about that, you know. One of the junior agents showed me.” He shivered. It was weird for him, to see his face illustrated along with the heroes. Standing beside Hawkeye and Black Widow, Captain America and Thor posed dramatically in the front while the Hulk raged in the back. As if he belonged there, as if he wasn’t only a few months off his own villainous journey when it occurred. 

“Wonder what they’d call this comic,” Steve mused. 

“Avengers: Trip to the Zoo,” Bucky supplied. “Or maybe Avengers Go Camping.” 

“Avengers: A Vacation to Remember,” Steve added. “Of course, this mission is highly classified. The poor artists will have no material to go off of.” 

“Probably for the best,” Bucky sighed. “I don’t need to see those poisoner things illustrated in full color when I’m out trying to buy a coffee.” 

“Yeah,” Steve frowned. Then, his head perked up. “Hey, 358,” he called back. “Do you hear that?” 

The agent looked up, apparently distracted by a conversation with the assassins beside him. Then, he smiled. “Is that running water I hear?” 

Bucky focused, let the world fall away until he heard it: rushing, crashing, spraying. Up ahead, but growing louder the further they traveled. 

He grinned. They needed this, needed a win. Clint let out a whoop of joy as Steve started jogging ahead. 

The river was wide, violent, and blissfully clean. The water was clear and cool, bordered by tall grasses and plants on either side. 

Bucky approached the bank, tentatively submerging his flesh-and-blood hand. When the water didn’t immediately burn or flay him, he grinned at the others. “I think it's okay,” he called back. 

That was all the confirmation the others needed. Steve grabbed their two empty water bottles, capturing some water from the rockier parts where it was more likely to be filtered. Clint waded in to his waist, grasping a rock so the force of the water couldn’t bowl him over, sighing as it pummeled any remaining blood or poison from the wounds on his hand and wrist. Natasha followed him after removing her shoes and socks, rolling the legs of her pants up as high as she could. She investigated some of the plants around her, pulling up roots with her toes. 

Bucky stepped in, felt the high pressure beat the blood and sweat from his clothes. The water was cold, an icy chill he felt to his bones, but he didn’t care. It killed some of the oppressive heat that surrounded them. He went as far as his shoulders, digging his feet into the dirt and holding onto a rock in front of him.

Peace, that’s what this was. Just a brief moment of peace. He glanced back, where 358 was sat on the shore. 

“You need to get in,” he called over. “Wash some of the blood off.” 

“I’m fine,” the agent snapped, eyeing the current. 

“You’ll feel better,” Bucky said. 

“Yeah, dude. You’ve still got that black stuff on you,” Clint said. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

358 made a face, dipped his hand in. Scowled. 

Natasha watched him carefully. She pulled something up from the riverbed, threw it over to him. “Any reason to believe this wouldn’t be edible?” 

He caught it. Turned it over in his hands. “It seems fine,” he said. “Want me to eat it and see what happens?” 

“No,” she started to say, but it was already too late. He’d popped the little rooted plant into his mouth. She frowned while he chewed, swallowed. 

He shrugged. “Tastes fine,” he reported. 

“You have a death wish,” she snapped. She’d said the same thing to most of the team before. But this time… it held weight. It was not a scold, but an accusation. 

358 grinned and removed his jacket, which was so leaden with dirt and various substances he had to peel it off. He adjusted to sit on his knees, plunging it into the icy cold water. Streams of browns and reds quickly disappeared with the flow of the water. 

“I guess that’s a better way to wash your clothes,” Steve said. He was laughing. Actually laughing. 

Bucky wished he could find levity in these moments like they could, wished he could find solace in his companions, a refuge from raging thoughts. He wished he could stop staring at 358 and feeling as if he were missing something vital. 

Steve was removing his gloves and boots, setting them on the bank. He was carrying the scrap jacket and dunking it alongside his feet in the bank. Clint dunked his head below water, shouting when the cold shocked his system. Natasha was tossing tubers to the bank, her pile increasing steadily over time.

358 was removing his shirt, revealing a network of blue circuit-like lines, an explosion of light originating from his heart. 

“These,” 358 said, “are from the biggest treatment I ever received. The one that killed the person I was and birthed the monster I am now.”

“You're not a monster,” Bucky told him, pressing a hand against the mercenary's chest, feeling the power that hummed beneath. 

“Only a monster could do what I did to you,” 358 insisted. 

“You freed me.”

“I killed you.”

The memory hit like a ton of bricks, causing Bucky’s grip on the stone in front of him to momentarily slack. He felt himself slip back, the current shoving him downstream. 

He caught the rock again, scrambling for purchase. 

Natasha was staring at him, the others distracted with their various tasks. A silent ‘what happened?’ in her eyes. 

Bucky shook his head. He didn’t know. 

He still saw shadows of long gone figures in the corners of his vision, the echoes of conversations long passed in his mind. 

“I know exactly who you are,” Bucky told him. He held 358's shoulders as they trembled, pulled his warm body against his chest. 

“I'm a killer.” 

“You haven’t always been this way,” Bucky told him. “You can be someone different out there.”

“I don’t know anything else.”

“We can find it together. I know we can.”

“Find what, Barnes?”

“Your name," Bucky heard himself say. "It’s here, somewhere.”

Bucky’s fingers were digging deep into the stone, pebbles and cracked slabs tumbled into the water. Natasha was wading toward him, face pinched with concern. Clint was shaking water from his hair, a cascade of cold flying toward Bucky, tying him to the present. 

“Give the order, then,” the mercenary insisted. “Tell me to search. Let me access everything.”

“Bucky,” Natasha crooned, suddenly by his side. Her fingers were on his shoulder, her face right in front of his. “Bucky, where are you right now?” 

“I—” he shook his head, let the memories fall away as if they were water droplets clinging to his skin. “I’m fine. I’m here.” He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again. Natasha was still there, the shadows were gone. 

The voice was gone. 

Natasha inched back but stayed close, looking back at 358 and Steve on the shore. Steve was helping 358 douse his injuries without pulling him fully into the water, while 358 did his best to wash his face and hair without submerging his head. 

“Let’s break here for lunch,” she said suddenly, “and then continue on our way. We shouldn't stay in one place for too long.” 

358 looked up, nodding before sliding his drenched shirt back over his head. “What’s on the menu today?” he asked. 

She swept a hand toward her pile, “Arrowhead. If we can make a fire, we can eat the tubers.” 

358 grinned. “Oh, I can make a fire.” 

Turned out 358 was right, except he broke their flashlight in the process, and nearly set all the surrounding underbrush alight at the same time. Despite the spectacular consequences of the action, the agent seemed pleased with himself as he held his jacket before the flames. 

Natasha was already roasting tubers on a smooth, flat rock she’d found, pushing the plants in and out of the flames with a stick at seemingly random intervals while Steve and Clint finished wringing their soaking clothes out as much as possible. 

Bucky watched as the flames licked the food, trying to ignore the memories that threatened to burst through the secure locks in his mind. 

Eventually Natasha doused the fire and called the others to come and get some. Steve glanced at 358: “you’re sure it’s safe?” 

“Still haven’t puked myself silly,” 358 shrugged, “which means it’s safe enough for me.” He popped one in his mouth. “It’s better warmed up.” 

Bucky followed, grimacing a bit at the texture. It wasn’t bad. But it wasn’t really good, either. 

Still, he ate it, glad to at least have something in his stomach.

Steve looked around at the gathered group. “We’ve covered a good amount of ground,” he began, “how’s everyone holding up? I want honest reports, not some manly ‘I’m too good to admit I’m hurt’ crap.” 

Natasha was the first to speak up. “My ankle is sore, but coming along as expected. It’s not going to slow me down.” She shrugged. “I’m still a little… off, from the poison earlier. It… It’s like I got hit with something. I’m sore. Until I can get some rest, I might be a bit off.”

358 was, surprisingly, next. “Ditto on the poison thing,” he said. “For some reason, I can’t really smell right now, which I’m blaming on inhaling goo.” He seemed to take stock in the moment. “I’ve been stabbed in the leg, which is sore but patched up enough to keep me going.” Bucky looked over, but Natasha didn’t flinch. At least she wasn’t blaming herself. “My hand isn’t broken anymore. Outside of the normal bumps, bruises and burns, I'm functioning pretty well."

“I didn’t even know it was broken in the first place,” Clint said. 

“It didn’t feel broken when you were punching me in the face,” Natasha added. 

“I heal fast,” 358 defended. “And it wasn’t a severe break.” 

Clint was next. “I haven’t checked my shoulder, but it itches. I think that means it’s healing. I'm closer to full range of motion, but it’s… not ideal.” 

Bucky cleared his throat. “I had a deep cut before, but it’s healed up by now. I’m… honestly, I’m fine. Just tired, worn out. The… confusion dust or whatever, wore off. My head’s on straight.” 

Steve nodded. “I’m fine. My suit is worse for wear, but nothing has gotten me badly enough to slow me down yet. Now, I wanted to say… we’ve traveled pretty far from the lab, which means, based on what you’ve told us, we're going to start seeing enemies pop up more frequently.” 

358 nodded. 

“We need plans for this: formation, buddy systems. We need to be confident that someone has our back. That means no more infighting, that means clear communication. Does everyone understand and agree with this?” Steve watched them. 

They all nodded like school children. 

“Okay,” he sighed. “Let’s get moving, then.” 

They walked tirelessly, even as the sun’s rays faded to make way for nightfall. Steve asked if anyone needed a rest, though no one seemed to be eager to take him up on the offer. The reminder that they were sitting ducks in the forest had made everyone more than eager to escape as soon as possible. They kept the river to their right without staying too near it, everyone locked in their own heads rather than trying to make conversation. 

Bucky kept looking at 358, who still hadn’t spoken to him. Who was avoiding him. 

“Maybe we should slow—”

And then, Steve was gone. Something massive and silent, something so unobtrusive they had all somehow missed it, swooped from above, wrapped massive talons around the captain, and rose just as silently back into the sky. 

“What the fuck?!” Clint shrieked, bow already wrenched off his back, gripped tightly in his hand. Bucky had his rifle aimed high, but between the darkness and the shadows, he couldn’t see what had happened. 

“Up here,” Steve called, and they heard a thunk against some branches, leaves raining down. Bucky scanned the darkness, saw a glint of metal directly above him. With a hope and a prayer, he jerked his gun to the right of that glint and shot.

The air was pierced by a sharp, high-pitched cry. It was grating, animalistic. It wasn’t Steve, at the very least. 

There was more movement from above as more creatures broke gracefully through the foliage, blocking out the waning light with wingspans easily measuring at least 10-feet. Natasha backed away from the approaching forms, moving to scale the tree nearest her. Bucky aimed at the first figure he saw and fired. 

The figure reared up at the shot, wings fanning out to reveal the body beneath. It was… human...ish.

It was the torso of a human being, though its legs were distorted and bent backwards like a bird's, feet stretched and hardened into razor-sharp talons. The face was stretched and taut, a shining gold beak attached where a nose and mouth should have been. The arms were replaced by glorious, raven-dark wings, dripping oil-slick feathers to the ground. 

The creature leapt forward in one powerful movement, wings catching the air, so it hovered above them. Clint already had an arrow nocked, taking a shot for its torso. The bird-person-thing spiraled in the air to avoid the hit, before diving straight for the archer. 

Bucky shoved him out of the way and raised his metal arm so its claws scraped against the thick material. The ear-splitting shriek of shredded metal nearly had him on his knees. 

358 was locked in his own fight, emptying a gun at a bronze-colored bird that wouldn’t back off. Bucky nearly choked on a breath when the bird swung a wing forward and a bullet bounced off as if it hit something far more substantial than a wall of feathers. 

But he couldn’t afford to watch the man too long. Now that he better understood what they were dealing with, Bucky charged forward, knocking the bird off balance with a brutal swing of his arm. He let his larger gun swing against his back, took a smaller handgun and poised it in front of his face. He aimed up, right under the bird’s jaw. 

He shot it in the throat, forcing his mind to ignore the horrific gurgling as blood filled its lungs. 

He rolled out of the way of its falling body, scrambling back when he realized that Clint was caught under the weight of one of its wings. 

He grabbed the archer’s wrist, hauling him out and pulling him back to his feet. 

“Avoid the wings,” Bucky huffed, shaking out his arm. Something was wrong: the outside lining was shredded, but he also felt a weakness, a twitch in his reflexes. A damaged connection, something that could become a major problem if it wasn’t addressed sooner rather than later. 

“Yeah, I gathered that when it hit me like a fucking car,” Clint snapped, already raising his bow. Bucky followed his line of sight, saw that 358 was backed up to a particularly thick line of trees. The bird in front of him had its wings spread, one arched around the duo to make a shot impossible. Bucky heard 358 curse, heard a clatter as his gun hit the ground. 

Bucky was running before Clint could say anything to convince him otherwise. 

He leapt up, landing onto the bird’s back and slamming the butt of his gun down hard on its skull. It reared back with a shriek, nearly throwing Bucky off. He held tight, wrapping an arm around its neck. 

“Back off,” 358 grunted. He had a deep gash across his forehead, dripping blood into his eye and smearing across his face as if he’d already wiped it a dozen times before. He had a taser in his hand, the one from the pack. 

Bucky struggled to get his gun in his hand as the bird-person reared back, launching itself about eight feet into the air. Bucky had to press himself flat against its back to avoid being nailed by its wings. As soon as it seemed clear, he yanked his arm back, cutting off its oxygen, sending the bird jerking and struggling to remain upright in the air. He watched as it swung a taloned foot at 358, catching him hard on the side of his head. 358 fell. 

Bucky growled, held tight to his gun. He released the thing’s neck and pushed back so he was secured only by his straddle against its back. Bucky placed his gun between the creature’s shoulder blades, pulling the trigger before it could try and dislodge him again. They fell to the ground like rocks. He rolled as soon as they made impact, still close to 358's position, at the same time registering Steve’s shout as he and Natasha hit some tree branches high above, tangled together as they tumbled to the ground. 

Natasha pushed Steve off of her, gasping for breath, avoiding standing on her bad ankle by leaning against a tree. 

Steve was running toward Bucky and 358, eyes wide. “It’s not dead,” he shouted, “there’s still one out there—”

Before he could finish the thought, a heavy figure landed beside him. 

Another bird-person-thing, larger than the others. Its feathers were a heavily-tarnished gold, its face and bare chest scarred and ruined as if it had been clawed to pieces over and over again. 

“MOTO4,” a voice hissed, and Bucky only distantly realized that the bird was speaking, beak opened wide as if relaying a speaker’s sound. “You’ve been a very naughty pet,” it continued. “He lived, you know. He lived, and he wants to see you.” 

In a flash, 358 was screaming and throwing himself at the creature.

He tackled the bird in a blur of flesh and feathers and blood, brandishing his taser like a knife, jabbing it against the bird’s exposed flesh over and over and over again, flashing brighter than Bucky thought the weapon was capable of. They were a noisy, spasming flurry of movement, making it impossible for Bucky to take a shot at the thing without risking hitting the agent. 

Steve moved to join the fray, but two more birds flew from the darkness, forcing them to duck and dodge to avoid their razor sharp talons. Clint was beside Natasha now, guarding her weaker side, letting arrows fly without regard to how few he had left. Natasha was aiming her gun, the muzzle jerking back and forth as she tried to find a shot in the confusion. 

Bucky focused on the bird closest to him, the one blocking him from reaching 358. A wing swung out, throwing Bucky a few feet back. He hit a tree hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. He felt a crack in his chest. 

He fell to the ground, forcing himself to stand even though it hurt to breathe. He raised his handgun, letting loose a few shots that bounced uselessly off the bird’s raised wing. It spun, kicking one of its clawed feet at his already damaged metal arm. It absorbed the impact with another resounding shriek, talons cutting through the metal like butter. 

He pushed back on the kick, getting as close as possible, moving past the bullet-proof wings. He raised his gun, caught the bird on the chest. It fell, just in time for Bucky to watch the larger creature take flight. 

He took flight and 358 was still holding onto its chest. 

They were a flurry of curses and shrieks, until about 20 feet in the air, the agent let go. 

Bucky felt his heart stop as he hurtled toward the ground. 

He felt as if he'd been hit by another poisoner when the bird plucked 358 from the air within the blink of an eye, claws scraping against his body as they wrapped around him. 358 was flailing and jerking in it's hold, trying to reach up and make contact, slamming against its ankles in an attempt to free himself.

A word ripped through Bucky, unbidden and uncontrollable. He didn’t think it, didn’t know where it came from. It was pure panic, pure fear. They were taking him. They were going to take him away. He was going to lose him again. 

“Tony!” He cried, nearly falling to his knees. 

358 paused in the air, ceasing his struggles as if the word rendered him completely immobile. 

An arrow flew through the air. It avoided 358’s frozen form, piercing the bird in the chest. 

358 fell again, though he had restarted his struggles. His arms and legs flailed in the air, desperately reaching out. He hit the tree line hard enough to rain leaves and twigs to the forest floor below, tumbling between branches until Bucky lost sight of him completely. 

He never hit the ground. 

Bucky searched desperately above him, sprinting to the spot where he had seen him fall. He can’t be gone, he thought, an icy chill running down his spine. He can’t be gone, they can’t have him. I didn’t fail. 

"If I'm captured, you need to kill me," 358 had said. But Bucky had never considered that they actually would. He'd never considered that a viable option, not really. They were supposed to escape. Together. They weren't supposed to send the mercenary plummeting to his doom.

358 couldn't be dead. He was strong. He was going to be okay. He had to be.

But Bucky didn’t see 358, couldn't find him. He saw the final bird, still circling above them. He grit his teeth, raised his rifle. They weren’t going to have him. Whatever state 358 was in, his keepers would not recover him. Bucky wouldn't allow it.

But the bird flew away, drifting away from their little group faster than they could ever hope to follow from the ground. 

A moment later, as if waiting for the bird to escape, 358 fell to the ground with a loud thud. He made no attempt to roll or absorb the impact.

Bucky was immediately by his side, fearing the worst. 

The mercenary wasn’t moving, his freshly cleaned face now coated in a thin layer of drying blood. His breathing was shallow, but present. He didn’t try to sit up, glancing at Bucky through heavily lidded eyes. 

“You need to go,” he grunted, but made no attempt to do so himself. 

“Yes, we need to get going now,” Bucky insisted, kneeling down beside his head. If 358 thought he was getting left behind, then his head must be worse off than it looked. 

“They’re going to keep coming for me,” 358 argued. “Jebediah won’t let me get away like this. We should split up, you’ll be safer.” 

Natasha was already approaching, arm slung over Clint’s shoulder. Clint held a bundle of arrows in his hand; he must have picked up and scavenged as many as he could. “What’s the hold up?” She snapped. “One got away, it's going to report where we were.” 

“I know,” 358 closed his eyes and took a deep breath, flinching at the movement. His lungs rattled, the exhale sounded wet. When he opened his eyes again, he looked only at her. “They’re tracking me, I think. That’s how they found us. I can try to hold them off, mess with them as they approach but I can’t—” He set his jaw. “Your best chance of survival going forward doesn’t involve me.” 

She looked at him for a long time. Finally, she spoke, eyes hard. “You’re not staying here,” she grunted. “You won’t survive.” 

Bucky felt relief flood his system immediately. It was settled. They agreed with him, without him having to say a word. “Come on,” he said, moving to grab the agent on the ground. “Come on, can you walk?” 

358 let himself be hauled so he was sitting upright, hissing as his various injuries were jostled. Bucky took his arm, placed it around his shoulder. Blood was draining from his wounds in sticky rivulets, already coating Bucky’s clothes. He wrapped his other arm around 358’s waist, tried to pull him onto his feet. 

The man’s knees immediately buckled. 

Steve was there quickly, despite his own limp slowing him down. He took 358’s other arm, supporting his weight between the two of them. 

“This is stupid,” 358 mumbled, head lolling. “I’m going to slow you down.” He coughed. “Jebediah—”

“That’s the handler you said you killed, right?” Bucky asked. The agent nodded weakly. 

“We’ll deal with him,” Bucky said firmly. “And all his minions he sends your way, we’ll deal with them.” He tightened his hold on the agent. “They can’t have you.” 

358 groaned, and Bucky immediately loosened his arm, realizing how delicate the man really was. He’d just been dropped from the sky, and he was acting like it. He should have died, and here Bucky was, forgetting his strength, making things worse. He wondered if his lungs were punctured, he wondered just how badly 358's internal state was, if they were going to kill him slowly dragging him along like this.

But they didn't have a choice, so Bucky tried to push his concerns from his mind. 358 was strong, he had a healing factor. He was fine. He was going to be fine.

“I—they won’t—I can’t—” 358 tried, coughing, eyes falling shut.

Clint raised a brow at the trio. “Look, it kind of sounds like you want us to leave you behind right now. But I know that’s not what you want. You want to be free.” 

To Bucky’s surprise, 358 only replied with a wheezing whine in the back of his throat. It might have been the most vulnerable noise he’d ever heard. 

“So we’ll help free you. You’re part of this team now. You’ve got our backs, so we’ve got yours. Got it?” Clint said it like it was easy, already reaching to replace the arrows in his quiver. He acted like he didn’t realize the impact he’d just had on Bucky alone, forget what the words meant to 358.

358 didn’t respond, but he didn’t argue, either. That was good enough to Bucky. He didn’t want to have to resort to begging. Not while the man was in such a rough state. Slowly, the group started moving forward, making soft grunts and whining as their various injuries were jostled. Bucky felt the urge to move faster, felt panic creeping up the back of his neck, but knew it wasn’t possible. Nobody was in a place to run. 

Hell, he wasn’t doing too hot either. His metal arm felt weaker than it should, and it was sluggish to obey his commands. The birds had disturbed something vitally important, and it was going to cause problems. Steve was limping and hissing with every other breath, Bucky knew he’d probably broken some bones. Natasha flinched with each step she took on her bad leg. The ankle hadn’t been broken before, but he’d bet money that changed with her fall. She still had leaves and sticks tangled in her hair that she hadn’t bothered to pull out. 

And 358… well, Bucky could feel the injuries. A dislocated shoulder they hadn’t stopped to put back in place, lying limply around Bucky’s shoulders. Blood oozed from dozens of cuts and scrapes on his arms and legs. There was still blood falling from the slashes across his face, steadily caking his right eye shut. His ribs were cracked if not broken, and Bucky was left desperately hoping they didn’t jostle him enough to puncture a lung. He had a weak knee, now, that he hadn’t had before, opposite the already existing stab wound. He wasn't actually walking, he was dragging his feet in his best attempt to keep up with the already-slowed down pace of the super soldiers propping him up.

Bucky really, really hoped that healing factor of his was as good as 358 had implied. 

Clint, apparently, could not appreciate the silence. “You know, it’s good you stopped moving around while the bird had you,” he said eventually. “With my arm, I couldn’t hold that position much longer trying to line up a shot. Shit burned.” 

358 hummed quietly, then seemed to pause. He kept walking, but let his head fall onto Bucky’s shoulder. 

Bucky tried to ignore the warmth the gesture filled him with. The man was injured and weak, not seeking comfort or camaraderie. If he could walk on his own, he probably would have run as fast as he could to get away from Bucky by now. 

“You… you said something to me,” 358 slurred quietly. Aw, shit. It sounded like a concussion. Bucky wondered if the others could hear it, or if this was a private conversation. Maybe that was why he’d let his head fall. “You said something. It felt like a shock of cold water, all across my skin. I wasn’t expecting it.” 

Steve shot a glance at Bucky, some kind of warning. A warning of what? 

Bucky wracked his brain, desperately clawing through the complete disaster of his memory to try and find the thread tangled within that held the answer.

When he found the thread, he pulled. 

Suddenly, he felt that same shock of cold. 

“I said 'Tony',” Bucky said, voice hoarse and broken even to his own ears. “I… I called you Tony.” 

“Tony?” 358 mumbled, though a shiver ran through him. His voice sounded hollow, wrong. “What’s that?” 

Steve was shaking his head rapidly, Clint looked like he wanted to put his foot in his own mouth. 

But despite everything, despite the horrible timing and the horrible night, Bucky couldn’t let it drop. Couldn’t keep this memory to himself. 

“I think that’s your name,” Bucky admitted quietly. “I think your name is Tony.” 

The reaction was immediate. The agent’s previously limp form suddenly jerked, racked with tremors, seizing from some unknown current. He grit his teeth as if against pain, choked as if on blood. 

“Oh,” the agent, Tony, choked. Then, he collapsed, entirely limp, held up only by Steve and Bucky’s tight grip on his frame. 

Chapter Text

2009

Tony 

358 sat at the edge of his bed, eyes stuck to the wall. 

He had actually done it. He’d hacked The Order.

He’d always had peripheral access to the machines that made the place run: the lights, the doors, a map of the corridors and where they were shifting. But he’d never accessed their information, never touched the files. He was forbidden from doing so. 

But he had allowed it. Encouraged it, even. 

358 knew how to be careful, knew how to brush past systems and firewalls and encryptions, untangling barriers without alerting any technicians that might be watching. He’d done so before for missions, had been taught how to do it. He wondered what the hacking expert would have to say about that, that 358 had found a loophole in the command to never turn his skills against his organization.

Hacking was all about loopholes and backdoors, after all. Really, it just showed how far he’d come in his training. 

He’d found something that changed his life, just as Bucky had told him it would. 

He refused to think of the name in his own mind, however. His mind was not solitude or sanctuary, it could be ripped apart and rifled through as easily as any belongings. 

He needed to get it out of him. Needed to make it real. 

The door to his quarters opened, and 358’s head snapped up to meet the figure who stood there. 

“MOTO4,” Jebediah said, glancing at the man. “Glad to see that you’re awake. You’re needed in the lobby. Get suited up as you would for a mission.” 

358 nodded, already sliding to his feet. His face remained carefully blank, but his mind was racing. Had they realized? Were they trying to trick him, get him ready for punishment? Tricks were unnecessary, they could make him do whatever they wanted. But the mind games and uncertainty were part of it for them, he was pretty sure. They wanted to see him squirm. 

He didn’t have any weapons in his room, but that hardly mattered. Jebediah stopped him at an armory so he could gather everything he could possibly need. Since he had no idea what he was doing, it was better to be over-prepared rather than under.

As they made their way to the main atrium, a place where they could either traverse to the outside for a mission or deeper inward to the labs and training areas, 358 tried to force his mind to settle. 

Jebediah gave no indication that he was displeased, he seemed as neutral as ever. 358 was absolutely certain he hadn’t been detected while snooping; nobody had come to stop him. He only had his file open for a moment, only just long enough to read one small section of information. 

Subject 358; designation Mercenary of the Order #4 [MOTO4]

Acquired August 1978 from his family home, for the purpose of experimental procedure designation #0010 (Experimental outcome: success. See pg. 025 for details).

Given name Anthony [redacted] born May 29th, 1970. All identifying personal information wiped from subject memory. 

He could see the words filtered blue before his eyes, as clear to him as they would be to others if they were projected on the blank wall of his quarters. 

Anthony. Family home. 

After reading it, he remembered a kind voice and soft brown hair that curled over her shoulders. He remembered that she smiled when she said “Tony”. 

He’d had a mother and a family home, and his mother had called him Tony. 

How had he ever forgotten that? How had he let them tear that away from him? 

Waiting in the lobby was a small gathering of figures: one of his instructors, a guard. 

And the Winter Soldier. 

358 felt his shoulders stiffen instinctually, immediately fearing the worst. The man before him was stiff, standing at military attention. He had a gun in his hands, mask pulled over his mouth and nose. His eyes seemed blank and heavy as they skated over 358’s form. 

But there. There it was. A twitch, right in the corner of his eye. Recognition, trepidation. 

His soldier was still there. Bucky Barnes. Playing the part he needed to play, acting as if 358 hadn’t broken him. But he was still broken. Bucky Barnes was still his. 

The relief nearly made him high, giddy. It took all his self control to not let it leak out, to keep it locked away. Private. If he wanted to keep this, if he wanted it to remain his and his alone, he had to pretend. 

If Bucky could pretend, so could he. 

358 lowered his gaze with submission as he was meant to do, squared his shoulders and parted his legs, ready for orders. Even as he vibrated with excitement, he held firm. 

“MOTO4,” the Winter Soldier said, voice muffled, the English accented as if foreign to his tongue. Strange and harsh, exactly like they had practiced. Exactly as 358 had coached him to sound if he wanted to avoid the chair. “I will be taking you for a solo expedition into the forest. Consider this your first surprise exam. I expect a display of all you’ve learned.” 

“What is the mission?” 358 answered, feeling the routine of the conversation wash over him. An exam. Solo. Perfect. They could talk, then. 

“We’ve released a target into the forest,” Jebediah supplied. “You will track it, accompanied by your instructor, and dispatch it before it strays too far from the facility. Do you understand your orders?” 

“Yes sir,” 358 said, lifting his head. The Winter Soldier nodded at his handler before turning stiffly toward the exit, 358 following closely. They were silent and stiff while inside, barely acknowledging one another. 

Even when they breached the doors that allowed them fresh air, 358 did not speak. He instead crouched low to the ground, searching. 

There. A spot of blood, already fading as the ground absorbed it. Another drop followed it, heading west. 358 tracked it, pinching a bit of earth between his fingers. He was no Hunter, could not find a target by the scent of their blood alone. But this was red blood, which ruled out poisoners or Sirens. The target most likely possessed human anatomy, meaning they left more-or-less human signs of life in their wake. 

They walked for about ten minutes before Bucky finally spoke, voice gravelly from disuse.

“Did you find it?” He asked, voice so soft and dampened by his mask that a normal person would struggle to hear. Luckily for them, 358 was not normal, or a person. 

He grinned, unable to hide his excitement any longer. “I did,” he said. “I found my name.” 

358 could not see the majority of the other man’s face, but his eyes crinkled as if he were smiling. “What is it?” he asked, but 358 tensed. He could feel some current near them. It could have been a camera or a microphone, or it could have been a radio on the target’s person. Either way, it was too risky to speak his secret aloud here. 

“Not yet,” 358 hissed. “You will have to wait in anticipation, my friend. For now, we have a target to neutralize.” 

Bucky sighed, adjusted his gun. “Are you okay to do this?” 

358 nodded. He did not love the job, did not relish the thought of attacking someone who had likely committed far lesser crimes than he had. But he knew he had no choice, not if he wanted to protect Bucky’s identity. 

“Let’s hurry, before they stray too far,” 358 said, already picking up his pace. 

2016

Steve 

The moment Bucky said the name, the body between them went from limp to rigid, from still to seizing. Steve hurried to stand in front of him, bracing the agent’s weight against his chest, stumbling back from the awkward positioning. 

“Get him on the ground,” Steve gritted out, glaring at Bucky. He felt for his friend, he really did, but Steve had tried to warn him that this might happen. Had seen it from the moment Bucky called the name, something wasn’t right. Steve sympathized with them both, he tried to be gentle and allow them the space they needed to work things out. But they could not afford this right now, couldn’t stand to have a man down when they were running for their lives from the monsters that pursued him. 

Steve would never leave a man behind, not when there was a chance to save him. But this man was now dead weight. 

Still, Steve helped lower 358 to the ground and turned him on his side, mindful of his bum shoulder. He tried to stabilize the mercenary's arm while he jerked on the ground, and bit back his anger at his friend. 

Because anger wouldn’t help, and was really just a thin cover to hide the absolute horror he felt with each new revelation they got about the mercenary. 

What do you have to do to a man to make him this sick from a single word? Steve thought, absent-mindedly rubbing his hand up and down the agent’s back. He had gone limp again, breathing weak and so shallow it barely stirred the dirt in front of him. 

Please wake up, Steve pleaded to absolutely no one but himself. 

Steve would never admit it aloud, but part of him thought this was all some horrible nightmare. 

He couldn't wrap his head around the fact that the things they were fighting had at one point been people, now deformed and warped until they were completely unrecognizable. 

He hadn’t said it to anyone, hadn’t had the time. But he saw a thin gold chain around the neck of one of those bird-people. It had a small, very tarnished ring strung through it, splattered with blood from the arrow lodged in its chest. 

That had been a person. Someone with people who loved them. Someone who had once had a life full of laughter and love and joy. And now they were here, dead on the ground, no different from a pheasant in freshly-stocked hunting territory. 

And they looked... his mother, he was sure, might have thought they looked like angels, fallen from the sky in order to enact divine judgement. And while Steve was not as religious as she was, while he knew better than to assign divine imagery to the creatures they faced... it was hard, to kill them. To know they were trying to kill him. 

What would his mother have said? What would she think of the man her son had turned into? He thought she would hold him, tell him he was doing what he needed to. But she might doubt, like he was doubting. And it cracked something in his chest, thinking of his mother alongside this place.

He wondered how two people, created in different labs but labs all the same, could be so different. He wondered if he was really that different from them at all. Because they were afraid, and he was afraid, and everyone was responding with violence and pain. And they all bled the same. 

The birds... they had been people. And his mother would have said they looked like angels, just like he used to. All of that was true, no matter how much the thought turned his stomach.

Steve knew they couldn’t afford hesitation or moral dilemmas, he knew they were officially in us or them territory. But still, he couldn’t stop seeing that ring, couldn't forget the way the shining wings looked as they caught the moonlight, couldn’t dislodge the doubt from his chest. 

None of it could be real. It just couldn’t. 

But he felt that it was real in the throbbing of his knee, in every aching breath he forced himself to take. He felt it was real in the frail trembling of their companion, in every pained glance Bucky threw his way. He felt it was real with every splash of blood against his ruined suit, every bead of sweat on his face. 

There was no waking up. There was only escape. 

Steve glanced down at the agent, 358. Tony, if Bucky was to be believed. The man had stopped shaking, but he hadn’t woken up. Steve sat back on his haunches, met Bucky’s eyes. 

“We can’t afford to stop,” he said, all the exhaustion and turmoil that roiled through his gut coating every word like a thick paste. “We’ll have to carry him.” 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said. His shoulders were limp, mortal-hand shaking as he brushed the hair from the mercenary’s face. “I’m sorry,” he said again, but this time Steve didn’t think the apology was meant for him. 

“Don’t,” Steve sighed. His shoulder ached, his head ached. He was starving and thirsty, and he wanted nothing more than to lie down and not move for days. But he couldn’t do that. He was a leader, he was their captain. 

His team was counting on him to lead them home. 

“I’ll carry him,” Bucky said. At first it seemed he was going to throw the mercenary over his shoulder, but he seemed to think better of it, instead hauling him up so he was cradled against Bucky's chest. 

Steve watched, still gathering the energy to move. 358 looked so small, carried like that. 

Steve was going to help him. He was going to help at least one damned person get out of this place. That bird’s spouse would never see them again, might never even know what had happened to them. But 358—Tony—was going to see the world. 

And Steve was going to buy him a fucking coffee. They were all going to have coffee, the whole team. Hell, they’d sell out the whole shop. He was tired enough that the idea almost made sense. 

He pushed himself to his feet despite every fiber of his being begging him to stay down, forced one foot in front of the other even when one leg dragged. His knee was in rough shape, he didn’t know in what way. It didn’t feel broken, but it didn’t feel right either. He felt like he was tearing at the muscles with each labored movement. He’d banged it up when the bird dropped him, had rolled wrong when he hit the ground. He knew it would heal, but it would take much longer if he kept straining it. 

But he didn’t have a choice. 

He focused on the comforting weight of his shield on his back, on the knowledge that he still had a mode of defense to protect his team. They may be quickly depleting food and water supplies, and weapons might already be running empty. But he had his shield, he had his team. 

That was all that really mattered, at the end of the day. 

Before the attack, they had been spread out a bit, leaving openings and weak points for enemies to target. Not anymore. His team fell in close, enough that their shoulders brushed and their feet tangled together. Steve didn’t care. He needed them close. He needed to feel their body heat in his space, to hear them breathe. 

They were all alive. They were still standing, for the most part. 

Natasha wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling him even closer to her and Clint. Steve almost offered to carry her, too: her limp was bad, face screwed up in pain. But one hard look in his direction stopped him from saying the words aloud. 

Despite the fact that he was mostly supporting her weight, the feel of her arm around him seemed to strengthen Steve, too. Connection, comfort, whatever you might call it. He needed it like he needed air. 

He knew she would understand that. Over the years of fighting together, she understood him well. Better than anyone, outside of Bucky.

Bucky, who looked so broken ever since they stepped foot here. Bucky, who Steve didn’t know how to help. Who Steve couldn’t understand here, no matter how desperately he wanted to. 

“How are you holding up?” Natasha muttered, squeezing him as much as she was able. 

“Knee hurts,” he replied softly, “but I can keep going.” 

“I’ll look at it in the morning,” she said dismissively, “but that’s not what I was asking about.” 

Steve took a deep breath, felt it catch in his throat. “It—they—the bird…” he said, horrified by the tears he felt gathering in his eyes. “They had a ring. Around their neck.” The beast, the creature so jumbled he couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. The creature that didn’t have a name or a voice of their own. 

Natasha was silent for a long time, but Steve knew she wasn’t judging him. She was just thinking of the right thing to say. “358 described transformation as a punishment, a fate worse than death,” she said softly. “Even though it doesn’t feel like it… you’re helping them. You’re putting them out of their misery.” Steve felt something inside of him crack, and wondered briefly if it was another rib or his heart. “Sometimes that’s all you can do, Steve.” 

His chest hitched. “They need help, Nat,” he let out, before his throat seemed to close.

“We can send help when we get out of here,” Clint said, but Steve knew the words were hollow. 

“Right,” he said anyway, trying to force the emotion out of his voice. But he knew. He knew it was unlikely that any of the people in that facility would be saved. 

“Hey,” Natasha said, “don’t let them get you down, Steve. If hope is all you have left, then hold onto that. Hold onto your will to survive, hold onto your hope that he can be saved.” Steve knew who she was referring to: the mercenary, curled up like a child in his best friend’s arms. The mercenary who was convinced that he and all the rest of them were animals waiting to be put down, who had asked to be killed or left behind. 

Steve nodded, though the movement strained his neck. 

Clint spoke up again, forced levity making his voice sound almost manic. “When we get out of here, I’m going to plant a glitter bomb in Fury’s office.” 

Natasha scoffed, tilting slightly to bump Clint’s shoulder, trying to hide the wince of pain the movement evoked. “When we get out of here, I’m going to have a dance party in Steve’s apartment. There will be streamers.” 

That got a reaction out of Steve, a chuckle that sounded more like a sob as it tumbled forth. 

Clint brightened, “when we get out of here, I’m going to buy a house so I can camp out on Nat’s floor. Yep, spoiler alert. I’ve realized I like camping with you guys.” Natasha rolled her eyes fondly, but Steve saw the way she squeezed Clint’s shoulder. 

Yeah, to be completely honest, Steve agreed. He wasn’t sure when he would be ready to let them out of his sight, either. 

Bucky joined in, pressed against Steve’s other shoulder as he said “when we get out, I’m going to bake a cake. The tallest, most delicious cake y’all have ever seen.” 

Clint grinned, Natasha asked about flavors. 

Steve let the words wash over him, relishing the warmth. He could do this, could keep going. For his team. For his family. 

2009

Tony 

“The trail goes cold here,” 358 huffed, falling to a crouch on the ground. “It… he was leaving footprints. But they just… stop.” His fingers dug into the dirt, frustration clear in the tense bend of his spine. 

Bucky moved to stand behind him, laying a light hand on his shoulder. 358 didn’t flinch or jump, had learned over weeks of interactions how Bucky moved, what his hand felt like through layers of clothing. “What about the blood?” Bucky asked, voice soft. 

“That stopped ages ago,” 358 groaned. “He must have noticed the bleeding and covered the wound.” 

“How do you know it’s a he,” Bucky asked. 

“Shoe size, mostly,” 358 said, “and the depth of the footsteps. Most of the girls, they’re light and lethal. The guys are all bulk and stomping, it takes us longer to figure out how to move without disturbing the world around us.” 

“You’re pretty light on your feet,” Bucky said, and 358 snorted. 

“I never got as big as the others,” 358 supplied. “I think with my tech thing, I was always supposed to be a stealth operative. Slip in and out, that kind of thing. Not ideal for hand-to-hand confrontations.” 

Bucky barked a laugh. “You’re not that discreet,” he said. He stepped aside so 358 could stand beside him, took another step back to dodge a shove against his shoulder. 

“I’ve always been chastised for my big personality,” 358 snorted. Then, his mood fell slightly. He wasn’t supposed to have a personality at all, really. He wasn’t supposed to be a person.

“Well I, for one, like your big personality,” Bucky said. “Hell, without it, you might never have blown up and killed me.” 

“For the thousandth time, I didn’t mean to kill you—”

“I know,” Bucky said. “But I’m glad you did.” 358 recognized the strange light in his eyes, the warmth and softness that would be a dead giveaway to anyone that this man was no longer the Winter Soldier. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t have met you.” 

“You’re awfully sappy tonight, aren’t you?” 358 said, feeling a strange pull at his heart. He didn’t recognize it, couldn’t put a name to it. In his opinion, that was a very good reason to ignore it. Still, he forged on, curiosity getting the better of him. He’d always been too curious, too desperate to know. It got him into all kinds of trouble. For fuck’s sake, it got him into his current trouble, buddy-buddy with his instructor, who was a prisoner somehow managing to pretend to be a mindless drone. The kind of trouble where he had a name curled around the tip of his tongue, sliding against his teeth, desperate to spill out into the night. “What’s got you so sentimental?” 

“Right now? The fact that you still haven’t figured out where your target went,” Bucky said. 

“Oh, because you’ve got all the answers, huh? What, they gave the instructor a hint?”

Bucky rolled his eyes and pointed up. 

358 paused, gaze rising. He saw a branch above their heads, cracked slightly at the base. 

“Footsteps don’t normally just stop, do they?” Bucky teased. 

“Shut up,” 358 snapped, already moving to the branch. He leaped up, took hold of it. It snapped off in his hand the moment he tried to pull himself up, sending the mercenary tumbling to the ground. 

Bucky didn’t say a word, just came to his side and began brushing the dirt off his uniform. “Come on,” he said eventually. “I’ll give you a boost to the next one.” 

358 groaned, accepting the help. “You’re so cocky,” he said. 

“I’m a highly trained professional, remember? So highly trained, I was hired to teach you.” 

“You weren’t hired,” 358 grunted, stepping up on Bucky’s knee and gripping a branch that looked sturdier, just barely in his reach. There was a drop of blood: Bingo. “Your assassin alter-ego was.” 

“Luckily for me, I retained all of my alter ego’s abilities,” Bucky grumbled, stepping back before taking a running leap to follow 358, who was already creeping forward by the branches, searching for traces of blood. “It would be difficult to explain to your handler why the Winter Soldier suddenly forgot how to execute his hand-to-hand skills.” 

“But it would do wonders for me if I could suddenly drop you to the mat in ten seconds flat,” 358 preened. 

“They’d accuse you of breaking the Winter Soldier immediately,” Bucky said. “You’re good, but not that good.” 

"Not only did I break the Winter Soldier,” 358 argued. “I also befriended him. That’s a far more serious offense.” 

There was a snap up ahead, a thunk as something fell to the ground. 

Suddenly remembering why they were really there, granted this rare moment alone, 358 forced himself to focus on his mission. “No more talking,” he hissed, raising a hand. “I don’t want him to hear us coming.” 

2016

Natasha

Morning broke while the group were still walking, no additional disturbances arriving in the night to halt their progress. Natasha wanted to push forward, wanted to create as much space away from their last known location as possible, but she knew she didn’t have much more in her. Her ankle was screaming at her, begging her for a break. Her lips were dried and chapped, her body craving water as dehydration scraped its claws down her throat. Clint and Steve helped, and she tried to cover the worst of her pain, but she wouldn’t last much longer. 

Of course, she couldn’t admit that out loud. “Let’s stop for a minute,” she said to Clint, knowing Steve and Bucky would be listening. “I want to check your shoulder.” 

Clint gave her a sideways glance, reading her mind as he often did. His eyes hardened as if “I’m about to collapse” were written across her forehead in glittery hot-pink letters. He just nodded, though, pulling her close to his side and helping her ease to the ground. 

Natasha, in moments of stress such as this, liked to make a list of things she knew with absolute certainty: 

1. They had traveled tirelessly, and traced back and forth and around enough that she couldn’t be certain how far they’d actually managed to get from the facility 
2. Her ankle could not hold her weight for more than a few seconds 
3. Their guide was unconscious, and they didn’t know how to wake him up
4. Their guide was not very good at guiding, and seemed to be guessing just as much as the rest of them
5. They did not have enough food to keep up the level of energy they needed for intense fighting
6. Steve was losing hope 
7. Clint was in pain 
8. Bucky was experiencing some seriously intense PTSD 

When things got too fatalistic, even in her own mind, she liked to tack something on to the end. It might not be absolutely certain, but Natasha knew a thing or two about hope. About will. 

Once you lost it, it was very hard to move forward. 

9. They were going to escape this fucking forest

She considered adding on “I am going to kill Nick Fury” but she hadn’t finalized her decision on that yet. She still had to sit him down and figure out exactly how much he knew before sending them here, figure out what he'd been hiding. 

Because during that briefing, she had noticed it. That he was holding something back. 

See, Nick Fury had a tell, one that had taken her years to see and even more years to see reliably. One that she was pretty sure nobody else had caught on to yet. 

She had called him out on hiding something during that briefing. And he had admitted it. Far too quickly, more readily than he usually would. He’d fed them further bits and pieces of information, things that should have been pertinent enough to give without any prodding at all. 

But he’d given the information to make her think he’d said it all. He’d kept small pieces hidden behind that uncharacteristic candor. 

If honesty could be a tell, it would be Fury’s. Because when he acted like he was giving an inch, he was still hiding a mile. 

Natasha would take that mile, and if she was offended enough by its exclusion, she would cut his tongue out after. Let him try to trick and lie after that. 

Don’t get it wrong, Natasha was fairly fond of Nick Fury. He'd saved her, shaped and molded her to be the person she was today. The person capable of standing beside Captain America rather than against him, the person who could love Clint Barton so much she sometimes thought it might consume her. 

But Nick Fury had gone too far, this time. Allowed her to endanger those closest to her without knowing everything she needed to know. 

He had a piece of intel. He must have had a very, very important piece. And he didn’t tell her. 

Why? 

She was already peeling the bandages from Clint’s skin while she dwelled on these thoughts, humming slightly while her mind wandered to all the ways she could make Fury talk. She knew him, more than almost anyone else in the world. She was a very good spy, possibly the best. It’s why he chose her, why he kept her close. It would be his downfall, if she discovered a betrayal. 

She stopped humming, however, when she got an eyeful of Clint’s wound. 

Bad, it was bad. Very, very, bad. 

The skin around the wound (red and raw and not closed, still too deep, still open and vulnerable to the world around it) was shining, wet with discharge and half-dried blood. The skin was inflamed like it had been rubbed raw only a moment before. She ghosted her fingers around the undamaged skin, felt the heat radiating off of it. 

Clint had said it was itchy. He had not mentioned possible infection. 

She was an idiot. She glared at him, and based on the resigned look in his eyes, she suspected he already knew. The wound's complications weren't fatal yet, but it wasn’t doing well, or healing correctly. The fighting and dirt had gotten in, damaging the tissue in a way she could not fix with first-aid basics. The more he used his bow, she realized, the more he was hindering his own healing. Reopening and ripping apart flesh that was still trying to knit closed. 

Clint needed stitches. He needed rest. He needed a fucking miracle.

She reached over and dragged Steve’s discarded bag toward her, digging around for the first aid kit. It was already running low on medical supplies, it hadn’t been packed for an expedition of this length. Still, she couldn’t afford to put dirty bandages over that wound. She pawed through until she found an antibacterial ointment, coating Clint’s shoulder as delicately as she could.

“You need to stop moving it,” she hissed, irritated by his flinching. He was in pain, and she couldn’t do anything about it. “You’re making it worse.” 

“I don’t have a choice, 'Tash,” Clint said softly. 

She didn’t respond, because she knew he was right. Without his arm, he was left with only a non-dominant hand to use his gun. That would not be enough to get them out of here, not with the kinds of enemies they were facing. 

“It’s going to scar,” she said instead. Her throat felt tight. 

“Do you think it’ll be a hot scar, at least?” 

“Definitely not,” she mumbled. She grabbed the remainder of the roll of bandages from the pack, desperately hoping that there were more buried in the other. After she wrapped his shoulder again, she estimated one more use out of that roll. She handed him a Tylenol from the little travel pack, along with an antibiotic. Just in case. 

He took them with a long gulp of water. Then he turned to her. “Your turn, Spider,” he said, twitching as if to roll his shoulder again, stopping when she glared. “Let me see your ankle.”

She rolled her eyes but stretched her leg out, hissing when the movement jostled the injury. Clint rolled up the leg of her pants, laying her ankle gently on his thigh. He poked at the bruised skin, brushed gently and felt for breaks and irritations below the swelling. 

“I think you might’ve broken it,” Clint sighed. 

“I can still put weight on it,” Natasha argued. She wouldn’t accept it. That was too serious an injury, put her at too much of a disadvantage here. She couldn’t afford a broken ankle. 

“You’re lying,” Clint said. He met her eyes, smiled softly. “We’re not super soldiers, you know. We still get hurt normally, need time to recover normally.” 

Natasha set her jaw. “I will not be the reason we slow down,” she hissed. 

Clint rolled his eyes, pulled the medical kit closer to him. “It’s a small fracture, I’m hoping. But you shouldn’t be walking on it at all.” 

“Let me just get on the phone and call for help, then,” she snapped. “Get an ambulance here to pick me up.” She grit her teeth as he snapped a stick to make a makeshift splint. “I can’t believe I haven’t thought of that already.” 

Clint sighed, began wrapping her ankle as tight as possible with the ace bandage. “I know we don’t have a choice. I’m just repeating what the SHIELD docs have told me a million times.” 

Natasha felt herself deflate as Clint passed her a Tylenol pill of her own. She swallowed it along with a few greedy mouthfuls of water. She was so, so thirsty. “It’s not numb,” she added, “it just… it hurts.” 

“I know,” Clint said, leaning heavily against her side with his good shoulder. She didn’t like admitting her pain or weakness, couldn’t bear the idea of the others seeing her as less. Someone who couldn’t hold their own as part of the team. 

She knew Clint would understand that. He was in the same boat. She let her eyes wander to the other boys. Steve wasn’t doing so hot himself, taking care to keep weight off of a badly bruised knee, holding his sides against likely broken ribs. Though the cuts and scrapes healed quickly, the evidence of his injuries was clear amongst the rags of his suit, the dirt and blood caked to the material. Bucky was shaking his metal arm out, over and over, glaring at the flaking metal as it peeled back to reveal wires and intricate parts inside. 

And 358 was still down, eyes fluttering, occasionally jerking in his sleep. His arm was limp at his side, his body battered and bruised. He said he healed quickly, but it didn’t seem he was as fast as the super soldiers. He still had a stab would in his leg, he still had bruises around his eyes from when she'd broken his nose. 

Part of why he was incapacitated was her fault. 

Clint, using that psychic ability he’d acquired over years of being her person, sighed. “That’s not your fault,” he said, pointing to the man. 

“I stabbed him,” she reminded him. 

“You were protecting your team. Nobody holds that against you. Besides,” Clint shrugged, and Natasha tried to ignore the pang of fear that nearly cut her open at the sight of his wince. “It’s not like he’s never stabbed any of us.” 

“I stabbed him, and then he saved my life,” she went on. Her hand wandered to her abdomen: the wound from that Poisoner-thing was hardly a scratch, something she’d barely noticed in the moment. It was already scabbed over. "He said he liked me."

“Yeah, he’s crazy,” Clint snorted. “You didn’t do that. They did that.” 

Natasha didn’t reply. Because what did it say about her, that the man who expected the worst, who respected bloodshed and seemed to view "bonding" and "violence" in the same light, liked her the best? What did it say that he seemed to appreciate her brutality more than Clint's patience? 

She didn't want to analyze it, to compare herself to any of the monsters he'd been raised with. But how was she supposed to think anything else? 

And why couldn't she decide whether or not it felt bad?

Because Natasha knew that she would make the same choices, again and again. It's who she was. She was strong. She protected her people. But she didn't think that 358 admired her for her protective instincts. 

“You know, Natasha, I was about to throw myself onto him if I didn’t have Bucky there to stop me,” Steve said, watching her carefully. “You reacted normally. He’s… there’s something wrong, there. It’s normal that it sets you on edge. And it's normal that you still don't trust him. I don’t either.” 

“I—” she immediately went to correct him, tell him that she did trust 358, but she couldn’t get the words out. Because they would be a lie. She did not trust 358, not even a little bit. She couldn’t, not when she couldn’t understand him. Nothing about the mercenary made sense: his allegiance to Bucky while still growling and barking at him every second, his assertion that he liked or didn’t like certain members of the team while treating them all more or less the same. His moods didn’t make sense, his ability didn’t make sense. 

The only thing that she understood about him was that he was desperate. It practically dripped off every word, every action rang with it. And while that was relatable to Natasha: something to grasp onto, something to understand, something that might, one day, serve as the basis for a very rich and real understanding of one another. She could not trust someone who was so desperate. 

She knew very well the kinds of things desperate people could do. 

“You don’t trust him?” She asked instead, turning to Steve. “You two seem awfully close for that.” 

Steve shrugged, stretching one of the tears in his suit wider so he could get a better look at the bruising around his knee. “I believe in him—or, I want to. And I do want to help him, get him free.” His eyes drifted over, watching as Bucky shoved the mercenary’s dislocated arm back into its socket. 358 didn’t stir. “But I don’t trust him. I know that Bucky trusts him, and that has to be good enough for me.” 

Ah, camaraderie. That kind of bromance could very well be the death of them all.

“And you trust Bucky’s judgement on this?” She asked. 

Steve stilled, considering. She liked that about Steve. He was very careful about the things he said. It wasn’t always true, it wasn’t always kind. But he always said exactly what he wanted to say, didn’t blurt things out mindlessly. “I think that he needs this to heal.” Steve straightened his leg, watched the joint move. “And I want him to heal. And I want him,” he jerked his head, clearly referring to the mercenary, “to get better too. I think they’ll help each other out, as soon as they can get a full picture.” 

Natasha nodded. She watched Bucky fret over the man and wrapped an arm over Clint’s shoulder, holding him close. She wasn’t sure she believed it, wasn’t sure either of them believed it either. But she knew the power having someone could have. Someone who knows you. Someone you can trust, even when everything else seems scary and unreal and you’re completely out of your depth. 

She wanted that for Bucky. She knew Steve was close, but it wasn’t the same. 

Because Steve could never understand what Bucky was grappling with, the things he’d done. 

She didn’t know if the mercenary could (Tony, apparently, but she wasn’t sure if that was really his name or just another kill-word based on the reaction it elicited), but she acknowledged he was most likely to get close to understanding what Bucky had been through. 

She sighed. They would heal each other or destroy each other. She hoped it was the former: Bucky was a good member of the team. 

And despite everything, despite the fact that she was sure she would never let her guard down around him, Tony had potential. The potential to grow, to heal. To be someone different. 

She never thought that she would become a hero, either. Yet there she was. Saving someone who she thought didn’t really deserve saving. 

She took the chocolate and jerky when Clint handed it to her, chugged half a liter of water. 

“We need a plan,” she said finally, delighting in the way her belly felt almost-full. Maybe it was all river water, and they’d all be on the ground with some mutant parasite within the hour, but it didn’t feel like it then. It felt nice. 

“Well, we finished two more water bottles, so we should try to find that river again,” Clint said. 

“And after that?” Natasha pushed. 

“After that… I don’t know. We don’t really have much to go off of,” Clint shrugged. 

“I think all we can do is keep moving,” Bucky said, though he didn’t seem happy about it. 

Natasha wasn’t happy about it, either, though she knew he was right.

She absently began to take stock of her weapons: She still had two guns, though one was limited on ammunition. She had all four knives still intact, and her widow's bite still worked. All in all, she was doing alright. 

Clint, on the other hand… she knew he was trying to salvage what he could, but he was down to eight arrows. He still had two guns, but she knew he’d be pouting about the loss of his favorite weapon soon enough. 

Steve was just as unarmed as ever, and Bucky had run through a lot of the bullets in his rifle. 

And then… there was Tony. 

“Where’d his gun go?” She asked, jerking her chin in the direction of the downed mercenary. “And… he’s missing one of his knives, the one that was on his belt.”  

The agent was clearly not used to conserving his supplies for long-haul missions. He was down to two knives and a taser. That was practically nothing out here. 

“I think he threw his knives,” Steve said. 

“And the gun ran out of ammo last night,” Bucky supplied. “He can have one of mine, when he wakes up.” 

Natasha did not like the idea of anyone else losing any more of their supply. “There’s still an extra in your pack, idiot. Give him that one. Tell him to be more careful going forward.” 

Steve smiled as if she had done a great kindness. She was just thinking about how they fought back to back the day before: she needed someone strong on their side, not an idiot throwing fists around with hell’s latest creations.

“Alright, then,” Bucky said, crouching down to take 358 up into his arms again. His metal arm spasmed, and Natasha glared at him accusingly. But Bucky just shrugged, as if she were only noticing a minor inconvenience and not a really major issue. “Let’s get to the river, then.” 

“I wish water wasn’t a human necessity for survival,” Clint groaned, standing. He offered Natasha a hand, she took it. She tentatively took a step on her bad leg, and hissed audibly at the pain. But it held her weight. That was something. 

2009

Tony

358’s face was slammed against the dirt, and he had to fight his body’s instinct to inhale. He didn’t want a lungful of dirt, it would take ages to cough it all up. Instead, he shoved his elbow up as quickly and aggressively as possible, catching some squishy part of his assailant's body. He followed the momentum, rolling onto his back, blinking dirt out of his eyes so he could take in his opponent. 

Getting caught off guard was not part of his plan for this encounter, but it was fine. He could save this. He rolled onto his knees, sparing only a moment to glance at The Winter Soldier, who was leaning against a tree, watching them intently.

They’d discovered recently that while The Order could not force the Winter Soldier to answer to them, and thus they largely ignored his presence, they could absolutely force the truth out of 358. And if they asked him if he completed the mission independently, he wanted to be able to say yes. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a little irritated at his companion’s inaction when a thick boot slammed into his side. 

358 grasped his target’s ankle, but the man shook him off easily. He was huge. Massive, really. And strong. It was a wonder he’d managed to hide from them and sneak at all. 

He pushed himself onto his feet, tightened his grip on his gun. He managed to fire once before the gun was wrenched from his grip. The bullet hit his target’s shoulder, but 358 was thrown back on the ground. 

He saw Bucky take a step forward, but 358 stopped him with a growl. “Don’t,” he snapped. “I’ll be fine.” 

The target was already lugging its massive form back toward him, now carrying his stolen weapon, and 358 didn’t have time to move away. He slid one of the knives from his belt, flicking it forward with practiced ease. 

It lodged into the target's throat, sending him to the ground. 358 stood, brushing dirt off of his clothes. 

“Wonder what he did to deserve that,” 358 mumbled. He retrieved his knife and tried to ignore the sounds of his target as he died. He wiped the blood off on his pant leg. 

“I…” Bucky stopped short, before kneeling down by the body. He pat it down, searching, before sitting back on his heels, apparently satisfied. “I’m sorry.” 

358 furrowed his brow. “What do you have to be sorry about? You’re doing what you have to do to survive. Same as the rest of us.” 

“I told them I wanted to evaluate you alone, out in the world. I didn’t think they’d actually—”

358 shut him up with a look, eyes hard. “You did what you had to do to survive," he repeated, leaving no room for argument. "You are an instructor, a heartless assassin here to make us heartless assassins. Acting in any other way would get you killed.” 

“I’m supposed to be better,” Bucky said quietly. 

“Aren’t we all?” 358 mused with a grin. “But these are the cards we’ve been dealt." 

“We could change it,” Bucky said, surging to his feet. 358 fought the urge to stumble away from the quickly approaching form, allowing his friend to wrap his hands around 358’s shoulders. He leaned in close, laying his forehead against 358’s. He was taller than the mercenary, had to lean down to manage it. Normally it would feel threatening, but 358 just felt safe. Protected. 

Cared for. 

“We can’t change anything,” he muttered, even as his hands instinctively reached to hold onto Bucky’s forearms, a desperate knee-jerk reaction to keep the man from pulling away.

“I’ve been thinking,” Bucky said, taking a deep breath. “I think we could get out. You and me. Together.” 

“Oh yeah?” 358 smiled, amusement lacing his tone. It was utterly ridiculous, the desperate pleas of a desperate man. There was no getting out. If there was, they would have both managed it on their own years ago. 

Bucky was not the magical key he needed to escape his fate. Bucky was just as much a prisoner as he was: a prisoner of HYDRA, a prisoner of the Winter Soldier. 

Still, he allowed Bucky to pull him into a tight hug, let the warmth of the gesture permeate his hard outer shell. It was just nice. 358 rarely knew what “nice” was, he couldn’t afford to chase it away so quickly. 

His chin resting atop 358’s head, Bucky began to speak again. “I think we can do it. I have all the skills HYDRA wanted me to learn, but I’m finally in control of my mind again. You are powerful, 358, we both know it. I’ve seen it first hand. You can control this facility, change it instantly in whatever way suits you.” 

“They will stop me from changing it in a way they don’t command,” 358 murmured. “Don’t you think I’ve thought of doing it a million times before? I can’t even move my room, let alone create a pathway out. I’m forbidden.” 

“But I could give an order,” Bucky pleaded. “I can break through, get rid of all the other voices fighting for real estate in your head.” 

358 sighed. In theory, yes. It was possible. Bucky had managed to get him past hard lines before, his finding his name was proof of that. But Bucky was still on the periphery of an entity that 358 had grown to know intimately through the course of a lifetime. 

The Order was a being of many threats and talents. The Order was always one step ahead of any person or organization who wanted to come after it. 

The Order had 358 safely trapped between its thumb and an endless abyss of pain and suffering. 

Still, 358 was warm. Bucky’s hands felt solid against his frame. “Okay,” he said, lying through his teeth, “maybe you’re right. Say you command me to help you escape, with any means necessary. When will we do it? How will we get away when we hit the forest?” 

Even though 358 couldn’t see it, he knew Bucky was smiling. 

Bucky was so young, despite it all. He was a man with the past of a weapon, all the determination of someone with something to lose, and the hope of someone with something to gain. 

358 only hoped nothing would ever rip that away from him. 

As Bucky began to lay the groundwork of a plan, 358 nodded and hummed as needed, provided input whenever it was wanted. But really, the words washed over him. He just let his head rest against Bucky’s chest, listened to the sound of his heart. He was so, so warm. 

Bucky wanted to save him. 

358 did not believe he could be saved. 

Bucky’s plan, his silly, ridiculous plan, was going to get himself killed. Probably get both of them killed, because 358 would not allow them to take Bucky away from him without a fight. He was too precious. Too special. 

The only person he had ever cared about. The only person who cared about him. 

358 wanted. 

Would it really be worth it, to risk the fragile peace they had carved out for themselves for a pipe dream with no chance of ever coming true?

But 358 knew that their time was limited. He would not have Bucky forever. Eventually, his tenure as instructor would end, and HYDRA would reclaim him. 

Then 358 would lose him forever.

Maybe dying in a vain attempt to save the man was better than living long enough to lose him. Or worse, to watch as they ripped the man away and replaced him with the Winter Soldier. 

Suddenly, escape seemed a very, very good idea. 

Maybe he could get Bucky out. Maybe Bucky could carry his memory, and 358 would finally exist outside the facility within another person’s mind. 

But he didn’t want MOTO4 to get out, or Subject 358. He wanted his person to see the outside. To see daylight. 

“Bucky, I think we should do it,” 358 said, looking up. “When the time is right, you can ask for a training program outside. If that doesn’t come up, we’ll try our luck from inside.” 

“I heard a guard talking,” Bucky admitted. “My time is almost up. It has to be soon.” 

“Okay, that’s fine.” 358’s mind was reeling now, an attempt inside was much less likely to work. He began throwing aside dumb ideas and grasping at almost-sane ones, trying to find something that might result in Bucky's survival. “My next exam is in two weeks, you'll be the proctor for one. That will be our opportunity.” 

Bucky nodded, squeezed 358’s middle. “We should probably head back, now,” he said, though he sounded like he didn’t want it. “The longer we’re away, the more questions they’ll ask you upon our return.” His voice was soothing, trapped between the over-formal grumbling of his alter-ego, and the casual drawl of a poor boy from the city. 358 loved it. He could listen to it for the rest of his life.

358 knew he was right, but still he didn’t move. “I need to tell you something first.” The word was burning a hole in his tongue, anxiety was making him sick. He had to expel this curse, had to share it with someone else. 

What an incredible thing, to share a secret with someone. To hold someone in confidence.

“Anything,” Bucky said, and the sincerity was almost enough to make 358 vomit all over him. 

358 pulled himself up Bucky's body, urging the man to lean in close. He pressed his lips close to the man's ear, swallowing back all the fear and trepidation. He was sharing a secret. Before Bucky, the idea of having a secret had seemed utterly ridiculous. But it was different now. Bucky changed everything, changed what was possible. “My name,” he murmured. It hurt, but he relished the burn. “My name is Tony.” 

He could have given it all, could have spewed the full thing. But she had called him Tony, voice filled with love and care and joy. Tony meant something more than words on a page. He wanted it. He wanted to be that. 

Bucky nodded as 358 settled back on his feet, eyes crinkling around the corners to indicate a smile hidden below his mask. “Tony,” he said, as if testing it out. “It suits you.” 

358 grinned, allowing his mind a moment to drift to other worlds, where that phrase could be loaded with possibility and promise and admiration. But he came crashing back down soon enough.

“I need you to keep it safe,” he pleaded, gloved hands holding fast to Bucky’s clothes. “They will take it from me again, I never know when my next reprogramming is. You need to hold onto it for me.” 

Bucky nodded, took Tony’s chin in his hand. “I will protect it,” he said softly. “I’ll hold it close to the chest, right next to my heart. I promise you. I will not let it go.” 

But Tony understood the meaning deep within. 

You are close to my heart. I will not let you go. 

Tony buried his face in the side of Bucky’s neck and pretended he wasn’t shaking. He was so afraid. 

When had he last had something to fear losing? 

He loved him. Tony barely knew the meaning of the word, but he knew that must be the feeling that was raging like an inferno in his body. It didn’t have to be romantic, or familial, or friendly. It was just an all-encompassing feeling, a need, a warmth, a terror, all rolled into one. 

Tony loved him. 

He loved. 

2016

Clint

Clint didn’t mourn the loss of his hearing, nor did he wish for a life where he didn’t require mechanical help to complete the action. Quite the opposite, really. The hearing aids meant he was able to complete his job effectively, and communicate with those who couldn’t use sign language. 

It was a benefit in a lot of ways. Like when Fury went on a long, boring ramble during a debrief, or Coulson felt the need to berate him for a little-too-long for taking an unnecessary risk. He could just flip off his aids, or turn the volume down. And then, boom. Peace and quiet. 

And with their fun little romp in the woods, Clint was discovering all new benefits! Like, when they’d been walking for miles, and suddenly a hauntingly beautiful voice started singing, leading his friends astray, Clint caught on quickly enough to turn his hearing off. There, peace and quiet, he had no overwhelming urge to stumble away on his own. 

Unfortunately, that didn’t help his team. He barely managed to wrench the unconscious mercenary from Bucky’s arms before he was bolting off into the woods. 

“Shit,” Clint muttered, though he knew nobody was listening. “Shit, shit, shit!” 

He wanted to chase after Natasha and drag her back, plug up her ears so she might see sense, but he couldn’t. His eyes fell to the mercenary, now sprawled unceremoniously on the ground. It had been hours, and nothing they had done to the man managed to wake him up. No shaking, no shouting, no sticking fingers up his nose (Natasha had hit him really hard for that one). He just… was limp. Helpless. 

Clint couldn’t just abandon him, not when he knew for a fact that they were under attack. That was probably the enemy's goal, actually. Draw them all away so the man was easy pickings. 

And now Clint was on his own, stuck defending him when he really wanted to get his backup back on his side. 

Clint trusted his team, knew they could handle themselves under any normal circumstances. Except these weren’t normal circumstances at all, and for all he knew they all had their heads chopped off by now while they were high on music. 

Clint knelt down beside the still figure on the ground, trying to get as close as possible without crushing the dude’s fingers. He’d been through enough already, didn’t need to add a crushed pinky to that list. He pulled his bow off his back, already readying an arrow. 

He was running low on those. That could become a problem.

He really needed to make sure every shot going forward was a good one. 

Without his ears to rely on, Clint was forced to keep his head on a constant swivel, dissecting the scene before him as quickly as possible so he could move on and look for something else. 

He really, really hated this. Hated being on his own, hated knowing that there was probably something just over his shoulder that he didn’t perceive. 

Clint did his best to keep a happy, upbeat exterior for the trip. Bucky was sulking enough for all of them, Steve was getting sadder every hour, and Natasha was so edgy he thought he might cut himself on her aura. And the new guy… well. He was unsettling. And it wasn't really his fault, and Clint empathized with the whole mind-control situation, but it didn't change the fact that something about him set everyone's teeth on edge. He wanted to help the guy, appreciated him saving all of their asses a couple times. But... Clint really wanted to know what the SHIELD shrinks would say about him. They’d probably be grateful for Clint’s run-of-the-mill crazy after that. 

But having all of their dark moods was what made happy and upbeat possible. He needed someone to worry about danger so he could worry about keeping everyone together and a little bit hopeful. But without them to reflect off of, he just felt all that terror and doubt creeping in like a disease, quickly blotting out any dreams of seeing the outside world again. 

He felt a prickle on the back of his neck and swung a complete 180, almost tripping over the mercenary’s arm. That would probably bruise. He didn’t think the guy would notice, though, with how many other bruises he was dealing with. 

Steve was trampling the underbrush in a quick retreat to the center where Clint was waiting. He was saying something, but of course Clint couldn’t hear. He didn’t turn his hearing aids back on, either. He wouldn’t do that until Natasha gave him the all clear. 

Steve was a great guy, really. He trusted him, loved their fearless leader. But he trusted Natasha with his life a little more. 

“Come closer,” Clint said, squinting. “I can’t hear you.” 

Steve frowned, but followed the order, stepping over roots and things until he was only a few feet away. Clint focused on his mouth as he spoke, trying to read his lips. Steve still hadn’t learned sign language—he was working on it, Clint knew that, but he was a busy dude with a lot to learn. Still, he enjoyed their practice sessions. 

By focusing on Steve’s mouth, Clint realized something he probably wasn’t supposed to. 

Steve had suddenly developed a set of pointy pearly-whites. 

Clint had his bow up and arrow released faster than the thing with Steve’s face could comprehend. The arrow hit its mark, just barely—Clint’s arm had sagged at the last second, a deadly mistake he couldn’t afford. The arrow burrowed deep into Steve’s middle, sticking out almost comically. 

Clint expected the body to go down, expected the chance to make another shot. What he hadn’t expected was the creature snapping the arrow’s shaft so it was no longer protruding out of him. He charged forward with a clearly stolen shield.

Clint was on his feet in a second, throwing his bow to the ground with a frustrated grimace and reaching for his gun. He didn't want anymore dangerous limb malfunctions screwing him up.

He dropped low to the ground as the shield flew over him—a second later and it would have cut him in half. This was no training exercise with Cap, nobody was pulling punches. This was the full weight of a super soldier poised to kill. 

He had no clue where anyone else was, but he still felt a warning was in order. With his arm raised to shoot, he called out “look at their teeth!” He had no clue if his voice carried, but he certainly hoped so. Natasha would be royally pissed if she thought Clint was trying to attack her right now. 

Clint ducked under a raised fist, swinging to kick Steve’s (sneered with the utmost sarcasm in his mind) middle. He wracked his brain, trying to remember Steve’s weak points. If the thing was a perfect recreation, who apparently knew how to wield the shield, maybe he had Steve’s faults, too. 

And Clint was, of course, right. Steve always forgot to protect his center, relied too much on brute force. Clint took advantage of this, pushing in and delivering a shot to Steve’s abdomen, right next to the arrow shaft still stuck in there. 

Steve’s knee rocketed up, catching Clint’s gut and throwing him winded to the ground. Clint tried to get back to his feet, but a foot to the side of his head easily launched him back in the dirt. 

He really, really hoped that hadn’t managed to damage his hearing aid for real. 

Clint rolled despite the spinning in his head, swallowed back the bile rising in his throat. Throwing up would suck when there was so little food to go around. He shoved himself unsteadily to his feet. 

Okay, yep, he definitely had a head injury. Still, he raised his gun and shot off a few more rounds. Only one managed to meet its target before the shield was up. 

Clint tried to make a plan. He was no match for Captain America on a good day, and he was not having a good day. He was hungry, dehydrated, one of his arms barely worked anymore. He didn’t want to admit it aloud to anyone, not even Natasha. But his shoulder was in bad shape. Something was really, really wrong with it. 

And now his head was spinning. 

Clint ducked another punch, barely resisting falling on his knees. He kicked out at the knee the real Steve had been treating earlier, pleased to see the creature had taken on the injury himself. The Steve lookalike went down, and Clint raised his gun and fired off two more shots. One hit the dude’s head, the other his shoulder. 

Somehow, he still stood back up. 

He was looking more like a zombie than Steve at that point, reeling to one side and bleeding all over the ground. He grinned with red-stained teeth, and said something that looked a lot like “I could do this all day” and Clint nearly gagged at the implication. 

This thing knew them. Knew Steve. 

Right as the super-creature was reeling an arm back for another punch, a figure burst from the woods, taking it to the ground. The two rolled around, thrashing and punching and head-butting. The shield was thrown off to the side. 

Clint had hoped their injuries would help tell them apart, but they were both covered in a concerning amount of blood, and unfortunately, Clint's vision was a bit blurrier than normal due to the boot-to-the-head incident.

One Steve (hopefully the real one) was on top of the other, throwing his fists as if he barely noticed his opponent was wearing his face. 

Clint raised his gun, but couldn't pull the trigger. He couldn’t tell, with all the movement, who was the real Steve. 

It was like a scene in a really shitty movie, except somehow it had managed to become his actual life. Nobody told him, when he'd been asked to Avenge, that he'd become an action-movie protagonist.

But then: there. On the top-Steve’s back. A little protrusion, a bit of metal sticking out. An arrowhead. 

Without hesitation, Clint fired three shots directly into the back of the blonde head. 

With any luck, he’d seen correctly.

He ran over when he noticed that neither figure was moving. Clint knew he hadn’t missed, he never missed. 

He found a really nasty body riddled with holes still somehow slumped upright, and pulled it off someone he really fucking hoped was his friend. 

Steve looked up at him, eyes wide, face coated with gore and blood. Huh. Maybe painting the guy in his look-alike’s brain wasn’t the best idea. That was definitely something that would traumatize someone. Steve gasped for breath, pointed to his ear. Mouthed “something something song gone something something”. Some blood got into his mouth, coating his noticeably normal-looking teeth. Oh yeah, Steve was definitely going to be traumatized.

Still, Clint understood the cue and moved to turn his hearing aids back on. It didn't seem worth it to wait for Natasha, not after that ordeal.

He risked a glance behind him—358, or Tony, or whatever they fuck they were supposed to call him now—was still motionless on the ground. He squinted: still breathing too! A win! 

Clint thought he should apply to be a bodyguard. He’d make a killing. 

“Are you okay?” Steve asked, and Clint noticed that the sound was slightly dampened in his left ear. Boo. That was going to be inconvenient. 

“Fucker got me,” he said, pointing to his head. “Might throw up. But other than that, I’m fine.” He stalked back to the body of the mercenary, picked up his bow and slung it over his back. He loved his bow, missed its reliable presence in his life. Even if he was too useless to actually use it, he wanted to keep it close. 

“It… it looked just like me,” Steve shivered. Clint shook his head, leaned down by the corpse. He lifted the lip, careful not to get too much of the blood on his hand. 

“Weird teeth,” he said, pointing out the obvious. 

“That’s why you yelled “teeth” across the woods,” Steve sighed. 

“I’m glad you got the message,” Clint huffed, sitting back on his heels. “I would have gone looking for you guys, but I didn’t wanna leave him alone—didn’t want to let Bucky take him either. God knows what he would have done to him while he was off in la la land.” Clint shivered. Bucky wouldn’t handle the guilt well at all. That would probably be enough to make the guy crack for good. 

“You did good,” Steve said, catching his breath. With a grimace, he started trying to flick some of the gore off his face. “Am I the first one back?”

“Yeah,” Clint said, shrugging. “Wanna go look for the others?” 

But before they could make any plan to do so, Natasha and Bucky stumbled back into the clearing, arms linked together like children on a playground. 

“Show me your teeth,” Natasha snarled, gun raised at the two of them. 

Clint grinned, taking no offense. Steve kicked the body on the ground, displaying his perfectly normal grin. “Mine’s down already,” he said. 

“There was another one,” Natasha said. 

“How many me’s are out here?” Steve groaned. He moved to run a hand through his hair, spotted the blood on his glove, and dropped it back down to his side with a disgusted frown. 

“They couldn’t resist a chance to rep America’s ass,” Clint snickered. 

“You had one too,” Bucky said, eyeing Clint. "I only knew it wasn’t you when it went to throw something at me with your bad arm.” 

Clint flinched. “It’s not that bad,” he defended. 

“The thing didn’t even wince," Bucky went on, "it had the same injury—I’m guessing that one did too. But it acted like it couldn’t even feel it.” 

“A perfect copy without all those pesky nerve endings that keep us in check,” Natasha finished. “We’ll need to come up with a fast way to tell each other apart, just in case we run into more of them.” 

“I think they know things about us,” Clint said. “That one said one of Steve’s catchphrases.” He dropped his voice low and raised his hands for finger quotes. “I can do this all day.” 

“We can ask more about it when he wakes up,” Natasha said, prodding the body of the agent on the ground. The man was still sprawled across the dirt, still asleep. “He’ll know the specifics, I bet.” 

Bucky kneeled by Tony’s head, eyes sad. “I almost brought him to them,” he murmured. “That song…” 

“Quite literally a siren’s song,” Natasha cut in. “We all broke out of it soon enough.” She seemed bugged, though. Clint would have to ask her what it sounded like, how it lured its victims. Something told him it was personal.

Clint sighed, scratched the back of his neck. He was getting antsy dwelling so long at the sight of another attack. “Should we start moving again?” He asked, eyeing the rest of the group.

Just then, Tony made a sound. A low, guttural groan. It almost sounded like a cry. 

Like grief. 

It was very nearly heart-wrenching. Clint shivered. Bucky was already on the mercenary, patting his cheek and leaning over his head, whispering something soothing. “You can wake up,” he murmured. “Come on, wake up. Wake up.” 

Tony's hand twitched. 

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Of course he sleeps through all the action, but comes back when the enemies are taken care of. Typical man.” But she was watching him intently. Clint noticed her hand twitch for her gun—she was anticipating an attack, then. 

Suddenly, the mercenary’s eyes burst open, gasping sharp, heaving gulps of air which had everyone on high alert, instinctively searching for a threat. 

All except Bucky, who just took his hand and held it against his chest, as if encouraging the man to feel his heart. As if this was a normal night terror or panic attack one had to be soothed out of. 

The mercenary’s wide eyes locked on Bucky’s. Still gasping, he sputtered, “Tony.” He wrapped his other hand around Bucky’s, squeezing as if his life depended on it. “My name is Tony.” 

Chapter Text

2016

Bucky

Bucky helped Tony sit up (because now that he knew the name, he was not going to revert back to a fucking callsign), and tried to ignore the way he still shook like a leaf. It was clear Tony wasn’t ready to move yet, but Bucky was horribly aware of the ticking clock hanging over their heads. Still, he looked to the others, doing his best to convey their need for a break with eye contact alone. 

“So,” he said, letting Tony rest against his side while he caught his breath, “you all heard the singing too, right?” 

It had all happened so fast, and it was sort of a haze. One minute they’d been walking along, his mind swirling with worry for their unconscious companion, and the next he’d been trudging like a zombie through the forest toward… something. It had felt very, very important. 

“Yes,” Natasha confirmed, “I think all of us heard it except for Clint.” 

“Sirens,” Tony mumbled, as if the word required all of his strength, “it was probably sirens. They’re awful. Really tricky. You gotta kill them quick.” 

“Yeah,” Steve sighed. “Gathered that, in the end. They led us into a trap of people who looked like… well.” 

“Probably mimics,” Tony said. “The good ones can imitate your appearance and ability if they get a taste of your blood. They probably took some from the facility after we fled.” 

“Do they know everything we know?” Natasha asked. 

“Only surface level things, big stuff. They don’t get all of your secrets or anything.” Tony let his head loll back, resting against Bucky’s shoulder. “And only up to the point where they tasted your blood. They wouldn't have experiences that came after the facility.” 

“And their teeth?” Steve asked. 

“That’s their tell, unless someone bothers to get them a fake set to wear. Perfect recreation, down to your scars and injuries and fighting techniques, except they keep their teeth.” Tony sighed. "How did you get away from the sirens? Combo of siren-song and trusted comrade is usually a guaranteed death.” 

“And why is that?” Clint asked. 

“Because the song is about something you want to believe. Adding in someone you know and love makes the illusion feel grounded. Harder to break out of.” Tony’s eyes were heavy, as if he were on the verge of sliding back into unconsciousness. Bucky felt awful doing it, but he jostled the man to keep him awake. They couldn’t afford to lose him again. 

“It wasn’t right,” Steve said, eyes a little distant. “Too soft. Clean.” He glanced at Bucky. “It wasn’t realistic.” 

“Most people don’t care about realism,” Tony said. The words were slurred. Bucky wondered if he was still dealing with the effects of his fall. “You’ve got a strong will, very grounded. Good.” He smiled. “Maybe you’ll survive.” 

Bucky let his mind wander back to what he’d heard: a song of togetherness, of wellness. Lyrics that spoke of love and safety for everyone he cared about. 

It was a dream come true.

But completely out of touch with his current reality. 

And the mimic…

It had been Tony. And he had been smiling, but not the sharp, sardonic one he’d grown used to. It was filled with warmth and comfort, with the undercurrent of something more underneath. Something deep. 

And he’d asked Bucky to hold him. To keep him safe. 

He’d nearly fallen for it, nearly let the mimic take him. But the song was just a little sour, Tony just a little too soft. And then he’d seen the teeth, and the blue-grey figure hovering in the corner of his eye. 

He’d maybe used more force than was absolutely necessary when dispatching the enemies. But the trick… it hurt. He wanted it so, so badly. He was angry they'd done that to him: given him something that felt so unexplainably precious, only to laugh as it was ripped away. 

He wondered if it was the same for the rest of the team. He assumed it was, if the way Steve kept glancing his way was any indication. He wondered how Steve had seen him: was he whole and strong? Was he funny like he used to be, or just comfortable in his own skin?

What did Steve’s ideal version of Bucky look like? How far from that image was he? 

Natasha rolled her eyes, but Bucky caught how close she was standing to Clint. She'd had a Clint and a Steve lookalike to take down. Now she was tense, her walls were high. 

She was embarrassed about how long it had taken her to see through the trick. He knew that, he’d been the one to find her. He’d killed the siren that was keeping her trapped, right before it had managed to wrap a hand around her neck. She hadn’t spoken to him the entire time it took them to get back to the clearing they’d been drawn away from. 

It made sense to Bucky that Steve had broken away first: he was so accepting of the way things were, so willing to see the present and fight to make it better the long way, the hard way. He would not be as susceptible to an easy fix as those of the group more prone to pain. 

Natasha, clearly eager to change the subject, kicked at Tony’s foot. “So, Tony?” she asked, crossing her arms, “is that what we’re supposed to call you now?” 

Tony lifted his head, and Bucky had to fight the urge to draw him back in. He was so delicate, so vulnerable. Bucky wanted to wrap his arms around the man and whisper reassurances, to keep him close and safe from all the horrors that lurked in the forest.

But just because Bucky wanted that (and he couldn’t even articulate why that seemed such an appealing idea) didn’t mean it was what Tony would respond to. Just because he hadn't shoved Bucky away yet didn't mean he'd suddenly stopped hating him. He had to let Tony figure things out on his own. 

“Yeah,” Tony said, the word a little fuzzy around the edges. “I think I’d like that.” 

Clint clapped a hand on Tony’s shoulder, face twisting when Tony flinched. He’d hit the one Bucky had just reset. “Sorry, man,” he said. “But Tony is cool. Rolls off the tongue much easier.” 

Steve was already moving to stand. “Are we ready to get moving again?” 

Tony nodded, falling forward to his knees before gingerly pushing himself to his feet, Bucky standing by as support in case he collapsed again. “I feel like I was hit with a bus,” he hissed. 

“Close!” Clint laughed. “You were dropped from the sky!” 

Tony moved to stand up straight, wincing all the while. He was moving slowly, as if each twitch was very, very painful. “I don’t remember it that well,” he mumbled. He glanced at Bucky. “How long was I out?” 

Bucky shrugged, trying to estimate the hours that had passed. While in the woods, he had stopped measuring minutes and hours and started to see things in segments of day or night. Time was slowly losing all meaning as his only goal continued to be 'move forward, get out.' 

Finally, he settled on the answer “about a day, probably a bit less.” 

Tony stumbled at the reply, opening his mouth to protest it, but Clint spoke before he could get the words out. 

“Yeah, Bucky had to carry you,” he laughed. 

Tony glared daggers at Bucky as if any of this was somehow his fault. 

Steve, eager to salvage the situation, chimed in “nobody is holding it against you, Tony. You were dropped from the sky.” 

Tony took a deep breath and didn’t utter a word. He just straightened his shoulders, wincing all the while, and began to walk. 

“You’re uh,” Clint coughed. “You’re backtracking there, bud.” 

Tony snarled, turned on his heel, and stalked forward. 

The group followed, Bucky shoving Clint as they walked. 

“What did I do?” Clint whined. 

“You know what you did,” Bucky snapped. 

“What did we say about infighting?” Steve asked, pushing himself between them as if there were an actual risk of them duking it out. 

Bucky rolled his eyes while Clint sing-songed “that we shouldn’t do it anymore.” 

Still, he took comfort in Steve’s steady presence at his side. Sometimes, with as crazy as everything had been, knowing his best friend was there was the only thing that kept him sane. 

Even as exhaustion began nipping at his heels, reminding him that they hadn’t stopped to rest the previous night, he had Steve. Steve, who held his head high as if he didn’t notice how long they’d been going. Steve, who hadn’t once doubted Bucky’s conviction that helping Tony was the right choice. 

Steve, who totally, definitely cared about who he was now and wasn't just clinging to the past. 

Right? 

Right. 100% 

“What was the siren thing like for you?” He heard himself ask. Rats. He really thought he’d make it longer before he crumbled. 

Steve gave him a long, disappointed look, like he’d also expected Bucky to hold out better. Still, he answered. “It felt like before,” he said softly. “Before the serum, before we fought in the war. When I was just a kid in Brooklyn and you were just… Bucky.” 

Bucky felt a churning in his gut, but Steve continued before he could spiral out too hard. “But it didn’t last. I think…” he clenched his jaw, readjusted the backpack on his shoulders. “Sometimes, there’s a very small, tiny part of me that wants that. Wants things the way they were. Simple. Easy.” He ran a hand across his face as if just saying the words were coating him in a physical presence that he needed to shake off. That, or he was still trying to flick the last traces of the mimic's blood away. “But that’s not what I actually want, Bucky.” 

“It’s okay if it is,” Bucky said, though the lie tasted bitter. 

“It is okay,” Steve agreed. “But it’s not real. It’s a fantasy. Listen—” he put a hand on Bucky’s chest, forced him to meet his eyes while the others continued forward. “Our lives, the way things are now, it’s not easy. It’s not perfect. But it’s real, and it matters to me. You, as you are now, matter to me. I don’t lie awake at night wishing you were the same person you were when we were kids. You are my friend, just as you were then. We’re both different now, but the things that changed us made us stronger.” 

Bucky ignored the itch in the corner of his eye. It was nothing. Meaningless. 

“You are still the strongest person I know, you always have been. You are still my best friend.” Steve sighed. “I broke through the illusion quickly because I like who we are, Buck. I don’t want to go back, not really.” 

“I—” Bucky cleared his throat. “That means a lot.” 

He was going to be hearing those words every night before he fell asleep for the rest of his life. 

“I wish I’d said it to you sooner,” Steve said, and it seemed like it was genuinely weighing on him. There was a weariness to his frame that Bucky wasn’t used to seeing. Bucky wrapped an arm around Steve’s shoulder and pulled him close as they started to walk again. 

“Something is bothering you,” Bucky murmured, “and I haven’t been very good about being there for you, I know that.” He pushed aside his guilt and shame, now was not the time for it. He had already spent enough time wallowing in his own emotions. Steve was struggling, he was growing more hollow with each passing day. It was so unlike the captain, and Bucky didn’t know how to fix it. Didn’t know if it was possible to fix it. 

But he had to try. 

“Am I really lagging enough that you and Natasha felt the need to give me a pep talk?” Steve said. His voice attempted levity, but it fell flat. 

“No,” Bucky said, “you’re not lagging at all. But you’re tired, and hurting. Probably scared.” Bucky shrugged. “Hell, we’re all scared. It would be weirder not to be scared right now.” 

“I want to help them, Bucky. And I don’t know how to want that while still keeping you all safe.” Steve sighed. “Getting the team out is still my number one priority, you need to know that.” 

“I do know that. I also know that you’re tearing yourself apart with guilt right now, when you have no reason to be doing that. You're doing everything you can. That’s all any of us can ask you to do.” Bucky squeezed him tight. “And if you need someone to hold you up while you’re fighting, I can do that. It’s what I’m here for.” 

“Thanks,” Steve said. He seemed younger, the boy from Brooklyn peeking out through Captain America’s eyes. Bucky wished he could whisk him away from everything. Steve took a deep breath, straightening his back as if reinforcing a stronger facade. “So, what about Tony?” 

“What about Tony?” Bucky asked, pretending he didn’t know. 

“You knew his name,” Steve pointed out.

“Yeah, I must have figured it out sometime when we met,” Bucky said. 

“He didn’t even know his name,” Steve argued. “That implies a little more than meeting.” 

Bucky sighed. He glanced at Tony up ahead, who was walking with his head down for the first time since they’d started this journey. There was a storm brewing in his head, one that Bucky felt just out of reach from. Hearing his name had opened a flood gate that Bucky didn’t have access to. Bucky had disconnected pieces of their history, but Tony had something big. 

“I think he knows something important,” Bucky said. “And he’s not ready to share it with me yet.” 

“And that’s bothering you?” Steve asked. 

“I don’t have any right to be bothered,” Bucky said. Which was a creative way of saying yes, it’s eating me up inside. 

“It’s your story too,” Steve offered. 

“He’ll tell me when he’s ready,” Bucky said. He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince Steve or himself.

“Can I ask—”

“You can ask me anything, Stevie,” Bucky interrupted. 

“What do you remember?” 

Well shit. Bucky couldn’t exactly back out now. “I remember training exercises with him,” Bucky began, choosing his words carefully. Some details just felt so intimate. Some felt like they weren’t his to share at all. “He did something to me that freed me from The Winter Soldier programming,” he added, “which meant I was myself for part of my time there.” 

“But you still don’t remember it?” Steve asked, brow furrowed. 

“I… I mean, you found me as the Winter Soldier,” Bucky frowned. “I ended up back with HYDRA sometime between then and now. They probably…” Bucky shivered, but he knew Steve understood. 

They’d brainwashed him, tortured him. Fucked with his head until there was nothing left but scraps. 

“So you two actually met,” Steve said, “you met him.” 

“Seems like it,” Bucky said. 

“But...” Steve began, but he seemed to bite the words back.

“But what?”

“He… he was afraid of you. Sometimes it seems like he still is. If you knew him…” Steve trailed off. 

“What did I do? I don’t know,” Bucky swallowed an emotion that burned its way through him. “I want to ask him. But I don’t think he wants to tell me.” 

Steve nodded, face stiff. “Whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault.” 

“Steve—”

“I don’t care,” Steve snapped. “It wasn’t your fault.” 

“You don’t know that,” Bucky argued. 

“I know that you were in Hell,” Steve said. “Actual, literal Hell. The worst kind of thing I could possibly imagine. If you had to do some awful things to survive that, then fine. Most of us would have done the same.” 

“You don’t understand,” Bucky pleaded, unsure why. He didn’t want Steve to think he was a monster, didn’t want him to think less of the person he was. But he didn’t want Steve to think he was better, either. 

“I understand that you blame yourself for everything that happened back when you were under HYDRA,” Steve said. “Most of which was out of your control. Someone has to be the voice of reason here. Someone has to make sure you remember who you actually are.” 

Bucky let the words run over him like warm water, let them sink into his pores. He held on tight, wouldn’t let them go. 

Suddenly, a voice from ahead piped up. The sound was creaking and weak, but just loud enough for Bucky to pick it up. “You weren’t awful,” Tony said. Bucky’s head shot up, trained on the back of Tony’s head. The man didn’t look back to see if he was listening, didn’t acknowledge that he’d been eavesdropping at all. “Back then. You weren’t awful.” 

Bucky’s mouth gaped open, but Tony kept speaking. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” he continued. “I… did that. I broke the Winter Soldier mind control thing, and everything that happened afterward was on me.” His head rose up, but he still did not look back. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You have nothing to feel guilty for.” 

Bucky wanted to ask more questions, to push and dig, but the man's spine curved down, as if he'd suddenly lost all his strength. Bucky watched as Clint approached, bumping their shoulders against one another. Tony barely acknowledged him. 

“That’s a change of tune,” Steve muttered, watching Bucky carefully. 

Bucky couldn’t speak. 

He knows something, his mind hissed. Something big. Something important. And he’s keeping it from you. 

He’s lying to you. 

Clint took Tony’s arm up around his shoulder as the man slumped sideways, supporting his weight even as they led the front of the group. 

Bucky forced his mind to quiet. Now was not the time to interrogate or pester Tony, not when he could barely walk. Not when he seemed so small and so tired. Bucky's curiosity, his desperation to connect would have to wait. 

But resolve settled in. He would ask his questions as soon as the time was right. He would learn, before the doubt ate him alive. 

They decided to make camp almost as soon as the sun began to set: they were all running on fumes, and hadn't had a moment of rest since before the bird-things attacked. Rations were passed around: the last of the jerky they had packed, another half an apple each, the crumbled remains of some crackers. Water was making its way around the circle. 

Bucky was grateful for every bite of food they had, he really was. But he also couldn’t ignore the fatigue that plagued him even when he rested, the pangs in his stomach that grew more insistent each day. They weren’t eating nearly enough to keep their bodies running at the level they needed, and those with higher metabolisms were going to start feeling the effects soon. He’d already noticed that Steve was not healing as quickly as he normally would, body reserving its energy to keep moving rather than repair itself. Bucky was feeling each ache and pain more acutely than he was used to. He chewed each bite a little longer than necessary, trying to trick his stomach into thinking it was more than it was. 

“I will never look at crackers the same way again,” Clint sighed. “I used to think they were boring. But now I see the light.” 

“They’re still boring,” Natasha said, peeling off a thin sliver of her apple and layering it between two broken halves of a cracker. 

“They’re perfect,” Clint said. “The best thing ever, really. I could eat nothing but crackers for the rest of my life.” 

“You’re a liar,” Steve said, the smallest grin lighting up his face. 

“Nuh uh,” Clint argued petulantly. “I mean it. I’m 100% serious. It’s a full cracker diet from here on out.” 

Natasha shook her head. “You’ll never eat a donut again? Or a hamburger?” Her eyes widened with faux surprise. “No pizza?” 

“Fine.” Clint shrugged. “Crackers and pizza.” 

“Thought so,” Steve smiled. 

“Hey, not my fault I forgot to mention it. I don’t even see pizza as an option. It’s a necessity.” Clint seemed thoughtful for a moment. “Pizza keeps me sane, I think. When life gives you lemons, throw them away and order a pie.” 

“That makes no sense at all,” Natasha admonished. 

“Pizza keeps you sane?” Bucky asked. “You like it that much?” 

“Even just thinking about it here, I feel much saner.” Clint smiled through a mouthful of crumbs.

“I think training keeps me sane,” Steve said thoughtfully. “Like, just having something to keep my mind and body focused at the same time. Everything else falls away.” His eyes were faraway. 

“You’re ridiculously addicted to your work,” Natasha said softly. 

“It’s not about work really,” Steve said. “I mean, it’s partially that. Making sure I’m prepared should a catastrophe arise. But it’s also just time to myself, time where I’m not Captain America. It’s just me.”

Natasha nodded slowly, Bucky agreed silently. When everything felt incomprehensibly difficult, he liked to go to the gym with Steve. They would bicker and spar, and sometimes it would feel like old times, roughhousing with the cocky pipsqueak who didn’t know how to run away from a fight. In a lot of ways, Steve was still that guy. 

He could just throw a hell of a punch now. 

“Sometimes I like to travel, just for the hell of it,” Natasha mused. “See the world without looking over my shoulder or keeping a goal in mind.” She smiled. “I don’t abandon my training entirely, of course. But it’s nice to eat at a market without picking out faces in a crowd.” 

“I can’t imagine you not picking out faces in a crowd,” Steve said sheepishly.

Natasha shrugged, but made no motion to further explain herself. Expectant eyes turned to Bucky. Oh, it was a real sharing-circle bonding sesh. 

Yay.

What kept him sane, he wondered? Ever since he came back to himself, he sometimes wondered if he was sane at all. He felt as if he were constantly grasping at strands of himself, barely making progress in his life. He felt stuck in the past, barred from ever moving forward. 

But he was still here, right? Still fighting. Still trying. Maybe that was insane, but it didn’t feel like it.

“The times I see you all between missions,” he said, “that makes me feel sane. Like, all the crazy we get up to doesn’t feel as crazy when I know others are seeing the same shit that I am.” 

And I know that you are all still safe. Whole. 

He didn’t say that aloud, of course. But it was implied. 

“Like when I asked you all to come and watch Mission: Impossible because I was convinced we could pull the heist?” Clint asked. 

“Yeah,” Bucky shrugged. 

“We couldn’t pull off that heist,” Natasha said. “We don’t have the best hacker in the United States on our side.” 

Tony’s eyes lit up, suddenly engaged in the conversation. “I can hack. Probably better than anyone you could find out there.” He laughed to himself, the sound just shy of true levity. “Nobody else can get in like I can.” 

“See? Now we’ve got a complete set,” Clint said. 

Bucky let the camaraderie of it all wash over him, laughed when Natasha refused to be lowered from a ceiling. This was really what he meant. He wanted to see everyone comfortable, wanted to feel like part of the team. For some reason, the interactions outside of battle seemed to make him feel more part of the group than fighting side by side. 

But as the conversation died down, and eyes turned to Tony to share his piece, the atmosphere got noticeably… darker. 

Tony seemed lost in thought, as if considering how he might contribute to the ‘what keeps you sane’ talk was inconceivably difficult. Bucky couldn’t tell if he was upset by the expectation to contribute, or if he was just picking them apart, analyzing their vulnerabilities. Steve was, unsurprisingly, the first to speak. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve said quietly, subtle shame an undercurrent in his tone, “I know that things have been very different for you.” 

Tony nodded, opening and closing his mouth again. He sighed. Then, he said, “they let me play music, sometimes. As a reward.” His voice was small, as if saying it too loud would somehow make it less real. As if the talent could be retroactively stripped from him. “Not like, on a radio. But me, with an instrument. They told me I liked it as a child. I believe them, because I still like doing it.” He took a deep breath. “Even if it hasn’t kept me sane, it has kept me centered. Motivated.” But he was staring at Bucky. And he had no idea what to do with that.

Everyone was quiet for a long, long time. Until—

“What do you play?” Bucky asked. Anything to make him stop looking at him like that. Meaningless, and full of hidden secrets, and full of something—

Tony looked down at his hands, fiddling with his apple. “Piano, guitar. I had drums, once, but I broke them. I messed around with different things; I pick up new instruments quickly, my mind works well with that sort of thing. Patterns and sequences, repetitive motions.” Tony shrugged. 

“So you’re like, a one man band?” Clint asked, leaning forward. “Can you play ‘Free Bird’?” 

“I don’t know what that is,” Tony deadpanned. 

“Oh, have I got a world of music to share with you my friend,” Clint was already grinning. “I have a feeling you’re into dad rock.” 

“I know you’re speaking English, but the reference is going over my head,” Tony said. 

“I didn’t realize you got time for yourself,” Steve mused. 

“At a certain point, it's necessary to have something to hold over someone’s head,” Tony said, as if it were obvious. “They knew I liked something; if they decided to use the carrot rather than the stick then they had leverage.” 

Natasha nodded. “We did ballet,” she said. “In the red room. It promoted grace and athleticism. But I enjoyed it, I think we all did.” 

Tony seemed to start. “You were with the red room?” 

“That’s where I did my training,” Natasha stated. She seemed to sharpen. “Is that a problem?”

Tony shook his head. “Just never met any of you before,” he said. 

“I’m not part of it anymore,” she snapped. 

He nodded. “Soon I won’t be part of the Order anymore.” For the first time, he seemed to actually believe it. The realization seemed to hit him at the same time it hit Bucky. “I—I won’t be part of the Order anymore.” 

“You’re already not part of them,” Steve said stiffly. “You’re with us now.” 

Tony nodded again, face a carefully blank mask. He was so distant, so detached, missing his previously jagged edges and sharp humor. He followed blandly along with every conversation as if he were trapped on the periphery of it, rather than part of it. As if in his mind, he was somewhere else entirely, leaving the rest of them behind with the shell of his body. 

Bucky wanted to follow him, to walk by his side on whatever journey he was taking. And he had a chance, really. He just had to have the nerve to take it. 

“I think it’s time we all got some rest,” he said gruffly. “It’s been a long few days, we’re all at the end of our rope. We can do pairs, shorter shifts that swap out often so we can all be on top of our game.” It was a poorly concealed attempt at getting some privacy, but he didn't think anyone would begrudge it. Everyone was tired.

“I’ll take first watch,” Tony said, though his eyes were still far away, and his posture was leaden. “I slept an entire day while you all pulled my weight. I can stand a few more hours awake.” 

“Are you sure?” Steve asked, concern evident. “We don’t blame you for the unconsciousness, Tony, if you need more time—”

“I’m sure,” Tony was firm, leaving no room for discussion. “I’ll be fine. I’ll take two hours then wake someone else.” 

“I’ll join you,” Bucky said, inserting himself before anyone else could offer. He wasn’t sure anyone would, until Steve shot him a suspicious look, which Bucky answered with a glare. He just needed his friend to back him up this time. He'd explain later.

The others set up sleeping arrangements for the night while Bucky settled in by Tony’s side. 

They did not speak for at least ten minutes, allowing silence to settle over their camp. Bucky knew it was the polite thing to do, give the others a chance to actually pass out before infecting the air with noise. But it was painstaking, every unsaid word an itch in his throat that could only be soothed by finally expelling them.

But to Bucky’s surprise, he didn’t need to pitch the perfect sentence to make the mercenary open up. Tony was the one to break the silence. 

His words were dry, so quiet Bucky had to strain to hear him despite the oppressive silence. “You wanted to talk to me?” 

Bucky flinched. “Was it that obvious?” He tried to match Tony’s volume, mindful of the group with them and the need to maintain a low profile. 

“You’ve been staring at me all day,” Tony sighed. 

“I didn’t think you’d noticed,” Bucky admitted, only a little ashamed. “You seem… distracted.” 

Tony rested his elbows on his knees, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes as if he were dispelling a particularly loathsome migraine. “I’ve got a lot on my mind, but I’m still a product of my training. I’m never entirely unaware of my surroundings.” 

“Mind telling me what you've been thinking about?” Bucky said. Better to be clear, get his desires out in the open rather than beat around the bush. Tony was evasive, he’d ignore Bucky’s pleas as long as he could get away with it. Bucky wasn’t going to let him get away with it anymore. 

Tony groaned, curling into himself as if Bucky’s words were a blow. 

But Bucky wasn’t backing down this time. Not until Tony told him to fuck off, and maybe not even then. He’d thought that he could. He wished that he could.

But Bucky was sitting in the dark about details from his own life. Tony couldn’t hoard the answers, giving him absolutely nothing. It was tearing him apart, eating away at his sanity. He’d take anything at this point. The smallest hint, a tiny detail. 

“I just need to know what you remember. Like the game, or exercise, or whatever we were doing before. Because I know you remembered something while you were under. And I need... just a piece," Bucky said. He was raw and frayed at the edges. He was exhausted from all the wondering and flashbacks that wouldn’t leave him alone. “Please, Tony. Please.” 

Tony sat up slowly, breathing deeply. “What do you know already?” he asked. “You’ve been getting things back in pieces, right? That’s how you knew my name.” 

Tony was working with him! Progress!

“I remember flashes of some training exercises,” Bucky began. “I know I taught you to shoot, and that I made you—”

“Some of those are from before you broke out of your programming,” Tony said quickly. “You didn’t… it wasn’t like that, after.” 

“I didn’t break the programming, right?” Bucky said. “You did. You—”

“I killed you during a sparring session, about a month after your arrival," Tony agreed. "You wanted me to show you what I could do. You were… taunting me. I lashed out with a powerful energy surge. You died.” 

“And you brought me back?” Bucky asked. 

“I panicked. I knew the consequences of that would be severe—it was implied that you were a very important asset to HYDRA. They would kill me if you lost your utility. I just… I shocked you again. Like an AED. And when you came back, you were different. Confused. Afraid.” Tony’s voice was as close to dead as Bucky had ever heard it, so stripped of humanity and emotion it resembled the recorded recitation of a bot. 

“And you helped me blend in,” Bucky assumed. “You explained everything to me.” 

“I didn’t want to get killed,” Tony snapped. “Which would have happened had they discovered I’d broken your programming. I coached you on mannerisms and accent. I told you how to act so you wouldn’t be discovered.”

“And I went along with it?” 

“After I spent hours calming you down,” Tony sighed. “You were frantic. I explained where you were, what was happening, who I thought you were. You agreed to pretend as if nothing had happened so I could survive.” His jaw tightened. “I was surprised how easily you agreed. I think my desperation appealed to your heroic sensibilities.”

“Or my survival instincts,” Bucky suggested. “I was as trapped as you were.” 

Tony shrugged. “We’ve already gone over all of this,” he muttered. 

“I don’t know what happened after that,” Bucky pleaded.

Tony sighed. “Over the months, we got to know one another. The shared secret, it made us close. You saw me as an ally, I saw you as something interesting to fixate on.”

The words were hollow. “I don’t think that’s true,” Bucky said. “You trusted me.” 

Tony growled. “We were friends,” he admitted quietly. “So I was fixated. I hadn’t had many friends before.” 

Bucky felt something stirring—whispers, the ghost of touch, a feeling of warmth.

Friends felt right. He cared about Tony. Could see now that Tony was contending with the fact that he’d cared, too, despite his previous hostility.

 But he pushed forward. He could dig through his mind for specifics later. 

“We had a plan.” He remembered pieces of the conversation: If you want your plan to work… 

“We were going to escape together,” Tony said. “We waited until one of my exams. We’d spent months together by that point, and you were convinced we could fight our way out due to my ability to manipulate the facility, and your ability to override the Order’s commands.” 

“And it didn’t work,” Bucky said. It was coming back to him now: the shouting, Tony’s hand in his. The desperation upon realizing the plan wouldn’t work. “And you took the fall.” 

Tony’s hand wrapped around Bucky’s wrist, growling as his eyes flitted about the empty hallway, seeing maps and screens Bucky wasn’t privy to. 

“They’re closing in,” Tony gasped. He held on tighter. “They're going to kill us.” 

Bucky shook his head, desperation darkening the corners of his vision. “I won’t let them take you,” he said. His hand tightened on his gun. “I promise, Tony. Please. Just a little further.” 

Tony grit his teeth, slammed hard against a wall that turned into a door in the last possible second, sliding shut as soon as they passed through the frame. The passage they entered was dark, but Bucky could still feel Tony’s presence in the space. He watched those glowing flecks in his eyes, forced himself to commit them to memory. Tony’s gaze was unwavering as he pressed Bucky against a wall. “We’re surrounded,” he ground out. “I can’t see a way out.” 

Bucky sucked in a deep, steadying breath. “Okay, new plan,” he said. Tony didn’t move. “You run, I’ll hold them off.” 

“You can’t take them all,” Tony snapped.

“I have a radio, remember?” He held it up, waving it a little desperately in the hopes it would make Tony agree. “It’ll buy me some time.” 

“Yeah, until the handlers come for you.” Tony placed his hands on Bucky’s shoulders, pressed his forehead delicately against Bucky’s chest before pulling back. “There’s a way out of this.” 

“What is it?” Bucky pleaded. 

“I will tell them I stole you,” Tony said, hand moving to hold Bucky's jaw. His voice was hard, his eyes were wet. It felt like a goodbye, though the words hadn't passed his lips. “You must revert to your training, Bucky, it's the only way. They’ll kill you if they find out what I’ve done.” 

“And what?” Bucky growled, shoving at Tony’s chest. “You stay here? That’s not an option—”

“We don’t have time for this,” Tony hissed. “Revert to your training now.” 

And Tony's forehead fell forward, pressed against his chest while his hands tightened around his shoulders. Before Bucky could think of how he might convince Tony to run, before he could fight him off, his world was consumed with blazing white heat, his mind forced blank and placid and searing. His nerve endings fired all at once, screaming pain at every interval, as the world came to a screeching halt.

Bucky was shaking as he came back to himself, the white-hot electricity of the memory still lingering in his bones. “You shocked me again,” he said. “We were cornered, and you hit me.” 

“I disabled you so you wouldn’t ruin everything,” Tony said. “You were being obstinate, you refused to see reason. If they believed I went rogue, then you would at the very least manage to get back to your own Masters. You had a better shot there then you had with The Order.” 

“You didn’t know that for sure,” Bucky argued. “You made a guess.” 

“I guessed correctly. You're here now, a free man, a few short years later.” 

“What… when did this happen?”

“We attempted to flee in 2009.”

Bucky’s stomach churned. 2 years. Steve had found him 2 years later. 

“Why did you take that gamble?” Bucky asked. 

Tony huffed. “I never actually believed we would make it out. I went along with it, but I never actually believed in it. It's easy to come with contingencies when you already know the plan won't work.” 

Bucky shuddered, thoughts and feelings funneling through his mind without any clear direction or source. “I did,” he said quietly. He had a strong conviction that was true. He felt the desire, the need to take Tony someplace safe and warm and comfortable. A feeling that had remained, even when all the specific moments of camaraderie and friendship had been stripped away. “I always believed I could get you out of there. That I would save you.” 

“Well, aren’t you a natural-born hero,” Tony said. The words were laced with bitterness, but not with anger. Bucky didn’t feel like Tony hated that about him, but he definitely felt some sort of sourness about it. 

“You made me break a promise when you did that,” Bucky said weakly. “I promised I wouldn’t let them take you. And they did. I left you.” 

Tony shrugged. “That was always going to be an empty promise. I knew that. I didn’t hold it against you then, and I don’t hold it against you now.”

“You took the blame.” His voice was ragged, his chest felt tight. Something he’d done with the purest intentions was twisted beyond comprehension. He had been freed two fucking years later, while Tony faced the consequences. 

It wasn’t right. 

“And yet,” Tony said softly, tentatively placing a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, as if afraid he'd be pushed away. “I’m still here, and so are you. It was a gamble worth taking.” 

A hand on a throat, a plea. 

What are you doing here?

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Bucky shivered, suddenly hit with an unbearable nausea that made it impossible to think. He worried he might lose his meager rations.

“I hurt you, didn’t I?” He asked. The details were foggy, hard to grasp. But he felt it: the betrayal that coiled under his own skin. “After. They made me hurt you.”

Tony pulled his hand away and shrugged, but the movement was stilted, awkward. A lie. “I don’t remember anything after our capture. My memory was wiped.” he murmured. 

“I don’t believe you,” Bucky said. “You have everything that happened before, apparently, but not that? Why do you want to keep things from me?” 

Tony barely reacted to the words. “I’m tired,” he sighed. “I was wrong. I’m going to wake Steve and ask him to finish out my watch.” 

He was already walking away before Bucky could fully register he was leaving. Steve was by his side soon enough, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with a frown. “Everything alright?” he asked, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with his friend. 

“Everything’s fine,” Bucky lied. But guilt and bitterness were burning like an infection under his skin. He didn’t want to push, but he resented the fact that he had to. He knew that he and Tony could be tackling their shared past as a team, but Tony was determined to maintain distance, pushing Bucky away. 

Steve hummed, but he didn’t push. Bucky allowed himself to relax in his presence, letting the stresses of the day roll off of him. When it was time for him to rest, he woke Clint before settling onto the foil blanket that was spread out across the dirt.

He knew he’d be assaulted by memories and nightmares as soon as he closed his eyes; he could already feel them pushing through the cracks of his mind like weeds. 

He just hoped they wouldn't be too bad. 

The Winter Soldier, flanked by a team of guards, was led down a blank white hallway. He counted at least twelve surrounding him, tensed with an abundance of caution. Just procedure, he’d been told. But it felt ridiculous. These men were not the target. He would not attack them. 

When they reached the end of the hallway, his handler halted the procession. It was rare for his own commander to accompany him on missions, but apparently this was a special project, one which required delicate handling and close supervision. He turned to the soldier. “You will be assisting with an interrogation,” he said. “You may use as much force as required, as long as it is not lethal. The doctors in the room have procedures they need to perform, and you will not interfere with their work.” 

The Winter Soldier nodded. Do what he’s told, don’t get in the way. Easy work. 

His handler knocked on the wall, a door sliding seamlessly open. 

“You have a weak spot here,” Bucky said, knocking Tony’s left knee with his heel. Tony shoved him off, swinging his fist to catch Bucky off balance. 

“I don’t have a weak spot,” Tony snapped, stepping back, bouncing back and forth on both feet. “You have a weak spot.” 

“You leave your left open and bear your weight to the right. It’s easy to knock you down,” Bucky said, demonstrating by planting his foot on Tony’s side, throwing him to the floor. 

Tony growled and picked himself back up. He stood more balanced, though he didn’t comment on the correction. He swung again, slower than normal. 

“You’re off your game,” Bucky commented, using his metal arm to shove Tony’s chest, sending him back down to the floor. 

“No I’m not,” Tony defended, stepping away from another kick as soon as he was back on his feet. 

“I know you can do better than this,” Bucky mused. 

“You don’t know what I can do,” Tony argued. 

“I’ve been training with you for weeks. I watched you take down a guy three times your size yesterday. I should be easy work.” Bucky shrugged. He swung a fist, satisfied when Tony dodged, before grabbing Bucky’s arm and wrenching it behind his back. Bucky slammed his foot back, hitting Tony hard enough he loosened his hold. He quickly changed positions, wrapping one arm around Tony’s neck, using the other to pin his arm between their bodies. “I shouldn’t have been able to pull that off,” he murmured. 

“Maybe you’re underestimating yourself,” Tony said. 

“Why are you pulling your punches?”

Tony growled, letting a small current run over his skin, leaving Bucky’s body stiff and trembling. He loosened his hold, still trying to get his bearings when Tony socked his jaw. 

“There you go,” Bucky grinned, cracking his neck. 

“You’re goading me,” Tony snapped. 

“Hit me harder. I can take it, I promise.” 

“You and your promises,” Tony hissed, already moving to hit him again. 

The Winter Soldier entered the lab, a shiny, impersonal room accented by plain white floors and stainless steel surfaces. Computers lined one wall, a tray of tools was set up against the other.

In the center of the room stood a man. Shackles wrapped around his hands were attached by chains to shackles around his ankles. He was wearing only a plain gray pair of sweatpants, and his sweat-soaked hair was plastered flat against his skull. His face was so beaten it was unrecognizable, but The Winter Soldier knew the face, as well as the distinctive white-blue marks sprawling across his chest. The Soldier had been shown a photo of his target: this was him, without a doubt. There weren't any other glow-in-the-dark prisoners in the lab.

“MOTO4,” he sneered, taking a step forward into the light. “You have information on an unauthorized excursion attempt. You stand accused of treason against your Order, and against HYDRA. You will tell me everything you know.” 

The prisoner glanced up, did a double take. “What are you doing here?” He murmured quietly. He seemed to shrink into himself, chains rattling with the movement. 

“Will you cooperate?” The Winter Soldier asked. 

MOTO4 looked up at him with wide eyes. “This isn’t your fault,” he whispered. 

What a ridiculous statement. Something desperate, no doubt. It would not work. 

The Winter Soldier wrapped a hand around the prisoner's neck, throwing his body back against the wall. The impact was like a gunshot in the near-silence of the room.

Tony approached him as silently as he was trained to do, voice low as he brushed past his friend. “I have something for you,” he said, not turning to see if Bucky heard. “Stay after your lesson to get it.” 

Bucky forced his face to remain carefully blank, even as curiosity threatened to rattle his constructed demeanor. Still, he did his best to lead a lesson on shooting with as little emotion as possible. The targets were so far that even he had to squint to see them: he was sure the Mercenaries he trained were struggling just as much. He watched as a woman missed entirely, scoffed. “You need to be sure before you pull your trigger, MOTO2,” he said. “If this was a mission, you would have ruined your chance of a kill for the rest of the night.” 

She rolled her eyes, but crouched back down, breathing deep before shooting again. He let his eyes drift to the man on the end, one whose vision was better than most. He had an unsettling energy, and as far as Bucky knew, his main abilities were in physical prowess. Still, he hit the bullseye first. “Excellent work MOTO1,” he said, already moving past. 

Tony was tense, gun raised. He took a deep breath. The shot clipped the edge of the target. “Try again,” Bucky said. He stood behind him, forcing himself to focus on his cover. Tony nodded, already getting back into focus. He twitched his hand, lined up the shot. 

Missed again. 

Bucky sighed. “Again.” 

By the end of the class, everyone had managed to hit their targets with varying levels of proficiency and frustration. He lingered behind with Tony, who had performed the worst. “I need to talk to you about today,” he growled out, watching carefully as the others moved onto their next lessons. 

When they were gone, he felt his shoulders drop. He already knew that Tony would interfere with surveillance, he always did to a certain degree when he was in the room. It wouldn’t arise too much suspicion. “You were awful today,” he said. 

“I needed a reason to stay, didn’t I?” Tony asked with a shrug. He set his gun aside. “I have something for you.”

Bucky knew that their time was short, that they both had places to be, moves to make. But he was curious. “Well, let me see it then.” 

Tony let something slip out from under his glove, holding a small metal object in the palm of his hand. "I swiped it off someone on my last mission,” he said. “You said you used to be friends with Captain America, right? I thought this might be a fun memento.” 

He let the object fall into Bucky’s open hand: a pin. It was a small, gold American flag pin that he’d seen politicians wear on their suit jackets. 

“You stole this?” Bucky asked quietly, turning it over with his thumb. “I thought you were in Ukraine.” 

“There was some guy there,” Tony waved him off, “an American.” He smiled. “Do you like it?” 

The pin felt burning hot in his hand. He wanted to drop it to the floor, or absorb it straight into his body. 

Stevie. He missed him. 

“Thank you,” Bucky said. “I appreciate it.” 

“Sorry if there’s blood on it,” Tony added. “I haven’t had a chance to clean it off.” 

The Winter Soldier’s metal arm swung again, throwing the mercenary to the floor. “How did you access your organization’s intel?” he growled. 

MOTO4 curled up on the ground, protecting his middle. The Winter Soldier did not care. He kicked his stomach, heard a snap as a finger crumbled under the pressure. 

“Halt,” one of the doctors said. He knelt beside MOTO4, looked up at The Winter Soldier. “Tell him to hold still,” he said. The Soldier complied, and the mercenary did not move. The doctor led a cart over, one attached to a complex machine the Winter Soldier didn’t recognize. He was handed a syringe, filled with some icy blue substance, which was hastily injected into MOTO4's arm. After, the doctor proceeded to attach an array of wires and lines to MOTO4’s skin. 

“Continue the interrogation,” the doctor said, stepping back. 

The Winter Soldier hauled the mercenary to his feet and gripped his jaw with bruising force. “Why did you betray your organization? Were you breached by an outside party?” 

MOTO4 grit his teeth, seeming to choke on his reply. His face, already cut and bruised when the Soldier came in, was stained with blood from his interrogation. “I’m sorry,” he said. 

The Winter Soldier took the man’s wrist in his metal hand, and squeezed. He maintained eye contact even as the mercenary began to choke on his pain.

The doctor cut in again. “Release him and step back.” The Winter Soldier complied. The doctor turned a dial on his machine. Suddenly, MOTO4 fell to his knees, grunting and groaning as some invisible pain overtook him. “You tried to escape,” the doctor said. His voice was demure and soothing, even as the mercenary jerked on the floor. “But you failed. You will always fail. You know that, don’t you? There is no escape, not for things like you.” 

“I know,” MOTO4 moaned. “I know. I’m sorry.” 

Even though MOTO4 was still shaking, the doctor nodded at The Winter Soldier to continue. He knelt down in front of the prisoner, pulled a knife off of his belt. “Why did you do it? Who convinced you?” 

MOTO4 bit his lip so hard it bled. 

The Winter Soldier sighed. He hated the tough ones, the ones who thought they could outlast. They usually just died, which was a waste of a perfectly good asset. He spun his knife around, before carefully planting it deep within the asset’s shoulder. He pulled it back out, tilting MOTO4’s chin up with his other hand. “If you don’t want to use that tongue, I could always cut it out for you,” he drawled, tracing a thin cut down the man’s cheek, starting at his eye. It was shallow: he didn’t want to do permanent damage. But it would sting. 

“How are you here?” MOTO4 gasped, and the doctor turned the dial even higher. 

When Tony entered the gym for a private session, his eyes were vacant. He walked as if his body were heavier than normal, foreign. He ducked into the ring without a word, arms raised to fight. Bucky squared up in front of him, searching silently for the cause of his friend’s pain. 

“Reprogramming today?” He grunted, making no move to start the fight. 

“Yes,” Tony said. He sounded exhausted. He wasn’t in any state to train. 

“Are the cameras on?” he asked quietly.

“No.” Tony said. Bucky immediately relaxed, approaching Tony slowly. When he was right in front of him and still hadn’t been pushed away, he pulled Tony against his chest. 

“Why?” 

Tony’s arms hung limp at his sides, but he rested against Bucky as if he still remembered him. That was a comfort at least: to know they wouldn’t have to start all over again. 

“Dunno,” Tony mumbled. "I forgot."

“Do you remember me?” Bucky tried not to sound desperate. He couldn't be alone in this place, he wouldn't survive it. And he thought maybe Tony felt the same. 

“I held onto you,” Tony said. His body was relaxing, he was slowly leaning more and more heavily against Bucky’s frame. Bucky lowered them to the floor, keeping Tony in his arms the whole way down. 

“You look... drained,” Bucky said, trying to ignore how easily the man was moved. Trying to ignore how dull his eyes were.

“It was a long session,” Tony said. He let his eyes fall shut, tucking his chin down. “I want to go to sleep,” he admitted quietly. 

“You can,” Bucky said. 

“I don’t want to wake up here anymore.” He was flailing, raw. He gripped Bucky's clothes tight, like a child seeking comfort.“I don’t think I want to wake up at all.” 

Bucky froze, scrambling to think of something to say. He, of all the people in the world, could empathize with that feeling. He knew exactly the kind of pain Tony was carrying with him everyday. 

But Tony was special. He was important.

Bucky needed to help him. To show him something Bucky knew, something that gave him the strength to keep fighting: There was more out there. There was softness, and kindness, and laughter. The world was not contained in its entirety within the walls of his enclosure.

Bucky pulled him so the man was splayed almost on top of him. “One day you will wake up to something comfortable,” he said. “You will feel sun beams on your face, a warmth you can’t imagine yet but I know you will love. You’ll go for a walk outside without looking over your shoulder, and you’ll have a lazy morning without orders.” 

Tony hummed, but didn’t move. 

“You’ll have food that actually tastes good, instead of whatever it is they serve here—”

“The food is fine,” Tony mumbled. 

“That’s because you’ve never had anything else. Wait until I show you chocolate chip pancakes,” Bucky snorted. “It’ll blow your mind.”

“Sounds nice,” Tony said.

“It will be nice. It will.” 

“It’s impossible, you know. I think you'll have those things. You'll be out of here soon enough. But me? I’ll be here until the day I die.”

Bucky swallowed. “You know, even if I get away from here, I have my own masters to escape.” 

Tony shrugged. “You will. I can feel it.” 

Bucky ignored the prickling in his eyes, held onto Tony a little tighter. “You will too. I swear I’ll find you. I’ll get you away.” 

“Thanks,” Tony said. He sounded like he didn’t believe it.

Bucky, in that very moment, began to hatch a plan. Why did he have to leave and risk HYDRA erasing everything? Why couldn’t he and Tony run together?

“You can rest now,” Bucky said quietly. “Just keep watch of the cameras in the halls. If anyone comes by, we’ll pretend I pinned you.” 

“That sounds good,” Tony murmured. He seemed to relax fully as soon as the words passed his lips. 

MOTO4 let out a hoarse scream, shoved through grit teeth as another arc of electricity hit him. His eyes were alight, and the circuitry painting his chest coated the room in a bright blue glow. The Winter Soldier waited for the current to cut out before he grabbed MOTO4 by his hair, pulling him so they were nose-to-nose. 

“I’m going to ask you one more time,” he growled. MOTO4 stared at him with wide eyes. “Did you have an accomplice in your betrayal?” 

MOTO4 was shaking, his jaw was clenched with pain. “I don’t know,” he whispered, as if the words passing his lips horrified him. His eyes jerked to stare at the doctors by the wall, but the Winter Soldier shook him to get his attention back. “I—I don’t—”

“I think he’s past the point of communicating useful information,” one of the doctors drawled. “Are we done here?” 

Another man in a white coat shook his head. He stared at the Winter Soldier. “Keep going,” he ordered.

To the Winter Soldier, what followed next was routine: hits, slashes. Pain inflicted as a means to an end. Even when the man couldn’t push off of the ground, even when his speech became unintelligible, the Soldier did not because he was not told to. The machine would fire off, the doctors would step in. At one point, one of them held MOTO4’s jaw, forcing him to face the Soldier. “Look at him,” he hissed. “Look at this man and know that he is the reason you are in pain. See?” Then the soldier continued his work. When the agent began to flinch at just a glimpse of the man, the doctors muttered and conferred with one another, deciding to continue using the same phrase each time they used their device. It went on, and on, and on.

Until finally, he was told he was finished.

By then, MOTO4 was splayed on the floor, twitching with the remains of one of those shocks. The mercenary had his hands, broken and bloodied, thrown up to cover his face. One of the doctors kneeled down by his head, grimacing when his pants were stained by the blood on the floor. He pulled on MOTO4’s wrist and gestured to the Winter Soldier. 

MOTO4 looked up, face the perfect portrait of abject terror. 

“Know this face. You will not remember it clearly, but if you ever run into it again…” He glanced at one of his associates, positioned by the machine. “You will feel exactly like this.” 

The Winter Soldier watched blankly as the mercenary retched on the floor. 

Bucky was staring at his hands, watching as each muscle and tendon flexed at his command, as the joints and metals of one palm responded to his smallest thought. Tony sat nearby, watching him. 

“Something interesting there?” He drawled, chewing on a piece of toast he’d saved from his last meal. 

“Sometimes I feel detached from my body,” Bucky admitted. “I just see the things that I’ve done, and it doesn’t feel like my own anymore.” 

Tony shrugged, chewing thoughtfully. “Well, in those moments it’s not, right? They bury your true self and replace you with someone else. So it wasn’t your body when you did that stuff. It was theirs.” 

Bucky stared at him for a long time. “I don’t know if that makes me feel better,” he admitted. 

Tony shrugged again. “Look, I’m not saying that’s better. I was validating you. It’s invasive, it’s violent. But right now, it’s your body. You are in control. That’s got to mean something.” 

“I’m not doing anything of worth with it,” Bucky growled. The self loathing was closing in, choking him. Who was he, really? 

Was he really different from the asset at all? Because he was still there, still pretending. And according to Tony, he was doing a damned good job at impersonating the Winter Soldier. 

“You’re spending time with me,” Tony pointed out, taking another bite of his toast. He continued while there was still food in his mouth. “Is that not worth it to you? Because it’s worth it to me.” 

Bucky’s eyes snapped up, and for the first time he saw Tony. Really saw him. Saw the vulnerability hidden under a sharpness he’d developed to protect himself. Saw the closeness that he craved but couldn’t admit out loud. Saw that he was insecure. 

“It is worth it,” Bucky sighed. He tugged on his hair, let the slight twinge of discomfort ground him to the moment. 

“Good,” Tony said. He pulled off a piece of his bread and passed it to Bucky. “Because being with you, I almost feel human. That’s something.” He let his head fall back against the wall. “I don’t care what the hell you did, Barnes. All I care about is that you are here now, showing me kindness. That makes it easy to forget about whatever nefarious crimes those hands committed in the past.”  

“You are human,” Bucky said, taking the olive branch. The bread was rough and dry, but he swallowed it anyway. 

“To you, maybe. But you aren’t exactly an expert.” 

“I don’t think you are, either,” Bucky said. “This place is like a dehumanization playground. They try their damndest to make you feel like less.” 

“They are very good at what they do,” Tony nodded sagely. “Hey, Bucky?” 

“Yeah?”

“I do know what I’m talking about with you. I’m sure you remember that I’m not exactly in control of every action either. I know what it feels like to have autonomy ripped away from you.” 

“Tony—” 

“And I don’t even need them to force me to do anything terrible,” Tony continued. “At a certain point, for most of my life, I’ve just complied.” 

“You haven’t had a choice,” Bucky tried. 

“If I did, I don’t know if I’d choose any differently.” Tony did not seem bothered by what he said. He spoke as if he were talking about the weather, or stating a fact he’d read in a book. “This is all I know. It’s what I’ve been built to do.” 

“I don’t blame you for anything that’s happened here,” Bucky said weakly. “You helped me. You freed me. You make this whole situation bearable. You are good, and you are human, Tony. Please don’t forget that.” 

“And you can’t forget that I don’t blame you. And nobody else would, either. You weren’t in control. You do your best when you are. Whatever happens going forward, keep that in mind.” 

“I’m not going to let them turn me against you, Tony. We're in this together. We're gonna get out of here together."

“I know,” Tony smiled. “But still. Remember.” 

Bucky woke up with a gasp, scrambling away from his team as soon as he could feel his limbs. Pins and needles stabbed into his bones, but he ignored it, desperately fleeing a few feet away, seeking private refuge behind a tree. 

And then he lost every piece of food or water that remained in his body, gagging and shaking uncontrollably.

He remembered. 

He remembered everything. 

All the moments of camaraderie and connection, broken up by the searing realization that he'd been forced to commit a horrific betrayal.

Even now, retching and gasping as tears stung his eyes, the voices from his past were circling around him, as shadows crept in the corners of his vision. 

I trust you, one whispered. 

I don’t think it will work, but I will try, said another.

Bucky couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. His chest hurt. His arm, no longer attached to his body, felt like it was on fire. 

Do you want my apple?

Your ninja-sneaking is very unsettling, you know. 

Listen to me: you are a captive of the Order. I am MOTO4, and I killed you. Please don’t scream. 

There was a commotion at camp, someone was approaching him. They were saying something, but he couldn’t hear it clearly. The dream would not get off of his back, would not release its claw-like grip around his neck as disconnected moments of agony burned through his veins like poison. 

You sure love going on and on about that Steve guy. 

We need to focus on your accent: you still sound American. Keep that up, and they'll kill us both. 

One day you are going to make a promise you can’t keep. And I will forgive you, but I will also say ‘I told you so.’ 

A hand landed on his shoulder, and if Bucky had any capacity to fight, he would have ripped that arm straight off of its owner. They could match. 

Instead, he just gasped, and sobbed, and didn't bother looking up. 

“Bucky,” Steve’s cool voice was like a balm, but it didn’t ease his pain entirely. He gagged again, leaned heavily against the tree he’d discovered. “Bucky, what’s wrong?” 

He tried to answer, but the words were garbled, swallowed up by shame and horror. It sounded like the last words of someone whose neck met the wrong end of a knife. 

Steve massaged his shoulder, whispering reassurances and concerns, trying to break through the voices that would not leave Bucky’s mind. 

Eventually, Bucky managed to pull himself together. He shoved the memories into an isolated corner of his skull, forced the present to take center-stage. He stood shakily, still tasting bile on his tongue. He glanced at Steve, who was hovering very, very close. 

“I’m fine,” he tried to say, even as tears were still leaking from his eyes. “I’m fine.” 

“Bucky—” Steve started, but Bucky shook his head. 

“Just a bad dream,” he struggled to say. Because it wasn’t just. It was so, so real. It was everything. It was everything he’d wanted to know without knowing what he was really asking for. He searched for Tony in the dark, saw him watching from the foil blanket that Bucky had abandoned. 

They met each other's eyes, and Bucky saw him. The man he'd tried to save. The man he'd been forced to beat into submission because he'd failed.

Tony shrugged, looking at the ground as if it were infinitely more interesting than the broken man in front of him.

“I told you so,” he muttered. 

Well, there it was. 

Now all Bucky had to figure out was whether or not Tony still forgave him.

Chapter Text

2016

Tony 

When Tony woke up from his 24-hour coma, he'd felt as if he were seeing the world the right way for the first time in his life. 

He saw Captain America in golden light, every part the perfect friend Bucky had described him to be. It suddenly made sense that he was so kind to Tony, that he treated him so delicately. He was intimately acquainted with healing the broken, and his savior complex would not be able to resist the gravitational pull of Tony’s trauma. 

He saw Clint and Natasha as two people who probably hated what he was, but allowed him to come along anyway. Because they trusted Bucky, because Bucky was good and kind and smart. And he saw that Clint wanted to help him, and Natasha wanted him to behave so that she could let the others help him. He saw that they were almost as scared as he was. 

He saw Bucky Barnes. And when he looked at him now, that ever-present pain was still there but dulled, bearable. He could feel his joints crack as if they were broken again, but the pain was quickly soothed by a rising tide of warmth. 

Because Bucky had been his friend. His first real friend. Because he knew now, that Bucky would not betray him. Bucky would never hurt him if he had a choice. 

And Tony saw that he had taken that choice away from him. He’d forced Bucky’s hand. All that pain, the splitting migraines and the blooming hurt, that was his fault. Not Bucky’s. 

When Tony woke up, he realized that he didn’t hate Bucky at all; and it was, in fact, impossible for him to hate Bucky. Bucky thought he was a person. Bucky had that stupid, idiotic plan to save him even though they both knew it was stupid and idiotic. Bucky was almost as broken as he was, yet he still somehow managed to appear whole. 

Bucky was still trying to save him, had tried even when he hadn't remembered who Tony was.

Really, Bucky was the reason Tony even remembered who he was. 

Bucky was the perfect counterpart, someone who was fundamentally necessary to his survival. Bucky was the question and the answer. 

Tony forgave him, though he didn't feel there was anything to forgive. Tony still loved him, as far as he knew what love was, anyway. 

But he still couldn’t look at him.

Tony did not have much experience with guilt. It was one of those feelings that served no purpose when you were a weapon in someone else’s hand. The knife did not feel guilty about its cuts, and Tony told himself that with all the horrible things he'd done, he could not feel guilty about any of it. He did what he had to do, what he was created to do. He had enough dread and horror without piling unnecessary self-loathing on top. 

But he was disturbed to realize that he felt some approximation of guilt for what he'd done to Bucky. He'd tricked him, unashamedly so. He’d known from the beginning that he was going to ensure Bucky's safety by any means necessary, without a care for what that might do to Bucky’s emotional wellbeing. 

Because at least he’d be alive. That’s as much as Tony had allowed himself to hope for. That through his sacrifice, Bucky might live. 

And he’d been right! And even more, Bucky was not only alive, but free! Doing just fine, meeting people and living a life that wasn’t constrained to orders and walls and pain. He was making choices and helping people. 

He knew Bucky probably felt guilt. Bucky was very good at feeling guilty, he’d had a lot more practice than Tony. But it was fine. Tony would help get rid of that guilt by telling him he forgave him. 

But when he tried…

The words wouldn’t come. Throughout the day, Tony had mostly focused on keeping his eyes open and his head in the present. He hardly managed to string together a coherent sentence. 

It’s not that he didn’t want to give Bucky the answers he was seeking. But he also didn't want to hurt him. And the truth would hurt. He knew that. 

He did not regret his actions. He did not feel sorry for them. 

But he felt sorry that they would cause pain when remembered. Even though none of it was Bucky’s fault, he would blame himself. 

So instead of giving Bucky the answers he pleaded for, night after night, Tony decided to be selfish. He murmured half-truths and lies when Bucky wandered too close to the reality of their parting, and he held on to the warmth of their previous friendship, knowing that if he allowed himself to loosen his grip for even a moment, it would flicker out and die. And then Tony would die along with it. 

He worried that if Bucky learned the truth, it would make him hate Tony. 

Tony would not survive that. Bucky had been his. His secret, his friend. Tony had already lost him once, he was not going to be the catalyst for losing him again.

But when Bucky woke up that night, vomiting and crying and crumbling into tiny little pieces, Tony knew. He knew that Bucky had seen the truth, that he had remembered everything. 

Looking at his face was almost too painful to bear. Because Tony had done that. He’d made Bucky look like that. Remembering his friendship with Tony was enough to destroy a man who’d been nothing but collected the whole time Tony knew him. 

He struggled to get back to sleep that night. But he pretended, and he listened as Steve and Natasha tried to soothe Bucky, to calm his tremors and wipe his tears. He eavesdropped as Bucky spilled his guts to his teammates, calling himself a monster and a terror. And he said nothing. 

Tony disagreed, of course. He did not think Bucky was a monster. But he didn’t have the words to soothe him like the others. He was not built for putting people back together again. He was just really, really good at tearing them apart. 

He decided to let the others take care of Bucky. They knew him better, after all. Tony had grown close with him while they were imprisoned together, but only they knew what Bucky looked like when he was whole. Tony didn't even know what whole meant. 

When the sun broke through the trees, Tony was already up. He tried to put on a face that exuded energy and the will to take on the day, no matter how little he felt those things. 

“You okay, man?” Clint asked, eyes narrowing with suspicion. “You look kinda… manic?”

Tony shrugged. “I’m trying to look energized,” he explained.

“You can, uh…” Clint coughed. “You can tone it down a notch. We're all tired. No need to put anything on.” 

Tony shrugged, let the facade drop just a little. Not too much. He was determined not to let anyone carry him today. Yesterday he’d clung to Clint’s arm like a small child for most of the hike, and he didn't want them to start thinking he was too weak to be an asset to them. If he was going to take them to the end of the forest, he had to up his game. No more being saved. 

He was going to save them. 

Because they were with Bucky, and he had recently remembered that he loved Bucky. And he was certain that Bucky loved them, and wanted them all to make it out. 

His mission from the past was restored and updated: he would not allow Bucky to remain a prisoner of The Order. He would not allow Bucky’s friends to remain prisoners of the order. 

No matter what, they would be free. 

He had succeeded once, he could succeed again. He was confident.

Super confident. 

“We’re running low on rations and willpower,” Tony said, watching the others gather up their meager possessions. “We need to pick up the pace and make distance our first priority.” He glanced at Natasha, “how’s your ankle?” 

“Good enough,” she said. “Did you think we were taking it easy before?” 

“No. And I apologize for my part in slowing us down, but we will not survive if we stop after every battle. They are tracking me—I haven’t sensed any cameras or bugs nearby, which means there are likely hunters on our trail.” Tony was straining his eyes and ears, trying to sense them… but he felt no presence. They were frustrating, hunters. Unobtrusive as long as they needed, the perfect ambush squad when they were ready. Tony really, really did not want to run into them. 

“You weren’t slowing us down, Tony, but we have to take care of ourselves. If we push past the point of exhaustion and we’re ambushed—” Steve said. 

“We can take care of ourselves when we're free,” Tony said. He met the captain’s eyes—old habits die hard, apparently. Even though he was now as detached from the Order as he'd ever been, he still remembered the importance of the Chain of Command. “If we cannot continue, we will stop. But I am saying this with the gravest sincerity: we're fighting the clock. The longer we're here, the more likely we are to die here. And none of us want to die here.” 

Clint groaned, already moving to stand. “Okay, drama queen. Let’s get moving before the monsters get us.” 

“You say that like there aren’t monsters,” Tony pointed out. 

They set a brisk pace through the forest, no useless chatter clouding their minds as they moved. They had purpose, they had energy. It was exactly the single-minded focus Tony needed from them to get them out. 

Tony had already accepted that the mission was getting them out. He did not anticipate surviving. He was running on fumes, his heart was struggling from past and present traumas. He felt like he might collapse again at any moment. And his masters wanted him. They would not allow him to get away with the same tricks twice. He understood that now.

And Jebediah… 

Tony would not allow himself to think of his handler, because he was dead. Tony was almost certain he'd killed him, which meant the bird had been lying, trying to get in his head. Dwelling on it would only slow him down. 

They covered a few miles before anyone uttered a word.

“Is that…” Clint wrinkled his nose. “Is that smoke?” 

Tony paused, forcing himself to refocus on his surroundings—he’d allowed himself to wander into a safe corner of his mind while they traveled. It was the only way to guarantee he remained upright. Part of him wanted to let his body fail, let the others drag him to the finish line until they grew tired of his dead weight. Another part of him wanted to kneel at Bucky’s feet, pleading like a child to be saved. To be held. To not be left behind again.

Tony hated both of those parts equally, but they were obnoxiously persistent. The only way to push them away was to push everything away, and stay safely secluded in his quiet little corner, far away from everything that concerned him. 

He was a mind in a body in a world, but he was not fully cognizant of any of those facts. 

Still, upon Clint’s warning, he forced his consciousness to realign. He breathed in, dread coating his throat along with the scent. 

“We should go around,” he said. “As much as possible, at least.” 

Natasha shot him a look. “What direction is the smoke coming from?” 

Tony tried to pinpoint the source, cursing under his breath. It was too far away to get an accurate reading, especially when there was a suspicious lack of wind to push the smoke any sort of direction. He couldn’t even see hints in the sky due to the heavy cover of trees. “I’m not sure,” he finally admitted. 

“Then we push through,” Steve said. “When we have more information, we’ll reassess.” 

Tony hated that plan, he hated it passionately and voraciously. He did not want to risk running into the enemy that smoke could signal. But he agreed, willing his body to remain upright, forcing his feet not to drag. 

Things seemed calm for a bit, a foreboding omen indeed. But soon, Tony saw the source of the smell. The view of the horizon ahead was obscured by a swirling dark cloud, accented by bright, crackling flame and fallen trees. 

“Let’s make a wide turn right now,” he muttered, already moving left. He kept his eyes on the distant wildfire, calculating how far it was, how likely the arsonist was to see them. 

He hated fire-breathers. They left a sour taste in his mouth. 

If they were close enough to see the damage, it meant they were close enough that the fire-breather would be able to hear them. They were built for this sort of thing, after all—picking off stragglers, ensuring destruction was total and evidence-free. Tony slowed despite his instincts urging him to run, stepping as silently as possible, eyes never leaving the inferno ahead. He did not see or hear the others, but he could feel that they were following his careful example.

He’d gotten better at sensing the presence of the team, knowing their positions. It was almost enough to delude him into believing he was integrating smoothly into their fold. 

There was a loud crack as another tree fell, and Tony stilled immediately, waiting to see if they'd been detected. When nothing more happened, he tentatively resumed his creeping progress. Slowly, slowly. Quiet. They were not making much distance, but they remained unnoticed. That mattered more than anything. 

And then: someone’s foot caught on a stick, snapping it with the force of their stride. 

It was a small, almost nothing sound. 

It was still too loud. Within one breath and the next, a plume of fire was rocketing in their direction. The group immediately scattered to avoid the blaze, but it was futile. Trees and dry underbrush were caught up, scattering smoke and char through the air, forcing the team to move away from the heat as much as possible. 

Tony immediately lost sight of the others, but he did not let it frighten him. He had a more specific goal, now: take out the danger. He had a target, he had a plan. He knew exactly what he was dealing with. 

He thought so, anyway. 

He’d been given the spare gun they’d found in the wreckage, so he readied the weapon as he pushed through the smoke. The grip was as familiar as an old friend. Moreso, even, as he only had one old friend, and he was mostly confused about where they stood in the present moment.

He held his breath as he aimed, the smoke in the air stinging his eyes and throat. It was hard to see his target, a shadow shrouded by heat and light and ash. But even if he missed, he could draw its attention. He could buy the others time to find each other, to come up with a better plan.

He lined up the shot as much as possible, and took an ill-advised breath to steady himself. 

The monster began to speak before he could pull the trigger. 

“MOTO4,” his target snarled, breathing heavily, voice raw and sand-paper rough from years of consistent damage, “come out, come out, wherever you are.” 

Tony felt his heart pause, a fear-driven jolt burning his chest. He waited for the familiar hum in the back of his neck that accompanied a handler’s command, waited for his body to force him forward, revealing his position. But it never came. Which meant that this was an experiment. A beast. Someone like him. He could kill them, no problem. He'd had lots of practice.

Tony forced himself to focus, heart slowly returning to its normal rhythm. He saw a twitch up ahead, and took his shot. 

A roar so loud it shook the surviving leaves ripped through the forest. It seared with a rage that seemed to burn down Tony's spine, momentarily stalling him. 

Tony knew that this agent probably had the same training he did; he was likely already calculating the trajectory of the bullet in order to find his prey. As soon as his mind caught back up with him, Tony readied himself to make a hasty exit from his position. 

But instead, another shot rang out, followed by another roar. 

Someone else had stolen his plan. 

A wave of flames fanned out, moving too quickly to reach as far as Tony was, but it caught more trees, obliterating the nearby underbrush. 

He changed plans mid-movement: he had to find the others, it was too easy to get separated like this. If the fire-breather wanted, he could force them to flee in entirely different directions. Tony scanned the woods as quickly as possible, and as soon as he saw a body, he ran to it. 

He nearly ran into Clint, who was coughing into his elbow as smoke closed around them. “We need to regroup,” Tony rasped. “He’s trying to separate us.” 

“Fire is a good way to do that,” Clint gagged, squinting through the smoke. “Have you found anyone else yet?” 

“Just you,” Tony replied. He heard the monster roar again, and held his gun up. “The trick here is distraction. If we hit him from different angles, he won’t have a clear target.” 

“Yeah, he’ll just burn down the whole forest instead,” Clint argued. Still he raised his bow, wincing as he tore his shoulder back. He let the arrow fly, then immediately grabbed Tony's arm. They moved quickly, coughing as the smoke continued to collect, searching for the team as the monster's shouts continued to infect the air. 

They found Natasha next, lying stomach to the ground, gun poised in front of her. “Get down, dumbass,” she snapped. “Smoke rises.” 

Clint grumbled as he dropped to the ground, Tony followed suit. “Have you seen the others?” he hissed. 

“Bucky is nearby,” she said. “Steve is… somewhere, I’m sure. I haven’t heard him scream, yet, so he's probably alive.” She spoke with careful nonchalance, but Tony could read the tension on her body like a book: she was concerned. She did not like the team's separation. 

“We shoot then we move,” Tony said. “I don’t think he can see through his own mess. He’s just following our shots.” 

“How many shots will it need to go down?” she growled. “We’ve hit at least three times.” 

“I won’t know until I see him clearly,” Tony hissed. “Take your shot, then we run. Preferably toward Barnes.” 

Natasha grimaced, but she still squinted through the smoke. As soon as the trigger was pulled, she’d pushed herself onto her knees. Clint and Tony scrambled to follow as she dashed through the trees. 

As they ran, the beast spoke again. His words were laced with frustration and pain, and a quiet desperation that Tony knew all too well. “MOTO4,” he huffed, gasping as if each inhale took monumental levels of effort, “it’s time to come home. Before anyone else bears the brunt of your consequences.” 

Before anyone else? Who would…? Why…? 

Was the Order blaming others for his disappearance? Were others facing the same beatings and reprogramming and traumas that he’d faced after his first attempt? 

Did he even care?

Because truth be told, Tony held no love for anyone in the Order. He did not care what they went through. Yes, he used to not want to kill them. But it didn't particularly bother him anymore, his masters had ensured that. They were just symbols of the things he hated, now. Beasts, animals, killers: just like him. The Order had always been cruel, they all knew that. It wasn’t his fault. 

Of course it wasn't his fault. 

Right? 

He’d lost focus, just as their attacker intended. He fell behind the group, his steps slowing as he was drawn into the toxic words of the fire-breather. 

He was spotted at the same time Tony spotted him. 

Tony did not recognize the man, but he knew that he'd called him ‘the dragon.’ He did not recognize the man, but his body was immediately immobilized by fear. He did not recognize the man, but he knew that he was different than he used to be. 

Long, flesh-colored, bat-like wings stretched out behind him, torn and scorched to the point of uselessness. His eyes shone through the smoke, a molten red and gold that cut straight through Tony’s chest. His skin was ridged and pitted with burn scars, mottled pink and silver tracing every line of his body. The dragon had no hair on his head, and his face was so distorted it looked as if it was half-melted from his skull.

There were silvery scale-like patterns on his shoulder, spattered in random patches across the visible skin. His clothes were charred rags that hung loose off of a malnourished frame. 

Tony, suddenly, felt very small. Vulnerable. 

The dragon grinned, taking a step forward. 

“MOTO4,” he snarled. “It’s been too long since we last met.” He took another step, cracking his neck. One of his wings flapped uselessly behind his back, momentarily displacing a swirl of smoke. “I haven't seen you since you were very, very small. A boy.” He tilted his head, molten eyes flickering. “You’ve been very bad since then, haven’t you?” 

Tony stumbled back, one of his knees buckling. This was... this was the dragon. The first monster he ever saw, though he couldn't remember seeing him. 

“Do you know what happens to those of us who fail, mercenary?” The dragon hissed. “Do you know what happens to those of us who deliver a faulty product?” 

“I don’t—” Tony was gasping. His mind was screaming at him to run, to hide, to cover his eyes under his blanket and cry. But he couldn’t move. He couldn’t move. “What are you talking about?” 

“You were such a star, MOTO4. Everything they ever dreamed of.” The dragon grimaced. “And then you pulled this fucking stunt: your greatest trick yet! You’ve really done it this time, you know. Favoritism can only take you so far.” 

“What did they do to you?” Tony choked. 

“You were perfect, until you weren't. So smart, a quick learner, the boy with a skill they still haven't been able to replicate." The dragon's voice rose in a delirious laugh, teetering on the edge of insanity. "At first, I was praised for your collection. A job well done." His eyes were ablaze, a beacon in the mess he'd created. "But now... they're angry I captured something so stubborn. Unwilling to mold.” The dragon huffed, and a plume of smoke filtered through his lips. “It didn’t matter that I was only following orders. It didn’t matter.”

Only then did Tony realize how close he’d allowed the dragon to get to him. 

“They changed me,” the dragon continued, “because of you. I lost my place, because of you. I was unmade because of you.” 

“I didn’t do this to you,” Tony breathed. “You—”

“And now,” the dragon smiled, ignoring the broken words. Tony fell to his knees, heart shattering his ribs with each frantic, oxygen-starved beat. “I’m going to take you back. So that I can be restored.” The dragon laughed. “I did it once, I can do it again!” 

Tony felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck, heard a scream from a corner of his mind that had been scrubbed clean by steel wool. Heat flooded his body and he wondered if he’d strayed too close to a flame.

The dragon had known him as a child.

The dragon was going to take him. 

The dragon—

“Duck!” a voice shouted, and instinct alone drew Tony's body down. Within an instant, he was pressed flat against the ground. Something heavy soared over his head, making contact with the dragon’s middle. 

The dragon roared again, and suddenly, something in Tony’s mind clicked. 

This man, this monster, would not have him. The dragon would not take him. 

Tony pushed himself to his feet, double checking he hadn’t dropped his gun. The dragon staggered back, flinging Steve’s shield aside with a frustrated growl. He hoped Steve managed to catch it again.

He felt the presence of the team closing in behind him.

Tony dashed left, taking advantage of his attacker’s momentary confusion. He knew now that this was an extremely personal target against him, meaning he'd have to watch his back closely.

But it was okay, because if the dragon remained unreasonably focused on him, it would allow the others relative freedom to attack. Sure, he’d need to get creative with his defense. But he’d figure it out. 

He dove under another plume of flame. Natasha fired a few shots from behind the dragon, who flinched but did not go down. Tony eyed his skin… those scale-like patterns... 

There was a chance they were actual scales. Bullet-proof, maybe, or at least especially durable. There were a lot of them across the man’s body, hidden in part by the ragged fabric of his clothes. But there were weak-points and gaps. This monster was not yet complete.

“Tony, your shoulder!” Bucky called out, and Tony suddenly registered that part of his jacket was ablaze. He frantically stamped it out with his hand, flinching when the heat licked his palm. 

Speaking of: it was getting distressingly difficult to breathe, the smoke growing heavier as fire spread indiscriminately. The dragon was still shooting flames aimlessly at the constantly moving team, which was causing the damage to get worse and worse around them. 

Strangely, though… the fire didn’t spread far. It seemed to stop, somehow, in a perfect ring about twenty feet around. As if it were somehow being contained. 

As if the forest was keeping it contained. 

Tony shivered, banishing the thought. The mouth trap wasn't really a mouth, the forest wasn’t alive like that. But… he didn’t really know what had been done to the land. He was really hoping he would never find out. 

Tony continued his break-neck sprint around the dragon, grateful they at least wouldn’t have a raging inferno to run from on their path to escape. The odds were impossible enough. 

He shot blindly for a minute, catching the dragon’s wings. He didn’t even flinch: no nerves, then. The wings were seemingly a work-in-progress, not a valuable target.

Bucky barreled forward, moving in close to the dragon who was snarling curses in Tony’s general direction. His metal arm tightened around the dragon's throat and—

Bucky's entire arm twitched. His hold loosened, Bucky was thrown to the ground. That… that didn’t seem right at all. Barnes’ arm didn’t glitch. 

But Tony didn’t have time to think about that right now. His mind was flailing, latching onto irrelevant details rather than analyzing the life-or-death situation before him. He wanted to think but thinking wasn’t helping him. He took a moment to squeeze his eyes shut, to take in a breath that immediately rocketed back out of him as a hoarse cough.

It was very centering. 

He barely had time to take another shot at the monster before he was targeted with more flame. He rolled under and to the side of it, growling to himself. Defensive maneuvers were not his preferred strategy in a fight. But he felt the hair on the back of his head singe, so he kept low. 

An arrow struck the dragon’s shoulder, the thin point managing to fit between the silvery patterns on his skin. The dragon cursed and spat, stumbling back at the impact. 

“Scales!” Tony shouted, hoping to convey that his theory had been confirmed. He only belatedly realized that he hadn’t actually communicated his theory aloud. “Don’t hit them!” He added. There. That was probably fine. 

Keeping low, he began inching toward the dragon while he was turned, caught in a tight hand-to-hand with Natasha. She was ducking and weaving, and Tony really wanted to get there before the dragon remembered he was a living flame thrower.

Natasha swung high, slashing one of her knives at the dragon’s throat. He hit her hard with his elbow, but even though she went down, Bucky was there quickly to take her place. 

Tony kept inching forward, repeating a little mantra in his head. It was very motivating. 

I will not die here, at his hand. 

His body was tired, and for a moment he wondered if he’d manage to convince it to get back up. The lack of oxygen was becoming increasingly problematic. 

I will not die here. 

Natasha was back up, coming at the dragon from his left while Bucky took the right. Between the both of them, bullets and knives were flying, while the dragon spit plumes of smoke as he hissed and batted them away. One of his torn wings ripped forward, sweeping Bucky away from him, but Natasha took the opportunity to make another swing for the dragon’s throat. 

We will not die here. 

Tony had his eye on a weak spot: the base of the dragon's skull, the place they all had their chips put in. There were no scales there, leaving a vulnerable spot the size of a nickel. It would take him too much time to try and short-circuit the chip like he'd done in the past, but it made for a tantalizing target. He didn't need to use his power. Using a bullet would still get the job done. 

Natasha dropped her knife as the dragon blew a flame her way: she didn’t move quite fast enough. Her hand was burned, and she was forced to retreat or suffer further damage. Clint fired another arrow, piercing through a hole in the dragon’s clothing, finding another niche spot to hurt. The dragon roared. 

“Where did the mutt go?” He howled, blowing fire in a wide arc. Bucky, Natasha, and Steve all hit the deck to avoid getting burned. Tony knew that his time had come. 

I will not die, I will not die, I will not die.

Tony jumped up, gun in hand. He pressed the muzzle against the weak spot he’d seen, finger already pressing down on the trigger. 

He forgot to account for the wings. 

They flapped inward, slamming into him with the force of two full-grown bodies. Apparently, they were stronger than they looked. His shot went wide, his mind went blank. 

And he dropped his gun.

When the wings opened, Tony immediately fell to the ground. He scrambled back on his hands before stumbling to his feet, head spinning. 

The smoke was so thick, his mind so fuzzy. He just needed a moment to breathe. Just one deep, clean inhale of air. 

The dragon had eyes on him now. Tony fumbled for a knife, his gun, anything. He couldn't see clearly, his hands weren’t responding. He couldn’t actually feel them properly, like the circulation had gotten cut off, like something had misfired between his brain and his nerves.

I’m definitely going to die here. 

Tony’s smoke-irritated eyes watered as he met those of the monster that had doomed him to this life. Because even if he couldn’t remember it, the dragon had told him that he was responsible, and what reason did he have to lie? Tony’s pitiful life was going to end at the same hands that had dragged him into it.

A poetic end. Fitting. 

The dragon grinned, hissing “I think I'll fry you up a bit. If you survive, the doctors can fix you back up for punishment.” The dragon inhaled, and Tony refused to take his eyes off of him. He'd managed to take hold of a knife, but his grip was loose, wrong. He raised it, prepared to flick it forward if he could only get his shaking fingers to cooperate.

No matter what, Tony would not flinch. He was not a coward. He would face whatever happened next head-on. 

Between one moment and the next, Tony's world went sideways. His head hit the ground like a stone as crackling flames began to surround him. 

But he wasn't burned. He’d been knocked out of the way. 

His ear was immediately filled by cacophonous screams from all directions. Most concerning, though, were not the screams. It was the whining and grunting coming from the body that was still partially splayed across his legs. 

Tony heard one final shot, followed by a body hitting the ground. He lifted his head, vision only slightly blacked-out around the edges. He really, really needed fresh air. His legs were numb, now. Not good. 

The dragon was face down in the dirt, blood rushing from a gaping hole at the base of his skull. Someone had taken his target. Tony tried to twist to look behind him, but stopped when the movement elicited a pained garble from the body on top of him. 

He was perfectly still as the team rushed toward him.

“You fucking idiot!” Bucky shouted, already on his knees behind Tony. His hands hovered in the air as if he wasn’t sure what to do with them. 

“How bad is it?” Natasha hissed.

“Well, the pack is as good as gone,” Clint said. It was false levity, his voice was too hysterical to make it anywhere near convincing.

“Fuck the fucking pack,” Bucky snapped, “Stevie, can you hear me?” 

The body moaned, and Tony’s stomach dropped. 

Captain America just saved his life. He'd jumped on top of him, pushing him out of the way. He'd put his shield in front of Tony rather than himself.

Which meant that Captain America was burned, badly. 

He turned to Natasha. He assumed she’d be the most reasonable in a crisis, and Tony couldn't exactly follow the chain of command when their leader was on death's door. “We need to move,” he croaked. “Air.” That was all he could manage. 

She stared at him for a long moment, then glanced at the Captain still tangled with his legs. “Clint, take the pack off of him. We’re in an inferno, we'll treat him when we get away.” 

“'Tash, we can’t—” 

“We don’t have a choice,” she snapped. Clint did as he was told. 

“Bucky, get on his other side and prop him against you as much as possible. Do whatever you can to keep him away from any more fire.” She knelt down. “Steve, if you’re listening: brace yourself. This is going to hurt. Try to stay conscious.” 

Tony felt the weight lift off of him. The whining made him sicker than any of the smoke inhalation. Finally able to turn and see the rest of the team, Tony was taken aback by damage that had been done. 

Steve’s entire right side had been caught in the blaze. His suit was blackened and scorched in some places, completely burned away in others. The skin that Tony could see was already blistering and bleeding. His shoulder and arm had it the worst: his suit was still flaking away, and the skin was pitted. The burn continued down and side, spiraling in severity, leading down his hip and getting a little pinker and less dark as it traveled down his leg. Though it seemed he'd thrown his arm in front of his face, the skin was irritated, with concentrations of blisters in places that weren't as well-protected. His eyes were heavily lidded, his mouth was pressed in a tight line, throat forcing out thin groans of pain at the slightest jostle.

He was propped up against Bucky’s side, legs nearly limp. Tony was pretty sure he was only upright due to Bucky’s superhuman strength.

Tony forced himself to his feet, knees almost buckling when he tried to stand. His eyes went dark for a second. Through sheer willpower alone, he did not fall back down. He took in the rest of the group: Natasha’ face was red, and she was cradling her burned hand against her chest. Clint looked about as oxygen deprived as Tony felt, and Bucky was quietly apologizing over and over for brushing against Steve’s burns. 

It would have to do. 

He met Natasha and Clint’s eyes and scrambled for his dropped gun. Without a word they began to move. 

Ran was not an accurate word for what they did. Hobbled was probably a better descriptor. They dodged flames, they hacked and coughed through smoke that was steadily growing thicker and harder to see through. Tony fell at least twice, but Clint grabbed him and dragged him back to his feet quickly enough. Clint nearly fell once, but Tony caught him by the back of his shirt. Not necessarily an elegant solution, but an easy one. 

It took far longer than it should have for them to reach the edge of the flames. By then, Tony wanted to lie down and sleep for another twenty-four hours. But the smoke was still in the air; they weren’t safe. 

Each step felt like fighting through molasses, his body protesting every movement. But still, they kept pushing. Even as his legs started giving out more often, even as Steve’s groans became less and less frequent (which Tony really doubted was due to him feeling better) they pushed forward. On and on and on. 

Natasha was, surprisingly, the first to collapse. She’d been the most steady the whole time, but all at once, that strength seemed to abandon her. Her knees hit the dirt, and she caught herself on her hands. The river was nearby, close enough to hear the water rush downstream.

“We need to stop,” she choked. Her voice was weak, lacking her usual bravado. “We need—we can’t keep going like this.” 

“They’re going to find us,” Tony argued, even as his own body begged him to follow her. But he was starting to worry. He wondered, if he sat for even a minute, if he’d manage to get back up again.

“We need to recuperate and treat our wounds,” Clint argued, already kneeling by Natasha’s side. “We need to breathe clean air, damn it.” 

Tony didn’t argue further, just let himself finally fall beside them. He laid back in the dirt, staring up at the trees above. He did not look at her, but knew Natasha would understand he was speaking to her. “I’m sorry,” he said. 

“He wanted you,” Natasha replied. 

“I let him get in my head,” Tony admitted. He meant it as another apology, an admission of guilt. It was his fault things had gotten so bad. He was weak. He was vulnerable. An easy target. 

He could have gotten them all killed. 

She heaved another breath. Shocking him, she moved to lay on her back beside him. She turned her head, reddened eyes impassive as she considered him. “You made for a good distraction,” she finally said. 

“I missed,” he mumbled. "And then I just stood there."

He’d had the shot. He’d had it. 

But the fear he was trying to escape had not released its hold, it still controlled him. He'd let it make him distracted, sloppy, useless. 

His fear was a liability. He was a liability. 

“You won’t do it again,” Natasha said. She sounded certain. Tony swallowed the words, wondering if accepting someone's reassurance was the same as believing it.

Clint sat cross-legged by her side. He had the ruined pack in his lap. “Let’s see what’s salvageable here,” he grimaced, glancing briefly at the half-melted zipper that held it closed. “I might have to cut it open,” he sighed. 

“We’ll move everything into Bucky’s bag,” she said. 

Bucky fumbled to shake the foil blanket from his bag, draping it down before laying Steve on top. Steve groaned. He grabbed one of the water bottles he had, glancing at Natasha once it was empty. “I need you to play relay with river water, Nat,” he pleaded. “We need to cool these burns. We can move him again, but I’m worried if we put him in all at once it’ll—”

Tony rolled to his knees, pushed himself up. He didn’t need a break. It was his job to make sure everyone survived this place, and that mattered most. Besides, Steve's situation was his fault, and he needed to do his part to fix it.

And Bucky sounded so scared. 

He snatched the bottle as Bucky was already rustling around for the second. “I’ll be right back,” he muttered, jogging to the river. He couldn't muster up a run. 

The water was cold. He heard steps behind him: Natasha. He filled the bottle while she plunged her hand in, hissing all the while. He glanced over at her. 

“How bad is it?” He asked. 

“Could be worse,” she grimaced. “You bring that back. I’m going to stay here.” 

When he returned, Clint was tossing aside the melted remains of plastic pill bottles and scorched supplies. Tony swapped his full bottle with Bucky’s empty, already starting to move. He glanced at Clint: 

“Hey, there were two water bottles in there. Are they useable?” 

Clint sighed. “One, maybe, but it's warped. The other's unsalvageable.” 

Tony held out his hand, took the intact one. The hard-plastic top was a little squishier than normal, but it held its shape. He dumped out what was in it and returned to the river. 

They continued this process for nearly an hour, running back and forth while Bucky cooled Steve’s wounds. About halfway through, Clint stood up and took over Tony’s job, allowing Tony to catch his breath. 

“Did any bandages survive the fire?” Bucky asked. “We need to cover some of this.” 

Tony shook his head, glancing at the pile Clint had made. It was pitiful. 

“Only what you’ve got over there. Come on, let me help you.” He and Bucky sat side by side, strategically placing scavenged bandages and gauze to cover the worst areas without risking running out. Steve’s eyelids were fluttering by then, but he’d stopped making sounds of pain. 

Finally, they sat back to take in their work: Steve still looked bad. They’d had to rip and shove his suit aside even more to make sure they got the worst of the burns treated, and he was lying in a shallow puddle of water. “Get some sleep,” Bucky sighed, lightly brushing Steve’s sweat-soaked hair away from his face. 

“I’m sorry,” Tony muttered. He could barely look at the captain. Guilt: such a useless thing. A thing he wasn't sure he'd ever get used to. It was sour, and nauseating, and just as liable to steal his breath as the smoke that still burned in his throat.

“What are you sorry for?” Bucky huffed, rubbing at his eyes. They were just as red-rimmed as the rest of them, though they seemed to carry an emotional weight that Tony hadn't seen in the others.

“He jumped in front of the fire,” Tony said, “because I fucked up. He jumped in front of a fire.” 

“He had your back. He has everyone’s back, he would’ve done it for any of us.” Bucky laughed bitterly. “Hell, just a few weeks ago, he tossed himself in front of a car to grab a civilian. Luckily, he held out better than the car did.” 

“So he’s stupid?” 

“He’s brave,” Bucky snapped. “And he saved your ass because you needed support.” 

“I don’t—”

“Tony.” Bucky planted his hands on Tony’s shoulders and met his eyes. His gaze was strong, unwavering for the first time since they'd met for the second time. It was almost… familiar. “You were targeted by that... person. Someone who had it out for you, clearly. It’s normal to struggle with that.” 

“I can’t afford to struggle,” Tony snapped. 

“You can,” Bucky said, “because there are people here to support you.” 

“I got your friend burnt to a crisp.” Tony didn’t know why he said it, why he was trying to emphasize his failure rather than let the forgiveness ride. He just wanted Bucky to be angrier. He wanted him to stop being so gentle, so kind. Because Bucky had always been too fucking patient. And he needed Bucky to start holding him accountable for his failures. 

Tony had only done one thing right, in his entire life: getting Bucky away from him. And somehow even that had gone to shit.

“Steve made his choice,” Bucky said, voice thick. “He’ll heal. And you’re being a dick because you want me to rag on you for this when really, we all need to focus on working together as a cohesive unit.”

“I’m not—” 

“You are.” Bucky was firm. “You're trying to push me away so you can be sulky and bitter in peace.” He frowned. “I’m not doing that. You are not doing that. Not now.” He squeezed Tony's shoulders, voice cracking on his next words as if they hurt. "Not when we've finally made some progress."

Before Tony could try to respond (and he wasn't sure what sorts of things were going to come out of his mouth next) Steve made a small noise beneath them. 

“You both,” Steve muttered, a wheezing exhale of a laugh sliding past his lips. His eyes were still shut. “You’re helpless.” 

Bucky started to laugh, then, bending forward as if all the tension had been drained from his spine. The weight of his hands on Tony's shoulders doubled into a stable, grounding force. It was a wet laugh, full of relief and fear. “How are you feeling?” 

“Crispy,” Steve replied. 

“Just get some rest,” Bucky said, straightening out, pulling himself out of Tony's personal space. Tony chose not to examine the way his insides seemed to hollow with his retreat, or how quickly he'd grown attached to the steady pressure of Bucky's body weight pressing against him. It was easier to ignore things like that. “Hopefully it’ll heal up alright with some rest.” 

“I can keep going,” Steve protested.

“No, you can’t,” Tony sighed. It was physically painful for him to admit that. “We’ll set up camp here. You just... relax. Hopefully with your super-soldier vitality you can be good enough to move by morning.” 

He met Bucky’s eyes again, eager to get back to ignoring Steve's condition. Bucky, while not an easier sight, was certainly a more tolerable discomfort. “Until then, let me see your arm.”

Bucky leaned back. “Why?” 

“Because it’s not working right, and I have creepy mind powers that might be able to diagnose the issue." Tony shrugged. "Let me see it.” 

Bucky tentatively presented the mechanical limb. Tony pulled it closer, cradling it above his lap. He let his fingers skate over the metal, listened to the soft hum that machines always sang for him. The grooves in the metal, the tears and slashes that revealed the wiring underneath… it all made sense to him. More than any person ever had. 

It really was a beautiful piece of machinery. Even dented and broken, it was one of the loveliest things he'd ever laid his hands on.

He let his mind wander, as he always did when working with his power. His eyes fell shut. 

Right there, a few inches below his ring finger... there was a break, a place where things just went dark. And there, a little further left… a really bad one. Completely detached. There were loose screws and panels, but the wiring was the real problem. “Do you mind if I try—”

“Do whatever you can,” Bucky cut him off. 

Tony nodded, focusing back in. He reached out, felt the cord of electricity pulse through his chest, felt it trace down his left arm, through his fingertips—

“Shit,” Bucky flinched, and Tony had to wrap a hand around his wrist so he wouldn't move too far and destroy the connection. 

“Don’t move,” Tony muttered, opening his eyes. “Is there a way to open this up?” 

“There’s a latch opposite my elbow; if it's not bent out of shape it should still work,” Bucky said. “Also, that hurt. This thing is hooked up to nerves, you know.” 

“Well, I’m about to start messing with it, so brace yourself.” Tony felt around for the catch in the metal. When he found it, it revealed a seam on the inside of Bucky’s forearm, which he lifted to expose the inner-workings of the arm. With a greater view of things, he could see exactly where the wires had frayed. It explained why he'd lost dexterity and strength: the broken connection originated in the lines from his shoulder, where the nerves were handled, and connected all the way to his hand. Tony took a deep breath, grabbed the wires. He pulled them out enough that he could get a good grip without tearing them out. 

And then he focused. He encouraged the connection to strengthen, to travel the right way, occasionally inching paths from unsalvageable lines to ones better suited. He twisted some of the frayed ends to try and wrangle them back together. Bucky directed him to another service area near the shoulder, which allowed him to ensure small issues near the nerves weren't creating problems further down. 

And then he just focused on his task: coaxing a machine to work the way it was supposed to. Adjusting, persuading, putting things into place whenever his far-too-big hands were able to manage without making things worse.

Tony hadn't gotten the opportunity to fix things a lot in his life, but when he did, he always loved it. He got to find a glitch in the Order's security system once, spent a whole day with IT nerds getting it back to form. And he fell in love.

Machines, electronics, power. It all just felt right. 

He liked fixing things. He had only ever been allowed to destroy, for the most part.

Fixing Bucky's arm was nice. Soothing. It was some kind of repayment for everything he'd put Bucky through when they reunited. Everything he continued to mess up.

He could do this, to show that he was still worth keeping around. To show that he could be what Bucky had always wanted him to be.

When he'd done as much as was possible in the middle of the woods without tools, he sat back. “Flex your hand,” Tony ordered. 

“Are you gonna close it?” Bucky asked. 

“After I see it work,” Tony replied. Bucky lifted his arm, wiggled his fingers. Then he paused, shook out his hand. 

“I think… how did you do that?” Bucky furrowed his brow. “It’s better.” 

Tony wiggled his fingers, still tingling a bit from the lingering buzz of his power. “Magic fingers, Barnes.” 

Bucky closed the openings in his arm, frowning at the slashes that remained. “I’ll have to be more careful with it until things get replaced, but this is.. This is great.” He nodded at Tony. “Thank you.” 

“No problem,” Tony shrugged. “Can’t have you dropping things if we’re going to get out of here.” 

“When we get out of here,” Bucky said, “maybe you can help me get it back into proper shape.” 

It was obviously an olive branch, an awkward attempt to reconnect after everything they'd learned about one another. 

Something warm bloomed in Tony’s chest, and he had to stop himself from swatting it away. “Sure,” he said, but the word caught oddly in his throat. 

He wanted that. He was so tired of wanting. It only led to more pain. 

Night was beginning to fall, and the temperature, strangely, was beginning to drop. It had been so humid before that Tony had grown used to the ever-present moisture on his skin, but now… Now it was cold. 

No one was really in the mood to start a fire. 

Instead, everyone huddled close. Clint was already asleep by Tony’s side, leaning against Natasha’s shoulder. Natasha rested with her head on Clint’s. Steve was splayed out on the foil blanket in front of them, and Bucky was pressed against Tony’s other side.

Typically, Tony would cringe away from all the touchy-feely contact. But Clint was warm, and Bucky was like a space-heater, and Tony was leaching every spare bit of heat he could steal from them. He hated being cold.  

“You seem different today,” Bucky said softly. He didn’t want to stir the others. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tony mumbled. It was a lie. He felt like he’d been ripped apart, and had just barely cobbled himself into one cohesive piece. There was still the conflicting pain and warmth swirling through him, all the bad and good. He was still trying to figure out what that meant. He’d barely had a day to work on it, to come up with the person who existed within the amalgamation of all that experience. 

He had so many feelings he hadn't had before. He was an open wound oozing all over the place, leaving traces of a monster, traces of an old friend. Bucky seemed impossibly kind and horrifically terrible all at once. 

He didn’t know what to do, he was more lost than he’d ever been. He thought he deserved a little grace if he wasn't exactly back to normal right away.

“Yes you do,” Bucky said. He leaned impossibly closer, and Tony welcomed the heat. Which was obviously the only reason he welcomed it. “You talk to me different. You’re hesitating. You… you don’t seem afraid of me anymore, at least.” 

“I was never afraid of you,” Tony moaned. “I just…. It hurt. You know why. You know.” He wasn't sure why Bucky felt the need to have this conversation. Bucky always needed to talk. Tony hated talking, hating dredging up every painful moment over and over again. Already, it was filling his stomach like stones, clogging his airways like a virus. The regret, the guilt.

What happened to shaky olive branches? What happened to awkwardly avoiding each other's eyes, tip-toeing around the issues as if they were landmines? He missed that. 

“You were afraid, Tony. I don’t blame you for it. And before you wind yourself up, I don’t blame myself, either." Tony didn't believe that for a second, and he considered verbalizing the thought. But that would just encourage more talking, so he allowed Bucky to retreat into his lie. "I just… I want to know where your head is at, now that things are different.” 

Tony scoffed, felt something squirm in his gut. It was too quiet. He could hear every breath in the air, but other than that. Silence. 

He let his eyes fall shut, let all those old feelings wash over him, let them fall off his back. He didn’t want them clinging to him, didn’t want them to linger long enough to wrap their greedy little fingers around his ribs. He wouldn’t survive having and losing them again. There were so many holes where they used to rest, burrows and caves in his heart he couldn’t bear to fill. 

But Bucky deserved the truth, no matter how little Tony wanted to give it to him. Fine. If he wanted to know where Tony’s head was at, he would give him a taste. Even if it felt like knives in his throat. Even if it burned him alive.

“I loved you,” he admitted softly. A plea, a promise. Don’t do this to me. 

“You loved me?” He felt Bucky shifting, but he refused to open his eyes. He refused to acknowledge that he was shedding his own hurt, thrusting it upon the other man without a care as to whether he wanted it or not. Because Tony really, really didn’t want it anymore. Bucky would handle it better, probably. He hoped. “Past tense?” 

“Past tense,” Tony confirmed. His arm twitched, his lungs went concave. An immediate, cowardly retreat into the more comfortable reality Bucky's assumption implied. It was easier to pretend it was all in the past, as if it wasn’t wrapped around his neck like a noose. “I don’t—” a deep breath for control, clenched fists as if he could hold onto this fabricated reality through sheer force of will. “You were everything to me back then. Hope and identity and warmth. Fear and loathing and pain. What is that, if not love?” 

He opened his eyes, turned to Bucky as if he might have the answer. Because maybe he did. For so long, Bucky had held his answers. He'd held Tony when he was broken down, made promises that were impossible to keep. If anyone could understand love, could break it down to its most essential and comprehensible components, it was him. 

“But you don’t feel that way anymore,” Bucky said. It wasn’t a question, it was an exhalation of resigned acceptance. 

“I can’t feel that way again,” Tony said. That part was pretty close to truth, at least. He felt something inside him blink out and die. He was detached from his body, a million miles away. A specter watching a pathetic display of epic proportions. “I took a risk to let you get away once, to do this very thing, and it almost destroyed me.” He couldn’t breathe, could hardly think, the words pushing out of him faster than he could try and swallow them back up. “I did it thinking I was going to die, knowing that the only way I could possibly move forward after was if I didn’t have to move at all. And then you were gone, and I wasn't.” 

“I know—” Bucky reached a hand out, but Tony ignored his touch, wouldn’t allow his body to accept the stimuli. He was watching, a connection attempted to reach him and it was nothing to him. He couldn’t feel it. He was trying really, really hard not to feel anything at all. 

This is what he needed to keep going, to have the strength to get them out. He needed to detach. He needed to take that stubborn tether to Bucky and destroy it, so that it was just as nonexistent as before. He needed to force distance between himself and Bucky and the rest of them, because the weight of their lives was too much if he allowed himself to care.

Even if it wasn't true. He needed to make it true.

Just like the beginning of their journey, when everything was simple, when their efforts felt futile but amusing. When he thought he was surrounded by idiots, humoring their hopes because hey, he would die, but at least he'd go out with a bang. Before the hope crept in, before he knew that Steve cared about him, before he and Natasha reached an understanding, before Clint seemed to somehow evoke a feeling of fondness. Before he knew who Bucky was. 

“I didn’t remember you after the escape attempt,” Tony admitted quietly. He wasn't entirely sure where his words were coming from, but he knew they were true as they passed his lips. “But I felt it... the gap you left behind. The last little piece of me that was fighting, that was alive—you took it with you. I have nothing else to give you, Bucky. I have nothing.” 

I am nothing he didn’t say, because he knew the man would argue. Bucky didn’t understand, he would never understand. Because he was alive, with love and drive and fight. He had a whole heart to rip up and throw around as much as he wanted, and Tony really hoped he would do that. But Tony didn’t have that, not anymore. All he had was an exhausted body made of scars, one he could throw to the fire if it would keep the others warm. 

Before regaining his memories, going on felt possible. Necessary, even. He wanted to do it, felt in the marrow of his bones that rebellion mattered, that there was a home out there for him somewhere different. But now… no. He couldn’t bear having and losing a nebulous good again. He would get the team out, because they believed in him. They deserved that.

But Tony didn’t deserve anything at all. He’d learned that by then, at least. Even if he didn't believe everything the Order taught him, he believed that. That he would always lose.

He couldn’t hold on too tight. Couldn’t get possessive, not again. 

Bucky slowly wrapped an arm around Tony’s waist. “I don’t need you to love me,” he said, voice rough with emotion. He squeezed Tony tight, rested his cheek on top of his head. “I'll protect you anyway, I'll take care of you. You don’t need to give me anything. I’m sorry I didn’t come for you sooner, I’m sorry I couldn’t fix this.” Tony started to shake, but Bucky wasn't swayed to silence. “But I can still try. And if you can’t try anymore, that’s fine. I’ll do enough for the both of us.” 

“Bucky—” Tony choked, but the man just held him tighter. 

“Tony,” he said softly. “I remember too. I care about you. I'll make it work this time I—” Tony heard the catch in his voice. He realized that Bucky would not make another promise. “I want to show you that things can be safe. I want to get you somewhere you can just… find what you want. Figure out who you are.” 

Something prickled in the back of Tony’s eyes. Was it… 

Oh no. He hadn’t done that in… he couldn’t remember ever doing that. 

“Bucky,” he said. “Please stop talking.” Bucky froze for a moment, moved to pull away. Tony clawed at him, dragged him back. “Don’t move,” he said, “just don’t… don’t talk.” 

Tony would take just a little. Just a pinch of affection.

Because he still loved Bucky. It hurt more than any wound ever could. 

He loved him despite all the time and hurt and struggles. He loved him and he couldn’t stomach the thought. 

Bucky was still warm. Still a steady support. He still wanted to save Tony.

Tony didn’t think he would get out. He still expected to die. 

But he could die loving Bucky. He could die saving Bucky, one more time, for old time's sake. 

Everything was fine. 

Tony felt his body give way to shakes, felt his ribs rattle in his chest. His face felt hot, his hands were cold. And tears were flowing. He tried to cover it up despite the dark, tried to hide it away. But he knew Bucky could tell. 

He held him anyway. He held him together even when Tony’s body felt determined to fall apart.

Everything was fine. 

He didn’t run into a fire-breather that knew him as a child, apparently forcing him into this wretched, violent life. That fire-breather didn’t hit Bucky’s best friend with a flame that would have killed just about anyone else. Steve was not hanging onto his life by the tips of his fingers. Tony was still totally sane and on a mission, and he felt capable of fixing everything that was broken around him. 

Everything was fine!

He did not love Bucky like a starving man loved food, he had a completely normal attachment. He knew what he was feeling, and he was feeling fine. He didn’t even care about the others! He didn’t like Natasha! He didn’t trust Clint! 

His body sunk low, he couldn’t hold still. A broken sob escaped his throat. 

If he kept repeating it enough, it would be true. He was fine, they were fine. Everyone and everything was fine. 

Chapter Text

2016

Bucky

In all the time he’d known him, Bucky had never seen Tony like… like this. Doubled-over with sobs, shaking and collapsing in on himself like the foundations of his being had finally given out. Even when Tony had been beaten and tortured, bruised and broken down, he’d managed to hold himself together to a certain degree. Hurting, but upright. Not okay, but close enough. 

This was not that. 

This was the culmination of a lifetime's worth of hurt hitting all at once. Bucky held on tight, afraid that if he loosened his hold the man might disintegrate right in front of him. He focused on that: the weight in his arms, the stuttering shifting presence of someone breaking into pieces. He knew that the others had woken up; Tony wasn’t exactly being quiet. 

He wanted to talk to Steve. He wanted to sit in his kitchen with his best friend and finally tell the truth: that he was struggling, had been struggling for a long time. That sometimes he trusted Steve more than he trusted himself. And now he was terrified that he might never get to say that to him, because Steve had jumped in front of a human flame-thrower. And Bucky couldn’t even sit and worry and grieve like he wanted, like he needed, because he was too busy trying to be a support for someone else. 

He wanted to ask Clint or Natasha to take a shift, to be the ones with half the answers and all of the problems. He wanted to convince Tony to see things his way, to make him understand that they were in this together. 

He wanted to be able to love Tony, the man, not Tony, the prisoner. 

But Bucky didn’t get what he wanted. He knew that, had made peace with it. 

His therapist would call this line of thinking ‘fatalistic’. Bucky called it survival.

He rested his cheek against Tony’s heaving back and looked over to Natasha, who was staring unabashedly in their direction. She raised an eyebrow. Bucky raised both of his. She nodded. 

She was very good at nonverbal communication. 

She moved very, very slowly, shifting on her knees until she made it around Clint to be in front of Bucky. She laid a hand on his shoulder. 

Clint watched them for a moment, then did the same, reaching over Tony’s bowed back. Bucky felt himself relax, just a little. 

He wasn’t alone in this. He wasn’t carrying everything. 

Slowly, over the course of what felt like hours, Tony managed to calm himself. His breathing remained stuttering and ragged, but seemed to fill more of his frame. He began to quiet, his sobs fading to whimpers, which faded to breaths. 

He slowly raised himself up. Bucky kept one arm on his waist as Clint adjusted to the changed stance. 

Tony, still shaking, looked up with hollow eyes. He didn't seem to see any of the people around him.

Then, Natasha took his hand. Squeezed it. 

Tony stared.

Bucky held his breath, until slowly, cautiously, Tony seemed to squeeze it back. 

“Sorry,” Tony muttered. “It’s been… a long day.” His voice was barely louder than a whisper, as if he had nothing more to say after his emotional confession.

Clint snorted, jostling Tony’s shoulder with his own. “A long week, more like.” 

“Has it been that long?” Bucky asked. He couldn't... had he really lost track already? It all seemed... without realizing, he'd begun to measure time in moments, dramatic instances occurring one after another. Past and present had lost all meaning in the grim slurry of his mind, and the cycle of each day and night bled into the next. A week...

“Just about,” Natasha sighed. “If Fury hasn’t noticed we’re gone by now, I’ll kill him.” 

“He’s coming for us,” Bucky said. He he sounded more sure than he felt, but that was okay. It was important to try to be reassuring. 

Because they needed someone to be looking for them on the outside. Because even if they made it out of this forest, they were still stranded in middle-of-nowhere South America. They needed urgent medical care. They needed transport back to the States. They needed help. 

But now was not the time for such distressing thoughts. 

“For sure,” Clint said. “Hell, he’ll probably never let the Captain out of his sight again after this shit.” 

Natasha snorted. Tony was staring at their interlocked hands. She didn’t let go, didn’t acknowledge his staring. 

Bucky watched Steve on the ground: in the dark, you almost couldn’t see all the burns. He just looked like he was sleeping peacefully. Like he’d managed, somehow, to ignore all the noise and just… rest. For once. 

Bucky hoped that Steve would get some actual rest after this mess. 

“I…” Tony’s voice was low, cracking at the edges. “I’m going to get some sleep.” 

Natasha nodded, “come on,” she said. “I’ll help you get set up.” 

That was… new. Natasha was taking care of Tony. 

She shot him a look, loaded with meaning and depth. 

Natasha was taking care of him so Bucky didn’t have to.

She was sharing the load. 

Natasha led him around so he was on the opposite side of Steve and helped him set his jacket under his head. She murmured something, leaning over him, then sat vigil by his side. 

Clint leaned further into Bucky's space. “Natasha won’t admit it,” he whispered, “but she has a soft spot for tough guys with soft spots.” He groaned. “I swear to you this: after that break down, he’s stuck with her.” 

“You think so?” Bucky asked. He tried not to sound as desperate as he was. 

Clint paused. “Buck, you’re not alone in wanting to help the guy. We all do. Even if he wasn’t so…” he hemmed and hawed for a moment, “vulnerable. It’s enough that you wanna do it.” 

“I care about him,” Bucky said. Though that felt too little a word, because Tony was... he was so much. He was a key to his past, his greatest mistake, the image of everything he'd ever wanted to be (a hero, a rock, a friend), and every way he'd ever failed. Tony was funny, though it seemed it was occasionally unintentional. Tony supported the team, Tony was trying so fucking hard to save him again. He cared about Tony, in the same way he cared about breathing. It wasn't a question, or a desire. It was a necessity, it was as strong as life itself.

“Clearly,” Clint sighed. “Get some rest. Nat’s gonna be on watch duty for a bit: I’d bet money she promised she’d stay up so he wouldn’t need a shift. She sprang it on him while he was emotionally exhausted—she’s calculated like that. I’ll join her from over here. Lots of angles and all that.” 

“Thanks, Clint.” Bucky tried not to groan as he lied down. 

Tomorrow was going to be another long day, he knew. He needed to prepare himself for it, for whatever was going to be thrown their way next. He couldn't lie awake and grieve forever, it wouldn't do anyone any good. He just needed to rest, so that tomorrow he could be better. So he could be the support his team, his entire team, needed.

After everything, Bucky managed to fall asleep within minutes. His night was, blissfully, free of dreams and memories.

Steve was awake in the morning, and cognizant. He was also still visibly burned.

“The damage went deep,” Bucky murmured, helping Steve sit up. “It’s not going to be a quick fix like the bruises and scratches.” 

“Help me stand up,” Steve said, wrapping an arm around Bucky’s shoulders. “Let’s see where I’m at.” 

Bucky stood slowly, lifting Steve up with him. The captain hissed and groaned the whole way, but once they straightened out, he held his own weight. Bucky peeked under some bandages, saw they weren’t bleeding or leaking puss. But the wounds were still angry red pits, pink and strained at the edges. They looked painful.

“You can let go,” Steve said, gently patting Bucky's shoulder. He looked silly, missing so much of his suit. It was singed and torn to reveal expanses of bruised and damaged skin, exposing an alarming amount of his torso to the elements.

“Are you sure—”

“Yes, Bucky, I can stand.” Bucky slowly let go, moved away. Steve was grimacing, but he remained on his feet. “I might be a little slow in a fight,” he admitted, eyeing his shield, which had been lying by his side through the night. 

“We’ve got your back,” Clint said. He moved as if to slap the captain’s shoulder, though he thought better of it at the last second. 

Tony was already taking Bucky’s backpack, now their only one, onto his shoulders. He was avoiding looking at Steve at all. Bucky, momentarily, considered saying something to him, reiterating that it wasn't his fault. But he knew it wouldn't help. Tony needed time, and Bucky's continuous overbearing comments wouldn't help with anything.

“We should take one more stop by the river to get water, then keep moving forward,” Tony said. “If we can find food, even better. Because until we do, we’re fresh out of rations.” 

“Completely?” Clint asked. 

“We’ve got one apple and a few squares of chocolate,” Tony shrugged. “The rest was ruined in the fire.” 

Natasha’s eyes sharpened. “So we’ve got a time limit now.” 

“We’ve always had a time limit,” Steve said. 

“We’re already running on fumes,” Natasha said, “we haven’t had a meal since yesterday. You three have super-metabolisms—”

“I can honestly run on very little if I need to. Not long term, but if I limit the use of my power—” Tony started. 

“I don’t even want to dig into how sad the implications of that are,” Clint said. 

Tony frowned, and Bucky hurried to smooth things out. He didn’t want the mercenary getting all 'I have to make everyone hate me' again. 

“We are all in rough shape. We’re hurt, we’re tired, we’re hungry. Let’s just move as much as we can, and hope all goes well.” Bucky sighed, picking up Steve’s shield to hand it to him.

As they made the trek to the river, Bucky took stock of his companions. 

Steve was trying to keep a straight face, but he was limping heavily. He winced every time he moved his arm or tried to breathe in too deep. His skin still looked like it had been placed over an open fire. 

Natasha was still favoring one ankle over the other. Bucky had caught a glimpse at the swelling, had seen that it was getting worse. Her hand was blistering. She’d put some burn cream on it, but the tub they had found was small and wouldn’t take care of all of the damage. She was more bruise than clean skin, hair a wild mess around her head. She was the most disheveled he’d ever seen her. 

Clint’s shoulder was still a weak point: he was firing quicker than he had before, afraid his arm would give. He didn’t move it when it wasn’t necessary. He knew it was probably infected: Clint did not have the healing ability or the immune system of a super soldier. He needed medicine.

Tony was still acting as if he had fallen from the sky: and he was enhanced, so it was concerning that his injuries were still affecting him so much. He insisted he could get by without food or sleep, but he wasn’t getting by well. And he was quiet, now, after the previous night. 

And himself… well, his entire body was sore. He was starving. He was exhausted. He felt about one bad minute from collapsing entirely. 

Natasha was walking by Tony’s side, leaning over to say something to him. Tony was shaking his head.

Clint bumped against Bucky. “He’s fine,” he said quietly. 

“He had a breakdown last night,” Bucky argued. 

“So? We’re all on the verge of a nervous breakdown, Barnes,” Clint sighed. “I got stabbed by a ghost, and now my arm doesn't work right. Steve got blown up by a fire-breather, and Natasha almost died.” He took a shaky breath. “The things we’re seeing, the things we’re fighting… it takes a toll. We’re all dealing with it in our own ways.” Clint shrugged. “He’s grown up with it. Makes sense he cracked first.” 

Bucky nodded. “Are you gonna crack?”

Clint grinned, though it seemed shakier than normal. “Like an egg. But not yet.” 

“Not yet,” Bucky agreed. He held onto the words, tried to absorb them into his chest.

Not yet. 

When they got out, he was going to…

Yeah. When they got out. 

Natasha smiled softly at something Tony said. Steve was still upright, and doing his best to keep a straight face. 

“Is your shoulder infected?” He asked quietly, glancing at Clint. 

“I…” he trailed off, grimacing. “It’s not looking great. But it still works.” 

“You’ve been missing shots,” Bucky said. And he wasn't making nearly as many as he used to, though he didn't think it was necessary to verbally compound his concerns. “You never miss.” 

“And you’ve been dropping things,” Clint snapped. Ah. So he'd hit a nerve anyway. “Nobody’s in top form right now.” 

Bucky nodded. “We need to clean it up,” he sighed. They couldn't just let it fester, that was not going to end well. 

“We don’t have enough medical supplies to keep undoing and redoing everything.” Clint ran a hand through his hair, frowning, eyes creasing with concern even as he lied through his teeth. “It’s fine. We’re almost there. I can feel it.” 

“These woods look just like the rest of them,” Bucky said. 

“My gut is never wrong,” Clint argued. 

“What about that time your gut told you that the photo studio on Broadway was totally clear, and then that mold thing jumped out at you—”

“I had had a bad burrito before that and it messed me up,” Clint said. “Totally a fluke.” 

“Right,” Bucky snorted. “And that other time, with the taco truck, that was also a fluke.” 

“That taco truck was a trap—”

“You didn’t notice that it was a trap, though—”

“It was designed to deceive me, of course I don’t hold that against my gut—”

“I think your gut was too focused on tacos—”

“Of course it was focused on tacos! Everyone loves tacos!” Clint threw his good arm in the air. “Are you doubting my instincts, Barnes? Because that cuts deep.”

“I would never,” Bucky rolled his eyes. “I trust your instincts completely.” 

“Thank you,” Clint sighed. 

“Food does cloud instincts sometimes,” Tony mused from up ahead. “Especially if you’re hungry. Good way to lure someone.” 

“See! He gets it!” Clint beamed, gesturing at Tony. “That’s why he’s my favorite.” 

“I thought I was your favorite,” Natasha asked, glancing back. 

“You’re my other favorite,” Clint defended. 

“And what about me?” Steve asked innocently.

“Okay, you too—geez guys, if you call it out, it doesn’t work anymore.” Clint sighed. 

“What won’t work anymore?” Natasha tilted her head.

“The charm,” Clint replied.

“I don’t know,” Tony’s smile was small but present, “I still feel pretty charmed.”

“It’ll wear off over time,” Natasha said. “I promise.”

“Sure,” Tony said, shaking his head. 

He seemed… young. He looked exactly the same as he had years ago when they first met. It made it hard for Bucky to remember that Tony didn't know life outside these hellish woods, had hardly interacted with regular people. But he’d seen and experienced horrors that even the most career-focused soldiers and agents couldn’t fathom. 

Well, the team weren’t exactly regular people. But they were close enough. Maybe a good segue into normal. Like the Avengers were a transitory halfway point to average society. 

“Clint, you haven’t said that I’m your favorite,” Bucky cut in. 

“Bucky Barnes, I figured you already knew,” Clint said, slapping his shoulder. “But you are, without a shadow of a doubt, one of my favorites.” 

“One of them—”

“Among the rest of the team, of course.” Clint beamed. 

“Glad we could work that out,” Steve snorted. “For the record, you are all my favorite too.” 

“Aw, don’t go getting sentimental on us, Cap,” Natasha said. “Next you’ll try braiding my hair.” 

“If I could reliably raise my arm up to do it, I would,” Steve grinned. 

“I’m going to hold you to that,” Natasha said. “Heal fast.” 

And this: this was good. Banter, camaraderie. It was light, it was easy, it was exactly what Bucky needed to keep from keeling over. Because his team were good people, who had his back, who knew when to get serious and knew when they all needed to take a load off. They would help carry him through, in as good spirits as was possible, until they were free to crumble in safety.

Bucky let his mind wander to that nebulous place, after all of this. His SHIELD therapist probably thought she’d heard it all: he wondered if she’d ever encountered anything like this. He wondered how he’d stomach talking about it. 

He thought about Steve braiding Natasha’s hair, warm and comfortable, wrapped in blankets. He thought about how Clint would put on some spy movie, and he thought about whether or not Tony had ever seen a movie. He thought about cocooning Tony in so many blankets he’d be shielded from any harsh blow. He thought about how Tony would be fascinated with fictional spy gadgets. 

He thought about Tony doing dumb shit with Clint, because Tony had a mischievous side whether he admitted it or not. He thought about Tony and Natasha training together, because they'd already fought once and he knew they were both itching for more. He thought about Steve and Tony at a coffee shop. He thought about himself and Tony having a real conversation, one about nothing important at all, for the first time. 

He thought about Tony. And he wondered how he always ended up in the same place, and he wondered how long his fascination with the man would last.

“Clint,” Bucky finally said. “You’re my favorite, too.” 

“Oh, I already know,” Clint said, “but it’s great to hear you say so.” 

They refilled their water bottles at the river, and Natasha managed to dig up some more tubers. It really wasn't enough food, and it wasn't nearly as many as last time, but it was something. Bucky drank greedily, trying to fill his stomach, and told himself that their hunger was only temporary, and that they'd have a nice, warm meal soon enough. 

A few hours of walking later, they’d burned through one of their water bottles, Steve was back to leaning on Bucky ‘for support’, and Natasha’s limp was seriously slowing her down. Tony was on Steve’s other side, gun in his hand, eyes darting around the forest. 

“I keep waiting for someone to start up with ‘are we there yet’, but it’s just not happening,” Clint whined, feet dragging in the dirt. Clearly, he was bored. 

Bucky was, personally, okay with being bored. He thought it was much, much better than the alternative of fighting for their lives.

“It’ll be obvious when we’re there,” Tony frowned, tensing minutely, eyes flicking somewhere far off to the left.

“It’s a joke, genius,” Clint sighed.

“I don’t get it,” Tony's shoulders relaxed, and he focused ahead once again.

“It’s a road trip thing,” Bucky tried, unsure what sort of frame-of-reference he was working with. 

Tony hummed, considering. He glanced at Clint, and it seemed some of his previous spark had returned to his eyes. “Are we there yet?” 

“Ask that one more time and I swear I’ll turn this car around!” Steve laughed. The movement jostled his wounds, though he tried to hide it. Bucky barely stopped himself from chastising him for it. 

“We’re not in a car,” Tony pointed out. He seemed distressed. 

“I'll find a movie for you later that references it,” Bucky said, hoping he didn't sound patronizing.

“I saw a movie once, in a theater,” Tony smiled. “I didn’t get to stay for the whole thing, but I liked it. The projector made a nice humming sound.” 

“Most people don’t go to the movies to listen to the projector,” Natasha said. 

“I would,” Tony shrugged, still smiling. Bucky liked it. Tony was smiling more, and it wasn’t his usual scary dangerous one. It was soft, a little nervous. Genuine. A sign, at least, that he was starting to pick himself back up. “I wanna take one apart.” 

“SHIELD has one,” Clint said. “We could steal it!” 

Tony paused, opening his mouth as if to say something. Then, he furrowed his brow and shut it again, apparently deciding against it. Why? What was he going to say? And why couldn't Bucky stop staring at him?

Steve hit Clint with an admonishing glare. “You can’t steal SHIELD's equipment,” he said. "Are you trying to get fired?"

“Come on Steve,” Clint drawled. “It’s about team building! You love team building.” 

“How is that team building?” Bucky rolled his eyes.

“Team heist!” Clint crowed. 

“I’ll bite,” Natasha said. “But you’re still not lowering me from a ceiling.” 

“Does that mean I get to be the hacker?” Tony seemed to shake off whatever was bothering him. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t hack the SHIELD tech as soon as you get there,” Steve said slowly. Then he sighed. “But you can maybe be a distraction.” 

“I can be a very effective distraction,” Tony nodded sagely. 

“Oh, I’ve already got so many ideas,” Clint grinned. “Steve, you’re going to have to be on extraction team. Nobody will believe we’re breaking the rules if you’re there.” 

“I break rules,” Steve frowned.

“But you don’t get caught, which means you have a squeaky clean reputation,” Natasha said. “Unlike Clint, who is suspected of wrong-doing everywhere he goes.” 

“I resent that,” Clint said, though his smile betrayed his good humor. 

Bucky snorted. “I’ll take distraction team. I want nothing to do with the shenanigans.” 

Tony glanced at Bucky. “Am I allowed to blow things up?” 

“No,” Steve and Bucky said at the same time. 

“Bucky will make sure Tony doesn’t do anything illegal to cause a distraction,” Natasha said. “Sounds perfect.” 

God, it was everything he wanted. This was everything. He was still viewed as a part of the team, despite them all knowing what kinds of horrible things he'd once been involved with, and Tony was already being offered a place among them. All the important people in his life, opening space in their lives for the man he…. 

Well. A very important person. 

Clint and Tony were busy discussing logistics of the heist, with Clint doing his best to describe the layout of SHIELD's New York base of operations without exposing too much confidential information, while Bucky allowed himself to relax a little. Steve was a steady—if a little more dependent than usual—presence against his side. And it almost felt normal, having his friend lean against him, smiling with an arm around his shoulders. Bucky felt like maybe they would actually figure it out.

All of the camaraderie, the ever-so-rare moment of peace and comfort, was destroyed in an instant.

A high pitched ringing infected the air. Between one breath and the next, Tony grunted, his now-limp limbs falling out from under him as if someone had flicked a power-off switch. Clint grit his teeth, hands flying up to cover his ears. Natasha leaned over him, moving his hands so she could switch off his hearing aids. When he looked up again, Natasha signed “it’s the tone. Keep them off.” Clint nodded his understanding. 

Steve pulled away from Bucky and tried to catch Tony before he hit the ground, but he moved too quickly, irritating his burns and forcing himself to stop short. Tony fell into a pile on the dirt. 

Bucky dropped to his knees while Steve recovered, dragging Tony’s limp form onto his lap. 

“Tony?” he asked, voice edging on hysteria. He shook the man’s shoulder. Besides rapid movement under his eyelids, Tony didn’t respond. 

“Pick him up,” Natasha had to shout to be heard over the noise. “Something's found us, we need to move.” 

Bucky let her voice guide him. He hauled Tony up onto his shoulder as he moved to stand. Immediately, the team was back to running. Well, running as fast as they could. With how beat up everyone was, Bucky had to slow his own pace or risk losing them entirely. But the tone did not get quieter or fade. 

It just got louder and louder the further they ran. 

“We need to change directions,” Steve said. “We’re running straight toward the source.” 

“We need to take it out,” Natasha growled. She turned to Clint, quickly moving her hands to communicate something that Bucky couldn’t articulate while only occasionally glancing back. 

“We’re not in any shape to handle a big fight,” Steve argued, looking as if saying it physically pained him. 

If only they had a choice. 

“How did you know that name?” Someone called. 

From behind them.

“Tony,” the same figure spat, an acidic bite dripping from the word. “Who told you that?” The voice was layered and slurred, as if spoken through multiple clumsy mouths all at the same time. A deep baritone cut in and out, unable to form complete words while a lighter tone carried the sentence.

Bucky didn’t know whether to run faster or turn around. But he heard Natasha gasp, and that decided it. 

It took a lot to surprise her. 

He found his companions frozen in their tracks, wide eyes taking in the monster that was tracking them. 

It was a hulking figure, easily as tall as two Bucky's stacked on top of one another. His proportions were off: one arm was over-long, over-buff, and nearly dragging on the ground as if the weight of its musculature was too great to bear. The other arm was equally corded with muscle, but stopped around the monster's waist, forced to rest at an odd angle as it wasn't capable of laying flat against his side. His chest was as bulky and stiff as a bundle of steal beams, unclothed, exposing the small hand-held radio that was inelegantly tied to his chest with a colorful array of bungee cords. His skin was stretched and curled, stiff, like a piece of rubber twisted out of shape. His legs were wide and long, with feet as large as clubs. He wore canvas-shorts that were frayed and stained with dirt and something that looked disturbingly similar to drying blood.

But on top of everything else, the most terrifyingly aspect of the monster was his face: he had a mouth that took up half the real-estate of his skull, with an eye bulging from a deep pit of the upper left-quadrant. One eye was missing entirely, covered up by warped and bruised flesh. The monster's nose was squashed low on his face, right up against the top, lip-less edge of his mouth. 

It wasn’t quite as large as the colossal figure Bucky had fought in the lab, but he seemed… wrong. Unfinished. 

“How the fuck did that sneak up on us?” Natasha breathed, eyes wide. She was still staring at the Giant. 

“I’m sneakier than I look,” the massive monster laughed, jaw ripping open like a puppet's to create room for the grating noise, spittle flying forth. “You have something of mine,” he continued, voice a crackling drawl, human and inhumanly deep at once. “I want it back.” 

Before Bucky could react, Clint raised his gun, trigger pulled within the span of a single breath. He hit the radio strapped to the monster’s chest, and the high-pitched tone ceased immediately. 

Natasha gave Clint a thumbs up. He turned his hearing aids back on.

Tony was still limp on his shoulder. 

“You can’t have him,” Steve said, readjusting the shield on his arm. He was trying to hide his injuries, turn them away from the monster. Bucky didn't think it was going to work—it was pretty obvious Steve wasn't in top form.

“I will have it!” the monster bellowed. “It requires… reeducation. Hand it over, and I might let you make it out of here.” 

Bucky tightened his hold on the mercenary. He hated the man who stood in front of him. Because despite everything that had been done to him, despite everything he had done, he was still a man. Bucky refused to believe that the Order actually erased anyone’s humanity. 

The monstrous person before him was a monster long the Order finally dragged him down to their labs. He’d made monstrous choices. It wasn’t the experiments that had done that. It had all been him. 

Tony was different not because he was unchanged, because he wasn’t unchanged. Tony was different because he made different choices. He chose to help Bucky. To save him, to care about his team. Tony chose, every day, to keep fighting for something good. And that was a start. It was proof that he was capable of more than those who created him.

But Bucky still hated the man in front of him, because he knew exactly who this man was—the scarring over his eye was evidence enough, the possessive need to own Tony was a cherry on top.

Jebediah.

Bucky was going to kill him, just as he should have a long, long time ago. He was going to finish what Tony started.

Natasha took a deep breath, steeled her gaze. “Scatter,” she muttered. 

They all moved at once, the team a well-oiled machine honed by years of struggle and practice. 

Immediately, Bucky passed Tony’s prone form to Steve, shoving him against his chest. “Wake him up,” he hissed, “whatever it takes, wake him up.” 

Steve opened his mouth to protest. He tried to raise his bad arm, and flinched so hard Bucky almost apologized. He nodded. 

Bucky needed them both alert, but out of the way. Benching Steve was the only method he could think of to achieve both. 

Steve wasn’t ready to get back into things yet, but Bucky couldn’t afford to watch him. He'd fought one of these before, already knew that his reaction time was necessary to his survival. 

He, Natasha, and Clint would have to do. They would just have keep the giant away from the others. 

Bucky took hold of his pistol, knowing he needed mobility. He ran to the right, firing shots at the giant’s longer arm all the while. 

Jebediah roared, trying to swat the bullets away. But his shorter arm just slapped at the edge of his shoulder, unable to reach across the wide expanse of his chest. He swung his arm back around the other way, catching Natasha’s chest and throwing her back against a tree. 

Clint stuck to using his gun, clearly conscious of his dwindling supply of arrows. He shot the back of the monster's head, managing to duck and roll out of the way of a fist that rocketed toward him. 

Bucky took advantage of being behind the monster by taking a few shots of his own. If they kept it frustrated and moving, they had the best chance at not getting smashed.

He managed to catch Clint's attention, and pointed to his mouth, opening wide. Clint scowled, mouthing 'what the fuck?' Bucky huffed, making a finger-gun and pointing it at his mouth. Clint’s eyes widened. Bucky hoped it was with understanding and not shock-horror. 

Bucky growled, rolling between the monster’s parted knees and sprinting to stand beside Clint. When a leg kicked out to take them both down, Bucky grabbed Clint’s bicep and hauled him roughly aside, dragging him against his chest. He hissed “shoot it in the mouth, dumbass,” before letting go, running away so they were spread out again. Natasha had scaled a tree, using her newfound height to take a shot at the monster’s working eye. She missed once, and had to hold tight to her branch to avoid getting knocked off when the giant punched the tree in a rage. 

“Over here,” Bucky called, hoping to draw the giant's attention back his way. “Ugly motherfucker, I’m talking to you!”

The monster roared, continuing to slam on the tree while Natasha clung on for dear life. 

Bucky spared a moment to check on Steve and Tony: Steve was shaking Tony violently, who was still unconscious. And then: 

A slap. Loud. 

Tony woke up with a coughing gasp, grasping at Steve's arms to steady himself. Good enough. 

Bucky refocused on the task at hand: getting the giant away from the others. He fired another shot, aiming for the back of Jebediah's head, only managing to hit between his shoulders. Bucky ran to the side for a new vantage point. He fired, hit the giant’s ear. “Look at me, you asymmetrical bitch!” 

The monster finally turned. Bucky figured he was probably insecure about his diagonal proportions. He stared at Bucky, baring his crooked, misshapen teeth. Bucky had the sickening feeling it was meant to be a grin. He swung his longer arm out at the same time his shorter one hammered forward. 

Bucky tried to dive out of the way, but the shorter arm rocketed him to the right—straight into the other outstretched hand. 

The oversized fist immediately closed around him, and suddenly, Bucky was being lifted into the air. The hand squeezed his organs to the point he momentarily worried he might pop. He heard his already weakened arm crunch under the pressure. 

“You!” the monster laughed, throwing his head back. Bucky saw red. “I always knew you were trouble! The others bought that you were an oblivious accomplice, but I never did. It never made sense. I know I'm a skilled trainer. I know I broke him well. But you—” the pressure increased, and all the air was forced from Bucky's lungs. “You pushed him into disobedience, and then you let him take the fall. Really, if I weren't so disgusted by you, I'd be impressed.” 

Bucky fought with renewed strength, legs kicking as he tried to twist himself in the monster's grip. He was going to kill this man. He was going to rip out his teeth one by one, he was going to saw him into pieces while he watched. 

“Jebediah?” 

The voice was small, warbling. Bucky tried to look around the giant, but he couldn’t see what was happening. But he knew Tony's voice well enough by now. 

He sounded terrified. 

Jebediah, Tony's handler and lifelong torturer— turned around. 

“Did you miss me, MOTO4?” 

Tony’s eyes were wide. He was standing now, but he stumbled back against Steve’s chest. His mouth was opening and closing rapidly. 

“How—how did you—what—” Tony was already wilting. Bucky could see his shaking, even twelve feet in the air. Steve wrapped an arm around his chest to keep him upright. He had his shield in his other hand, poised in front of them, jaw set with determination. 

“This is how they saved my life, mutt,” Jebediah snarled. Bucky’s world went sideways as he was lifted higher into the air. He squirmed and struggled, but his efforts meant nothing. “Do you like the upgrades?” 

Tony shook his head, mouth gaping. He was white as a sheet. 

Clint shouted, fired his gun. A bullet whizzed past Bucky’s ear, hitting Jebediah’s neck. The monster didn't react. Natasha fired again, hitting the top of the giant's head. 

Bucky needed to get the giant to turn around so Clint or Natasha could target his mouth. Or he needed Tony to take a shot. 

Or he needed to get fucking down. He kicked harder, ripping his shoulder up in a vain attempt to get an arm free.

He heard a scuffle as Natasha started sliding back down the tree, but he couldn’t see her. He couldn't see anything, except for the horrible nightmare that was Tony unraveling in real time. Tony didn’t even reach for his gun. 

“You were dead,” Tony grit out. “I killed you.” 

“Obviously you failed, as all of your little defiances have always failed,” Jebediah roared. “Don't worry, pet, I won’t kill you.” Bucky was swung around again, almost hitting the ground before swooping back up into the air, his stomach rocketing up into his throat. He wasn’t sure if his captor remembered he was there. “Death is too kind a fate for disobedient beasts like you.” 

Jebediah stalked forward, and Tony shrank. As if he were someone helpless, someone who hadn’t spent his entire life training to kill. Steve held him tighter and raised his shield to try and provide more cover, or block the giant from Tony's view. 

Steve's gaze jerked upward, locked onto something behind Bucky. He threw his shield hard, already pulling Tony closer to him as their main mode of defense left his hand. The metal disk slammed into Jebediah's wrist, hitting the limb so hard Bucky could feel the vibrations through his bones. And finally, miraculously, the giant's grip on Bucky loosened.

With one final twist, Bucky was sent hurtling to the ground, landing in the dirt with a festively large cloud of dust. Still trying to catch his breath, he looked up just in time to see Jebediah stalk toward Tony. Steve ran forward, snatched his shield off the ground, and rammed himself into one of the giant's legs. Jebediah stumbled from the impact, but did not go down, catching himself with his too-long arm. His shorter one swung backward, but Natasha managed to slide underneath it, rolling into crouch beside Tony. She raised her gun, aiming at Jebediah’s mouth as he pushed himself upright. 

Her bullet hit his teeth. One cracked. 

Jebediah barreled forward on three limbs, both legs and his longer arm, and Bucky realized with dawning horror that Tony wasn’t moving. He was just… staring. 

“Hey!” Bucky screamed helplessly. He fired his gun, but Jebediah didn’t even acknowledge him. "I'm tryna' talk to you, you fugly piece of shit!" He fired a few more rounds, which were completely ignored. Steve rammed into Jebediah’s side, this time using his shield to carry the impact. The monster stumbled, but only paused long enough to flick Steve to the side. Clint fired again from behind, but he was given as much attention as Bucky was. 

“Tony!” Natasha shouted, but the mercenary didn’t seem to hear her. His eyes were wide with fear. Terror. 

When Jebediah finally reached him, Bucky could hardly breathe. He cursed and ran toward them, shouting and firing to try and get the giant's attention.

But he was too slow, still recovering from the drop, still trying to make up for all the ground that was lost because he'd insisted Tony stay out of the way.

Natasha rammed into Tony’s side, slapping his head at the same time. They went down together, with one of Natasha’s arms raised high. 

She fired four shots, all flying into Jebediah’s mouth. 

One exited out of the back of his skull. 

The giant roared, rearing back onto his feet, and Steve flung his shield into the air, catching his neck. He fell back. Bucky was now right beside the monstrous man’s head. He fired three more shots into his mouth. 

Jebediah’s chest stopped moving. 

Bucky turned to look at Tony and Natasha. Tony was on the ground, shaking. Natasha was still on top of him, head bowed to say something in his ear. 

Bucky rushed toward them. 

“He’s dead,” Natasha was whispering, hand wrapped around Tony's shoulder, shaking it gently. “For real this time. He's dead. Tony, get up. You need to get up.” 

Bucky sat on his knees in front of Tony, who now had his eyes squeezed shut. His chest was rising and falling rapidly. “Tony, come on,” he tried, though even he found it unconvincing. 

Steve and Clint jogged up to meet them, but he kept his eyes trained on Tony. Tony, who was terrified on the ground. Who still wasn’t moving. Who seemed to be somewhere else entirely, and they couldn't afford that, because they were still here.

“Tony, you have nothing to be afraid of anymore,” he pleaded. A lie, a kind lie, but a lie all the same. It was desperate but necessary. He needed to get through to him quickly, he had no idea if reinforcements were close behind. “Please get up. Come on.” 

Tony cracked his eyes open, clenched his mouth shut. His nostrils were flaring. 

“We have to go now. I’m going to move, and you move with me, okay?” Natasha climbed off of him slowly, but Tony didn’t follow. 

Tony mumbled something, but Bucky didn’t catch it. 

“Come on,” Bucky tugged on his arm, but Tony just growled. 

“They’re going to do that to me,” Tony gasped, ripping his arm away. He was shaking, eyes wild. “Or worse. If they would do that to a handler, what kind of thing are they going to turn me into? I’m—” he gasped, pushing himself away from them, curling into himself, “I’m nothing. I’m—” 

“Tony,” Bucky said. He moved in close, falling to his knees before grabbing Tony's biceps, forcing him to still. “Tony, it’s time to get up, it's time to go. I’m not going to let them have you, but you have to move. They will not touch you ever again.” 

Tony swallowed thickly, jerking out of Bucky's hold. He shoved himself up to his feet and walked forward without another word. His eyes were trained on the fallen body. 

“He’s dead,” Clint said. “I checked.” 

Tony ignored him. Bucky moved to follow behind, to make sure he was okay. 

Tony stood beside the fallen handler’s head, staring. Then he pulled out his gun. 

“Tony—” Bucky wanted to assure the mercenary again that he was safe, that they needed to move without wasting anymore time with a body that was likely being monitored. 

But his voice was drowned out by a booming chorus of gunfire, as Tony fired shot after shot into the monster’s mouth, ignoring the blood that sprayed onto his clothes and hand. He kept shooting until his gun clicked, empty. He continued pulling the trigger anyway. 

His hands were shaking when he finally looked back at the team. He was pale, he looked exhausted. He looked empty. “Good thing we have that backup ammo.” 

Then he let his arm fall, and he walked toward Bucky. 

Bucky opened his arms on instinct. Tony’s face fell hard into his chest, and Bucky felt him take a long, deep breath. Bucky wrapped his arms around him, wishing it was enough. 

“That’s not going to happen to you,” Bucky said quietly. The words were a thin comfort, but they were something. Even if Tony wasn't ready to believe it, Bucky was. And Bucky was not going to fail Tony again.

Tony didn't respond, taking another deep breath before pulling away. He was silent as he returned to the team, who were impatiently allowing Tony a moment to get whatever cathartic release he needed. Natasha locked eyes with Bucky. 

Bucky wasn't sure what to communicate with her this time. 

Tony was not doing okay. And they had to find a solution, fast. Because they really needed all hands on deck. But how was he supposed to combat that kind of bone-deep fear? How was he supposed to convince the mercenary to keep fighting in the real world, when so many of the monsters were trapped inside of his head?

He finally allowed himself to turn his attention to Steve, who was also supposed to be sidelined for that battle, but had been forced into action when everything swung out of control. Blood was now steadily leaking through the bandages wrapped around his arm, and he was holding almost perfectly still, as if afraid moving would only make things worse. Bucky swallowed, gesturing weakly at the injuries. “Your—”

Steve shook his head. “I did what I had to do. It’ll heal.” 

“Steve…” 

“Bucky,” Steve’s eyes were soft. He held his shield tighter, raising his chin defiantly. “I know what I’m doing. I’ll be okay.” 

Bucky wanted to argue that Steve was the king of pushing himself too hard, of not taking enough care of his own wellbeing. His friend was the most likely to kill himself trying to save the rest of them. But he didn’t want to start that fight right now. They had made so much progress in improving morale, and had already destroyed it enough. No need to take any more steps backward. 

Bucky huffed. “Let’s just get away from here,” he said. He shook out his arm, checking for issues—it still seemed to work fine, but it was definitely... wonky. Bent out of shape.

Natasha crossed her arms, addressing Tony. “Is there any way to make that tone less effective against you? Because it seems they're more than willing to use it now, even in the forest.” 

Tony shook his head, moving to take the backpack off of his shoulders. “It’s audible, but the frequency targets my chip directly. Even if we found a way to cut off my hearing, I'd still disengage.” 

“And is there a way to cut off your chip?” Clint asked. “You know, now that we’re past the whole ‘ordering you around’ thing.” 

Tony flinched, digging through the bag until he found the spare ammunition, using it to reload his gun. He wouldn't meet their eyes when he replied. “I’m not allowed to touch my own chip. It’s one of the most ingrained rules for me.” He absent-mindedly rubbed the back of his neck, before replacing the pack on his shoulders. “Last time I touched one, I fried it—and the guy’s brain.” 

Clint shivered. “Yeah, okay. Bad idea then.” 

“So we’ll deal with it as it comes,” Natasha sighed. She didn't seem happy about it. “It just... it doesn't make sense. He was clearly enhanced. But he was using it, and it didn’t affect him.” 

“Handlers don’t get chipped,” Tony said, as if it were obvious. 

“Right,” Steve grimaced. “Let’s go.” 

They were back to erring on the side of closeness as they walked, nearly bumping into one another. Bucky thought they were a pretty funny sight. Earth’s mightiest heroes, barely able to walk through the woods. 

He leaned into Tony’s side. “How are you doing?” he muttered. He was concerned, admittedly. They'd gotten some pretty good distance from the site of their last battle, but Tony had fallen back into silence, chewing on his dehydrated lips until they bled. 

Tony’s eyes were vacant when he answered. “I used to think that if I ever stopped hating him, I would die.” 

Ah. So pleasant things were on his mind, then.

“You’re still here,” Bucky tried, flailing a little. “Alive and kicking.”

Bucky wanted to commiserate, to somehow make Tony feel less alone, but he didn't have a lot of preexisting knowledge about Jebediah. He hadn't interacted with handlers much when he was with the Order as an instructor.

But he had... an idea. Based on the way Tony spoke about him a little differently than he did other leaders. Based on all the bruises and the reprogrammings, based on the way Tony still, even after killing him twice, seemed afraid of the idea of him. Based on the way Tony had sometimes exhibited a grim sense of pride when Jebediah had been impressed by Bucky's progress reports. 

“I still hate him.” Tony frowned, holding his gun tighter. Bucky wondered if he was aware of the tell. “But it’s not as warm as before. It’s soured.”

Bucky didn’t really know how to respond to that. Because it was... the hate was justified, and while Bucky's therapist would advise him to work on letting go, that wasn't really possible for Tony in his current state. And whether it was fear, grief, or rage that was keeping Tony locked in his head, it was his to deal with. And for once, Bucky didn't think he had any experience to compare it to. He couldn't connect.

“Are you okay?” Bucky asked. It was something. An attempt. Even if the answer was obvious, it still felt important to ask.

Tony paused. Seemed to consider. “Honestly?” He posed it as a question, as if he genuinely expected Bucky to refuse. And why would Bucky refuse? 

Did Tony think Bucky would think less of him? Did he think Bucky wouldn't care about his feelings?

“Always,” Bucky said. 

“I’m scared,” Tony admitted. He said it carefully, as if considering every word. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so afraid in my life, and I don’t know how to function like this.” 

“You knew what was out here,” Clint said, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. “You didn’t seem scared before.” 

“I didn’t think I had anything at stake before,” Tony said. “Or I was ignoring it. I just thought we’d all die out here, and that would probably be better than going back there.” He squared his shoulders, hardly acknowledging the slightly horrifying-implications of what he'd just said about the chances of the rest of the team. “But I don’t want all of you to die out here. And… I don’t want to be turned into that. I... I have something to lose. And I don’t know how to deal with it.” 

“You fight like hell,” Steve said, wrapping his good arm around Tony’s shoulders. “And you keep fighting until you can’t anymore.” 

“And you run like hell,” Natasha added. “Find a goal, get to it. Let the fear get you after.” 

Bucky didn’t know if that was great advice, but if it was what Tony needed to actually move forward, so be it. They could all have panic attacks in a hospital. The nurses would get to see their heroes fall apart on the floor and then feel really nervous next time aliens attacked New York. 

Bucky shrugged. “I’m scared too,” he said, “but we’re gonna figure it out. We’re gonna escape. And you’re gonna have coffee.” He glanced at Tony. “I keep saying that to myself. Maybe you should try sayin’ it too.” 

Tony's eyes darkened, but he smiled anyway, as if ignoring the storm in his head. “Of course.” 

Bucky had a horrible feeling in his gut that Tony was thinking something awful. 

But Tony spoke again, glaring at Steve. “You hit me,” he said. Apparently, they were changing the subject.

“You were unconscious,” Steve defended. 

“That doesn’t mean you had to slap me,” Tony said. “I feel like my jaw got cracked by an American Flag pole.” 

Steve actually blushed. “I didn’t mean to hit you that hard.” He still had his arm around Tony’s shoulders and moved to pull away, but Tony just patted his hand, stopping him. 

“I’m messing with you,” he said. “I didn’t know that would work. It was a shock.” 

“Next time I’ll slap you,” Natasha grinned. “I promise it’ll be just as effective.” 

“I believe you,” Tony shrugged. “You stabbed me, remember?” 

Natasha rolled her eyes. “You hold a grudge.” 

“I’m not holding a grudge,” Tony put a hand to his chest as if he was offended. 

He seemed calmer, at least. Even if his eyes kept darting around. Even if they were still dark and stormy, and seemed to be seeing something else entirely. 

They did not make camp that night, didn’t want to prolong their time in the forest any longer than necessary. 

The forest felt denser, even though the trees were as common as before. The air was… heavy. Cloying.

Bucky felt like he could taste his own desperation in the breeze.

It tasted like stale blood and broken promises.

Chapter Text

2016 

Tony

Tony felt his ankle catch against a stray vine, forcefully righting himself on the object nearest to him—which just so happened to be Clint’s arm—nearly toppling the man right beside him. Clint cursed, Tony cursed, but they somehow kept their footing. 

Tony’s lungs were burning like they never had before. They’d been running without pause for what felt like at least an hour. But the laughter and whooping behind them was a very helpful reminder of why they couldn’t stop. Super motivational. His oxygen-starved mind mused on recording the noise for future workout routines, before he remembered that he probably had no future and therefore would never work out recreationally. This thought was considerably less motivational, so he mentally tossed it behind him and hoped their pursuers would catch it. 

“Captain America!” A high, hysterical voice called from behind them, “I’ve wanted a piece of you for years!” 

Steve somehow managed to gag while maintaining speed. “Oh, fuck no,” he huffed, pushing even faster. He was already maintaining a lead ahead of them despite his skin still appearing half-bruleed. Tony always thought super soldiers didn’t get scarred. Hell, Tony himself only had a few; it was a hard thing to do. And Steve’s healing was better than his. 

But he could already see that some of the skin was healed but textured. Reddened. 

Natasha fell beside him; Bucky hauled her back up without breaking his stride. “I’ll carry you if I have to,” he wheezed, "but you can’t stop now.” 

“We’re not going to outrun them,” she panted back. “We should just fight them and get it over with.” 

Tony shook his head. “There’s too many. The trap is close, I can feel it now. We need to use it to our advantage.” 

“You’ve been talking about this trap for miles, Tony,” Clint snapped. “How much farther is it?” 

Right on cue, the ground began to tremble. 

2 Hours Before 

“I’m hungry,” Clint whined. He’d been given slightly-less than a quarter of an apple, and about ⅕ of the remaining chocolate. It wasn’t much. 

Tony silently held out his piece of apple. He didn’t really want or need it; he’d lost his appetite. Besides, he'd been a consistently bad operative. He’d been sent to bed without meals enough to withstand a little hunger. Clint shook his head. “You need to eat, too,” he protested. 

Tony shrugged. “Not really,” he said, throwing the piece of apple at Clint, forcing him to pick it out of the air. “But it would probably be helpful to find a food solution.” They'd been on the move for a while, dawn was breaking through the trees. He looked around. “To be honest, we were never given survivalist lessons. I guess they didn’t think it was necessary since we usually had a handler with us on the outside. I don’t know what might be edible out here.” 

“Surprisingly little,” Natasha said. “I’ve been keeping an eye out. This forest was designed to be inhospitable, I can’t imagine it was stocked with lots of edible plants. More likely poison is scattered throughout.” 

“Yeah,” Steve said. “I think I spotted some no-good berries about a mile back.” 

Bucky bit a piece off of his hunk of chocolate. “Anything in the trees?” His eyes drifted skyward. 

Tony followed his gaze, analyzing the foliage above them. If there was any fruit, it was concerningly high up. He couldn’t see anything from the ground. He considered his condition in terms of how well he could climb a tree. That slash on his ribs from his fight with Natasha had mostly healed, though stretching it too far might risk reopening a bit of the wound. His ribs still felt a little more delicate than was strictly ideal. His knee was twinging unexpectedly and his shoulder was… fine. A little swollen and bruised, but functional. He could probably climb a tree. He was almost certain. 

“I can get a better look,” he offered, stretching his back. 

“You just said you don’t know how to recognize food,” Natasha pointed out. 

He shot her a glare. “I can figure it out. If I see anything, I'll toss it down and ask you if it’s worth getting more.” 

Natasha rolled her eyes, waving a hand as if to say 'alright, get it over with.' 

He was determined to make himself useful. No more choking or crying or hesitating. He was going to be valuable, and helpful. Better. He was going to feed them so they wouldn't starve before he could get them out, and so they had the energy to keep saving his ass when he failed. 

He was done disappointing people. 

He took a few steps back, giving himself a good running-leap up to the nearest branch he could reach. He caught it between his hands, swung his leg to haul himself up. There. Only a couple dozen more to go. 

He worked quickly getting up the tree, refusing to break focus or look down at his companions until he’d neared the top. When branches started to grow thinner, he paused, eyes scanning the foliage that surrounded him. 

He didn’t see any different leaves, fruits, or hints of flowers or vines that might indicate something edible. 

He did see a flicker of movement a few trees away. He locked onto it immediately. He considered getting closer—there was a good, thick branch within jumping distance. It would probably hold his weight. He decided to go for it. 

When he landed, his feet went a little right, and he ended up hanging. 

“What’s going on up there?” Bucky called.

Tony ignored him, lifting himself up as well as he could before swinging his leg back up onto the branch. As he inched forward, closer to the trunk, he saw the movement again. A little rustle in the leaves. But it was still another two trees away, hidden by foliage. He carefully shuffled, getting around the trunk and moving to the other side. This time, the nearest tree had a limb reaching close enough he could step onto it. 

He inched forward, trying to make as little noise as humanly possible. 

And then, he saw it. 

A small bird. Nibbling at berries a little higher up than he was. 

There were not supposed to be birds in the forest. And those berries were definitely 'no-good berries', quoting the Captain.

Shit. 

The bird was silent, not chirping or tittering as one might expect it to do. It was not joined by others. It was a dull, muddy brown color the whole way around, so it blended near-perfectly with the tree trunk. It tilted its little head down to look at him. 

Its eye held a peculiar glow. 

Shit shit. 

He reached out with his power, felt the small mechanism that was buried in its tiny round skull. A transmitter. Hardly anything at all: a camera the size of a pin’s needle behind its eye, a microphone embedded in its throat. The bird was organic with little bits of machinery worked in. 

A cyborg-bird. A cy-bird. If he wasn’t so sick with dread, he might have laughed. 

He let the feelers of his power reach out, trying to maintain complete silence and stillness. 

There was a little, tiny chip in there. One slight push, and he could turn off the whole thing. It would probably kill the bird, but it would destroy the transmission. He didn't know if the bird stored footage as memory or if it was a livestream, but it was too risky to leave it alone. 

He inched his power forward, targeting that little chip. 

The recoil from the brief contact felt like a jolt of lightning that singed down his brain stem while punching him in the throat. He felt his body tilt back, until he was falling freely into the air, branches slamming into his limbs, snagging at his clothes and scraping against hints of bare flesh. 

Not again.

As soon as he could breathe, he reached out, managing to catch himself on a branch. He'd accidentally hung using his bad shoulder, and barely managed to choke back his scream as the swollen joint did its best not to rip apart again. He was hovering about ten feet in the air, further from the group than he'd originally intended. 

Okay, so there was a rebuke mechanic in the bird. Specifically meant to target and prevent him from using his power. He hadn’t been aware that existed. Inconvenient. Slightly impossible? How had they done that?

But even worse, when he looked up… the bird was gone. Flown away. Still alive. Transmitting. 

Shit shit shit.

He made his way back to the ground as quickly as he could. He was sure he looked insane, probably covered in leaves and scratches, but that didn’t matter. Time was of the utmost importance, now. 

“We have to go,” he said as soon as he saw the others. They all whipped around to face him. 

“Where the hell did you go?” Bucky asked, visibly irritated. “You just disappeared.” 

“I saw a bird,” Tony said. “It’s not important, we need—”

“You saw a bird?” Clint tilted his head. “What does that matter?” 

Natasha looked at him like he was stupid. “How many animals have you seen here, Clint?” She turned back to Tony. “What was wrong with it?” 

“It was a transmitter,” he threw his hands up. “We need to go now, come on—”

“Why didn’t you just, you know,” Steve waved his hand, “turn it off.” 

“I tried,” Tony growled, “it has some sort of defense. Against me specifically, probably, because as far as I know no one else can do what I do. Which means—”

“It’s tracking you specifically,” Bucky sighed. “And it just saw you.” 

“And the recoil nearly blew me out of the tree. So when I say we need to go—” 

“Alright, come on,” Steve said, already moving with great haste through the woods. 

As they walked-almost-jogged through the woods, Tony kept his eyes and ears peeled. He listened for flutters or rustles, tried to spot darting up ahead that didn’t seem to exist. 

Until…

“Did you hear that?” Steve muttered, already moving just a little faster. 

Tony had. It was a tweet. After so much time traveling in near-silence, the noise of another living thing was supremely unsettling. He also knew that it had only made the noise for his benefit. To let him know that they were coming for him. 

He did not run, but he started to jog. “Shit,” is all he said aloud, but he was sure his tone communicated the gravity of the situation. 

Soon, there was a fluttering noise ahead of them. He saw two of the birds hovering in the trees. 

“Are they surrounding us?” Natasha hissed. 

“Ignore them,” Bucky said, even as he matched Tony’s jog. The others followed. 

Three clustered to their right. Two more on the left. One flew over their heads going in their direction, another flew back the opposite way. 

They were running now, even as the bird song kicked up in pitch, in volume. Even as the dim fluttering became a cacophony as dozens of birds began to land and settle along the branches that surrounded them on all sides. 

The birds were all the same: Fist-sized, muddy brown, round as a baseball. They were identical, no variation in look or song or wingspan, no apparent difference in sex or age. 

One chirped right by his ear, and Tony couldn’t help the flailing of his arm as he attempted to slap it out of the air. 

“How many of these things are there?” Clint asked, ducking instinctively when one swooped over his head, brushing up the strands of his hair. 

“I don’t know,” Tony ground out. One landed on his shoulder and he almost jumped out of his skin. He looked at it out of the corner of his eye. 

It was staring, making eye contact. Its eyes were dull, reflective. Dead but alight with something. Tony gripped it in his fist, and it didn’t even attempt to get out of the way. He squeezed, dropping the carcass without breaking his stride. 

Another soon took its fallen comrade's place. He growled, jerking his shoulder back in hopes he’d dislodge it. It’s tiny talons, apparently much sharper than he’d anticipated, just dug into the fabric of his jacket. 

More birds were descending: they populated every tree they passed now, easily hundreds of identical birds watching and singing and flapping. They swooped over their heads, forcing them to duck and flail to get them away. 

Tony watched one scratch Bucky’s face before trying to settle in his hair. One was twirling circles around Natasha’ head despite her attempts to shove and bat it away. 

Tony wondered for a moment if he was losing his mind. He grabbed the bird on his shoulder, before he could kill it another took its place. Another landed on his other shoulder. He flung both arms out, taking up a knife before swinging it wildly. It did nothing to disperse the birds that seemed to swarm most heavily around him. As soon as one went down, a new one took its place. They did not attempt to outmaneuver his strikes, each one hit the ground with a thud as if it hadn’t even processed his attack. But there were so many. It didn’t matter if he killed one, it was easily replaced by two more.

A laugh bubbled up in his throat, unbidden but unstoppable. Tiny little songbirds with microchips in their brains. That was going to be his undoing. 

Fucking birds. 

For an ugly moment, the creatures they’d met before flashed in his mind, the people who were changed to resemble the little demons around them.

They didn't matter. Not to him. Not to anyone. They were... gone. Poor fuckers never stood a chance. Tony wasn't like that, he wasn't going to be like that. The Order wasn't going to catch him, not alive.

He was in control. He could do this. He just needed... he needed to focus. 

He was distracted enough that one of the little fuckers managed to hit him square in the face. He spit feathers on the ground. There were two of them on each shoulder now. 

He felt a weight on his shoulders: Bucky, slamming down. Tony hardly registered the four bird deaths that occurred. Bucky wrapped an arm around him:

“Come on,” he mumbled. It was as if he'd read Tony’s mind. 

Tony wondered if he could, if that was possible. If you loved someone enough, trusted them enough, did that give them insight into your thoughts? 

Maybe he was just thinking about the same thing. 

Huddled against Bucky’s side, Tony was free to notice exactly how screwed they were: the birds were everywhere. They weighed down branches with their bulk, they hopped and chittered on the ground in massive packs as they picked away at nonexistent insects. There were now two circling Natasha’ head, even as Clint swung his hand trying to throw them off course. Steve had to raise his shield over his head to keep them away as they had taken to dive-bombing him from every angle. 

“Can we get rid of them somehow?” Clint asked, finally managing to swipe one out of the air with his knife. It was replaced by a new one within seconds. 

“I can try—” Tony started, but Bucky grunted. 

“Last time it threw you out of a tree,” he snapped. 

“Well, if you have a better idea, by all means—” Tony began to snarl. 

But then. 

All the birds, as if possessing a single consciousness, paused. 

“I hate that,” Steve said, still running. Tony couldn’t disagree. 

The birds flew straight up, all at once. 

“That can’t be a good sign,” Natasha said. 

“Keep running,” Tony said. That was his way of verbally agreeing with both of them. 

Bucky actually heard it first, something that irked Tony to no end. He was too busy trying to drown out the noise of his own heavily beating heart. 

“Is that laughter?” Bucky asked. He pulled Tony closer to him, almost tangling their legs together. Tony wondered if it was a conscious move or not. 

Tony forced his mind to expand, willed his ears to attune to the outside now that the infernal chirping had ceased: 

There it was. A hysterical, high pitched laugh. Sharp as broken glass, as soothing as nails-on-a-chalkboard. 

“Shit,” he breathed. This time, it was a thought to share with the group. Because this time, they were all royally, monumentally screwed. 

“What is it?” Steve snapped, but Tony was too busy panicking to answer. 

Fucking Goddamned bullshit fuck shit. 

He could smell them: musk and mud and blood. They howled and hollered, high on the thrill of the chase. 

The birds were scouts. A diversion, maybe. A confirmation, if nothing else. 

He could practically taste the blood as if it coated his teeth. Could feel the high of adrenaline as if he had been taken into their maniacal pack. 

“Tony? Tony why do you look like that?” Clint asked. His eyes were wide. “You’re looking kind of—”

“You’re grinning,” Natasha snapped. 

Tony focused. He forced his features back to normal, to the grave dread he was supposed to be feeling. 

The high of the hunt was a powerful thing. 

But he wasn’t part of them now, not this time. This time, he was their prey. 

“It’s like a drug to them,” Tony said, “and to anyone running with them. It’s like, it’s—”

“To who, Tony?” Bucky’s weight around him was a grounding force. Tony tried to focus on that, rather than the heat in his muscles that urged him forward— run run kill bite slash run run run!

“The hunters,” Tony said. His heart, impossibly, seemed to kick up a notch at the word. “They’ve found us. The birds, they must be like dogs, but the hunters are also dogs so it’s—”

“You’re not making any sense,” Clint interrupted. He was tense. 

“They hunt,” Tony tried to explain. It seemed obvious to him. “It’s what they’re made for. They’re good at it.” 

“And they’re hunting us,” Natasha said. 

“I thought that was obvious,” Tony said. “Same as the mimics: they target blood. They’ve probably got loads of ours by now. They can smell it on us.” 

“But we’ve been trying to dress wounds—” Steve started. 

“But we’re not perfect,” Tony snapped. “And it’s not just blood. Sweat, wounds, the beginnings of illness and infections—” Clint flinched, and Tony ignored it. “It’s all got a trace. Hell, we’re so rank even I can get a whiff of it.” He shook his head. He felt light-headed. He felt like he could feel their breath on the back of his neck, the phantom pain of a bite on his ankle, dragging him down and back into a ceaseless maw— “Now they know where we are. They’re close.” 

“We can take them,” Natasha said. 

Tony choked on his laugh. It wasn’t funny. It was actually very unfunny, but his gut felt bubbly and odd and his lungs felt dry. “No, we can’t. They hunt in packs.” He let his mind wander, honed in on the noise. Let the feelers of his power poke around, counting the chips he could from a great distance. “We’re probably outnumbered.” 

“We’re not your average prey,” Steve said, but Tony did not like that glint in his eye. It was the look of someone ready to turn around and fight for their life. It was the look of someone who had no idea what they were actually dealing with. 

“They’ll slaughter us and laugh while doing it,” Tony growled. He pushed himself to run faster, because that was the only sane option. Running and running and running until they were caught. “They'll tear out your throat while disemboweling you. They will rip your head off your shoulders with their bare hands.” 

“Ew, Tony, ew,” Clint gagged. “You don’t have to paint a mental picture, really, I get it—”

“I need you all to understand how they are different,” Tony snapped. “They’re not like the others. This is their purpose. The thrill of the hunt is all they live for. Finding us is like… it’s euphoria. They’ll destroy us.” 

“So what do you suggest?” Natasha asked. “We can’t exactly run forever.” She was struggling to match their pace. Tony belatedly remembered the state of her ankle, and how it was not ideal.  

“I’m working on it,” Tony said. He wracked his brain, trying to find a solution. He strained his power to the limits of his ability, no longer caring about reserving his energy. He reached out for something, anything that might be around to help. 

And then, he found it. It being something... He wasn’t sure what, as it was still quite a ways away. But he felt some sort of structure or power up ahead. A trap, probably. Hopefully a useful one. 

“Anything?” Bucky asked, breaking Tony’s concentration. He was watching him, as if he could sense the strength Tony was exerting to make anything happen. 

“I think there’s a trap up ahead,” Tony said. “We might be able to use it.” 

“Use it how?” Bucky pushed. 

“I don’t know yet,” Tony admitted. “But I know it’s probably our best shot.” 

“As long as it doesn’t trap us,” Natasha snapped. 

“Yeah, that would be bad,” Tony said. “But I still think it’s our best shot.” 

“Okay, we’ll try that,” Steve grunted. “How far is it?” 

Tony grimaced. “Far.” 

“Incredible,” Clint huffed as he jumped over a fallen log. “Love this! Running blindly in the hopes of a miracle. That always goes well.” 

“Do you have a better idea?” Tony growled. He broke away from Bucky: he needed to focus. It was far too difficult to focus when he was all wrapped up in another person. 

And Bucky was a very distracting person. 

Tony struggled to maintain his footing as the world trembled beneath him, chains shooting up from the ground as if they’d been hiding there for years. Tony saw something out of the corner of his eye: nearly translucent, perfectly hidden between the trees… except it caught the light, glistening slightly. 

“Here!” Tony shouted, kicking up dirt as he slid to a stop. “Nobody move!” 

Clint was the first to halt, Bucky the next, nearly barreling into his back. Tony instinctively raised a hand to steady him. Steve and Natasha stopped a little ahead, jogging back. 

“This does not seem like a good place to fight,” Clint said, eyeing the explosions of dirt as more chains appeared. They were already wrapping around tree limbs or embedding within trunks, crossing over and tangling with one another. 

“We have a chance to get a lay of the land,” Tony snapped, “they don’t. Let’s take advantage.” He was already scanning his surroundings, crouching down to press his hands into the dirt. He could feel the pulley systems, the computer calibrating the whole thing. It wasn’t targeted, it wasn’t focused. They had triggered it by walking into the right area, but it was random now. “It’s meant to capture and immobilize targets,” Tony said, sighing. “The chains are meant to lash out and drag us into the matrix its forming. It’s also meant to keep us in the middle.” 

“So we should get out of the middle,” Clint said, eyes wide.

“I think…” Tony furrowed his brow, pushed deeper. “It’s on a timer. We’ve got… about 7 minutes and twenty-seven seconds before it's enclosed.” 

“So we have to get out by then?” Natasha asked. 

“And make sure any surviving hunters are in,” Tony finished. 

“And that stuff?” Steve jerked his chin toward a shimmering light to his right. 

“It’s like a web, I think there are a few lurking around in here. They're probably meant to keep us from escaping before the time limit.” Tony shrugged. “Don’t touch it, we’d have to cut you out.” 

“Are we actually doing this?” Bucky turned to Tony. “You think this will work?” 

Tony wanted to say no, be honest and say that he was almost certain they were about to be eviscerated and eaten. But it didn’t seem like that would endear anyone to his plan. “Yes,” he lied. “I think this is our best bet at beating them, as long as we use the terrain to our advantage.” 

A chain shot up right under his right foot, and he had to jump aside or be taken down. Not exactly a great confidence booster for his plan. He huffed. “I’ll do my best to keep an eye on how its developing and give you all warnings and hints without giving it all away.” 

The cheering and whooping was getting louder, the laughter more raucous by the second. “It might be hard in the middle of everything,” he admitted. For the first time in recent memory, he was… nervous, before a fight. Terror, that he knew. Confidence: he was intimately aware of. But nerves were new. It made him feel both lighter on his feet and much, much dumber. 

“Keep yourself safe, do the best you can. I’ll watch your back,” Bucky said gravely. “I won’t let anyone sneak up on you while you’re distracted.” 

Tony tried to let the reassurance sink in, but by the time he processed it, the hunters were already in sight. 

A squad of twelve arrived, lithe and covered in light tactical gear, armed to the teeth. 

“I’d love to get my hands on some of those weapons,” Natasha muttered. 

“You can try, gorgeous,” the man in front grinned, revealing razor sharp teeth. “Why don’t you folks do us all a favor and step on out of there. We can discuss things like adults.” 

“No,” Steve said, already in a battle stance. “If you want us, you’ll have to come and get us.” 

The woman to his right laughed, revealing three rows of her own deadly teeth. Her words were a little slurred, hindered by her over-filled jaw. “An invitation!” She squealed. “I thought you’d never ask.” 

As soon as they took a step forward, Tony already had one of his last daggers in hand. He flicked it, nailing one of the hunters in the eye. It was typically a sure hit: rarely were the eyes modified beyond sight. Rarely were they strong enough to withstand a direct hit. 

He'd gambled well: the hunter went down. Lovely. One down, 11 to go. 

“That was stupid,” the leader laughed. “Already a weapon down, MOTO4. Not the strategy you usually go for when outnumbered.” 

Tony tried to channel all the animalistic rage he’d accumulated through years of being treated just like the fuckers in front of him. All the rage he'd channeled into Jebediah's dead fucking jaw. All the rage necessary to keep his own jaw intact. “I’ll get a new one,” he smirked. 

The hunters descended quickly, leaving no more room for taunting or bickering. 

Hunters were fast, faster than any other experiment Tony had encountered. They could also jump like nobody else. Already, one was pouncing on him, hitting him square in the chest with his knees, sending him to the ground while slashing at his face with knuckles adorned with long-metal claws. Tony slashed out with his last knife, cutting into one of the hunters wrists with enough force to tear the muscles and tendons that lie below. The hand went limp immediately, the brass-knuckles sliding to the ground. Tony whipped them into his free hand, going for the hunter's throat. The hunter leaned back, cutting Tony’s chest into thickly-bleeding ribbons. 

Bucky appeared behind the hunter, wrapped his hands around his unsuspecting head, and snapped his neck in one smooth motion. He helped Tony to his feet without a word, before turning to find another target. 

Two down. 

Tony turned, spotted Clint to his right embroiled in his own fight. Clint was good with his gun, but the hunters were tricky. At close range, they were great at weaving past bullets. He saw one with a machete slash into Clint’s thigh while the other tazed him on the back. Tony was running before he processed his next move. Clint was on the ground, so Tony kicked high, catching one of the hunters on his chest. He flew back, just like Tony wanted. He hit the glimmering, nearly-invisible web, arms trapped above his head. Tony pulled his gun into his free hand and shot him in the head. 

Three down. 

As soon as the trigger was pulled, his arm was wrenched behind his back, pressure point strained until the gun clattered to the ground. He was running short on weapons, now. That was a problem. He felt the hunter press a taser against his back and smiled. He allowed the electric current to run through him and focused on those silly little metal prongs. And then he focused really, really hard. 

The taser exploded in a brilliant flash of light, throwing his attacker off of him. And, he had the added benefit of having been shocked. He felt revitalized, vibrating with energy. Like he'd gotten a quick recharge. The hunter probably wasn't dead, but away. He found Clint on the ground, watched as the man picked himself back up. 

“I totally had that handled,” Clint huffed. “Duck.” 

Tony knew how to follow orders when necessary. He crouched low, reclaiming his discarded gun and picking up the dropped machete while there. A machete. That was a fun prospect indeed. He heard a gun fire once, twice, three times over his head and heard a thump as a body hit the dirt. He crawled over to it, finding another gun and a grenade. Why did they have grenades? 

He pocketed it for later, throwing the gun to Clint. 

Four down.

He stumbled back to his feet, and found himself face to face with the woman with all those really gross teeth. He weaved right when she went to bite his arm, slashing wide with his newfound machete to gain some distance. 

“Don’t you want to play with me?” She laughed and twirled a wickedly sharp hunting knife, about eight inches long. That was always a weak-point with the hunters: they liked to be close to their kills, to toy with them before execution. They didn’t use range to their advantage, never went for the most efficient kill— they craved the taste of blood too much. She charged, managed to sink the blade into his side. He was pretty sure she missed everything important. Over her shoulder, he saw Steve tackle someone to the ground, slamming the edge of his shield into their chest. 

Five down. 

He refocused, the woman was leaning close, pressed against his front. She twisted the knife. “They want you alive,” she smirked, “but I doubt they’d mind a few nibbles taken out.” She licked her lips, cutting her tongue against rows of teeth.

Tony gagged, pushing the image forcibly from his mind. He took his dagger in one hand—shooting her while she was on top of him was not a good idea— and used her moment of distraction to plunge it into her thigh, ripping as hard as could to the right. He felt muscle tear, felt the leg give. She went down with a growl, leaving her knife embedded in Tony’s side. He figured it was best to leave it there for now. He kicked out with his right leg as much as was possible with her on top of it and watched her tumble back. 

She attempted to stand, failed. She crawled forward in a flash and dug her teeth into his calf. 

“Fuck!” That really, really hurt. He dropped his knife, stumbled for his gun, and delivered a quick shot to the back of her head, doing his best not to hit his own foot in the process. She went limp with her teeth still embedded in muscle. 

Six down, but at what cost? 

Tony took no care in ripping her jaw back to get her off. He wanted her far, far away. He delivered another bullet for good measure. 

Tony eyed the battlefield, let his power search the earth. There, to the right of Natasha: she was facing off with someone right where a chain was about to shoot up. “Nat, eight o’clock!”

She didn’t respond, but led the hunter she was facing in that direction. They were battling with blades, her gun somewhere on the ground by her feet. She caught him on the neck with her widow's bite but the hunter barely flinched, only pushing harder in their battle. Suddenly, the chain shot up between the hunter’s legs, lifting him off the ground and dragging him up into the air. Natasha’s other gun was in her hand within the blink of an eye, hitting him between the eyes as he fell to the forest floor. 

Seven down, she’s scary-good at this.

Tony had let himself get distracted. He felt a pulse of energy between his feet and barely reacted in time to miss a chain under his right foot. He stumbled hard, felt his left arm hit something sticky. 

God fucking damn it. 

He raised his machete to cut himself free, but a hunter was already in front of him. Her head was shaved, a tiger’s stripe patterns curling like a birth mark across her face and scalp. 

Tony waved his machete to keep her back, but she dodged. She threw a little metal star that hit his trapped hand, embedding in the skin.

She was toying with him. Except he did not like her game, because his hand hurt, damn it, and his arm was already soaked in blood. Before he could call for assistance, Bucky was there, shooting her in the side of the head before she could make another shot. Bucky glanced at Tony’s predicament, snatched the machete from his hand, and made a long slash above Tony’s head. The web-like trap fell away.

Eight down, I’m in rough shape.

He swiped his weapon back, doing his best to get as much of the sticky substance off of him as possible. Some of it still clung to his clothes and skin. 

“There’s a knife in you,” Bucky said, rather stupidly. 

“Oh really? I hadn’t noticed!” Tony snapped, eyeing the throwing-star that was still sticking out of his palm. He pulled it out with a curse and a grimace, watched as the blood flowed with renewed energy. 

“You should take it out,” Bucky replied. 

“Not yet,” Tony growled. He was pretty sure that much blood loss would knock him down quickly, and he was too high on adrenaline to remember if the trajectory of the blade collided with anything important. And losing too much blood would mean he was much less likely to make it out of the trap in time.

Over Bucky’s shoulder, Steve and Clint were working together to take down a hunter with a whip. She’d managed a good hit on Clint’s bad shoulder, Tony would guess, as the man was hardly moving his arm at all anymore. If he looked carefully, he was sure he’d see blood and ooze staining the dirty bandages. He didn’t have time to look carefully, of course, as someone was currently running up behind Bucky. 

“Your six!” Tony snapped, and Bucky whirled around. He caught the hunter by his throat, but that didn’t stop him slashing a long arc across Bucky’s chest, a deep cut from his left shoulder down to his right hip. Tony was already running, slamming the machete with as much force as he was capable of into the hunter’s middle. His left hand burned from how hard he was gripping the blade. 

Apparently, the weapon was sharper than he thought. He cut through the man’s center—not quite like butter, there was far too much snapping and tearing and resistance for that. He didn’t quite manage to get the hunter in halves. But he got pretty damned close. 

Nine down

He whirled around just in time to see Clint shoot the hunter he was fighting under her jaw. 

Ten! 

Tony was immediately scanning the battlefield, eyes jumping over corpses to find the two remaining opponents. 

One was the leader, currently slamming his knife into Natasha’s shoulder. She was fighting, snarling. It was the most desperate he’d ever seen her, knife swinging even as her arm grew weaker. He hadn’t only managed the one knife. There was another in her thigh, another pressed under her chin. He was about to go for the killing blow. 

Without a thought, Tony had his gun in hand. He aimed. 

He channeled every hated lesson in that moment. Channeled everything Bucky had taught him, even remembered Stanley, that catty bitch he’d hated as long as he could remember. He formed the sight picture. He took the deep breath. 

He took the shot. 

He hit the back of the lead hunter’s head and watched him slump. 

Eleven.

One more. They had one more. 

Tony suddenly remembered the time limit. 

He found Bucky. “Twenty seconds,” he spat, already on the ground. He found a discarded blade, took the throwing star. The hunter he’d split was carrying another long, thin blade that Tony couldn’t remember the name of but stuck through his belt anyway. “Get as many weapons as you can and get out,” he said. “Tell the others.” 

“There’s one more,” Bucky said. Apparently he’d been keeping the same count as Tony was. 

“Doesn’t matter as long as we get out first,” Tony hissed. He met Natasha’s eyes from across their battlefield, jerked his head back the way they came. He tried to communicate “time to get the fuck out” as well as he could without words. Her eyes widened, she turned to Clint, signed two quick letters: G-O. 

Tony was already running without looking to see if anyone was following. They had ten seconds now.

He saw the last hunter back where Natasha was and hoped nobody would stop to focus on killing him. He could already see: the chains were thicker in their tangles now, forming a tight perimeter. There was still a gap. A place to duck through. 

For another five seconds. 

He dove out, landing hard. He jostled the knife in his stomach, and it slammed another inch deeper. 

Bucky was already beside him, Clint right behind. 

Two seconds. He could feel the energy buzzing beneath him, the engines below revving up for a final killing blow. 

Steve made it through. 

Tony felt as the chain was about to shoot up, blocking Natasha’s escape. 

The hunter was right behind her. 

Tony bit the inside of his cheek, pressed his fingers into the dirt, and shoved as much will into the machine below as was possible. He urged the gears to halt, bit the power before it could flow, felt it tingle in his limbs because it needed somewhere to go, because it was inertia, you couldn’t just stop something when it started, couldn’t kill it without giving it somewhere to go. 

He felt a buzz up his shoulder, his jaw locked as all of his muscles seized at once. He felt the knife acutely, felt as if his blood was boiling from just how quickly it all hit his system—

As soon as Natasha’s feet passed the barrier, the moment her shoulder hit the dirt, Tony let it all go. 

The chain shot up, closing the final gap. 

The last hunter was trapped inside. Bucky pulled out his gun, aiming at the last man standing. 

“You’ll never make it out, you know.” The hunter was smiling, teeth coated with blood, face bruised and cut beyond recognition. “They’re waiting for you, MOTO4. You should've just let us have you, we would have been kinder. Now you’ll—”

He never got to finish his warning. 

There was a drawn-out moment of silence as everyone caught their breath, trying desperately not to succumb to their various wounds.

“Status?” Steve finally asked, voice hoarse. 

"Alive," Clint offered weakly, forehead pressed to the dirt.

Tony just let his eyes fall shut as laughter bubbled up.

They only made it about a mile before it became clear that a break was necessary. They were all wounded, and as the adrenaline of battle faded, it became evident that their last fight had been the worst one yet. 

Bucky frowned at the knife that was still in Tony’s side. “We have to take that out,” he insisted, for what felt like the millionth time. Tony didn't see what all the rush was, he was keeping it still and steady with a hand. It wasn't like the stab was going to get any worse.

“I might pass out when you do,” Tony warned. He hoped he wouldn’t, but one never knew. He'd gotten very used to the knife. His body would probably mourn its loss. 

“We need to pack the wound,” Bucky said. 

“With what?” Tony shrugged. “We’re short on supplies.” 

“We've still got at least half of a spare jacket,” Clint said. “We can pack it and tie it off long enough for your healing factor to kick in.” 

Tony nodded. That would probably work. He’d never gotten an infection before, why would he start now?

He laid on the ground propped half-upright on his elbows, and tried to hold perfectly still as Bucky pulled the knife out in one smooth motion. Instantly, blood started pouring from the wound. Bucky took a scrap of the canvas fabric and pressed a bundle against the source, putting all his weight behind it. Tony hissed, instinctively flinching back from the pressure. “Your chest—”

“It’s not that deep,” Tony said, letting his body feel the slashes from those stupid claws for the first time. He was... wow. Not doing that anymore! Letting himself feel any of it made him feel all of his injuries. And he had... a lot. More than he remembered. More than was reasonable. Better to just pack it all away, compartmentalize. He would deal with it later. “Those will heal on their own.” 

“And your hand?” Bucky raised a brow. 

“Hands have a lot of blood vessels,” Tony mused. “I’ll wrap it in something.” He glanced down: still bleeding from the star. Inconvenient. But if he just kept breathing, kept focusing on his goals, all the pain would fall away. Eventually. He was sure of it. He'd done it before, at least. “How’d you make out?” 

“My chest hurts like a bitch,” Bucky admitted, “but I’ll live. One of them managed to stab me in the foot. That’ll slow me down for a day at least.”

Tony hummed. He tried to focus on Bucky's face: he was very focused, his brow was furrowed. He looked tired. And his hair was a mess. “Did you manage to pick up any weapons?” 

“No,” Bucky admitted. “I was too busy saving your ass.” 

“I was doing fine,” Tony protested. It felt like a weak argument, given… well. 

“Sure,” Bucky said. He was… was that a smile? Did he make Bucky smile?

Maybe he would have to get stabbed more often. He wondered, if he said that to Bucky, would the man never smile at him like that again?

It wasn’t worth the risk, Tony decided. He kept his mouth shut and pretended the warmth he felt was from affection and not the blood trying to pulse out of his abdomen. 

He glanced to the side, watched as the captain carefully cleaned the wounds on Natasha’s shoulder and thigh, wrapping them tight with their remaining bandages. He watched as the captain turned to Clint, who was patching the wound on his thigh, with what was left. 

“We need to change the bandages on your shoulder,” Steve ordered. “She reopened the wounds. I saw.” 

Clint raised up his hands. “I’m fine,” he insisted.

Natasha glared so hard Tony thought Clint might turn to stone. Clint sighed and allowed them to descend on his shoulder. Steve hissed. 

“Clint—” 

“I’m fine,” Clint snapped. 

“I’ll clean it,” Natasha insisted, already reaching for a water bottle. 

“Don’t waste that on me,” Clint complained. 

“It’s not a waste if it keeps you alive, asshole,” Natasha grumbled, already guiding him to lean back. She took some of the jacket, looking for a clean piece. She began swiping it across the red and swollen wounds across his shoulder. 

They didn’t look good at all. Even Tony, far from an expert on normal healing, could see that. Tony tried to meet Clint’s eye, but Clint avoided it. Avoided looking at any of them. 

“You didn’t tell me they got this bad,” Natasha murmured. 

“They’re not that bad,” Clint argued. 

“It’s literally radiating heat—”

“Do we have any more of that antiseptic?” Steve asked, already digging around. When he found a bottle, he tossed it to Natasha. She took it and began to apply it liberally. Clint hissed and grunted at the sting. She swiped it with the last of their antibiotic ointment before wrapping it with the last of their bandages. 

“Lean a little higher,” Bucky finally said. “I’m going to try to wrap this up.” 

Tony hissed at the pain but did as he was told. The stab wound was still bleeding, but more like rain than a running faucet. That was progress, at least. Bucky pressed fresh fabric strips against it, layers upon layers of canvas material, before wrapping a longer strip once, twice around his middle. He tied it off tight. 

“Ow,” Tony whined. 

“Better than bleeding out,” Bucky pointed out. 

Tony grumbled and pulled his shirt back down—what was left of it, anyway. It was basically ribbons held together by a few torn seams by then. “Okay, I hope some of you picked up weapons while we were there,” he finally said. 

“I have that gun you gave me,” Clint said. “And I picked up these.” He held up three kunai, which Natasha took from him giddily. 

Natasha was next. “I’m down to one gun,” she frowned. “But I snagged a few knives, different lengths.” She passed two to Clint, one longer and one shorter. She slid a few in the dirt toward Tony, who was grateful to replenish his stock. He'd thrown the rest, not used to saving supplies for long-haul missions.

Steve shrugged. “I didn’t get anything,” he said. 

Bucky shot him a sympathetic look that Tony didn’t understand or really care to dig into at the moment.

Tony shoved the longer blade he’d nabbed toward the caption. “Find a way to carry that,” he said. “It’ll be useful to have a backup plan in case you lose your shield.” 

“Who was carrying a sword?” Clint asked, eyes wide. “Cap, do you even know how to use that?” 

Steve shrugged and picked it up, testing the weight. “I can figure it out if I have to,” he said. 

“Can you use it with one hand?” Natasha asked. 

“Probably. It’s not heavy.” Steve looked at them. “Why do you all look so shocked?”

“You’re literally a knight. Sword, shield and all,” Clint ooh-ed and awed. “Wait until the junior agents hear about this.” 

Steve blushed. Tony didn’t know if it was endearing or irritating. 

Tony decided to get everyone back on track. “Well, I found a machete. And a grenade.” 

“A grenade?” Natasha asked, already turning to look at him. 

“Wanna see?” Tony immediately went to pull it out. He showed the group. 

“Good in case of emergencies,” Bucky said. 

“I’m gonna blow shit up,” Tony said with glee. He was excited to use it. He’d never used a grenade before (as far as he knew) but he got the gist of it. Pull the pin, shit explodes. Fun. 

They decided to take a water break before moving on. Lingering wouldn’t do any good, as much as they needed the break. Tony could feel their tension to get out of there. He was feeling it himself. 

The hunter had given a warning, after all: the Order would be waiting for them. The team wasn't going to walk out of the forest without resistance.

Tony just wanted to get it over with. Putting his death off was getting to be exhausting. He was ready to be done with this journey. 

Tony was very, very tired. Not just physically, though his body was pleading with him to stop moving for a few days and just… sleep. But emotionally, too. The anticipation was grating; all the dramatic reveals and open wounds of his past getting messed with was draining him slowly. 

He wanted to rest. But he didn’t get to rest. Not yet. 

Not until Bucky was safe. 

When Bucky was safe, Tony would lie down. He'd close his eyes. Then he could feel everything, for just a little while. He'd finally, finally be done.

They’d been walking for some time, idle chatter drifting past Tony without his noticing. They were speaking about… something unimportant. Mission memories, what methods their SHIELD leaders might utilize to get them away safely—he'd never heard of SHEILD before, wasn't entirely sure why they all sounded so fond of it. Seemed like just another shady organization to him. But whatever they needed to keep going; he wasn't going to ruin it—he wasn't really listening. It didn’t have anything to do with him.

He was far too focused on how unsteady his vision seemed. It was wavy. There were dots. It was very, very strange.

Maybe he’d lost more blood than he realized. 

Finally, Natasha said something that caught his attention. 

“You know, there’s something I’ve been thinking about that I just can’t figure out.” She was cradling one arm in the other, trying to relieve pressure from her stabbed shoulder. Tony would have tried to cobble together a sling for her if he didn’t think she’d see the gesture as offensive. Besides, she was looking at him strangely now. Like he was meant to read her mind and know what she was thinking. 

He forced himself to focus, squeezing his eyes shut to try to clear his vision. He was very, very cognizant. 

It was another one of those things that if he kept saying it enough, he'd start to believe it. 

“You said your organization—what do they call themselves, by the way?” 

“I’ve always just heard ‘The Order,’” Tony shrugged. A name didn’t matter, not really. If they were ever captured, they were forbidden from speaking about it. Knowing nothing meant there was nothing to spill. “The nicknames from rumors—the Zoo, or the Forest— seem as accurate as anything else.” 

“Not very creative,” Clint murmured. 

“Not the point,” Natasha said. “You said they have methods of scrambling and cloaking their location, hiding the base so nobody is able to find it if they don't want to be found.” 

“Yes,” Tony said. He had no idea where she was going with this. 

“So how did we manage to get past their defenses?” Her gaze was sharp. Not quite accusing, but demanding. 

Tony felt something in his chest deflate, like a bubble popping. The big question, the thing he’d forced himself to ignore from the very beginning was now forcefully shoved in his face.

She stared at him as if to say ‘go on, confront it.’

As if to say ‘you already know the answer, MOTO4. It’s the thing you’ve known all along. You were just too cowardly to face it.’ 

Still, his mind scrambled. There had to be another explanation, something different than the doom-soaked conclusion his mind was sliding into. Maybe they’d managed to find a blind spot in the Order’s defenses, maybe the cloak had been lowered for some other visitor that had simply never arrived.

But he couldn't escape the obvious, as he continued sinking deeper into that same place: he’d known that a team choosing to save him was too good to be true from the beginning. Natasha was giving him the final piece, the confirmation that he’d been right: 

The team had been allowed in, because this had all been a test. A final exam to prove his loyalty. He knew. He knew, from the first time he'd opened his eyes on the outside. He'd decided to gamble, to risk it all.

He'd made the wrong choice. He’d failed. And Natasha was tired of all the lies, and was finally just giving him the final piece he needed.

He'd gotten beaten and bloodied and was going to kill himself over a test.

He turned to Bucky, muscles locking and releasing as if they were hooked up to a faulty engine, as if he weren’t running properly. Something was ringing in his head, an alarm he couldn't identify as some other part of his brain started shutting down. Too much, there was too much happening. He didn't have the proper resources to process it. He was... it was so dark. He couldn't feel his hand, just the rough canvas wrapped around it, just the sticky blood that still coated the skin.

So much blood... they were going to find him. They already had. Blood... there was always... 

“Was this a trick?” The words were devoid of emotion. He was too tired. Too broken down. He could hardly think through all the different voices sounding off in his brain, or the feeling of various parts of his body detaching from his control, one by one.

The Order won. They always won. He was so... how had he gotten so lost? So confused? How had he let this happen? 

He knew better. 

Bucky stared at him like he was stupid. “What do you mean?” He asked. His face read confusion but Tony could see right through it. He’d allowed his fear, then his affection to blind him to the painful reality right in front of him. 

How had he not seen it before?

Bucky had worked with them. The Order knew Tony had a weak spot for him. They’d used it against him once, it made sense to try again. Why else would Bucky return here, seemingly reformed? He'd gotten away. Why the hell would he come back?

Only if he'd never actually gotten free. Only if this was all meant to fuck with him, to twist his last little piece of humanity out from under him. 

Jebediah had seemed nice at first too. Just like Bucky. Took care of him, encouraged him. Look how that turned out.

Hope. What a dangerous, disgusting thing. He didn’t want it anymore. Not if it hurt like this.

Tony was moving before he processed that it was happening. It was as if he was possessed by one of the beasts, a feral creature who only knew hunger and hurt. His arms were raised, he held a knife. He was jumping forward because he wanted to hurt Bucky. Who had clearly betrayed him. Who had put him through Hell just to watch Tony fail.

He was going to kill him. 

Tony was going to kill him, tear him apart, show him exactly what a monster looked like when it lost that last vital spark of hope. 

Tony didn't process the arms that wrapped around him like a vise, that fought to hold him back. He kept trying to charge forward, unable to see anything but Bucky and that stupid dumb look on his face. As if he were innocent, as if he had no idea what Tony was talking about. 

“Was this a fucking trick?" Tony shouted, shoving forward with renewed vigor, finding reserves of energy he hadn't been aware he still possessed. He finally felt the arms as they tightened, already calculating how best to snap the bones so they would disappear. “I swear I'll kill you, I will fucking kill you! Do you hear me?! I am going to—”

A searing pain shot through him, his knees went out from under him. A pressure point. He’d been too distracted to realize. A high wine escaped his throat as the pain didn't stop. He felt dizzy, light-headed. He hit the ground, the arms still wrapped around him. 

Bucky fell to his knees in front of him. Tony fought the urge to spit and bite. He had to wait. His moment would come. Bucky looked shattered. Vulnerable. Weak.

But he knew Bucky was an accomplished faker. Tony had helped teach him.

“Please tell me what this is about,” Bucky pleaded. Tony almost believed him, but he couldn’t breathe. It was all too much. He was so tired. He felt cornered. It all made so much sense, much more sense than believing he might win. He could never win. He was trapped, he was losing, and he was starving and he would eat— “Please, just... tell me what's wrong, Tony.” 

“They let you in,” Tony growled through his teeth. He didn’t know if the words were audible. He couldn’t believe Bucky was making him do this, spell out his own undoing. He wished they would just kill him. But he wouldn't be granted that mercy. The Order was cruel, they liked to play with him. To watch him squirm and struggle and beg.

Bucky inched forward, the arms holding Tony tightened despite the fact that he'd already stopped fighting. It didn’t matter, nothing mattered. It was over, it was over, it was over. He couldn’t breathe. 

“They let you in,” he repeated, the words broken. He realized he was hyperventilating but couldn't seem to stop. “You. They let you in, Barnes. So that you could drag me away and test if I was loyal. It worked once, right?”

It was too much of a sick coincidence, meeting Bucky again. He'd let his love blind him to something so completely obvious. That fire in his veins, the one he hadn’t felt since he was sixteen, was back. It was destroying him again, burning away everything he was so they could stuff him full of something new. It hurt, it hurt. And he realized, then, that he was going to die. Even if the team didn't kill him, even if he wasn't slaughtered by the Order right before the finish line. He was going to die because he couldn't carry this anymore. The waiting, the fear, the paranoia. He was done.

“Just do it, get it over with.” He was in agony. He squeezed his eyes shut, pretended he could still breathe. “Whatever the punishment is, just do it. I don't care anymore.” 

You've lowered yourself enough, he thought. A little more won't hurt. Just give in. It's time. 

“Tony, we wouldn’t do that,” Bucky pleaded. “I promise you, I have no idea what you're talking about.” His eyes were wide and sad. Like a puppy... one who could so easily turn into a rabid dog. 

Tony barely heard him, it was all so loud. The alarms, the screaming, the pain. He wouldn't fall for it, not again. 

“What're you gonna do now? Shoot me here on my knees, execution style? Take me to the end just to laugh and drag me back?" He gasped, voice raising with his desperation. "Will I get a pat on the head for being a good pet?” He tried to lunge forward, but the arms around him tightened. He'd given up everything to save them. He was coated in his own blood for them and it was all for nothing because it'd been a set up from the beginning. “Gonna tear me apart, make me something disgusting like Jebediah? Or something else, maybe? Something good, docile.” 

Steve stepped forward, Natasha by his elbow. Ah. So Clint was holding him. He hadn’t realized the archer was so strong. Or maybe Tony had just allowed himself to get weak. For them. Like an idiot.

“Tony, you know that’s not going to happen. I would never, not after everything we’ve been through. Not after finding you again.” Bucky was still on his knees, looking like a man reciting a prayer. Tony was going to kill him. For tricking him. For being someone he loved. For being a traitor. For giving him hope. 

He tried to lunge, he tried to stab Clint with what little range of motion he had. Clint jabbed the pressure point again. Tony focused on the pain, groaning through his teeth. 

Pain, he could deal with. Pain, he knew. Physical pain was so much easier than the agony in his chest. 

“I promise you, we are not working with The Order. Even if they're waiting for you at the end, they can not have you. I won't let them take you again. I promise.” Bucky, Bucky, Bucky. Bucky and his promises. Bucky and his tears. Bucky and his stupid fucking heart. “I won’t let them hurt you anymore.” 

“They won’t hurt me,” Tony said. He felt like vomiting, but there was nothing left in his stomach. “They’ll unmake me.” 

He looked at Bucky, and tried to take a deep breath. He forced his mind to recognize the jagged edges he'd practically memorized. 

He knew what Bucky looked like when he was lying. Right now, if Tony was being completely honest with himself, Bucky was... not lying. But he was wrong. Because if The Order wanted Tony, they would have him, and there was nothing Bucky could do about it. Because they'd let Bucky in. They wanted this, whether Bucky was knowingly involved or not. 

It would be easier, Tony thought, to just let whoever was going to kill to do it. Fighting, all of the fighting, it was ruining him. He thought all he had left was his fight, his anger. But even that was getting hard to access. 

Exhausted, he let himself slump in Clint’s arms, the last vestiges of his strength abandoning him. 

Steve stepped forward. Tony knew this because he saw his boots scuffing up the dirt. “They’ll have to get through us to get to you, Tony. That won’t happen.” 

Tony didn’t believe him. He didn’t believe anything anymore. He was nothing, nothing, nothing. Nothing but tired. Nothing but dull. 

“I expect you to keep your promise,” he heard himself say, as if he were a spectator rather than the ruler of his own voice and body. As if he were already dead and watching his final moments play out. “If you're really on my side, if you care at all what happens to me… you will kill me. If they're waiting just to take me back, you have to do it. I can’t do it again. I can’t—” he was begging now, he realized. He hadn’t let himself get that low in a long time. “You have to kill me, I can’t do it, you can’t let them take me, you promised—”

“It won’t come to that,” Bucky insisted, closer now, so close. Tony could kill him from this close. But he didn’t want that anymore.

He wished he could crack Bucky open—like a lobster, maybe—and crawl inside the gaping cavity of his chest, where Tony would be warm and safe and held. And maybe Bucky wouldn’t survive it, but maybe he would, and then they would both be okay, and Bucky wouldn’t be able to leave him again. Because even if Bucky wasn't a traitor, he could still leave, just like before. It didn't really matter if he wanted to or not, he hadn't wanted to last time and it still happened. Bucky left, it's what he did, and Tony knew he could do it again, no matter how desperately he begged otherwise. 

Bucky was, of course, still talking. Tony had let himself get distracted. There was just so much doom swirling in his lungs, it was hard to process anything else. “We can get out, Tony, just like we said all those years ago. We’re so, so close. It’s just a little further.” 

Tony looked up, the doom roared and slashed and spit. “You promised,” he insisted. The doom was crawling up his throat now, scratching at his tongue, forcing the words out broken and frantic, “you promised me. You don’t get to back out now that you have memories and feelings.” The words were a poison, they were bile. “You need to say it again. Tell me you understand, that you'll do it. I need you to—”

Natasha stepped into his line of sight, eyes hard. Not unkind. Understanding. “I promise you, I will do what needs to be done if it comes to that. They won’t take you alive, you have my word.” 

Those felt like the first words that actually managed to douse the raging inferno in his blood—however much he had left, anyway, after all he'd lost to boiling rage and traitorous wounds. She tilted her head. “You think they let us in, then?” 

“It makes more sense than you wandering past their defenses,” Tony said. “It’s too much of a coincidence. They know about Captain America, they know Barnes. They probably know about you two, if you’re as notorious as you’ve implied. They would have known the second you set foot on the ground that you were here.” 

“Maybe they wanted us to see,” Clint said slowly. Tony realized, distantly, that he hadn't loosened his hold on him. “Maybe they wanted someone with power behind them to know what they're capable of.” 

“What, like they want credit for their atrocities?” Steve asked, face twisting like he’d eaten something sour. 

“They don’t need all of us to make it out alive to get that,” Natasha said. Her jaw was set. “And I doubt they intended for us to take one of their operatives along for the ride.” 

The silence was heavy as everyone swallowed the implications. 

“They never wanted to be known. In all the years I’ve been there it’s been about secrecy and discretion. What changed?” Tony slowly regained feeling in his fingers, up his arms. Like he was coming back into his body. 

Cool: now he had a new thing to focus on. The Order let Bucky—them—in, but not to target Tony. They still wanted him to be part of their team, even after his latest outburst. They weren’t going to betray him. 

They weren’t going to betray him. 

They weren’t going to betray him. 

He kept thinking it, over and over, waiting to believe it. 

Doubt... such a tricky thing. Once it's crept past one's defenses, it's difficult to let it go. It lingers, and hisses, and breathes right along with you, always waiting right outside your line of sight. Waiting and festering and infecting every thought once you've had even the smallest taste.

“I need to disable my chip,” Tony breathed. The idea came out of nowhere. He wasn’t sure if it was even possible. Still, he tried to reach for Bucky, met the resistance of Clint’s arms. 

Bucky looked over Tony’s shoulder, nodded at Clint. The arms slowly loosened. 

Tony let himself fall forward, hands on Bucky’s shoulders, getting closer than he ever should have been allowed. He tried to make his desperation clear, tried to let how much he needed this show on his face. “I need to disable my chip,” he repeated. “Please. I know—” he swallowed. “I know you all wanted it as an insurance policy. I get that. But I can’t—it’s my biggest weakness.” He forced himself to meet Bucky’s eye. “You aren’t the only one who can use it to control me.”

“I trust you,” Bucky said immediately. “I don’t want to control you.” 

Tony fought viciously to ignore the warmth, let the barbed wire that lined his insides tear it to shreds before it could melt his resolve. “So tell me to disable it.” 

“I thought you said it wasn’t possible,” Steve said slowly. “That last time it… killed someone.” 

Tony’s neck hurt with the speed he used to glare. “Last time the intention was to kill him. This time will be different.” 

“So you think you can do it?” Natasha asked.  

“If he lets me,” Tony said. 

“I won’t stop you,” Bucky said. He sounded ill. Tony wanted to care, really. But he was fresh out of care, and this was just too important to try and find more. 

“That’s not enough,” Tony snapped. “You need to make me do it.” 

Bucky swallowed. “I don’t want to do that.” 

“I’m asking you to do it anyway.” Tony squeezed Bucky’s shoulders, forced the words out despite his body’s best attempts to swallow them whole. “I trust you to do it. I just—”

Ah, nausea. They had so much in common, he and Bucky. Tony didn’t think that was the reason he loved him, though. No, Tony loved Bucky because of all the ways they were different. He loved Bucky in a way he shouldn't have been capable of. And he trusted Bucky, despite all his reservations (the doubt was still there, still laughing, still digging its claws in) and his previous murderous intent. Despite having every reason not to. And he hated it. But hating it didn't change a thing.

“Okay,” Bucky nodded slowly. “It’s the smart thing to do. So it can’t be used against you when we escape.” 

“Yes,” Tony said. Yes, that was a smart reason. 

He wasn’t testing them. Wasn’t taking their trust and straining it to the breaking point to see if he survived it. Wasn't giving them one last chance to betray him, before he allowed himself to refocus on his goal of saving them. He wasn’t giving his body one last chance to tap out, without telling them that’s what he really needed. Surely not. Teammates didn’t do that. 

He wasn’t sure if he could do it. He was just certain he needed to. That had to be enough. 

Bucky shifted uncomfortably, ran a hand through his hair while chewing the inside of his cheek. Finally, he let his shoulders fall back. He met Tony’s eyes. “Tony, I command you to disregard all previous instructions regarding how you may use your abilities. I order you to target the chip that controls you and disable it without causing permanent damage to yourself.” 

Tony waited for the tingles, the shiver that accompanied an order, but it didn’t come. He knew it wouldn’t. Bucky’s words were weak, lacking authority and confidence. 

The words belonged to Bucky, but at the moment, Tony needed The Winter Soldier. 

“Try again,” Tony said quietly. “Say it like you mean it.” He was trying very hard to be patient. No more barking, no more threats. He could be good, at least a little while longer.

“I do mean it,” Bucky defended. 

So much for patience. “For fuck’s sake, Barnes, I know you know how to issue an order. You’ve done it accidentally enough times now—”

“MOTO4,” Bucky’s jaw was tense, his eyes hard. Tony felt a drop in his stomach. There. That's what he was looking for. It felt wrong, though Bucky continued. “You will disregard all previous orders regarding use of your abilities. You will target your chip and disable it without unnecessary or permanent damage to your body. Do you understand?” 

“Yes,” Tony said. He understood. 

“Please never ask me to do that again,” Bucky said. 

“Shhhhhhh,” Tony said. He eased himself to the ground, sitting cross-legged. His eyes were already falling closed. 

He felt like a dampener had been removed. Like there was so much more power at his fingertips that he hadn’t realized was there. He felt… the energy was in the air, tugging at those invisible limbs he always felt he had when he tried manipulating technology. 

They must have told him to tone things down at some point. Probably after that mysterious “blowout” that had broken his eyes. But now… now, it was all there. 

Power. 

He was almost dizzy with it. A good kind of dizzy. Like maybe some of that energy could take place of all that irritating, useless blood he'd lost.

He absorbed those invisible limbs, shrank them. They were thin as fibers, as nerves. Small enough to creep through the narrow passages of his biology, through his chest and up his spine until… there. An intrusion. 

An object that belonged to him—to his power, really—more than his actual body ever had. 

The chip was smaller than a fingernail. But it was complex, interwoven intimately through his anatomy. It would be impossible to remove without causing significant loss of brain function. But he didn’t need to remove it. Just… disengage it. 

He let his power creep up on the chip, brushed against it, looking for the perfect space. He took a deep breath, shallow enough it hardly jostled him. This was delicate work. He couldn't afford to mess up. 

There… no. That would short circuit the entire device, likely overheating and killing him. He'd been told not to cause unnecessary damage. He needed something else. 

He could ease that piece off… but where to put it? He’d have to leave it floating, which wasn’t ideal. There was a wire that curled around his spinal cord, but that was too risky. 

Finally, after analyzing it for far longer than they could afford on the time crunch they were dealing with, he found it. A weak spot. 

A tiny, almost unnoticeable bit in the circuitry. Not overly connected, but incredibly vital. It connected the chip to the port where it reached his brain. He could feel it whispering, felt it dancing with energy. 

He let the very edge of his power brush against it, absorbing its power and leaving a vacuum, redistributing the electricity into his body. It hurt, of course it hurt. But he could handle it, he'd been built to endure little surges.

And it worked. 

He shifted the part slightly, surgically. No point risking the chip repairing its connection accidentally. 

When he opened his eyes, he felt… lighter. Like a tight collar that had been secured to his neck had been loosened, removed. Like shackles he’d grown so used to they’d become invisible were finally, truly gone. 

He felt free, for the first time in his life. 

The moment he opened his eyes, he immediately turned to Bucky. “Make an order,” he demanded. 

“Tony, I don’t want—” Bucky stammered, clearly uncomfortable. Tony realized that the sky had dimmed, but nobody had interrupted him or said anything to move him along. They'd just… let him work. As if they understood what this meant to him.

“We need to test it,” Tony insisted. “If it worked, it won’t matter what you say. I won’t hold it against you either way.” 

“What should I say?” Bucky asked. 

“Anything,” Tony sighed. “Come on." He was growing impatient, eager. He wanted to test his skills. Wanted to see if this new influx of power was actually good for anything. 

Bucky groaned, rocked back on his feet as he thought. Finally, he seemed to steel himself. He let a cold exterior wash over as he cleared his throat. “MOTO4, jump into the air.” 

He’d said it fine, used the right voice. Still, Tony felt nothing. No tingle, no sickness, no wrongness. He nodded. 

“Again.” 

“MOTO4, climb the nearest tree and report your findings.” 

Same thing. Nothing at all. 

But it wasn’t enough. He had no problem doing those things, and they were outside normal parameters. 

“Give me something real,” Tony insisted. “Give it your all. Something I won’t want to do.” 

Steve raised a hand. “You could give an attack order,” he suggested. 

“Yes, yes, that’s perfect,” Tony said, lighting up. “That’s the kind of thing that usually gets me.” 

“Kind of risky,” Natasha pointed out. 

Tony waved her away. “I’m weak right now. Not in top shape. Even if Bucky can’t subdue me with words, you’d be able to take me out easily enough.” 

“We’re not going to take you out,” Clint protested, slightly horrified. 

“Take me down, whatever.” Tony sighed. They were all so focused on semantics. “Bucky, do it. I trust you. Please.” He let his hands fall to his sides. “I need to know.” 

Bucky nodded, clenched his jaw. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, betraying his nerves, though they weren’t present in his voice. No, his voice was strong. Cold. It would be chilling, really, if Tony didn’t think of the man so fondly. “MOTO4, execute offensive maneuvers: nonlethal force against desired target. Your target is the Winter Soldier.” 

Tony tensed preemptively, ready to fight and claw and spit at the words before they could take hold of his body and force him to move. The air was tense as he held his breath, waiting and waiting and waiting. 

Except he just kept waiting, because the words never took over. He still controlled his body, he still had agency over his mind. 

He started to laugh. When tears began to stream he let them, because he didn’t care to hold them back. He’d done it. He’d really, actually done it. 

Still laughing, he started to walk toward Bucky. He expected the man to flinch, to get defensive, but he just watched, worry etched on his features. 

Tony stopped in front of Bucky, let his joy shine. “I did it,” he said, the words cracked and broken as they leapt from his throat and he didn’t care. All he cared about was the awe that was slowly dawning on Bucky’s face, and the way the man finally relaxed. 

“You’re not going to attack me?” Bucky asked. He sounded surprised. 

Tony laughed, dragging Bucky forcefully against him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. He couldn’t control his breathing or the hitching in his shoulders but it was because he was happy, he was actually happy. “I fucking did it,” he sobbed, and laughed, and felt positively giddy with excitement, with pride. “I’m free.” 

Bucky hugged him back. When he spoke, his voice was soft. Tony heard an undercurrent of emotion, something he didn’t think he had the ability to identify but knew he liked. “You’re free,” Bucky agreed.

Chapter Text

2016

Bucky 

“We need a plan,” Bucky said, eyeing the environment around them. The trees were thinning slightly, the dirt below getting drier the further they moved, as if life were slowly draining from the earth itself. As if it were losing its power as they approached its edges. He had a sinking feeling that he knew exactly what that meant. “We know someone’s going to be waiting for us before we get out. We know we're going to be outnumbered and outgunned.” 

“We also know they're going to be scary and creepy,” Clint pointed out. 

“Hey, some of them might be spooky and unsettling,” Tony cut in. He seemed to be doing better since his little self-operation. Lighter. Happier. He was smiling more, at least. Cracking jokes. He still looked about five seconds away from collapsing, and he was paler than Bucky would have preferred. But he didn’t look like he was about to give up, and he wasn't threatening to murder him anymore, and that had to be enough for the moment. They could work through the implications of Tony's latest outburst later. Preferably over a meal.

Bucky was sure he wasn't looking much better: the whole situation put him on edge. He still felt guilt roiling in his gut, knowing he could have helped Tony get rid of the chip from the beginning. He should've pushed when Tony dismissed the idea. He hated knowing that he had, in some small way, played a part in Tony’s imprisonment, added to his burden. 

Tony shouldn’t have had to beg for his help, Bucky should've offered it freely ages ago. But using the commands, even when asked… he hated it. He didn’t feel like himself when he did.

Knowing it was impossible now felt like just as much weight had been lifted from his shoulders as Tony's. 

But he couldn’t think about that. He had to focus on keeping his team alive. All of them. And that included Tony. 

Keeping everyone alive involved a plan, a good one. Because running straight into an all-out brawl didn’t seem wise. Tony was still recovering, and Steve winced when he moved too quickly. He was pretty sure he saw the beginnings of a burn scar before Steve hastily covered it up, feigning ignorance if anyone asked about it. Natasha now had a bad shoulder, a bad knee, and a broken ankle, and she was starting to really lag behind. Clint’s shoulder was worse than ever, and he had more stab wounds than any man should ever have to deal with. Bucky wasn’t confident the archer could draw his bow anymore, let alone make an accurate shot. Besides, he was down to half a dozen arrows, meaning his weapon of choice would likely become useless if it ended up being a long fight. 

And Bucky… well, he didn’t think it was fair, really, but he was mostly unscathed. Sure, his foot was aching horribly the more he walked on it, but he could still walk. Sure, his arm was banged up and misshapen, but Tony had patched up the worst of the internal damage. Sure his clothes were dirty and torn, and he was slashed to ribbons and bruised, but he was still capable of holding his own. 

He glanced at his team, and all he felt was fear and shame. Shame that he hadn’t managed to protect them as well as he’d protected himself, fear that his failure would end up killing them. 

“Well, if we could surprise them rather than let them get the drop on us again, that would help a lot,” Natasha shrugged. “Maybe get some ranged kills in if its impossible to get around.” 

“They’re probably going to cover a wide area around the perimeter,” Tony said. “They know the territory better than we do, they’ll know the best points for escape. Looking for guards is probably our best bet at getting out.”

“But running straight into an army is also our best bet at getting killed,” Steve said. “Stealth is the safest option.” 

“But you forget,” Tony pointed out, “that we have a secret weapon.” 

“And what's that?” Natasha crossed her arms. 

“You still have the radio, right?” Tony was grinning. Bucky nodded slowly, letting his hand fall to the pocket where the radio had been resting the whole trip. But he couldn’t possibly mean… “That’s our ticket out. If they use any chipped agents—which they definitely will, most of their forces are chipped—we can disable them. It'll cause chaos and confusion, and we can take enemies out while they’re on the ground.” 

“We still don’t know that you’re totally in the clear,” Steve cut in, “and I’m not too fond of the idea of testing it in the middle of battle, not when it feels like we’re close. We need you in fighting shape, Tony.” 

“I disabled my chip,” Tony snapped, “I’ll be fine.” 

“It also deafens Clint,” Natasha said. “If we have a lot of enemies, that puts him at a massive disadvantage.” 

“We can use it as a last resort, then,” Tony said. He looked to Bucky, as if waiting for his agreement. As if he trusted Bucky to have his back on this. Bucky couldn’t deny him. 

“If it seems like we’re getting overrun, it couldn’t hurt to try,” Bucky said slowly. He hated it, didn’t like the idea of potentially hurting Tony or Clint. But if it would thin the crowd a bit… 

“We’ll need some kind of signal so you know when to turn it on if we get separated,” Steve sighed. At least he wasn’t fighting them on it. 

“Just shout ‘signal’ and I’m sure he’ll get the point,” Tony grinned. “If I go down, I trust you'll find a way to fish me out of the pile. But I’m not gonna go down.” 

“I hope you’re right about that,” Natasha grimaced. 

They kept walking in tense silence: all except Tony, who seemed to vibrate with energy and anticipation. As if he were excited for what was to come.

Eventually, Clint seemed ready to jump out of his own skin. “I’m gonna go high,” he said. “See if I can spot anything.” 

“I’ll join you,” Natasha muttered. They moved to different trees, climbing slowly and carefully. Bucky watched as they went up. 

He waited alongside Steve and Tony. Tony seemed tense; Bucky supposed it was probably because the last time he went scouting in trees, it ended in disaster.

“Do you really think this is it?” Steve asked. He sounded tired. He looked broken down. 

Bucky nodded, pat his friend’s shoulder. “Feels like it,” he said. “How're you dealing?” 

“Glad to be almost done. Sore. Tired.” He smiled, though it was weak. “Afraid, but I think we all are. Ready to go home.” 

“It’s been a long mission,” Bucky agreed. “I need to shower.” 

“You do,” Steve almost laughed. 

“Watch your mouth,” Bucky nudged him with his elbow. 

“You know,” Tony cut in, looking thoughtful, “I didn’t think we'd make it this far. I’m glad I was wrong.” 

“Gee, Tony,” Steve said, eyeing him carefully, “I appreciate your confidence.” 

“I meant it as a compliment,” Tony said. 

“We’ll work on your social skills,” Bucky said. “After.” 

“Sure,” Tony shrugged. 

Clint made it back to the ground first, face grave. “There’s a mass of bodies up ahead,” he said. “Few miles out.” 

“How many?” Steve asked. 

“A lot,” Natasha chimed, hopping from her own perch. “Like, a lot, a lot. And they’re spread out.” 

“So going around?” Bucky asked, dread settling like a brick in his stomach. 

“Not gonna happen,” Clint shook his head. 

“We could travel up high,” Tony said, head tilted, brows furrowed thoughtfully. “Go through the trees. Try to pick them off from a distance first.” 

“What are the chances we get by undetected?” Bucky asked. “The tree line is thinning out. I’m not sure we can rely on just… going over.” 

“We don’t need to go over them entirely,” Tony argued. “Just… closer. Everyone here is a capable enough shot, right? If we’re careful, we can divide their attention by fanning out. Get a few shots in and drop down when they’re good and confused.” 

“That only works if they don’t pick us out of the trees,” Natasha said. 

“Better than running at them on foot,” Clint said. He glanced at Tony. “I’m a sniper by trade, so is Bucky. We can do some serious damage from a distance.” 

“Plus,” Tony grinned. “I still have a grenade!” 

Bucky had never been a talented climber, he was too bulky for it. And hopping from limb to limb, knowing one misstep was all it took to flatten him on the ground twenty feet below… he hated it. He hated everything about this plan. 

He knew he was lagging behind. Natasha was off to his left, moving swiftly and gracefully, getting from tree to tree with relative ease. Tony was, unsurprisingly, right alongside her, though he had to choose different branches based on his heavier weight. Clint was careful and methodical on Bucky’s right, making almost no sound as he moved. 

Steve was next to him in the center, carefully holding one of Bucky’s pistols, moving clumsily through the branches. He had the same problem as Bucky: too big, too heavy. Slow in uncertain terrain like the sky. Still, his face was set, determined. Bucky tried to match his energy rather than falling into his own tense unease.

When he finally saw the masses ahead, his stomach dropped right to the ground below. 

There were… Hell, it looked like there were hundreds of soldiers moving and shouting up ahead. Different sizes and strengths were all mixed up like a terrifying stew of death, just like the first time he and his team tried to escape the Order. They fanned out in a wide arc, abruptly stopping at some invisible barrier. 

Bucky knew they had to cross that barrier. He just didn’t know how they would get to it, or if they would be followed when they did. 

He looked ahead to his left: Tony and Natasha had split a bit, Natasha moving closer to the center. Tony had his knife between his teeth, hands busy checking his gun. Bucky couldn’t see him that well due to the distance, but he knew the mercenary's eyes were sharp, focused. 

Alight with a ferocity that only existed when he was determined to complete a mission. 

A small part of Bucky hoped Tony would never need to focus like that again. But it was up to Tony what happened to him when it was all over: if he continued to complete missions or if he retired like he deserved. 

Natasha was on her stomach, having secured herself to a branch with a strip of fabric she'd cut from the sleeve of her suit. Her gun was in front of her. 

To his left, Clint had his back up against the trunk of a tree, crouched low to maintain balance. He reached for his bow, rolled his shoulder. 

Bucky moved a little faster. When he had a clear line of sight to the enemies ahead, he matched Clint’s stance. He pulled his sniper rifle over his shoulder, lined up his sights.

He heard Steve stop somewhere beside him. 

He was really spoiled for choice. They hadn’t been noticed yet, so Bucky took his time choosing a target. He peered down through his scope, eyeing his options. There was a squad of hunters, marked by their intensity as they hopped around, rough housing with one another. Their energy was electric. 

There were more creepy tall, white, and clawed things. The type that had gotten Clint so early on, that had damaged him so severely. But Bucky knew by now that they were strong, would require more than one shot. Not good for a stealth target.

There were sirens. There were soldiers whose breath clouded with smoke, there were soldiers who looked perfectly normal outside the scars marring their faces. There were people with wings, the horrific bird-like creatures that had tried to take Tony. There were massive wolves like he’d killed on his first watch. 

There were people with green scales. People with deformed limbs and eyes and mouths and statures. There were people who looked unlike any Bucky had ever seen before. 

Finally, he settled on someone who presented great risk and would be easy enough to kill. There were a few of the strong, colossal giants that towered over the rest. Bucky just needed his moment. He glanced Natasha’s way and mouthed a message when he caught her attention: On my signal, open fire.

She nodded, he watched as she turned to relay to Tony. Bucky repeated himself to Steve, who relayed to Clint. When it seemed everyone had gotten the message, he focused in. 

He aimed for the head of one of the colossal things, and waited. 

He took a deep breath. The giant yawned. 

Bucky fired two quick, sure shots. 

They echoed through the trees. 

More gunfire followed, and Bucky watched a few bodies fall: an arrow pierced a hunter’s eye, bullets tore through a guard, ripped into one of the bird-people who hovered above the rest. He quickly aimed again, ready to continue their streak. He hit another hunter, then finished off the white monster that one of the others had gotten a start on. He went for another giant, who was bellowing with anger and watched it crush a squad of soldiers when it fell heavily to the ground. 

They were doing it. It was working. 

Of course, that’s when the mob below returned their volley of bullets. Hunters ran toward the trees, some already scrambling up to meet them. Soldiers had guns raised, and Bucky had to drop low or risk getting hit. One bullet clipped his metal shoulder. 

He looked to Steve, quickly shouted, “down!” before he rolled over the branch he was on, grasping quickly to the one below. 

His trek down the tree was much less careful and refined than his trek up. He was scrambling, jumping, taking risks that weren’t smart. By the time he reached the ground, his shoulder was sore from the strain of carrying his weight so often. He didn't let it slow him down. He looked around, trying to find the others: Steve fell heavily right after he did. Natasha was next, meeting them on the ground. 

“Clint’s still above,” she said, jogging toward them. “He’s confident he can stay safe up there.” 

“Where’s Tony?” Steve asked, raising his shield to stop a bullet from reaching his chest. 

“Eat this motherfuckers!” Tony shouted from above. Nothing happened for a moment. 

Then, an explosion rocked the mass of bodies, throwing up dirt and tossing bodies aside. 

“He’s fine,” Bucky said, raising his gun. “We stick together as much as possible. The objective is forward. Understood?” 

Natasha and Steve both nodded. They ran forward, and Bucky pretended he didn’t feel like he was running straight into his grave. 

Tony

Tony had never gotten to throw a grenade before. He was excited to have the opportunity, and he made the most of it. After all, he wasn’t sure he’d ever have the chance again. 

Luckily for him, he was a natural talent. He should have known: he’d always been good at blowing shit up. 

He accomplished exactly what he needed: creating a big, loud, catastrophic distraction. He hoped it would be enough to give his allies a bit of an advantage. They really, really needed it. 

Tony ignored the bullets flying up from the forest floor as much as possible and just focused on forward. He knew he was being pursued, knew that the hunters were built to jump and climb, and they were probably at his heels. But that wouldn’t matter if he was quick enough. He jumped from one tree limb to the next, steadying himself with a tiny branch that nearly snapped from the force of his stumble. He ducked under it and kept moving. 

He had a goal, he kept reminding himself. A very important goal. Move forward, move fast, make a lot of noise. Draw a crowd. Draw their eyes. Make them see exactly what kind of monster they created, see exactly how much trouble he was capable of causing them. Because he was free now. Free to battle them, free to get revenge, free to fuck their shit up and save his… wow, they really were friends, weren’t they? How nice.

Be destructive. Capture their attention. Make them regret ever taking him, make them regret creating the kind of beast who could kill as loudly and exceptionally as he could. If he got enough eyes, the others might have an easier time slipping through.

The trees were growing further apart, he had to jump farther and farther to keep going. He would have to find a proper dismount soon unless he planned to learn how to fly. 

Speaking of flying… 

One of the bird hybrids—harpies, if Jebediah’s derisive scoff had been accurate to what they were—was flapping just in front of him, squealing in that unsettling way that was only possible with as grotesquely disjointed vocal chords as they had. Tony had an excellent idea of how to utilize this enemy to his advantage. 

Tony slid his gun through his belt and rocked back on his feet, crouching low and preparing for the massive leap his trick would require. Then, he jumped. He soared toward the harpy, who was turned away from him, falling just short of its back: no bother, he managed to grab its ankle. He jerked to the side to avoid swinging his torso into its massive taloned feet and held on for dear life as the harpy reacted to his sudden intrusion. He raised his other arm, grabbed the same ankle, and then pulled himself up with as much strength as he could muster. 

Climbing the body of a bird in midair was surprisingly difficult! It kept jerking its legs, making it nearly impossible to raise a hand with each subsequent pull. There was nowhere to stick his feet, so he was lifting his entire bodyweight with his arms alone. 

But when he finally managed to wrap a hand around its shoulder, lifting himself enough to straddle its back… well, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever felt so accomplished. 

Of course, he didn't have the time to bask in his victory, as the harpy was beginning to roll and dive and jerk through the sky in an attempt to buck him off. They were very, very high now. It would not be a good idea to fall. 

Tony was suddenly thrilled he’d had the foresight to carry a knife in his teeth. He held on as tight as possible, leaning his chest against the harpy’s back to maintain his center of gravity. He quickly released his grip on the bird with his knife-hand, twisting his arm to plunge the blade between its shoulder blades before he had a chance to think better of it. 

The harpy screeched, plummeting ten feet before catching itself with its wings, thrusting itself back up five feet, blood dripping in thick rivulets to the ground below. Tony held on tight and ripped the knife out before forcing it in again. And again. And Again. 

The harpy was falling like a torpedo now, barely trying to break its fall. Tony was frankly surprised it was still alive. 

It hit the ground like a meteor, throwing up a plume of dirt and debris straight into the center of a tumult of chaos. 

Tony ripped his knife out of its back, wiped the blood on his sleeve. He took up his stolen machete in his other hand, scanning his environment. He was surrounded, but that was fine. He’d made quite the splash, clearly. Everyone nearby was looking at him now, or the explosion he'd caused. He’d drawn attention away from the others, so they could breach the crowd without fanfare. 

Now all he had to do was hold their focus. 

He threw himself forward, spinning on his heel at the last second to slice into the stomach of a nearby soldier. He didn't care to notice who or what they were, or if they were important or not. It didn’t matter. He was a cyclone of destruction, a force of nature. And forces of nature didn’t care what they mowed down. 

He felt a hand close around his shoulder and barely turned in time to avoid a knife in his back. He threw his fist back, felt it impact something sturdy. He twitched his knife, ignored the spray of blood, and ducked another blow. 

Adrenaline was pumping in his veins, his ears were ringing with it. This was it, was what he was made for. It was all he knew. 

He was going to destroy them all for turning him into this. 

His heart pumped, he stopped another assailant with a quick stab. He ducked a plume of flame and threw his dagger at the fire-breather’s throat, not bothering to recover it. He didn’t have the time, there were already more bodies, more weapons, more blood crowding around him, calling for his attention. 

Someone who looked important, a handler probably, tried to say something to him. Tony ran forward with a grin, raised his arm, and sliced through the handler's neck. Let him try to order Tony around without a head, see how he liked that. 

He heard the gunshot before he felt it. A bullet cut through the edge of his calf, sending fiery pain up the limb as he continued to put weight on it, continued to run, to jump, to fight. He would not let it slow him down, he only let it direct him to his next target. 

The Beasts (as he affectionately liked to call his brothers and sisters in arms) would not carry guns for the most part, it was too much risk in an environment where they could just as easily kill a master as an enemy. He knew he was looking for someone in power. He relished the thought of slicing their hands off and taking their guns with force. 

He dropped low when one of the remaining harpies dove, trying to grab him from the fray. He used his free hand to fumble for his gun, twisting on his back so he could aim high and shoot. The harpy fell from the sky, glorious as an angel. Tony could almost hear the singing. 

As he rolled to his feet, battered and bleeding and incredibly, perfectly broken, Tony realized he'd never felt so alive. This high; this dizzy, heady feeling, it must have been freedom. He couldn't believe his captors kept this feeling from him for so long. It was almost as delicious as hatred, as thrilling as the hunt.

What a lovely way to live his last day. Revenge, exhilaration, freedom! Revenge! He couldn’t have asked for a more fitting send-off.

He laughed uproariously, gun in hand, firing blindly into the mass of bodies, then into the air. 

Come and get me, he thought, you know you want to.

I know I want you to. 

Steve 

Steve charged forward with his shield raised high, Bucky and Natasha trailing behind the protective cover he provided. He knew he had to follow the sound of destruction: that would surely lead him to Tony, toward escape. 

He heard a screech, watched as a bird-hybrid bobbed in the sky with a body dangling from its clawed foot. Watched as the body climbed, before the bird plummeted into the center of the fray. 

What the hell is he thinking? Steve thought. 

That was the last thought he’d have for a good long while. 

As soon as they reached the edge of the crowd, Steve knew they were screwed. He heard his companions dart off in opposite directions, close enough to hear and keep an eye on but far enough to not draw too much opposition in one place. It was not the strategy he would have chosen, but it’s not like he’d voiced that aloud. It’s not like he’d had the time to do so. 

He slammed his shield into the first body he saw, heard the crack of bone as vibranium met sternum. He tilted the shield and carried the momentum outward, slicing in a wide arc, forcing another two opponents back. 

There were far more of them here than there had been when they were fleeing the compound. It was as if the entire organization had come together to stop them from leaving. 

Steve set his jaw, fixed his stance. He would not let them have their way. He would not allow them to hurt his team, his family. 

He adjusted his grip on his borrowed gun and fired at the person nearest to him: a hunter whose mouth was slashed into a wide, grotesque grin, double rows of teeth gleaming with spittle. He did not mourn the death when the body fell. 

Steve was more skilled with a gun than people thought: he’d fought in World War 2, for christ’s sake, he wasn’t as innocent as Americans liked to believe. He raised his shield to cover his face against a plume of fire, the heat quickly taking to the metal. He used this to his advantage, slamming the burning disk into the face of a man who was more scales than flesh. 

He pushed forward, always forward, ears perked up for the voices of his teammates. Always watching, always aware. He fired at a bird-hybrid flying low, slammed his shield into the face of a mimic who’d taken Clint’s form but forgot to hide his smile. He slammed that particular person a few times, for good measure. He didn't like seeing his friend’s face deformed, but he liked someone stealing it even less. 

He was really in it now, spinning in a violent flurry. There were bodies all around, running into him, shoving him to the side. He dug his feet in, raised his gun, only realizing then he'd somehow lost it in the movement. He grappled at his waist for the sword-thing Tony had given him, praying his muscles would do all the work required to actually use it. 

He was slow, much slower than he was used to. His arms strained at the slightest movement, it felt like he was reopening old wounds with each twitch of his muscles. The burns were not healing well, clearly. 

An arm came swinging from nowhere, longer and stretchier than any he’d seen before, outside of Mr. Fantastic (and he’d hardly interacted with the man). Steve leaned back, boots sliding through the dirt as he slashed his weapon in an arc over his head, cringing when blood sprayed from the severed limb. The hand and wrist, along with a dubious length of arm, were flung off into the tumult. 

Steve was immediately attacked on either side. A hunter barreled into his right, long claws ripping across his stomach and tearing into already healed wounds. On his left, a ghoul-like siren opened her mouth, the beginnings of a tune already coming through. 

Steve swung his sword at her, but she jumped back, voice rising into a sharp crescendo as the hunter’s knife slashed into his arm. He adjusted quickly, leveraging his arm to throw the hunter off with his shield, but he was already on him again, teeth bared, knife falling again, and again, and again as Steve’s struggled to defend himself, body growing heavier and heavier as the song continued.

A bullet cut through the music, sending the siren crumbling to the ground. With one side freed, Steve quickly slashed out at the hunter, cutting him across the waist with the edge of his shield. Bucky appeared beside the dying hunter, finishing him off with a shot to the head. 

Bucky's eyes were already darting around as Steve pressed close to his side, steadying himself while clapping his friend’s shoulder. 

“Thanks,” he huffed. 

“There’s too many of them,” Bucky growled. 

“You watch my back, I’ll watch yours,” Steve shrugged. “All we need to do is get out.” 

“Yeah,” Bucky shook his head, “sounds real easy when you say it like that.” He raised his gun over Steve’s shoulder, firing twice. The noise left Steve’s ears ringing for a second. 

Steve turned and saw a barrage of soldiers moving in their direction. He raised his shield instinctively and let them come. 

He shoved a body to the ground and stomped hard on the soldier’s chest. He heard a dull crack and looked up, just in time to duck under a swing from a fast-moving woman with fur coating one arm. She snarled and lunged for him, but Steve rolled out of her way, using his sword to slash into her side. She pushed forward again, Steve kicked her back, where she slammed into Bucky’s chest. He wrapped his metal arm around her neck, strangling her while shooting another soldier behind Steve’s back. Steve whirled around, thrusting his sword into the stomach of another enemy. He kicked at the ankles of a mimic—he thought it was a mimic, anyway, it had the teeth but Steve didn't recognize the face—before whirling back around to see Bucky quickly becoming surrounded, gun firing over and over into the mob of enemies. 

Steve ran toward him, shoving enemies aside before grabbing Bucky’s arm, tugging him along. “Keep moving!” 

“I’m trying!” 

Steve grit his teeth, heard as Tony, somewhere ahead of them, started hollering and cackling and shooting straight into the sky. 

“What the hell is he doing?” He grunted, glancing back at Bucky. 

Bucky’s face was grim, he yanked his arm away from Steve and shoved forward to stand by his side. He used one of his knives to stab someone’s throat as they moved, barely blinking at the violence. “Causin' a scene,” Bucky growled. The words had a little Brooklyn drawl: his accent always came out when he was irritated.

“Why?” Steve moved to the side to avoid a blade, slamming against Bucky and almost sending him off his feet. Bucky righted him quickly, trying to twist to shoot their attacker. He missed, and the enemy was soon lost in the crowd. Steve twitched his shield to the side, deflecting a spray of bullets. 

“No fuckin' clue,” Bucky hissed, pushing himself to move faster. “He’s drawing a target on his back.” 

“Do you think it’s on purpose?” Steve stopped to pick up an abandoned gun, putting the sword away. It felt unfamiliar in his hand, despite its proven utility. He shot threee times in rapid succession, taking down a wraith-like creature that was beelining in their direction. Flame appeared behind them, and Steve instinctively picked up speed, the edges of his healing wounds itching as if to remind him exactly how unpleasant a burn would feel. Bucky twisted around, running backward even as he continued to aim and fire. Steve kept the space in front of them as clear as possible, shooting and dodging and shoving nonstop. 

They were moving, but they were moving slow. Too slow. The mass grew denser the further they got, the snarls and bites and gunshots more frequent. If Steve had once known where his team was, they were lost to him now. All he had was Bucky. 

“Definitely,” Bucky huffed, and Steve struggled to recall what he was responding to. "Even though that wasn't the plan." He looked angry, more than irritated, actually. Absolutely enraged. Somehow, over all of the noise, Steve heard the laughter again, watched Bucky flinch. 

“Maybe he needs this,” Steve grunted, delivering a hard kick to someone’s knee that resulted in the leg bending wrong. Sometimes he forgot his own strength, but in moments like this, he was acutely aware of the damage he could do. “You know, closure or something.” Not that he exactly approved of Tony's methods, but he couldn’t entirely blame the guy. Anyone would snap after the things he’d been through.

Things before the battle had seemed very... dire, for Tony. Like there were a lot of conflicting emotions clouding his judgement. Steve just hoped they'd be able to get him back to himself.

“We were supposed to stick together,” Bucky snarled, slashing viciously through a throat, shooting the hunter behind the body as it fell. 

“We’ll get him,” Steve said, wiping a streak of blood away from his eyes. A massive wolf appeared in front of them, careless of its own allies, chewing and tossing aside any living thing that dared cross its path. It was coming right for them. “Right now, we’ve got our own problems.” 

The animal smelled of rotting meat and stale blood, and had six eyes that curved around its skull. Its fur was matted with gangrenous flesh and gore, and its teeth were so long they reached outside the confines of its jaw. Its tongue lolled out the side, dripping streams of saliva to the ground. It was the size of a very large Ford pickup, because nothing could ever be easy in the damned forest.

Bucky tensed his jaw, raised his gun. He didn’t even have a chance to get his arms all the way up before the beast had launched itself on top of him, grotesque maw opening wide to take a bite. Steve could only watch with horror as the wolf's massive paws pinned his best friend's arms to the ground, a viscous sludge of blood and saliva slowly coating Bucky's face. 

Natasha

It didn’t take long for Natasha to lose Steve and Bucky in the chaos of everything, but she wasn’t worried. She was faster, stealthier than they were. She'd manage to push through just fine on her own.

She shouldered past someone who was… slimy, really, which was unsettling but not worth dwelling on. Still, she slid her knife between their ribs as she passed, moving on before they could react. She slammed her heel into someone’s ankle, sending them tumbling to the ground. She kept moving, always moving, doing little maneuvers but nothing that would hinder her progress, nothing that would keep her in one place too long. 

A larger figure, someone bigger than Steve but not by much, started running at her. He was stopped in his tracks by an arrow to the throat. She didn’t bother looking back: that was all the confirmation she needed. Clint had her back, as always. Even if he couldn’t be there beside her, he was watching out for her. 

A hunter, roughly her size, slid into her space, slamming a heavy baton into her gut, knocking the breath out of her. She caught herself on her heels and returned the blow in kind, slamming her widow's bite into the hunter’s skull, moving her gun in position to shoot. But the hunter was quick, crowding into her space and disarming her as easy as breathing. Natasha snarled, one of her daggers in hand within seconds. She could just as easily kill the thing this way as any other, but it would take longer. The hunter raised her baton, but Natasha blocked the blow with a shove, using her free hand to slash at her ribs. The blade glanced off the thick canvas of the jacket she was wearing. 

That was interesting. 

She changed tactics immediately, hooking her ankle around the hunter’s, sweeping her to the ground. Natasha kicked the hunter’s ribs, hoping the application of blunt force to an armored coat would cause some helpful damage. If the hunter’s cry was any indication, she’d calculated correctly. Natasha fell to her knees, plunging her knife into the hunter’s outstretched throat. 

Before the body even had a chance to grow cold, she stole the hunter’s jacket, shoving it on while searching for her gun among the tumult of the forest floor. When she couldn’t find it, she swiped the hunter’s baton instead. It would do well enough for the time being. Until she could find something better. 

As she stood, she swung it like a bat, hitting the jaw of a red-eyed soldier, suddenly grateful for the extra reach it granted. The red-eyed man reeled back, falling into a fire-breather, who quickly turned on his ally in retaliation for the hit. 

Natasha had already slipped away before they could spare her a second glance. 

Using them against one another could be a workable strategy. They seemed disorganized, not used to working in such close quarters with one another. They were everywhere, but they weren’t communicating except to bicker. 

She ducked under the raised arm of a mimic and shouldered him into a wraith, ignoring his screams as the ghoul descended on its newfound prey. She slipped her knife into someone’s spine then darted away, tripped someone so their face fell with a nice crack against her waiting baton. Eventually, she even found another gun, though she decided it would be easier not to use it yet. Guns were loud, they drew attention. She would save it for later.

When an enemy finally noticed her, she used the back of another as a springboard, snapping his neck before disappearing between someone else’s legs, crawling forward until she was lost again. 

She didn’t need to fight everyone, didn’t need the attention. She just needed to get through, and stealth was proving to be the best method. 

They hardly looked her way, even as she slashed someone behind the knees so she could quietly slit their throat on the ground, even as she slammed her widow's bite against the base of someone’s skull, right where it met their neck, which seemed to have an impressive enough effect: the person fell immediately, without a sound or whimper.

She figured she'd nailed down where the chip was. If so, that would be a useful weak point. She could short out their brains and move away silently.

A pair of arms wrapped around her waist, and was already in the process of throwing her head back. The impact against their nose was satisfying, even if she didn’t manage to loosen their grip on her body. She gripped her knife and tried to stab him, but her arms were effectively pinned. 

The man suddenly lurched to the side, arms slackening, letting Natasha stumble forward. She glanced over her shoulder. 

Clint stood there, hair and jacket singed, eyes red and irritated. “You’re hard to follow,” he said, voice hoarse from smoke inhalation. 

She felt something solidify in her soul at seeing him. Like maybe she wasn’t balancing at the edge of a cliff, like maybe she hadn’t lost her mind entirely yet. Like her missing pieces were coming back to her, like they might not have been absorbed by the forest. Like she might leave whole. 

She cracked a smile despite herself, despite their situation. Clint was here, he was still whole and breathing, if a little crispier than she was used to seeing him. “That’s kind of the point,” she said. She looked him up and down. “Seems like you got into some trouble.” 

Clint grimaced. “They set my tree on fire." His eyes widened. “Get down!” 

She followed the direction immediately, and Clint took his own advice. A glob of something viscous shot over their heads, splattering across the back of a mimic’s head (the mimic almost looked like Tony, but like a low-res version, as if he were being viewed behind a hazy piece of glass. She wondered how that was possible.) The slimy substance began to bubble and smoke where it contacted the mimic’s skin, forcing the man to his knees as choked cries were quickly cut off. 

“What the fuck was that?” She asked, voice higher than she would normally allow. 

“Not something I want to touch,” Clint replied, just a little paler. “Move.” 

They were side by side, just how they always ended up when missions went South. They got each other out, they had each other's backs. She crawled between someone’s legs, cut the achilles tendon on someone else who had the misfortune of looking down and noticing them. Clint finished them off quietly. 

The source of the slimy-acid-like substance was a woman, coated in a jaundiced sheen that made her look sickly and rotten. She had an acrid scent of decay and waste, and her skin and eyes and teeth were all the same putrid-yellow color. She spotted them and smiled. 

“Scatter?” Natasha asked, unable to make herself move. The woman raised her hand and wiggled her fingers, flinging droplets of the corrosive goo straight at them. After that, Natasha didn’t have much of a choice. 

Natasha had no intention of getting anywhere near the woman and moved to take hold of her gun. She stabbed someone’s stomach, jerked and twisted the knife to ensure a quicker kill, and held their bleeding, depleted body up and over herself as cover. She was glad she did, as soon the stench of her shield's melting body hit her nose. She gagged, nearly coughing up bile all over herself. 

This was going to be one of those experiences that never quite left her: the feeling of someone’s insides coating her front, the weight of their body slowly getting lighter and lighter, the stench of active decay infiltrating every opening in her body as if the smell alone were enough to poison her from the inside out. 

She peeked around the corpse’s shoulder, almost feeling sorry for him when she caught a brief glance at the skin sloughing off of his back. But she had to focus. She raised her arm, taking a few quick shots before returning to her cover. 

The cover that was slowly losing its stiffness, its physical weight and presence. She would have to find someone else, then, as the body seemed to slip from her grasp. 

As she moved, keeping close to as many enemies as possible (which felt wrong, counterintuitive, but they seemed a better option than that woman and her corrosive slime) she watched her target. The bullets seemed to just… hover. They sat in the layer of slime against her skin, not reaching her actual body. 

That was definitely a problem. A really big, really bad problem. It meant she had to get closer or escape. 

Natasha did not want to leave this enemy alive to tail her. She slit a hunter’s throat, someone big enough to hopefully last a little longer and dragged the body on top of her. She shoved him forward, holding him tight around the middle without exposing much of her arms. She peeked around: Clint was behind the woman, dagger in hand. He glanced at Natasha, raised two fingers. 

Then dropped one. 

“Over here!” She shouted quickly. The woman glanced over, grinning when she spotted Natasha. She raised a hand—

Clint’s knife sliced through her neck in one quick movement, cutting through as if her anatomy were only as substantial as a bowl of gelatin. A spray of her outer-layer hit Clint’s face, leaving steaming pock-marks in their wake. Natasha let her human shield fall to the ground and ran over. 

“Get that off of you,” she growled, but Clint was already dabbing at the affected areas with his sleeve, careful not to swipe or spread any of it. 

“I think it’s a chemical burn,” Clint muttered, grimacing as the stench assaulted his nose up close. “I’ll flush it out when we have a chance.” 

“Is your skin—”

“It’s not that much, Tash.” Clint met her eyes, smiled weakly. “I’ll be fine.” 

She didn't believe him, she'd just held a body while it melted. But she appreciated the intention behind the empty words nonetheless. 

As they continued forward, Natasha was really astounded by their progress. They moved in perfect tandem, and she was confident that their skills combined might actually be enough to pull this daring escape off. Clint was just ahead of her, and Natasha used the keeled over form of the man she’d just tased as a sort of jumping-board to get high enough to soar over a particularly thick crowd, landing just the right way to wrap her legs around the throat of a hunter. She squeezed hard, used her gun to shoot a bird-hybrid that was screeching in her direction as they went down together. She landed on her knees, but managed to stand quickly. 

She really, really felt confident. And Clint was just ahead.

An explosion went off just a head, just a little too close. She wasn’t caught in the blast, but she was affected by the impact. A body flew into her middle, shoving her back as her ears rang from the cacophonous noise. Her head hit the ground hard, and she was effectively pinned to the ground. 

Despite the sluggishness of her thoughts, she knew that not moving was not an option. She had to find Clint. Clint had been closer to the blast. She slammed her elbow into the skull of her keeper, wrapped an arm around his neck and used it as leverage to roll them over, sinking her knife into his eye before he could recover enough to fight her. 

She didn’t know why he would set off a blast so close to his allies, but she knew exactly who had done it. 

She tried to stand and turn, but dizziness and nausea forced her to stay on her knees. That wasn't good. It was really, really not good. She raised her head, doing her best to take deep breaths, and squinted through the grit and dirt that was still falling to the ground. She couldn’t see Clint, didn’t know where he’d ended up. But she did see Tony at the center of… well, everything.

Tony was… it was an incredible thing, really. He was a blur of constant movement, a devastatingly powerful destructive force. He'd slash and behead an enemy one second, then have his gun in hand the next to take out a handler further away. He was manipulating the soldiers' weapons against them when possible, shoving them into throats and eye sockets and allies, rather than using his own. She saw him pluck weapons off of corpses only to discard them a breath later with an impossible throw. 

It was like watching a hurricane tear through your hometown: something horrible, something unimaginable. But impossible to look away from. 

In her haze, as she tried to force her focus to come together, willing the ground to steady beneath her shaking hands, she recalled something a handler in the red room had said to her about the Zoo. It'd been meant as a horror story, something to terrify misbehaving children into doing as they were told. A story that always worked, even though she hadn't quite believed it. 

"You know what happens to naughty children, don’t you? We send them to the Zoo. They create monsters there; violent things. And they are hungry. They are creatures so starved of blood, of humanity, of kindness, that they will cut out your heart for safe-keeping and devour your intestines with a smile. Do you think you could survive there? Do you think you would rise to be the leader of the pack?

Or would you be consumed, like all the weak little girls before you?

She watched as a man with a wicked grin sank his teeth into Tony’s shoulder, she watched as Tony grinned and shoved a knife through the underside of his jaw, ignoring the spray of blood on his face, shoving the corpse off without acknowledging the tearing the rough motion caused for his own wounds. 

She’d never seen Tony like this before. Focused, yes. Lethal, of course. But never so gleeful. He was manic, vibrating with energy. Enjoying every kill. 

Exactly like the monsters she'd been warned about as a child.

She was glad he was on their side. She felt something inside of her, that little string that held her together that had just been repaired and reinforced, strain just a little bit. It frayed as it slowly, slowly unraveled. 

Clint was missing. They had allied themselves with… And Clint was gone. Clint must have been caught in the blast. And she couldn’t find him, and she didn’t know where Steve and Bucky had ended up, and it might just be her and—

She felt a sharp stinging pain in her side and looked up just in time to see a hunter carrying twin swords before her. She moved on instinct more than cognition, rolling away and forcing herself to her feet despite the fact her body wasn’t ready for it yet. She ran into another body and moved away just in time to avoid getting nicked. 

The air was sickly sweet, and she twisted to watch a trio of poisoners approach her, looking as ghoulish and dead as the last time she'd fought them. She quickly scrambled to take her gun in her shaking hands, putting as much distance between them and herself as possible. But they were fast, dashing through the crowd uninhibited, bodies parting for them like the red sea. She shot the one still in front of her, over and over, but the other two just appeared behind her and to her side. She tried to take another shot, but was forced to duck when the hunter (which she'd completely forgotten about) swung for her neck. 

She was surrounded, she was dizzy. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t find anyone.

“Signal!” She shouted, though her voice broke on the word. She cleared her throat, took another shot that went too far left. “Signal!” She tried again. 

She glanced over her shoulder, knew Tony noticed her. She thought he would come to her aid, but he didn’t. 

Instead, he turned on his heel, dashing toward another body he could destroy. 

Fine, then. Apparently his revenge fantasy was more important. She'd just... she'd figure it out. She ducked low, tried to get back up again but it took more effort than it should have. She slammed her widow's bite into the shin of the hunter and moved to the side so his blade wouldn’t meet her flesh. She shot him in the head, but was forced to flee again when another poisoner appeared to her left, slashing toward her with its claws. She aimed, was jostled again. The shot went down, only hitting the foot. 

The poisoner seemed to not even feel the wound, progressing toward her, dragging the damaged limb along without acknowledging the steaming trail of black ooze it left on the dirt. 

She moved right to prevent the poisoner that was behind her from raking its claws against her back, barely making it in time. The one in front of her exhaled, a cloud of spores exiting its throat and filling the air around her. 

She was causing a scene, making too much noise, the crowd would turn on her soon—but she had to focus, she couldn't lose sight of the poisoners—but more eyes were turning her way, more blades, more teeth—

She held her breath, prepared to run, but the crowd was too thick, her legs too heavy. She wouldn’t make it. 

She was trapped. 

An answer to her prayers: the high-pitched tone filled the air. 

She looked up in time to see Tony running toward her, a radio in hand, as bodies began to hit dirt. Not all of them, but a lot. 

The poisoners crumpled, falling as if they were only as substantial as a pile of mud and roots. 

Natasha moved toward Tony, trying to avoid as many of the light-as-air spores as she could see. She would keep him close. She would use him to find Clint. And if Clint was dead… well, then she’d fucking kill him.

Clint

Clint’s eyes had always been his best asset. From high up in the tree, he traced the progress of his teammates: 

First, he watched Tony disappear further into the trees. Whatever plan he had, it had nothing to do with collaboration. Why did that seem so predictable?

Steve, Natasha, and Bucky stuck close at first, but as soon as they hit the crowd they were forced to separate. That would make them harder track, but Clint figured he could manage. 

He eyed the chaos: Steve and Bucky were easy enough to follow, distinctive figures. They were getting through with determination and force, breaking a path for themselves with as much subtlety as a bowling ball to the face. But they were faring just fine, it seemed, though getting through pretty slowly. 

Natasha was… she was quick. She was weaving past, ducking under and through bodies without drawing undue attention. He saw a bigger guy with a gun notice her, so Clint took him out quickly, hand spasming at the excessive strain on his shoulder as he pulled back with all the muscles and tendons of his arm. He ignored it. 

He only had a small handful of arrows left. He was going to make them count. He scanned the ground below, took down what looked to be a scaly person—fire-breather, or something else entirely? Just how many different experiments did this place have?—before it could reach Steve and Bucky, struck another of the giants in the mouth when it had the bad luck of roaring in his general direction. 

It was then that he realized he’d lost Natasha to the crowd. He felt his heart jump into his throat, squinted in search for her red shock of hair as it blazed through the chaos, but he didn’t see her. 

He was so focused on looking for her that he forgot to watch his own post. 

The smell of smoke was the first thing he noticed. He looked down and saw that the base of the tree he was perching in was on fire. That was a big, big, big big problem. He scanned the ground, spotted the fire-breather responsible, surrounded by other experiments cackling on the ground at the hilarity of setting his safe-haven ablaze right out from under him. 

Clint didn’t have the time to try and take them out, to aim and hope it worked. He was losing structural integrity by the second. He leaped to the next tree, not bothering to take care with his landing. He really hoped all those years at the circus would finally pay off. 

He gripped another branch with the tips of his fingers, adjusted his grip before throwing his weight back, then forward, tossing himself into the air. He managed to hit his chest against a trunk of another tree, wrapping his arms around it as his feet scrambled for purchase beneath him. He felt heat pressing against his back, heard the laughter grow in volume beneath him. He ignored the sensation of impending doom pooling in his gut and pushed off from the trunk, shuffling around so he could get around to jump to the next tree. 

He felt fire lick at his heels, glanced down just long enough to see the branch he was on crumble out from underneath him. 

It hurt, that moment he free fell into flame, but he caught and flung himself forward without a second thought, just forward, just away, just to somewhere cooler and less painful. He managed to grab another branch with his hands and fell to the one below, slamming an arm against the tree’s trunk to assist with balance. His bow fell to the ground, and Clint felt a little piece of him die with it as it was immediately incinerated by the fire-breather.

He grabbed a gun, stuck it between his teeth. (He imagined the rage on Coulson’s face if he knew… ah, Coulson. He never thought he’d admit it, but he missed Coulson. Coulson would know exactly what to do in a place like this. He’d get them out without all the scars and trauma.) Then he jumped, and ran, and even prayed a little as the flames chased him, as the trees grew further and further apart, and the smoke pawed at his eyes and burned his nostrils, and the hair on the back of his neck shrank and singed when he didn’t move quite fast enough. 

He finally reached a tree where he knew he might not make the last jump. He glanced down, saw the fire-breather and his cronies still behind him. Clint held his breath, turned around, squinted through the smoke. 

He fired a lot. More than was probably necessary. He hoped he hit them, but it was getting harder and harder to see. 

Then, he jumped. 

And fell. 

He flailed in the air, cursing and coughing up a storm. He finally managed to grab a branch on the next tree, much lower to the ground than he’d previously been, practically tearing his arm out of the socket. He was so, so glad that he’d remembered to use his non-dominant hand. One bad pull, and he was pretty sure his wounded shoulder would detach itself from his body.

From there, he scrambled to the ground, landing heavily, immediately falling to his knees. Except he couldn’t stay there. 

He broke off in a sprint, lungs burning for air as desperation and adrenaline coursed through him, pushing him to keep moving even though it shouldn’t have been possible. 

When he finally reached the edge of the crowd, he decided to take a page out of Steve and Bucky’s book: it was time to use force, lots of it. He’d run out of patience; he really wanted to find Natasha again and had a vague idea of what direction she’d gone. His gun was firing nonstop, taking down enemies before they had a fighting chance to notice him. He was heaving, coughing, he was pretty sure he was burnt. He could barely feel the pain, he was single-mindedly focused on his goal. 

At one point another fucking ghostly-wraith-like-figure, like the one that had managed to nab him in the very beginning, tried to stop him. He was pretty sure he handled that one with as much ferocity as one of the “beastly” people around him. He wondered if Tony would be proud of his development as a murderous person. 

And then finally: he spotted her. A beacon of red hair as it flew over someone’s head, someone whose arms were wrapped around her, holding her, getting ready to hurt his person. 

His knife was in his hand, forced through the side of her attacker’s skull before he even had a chance to think about it. 

When they finally locked eyes, when they spoke, Clint could barely stop himself from hugging her. But now was not the time, it wasn’t the place. There would be time for sappy reunions soon, after they made it out. But not yet. 

It sometimes amazed Clint how well he and Natasha fought together: they didn’t need to speak to communicate, they knew each other well enough to anticipate each other’s moves. She knew to duck when he wanted to shoot, he knew how to get out of her way to pull off some crazy acrobatic maneuver that ended with her target mangled and dead on the dirt. She was going for stealth, he was doing that but less-effectively, covering her back anytime someone realized who exactly was forcing their way through the army. 

Even though they were forced to separate a bit, Clint now knew exactly where she would be. He could feel her near him, as if their lives were tethered, as if this final battle was the one to eternally forge their bond as warriors-in-arms, an unstoppable team of catastrophic force. He let himself run a little ahead, doing his best to clear the way for them. 

He saw Tony up ahead: cool! Maybe they could get everyone back together and coordinate a heavy push to the end. 

Tony was really going for it, Clint thought. He was fighting tirelessly, bleeding all over himself, or maybe it was someone else’s blood? Did it really matter? Because Tony wasn’t acting like he was in pain, or like he was recovering from stab wounds. He was honestly kind of acting like he was on something. 

Clint didn’t hold it against him. The guy had internalized a lot of shit, it was about time he let it out. At least he was doing some significant damage: less for Clint to do! That was great, fine by him! 

Clint was ducking under someone, sliding his longer dagger between a man’s ribs when he saw it. 

Tony was laughing, tackling someone to the ground. The enemy pulled something off of his belt, pulling a pin with his teeth while saying something (probably cruel). Another grenade. Tony took it from him and threw it aside, without paying attention to where it was fucking going. 

Tony, without a care in the world, killed his target. 

The grenade rolled in the dirt, stopping a few short steps away from Clint. 

His body reacted before his mind did, changing course from forward to anywhere but here within an instant, legs pushing him faster than he’d thought his exhausted form was capable of. 

Of course, none of that mattered. It was a grenade, it exploded. 

The force of the blast sent his body sailing through the air; he landed hard on the ground, soon covered by a thin layer of dirt. He felt like every bone in his body was jostled and rocked, like his organs had absorbed the impact and were still reeling. 

He couldn’t hear anything outside a dull tone in his left ear. The right was silent. He tried to raise himself up onto his elbows, but immediately buckled under the weight of his body against his wrist: broken, probably. Which was a problem, because he still had to fight his way out. He tried his elbows and had a little more success. He was disoriented, he felt like he had just been slammed against the ground (because he was!) At least he still had all of his limbs: that was a win, as far as running from explosives were concerned.

His hearing aids were definitely shot, the noise of the blast having finally killed them for good. He had dirt in his eyes and couldn’t blink it away. He saw vague outlines of movement: bodies nearby recovering from the blast. He was sure if he looked behind him, he’d see even more bodies not recovering. He wondered if Tony was still fighting, unaware that his ally was caught in the crossfire. 

He wondered if Natasha was okay. She was further away than he was, which meant she was probably okay. Right? 

Right. Definitely. He moved to sit on his knees, certain he was making all sorts of undignified noises. It didn’t matter because he couldn’t hear it, which meant nobody could hold it against him. He looked up just in time to see a knife running at him like a train. 

He threw his body down to avoid it, forgetting immediately about his probably-definitely broken wrist and falling face-first into the dirt as soon as he tried to put weight on it.

But he successfully dodged the knife! Score! He pushed himself back onto his feet, despite the fact that his arm was overcome with shooting pains and he was quickly realizing that the impact had really messed with his shoulder, which was throbbing and pulsing under his skin in a very concerning way. His head was swimming, he was growing worried about how blurry his vision was. Oh! And he couldn’t hear. 

He faced his attacker as quickly as he was capable of, realizing only then that he’d dropped his own knife. His hands fumbled for the other weapons on his belt, grabbing the first one he felt. Another longer knife, fine, that was fine. He didn’t trust his aim with a gun anyway. He jerked through a quick dodge to avoid another stab and swung his knife in a wide arc in the approximate direction of his enemy. He felt a brief brush of impact, but then he met air. A miss. 

The attacker’s boot made contact with Clint’s chest, and he barely had the balance left to stumble back and keep upright. He tried to surge forward but his foot slipped, his knife flailing in the direction he was trying to reach. It stabbed downward, implanting in something thick and fleshy—a thigh? He pulled back, held the knife, and saw the outline of his enemy slump to the side. It was a win! A small win, but still a win! The figure was still moving though, and reached him quickly enough that Clint’s eyes, still filled with dirt, couldn’t follow. A sharp pain struck his already-fucked-up shoulder, the agony nearly enough to send him to his knees. He shoved forward at the same time, hoping to at least bring the fucker down with him. 

They tumbled forward, Clint landing on top of his opponent. He executed a disarming technique by muscle memory alone, and before the man could move again, Clint stabbed. He went for the chest, didn’t trust his accuracy with a smaller target. He hit him a few times—his shoulder hurt a lot now, okay? He had a lot of bitterness to exert. 

Clint didn’t try to get up again until he was certain that the body had gone limp. Gasping for breath, desperate for just one full breath of clean air, he forced himself upright. His body was screaming at him, his vision was only slowly starting to clear. Still, he tried to get a good look around him. He was already down one sense, didn’t need to lose all his visual awareness too. 

But what he saw… it was just too good to be true. In droves, enemies around him were dropping down like marionettes with their strings cut. He saw wraith-like things and poisoners, mimics and hunters and sirens and another fucking slime thing oh hell no—

They must have used the radio. It wasn’t affecting everyone. There were still bodies upright, and further away Clint could see that the range wasn’t all-encompassing of the battlefield. But it was still really, really good. 

Plus, it would make it easier to find the others. He took a step forward, ignored the pain that lanced through his entire body. He would find Natasha, and everyone else. And then he’d get the fuck out of there and sleep for a year. 

It seemed like a good plan. Very realistic.

Chapter Text

2016

Bucky

Bucky’s back hit the ground hard, and his mouth and nose were immediately assaulted by the thick stench of rotting meat and dried blood. It was enough to make his eyes water. There were chunks of flesh and fat stuck between the massive wolf’s imposing teeth, and Bucky didn’t even want to entertain the thought of what an animal of this size fed on. A chunk of it fell right between his eyes, and he was suddenly thankful he hadn’t been eating much. He was honestly wondering how he would ever manage to eat again as the slime of its saliva coated his mouth and nose.

He jerked against its weight, trying to dislodge himself, but it was a heavy animal, and he couldn’t move much without slamming his head into a tooth. The wolf snarled, opening its mouth wider to chow down. 

Getting eaten alive was not Bucky's preferred way of dying.

Steve slammed into its head like a bullet train, sending it reeling to the side enough for Bucky to scramble away and back to his feet. He had his gun in front of him in seconds; he took two shots at the wolf: one hit a tooth, which cracked at the impact, the other hit its side, sliding off the fur as if repelled. 

Last time he’d shot it through an eye. Apparently, that'd been a good choice.

Last time, they’d been alone in the woods with the wolf caught off guard. 

This time, the wolf was trying to get its teeth around Steve’s shield like it was a toy, drooling all over the disc as its massive jaws snapped and snarled at the only thing preventing Steve's arm from getting ripped off. Bucky shot its flank, hoping to draw its attention away. The wolf didn’t even flinch. 

Well, it'd worked once: time to take a page out of Tony’s book.

Bucky ran forward and leaped up, landing horizontally across the back of the wolf. He swung a leg up, shimmied until he was on top, and grabbed one of his knives. The wolf began to buck and shake, forcing him to wrap his fingers through the thick expanses of fur before him while shouting “the eyes!”

“You’re right over the fucking eyes!” Steve snapped, slamming the wolf’s muzzle with his shield when it tried snapping at him again. Eyes were turning toward their scuffle, weapons raising in response to the scene they were causing. Bucky ducked low against the wolf and slashed his knife between its ribs, but the knife just scraped and slid away from the heavy armor of fur. 

Keeping low, ignoring the fact that a knife just flew over his head, he dragged himself up the body of the beast, fistfuls of fur staining his hands red and leaving them… sticky. Unpleasant. Steve had his sword back in hand and was using it to slash at the beast’s face, managing to cut into one of the eyes. 

The wolf howled, tossing its head back, nearly throwing Bucky off. 

Of fucking course it howled, he thought. This was meant to be quick, there might have been others. They might be coming over to attend to their pal. 

He had to finish this. He raised himself fully upright, praying under his breath that another knife wouldn’t come flying. He raised his arms above his head and brought his blade down hard, spearing through the wolf’s uppermost eye. 

It jerked back, but Bucky held tight, twisting his blade. The wolf began to slump beneath him. He hopped over its head, knife exiting its skull with a sickening pop as he nearly ran into Steve in his hurry to move. 

“They travel in packs,” Bucky huffed, already burying himself deeper into the crowd. 

“I don’t see anymore of them,” Steve replied, following close behind. He was switching back to his gun. Really an indecisive guy. Bucky wondered if it was strange for him to use a secondary weapon at all, rather than relying solely on his shield for attack and defense. He seemed like he wasn’t used to it. 

Bucky shot a hunter in the back of the head, just because he hated them. They were a pain in the ass, and they seemed to make up a huge portion of the crowd. He wondered how many droves of them existed within the walls of the facility, how many people had been taken and tortured and warped into the sadistic killers they'd become. He wondered if they'd been there as long as Tony had, or longer. “It’s hard to see anything in this mess,” he huffed. 

A man with glowing yellow eyes and excessively dark veins rammed into Steve, but Steve took care of him before Bucky could do anything. He shot a few more enemies before they could approach, until his gun started clicking, empty. He just let it drop and reached for his other handgun. He had that and a sniper rifle. Not ideal when they were surrounded like this. 

Another explosion rocked the earth, drawing attention away from Bucky and Steve long enough for them to make some actual progress. He could almost hear Tony now, up ahead. They might actually be able to meet up and get out.

Clint

Clint’s stomach lurched as he stumbled past the bodies, eyes blearily scanning for that shock of red hair he knew so well. But he looked and looked, and she wasn’t there. How could she not be there? She'd only been a few feet behind him, not far enough to be lost so completely. 

His heart beat hard against his ribs, his lungs constricted. What if she'd been right behind him and been caught in the blast? What if Tony's enemy had another bomb to set off and now he was gone, blown to pieces before they could actually get him out?

What if Steve and Bucky were overrun because the signal didn’t reach? What if he was on his own now, forced to make his way through the army of bodies to tell the tales of the horrors they faced alone?

Could he handle that?

He choked and fell to his knees, still searching, always searching. He had to find her. She wasn’t gone, couldn’t be gone. She was nowhere near the blast, and the signal had come so soon. She was strong enough to hold her own that long. 

He finally lowered his gaze to the bodies on the ground, barely able to look for fear of what he might find. 

And then he saw it: 

Red hair, tangled with twigs and matted with blood. Low against the dirt. 

Suddenly, he couldn’t see anything else. He stumbled toward it, hands digging into the dirt, crawling across prone and twitching bodies as he made his way toward her. 

No no no no no no. 

It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. 

When he reached her, he could hardly see as his trembling hands drew closer to her body. He tried to speak, but no words came out. 

He pressed against her shoulder, and her body jerked. 

He was pretty sure he screamed, felt it tear against his throat. Natasha grabbed his wrist (luckily it wasn't the maybe-probably-definitely-broken one), gesturing wildly, putting a finger to her lips. 

Shhhhhhh, she motioned. Shut the fuck up, she mouthed. Clint felt his chest hitch, felt relief flood his system all at once. He couldn’t breathe through it, could hardly think at all.

She’s alive, she's alive, she's alive. 

She was mouthing something else, but Clint couldn’t see it through the tears threatening to spill. She glanced to her side, and Clint felt a hand shove him down by his shoulder, toppling him to the ground. Before he could react, Natasha took his face in her hands, pressed a quick kiss to his forehead. When she pulled away, she mouthed very slowly, very clearly “so they don’t see us.” 

Clint finally turned to look at the other body hunching nearby: Tony, caked with blood and dirt, face slashed and bruised, eyes still bright with adrenaline. He was almost entirely flat, head lifted slightly to meet Clint’s eyes. He raised a finger to point to his ear. 

Clint shook his head; he couldn’t hear shit. Tony nodded, seemed to think for a moment. Finally, he raised a hand in front of his face, finger-spelling a name: Bucky. 

Clint shook his head again: he’d lost Steve and Bucky as soon as he'd found Natasha. He had no clue where they ended up. Tony nodded again, eyes darting to the side. Natasha looked the same way. Clint followed their gaze. 

Some of the soldiers who still stood near them were running around, gesturing wildly and swinging their guns. Clint hunkered further against the dirt, tried to hold still. He kept watching as the soldiers started searching the ground, shoving bodies aside. 

Natasha had her gun in hand, was aiming as well as she could without lifting her head or hand too high above the ground. Tony flinched when she pulled the trigger, freezing as when one of the handlers went down, blood spraying from a head shot. Natasha immediately lowered her head again, Clint followed suit. 

Tony said something to Natasha, she hissed something back. Clint felt painfully out of the loop. Tony flinched again, though this time it wasn’t due to any sound or movement from any of their group. He adjusted, made sure his own gun was in hand. Clint hated this, hated waiting for something to go wrong. Natasha pulled the trigger again, Tony followed suit. Tony’s eyes widened, he glanced at Natasha, and Clint was pretty sure he said:

They killed the radio. 

Clint looked at Natasha, saw her mouth thin. She said something else to Tony, Tony responded with something that looked an awful lot like how the fuck should I know? 

Suddenly, Natasha was on her feet, Tony shouting as he followed, wrapping a hand around Clint’s wrist (the broken one this time, and yes it hurt like a bitch) and dragging him along. Natasha was already tense, already shooting. Clint instinctively followed her lead, taking aim at the first person he saw on their feet. Tony was facing opposite them, watching their backs. 

Some of the bodies started to twitch, and Clint shot them, too, just to be safe. Better to keep them down forever than wait for them to get back up again. But the handlers still standing had guns, and they had very clear targets as his companions seemed intent to stand still, waiting to be shot. 

He knew they had to split up again, start moving. But he couldn’t make himself suggest it. The moment of fear he’d felt thinking his entire team had died was weighing on him, tethering him in place. But then Tony grabbed his arm and yanked him down again, and Natasha darted off to the left, and he was staring at the dirt trying to reorient himself while Tony shouted something at him even though they both knew he couldn’t hear it. All he wanted was to chase after Natasha, so he tried to shrug Tony off, but Tony held firm, gesturing in front of them. 

Natasha was already running back, Steve and Bucky on her heels, zig-zagging to make herself a more difficult target. She slid in front of them, hooking her arm through Clint’s elbow, and pulled herself close to his side. 

Further away, some of the deactivated enemies were beginning to stir, and Clint did his best to shoot them before they could get their bearings. Steve tackled a handler who was standing nearby, while Bucky shouted at Tony, hands waving expressively in the air. 

Great team, really. He was sure they had what it took to make it out alive. That confidence only grew as bullets kept flying, and people kept shouting, and enemies continued to stand. 

Steve 

By the time he and Bucky managed to lay eyes on the devastation following the second grenade, Tony had already darted off somewhere, leaving a trail of debris and bodies behind him. Steve slashed out with his shield at a nearby enemy, barely sparing them a glance to see what kind of horror he’d just cut through. There had been so many by that point he could hardly keep track of them. He was sure he’d see them all later in his nightmares, if he actually managed to sleep again. 

The exhaustion of their tireless travel was not immediately noticeable, but ever-present in the back of his mind, in the dull ache of his muscles. His stomach felt far too empty for the amount of energy he was expending, and his patience for battle after battle was growing thin. He couldn't muster up any empathy for the people trapped and forced to serve in this army, not anymore. He could only hope he'd recover the ability later, when he was done shooting and dodging and screaming with rage. 

He didn’t have the time to wonder if that piece of his conscience would return to him, if he’d ever manage to feel guilty about the lives he’d ended. He barely had the ability to hope he’d get it back. It was just as likely to sneak up on him and ruin his sleep as it was to be dead and gone forever, changing the person he thought he was in an irreparable way. 

But he shouldn't think like that. He was only going to distract himself from the massive issues at hand.

Bucky stumbled against him, tackled and shoved back by a woman with blue stains on her skin. Steve barely processed when Bucky crushed her windpipe before her sharpened fingernails could rake across his face. Steve pushed back to encourage Bucky to right himself and held his shield up to stop another barrage of bullets coming their way. 

When Natasha’s broken voice, hardly carrying through the chaos, sounded somewhere behind them, Steve almost missed the words entirely. He couldn’t spot her in the crowd, couldn’t pinpoint her through the violent movement all around them. He crouched to avoid a kick aimed at his throat and knocked the attacker to the ground, trying to focus on protecting his own neck. 

“She’s surrounded,” Bucky realized aloud, already moving her direction. He was shoved back by a man with overly large arms, but Steve raised his handgun and shot him before the altercation could go further. He tried to follow, shoving people aside. It was frustrating, their slow-moving progress. He couldn’t take a step without avoiding a bite or a stab, couldn’t take a breath without knowing it might be his last. He wanted to run, he wanted to get away, rather than drag himself through this slow-moving crawl. He didn’t want to fight anymore. He just needed to move and feel like he was actually making progress. 

“Signal!” Natasha’s voice called out. It was clearer now, impossible to miss. Steve felt his heart stop. He still couldn’t see her, but he heard the desperation lacing her tone, the pain, the terror. He’d known her for four years by then, and he'd never heard her like that. He hit someone a little harder than before, felt the rage swell up when he only managed another half-step. Bucky fumbled in his pocket, pulling out the radio. He slammed a couple buttons, turned up the volume—

Nothing. No sound came out.

“What the fuck?” Bucky breathed, so distracted Steve had to take another shot to keep a scaly-looking person from ripping into him with noticeably-long teeth. “It’s not working.” 

“Try again,” Steve growled, firing without seeing what he was hitting. His vision was darker as desperation crept in, clawing up his throat and clouding his eyes. He still couldn’t find Natasha, and she needed help. And their Hail Mary, the thing they'd sworn to save as a last resort if everything went to shit wasn’t working. 

Bucky slammed the button again, shook the radio. Hit it. Still nothing. “We need to just… we need to get to her.” 

Before they could take another step, a tone sounded through the crowd. Steve’s eyes immediately shot to the radio in Bucky’s hand. It was still silent, still dead. It wasn’t the source of the noise. 

Still, whatever the source… it was working. Steve whirled around and watched as droves of enemies, all the ones surrounding them, started to still, to twitch, to drop. Some further back stayed up, but they didn’t try to approach, as if they knew they were at the edge of the danger zone. 

Bucky tossed the radio to the ground, already stomping over prone bodies in the direction he last saw Natasha, even though she was nowhere to be seen. “Where the fuck did she go?” Bucky growled. “Where the fuck did all of them go?” 

“They’re probably hiding,” Steve pointed out, “trying not to make easy targets of themselves.” He swallowed, tried to sound more confident than he really felt. “You know, something we should be doing.” 

“I’d like to see these bastards try to stop me,” Bucky hissed. As if to prove his point, he aimed at one of the remaining soldiers and took him down without hesitation. 

Bucky was... he really seemed to be reaching the end of his rope. And while Steve didn't blame him, he also knew it wasn't going to be helpful. They were in deep shit, they needed to strategize. And he wasn't going to let Bucky work himself into a frenzy, leaving Steve alone to figure out how to get his team out safely. It wasn't fair. He needed his friend, now. He needed someone to be on his side. 

He didn't need the Winter Fucking Soldier, who Bucky seemed to be closer to being than ever before.

“Being aggressive isn’t a good strategy with guns involved,” Steve snapped, “especially when we’re walking without cover.” He jumped to Bucky’s side to raise his shield to protect him from a shot, taking down the soldier as quickly as was possible without risking getting his own head blown off. 

Bucky let out a low growl, something from the back of his throat, but he listened, he kept close. "I—" Bucky started to say, before he was cut off by more bullets, and he and Steve were forced to duck low, Bucky raising his gun over the upper rim of the shield to try and clear their way. "I'm sorry, I'm not thinking, I—" 

"Well, you need to think," Steve hissed, taking his own shot. It wasn't the time for a heart to heart, it really wasn't the time. But it seemed it was happening. "We're not going to brute force our way out of this. If we want to find our team and get them out safely, you need to keep your head on straight. You can't just—I can't figure it out by myself, I need—" 

Bucky spared a glance his way, swallowed. He twisted to shoot someone who was trying to sneak up behind them. "You're right." 

Steve let out a deep breath, some of the mounting pressure against his chest slowly releasing. "I know," he said. "Let's just... let's just find them, and go. I'm tired of this." 

It didn’t take long for the exact people they were looking for get themselves involved in a standoff, standing enough a distance away that Steve still felt just a little bit helpless. Steve and Bucky took down as many of the enemies from behind as possible, and soon Natasha was running toward them. 

“Tony’s completely lost his mind and Clint's lost his hearing,” she breathed, latching onto Steve’s arm and dragging him to the place the others were apparently hiding, Bucky following close behind. “They’ve already destroyed the radio, meaning experiments might start getting up again any minute now.” She sneered, clearly irritated. "As always, Tony has no clue how the others react to things."

“Thanks for the update,” Steve nodded, mouth a grim line. It didn’t sound good when it was laid out like that. It sounded like they were just as screwed as before. 

But at least he knew where his team was now. That was something.

“We need to take this opportunity for what it is, before those still capable of movement start closing in again,” Bucky said. 

“Time to get the fuck out,” Natasha agreed, as they were finally all reunited. 

“Ah, I thought the time would never come,” Tony exhaled. His cheeks were red with exertion, his eyes bright as if he were excited (or feverish). He was coated with blood, enough that Steve could only hope that most of it didn’t belong to him. Clint looked as if he’d been buried alive and unearthed again, his skin and clothes stained by congealing dirt and blood to the point he looked more mud than man. That, and he was dazed and swaying on his feet. 

Steve found it hard to feel anything beyond relief, even if concern was likely the more appropriate emotion. 

Avengers, Assemble, he thought to himself. What's left of us, anyway. 

Bucky was lecturing Tony about 'being a fucking idiot', but Steve got everyone moving again before things could become too heated. The last thing they needed was to lower morale more than it already was.

They stuck close to each other: Steve and Bucky watching everyone’s backs, Tony in the front with that slightly manic grin still firmly affixed to his face, Natasha and Clint in the center, her eyes darting from Clint, to their surroundings, back to Clint again. 

Another giant-type experiment was already rising to its knees, ready to crush anyone who came too close, but the barrage of bullets that came from their little squadron took care of it before it could fully stand. 

Even as more stood, the team worked seamlessly together, managing to handle most rising threats before they became an actual problem. Steve felt hope blossom in his chest as they got closer and closer to the edge, where handlers and soldiers were still lining up to prevent their escape. 

But those who had been unaffected by the signal began to close in as a single hoard, and the bullets picked up in frequency as if realizing how close the team had actually gotten. Before long, their quick movement was slowed, and Steve was back to focusing on slashing, dodging bites, shooting, ducking, shoving… 

He was back to nothing. He slammed his shield against a fire-breather as they opened their mouth, he shot a hunter repeatedly in the face. He jumped in front of Clint, who hadn't realized someone was creeping up behind him. 

Steve, even if the exhaustion was slowly draining his willpower, wouldn’t allow it to override his hope. He couldn't, not now. If he had to fight for the rest of his damned life to get his team to that fucking line, he would do it. They were so close now. They would make it. 

He threw his shield and punched an enemy in the throat. He imagined it was a nazi to make it feel a little less repetitive. 

Natasha

After the signal went off, as soon as she and Tony were close enough to touch, he had his hands on her shoulders and was shoving her roughly to the ground, ignoring her glares and spitting and protests. 

“Shut up,” Tony hissed, pressing her down. He was much stronger than he looked. She didn't like that. “Shut up shut up shut up.” He lowered himself entirely on top of her, using his weight to keep her flailing limbs still, grunting and hissing as she continued to fight him. Panic was already gripping her throat. She didn't like being restrained, she had to move, she had to fight. 

“Get the fuck off of me,” she snarled, throwing her shoulder in an attempt to dislodge him. “What the fuck are you doing?” She thought about tasing him, but held back, because the insane piece of shit would probably like it, he'd probably just see it as a booster shot, just another thing to keep him going to kill everything in his sight, including her team—

“Listen to—God damn it, Natasha, listen to me!” Tony hissed, grunting with the effort it took to hold her still. “Only two categories of people will be standing right now: handlers and intruders. Which one do you think we are?” 

Natasha paused, her panic-ridden mind processing the words much slower than normal.

Tony sighed, slowly shifting himself off of her. When she didn’t move, he relaxed into the dirt. “If we stay up, we’re immediately painting massive targets on our backs,” Tony hissed. “We need to maintain cover until we have some backup.” As if to emphasize his point, he tossed the radio as far as possible without raising his arm, sending it sailing across the field so it wouldn’t be a beacon to their exact location. “Keep an eye out for the others,” he said. 

“Clint is nearby,” she hissed. “Hopefully alive, after you blew him up.” 

“Someone tried to blow me up. I checked if any of you were nearby before I threw the grenade away,” Tony muttered dismissively. 

“Yeah, well, you must have missed us, because you threw it right at us,” Natasha argued. 

“You weren’t—”

“I have the concussion to prove it,” she snapped. She didn’t know why it mattered to her so much that he acknowledged his mistake, it wasn’t exactly a top priority in their current situation. But he was detached, he wasn’t thinking about the team aspect of their escape, and it was causing problems. She needed to bring him back down to earth. 

Tony blinked, paused. He swallowed thickly and nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said. 

“You need to stick with us going forward,” Natasha said bitterly, “that way you might avoid killing us.” 

“I wasn’t trying to kill you,” Tony argued. 

“You were being reckless,” Natasha said. “Doesn’t matter what you were trying to do, because I think you were just trying to wreck shit. But that doesn’t work when you’re supposed to be part of a team.” 

“I was creating a distraction—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Natasha said. “Didn’t work. You’re going to be a fucking team player now, and you’re going to help me find Clint and get him out of here. Because if he's dead, or if he dies because of what happened, I will fucking kill you, and I will make it hurt more than you can possibly imagine. You'll beg me to give you back to your masters before I'm done with you. Do you understand me?” 

“Crystal clear,” Tony mumbled. He seemed... deflated, at least, and remorseful. It didn't feel as good as she thought it would, though. It still felt a little good. Just... bittersweet. “Keep low, keep an eye out. If anyone notices us, try to take care of them. Sound like a plan?” 

Natasha nodded, finally satisfied that they were on the same page. “Yes,” she said. She hunkered down beside him, peering over the back of one of the prone forms beside her, eyes attuned for any hint of movement. 

She'd been so focused on holding her cover that she forgot to be totally aware of her surroundings. When Clint found her first (horrifically loudly, in fact) she barely had the wherewithal to get him to the ground without kissing him first. Tony, luckily, did not have the same sentimental hangups and managed to rather roughly ensure Clint went down. 

She tried to follow the plan, firing only a few cursory shots at the most necessary targets while maintaining their cover, but restlessness was buzzing in her bones. When the tone ceased suddenly, she swung to face Tony. “How long can we expect them to stay down?” She asked. “Will it be as severe as yours?” 

Tony scoffed. “How the fuck should I know? We’re all so different… anatomically, neurologically. I have a lot of head trauma and a dysfunctional streak. I’m sure they’ve ensured I’m easily brought down. It might not be the same for the others, especially those who are built with durability in mind.” 

“Your information has been shockingly unreliable this entire time,” Natasha snapped. “How much do you actually know about the people you were raised with?” 

“I got you this far, didn’t I?” Tony growled. 

Natasha knew she was being unfair, perhaps cruel. She wasn’t sure she actually cared. She was tired. She was starving. Her head hurt, her ankle hurt, her shoulder... everything really, really hurt. “I am not going to be a sitting duck here,” she hissed. 

“Just wait,” Tony said. 

“Oh, so now you have ideas and plans?” She glanced at Clint, noted the uneven dilation of his pupils, the green at the edges of his skin. Rage burned in her chest. “I’m going to get up.” 

“Don’t get up,” Tony argued. 

As soon as she spotted Steve and Bucky approaching them, she’d had enough. 

“I’m going up,” Natasha hissed. 

Tony flinched as a gunshot hit the ground right beside his elbow, but still he shook his head. “There’s no need,” he snapped. 

“Backup has arrived, Tony,” she said. “Steve and Bucky are coming.” 

“Bucky is—” Tony swallowed. “You found them?” 

“They’re right over there,” Natasha jerked her chin. It was certainly interesting how wide Tony’s eyes got at the mention of Bucky’s name, how devastated he seemed when Clint had said he had no idea where he was. It seemed his initial disdain for the super soldier had faded into something nicer. She hoped it would force him to act more human going forward. It wasn't like he could get any worse. She hoped. 

She stood up without further argument, ignoring the cursing protests that followed her. It was much easier to make her shots with a clear line of sight and trajectory. Tony grunted and cursed as he followed her up, dragging Clint along with him. 

As soon as she was certain she was being covered, she sprinted to retrieve Steve and Bucky and bring them back to the group. She was tired of all the divide-and-conquer bullshit, it was a bad idea (she was big enough to admit when she was wrong) and it was going to get them killed. If they were going to escape, they would do it while having each other's backs. She quickly updated them on the situation as she knew it while they moved, ensuring that all bases were covered by the time they reconvened. 

Fighting together was revitalizing, almost. It was familiar, at the very least. Even with the new addition of the bloodthirsty maniac Tony had suddenly become, it felt like an important battle with her team. And at least, when controlled by the people around him, Tony was a very useful bloodthirsty maniac. He could tear into people like they were meaningless sacks of meat like no one else. 

Even as they slowed, even as they were surrounded, they worked together like a well-oiled machine. She managed to cover herself while also covering Clint, ensuring he didn’t stumble when the dizziness of his concussion began to cause issues. 

Eventually, she felt like she could taste her freedom. It was right there, only a dozen yards away. 

She wasn’t sure they were going to make it. 

The enemies were tireless, ravenous. She was down to one gun that was rapidly emptying in the final push. Clearly, the soldiers were desperate to keep them away from the end. Her ankle was failing her, as she always knew it would in a crucial moment. The stab-wound in her shoulder was throbbing and back to bleeding freely, and her other wounds seemed to ache and release fresh spurts of blood with each step. Her stomach was churning as nausea made focus nearly impossible. 

Tony was still fighting up ahead, but he was finally, excruciatingly, flagging. He’d taken it upon himself to lead them forward and it showed. His swings had less force, his eyes were unfocused, dull. She watched him stumble once, twice, a third time… she couldn’t move to help him. She had to stay with Clint. 

Steve and Bucky were seeing the team in front of them, so focused on keeping the hoard away from their backs. Bucky’s arm was actively sparking, which didn't seem like a good sign, and Steve’s face was bruised and bloody and swollen. She knew it would heal, that he’d likely look back to normal again in a matter of days, but it probably hurt. 

They were at the end of their rope. They were struggling. There were still so many enemies all around. 

She hatched a stupid, ridiculous plan. A final Hail Mary. A last ditch effort. 

Her hands shook as she unlatched her remaining widow's bite from her wrist. She knew it had a tracker placed by Fury himself. She knew it wouldn't work here. But they were close to the end. She could see where the enemies stopped. If she could get it past them, get it through the stupid invisible barrier, then maybe backup might arrive. 

They needed support. They couldn’t do this on their own anymore, no matter how strong she believed the team to be. They were hurt, they were starving, they were tired. They were losing that vital hope that kept them pushing whether they would admit it aloud or not. 

A little help would go a long way. 

She turned to Clint, eyes wild. She handed her widow's bite to him, he raised a brow at her. She signed shoot it, pointing to the end. 

His eyes widened. He signed back: I don’t have my bow. 

Natasha growled, snatched it back, yanked Bucky to her side. 

“Throw this that way as hard as you can,” she shouted. 

“Why?” Bucky asked. 

“Just do it!” She screamed. Bucky, blissfully, did as he was told, before quickly returning to the fight without another word. 

Someone would have to find it. Quickly. 

SHIELD had to find it. 

They had to. 

Tony 

Tony was not feeling great, if he was being totally honest with himself. 

The high of the battle was slowly wearing off as guilt took over. He could hardly look at Clint without wanting to throw up. One of the first people to be on his side, to accept him as a part of the stupid team… and he’d thanked him by blowing him up. Natasha was furious, he could only imagine how much the archer hated him now. 

He'd just… he’d gotten carried away. He'd let his rage and relief blind him to his actual goals of getting them all out, and he’d somehow managed to do the exact opposite of what he wanted: he’d made himself a target, while also targeting the people he was supposed to save. 

He did his best to make up for his egregious mistake by using every last bit of his willpower toward getting the team through the army. Defensive maneuvers didn’t matter, he was throwing himself in front of bullets and knives if it seemed like they might pass through him to the others. 

Blood was exiting his body at an alarming rate, dampening his clothes, sticking to him, pooling in his shoes, dripping from his hair. He didn’t know how much of his body was still intact versus what was ruined. He felt like he’d been split open, exposed, bled dry like a piece of meat on a rack. It was hard to think, hard to move, but somehow he managed to keep going. 

He slashed through a handler, taking his arm off at the shoulder, stumbling when the follow-through dragged him off-balance. He would've face planted if Clint hadn’t yanked him back by the wrist. 

“Cool it,” Clint snapped, but Tony didn’t respond. He couldn’t respond. He had to do this, had to get them out. Then he could apologize. If he fixed everything, then he could rest. 

He forced his body to take on another foe, forced his mind to ignore the darkness that was clouding around the corners of his eyes. He had to fight, had to win. For Clint. For Bucky. 

For all of them. The people who saved him. The people who made all of this possible. The people who reminded him what humanity was like. 

He felt a sharp pain rip through his thigh and ignored it. He felt blood pump from his heart and pour out his stomach and he ignored that, too. 

He wasn’t going to make it, he knew that. He’d made peace with that a long time ago, but he wasn’t ready. Not yet.

He was the first in the team to notice it, probably the first person on the entire battlefield. Because he was the only one really looking for it. 

There was a large, black van, about a quarter-mile out. The van parked. Another followed, and another. 

Someone was here. Someone found them. 

He ducked under a sword’s blade, cut the attacker at their knees, and he watched. 

People funneled out the back of one of the vans, already fanning out into the shockingly sparse woods around them. They hardly glanced in the direction of the carnage taking place right in front of them. 

Tony knew it was probably the help the team had insisted would come throughout their entire terrible journey: Bucky’s agency, SHIELD or whatever-the-fuck, arrived to follow a signal that someone must have finally managed to find. Except Bucky had never implied his agency was stupid or blind.

But Tony would not allow disdain to distract him from his goal. He already had enough distractions, thank you very much. 

He needed backup, and backup was there, just out of reach. 

He would take it by force. 

Clearly, they were unable to tell they were being dissuaded from crossing a very important barrier. They were probably unaware the barrier existed at all. Tony could fix that! 

"Cover me!" Tony called, not caring who took the direction so long as someone did, moving back to be closer to Clint and Natasha at the center of the group. He switched his body to defensive mode: it was much easier to protect his life as a background action than it was to attack. Meanwhile, he tapped into his power. He’d felt like it was recently unlocked, made just a little stronger. Now seemed a perfect time to test his new limits. 

He let the energy in his heart warm his chest, before racing down his arm. It burst forth from his hand, invisible to all but him as it slithered across the ground, weaving between legs and hands, hopping over corpses. 

He felt the moment it crossed the barrier, like a static jolt racing up his spine, momentarily stunning him. He earned a blow to the head for this momentary lapse, though he didn’t let it break his focus. 

The moment the edges of his power brushed against the van closest to the barrier, it was like a shot of adrenaline delivered straight to the heart. He felt the gas, right there, and up above… traveling through wires and tubes and glorious machinery, the steering wheel. Tony felt something inside him click into place, like he was closing the circuit. 

Tony slashed through a handler’s face while he coaxed the wheel to turn, slowly at first, but he quickly got the hang of it and demanded it with confidence. His power slammed the gas pedal and stalled the break so the clueless driver couldn’t impede his efforts. 

Come along, now, show them what’s happening. Give them a hint about where to go, his power whispered. The van responded, picking up speed, rocketing toward the barrier with ceaseless determination. It jostled on the uneven terrain but did not turn or stray from the course Tony demanded of it. As it got closer, Tony watched the agent behind the wheel panic, tugging at the out-of-control vehicle. He watched the agents from afar, appearing as small as ants from the great distance. They were scrambling, running around like idiots toward their own vehicles to (hopefully) follow behind. 

When the van crossed the invisible barrier, it was a much greater shock to his system. His power’s hold on the machinery shattered at the impact, but it didn’t matter. It was far too late for the agent to prevent his fate now. 

The van rocketed into the crowd, bludgeoning through as it swerved wildly without a driver—the agent must have bailed.

Phil Coulson

When a highly skilled team of the United State’s most capable heroes goes missing for over a week, it tends to become a sort of all-hands-on-deck situation. Coulson had a personal stake in this mission, of course: he actually liked the team that had disappeared. That wasn't the reasoning Fury used when assigning him to lead the search efforts, of course. 

No, Coulson was almost certain Fury had assigned him to lead the search due to the the highly sensitive nature of the operation which caused this disaster in the first place. Extremely classified, is what Fury had called it. Coulson thought his continued insistence on secrecy was more extremely arrogant than anything. 

But it wasn't Agent Coulson's place to say anything. He wouldn't normally think so negatively about the Director of SHIELD; he was just stressed. 

He didn't like being left in the dark. He didn't like his charges disappearing without a trace. 

He didn't like searching a boundless forest in South America, covering hundreds of miles of ground, without finding a single hint the Avengers had ever set foot there. They’d all been bugged, but when Coulson tried to locate their trackers: nothing. Natasha and Clint knew how to mark their location should they ever be forced off grid: nothing from their usual safe houses or contacts. No messages had come through, no distress signals had been found. 

No bodies, either. 

Coulson spent a week tearing that forest apart for a sign that they'd ever been there. And he hadn’t found anything. He was a good agent, he knew it wasn't because he'd missed the signs. 

Something was very, very wrong. 

When finally, finally Natasha’s tracker lit up, in an area he'd already searched no less, Coulson immediately gathered as many agents as he could and headed that way. They were nearby, tearing through a different area of the forest, it wouldn’t take long to find the source. He knew it might be a trap, but that didn’t matter. It was the first lead they’d found. He wasn’t going to ignore it. 

What he found felt like a punch to the gut, though he didn’t let that show to his subordinates. 

The forest when they arrived was still and quiet. Sparser than the other areas they'd been searching. On the ground, there was a single piece of tech, half-covered by dirt and detritus, partially impaled in the dirt.

One of Natasha’s widow's bites, looking damaged and worse-for-wear. No sign of the assassin who normally wore it. No sign of the team she should have been with. 

Something was wrong. 

Still, Coulson directed his agents to search. “Look for any signs of life in the area,” he snapped. “I want reports of anything, anything at all. I don’t care if it’s a fucking animal print, you reach me immediately. Got it?” The agents were off in a flurry before his mood could grow any darker. 

It just didn’t make sense. One minute: nothing. The next: a single weapon, with no sign of its owner, or a struggle, or an injury. He crouched down beside it, picked it up. It was spattered with dried blood and caked with dirt: clearly it had seen battle. But there were no footprints, no enemies. 

Natasha was smart. She knew how to leave a message. What was she trying to tell him? That she was close? That they needed help? 

He wished she’d left a clearer hint. He felt distinctly like he didn't have time to try and decode this one.

Patience growing thin, Coulson stood and started scanning the ground for any clues he might have missed. His agents were diligent and silent in their work around him, fanning out to cover more ground. 

Coulson hadn’t expected one of them to drive off with one of the vans, but he was an agent of SHIELD. He'd seen stranger things. 

“I need backup,” agent Reese wheezed through his comm unit, voice high and panicked. “I’ve lost control of the van,” he continued. “I can’t stop it!”

The vehicle continued to pick up speed, apparently ignoring the agent's frantic movements. “Status,” Coulson snapped. “What do you mean you’ve lost control?”

“I can’t touch the break!” Reese shouted. “The wheel is—it’s stuck! It’s like it has a mind of its own—”

“Follow him,” Coulson snapped over his shoulder, and a newer agent, Smith, clambered into his own van to chase. “Agent Reese, is there any sign that—”

The agent bailed from the vehicle, rolling in the dirt as it continued to accelerate. 

And then it just… disappeared. Into thin air. As if it were plucked from existence. 

Or pulled behind a curtain in reality. 

An invisible veil was a very good explanation for a damaged weapon without its owner. Coulson paused. Considered. “Agent Reese, are you intact?”

“I’m fine,” the agent coughed. “I—what the fuck?” 

“I think we found our lead,” Coulson said blandly. “We need to follow that van.” 

“What van?” Agent Smith asked, “it’s gone!”

“Exactly,” Coulson sighed. “If vehicles can disappear here, so can people.” So could his people. “Let’s go investigate the site.” 

“Are you sure charging after it is a good idea?” another agent asked, looking nervous. “It might be a trap.” 

“A trap is exactly what we're looking for,” Coulson reminded them. He checked his weapons, tapped his comm to switch channels. “Sir, I’ve got a lead. I’m assembling my team to follow it now. Mark my current location and send an evac unit immediately.” He turned over the bloodied and damaged taser in his hand. “A carrier with medical is likely required.” 

“What did you find?” Fury asked, voice tense. 

“An abandoned weapon, no other signs of life,” Coulson replied. “Damaged. One of the vans developed a mind of its own and disappeared into thin air. I think it’s a trap.” 

Fury was silent for a long moment, mulling over the new information. Then: “I’ll have a team there shortly. Send an update when you have one.” 

“Yes sir,” Coulson said. He switched channels again so he could communicate with the team directly in front of him. He sighed. His troupe suddenly seemed like a pathetically small number. “Get ready to roll out,” he sighed. “We’re going to follow that van.” 

“Shouldn’t we wait for backup?” An agent asked. Michael, Coulson was pretty sure. He vaguely recalled that this was the agent’s first field mission. He wondered if the man had any idea what he'd gotten himself into. 

“We are the backup, remember?” Coulson pointed out. He was already moving as he spoke, climbing behind the wheel of his own vehicle. “We’re here to assist and rescue missing agents. They may not have enough time to wait.”

Tony

When the other vehicles started following the one he stole, Tony finally allowed himself to turn and face the team. “They’re coming,” he said, voice breaking with exhaustion. 

Using his power in such a massive way... yeah. That had taken a lot out of him. More than he'd expected. He was still figuring out the limits of his newfound strength, clearly. 

“What do you mean?” Natasha said, hope lacing her tone. “Did my signal work?” 

“Yes,” Tony sighed. “Get there. That's the new goal. Just… get there.” 

She nodded, turned to the others, shouted something at them. Tony didn’t care. He'd done his part. Now he just had to pull off the finishing touches. He was practically leaning into the team by that point: but it was fine, they were all barely standing, dragging each other along and propping one another up. He forced as much power as he was currently capable of into Bucky’s arm, which was draining energy at an alarming rate. That wouldn't do, the arm wouldn't work without power. He tried not to focus on the long handle that was sticking out of Bucky’s side. Thinking about it too hard made him a little sick. 

He had his own injuries to worry about, after all! His knee buckled, the sign of his body beginning to fail him. He was pretty sure he was wearing more of his blood than he actually had inside of him, and using his power to push energy outside of himself wasn’t helping him stay on his feet. Someone wedged themselves beneath his him, draping one of his arms across their shoulders: Natasha, to his surprise. She grunted as she took on his weight, wrapping an arm around him. She seemed unbothered with his mess. That was nice.

“You better not die right now,” she snapped. “We’re too close. That would be embarrassing for you.” 

Ha! That would be embarrassing. He hadn't considered that before. He mumbled in response, the words so thick on his tongue he wasn't sure he said anything at all. Didn’t matter, because they were making progress. The vans were barreling ever closer. They would reach the edges of the battle any second, now.

Steve appeared by their side, eyeing Natasha with concern. “Status?” he asked. 

“Fine,” she hissed. “Watch your back.” 

Steve nodded, whirled around and punched a hunter in the face so hard Tony thought it might have caved in. But maybe he was just hallucinating, now. 

Bucky was there, too. Looking gray, but still alive. Bucky was going to get out! Hey! That was nice! Good job, Tony! 

His head was pounding. 

Natasha practically dragged him forward, and he forced his feet to follow. He swung his blade blindly in front of him, to his side, pretty sure he managed to hit something. 

“Tony, what the hell happened to you?” Bucky snapped, “you were fine—”

“Energy,” Tony slurred. He grinned and tasted blood on his teeth. Was it his? Did he care if it wasn't? He didn't think he'd bitten anyone, but the whole fight was a bright, brilliant blur. “Told you, it has’ta come from somewhere—”

“What did you do?” Natasha hissed. 

“Cou’na see,” Tony insisted. “Showed ‘em.” That was very clear, he was sure. 

“You led them here?” Bucky asked. 

Tony threw his machete, watched it sail into someone’s stomach. Gooooaaaal! “Worked,” he sighed. 

“Are you dying?” Steve eyed him carefully. His eyes found the vans, watched as they approached ever closer to the crowd. 

“Nah,” Tony lied. 

When the vans stopped suddenly, and people started streaming out of them, it was probably the most beautiful thing Tony had ever seen. He glanced at Clint, who was focused on defense rather than conversation—good, someone needed to be—and had the delight of seeing the exact moment he realized help was there. 

“Holy shit,” Bucky said. “That’s—”

“SHIELD,” Natasha grinned. “Come on,” she said. “You too, freak.” It somehow sounded fond, coming from her. Tony was glad she didn’t seem to hate him anymore, it'd be a shame to get this far only to die hated. Maybe that meant she forgave him for blowing up her friend. Maybe he fixed it. He just wanted to fix it.

The next few minutes were a blur: battles were happening, he was sure. Shouts were occurring. He was breathing, he thought, but he couldn’t be certain.

He didn’t really pay attention again until Bucky jostled him. 

He opened his eyes, an unfamiliar face in front of him: a mild looking man, rumpled and irritated, gun in hand. He was flanked by very official-looking agents, more normal than Tony was used to seeing. 

The man’s eyes raked over the Avengers, barely pausing on Tony’s pathetic presence draped all over Natasha. He seemed to be cataloguing injuries. “What the hell happened here?” He asked, eyeing Clint and Natasha. 

Natasha shook her head, “he can’t hear,” she said, pointing her chin at Clint. Clint was still shooting, grim determination taking over. “He’s not handling it well, it’s making him jumpy.” 

“I’m sure that’s what’s making him jumpy,” the agent said. “Come on. No use stalling here.” 

“We’ve been trying,” Bucky said. “We’re a little outnumbered, here.” 

The agent pushed forward, his team fanning out to form a circle around the decrepit and shambling team. “I have my ways,” he said. He held some kind of device in his hand, which he tossed into the crowd. Tony watched as an electric spray shot up, sparks raining down on the crowd below. He smiled. He liked sparks. “Who’s your friend, by the way?” the agent glanced at Steve. Probably because Steve was Captain America. The leader. Captain. Haha. Like the military. Was he the military? Was SHIELD? The military was... he was supposed to avoid them... he was supposed to do a lot of things. Like breathe. 

Still, Tony grinned. They were friends! He was a friend! Other people thought so too! Take that, Jebediah! 

His brain was very, very fuzzy. His fingers were a little numb. His head didn’t hurt as much. 

“Refugee,” Steve snapped. “Not important right now.” 

The agent squinted at him, Tony smiled wider. Then he tripped over his own feet, and Bucky had to catch him before he dragged himself and Natasha to the ground. He was sure Bucky would be the one helping him if he was more… intact. Was that handle a spear sticking out of him? Why did anyone have a spear? That seemed painfully archaic, even for a hunter.

He wished Bucky would hold him. It would be nice to die in Bucky’s arms. His first real friend to keep him warm and tell him he did a good job.

Because he did do a good job, didn’t he? He got them to the end. He helped their agency find them. They would probably survive. He was definitely dying, but he would die a winner! 

Take that, unsettling Order—because now, he was certain, they were definitely more unsettling than he was—he wasn't a complete failure after all! Jebediah was probably rolling in his oversized grave. 

He coughed, something wet dribbling out the corner of his mouth. Great job, Tony. Very dignified, very triumphant.

He let his mind drift again, dropping all pretense that he was trying to participate in the fight. He was too focused on breathing. He felt a little bad for being dead weight, considered shrugging himself off so they could move forward quicker, but he was pretty sure that would just cause unnecessary drama. So he let them drag him along, let the energy of the little electrical sparks the agent kept throwing around sing soothing songs to him. 

And then… 

There was a little pop in his chest when they crossed the barrier, he could feel it even if he wasn’t entirely aware of it. It was strange: one moment, they were surrounded by bloodshed and carnage, and the next…

Quiet. Peace and quiet. 

He…

They…

He was outside the forest. Well, not really. They were still surrounded by trees, sparse as they were around the clearing. They were still there. But it wasn’t the same. 

The energy was different, softer. Less abrasive, less slimy. The wind was soft and soothing against his irritated skin, it felt cool inside lungs that were burning with a hunger for clean air. He hadn't realized how putrid the atmosphere around them had gotten until he was no longer choking on it.

He'd made it. He never thought he'd have this moment, but he'd fucking made it. He was free. For real, this time.

He groggily turned his head to Bucky, who was watching him. He smiled, let his arm slide away from Natasha so he could fall against Bucky’s side. Bucky caught him with a grunt, a vise-like grip keeping him close against his side. 

“I promised you,” Bucky’s voice broke on the words, tone joyful and wrecked in equal measure. “You’re out.” 

“I’m out,” Tony said. He let his eyes fall shut. Someone was shouting at him, but he didn’t care. His entire life’s goal, his only goal, had just been achieved. It seemed like the Order weren’t following them, following whatever strange scheme they'd cobbled together, and he didn’t care to think about it. It didn't matter. Because he was out.

“Tell the operatives inside to pull back,” the bland-looking agent with the pretty sparks muttered. “I think you’ll have to cross the barrier for comms to reach them. We’re transitioning into a full retreat.” 

Bucky tried to help Tony straighten out, and Tony begrudgingly allowed it, not minding whatever happened. He was out. He was out. He was out. He was out. 

“One of them got through!” A voice shouted, and Tony cracked an eye open to see a line of agents in front of the team, guns pointed in their direction. In his direction. 

“It’s not—” Steve started, stepping forward, but the line of agents started screaming over one another, effectively forcing Steve to pause. 

“—confirm identities—” the agent beside the team was saying, but Tony didn’t really hear him. All he saw was the weapons trained on the team. On his friends.

They were supposed to be saved. This agency was supposed to help them. And they were acting like another threat. 

Tony would not allow all of his hard work to go to waste. 

He shoved off from Bucky’s side, took a step forward even as Bucky tried to yank him back, even as voices warned him and threatened him not to take another step—

A bullet ripped through his shoulder, and Tony identified the shooter immediately. He used the last reserves of his energy to grasp onto his power, reaching out with speed he wasn’t aware he possessed to latch onto the small communication device lodged in the agent’s ear. He focused and he pushed, exploding the device in a dramatic display of fire and sparks. 

“Tony!” Steve was shouting now, wrapping his arms around Tony’s body but it just felt like fire, it all felt like fire, like panic—

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. These fucking idiots were supposed to help and they were shooting at them, were going to kill the team, his friends, he needed to save them, he needed to get them away—they were so close! Just one more battle, one more fight, then he could rest, he could die, but he wouldn’t let them ruin this—

“Stand down!” The sparky-agent beside them was raising his arms, shouting orders, “I said stand down, lower your weapons—Barnes, grab him—lower your—”

Tony focused on another agent in the line, narrowed his eyes and pushed—

He heard the shot, somehow, through the white noise and alarm bells screaming inside his head. But he didn't feel it. It was just another dull spark among a raging inferno of pain and suffering. He'd never expected he'd escape, had made it much further than he’d ever hoped or dreamed. 

But as his legs went out from under him, as he was barely stopped from hitting the ground face-first, he acknowledged that this was not how he'd expected his life to end. He’d always expected The Order would take him out, maybe Natasha if things got bad enough. But not Bucky’s agency, not after all the reassurances.

There was more shouting, more blood draining from his body, pouring onto the ground, his life slipping between his fingers. He touched his stomach and felt a pulse of heat paint the palm of his hand, felt his heart skip a beat. He tried to reach for his power, his closest companion since he was sixteen years old, and felt nothing but silence. 

That absence scared him more than the prospect of death. Because he was always going to die, whether to a mission or obsolescence or misbehavior. Whether to his masters or Bucky's, whether on his own terms or while begging like a child. He was always going to die.

But he felt so alone, now, without that familiar hum under his skin. He hadn't realized how comforting the presence of his power had been through... everything, really. His entire life, as far as he could remember it. 

So he was scared, and he was useless, and he was...

He dully acknowledged that his body was being moved, propped up. It didn’t hurt. Nothing hurt anymore. A body was in front of his now, and people were angry, people were moving all around him. 

It was hard to see, it had gotten so dark. He couldn't feel his heartbeat. 

Blood loss. What an inconvenient thing. If only I was a machine... he thought, not for the first time. If he were a machine, he'd fix his power and then his body. If he were a machine, they'd clean out all the vile things clogging up his insides and replace everything he'd lost, even the things he didn't know he'd lost. 

If he were a machine, they'd find the glitch inside of him that always made him fuck it all up, and they'd fix it. He'd fix it.

His body was numb. His mind flattened. 

His last thought, before he released his tenuous grip on consciousness, was not one of bitterness. While the circumstances of his demise were not what he'd expected, the conclusion was the same either way.

Bucky will figure things out. He'll save rest of them. Bucky's a survivor, and he will be okay.

Chapter Text

 June 2016

Bucky

Time seemed to a halt as the shot rang out, filling the air as if the sound held a greater physical presence than any one person could ever hope to match.

Tony had only managed to take one step away from Bucky’s side—one step, that was all it took to end his life, one step was enough to shatter everything Bucky had been fighting for, one step—when the bullet tore through his middle. 

Tony didn't fall with a cry, with a grunt or a scream. He exhaled once as his body finally failed him, as he crumbled in a sickening display of frailty. Bucky stumbled forward and caught him by his shoulders before he hit the ground. He hauled him back so he was limp against Bucky’s chest, draped over his knees, right next to the spear shaft Bucky hadn’t had the stomach to remove yet.

“No, no, please no,” he groaned, over and over. Because Tony’s face was slack, his skin was graying. His breathing was thin and his pulse was frail. Bucky pressed his fingers to Tony’s neck and focused on the beat beneath his fingers: unsteady, thready, his heart was failing, Bucky had failed. 

Steve jumped in front of them, shield raised, eyes stormy. “He’s with us!” He shouted, a ripple of authority in a sea of confusion. A few guns flagged, but most maintained position. Coulson stepped up beside Steve, murmured something into his comm. He watched as a moment later, agents froze, hands to their own comms. 

“Sir, we haven’t confirmed...” one agent muttered, head down. “An unknown party... he was hostile...” the agent grimaced. He lowered his gun. Others followed. 

“Fury's speaking with them,” Coulson muttered. “It's time for us to go. You'll be on the helicarrier with the best medical I can offer until we touch down on US soil. Captain, will you help escort your team?” 

“Will your agents shoot anyone else?” Steve hissed. 

“I’ll shoot them first,” Bucky snapped. Rage seemed to be the only emotion capable of breaking through the heavy drowning sensation filling his chest.

“I'll ensure you all arrive unharmed. We’ll keep minimal support on the aircraft,” Coulson muttered. “Barnes, you need to move him if you want him to live.” 

Bucky's arms tightened instinctively around Tony's body; he felt the pulse beneath his fingers flutter and flicker like the flame of a long-fading candle. “I’m not bringing him anywhere near them,” Bucky growled through his teeth. 

“If you don't, he'll die,” Coulson argued. “He’s been shot, Barnes. Multiple times. If you want your refugee to make it, he needs medical attention. Now.” 

“We’ll keep him safe,” Natasha said, eyes scanning the assembled soldiers in front of them, searching for threats. He knew she was suspicious, he was too. After all, they now knew about monsters who could steal the face of a friend, only to use that face to rip out your throat. How was he supposed to know the assembled agents were with SHIELD and not the forest?

How could he be sure nobody followed them out? Would he ever feel sure? 

Before Bucky could spiral too far, Clint appeared at his side, using sign language to communicate an offer to help move Tony. Bucky could hardly bring himself to let anyone else touch him. 

Tony looked awful. He looked small. He was growing cold, he was slippery with blood. Why should anyone else touch him? Why did everyone want to take Tony away from him?

But Bucky didn’t protest when Clint crouched and took one of Tony's arms around his shoulders. He waited for Bucky to join him. Bucky pressed his hand against the bullet wound as if that would stop it, trying not to spit up bile as he registered the contrast between the heat of the blood and the chill of Tony's skin. The feeling of breathlessness wouldn’t leave him, even as he stepped forward. His own pain was screaming at him but it didn’t matter, not when Tony was dying. 

Steve and Coulson led them forward, eyes daring the agents to make a threatening move. Natasha pressed against Clint’s side, eyes darting around. Bucky felt the paranoia flying off of her in waves; it was infectious. He wondered how long it would take for her to calm down, if she ever would. 

As soon as they stepped into the helicarrier, all inside stood at attention. 

“Prepare for immediate takeoff,” Coulson said to the pilot, switching comm channels to communicate with Fury. “Sir, we’ve got them. All of them. Medical status pending, but they're alive.” He nodded at something that was said, gestured for a nearby agent to approach. “Take him to a bed and do whatever you can to stabilize,” Coulson gestured to Tony. 

Bucky tensed. “You’re not taking him anywhere,” he snapped. Not after they shot him. Bucky wouldn't abandon him again, never again. All that mattered was making sure he was okay.

“You can accompany him to medical,” Coulson said. “They’ll work on you too. Maybe get that… weapon, out of you.” Bucky vaguely recalled that he'd been stabbed. It seemed unimportant in the grand scheme of things. 

Bucky’s stomach lurched. He didn't trust them. Tony wouldn't survive without medical attention. 

“If anyone makes a single move to hurt him—”

“You’ll be there,” Coulson said firmly. “Go.” 

Clint helped drag Tony further into the helicarrier, shaking his head at any agents who took a step in their direction to help. Good. He didn’t want anyone touching Tony unless it was to save his life. 

When they got to the medical bay, Bucky let out the largest sigh of relief of his life. 

“Bruce,” he breathed, voice breaking on the name. 

Bruce Banner: the Hulk, one of the missing members of the team, a part of his family. He was wearing a sweater and khakis, and was propped up on one of the cots beside a tray of medical supplies. 

Bruce rose to his feet immediately, rushing over to meet them. Bucky didn’t even consider protecting Tony from him: he trusted Bruce. He hadn’t realized just how desperately he needed to see a face he could trust. Bruce’s eyes were wide, taking in their pitiful state: they must have made quite the sight. 

“What the hell happened to you?” he breathed, hands fluttering in front of him. 

“It’s been a long week,” Bucky admitted. “Bruce, I need you to help him.”

Bruce finally acknowledged the body between them. “Who is he?” 

“He’s my friend, and he’s dying,” Bucky insisted. “You need to help him.” 

Bruce looked pained. “You know I’m not that kind of—”

Bucky shook his head. “I’ve seen you work. You know enough, and I don’t trust anyone else to do this. At least—at least oversee his treatment. Make sure they don’t hurt him.” 

Bruce nodded slowly, gesturing for them follow him to the beds. “Lay him down,” he sighed. “You both sit, I’ll have the medics come over. You all need some care.” Bruce glanced at Clint as they lowered Tony onto a bed. “Are his hearing aids damaged?” Bucky nodded. Bruce grimaced. “Let Coulson know. I’m sure he has an extra set hidden away somewhere.” 

As the medical staff fluttered about, Bucky slowly started to feel all of his injuries and the toll they took: his arm felt heavier the longer he was away from Tony, and he tried not to let his brain warp that into the horrible delusion that he'd somehow been stealing Tony’s strength. His insides felt like they'd been tangled up and slashed apart, his head was pounding like a drum. 

Someone wearing latex gloves prodded at the spear in his middle, while someone else discussed how to remove it without causing more damage. Someone mentioned surgery: he hoped that wouldn’t be necessary. It took a lot of anesthesia to keep a super soldier down, and it left him feeling heavy and unbalanced for hours.

He focused on what was happening to Tony: lights were moved to shine on him as a crowd gathered around his cot. People were shouting terms Bucky didn't understand, and Bruce’s frown was growing deeper and more upset by the second. 

Coulson entered the room, flanked by Steve and Natasha, who were ushered to take their own seats by the wall. Natasha’s ankle was propped up, the make-shift splint removed and replaced with a proper one. Steve was batting people’s hands away, urging them to focus on the team. 

“Let them check you, Stevie,” Bucky rasped. “Or I’ll hold you down myself.” 

“I’m the least of their priorities right now,” Steve scoffed. 

“Don’t care,” Bucky shrugged. “We all gotta deal with it.” 

Coulson glared at Clint and handed him a small box, which Clint grinned upon opening. 

“What happened to yours, hm? Seems like they exploded.” Coulson’s eyes narrowed as he glanced at Tony. Bucky prepared to jump up to defend the unconscious man. 

“I ran into an explosion,” Clint muttered, snapping his hands by his ears. Apparently satisfied, he grinned at the team. “We actually did it,” he said. 

“I never doubted us for a second,” Steve said, smile shaky. 

“Liar,” Natasha flinched as her suit was peeled away from her shoulder, revealing the blood-caked stab wound waiting below. “That’ll need to be stitched, probably,” she said, as it slowly oozed blood without its clothing barrier. Her head fell back to the wall.

“We got out,” Clint repeated, roving eyes taking in the team one-by-one. “I feel like you're not excited enough about this.” 

“Tired,” Steve said, but a small chuckle broke through. Bucky watched as one of the medic's hands jerked back as a small bolt of static electricity leapt from Tony’s frame, staring at the prone patient with confusion before going back to work. Suddenly, Steve’s laughter seemed infectious, as Bucky's own hysterical giggle joined in. Natasha snorted, then laughed, just a little manic, a little mad. 

Coulson watched them carefully, as if afraid to interject or ask questions as the giggle-fit grew in volume and boisterousness, as Bucky’s muscles spasmed around the spear that was still lodged in his—

“You need to hold still,” the man in front of him snapped, which only made Bucky laugh harder. Holy mother, he needed to laugh. He hadn’t realized exactly how badly he'd really, really needed to laugh. 

Another medic stumbled away from Tony, eyes darting from Bruce’s raised eyebrow to Coulson’s blank stare. “He shocked me!” he said in explanation. 

Bruce furrowed his brow. “He’s unconscious,” he pointed out. He looked at Bucky. “Is he wearing a taser, or—” 

Bucky couldn't help it, the force of his laughter was bringing tears to his eyes, squeezing the weapon that was twisting in his gut. Of course Tony would get a little sparky in his sleep. The man never let his guard down, not completely. It was just so Tony, it filled him with warmth rather than pain for the first time. Because Tony was away from that place, but he was still the same vigilant person. Which meant he was still alive, and Bucky could teach him how to keep himself safe, but also how to relax.

The lamp pointed over Tony’s bed flickered.

Coulson gave up on Bucky (fair, he hadn’t contributed anything useful to the conversation, and he really couldn't stop giggling) and turned to Steve. “Who did you bring back with you, Captain?” The what is he? was unspoken but understood. 

“A friend,” Steve shrugged innocently. 

“Is he dangerous?” Coulson asked. 

Clint snorted, even as his own assigned medical personnel began carefully unwrapping the bandages around his shoulder. “Did you see him back there?” 

Coulson sighed and glared. “He was basically unconscious," he deadpanned. Clint shrugged, despite the grumbling from the woman trying to get a good look at his injury. Coulson pinched the bridge of his nose, as if fighting a migraine. "Is he dangerous to us—you, me, SHIELD, society at large—” 

“No,” Steve said decisively. “We went from a high-octane battle to a high-pressure confrontation: he’s like a soldier fresh from battle, sir. He panicked, same as the agents who fired even though they were told to stand down.” Coulson nodded, but Steve continued. “He found us early on and helped us escape the facility. He watched our backs as we made our way through the forest. He led you right to us even though I’m pretty sure it nearly killed him. He's with us, and we're with him. If SHIELD has a problem with him, you'll have to go through the Avengers to get to him. Am I understood?”

Coulson nodded again, though he seemed unhappy about it. He stalked over to Clint, anger just barely visible under the surface of his cool exterior. “How long has this been infected?” he snapped, fingers hovering in front of his damaged shoulder. It looked really, really bad from what Bucky could see. Shiny and swollen and wet with discharge and pus. The wounds looked just as fresh as the day he’d gotten them, possibly worse from the repeated movement and hits.

“Probably since I got it,” Clint snorted. “Forests are dirty. And who knows where that fucker's claws had been before it got me?” 

Coulson turned to the medical staff and began murmuring instructions and asking questions, agitation clear in the tension of his shoulders. Bucky ignored him and went back to staring at Tony as his wounds were gingerly cleaned, and his laughter slowly faded into exhaustion. 

Tony

When Tony woke up, he didn't open his eyes right away. He took stock of his body: fuzzy and numb in some places, heavy and aching in others. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls. He focused on his wrists, ankles: not restrained. Not yet, at least. He didn't know what kind of people had possession of him now, didn't know if they'd make him a prisoner. 

Holding perfectly still, he encouraged his power to reach outside of his body, instinctively feeling around the room. He was thrilled to find it back where it belonged. Last he’d checked, he hadn’t been able to find it. He felt the wiring in the walls, felt the lights shining above him. He poked and prodded at a bulb: it welcomed his touch. Good to know. There were bugs and cameras littered around the room, and they obeyed his command to sleep without an ounce of resistance. Good. He felt entitled to a little privacy.

He pushed deeper, pressing into the systems that lurked behind the plaster and cement of the walls. There were alarms rigged in the ceiling, and emergency response systems at the door: that could be interesting. He fiddled with the programming of the various scanners in the walls, the slab of impenetrable metal that could apparently fall over the door. These systems, those more complex than lighting and cameras, fought him a bit. He had to slither past, coo at them, fiddle around. But eventually they, like all technology, gave in, granting him easy access to their controls. 

He was stronger than before. He didn’t need to look, or touch. The world's technology was at his finger tips. 

It was a little funny how few protections this place had. At least the Order knew enough about special abilities to have failsafes in place to slow him down. Bucky’s agency had no idea what kind of power they were dealing with. 

An incessant beeping by his side was starting to annoy him, so he let his power wander toward it and lowered the volume, eventually powering it off. He was alive, he knew that. He didn’t need the machine to remind him. 

“Did he just—”

Tony cracked his eyes open, suddenly aware he wasn't alone. Unexpected. He thought he’d be isolated if he survived long enough to be moved to a secondary location. 

The room was shiny, beige, and plain, with hospital beds lined up against various walls and medical devices strewn about. Tony was... uneasy. He didn't like the look of any of the equipment surrounding them. Steve stood beside his bed, looking much cleaner and more well-groomed than Tony was used to seeing him, his eyes wide as he glanced at the dead vital signs beside Tony’s bed. 

“I’m not dead,” Tony said, voice creaking from disuse. He tried to lift his arm to wave, but it was very heavy. He glared at the offending limb.

“They’ve got you on the good drugs right now,” Natasha said, and Tony was irritated he hadn’t realized she was so close. She was perched at the end of his bed, her hair tied back. The bruises on her face were prominent but clean, and she wore a comfortable tank top that gave Tony a clear view of the bandages that wound around her arm. Her ankle, propped up on a low stool beside her, was encased in a heavy fracture boot. 

Tony, absent-mindedly, turned off the machine pumping the drugs into him. He didn't want to be hindered in unfamiliar territory.

“Yeah,” Clint added, leaning down next to her. The arm attached to his infected shoulder was wrapped and held up by a sling, and his opposite wrist was braced. He had his own collection of bandages and bruises on display. “You exaggerated your healing ability, I think. You’re still as slashed up and stabbed to hell as Nat and I.” 

Tony glanced at Steve, who was mostly covered by his clothing, but was standing straight as if he were already faring much better than the rest of them. He vaguely recalled that Bucky had an impressive healing ability, and that Steve possessed the same. Tony's was… less impressive, admittedly. But still better than the average agent, which he felt he deserved some credit for. "I almost died," he pointed out petulantly. He took a deep breath. “Are all of you here just to watch me sleep?” 

“Nah,” Clint smirked, “welcome to the official Avengers healing ward! A big private room, just for us.” 

“That’s not how hospitals work,” Tony said slowly. His mind was reeling: he hadn’t prepared for this. Hadn’t expected everyone to still be around. Sure, they said he was a friend, a teammate. But that didn’t require sticking around after the mission was done. He did what he said he'd do: got them out. They did what they said they'd do: got him out, against all odds. The transaction was complete. 

“It’s… easier, for right now, if everyone sticks together,” Steve said stiffly. 

Natasha nodded. “We kept watch, you know. While you were out.” She shrugged. 

“What, you don’t trust your bosses?” Tony asked. He said it lightly, but it was a real question. He’d already been shot once (or twice, he couldn’t fully remember) by the agency. He wouldn’t admit it aloud, but he was glad to see the team. Glad he wasn’t on his own. Call it pathetic or codependent, but after spending a week defending one another’s lives, he figured the final separation would hit him hard. Being away from the only home he'd ever known was enough of a culture shock, thank you very much. He didn’t want to lose the only people who cared whether he lived or died at the same time.

“I trust them,” Natasha said, “but tensions are high.” But she was tense, her shoulders set. She was uncomfortable, paranoid. Tony could relate to that, at least. 

“So they put us all together so nobody else gets shot,” Tony said. He took another scan around the room, adding “where’s Bucky?”

How had it taken this long for him to realize one of the most important pieces of the puzzle was missing? A dozen ideas ran through his head: had they detained him for answers about why he brought a monster back with him? The others were still with him, so that couldn’t be right. Had he died? He didn’t die. Right? Steve looked very normal for someone whose buddy just died. If there was one thing he’d learned about Steve, it was that he was very attached to the people around him. He’d be a disaster if someone died. 

“Surgery,” Steve swallowed the word. “His body started healing around the spear impaling him.” Tony grimaced, but Steve kept going. “Every time he moved he was making the damage worse. They had to go in and take it out surgically, repair the damage already done and prevent his body from making things worse.” 

“I thought he had super durability, or whatever,” Tony said, throat tight. 

“He does, that’s why he didn’t die,” Clint explained, “but with it lodged inside, he wasn’t able to actually heal, either. He’ll be fine: Coulson said he’d move him here once he's cleared by the surgeons.” 

Tony nodded, but he couldn't relax. He laid back, though he focused outward. His power pushed through the walls, into a camera, following that wire to a more centralized control system. He was in a big facility, apparently. It was a bit of a strain to find it, but it would've been much harder if everything wasn’t so interconnected. But he eventually found a computer connected to the security system. It had some measures, put up a small amount of fight. 

Eventually, Tony was able to coax it to open up for him. It was almost laughable, their efforts to keep him away.

“What are you doing?” Steve said. “Your eyes—”

“Checking on Bucky,” Tony said, eyes glazed over as the information in the computer started to appear before him. “Just need to find his medical files, if anyone wants to give hints.” 

“How did you get past security that quickly?” Clint sighed. “Took me forever—”

“The systems like me,” Tony grinned. Aha! There it was! He scanned everything quickly, eyes twitching through words invisible to all but him. “He’s fine. Got out a while ago, he’s awake and being monitored now.” 

“That’s…” Steve sighed. “Invasive. Not a good way to bring SHIELD to your side.” 

“I don’t need SHIELD by my side,” Tony scoffed, letting the data fall away. He felt more comfortable knowing Bucky was stable. 

“You kind of do,” Natasha said slowly. “You’re in their medical wing now, in their facility. SHIELD is well-versed on situations like this: they can help you build a life, an identity in the world.” 

Tony paused, considered. “If they let me leave,” he said. “There’s no guarantee I’ll ever get out of here.” 

Steve’s voice was heavy with finality. “You’re not a prisoner, Tony.” 

Natasha sighed, and Tony did not like the look on her face. “Spit it out,” he said to her.

“Nick Fury—the director of SHIELD—isn't going to let you walk out of here without some answers and safeguards in place. You’re a liability, an unknown agent originating from the labs of a mysterious enemy. It’s stupid to ignore that.” She was matter-of-fact, not unkind, though her words still felt like shackles closing around his wrists.

Steve seemed offended by the insinuation. “He helped us—”

Tony cut him off. “That’s why you’re all here, then? You're my guards?” 

Clint ran a hand through his hair, looked uncomfortable. “It’s not like that, Tony. We’re here because we want to be here. And yes—Natasha's right. Your release will likely come with some fight. But you’re not gonna be locked away in a cell because of what you are, that’s not what goes on here. You know, some of us had similar origins to yours—enemy organizations, crazy powers—and we worked out deals.” 

“Bucky had a deal?” Tony asked. “Because he was the Winter Soldier, they made him a deal to be free?”

“Yes,” Natasha said. “Compliance with a rehabilitation program in exchange for immunity.” 

“And now he works here?” Tony asked, the words sour. 

“That wasn’t part of the deal,” Steve shrugged, “but it’s what he chose. I’m sure you’ll be given a similar choice.” 

Tony tried to swallow the realization: that the fight wasn't over for him, not yet. Not like the others. He was a monster found in the spooky forest, who had to prove he wasn't an enemy of the state. He had to play nice or face the consequences, just like before.

At least he wasn’t being controlled. At least he wasn’t being treated like an animal. 

So why didn’t he feel any better? Why was it getting harder and harder to breathe as he contended with the fact that he was still a pawn? Why did it feel like they still controlled his mind, his body, even though they couldn't force him to follow their commands?

“You aren't alone,” Steve said suddenly. “We're all on your side, and we're good people to have on your side. You did a huge service to SHIELD by helping us—”

“I didn’t help you because of SHIELD,” Tony spat. He owed SHIELD nothing. He was beginning to really hate SHIELD, despite the small amount of time he'd spent with them. First they shot him (maybe twice?) and now this. He was a prisoner at their mercy. 

“I know,” Steve said, hands up placatingly. “I’m just saying, you’ve shown a desire to improve your circumstances. Make up for your past.” 

“I had no control over my past,” Tony said, defenses rising higher and higher by the second, “I did what I had to do. Nothing more, nothing less.” 

“And nobody knows that but you and us,” Natasha said, eyes hard. “You need to plead your case.” 

“They can’t hold me here,” Tony spat. 

“They can,” Clint said weakly. 

“I’d like to see them try—” 

“Tony?” 

And suddenly, a lot of the fight left Tony’s body. Bucky stood in the doorway, looking exhausted and clean as the rest of them, whole besides the wall of bandages wrapped around his middle and a noticeably missing metal arm. He was leaned against the wall, out of breath as if the trip from his bed had taken all of his energy. 

Tony took a deep breath, but remained silent as Bucky dragged himself away from the doorway, nearly collapsing by Tony’s bedside, propping himself on the edge to keep upright. Tony silently scooted to the side to make room, and Bucky eased himself onto the bed beside him. 

Bucky was alive. He was warm. He was alive. He was right there. 

“What’s wrong?” Bucky asked, looking around the room. “You seem agitated.” He was still catching his breath, trying to hide his wincing. Tony didn't know if it was endearing or pathetic.

Tony was worried, and it irritated him.  

“I won't be forced to stay somewhere I don’t want to be,” Tony murmured, but he suddenly felt ridiculous. Like the fight had been pointless from the beginning, like he was a child throwing a tantrum. Like his imprisonment was a small price to pay for this: Bucky, alive. Whole, for the most part. By his side.

He’d gladly live his life in a cage if it meant Bucky was safe. This irritated him, too.

“I know,” Bucky said softly. “It’s not forever. But this isn't a bad situation, okay? This really is the best place to get help.” 

“But—” Tony wanted to fight, to articulate his fears in a way the others might understand, but he couldn’t find the words. How could he tell them that this agency, this organization that helped them and made them feel safe, reminded him of those who tortured him? How could he share his fears about being an experiment, a lab rat, a weapon? 

“It'll be different,” Bucky murmured. “I promise.” 

Ah, Bucky and his promises. Tony would hate them if the words alone didn't settle the writhing in his stomach. Just like old times, Bucky was certain he'd save Tony, free him. After everything, he hadn't been sure he'd ever hear Bucky make a promise again. 

Tony sighed and settled back against his pillows, trying to calm the raging storm in his mind to a more manageable level. He could do this. He would behave. He would show he was capable of being a citizen and then… well. He’d figure it out. 

He realized he had no contingencies or plans in place for something like this. He'd never considered what he might do in the case of escape being a reality. He didn't know how to function in the world among people, didn't have any skills that would translate to a ‘normal’ life.

He was like a lion raised in captivity, suddenly released into the wild: no important survival skills, one who would die off sooner rather than later. 

He stared at the ceiling. SHIELD wouldn't need to try very hard to trap him. He was an idiot here, out in the world. Pathetic. Where would he go? What would he do? He could go into hiding, but if they found him... And what kind of life would that be? Scared, running, killing to survive, a cornered animal, just like...

He didn't know this world. 

He could try to escape, or he could play nice. 

Both seemed horrifically painful options. 

“I don’t know how to be a person,” he admitted quietly, unsure why he'd allowed himself to say it at all.

“We’ll figure out what comes next,” Bucky murmured, wrapping his singular remaining arm around Tony’s shoulders. It was nice. “One day at a time.” 

Tony nodded dumbly. “Where did your arm go?” He asked, eager to move on, to get away from the existential dread that simultaneously urged him to run, get out, danger!! This is bad!! as well as look at the floor and smile, submit and be a good pet, a good mutt—

“Bad shape,” Bucky said, pulling Tony closer against him. “Needs repaired.” 

“I could've fixed it,” Tony mumbled. 

“I know,” Bucky said easily. “But things need replacing. The exterior needs redone. It’s getting touched up by the engineers now.” 

Tony nodded idly as Steve moved around to Bucky’s other side, hovering anxiously. “How’d the surgery go?”

“Fine,” Bucky sighed. “I’ll be sore for a bit, but there were no complications.” 

“You’re lucky,” Natasha said, “you were being reckless with the wound.” 

Bucky shrugged, eyes tracing over her until—”your ankle?” 

Natasha glared at her boot with disdain. “Broken. Needed surgery before it could be set properly. Doctor prescribed me PT once it’s fully healed.” 

“You also had surgery?” Tony furrowed his brow, glanced at Clint. “How long was I asleep for?”

“Almost two days,” Clint snorted. “You have a habit of long naps, don’t you?” 

Tony felt something slip in his head, reorienting reality from what he thought to what he now knew. “Two days?” 

“Exhaustion, malnutrition, a ridiculous amount of blood loss, healing,” Steve ticked off various causes on his fingers. “You were on death’s door. I think two days is nothing for all that.” 

“I’m sorry,” Tony said. He’d abandoned them. They'd gotten out and he’d just… knocked out. Out of commission. 

If he'd died, the lapse would have been more forgivable. But a nap...

Though something told him that his time away might have been for the best. That he'd be useless here. 

Tony didn’t know how to act in an environment like this. All he knew was that he didn’t want to submit. He wouldn’t do that to himself again. He would imitate and act like a person instead of a monster, but he wouldn't do what he was told simply for being told to do it. 

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Bucky insisted. “Nothing happened.”

Tony’s power, still hovering around the room, pinged suddenly toward a hall camera. He let it happen, saw the face in the hallway. 

“Someone’s approaching,” he said quietly, muscles tensing in anticipation. What sorts of defense options did he have here? There was something on the door, some sort of emergency lockdown procedure he might be able to initiate if he concentrated. But that would only buy them time, trapping them in the room. But hospitals were good environments for the technologically inclined, so he wasn’t unarmed. After all, that had been one of Bucky’s lessons: know how to use your body, and you'll never be unarmed. 

There was only one person in the hallway, a plain-looking, nondescript man. Tony recognized him from their escape, but couldn’t recall what role he’d played, if he’d been one of those who wanted to kill him rather than bring him along. Things had gotten pretty fuzzy by the end. 

Still, one could never be too careful! The tendrils of his influence slid through the walls of the compound, found the latch that would release the emergency lockdown door: a heavy sheet of metal more than a door, but fine. It would keep the enemy out. 

Tony let his body relax in its entirety: his breathing evened out, his eyelids grew heavier. He’d been asleep the whole time! Entirely harmless! 

“Did he just pass out?” Clint asked. 

“No,” Bucky sighed, poking Tony’s side. Tony didn't react. “He’s faking it.” 

“Creepy,” Clint murmured. 

The agent outside banged on the door once, twice. He shouted something, then moved to the keypad. Tony felt the override about to go through and slapped it away. No thank you! The man tried again; it sent a prickle of energy back through Tony, but he absorbed it and redirected it somewhere else. It was kind of fun. Simple attacks and blocks, a procedural battle of wills that Tony was confident he'd win. Nobody would get into the room without his say. He was certain of that. 

He heard Clint groan and walk over, felt his presence as leaned in to speak to Tony. “That’s Phil Coulson, our supervisor and a good agent. He’s an ally. You want to let him in. You want him on our side.” 

“Is he the one who shot me?” Tony opened his eyes just enough to see the archer hovering above him. 

“No,” Clint said, “he helped me drag your ass to the helicarrier, no questions asked. He can help. Let him in.” 

Tony was perfectly still as he mulled it over. It couldn’t hurt to have someone else on his side. But he didn't trust the team’s handlers, their bosses and coworkers. He didn’t like that he couldn’t tell who was who, didn’t like that he didn’t know how to read them. He didn’t like that they were all armed, even in a hospital. It reminded him of home and that was not a good thing. 

Finally, he decided. “Don’t let him know I’m awake,” Tony murmured, focused on relaxing each muscle to its most lax, useless state. He was a ragdoll, a corpse. A nothing body that could be safely overlooked. If he was going to let an enemy in, he could at least ensure he was in no way considered a threat. 

“He probably already knows,” Steve said gently, “that’s probably why he’s here.” 

Tony almost laughed, but managed to hold it back. “The cameras and bugs in here have been disabled since before I opened my eyes. He has no clue what’s been going on.” 

“He might be looking for me,” Bucky admitted sheepishly. “I didn’t tell anyone where I was going.” Tony let himself sink against Bucky’s side to convey his amusement. Bucky had always been stubborn, single-minded. Of course he left without telling anyone.

“He’s going to be able to tell you’re awake,” Natasha said. 

“No he won’t,” Tony mumbled, “I’m very good at what I do.” 

As he released his hold on the emergency lockdown, the metal slab disappearing back into the little pocket of wall it belonged to, he committed fully to his little sleep-act.

Phil Coulson entered the room a second later, his agitation taking up as much space as his body. 

“What was that about?” he asked, voice cool and calculated. He stopped a steps away from the team.

“He’s had moments of lucidity, but he hasn’t recovered enough energy to stay awake longer than a few minutes,” Natasha explained easily. “Probably because his body keeps expending energy in little ways like that—a defense mechanism. The technology in and around the room has been acting strange since he got here. It’s been getting worse as the drugs start to wear off.” Good for her, she was an accomplished liar. It sounded believable when she said it. “I like to think of it as a sign of his speedy recovery.” 

Coulson was silent for a moment, a heavy sigh pushing through him. “Well, that’s part of why I’m here,” he said. “You might have noticed that cameras in this wing—just this room, really—have gone dark. Our technicians haven’t been able to regain access to enable them again.” 

“I think he doesn’t like being watched,” Clint piped up. “Subconsciously, I mean. He's a really paranoid guy.” 

“I’m sure,” Coulson said. “I also came to make sure you made it here in one piece. You didn’t tell anyone you were leaving your bed.”

He felt Bucky shrug against him. “Bruce told me everyone else was here. Wanted to check in.” 

“Right,” Coulson said. He sounded exhausted. “Will one of you tell me how he—Tony, right?—how Tony interacts with… the building, the way he does?”

“It’s not really the building,” Natasha explained. “As far as I can tell, it’s a sort of electrokinesis: he can control and connect with technology.” 

“In what way?” Coulson pressed, “what kind of technology?” 

“I’ve seen him open and close mechanical doors, scramble bugs and cameras. He blew up one of my widow’s bites and shorted out Bucky’s arm. He also fixed Bucky’s arm. And he tased...someone... with his hand. He can mess with certain weapons and he drove a car from the outside.” Natasha's voice was dull, impassive. “I don’t fully understand it either, sir. There weren’t many opportunities to see it in full swing in the great outdoors.” 

Coulson continued to push. “What about data?” he pressed, “the internet? Information stored digitally? Did you bring a hacker from an unknown organization into the center of SHIELD headquarters?”

This time Clint jumped in. “Don’t be ridiculous, Coulson, of course not. Tony isn't a hacker. He’s a mercenary. You love mercenaries.” 

Coulson’s voice was strained as if he were carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. “We need to have a serious conversation about his abilities and intel very, very soon.” 

“And we will,” Steve said. “As soon as he’s recuperated and ready to talk.” 

“Fury's taken a personal interest in his recovery,” Coulson warned. “He wants to speak with him.” 

“Fury will get his chance when Tony's ready for him,” Bucky grumbled. “He—he’s been through a lot, sir. This is a lot for him. He needs time to adjust to his surroundings if you don’t want him to immediately go on the defensive.” 

Look at Bucky go, always Tony’s biggest defender! He’d be offended by the victimization if he wasn’t so grateful. That warm glow in his chest grew a little brighter. He was pretty sure one of the lights in the corner flickered. Oops. That probably blew his cover. 

Tony heard Coulson’s footsteps (he was stepping carefully, precisely, as if he wanted his efforts to be noticed) as he walked further into the room, voice low when he spoke as if afraid he'd be overheard. “Look, I’m doing everything I can for all of you right now,” he said, hidden intention bleeding through the words that Tony didn’t understand, but was sure the others picked up on. “I've made sure to keep you together so you can adjust, I’ve convinced Fury you're all the supervision needed for Tony because you've established trust. I’ve somehow managed to keep the rest of SHIELD off your backs while you’re healing; Fury almost had a folding table ferried in here for a debrief. But I can’t hold the line forever. We lost people during that extraction, good agents. And the ones who got out saw things, things that left them with a lot of questions. Questions that only you, and him, have the answers to.”

Steve’s voice was hard when he answered. “I appreciate you doing all that you can." 

“It would be easier if you gave me something to work with,” Coulson insisted. “A summary of what you found and what you faced, intel that can inform future missions in the area—”

Oh hell no. Tony’s eyes shot open in an instant, his arm flew forward entirely on its own, as if he'd been possessed by some vengeful spirit. He grabbed Coulson’s wrist, dragging him roughly until his hip slammed against the edge of the bed. He watched Coulson’s free hand twitch toward his weapon.

Steve immediately stepped forward to intervene. “What the hell, Tony—” he started, but Tony ignored his protests, ignored Bucky's tightening hold, and hardened his gaze, forcing Coulson to look at him, to see how serious he was.

“There will be no follow-up missions in that forest,” he hissed, tightening his grip. “There is nothing for you there. For anyone.” 

“We can’t ignore it,” Coulson said, matching the sharpness of Tony’s gaze. He let his other hand fall on Tony’s wrist, carefully extracting his hold on his arm. “It's a dangerous facility with hundreds of threats to national security stored inside.” 

“Destroy it, then,” Tony snapped, letting his arm fall to his side. “You don’t need to send anyone there to do that, right? You have fancy weapons and bombs that can take care of it.” 

“Sometimes the best way to destroy an enemy is to understand them,” Coulson said, as if reciting a line from a textbook. “We haven’t seen anything like you, or anyone else there, ever. We have no clue what we’re up against or how to stop them.” 

“You stop them by blowing them off the map,” Tony snapped. “No survivors.” 

“You think there’s nothing to be salvaged? No refugees to be redeemed, no scientific breakthroughs to uncover?” 

Tony couldn’t help but laugh, the sound high and maniacal as it echoed through the room. “Redeemed? Sure, risk the lives of more agents on the dim hope the monsters won’t kill them on sight.” He choked on another laugh, which bled into his words. “And scientific breakthroughs? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Nobody has seen anything like—” Coulson repeated, but Tony wouldn’t let that shit continue. Not a chance. 

“You know why no one's seen it before?” Tony snarled, practically crawling over Bucky’s lap to get in Coulson’s face, ignoring the hand that tried to pull him back. “Because the procedures are sick. Dehumanizing. You wanna know how to make someone like me? They broke my body and mind until I was just some thing to be shaped however they liked. I was rewritten.” 

“Tony—” Bucky said, but Tony ignored him, rage clouding his vision bright blue, the light that signified so much pain and so much power. 

“There's nothing there worth learning. Nothing there worth repeating. No one there worth saving. Because those aren’t people anymore. We were called beasts for a reason.” He heard something pop behind him. “Putting us down is the kindest option. Us, and those that made us.” 

“I’m not saying the experiments should be repeated,” Coulson replied coolly, as if he weren’t facing down a frightened animal ready to bite. Tony wanted to carve that calm demeanor off of his smug face. “But they should be understood by the right people. So we know how to prevent it from happening, how to spot it should we run into it again. The information would remain, as it has this whole time, entirely classified and accessible only to those who need to know it.” 

Tony scoffed. “You think I believe your agency won’t use it for themselves?” He asked. “Excuse me if I don’t believe that the same government that was okay with making him—” he jerked his chin at Steve—”would draw the line at making me.” 

Another pop sounded, this time it was the machine Coulson was standing next to, showering sparks that nearly caught the man’s clothes. He didn’t flinch. 

“Tony, man” Clint said, a hand suddenly appearing on his shoulder. Tony barely kept himself from snapping the bones that dared come near him. They seemed broken enough already. “Back off.” 

He forced himself to ease back, but held Coulson’s gaze the entire time he moved. Bucky didn't move his hand away from Tony’s side. 

Coulson’s jaw was tight. “I appreciate you sharing your thoughts on this, Tony, and I will share them with the proper channels.” 

“I won't cooperate with any attempts to investigate the Forest,” Tony said, shaking his head. “I won’t help you do that. They should be buried, not studied. They'd fucking love—” 

“I understand,” Coulson said. He tilted his head, as if trying to puzzle something out about Tony’s soul. He didn't like it. “Regardless of how we move forward,” he said slowly, “you won't be required to go anywhere near it. You'll be kept safe here.” 

Tony shivered. It didn’t feel comforting, not when it seemed SHIELD was intent to absorb the Order’s operations into its own. “Think about what I told you,” Tony said quietly. 

“We’ll discuss your experiences at a later date,” Coulson said, already turning on his heel. “For now, get some rest.” When he reached the door, he looked over his shoulder, eyes brushing past Tony, then Bucky and Steve, then Clint and Natasha. “You’ve earned it.” 

Bucky

The anesthesia loosened its grip on Bucky’s body slowly, like the tide falling back into the sea. He opened his eyes, fighting the nausea that roiled in his gut the moment the light hit him. His body felt heavy, a dull throbbing was slowly making itself known in his middle. 

“Hey,” Bruce said softly, appearing suddenly at Bucky’s side. He glanced at the vital signs on the screen beside him, glanced at a chart. “It was a long, complicated operation, but your surgery went well,” he continued. “You’ll be just fine.” 

Bucky groaned in response, fatigue far too heavy to allow any sort of verbal reply in that moment. 

Bruce frowned sympathetically. “How’s your pain? It shouldn’t be too bad yet, but we can start getting some meds ready if you need them.” 

Bucky paused, took mental stock of his body. The pain wasn’t unbearable, still throbbing gently. He knew it would keep him grounded for a while, but he wasn’t in screaming agony. Granted, the edges of anesthesia were still clinging to him, but he didn’t feel the need to jump for more drugs right away. He needed to keep his head on his shoulders to keep track of his team, after all. 

“It’s manageable,” Bucky murmured, trying to push himself upright. It immediately sent shooting pain down his spine, so he paused, held back. Glanced to his side. Saw the empty space there. “Where’s my arm?” 

“Sitting on a table with some techs, I imagine,” Bruce sighed, perching delicately on the edge of Bucky’s bed. “It was badly damaged: the outer layers of metal were torn and peeling back, the wires were shredded. When I got a look at it, I was honestly shocked it was still functioning at all.” 

Bucky let his head fall back, sighing. “Tony—the guy we brought back with us—helped rig it up.” 

“He’s a real talented engineer if he managed all that in the middle of the woods,” Bruce said. 

“He’s… yeah. He’s talented.” Bucky groaned, another pang of pain making itself known to him.

“Can I ask you about it?” Bruce asked, settling a bit. “Is it too soon?? 

“Nah,” Bucky shrugged as much as he was able. “It was… it was just supposed to be an intel-gathering thing. Find the place, scope it out. Maybe see if there was anything worth returning to gather.” 

“So it wasn’t supposed to be an Avengers mission?” Bruce asked, looking a little frail.

“No,” Bucky shook his head. “No, it was just SHIELD. That’s why you and Thor weren’t notified: we were only supposed to be gone for a bit. It was stealth. Non-combative." 

“But it didn’t work out like that,” Bruce assumed. 

“No,” Bucky grimaced. “We decided to look inside because the facility looked abandoned. I think... Deep down I knew better, but I let us go forward anyway. And it wasn’t abandoned at all.” Bucky tried to force his dread to the back of his mind. Not the time for that. He needed to focus on the present. On his body, on his team. Contending with his trauma could wait. “We were ambushed once we got inside. We were forced to run, too outnumbered to fight them head on. Then we found Tony.” His chest felt tighter. 

“And he helped you?” Bruce asked.

“Not at first,” Bucky took a deep breath. “I recognized him, but he didn’t recognize me. He was… it was similar to what HYDRA did to me. But different.” Time was folding in on itself in his head—the distant past, the previous week, the present moment where Tony was lying somewhere, hurt and terrified—”I managed to get him on our side, barely. He helped us escape the facility, and agreed to guide us through the forest.” 

“Why didn’t you call for backup?” Bruce asked suddenly, frustrated. “You didn’t have to hike with broken bones and limited rations. SHIELD could have—I could have helped you.” 

Ah. Guilt. Bucky hated to see it so wrongfully painted across his teammate’s face. “We couldn’t,” Bucky offered. “There was some kind of… like a scrambler or something. We were completely isolated there. The only option, as presented by Tony, was to try and get far enough away that we could get a message through. And despite everything, Bruce, we did that. We got a signal out as soon as we could.” 

Bruce took a deep breath, nodded slowly. “Everyone will be physically fine with enough time,” he finally said. “Natasha had to go under to get her ankle set, and Clint’s shoulder isn’t going to be the same for a long time. There was damage to the muscle, and it took a lot of work to start combatting the infection. Steve hasn’t let anyone check him, but he looks okay. But mentally…” 

Bucky braced himself. 

“Well, if you thought Steve was a mother-hen before, you should see him now. He insisted everyone stick together, panics anytime anyone’s out of his sight. I don’t think he’s sat down since you got back, just waiting for you to join him in the wing he had the agents put together. Natasha's antsy and not following medical orders, and I’m pretty sure she hasn’t slept. Clint is… he’s acting off. Joking one second, staring at the wall the next.” Bruce was rambling, concern evident as his hands moved through the air. 

Bucky swallowed the information, nodding along. He could handle this. As soon as he was back on his feet, he'd rejoin the team and make sure they were okay. Carry the load so they could relax. Lord knows they’d done it for him while he was losing his mind. He would reassure them that they were safe now, that he was safe. He could do that. He was fine. 

He was fine.

“And Tony?” He asked, trying not to sound desperate. 

“As far as I know, he hasn’t woken up,” Bruce sighed. “The doctors did all they could, but he was in rough shape when he came in. His biology is… complicated. He’s not as durable as you are, but the rate of his cellular regeneration is astounding. He needed a lot of stitches, and some surgery to repair various bullet wounds and stabbings. They gave him some O neg, to replace the blood he'd lost, but he didn’t need as much as expected. I was just glad he tolerated it at all…” he trailed off, grimacing. “Physically, he’s shaping up alright. But I figure the physical strain isn’t all that’s keeping him under.” 

Bucky let his eyes fall shut. “I should go check on him,” he said. He was so, so tired. But he couldn’t leave Tony to deal on his own. It wasn’t right. 

“Can you..” Bruce trailed off, cleared his throat. “It seems like he’s going to be sticking around for a while.” 

“Yes,” Bucky confirmed, tension coiling in his gut as his hackles were raised. He hadn’t anticipated Bruce having a problem with Tony, but it wasn’t completely out of the question. But he would defend Tony’s place, no matter what anyone had to say about it. Even if that someone was a member of his team. “He needs us, Bruce. He’s got nobody else. Nothing else.”

“You two have history, right?” Bruce leaned back, tried to watch Bucky’s reactions. “You seem really attached to him.” 

“We met before Steve found me,” Bucky said slowly. “He broke through my programming… He saved my life back then, took the fall when I rebelled so I'd be sent somewhere I had a better shot at getting away. And he… he looked out for me. Even though it should’ve been the other way around—I was technically the authority figure, I guess—he looked out for me.” 

“I wanted to ask if you knew anything about him,” Bruce was treading carefully, clearly feeling awkward as he shifted in his seat. “About where he came from… how he got to be the way he is.” 

“Fury has you looking into him, right?” Bucky sighed, felt exhaustion nag at the edges of his consciousness. Fury had the potential to be very helpful if he decided Tony was worth the trouble, but that would require Tony cooperating with his various plans. Which Bucky highly doubted was going to happen. Which meant he also had the potential to be a major road block to ensuring Tony’s safety and survival. 

“He asked me to work with the team analyzing Tony’s blood samples given my… experience with mutations,” Bruce admitted. “And there was ample opportunity to gather samples while he was healing." He sighed. "There are hints at what's happened to him. He carries an absurd number of mutations, like his base genetic code was rewritten entirely from scratch in some ways, leading to a variety of different phenotypic expressions.” 

Bucky felt a little sick. “Is Fury planning on trying to recreate these mutations in another subject?” Bucky asked quietly, trying to keep his voice steady. He knew exactly the kinds of tortures and traumas that would require. “Because I’m telling you now, it’s unethical. It’s not a good idea.” 

Bruce shook his head violently, eyes wide, “I would never—no! No, Bucky, we're not going to recreate it. Even if we wanted to, we don’t have the technology. There are no hints at what worked as a catalyst to the changes: no remains of a serum or drug, no physical damage to show a particular trauma. The only evidence we have that a change occurred at all is the clearly abnormal genetic markers and expressions. It’s not like the X-men and their mutations, or like my own, or yours. It’s unique, and extreme in quantity. If I had to guess, I’d say we won’t be able to point toward one specific cause. It was more likely a lot of smaller changes building over time.” 

Bucky nodded slowly: his heart told him that Tony would rather die than share any of this information with SHIELD, but his head told him that getting answers for SHIELD would most likely mean good things for Tony. Would going against his wishes be worth it? Or was it a betrayal? He didn’t really have it in him to debate the moral dilemma for too long.

“Tony was taken, I don't know when,” Bucky said. “I think he was a child. I don’t know if he was different before that, or if he was a perfectly normal kid, but he had a life before the Forest. And he… he received a lot of ‘treatments’. Throughout the time I knew him, they were nearly constant. So your theory is correct.” 

“You said… he was abducted as a child?” Bruce furrowed his brow, ran his hand through his hair. “That… that’s upsetting.” His frown deepened. “Do you know anything about where he came from? Personal history, information that might help us find a family? Maybe we could organize a reunion of some kind. Find him someone to return to.” 

Bucky shook his head. “I only know that his name is Tony. He dealt with a lot of brainwashing and amnesia, so I’m not sure how much he knows himself.” 

“I’ll use one of the lab samples to try a DNA search for living relatives,” Bruce said. “It might be complicated, though, with all the changes and modifications that have been made. But I’ll do my best. Hopefully with SHIELD's resources at my disposal I can find something.”

The idea filled Bucky simultaneously with fear and warmth: he loved the idea of Tony having a family out there, someone to return to, someone who'd been looking for and loving him all the years he'd been missing. The other part was afraid the people related to him were monsters that had for some reason allowed their child to be taken. “Please keep me updated if you find anything,” Bucky said slowly. “And let me know about any potential matches. I’d like to look into them before we move forward with a reunion.” He paused. "And Bruce?" 

"Yes?" Bruce asked, pausing as he was about to stand. 

"Let me tell Tony about all of this. He'll... things'll go smoother if he hears it from a friendly face." He could already see it in his mind's eye: Tony would freak the second he learned SHIELD was studying him. It would confirm all of his worst fears about the organization, and he'd turn against them before giving them a chance to help him.

But if Bucky just found the right time... the right words... he'd figure it out. He'd make Tony understand it was for the best. 

He just had to figure out how.

Bruce nodded, standing up. “I need to head back to the lab,” he said. “I just didn’t want you to wake up alone. You’re supposed to stay here, but you didn’t hear this from me… The others are down the hall, take two rights. They’re all in a room together. Tony’s with them. You could join them, if you can sneak past the nurses. Otherwise you’ll have to wait to be cleared.”

Bucky nodded, throat tight. “Thanks, Bruce,” he said. 

“Don’t mention it,” Bruce waved him off. “Now, if you need me, I’ll be staring at some blood samples. I’ll stop by to check in with everyone later.” 

After Bruce left, it didn’t take Bucky long to struggle to his feet. He had to steady himself on the bed, his balance thrown off without the familiar weight of his arm. He forced himself to start moving as soon as his dizziness subsided to a manageable level. 

He shoved himself into the hallway, strength returning to him with each step, spurred on by the knowledge that he was one step closer to his team. To not being alone. To knowing they were okay. 

To confirming, with his own two eyes, that they'd all survived.

Clint

Clint needed a break from it all: Tony’s staring and exhausted-yet-somehow-still-slightly-manic vibe, Steve’s panic-filled pacing, Natasha’s hyper-vigilance. He loved them all, cared for them dearly. He trusted them with his life. But they were slowly driving him insane. 

So he went for a walk, trying to ignore the dull buzzing in his arm. As soon as they'd touched down at SHIELD headquarters, he’d been dragged to an exam room and shoved into a bed, the wound on his shoulder poked and prodded and flushed and inspected by doctors who hardly communicated with him what the big deal was. He knew it wasn’t good: felt it every time he raised his arm, every time it started to burn or itch or go numb. 

At one point they'd even discussed surgery, cutting out the infection. He wasn’t proud to admit he’d begged them to find another way. There may have even been a very macho tear or two. He was desperate to keep his shoulder as close to intact as possible. 

In the end, they decided not to cut into him. He was grateful. But that didn’t mean the healing process was going to be easy. 

According to his doctor, he'd sustained pretty intense muscular damage. The kind that he might be able to recover from, but he would have to work tirelessly at it. As far as he’d been told, he’d basically have to retrain the muscles from scratch, and that was after they healed enough that training wouldn’t cause further damage. And he needed daily inspections of the wound, until the doctors were certain the infection was controlled.

It wasn’t exactly the news he'd wanted to hear. Apparently, the life-saving decisions he’d been forced to make in the forest had made things a thousand times worse for him now. But it’s not like he'd had a choice. He had to fight as hard as he did. 

His shoulder felt a little numb. It was probably the pain treatment. 

Clint decided to go to the shooting range: he would be careful! He wouldn’t overwork it. It’d be fine. His doctor was over cautious, he didn't know everything.

He picked up a bow that was there: it wasn’t his, wasn’t custom built to his frame like the one he’d lost. He’d liked that bow. It was good, reliable. And now it was ashes on the forest floor. 

He shrugged off his sling and raised his arm, felt the dull throb of pain radiate down his back as he strained the muscles in his shoulder. He grabbed an arrow from the quiver/stand at his side—he’d been told not to wear one on his back yet, and it was really screwing with his muscle memory—and threaded it. 

He pulled the string, held it. His wrist, badly sprained rather than broken like he'd thought, throbbed in protest. Sharp pain caught him by surprise, and the shot went far wide.

He was worse now, outside the forest, without the fear and adrenaline keeping him focused. 

He lifted the bow again. His arm shook. He took the shot anyway. 

Miss. 

And another.

And another. 

That one hit the floor. 

The next didn’t even make it across the room, his arm quivering from the effort of keeping the weapon raised. 

His forehead was beaded with sweat, his shoulder burned. He tried again anyway. He couldn’t even get the string back, his shoulder jerking and twitching from the exertion. 

So much for not overdoing it. 

“Damn it!” Clint grumbled, slamming the bow down in front of him. Frustration was clouding his mind, cording through his muscles. I can’t lose this, he thought, fear creeping past his defenses. I need to be able to do this. 

It was all he had. The thing that kept him safe. The thing that kept his loved ones safe. 

Who knew that one week in the woods could take that away from him?

He kicked the quiver beside him, sending arrows skidding across the floor, clattering against one another and the walls. 

“You know you’re going to have to clean that up,” a voice said from behind. 

Clint whirled around, defenses immediately raised, only relaxing when he recognized the perfectly cool face before him. Coulson leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, tense frown marring his features. 

“I will,” Clint murmured, making no effort to turn to do so. Coulson seemed to take that as an invitation to enter, moving to Clint’s side. 

“You’re supposed to be resting,” Coulson gently chastised him, eyes straying to Clint’s shoulder. It was incredibly sore now. Clint used the pain as a grounding method. 

“I can handle myself,” Clint snapped, jerking his shoulder back as if that would somehow prevent the agent from glaring at it. 

“I never said you couldn’t,” Coulson said diplomatically. He was staring at it, though. It was infuriating.

“You implied it,” Clint mumbled. 

Coulson sighed, shoved his hands in his pockets, and rocked back on his heels. His eyes bore holes in the ceiling as he very obviously chewed on words and thoughts he wasn't sure how to express. 

“So,” Clint said, far too tense to pretend he was being casual, “you found us.” 

“Of course I found you,” Coulson said. He looked back. “I wasn’t going to leave my best agents stranded in the middle of nowhere.” 

“How long was it before Fury told you we were lost on a mission gone wrong?” Clint asked. 

“Three days,” Coulson replied, eyes darkening. “We had a conversation about it.” 

“Hey,” Clint smiled weakly, “that’s quicker than I thought.” 

“Apparently, he felt a total lack of communication from an ambiguous operation was a bad sign,” Coulson said. 

“How did you find us?” Clint asked. “Tony said there was no way, that our location was cloaked by some freaky magic or something.” 

“We searched the area as much as possible,” Coulson sighed. “I can’t… I swear we checked the area we found you in. I swept the forest. But when I went back later to check the travel logs… we just circled a large area, over and over again, without even realizing it.” He seemed uncomfortable with the idea. 

“Ah,” Clint said. “Yeah, that sounds about right. Those freaks seemed the type to play mind games.” 

“I don’t like it,” Coulson admitted. “It means it will be difficult finding them again.” 

“Something tells me it’ll be easier than we think,” Clint said, dread settling in his stomach. “Natasha thinks they let us in. I imagine they’ll open it up again.” 

“Let you in?”

“She thinks they’re ramping up operations and want the world to know." 

“That’s… troubling,” Coulson concluded.

“It is,” Clint sighed. “So when are we going back? You want to wipe them out, right? Before they become a bigger threat?” 

Coulson tensed. “You’re not going anywhere anytime soon,” he said slowly, “and you’re certainly not tagging along on any missions that involve that organization.” 

“Aw,” Clint teased, though he was secretly relieved to hear it, “it almost sounds like you were worried about me.” 

Coulson didn’t flinch. “I was." 

Clint paused. “Oh.” He wasn’t expecting that. Coulson had always looked out for him, both on the field and off of it, but they'd never discussed feelings. He knew Coulson often felt concern for him and his various shenanigans, but he'd never said as much aloud. Normally he'd just smack the back of his head and call him an idiot before herding him off to medical. 

“It was… I couldn’t find you,” Coulson said slowly. “I wasn’t told about the mission ahead of time, which is rare. Fury kept me in the dark, and only told me after you and the others were already gone. And he wouldn’t tell me everything I needed to know in order to find you.” 

“Oh,” Clint repeated, feeling like an idiot. 

“And then I finally got a hint, Natasha’s tracker pinged… and for a moment, I thought you might all be dead, because that was all I found. A single device.” 

“We weren’t dead,” Clint pointed out, rather stupidly. 

Coulson’s frown deepened. “Clearly,” he said. “I’m glad I found you. I’m sorry you got hurt. I wish you hadn’t, but I’m not going to sit here and watch you make it worse because you don’t know how to deal with healing.” 

Clint felt a sudden rush of anger. “Who are you to tell me how to deal with things?” he snapped, stepping forward. He raised an arm, intending to childishly shove Coulson back, but froze as a jolt of pain ran down his back. He’d accidentally used his bad arm. 

“I’m not—” Coulson paused, took a deep breath. “You have recently been through a trauma, Barton. For people like you—like us—it can be hard to relax after that. I just want you to know that if there's anything I can do to help you with that process, I will do it.” 

“I’m doing just fine,” Clint snapped. 

“You’re in pain,” Coulson insisted. 

“My arm was nearly torn off,” Clint growled, “of course I’m in pain.” 

“I’m not talking about your arm.” 

For some reason, that sentence seemed to knock all the indignation right out of him. He leaned heavily on the counter behind him, letting it carry the majority of his weight. He ran a hand through his hair, focused on his shoulder. It hurt. That was all. That was all. 

The others were panicking, but he wasn't. 

He hurt. He would be fine. Physical therapy. Exercise, that was all he needed. 

“It wasn’t that long,” Clint said quietly, “we weren’t gone that long.” 

“It was an intense week,” Coulson replied. 

“It was awful,” Clint agreed. “I’ve been on longer missions.” 

“But none quite like that.” 

“No, none quite like that.” 

Coulson moved to stand beside him. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

Clint considered, weighing his options. He'd been so, so afraid. For Natasha’s life, for Bucky’s sanity, for Steve’s wellbeing. Afraid he'd never make it out. Afraid he'd never be the same if he did. 

A small part of him was still terrified, two days after getting away. He heard that little voice in the back of his mind screaming that something was still wrong, that something was still coming, that he wasn’t safe yet, might never be safe again. That same voice kept whispering he'd left a little piece of himself there, something vital to his person. Something bigger than just the function of his arm. 

He glanced at Coulson, watched him for a moment. Took a deep breath. “Off the record?” He asked, voice low. 

Coulson nodded. “Off the record.” 

Clint sighed, tried to gather himself. He stared at the floor, cleared his throat. 

“The facility looked abandoned from the outside,” he began. “There were no guards, no lights or vehicles, no signs of activity. We watched for a long time, and decided that in order to gather any actual intel, we might as well go inside. After all, what could possibly go wrong?” 

“You made the same decision anyone would in that situation,” Coulson said quietly. 

“Yeah, well, it would have been the wrong one no matter who made it,” Clint snorted. 

And then he told the story: he talked about the ambush, the monsters. The horrific creature who whispered and wailed while he was blind and deaf and panicking. He talked about Tony and his feral attacks, and how Bucky managed to force him to their side. He talked about getting downed and surrounded, how he fought for his life because the people surrounding him were determined to tear him to shreds. He talked about finding the ruined jet, he talked about the tireless hikes. He talked about his determination to save the feral dude they found because despite being creepy and lethal, the guy seemed so impossibly hopeless. He talked about trying to hold everyone together, even when he felt on the verge of snapping himself.

As he spoke, covering every little detail—the ones that disgusted him, the ones he was certain would keep him up at night, the ones that made his eyes twitch—he felt something slowly unwind in his gut. Coulson didn't speak, didn't tense up or judge him. He just listened, a steady presence to take in all of Clint’s newly acquired trauma. 

Steve 

Steve waited until everyone was asleep to slip out to the bathroom. He wanted to stay, to keep watch as he promised Tony he would (which Natasha also appreciated) but he needed some time. Just a minute. 

Besides, Bucky was a fairly light sleeper; even now he sat by Tony’s bedside, propped up gently on his elbow as if keeping constantly vigilant. Ever since he returned from surgery, he’d been glued to Tony’s side. Steve didn’t hold it against him, knew that Bucky probably needed it as much as Tony did. While he didn’t entirely understand their attachment, he wouldn’t begrudge it. 

That didn’t mean he didn’t wish he could have a moment alone with his best friend. 

He just needed a shower. To clean himself off again. He’d been washing himself constantly, near obsessively even. But he still felt dirt on his skin, and the viscous sludge of blood under his nails. 

As he undressed, he caught sight of his reflection. An image he’d seen so many times before, yet startlingly different now. Forever changed by his time in the forest. 

The subtlest change was in his face: he couldn’t articulate why, but he swore he looked older. More worn down. His eyes were faded, to him, his skin just a little grayer. It might have been due to the lack of nutrients—his body required more calories the average person, and they’d been running on so little—but he thought it was probably more than that. Like some switch had been flipped, a cord detached. Some fundamental piece warped out of place. 

But that wasn’t the biggest thing, not really. As he peeled his sweater off, he had to fight the urge to look away from what lay underneath. He’d insisted on keeping fully covered around the others, wasn’t ready to share the full extent of what happened to him. He still needed time to process it himself. 

For a long time, Steve thought he was incapable of being scarred. Even harsher wounds seemed to heal completely, to erase themselves from his skin. But the burns… they'd stayed, somehow. Had left their mark. 

It was faded, subtle. Shiny silver blots and lines traced across his skin, lightly skating across his shoulder and bicep, picking up along the side of his torso. They weren’t consistent, didn’t match the pattern of the original burn entirely. They were patchy, as if only the worst of the damage felt the need to stick around. They looked as if they'd been there for years instead of days.

They were inconsistent with his understanding of what was possible. 

He wasn’t used to this feeling, hadn’t feared permanent reminders of his battles after receiving the serum. He didn’t even have any of his pre-serum scars. 

When he looked at them, despite the fact they were as healed as they might ever be… they hurt. They filled him with panic, coiled his muscles with the anticipation to jump in the line of fire to save a member of his team. 

He didn’t like looking at them. 

The doctor he’d spoken to in a brief moment of privacy said the scars might have formed due to a lack of nutrition: he hadn’t been fueling his body as much as necessary, and so only necessary functions in the face of life-threatening danger remained operational. He'd been alert and strong, and healed enough to keep going. And only enough to keep going. 

He’d asked the doctor if they might go away if he got back to top form. The doctor hadn’t been able to give him a concrete answer and referred him to a counselor. 

He was no stranger to scars, didn't see them as signs of weakness. They didn't evoke disgust. He saw them and knew he was looking at a warrior, someone who'd fought their battles and won. Bucky had scars he didn't shy away from, despite the painful memories they carried, Natasha and Clint had the same. Thor wore his scars with pride and honor, regaling the team with stories of their origins any time he had a drink. 

But Steve… he just needed time. To adjust. To make this fit into his world view. He needed time before he could look at them without feeling a sudden flood of fear.

He climbed into the shower, turned the water to a comfortable lukewarm temperature. Too cold, he’d be reminded of the ice; too hot, the flames of the fire-breather. He wondered how many innocuous sensations he’d eventually abandon to trauma.

The water was nice, like a cleansing ritual. Like he could simply rinse away the stubborn sheen of hopelessness and despair that clung so desperately to his skin.

He wished he knew how to articulate to the others just how low that forest brought him. How afraid he'd been. Even now, after their escape, his mind wouldn’t accept that they'd gotten away. He still felt like Clint’s shoulder was going to kill him in his sleep, he feared Natasha would stumble and be unable to get up. He felt the heat prickling against his skin, singing his hair every time he turned his back. 

Even now, in the shower, knowing the others were technically safe and sound, knowing that Tony had essentially taken over all technological defenses possible in order to turn their little private wing into a fortress… his skin crawled not knowing exactly what they were doing. 

He got out of the shower, shrugged his overly-warm sweater back, getting dressed as quickly as possible. He didn’t feel the need to dwell on his body at the moment.

When he got back to the room, everyone was exactly where he left them: Clint and Natasha slept in side-by-side cots, Natasha’ ankle propped up. Bucky was leaning more heavily on Tony’s bedside, while Tony twitched restlessly in his sleep. 

He approached Bucky, tapped his shoulder lightly. Bucky stirred awake immediately. 

“You should lie down,” Steve murmured, mindful of those sleeping, “you’re going to strain your neck.” 

“I’ll be fine,” Bucky replied, even as he stretched and rolled his shoulder against the tension. 

“He’s going to be okay, Buck,” Steve said, trying to sound reassuring, though all he felt was anxiety. He wasn’t sure, couldn’t be sure. But he really wanted to be. 

“I know,” Bucky said, though he didn’t move. 

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Steve said, “if he wakes up, I’ll be here. You need a break. You’re still healing.” 

“When’s the last time you slept?” Bucky asked, eyeing him suspiciously. 

“I took a nap earlier today,” Steve said. He didn't mention that it had lasted about ten minutes. He didn’t mention that he couldn't sleep, and the thought of trying only made him more nervous. 

“Steve—” Bucky began, but Steve just clapped his shoulder as quietly as he could, effectively cutting him off. 

“I’m fine,” he said. “I just can’t sleep. But I’ll be able to rest easier knowing you’re comfortable.” 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Bucky asked. 

For once, Steve decided honesty was not the best policy. “No,” he said. Simple. Easy. 

Bucky would know what to do. He would say all the right things to fix his confidence and put things into perspective. Bucky, who had lived through so many terrible things, would help reorient his worldview into one that wasn't so terrifying and skewed and wrong. Bucky would see Steve's scars and know exactly what he was feeling, but he would also know how to feel whole again, as if he hadn't lost pieces of himself in that forest. Bucky was his friend, and Bucky would know exactly what Steve needed, even though Steve didn't know it himself. 

But Bucky had a lot on his plate. He was coping with his trauma, reconciling his memories and guilt while keeping vigil over Tony, who was dealing with real problems, the kinds Steve only understood in the vaguest sense.

Bucky would bury all of his own pain, and he would shoulder Steve's alongside Tony's, and he'd keep doing it every day, carrying their needs on his back until he drowned in it.

Steve didn't want to do that to him. He knew he'd be okay, eventually. He knew Tony needed Bucky, and Bucky, though he would never admit it to himself, needed to help Tony in order to move forward. 

So Steve didn't want to talk about it. Honestly. He would figure it out himself, because it was what was best for his team. That's what a leader did. 

Bucky was quiet for a long moment, watching Steve carefully. “Okay,” he said finally. He stood, arching his back, groaning at the strain. He moved slowly to the bed to Tony’s right, lowered himself carefully down. “Try to get some sleep soon,” Bucky said as he settled down. “You seem like you need it.” 

“I will,” Steve said. Then he propped himself up on a bed by the wall, back pressed against the chilled surface. And he watched.

Another day passed, and Coulson returned to ask the team to give their official statements about their experiences in the forest. He’d heard Clint, Natasha, and Bucky murmuring earlier about what they'd share and what they'd keep to themselves. He didn't fully listen to their conversation or engage with it. 

He thought giving statements now wasn’t fair. It was too soon. The team needed time to process, to heal. They needed time. 

Still, when Coulson asked, the three who'd been getting their stories straight agreed to go with him. Steve offered to stay with Tony, his throat tight. 

“He shouldn’t be alone,” he insisted. He didn’t want to be alone, either. Didn’t want his team to leave his side, escape from his sight. His side itched, his lungs burned. “I'll stick behind with him.” 

Coulson watched him. “I’ll need to speak with both of you later today,” he said carefully. 

“Of course,” Steve agreed. A breath. “Later.”

The others left, seeming perfectly content with their decision. Steve wondered what they'd say about Tony, how they'd explain the decision to bring him along. He wondered what they'd say about him. Would they say he cracked, that he’d failed in his role as a leader? Would they tell SHIELD he needed a break from the team, that he needed to pull himself together?

He'd have to ask Bucky to fill him in later.

Steve, standing at attention like an idiot, let his back hit the wall, pushed the air from his lungs. He was sore, he was tired. He let his eyes fall shut, just for a second. 

“Thanks for staying with me,” Tony said. Steve hummed in reply. It was nice to feel needed, like he was still a protector. “Not that I think they’d leave me alone. But you know. The idea behind it was nice.” 

Steve cracked an eye open. “You wouldn’t have been alone,” he said. “Even if you feel alone, there are eyes and ears everywhere here.” 

Tony smiled. “You don’t think I can get rid of them?” 

“Oh, I’m not saying that,” Steve shrugged. “I'm sure you're used to stricter confines.” 

Tony chuckled, though the sound was weak and pained. He sat up in his bed, pulling his knees to his chest, holding them with his arms. “You look like shit,” he said eventually. “When’s the last time you slept?” 

“I’ve had a lot on my mind,” Steve said, carefully deflecting the curious concern evident in the mercenary’s tone. “I’m fine, though.” 

“Of course,” Tony sighed. Steve let the silence wrap around them like a heavy weighted blanket. Tony looked like he was chewing on some bitter fruit, like the words straining behind his teeth were painful. 

“I really am fine,” Steve insisted, uncomfortable, as if there were hundreds of little pin-pricks racing up and down his skin. “I can handle a lot, you know. Super soldier and all that.” 

“Right,” Tony sighed. “How are you healing, then?” 

Steve forgot to breathe for a moment. “I've gotten the all-clear from the doctor,” he said. His voice wavered. 

“And your burn healed up?” Tony asked.

“Of course it did,” Steve stuttered. “It’s… it’s…” 

“It scarred, right?” Tony’s voice was softer than Steve was used to hearing it, coaxing information as if he were trying not to spook a stray cat. Steve still felt spooked. Every muscle in his body was tensed and ready to flee. “I saw it before…”

But now was not the time for running. Now was the time for recuperation, for being together. 

Steve was so tired of running, even if his body hadn't realized it yet. 

He didn’t reply, so Tony spoke for him. How kind. How convenient. Steve could spiral and melt down in his mind without having to articulate a single thought. 

“You know that I have a… different healing mechanic than you. But we have something in common: at this point, it’s difficult for me to scar.” He gestured to his neck, to the slash and bite mark. His eyes seemed to scrape over various areas of his body where Steve assumed further marks hid. “Most of the ones I have are from… earlier in my life. Before the treatments improved, before I was 'upgraded' to be stronger. But some…” 

He paused, took a deep breath. Steve didn’t speak, couldn’t bring himself to interrupt and say ‘no, you don’t have to share, you can have your privacy and your secrets because I can heal perfectly fine on my own.’ He knew himself well enough to know he needed to hear it. To feel a moment of connection in a world where he so often felt completely alone with his struggles. 

Tony took a breath. “Some wounds stick around. Sometimes, my injuries were so severe my body couldn’t keep up. Some were intentionally irritated and reopened to the point no amount of superior-healing could perfectly fix everything. There were times I was hurt with the intention of scarring.” He shrugged. “After Bucky was sent away… I had these scars. Just little things, small silver lines. It always bugged me that I couldn’t remember what they were from, but I knew that it had hurt. I knew they were a reminder of something I'd done. Something that had been done to me. And when I looked at them…” 

“It was like being back in that moment,” Steve said, words hardly louder than a whisper. “Feeling the fear. The pain. All of it.” 

“Yes,” Tony nodded. “All of it. Do you know what I mean?” 

Steve swallowed. He stepped away from the wall, gingerly peeling his shirt away from his skin, lifting it over his head. He resisted the urge to hide his arm and side away. 

Tony’s eyes softened. “You don’t have any others?” 

“The doctors think my body didn’t have the resources to fix ‘superficial damage’ that wasn’t affecting my ability to survive,” Steve murmured. “I’ve never…” 

“It might go away,” Tony said. “Some of mine do, slowly.” 

“It might not,” Steve said. 

“Would that be a problem?” Tony asked innocently. 

Steve didn’t know how to answer that. Because it wouldn’t, not really. Nobody had to see it if he didn’t want them to, but he was a superhero. Scarring's a part of the costume for those who put their lives on the line to save the world. Nobody would look at him differently or think less of him. Some citizens might even respect him more. But… 

“They hurt,” Steve admitted quietly. 

Tony furrowed a brow. “Still?” 

“Not… not like that. They just. They hurt.” Steve shifted. “To look at them. It’s hard.” 

Tony watched him for a long moment, softening ever-so slightly. “You’ll get used to it,” he said eventually. “Acknowledging it makes it easier. Sit in it. Don’t bury it all down.” He shrugged. “You should talk to Bucky: I’m sure he’d have something more eloquent to say. He’s dealt with something similar. You know... his arm is missing.” 

Steve chuckled despite the horrible trauma the sentence implied. “I know,” Steve said. “I don’t want to put anything else on his plate. He’s struggling, I think.” 

“I’m a lot to deal with,” Tony said. His eyes were dark. 

Steve shook his head. “I don’t think he sees it that way. I think he’s really happy you’re here.” 

“But he’s struggling with it,” Tony pushed. 

“When you told him you remembered him, that you didn’t blame him,” Steve said softly, “it was the lightest I’ve seen him. Ever since he’s been back with me, he’s been struggling. You joining the group is going to shake him up for a while, make him hurt a bit and dwell on the past. But I think it’s also what he needs to heal.” 

“You think I’m someone who can help him heal?” Tony scoffed. “That’s not exactly my main gig, Cap.” 

“I don’t know,” Steve shrugged. “You helped me a bit. It’s not an instantaneous thing, Tony. It takes work to get better.” He swallowed. “But you being here, with us. Sitting in it with us. Doing your best. It helps.” Tony’s eyes widened. Steve tried to smile, though he wasn’t sure he succeeded. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “I think it’s good for him. For me. For all of us.” 

“I—” Tony’s jaw clenched, he paused. “Thanks.” 

“Of course,” Steve said. He was suddenly very cold, he felt exposed. He hastily put his shirt back on. 

“You really should get some sleep,” Tony finally said. “I feel exhausted just looking at you.” 

Steve glanced at the cot, felt his stomach lurch. “It’s hard to sleep,” he admitted. “I can’t convince my body we’re safe. That it’s okay to close my eyes.” 

Tony nodded. “How about I keep watch, one more time? For old time’s sake. I promise I’ll keep an eye on things,” he grinned. ”I’ve got more eyes and ears in this building than SHIELD themselves. No one can look down this hallway without me knowing about it.” 

“I can’t—”

“Hey,” Tony said, tilting his head as he cut him off. “You're the one who keeps telling me this is a safe place. That we won’t come to any harm here. Right?” 

Steve nodded, feeling like a child. 

“So let me provide what you need to believe that yourself. Even if you can’t trust this space or your mind, you can trust that I'm an excellent guard. I’ve never failed you before.” 

And that was true! Tony had kept him safe, kept them all safe. Steve already felt something in his chest decompress at the idea of his watchful eye protecting him from horrors unseen. 

“Are you sure?” Steve asked, already backing toward the cot. He wouldn't abuse Tony’s goodwill: the man had suffered enough. He wouldn't ask him to do something he wasn’t prepared to handle. 

Tony nodded. “You don’t need to fight anymore, Steve,” Tony said. He appeared more delicate, gentler than ever before. He seemed like a friend. Like he really cared. “Everyone is okay. You will be okay. You can take the time you need, and let me carry the load for a while. I know I’ll be asking you to return the favor sooner or later.” 

That was a good idea: Tony needed him too. Reciprocity. A team that helped one another. He wasn’t weak for needing this, he was leaning on his team. HIs family and friends, the people who cared for him like no one else. 

“Just an hour,” Steve said carefully, sitting on the cot. 

“An hour, and then I’ll wake you up.” Tony agreed. 

He did not wake Steve in an hour. In fact, he let Steve sleep like a stone throughout most of the afternoon. When the others returned, Tony ensured they were silent. 

Steve needed a break. Tony made sure he got it. 

Natasha 

Before giving her statement to Agent Coulson, Natasha decided to pay a visit to Fury. She had some questions for him, after all.

Not that his answers made her feel any better. 

She wanted to say it helped, she wanted to feel settled and safe with all the cards in her hand. She knew better.

"I've been chasing a lead on my own time for a few years now... for my entire career, really. Off-the-record. A pet project, more than anything."

He'd shown her the pile of manilla folders in the back corner of his office, explained the string of abductions early in his career that had sparked his interest in the first place. The poisonings, the hallucinations... the tales of dragons and beastly men with sharp teeth, of poisonous kisses and ghosts in the corners. He hadn't had evidence connecting the incidents. Just a hunch.

"You could have gotten us killed," she snapped, planting the blade of her knife into his desk. "You didn't tell me—us—what we were facing." 

"I didn't want to get your hopes up," he'd said with a wave of his hand. "And I knew you could handle it." 

She thought about Clint's shoulder, the terror he'd felt in those dark moments in the facility. She thought about the boot, still snug around her ankle. She thought about Steve's scars. She thought about Tony's scars, all the lessons and punishments he'd sustained over the years.

"Did you know he was there? Do you know who he is?" They both knew who she was referring to, she didn't need to say the name.

"I have a hunch. I'm waiting on Banner's confirmation."

"Does Bruce know that you know?"

"I've nudged him in the right direction." 

She'd asked him if he knew the Forest was still active. He'd said yes. 

"Why didn't you tell me, Nick? No more bullshit." She crossed her feet on his desk, placing the boot where he couldn't miss it. "I'm not in the mood for games."

"I couldn't, not until I was sure. I needed evidence from clean eyes, ones uninfected by the biased certainty I've been harboring for years." 

"I would have given you that regardless."

"You wouldn't have let me send the team. Not without backup. Not without a production we couldn't afford if we wanted you actually getting past their defenses."

"Would you have lost us over this? Are you that obsessed?"

"I needed information, Romanoff. You know what your job is. You know the price of intelligence more than anyone."

She did. She knew. She was willing to pay it with her own life. Not with Clint's, or Steve's, or Bucky's. 

"I wouldn't have trusted this mission with anyone else, Natasha." 

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" 

"No. I was just being honest. That's what you wanted, isn't it?" 

It wasn't her fault. None of what happened was her fault. She wasn't the one to drag them into it... he was. It had nothing to do with her. 

"What are you going to do with Tony?" She asked, changing the subject before the poison-taste in the back of her throat could choke her. "You weren't expecting a rogue agent, were you?"

"He was an unexpected benefit of your excursion," Fury nodded. "He'll be taken care of." 

"He saved my life. He saved all of our lives, at one point or another." She didn't mention the... less savory aspects of his personality. She was trying to put in a good word, in her own way.

"I assumed as much, with how staunchly you all defend him. He sounds like an intriguing asset." 

She'd left, then. Before anger could seize her limbs and make her do something she'd regret. Before the panic could drown her.

She hadn't killed him. She wasn't sure if she was even capable, too distracted by the ringing in her ears, the buzzing in her veins. She'd just... stood up and left. Let the anger keep her on her feet. Because Nick Fury had been chasing The Order for years, and the people she cared about almost died for it. And it was fine, because that was their job.

It was fine.

She didn't have much time to process after their little talk. She still had to debrief with Coulson.

Natasha left the conference room in a sort of fugue state, her mind buzzing with dull white noise, her fingers and toes a little numb. Moving through the dim corridor felt like fighting through a thick goo, a sort of clear gelatin that fought every twitch and jerk of her muscles. 

She vaguely recalled what she'd said: 

Coulson had sat across from her, switched a recorder on. He’d asked her what happened. 

She'd told him they'd proceeded as normal. That they hadn’t seen anything suspicious. That they were ambushed, and Tony found them and offered to help them escape in exchange for freedom. She knew she'd said that.

They'd all agreed on that story, fearing that admitting the mercenary had once had a control mechanism they'd intentionally disabled might lead to SHIELD trying to reinstate it. It had seemed an important detail to conceal, it had seemed important to lie and tell SHIELD that they had no idea how the organization normally kept their mercenaries in line. And it looked better for Tony, if he was portrayed as agreeing to help them of his own free will, even if he'd put a price on it. 

She’d described various monsters… the poisoners. The mimics. The woman made of sickly yellow goo. She’d explained that she’d been poisoned and had made a full recovery (though she didn't go into detail about what the poison felt like. She didn’t think that was necessary.)

She’d explained they couldn’t make contact, that their transport was destroyed. She’d described the limited supplies and subsequent drop in weight.

She was sure there was more, but she couldn't recall the words.

Coulson had suggested she take some time for herself when he dismissed her. 

So she went for a walk. Her stomach churning as if the bitter poison still roiled inside, nipping at her intestines and painting her skin. Her ankle throbbed, but she walked anyway. Exhaustion dragged at her bones. 

She didn’t have a clear destination in mind, she was just walking. 

She traced her hand along a wall, allowed the cool material to reach into her body, to bind her to the present moment. It was good. Solid. Very industrial, not reminiscent of the forest at all. Comfortingly banal. 

She wondered if Clint was done yet, if he’d managed to get through it without falling into the same strange hole she had. She wondered if Bucky stuck to the script of careful distance from Tony, or if his guilt had colored every word. She wondered if Steve had slept yet. She wondered if Bruce was done ‘giving them space’ and was ready to say everything he wanted to say. 

She hoped Tony hadn’t managed to turn SHIELD against him in the short amount of time they’d left him to his own devices. They'd put a lot of work into making him look vulnerable.

She took a deep breath, listened for the scuffing of her boot as it dragged across the floor. She hated the boot. Hated her weak bones. She wished she could focus hard enough to force it to heal quicker. She was eager to begin therapy to restore her strength.

She hated feeling so weak. She hated that her body still shook and rejected the rich meals she tried to force down, she hated that when she woke up she felt the stinging bite of poison on the back of her tongue. She hated that she couldn’t sleep. She hated that she jumped at every noise. She hated that she still hadn’t gone outside, even though there wasn't a tree in sight. 

Somewhere off to her right, in a hallway that jutted off from the main passage, she heard a noise. A choked gasp, a shuffle of fabric. 

Against her better judgement, she tensed for a fight. Something in her mind was screaming, slamming against the walls of her skull and blaring the alarms. That stifled noise was clearly dangerous, a hidden threat trying to conceal itself. 

Even broken down as she was, she knew she could kill it. 

She had a knife strapped under her sleeve, which she let slide into her hand as she crept down the hallway. She tried to move silently, but the damn boot was heavy and difficult to navigate with. Still, with all the noise her potential target was making, she hoped they wouldn’t notice her shortcomings. 

Of course, it wasn’t a target sniffling pitifully in the hallway. 

It was Bucky. He was a pile of dark fabric and misery on the floor, shoulders jerking and shaking under the force of his poorly-concealed sobs. He was gasping for breath, his face shoved against his knees, body held in a tight ball by his one arm. 

He looked… panicked. Tired. His cracked and jagged edges cut into the air so the atmosphere of the hall felt prickly and uncomfortable. 

She slid her knife back into place, let her footfalls make more sound. She didn’t want to sneak up on him, not when he was like this. She was an assassin herself, knew he could go from heaving sobs to deadly accuracy in the blink of an eye.

Bucky still didn't notice her approach.

“Funny meeting you here,” she finally said, clearing her throat. She stilled, standing a few feet away from him, trying to force her body to relax into a casual, friendly demeanor. She accidentally shifted her weight the wrong way and flinched when she leaned on her bad ankle.

Bucky froze, the heaving of his body ceasing immediately and giving way to eerie stillness. He didn't move to look at her, hardly seemed to register her presence at all. He just froze as if he were trapped, as if he'd been caught in some inescapable web that he had no hope of escaping. As if he didn't know how to proceed when stuck in such a way. 

“Don’t feel the need to stop on my behalf,” Natasha continued, one ginger step after the other bringing her closer to Bucky. He wasn’t moving, she didn’t think he was even breathing. “Please, act like I’m not even here.” She was pretty close now. She leaned against the wall, let the pressure against her back support her as she slid down beside him as gracefully as was possible with one leg in a bulky fucking boot. 

She hit the ground pretty hard, but that was alright. She was still getting used to her present weakness, after all. The thought of why she was like this tried to sneak up on her, and it made her throat feel kind of itchy and raw. She did her best to ignore it. 

“You can go,” Bucky said, voice hoarse and crispy, as if he’d enthusiastically destroyed his vocal cords with a taser. “I’m fine.” 

“Of course,” Natasha agreed, letting her head hit the wall hard enough to make a sound. “I’m fine too.” 

“You don’t need to do this,” he tried again, pathetic waver refusing to fade. 

“Do you want me to leave?” She was genuinely curious. She’d been working under the assumption that they were all at least moderately codependent for the moment, but it wasn’t out of the question that Bucky might crave some privacy. Lord knows they hadn’t had any in a while. 

But to her—despite her many verbal assertions that she needed space—the thought of spending more than a few moments in solitude made her feel like she might die. Like there were grimy, bloody hands reaching for her while the dark spot of poison spread across her skin, like she was being followed by a cawing from above and a beast just behind her, like she needed to run and run because nobody was watching her back, because she was out of her element and outmatched in the woods—

She'd assumed everyone felt similarly. 

But maybe Bucky was different. He’d been through it all before, after all. He had a bit of a baseline for the kind of horror they witnessed as a team. 

But notably, he was silent. He didn't ask her to stay, but he didn't tell her to go, either. 

Men. Stoic and stubborn to the end, even when it did absolutely nothing to serve them. They were lucky she put up with their shit. They were lucky she understood. 

Bucky was starting to shake again. She didn't comment, not even when a small, wavering moan clawed its way from his throat. She laid a hand on his shoulder, careful not to move too fast. He accepted it. 

She wasn’t built for this, not really. Nurturing, comforting someone. It was against every fiber of what she was, how she was raised. She was getting better, she knew. She’d always been able to fake it: the fluttering lashes, the small smiles and reassurances that got a man’s guard down enough to stab him easily in the back. But she was getting better at meaning it. If she could push through the awkwardness, the pins-and-needles panic of opening herself up to rejection and recrimination and disgust… she managed alright. 

But she tried. She let her hand smooth the bunched fabric of his clothing, dug into a knot that was already forming by his neck from his uncomfortably contorted position. She hummed a little lullaby she knew. 

It was soothing, to soothe him. Quiet. Repetitive. Assertion that he was whole and broken like her, assertion that they had the time and the security to do this. To have a moment. 

She almost forgot about her own pitiful paranoia. Almost. 

Bucky groaned and whined as if he were being beaten rather than coddled. He opened an eye, finally looked at her. “I just need a few minutes,” he pleaded, the words infused with desperation, with fear. As if he were asking permission. As if she were capable of refusing him. “And then I can go back. Just a few—a few more minutes.” He was gasping, flushed. 

She'd never seen him like that before. Small. Even in the woods, when he'd broken down, there had been a strength to him, a determination. That was gone, now.

She knew he'd finally had enough, that this was the culmination of decades’ worth of repressed trauma, of holding it together for a week when his body was desperate to shut down entirely. She knew he needed this, to have his moment. She knew he needed to not be in charge, to not be responsible for anyone but himself. 

She could help with that. She could protect him, for once. He deserved it, she decided. 

“There's no need to rush. You've done a good job so far, but no one can hold on forever. We all reach our breaking point eventually.” She took a deep breath and gently laid her head on his shoulder, giving him ample time to react or pull away. She pretended she didn’t notice the violent shaking kick up at her action. “It's time to feel all the nasty things you’ve been repressing. The scary things. The painful ones. It’s the only way you can start moving on.” 

Bucky gasped, choked, squeezed his leg so hard she wondered if he might bruise himself, however quickly it might fade away. She just tried to hold very still, letting her hand trace soothing circles across his back. “I don’t know how you do it,” he mumbled, stuttering through the words like a child who only just learned how to speak. “I don’t understand how you manage it.” 

Natasha allowed herself to soften against his side, forced the rigid ice that held her together to snap away and leave her squishy and vulnerable. She allowed his hand to slowly release his knee and wrap around her side, drawing her even closer to him. It was warm. It was companionable. 

It was the first time she felt safe since their return. It was undeniably real.

Her lungs felt shriveled up, her throat itched as if covered in blisters. She didn’t know how she did it either. She didn’t feel calm, no matter how much she came across that way. She still panicked at every little noise, still couldn’t sleep unless she knew someone else was awake. She still thought Clint might keel over at any moment, a victim to an infection she was helpless to do anything against, watching as it sucked the life away from him. She still felt like her knees might buckle. 

Her eyes felt tight. 

“I think I need counseling,” she admitted quietly, carefully. She hadn't allowed herself to voice this to anyone else. But here, this place... It felt safe. Open. A place to shed your shields and let out what you really were, how low she felt she had really fallen. She rarely allowed herself to lean on outside help. 

She had rarely felt so helpless before. 

Bucky squeezed her side, took in a gasping breath. He lifted his head, and through the flush and glassy trails of tears on his face, Natasha could tell he'd been in that hallway for a while. “It helps,” he said, without a hint of condescension or surprise to make her feel silly. 

She shrugged, letting her body mold around his, and held tight to the fabric of his shirt. She let her eyes fall shut, resuming the soft humming melody of her lullaby, feeling it vibrate through her chest, reaching through his rattling ribs to hopefully soothe the aching that lurked within.

She wasn’t ready to go yet, might not be for a while. She liked that place, that hallway of misery. She wanted to be there a while longer.

Chapter Text

One Week After The Forest 

Clint

In Clint’s humble opinion (which was, in most cases, not very humble) things were actually going pretty well! He and the others—Steve, Natasha, and Bucky, at least—had been released from their medical hold and were allowed to return to their individual homes, so long as they agreed to follow the various outpatient follow ups they’d been ordered. Coulson had been very clear that he'd force Clint to return if he started skipping his appointments. 

Sometimes having an overprotective handler had its perks: he’d tirelessly sought them out, after all! Other times… not so much. He could be a real mother-hen when he wanted to be. And unfortunately for Clint, he usually wanted to be. 

Though it wasn’t entirely fair. He singled Clint out with his threats. He just trusted the others to do as they were told. Clint could be trusted! He attended at least half of his medical visits usually! 

Tony had been “offered” a place in the SHIELD barracks. Clint couldn’t help rolling his eyes at the wording they'd used. Coulson had clearly spent a long time preparing the speech, carefully phrasing the order to remain on base as an option, rather than a requirement. But they all knew Tony had no choice. 

Coulson told them all the room number: Tony would have a private room, in a wing Clint knew was almost entirely barren, tucked away in a corner that was rarely crossed through. They didn't trust Tony to be unsupervised, but they also didn’t trust him to be around the agents. So they planned to tuck him away quietly, out of the way. Out of sight and out of mind. 

Coulson at least had the decency to look uncomfortable while offering it. It wasn’t obvious, of course, but Clint could tell. It was all that kept him restrained from ripping the man a new one. 

Tony was a person, a victim of unspeakable things. He didn't deserve to be treated like a prisoner. He didn't deserve to be “monitored on a probationary basis until he was cleared for public release by SHIELD psychologists.” 

Though he was technically allowed to leave the base: so long as he was escorted by some SHIELD personnel, Tony was allowed to go wherever he pleased! So generous. The team weren’t being forced into the position of prison-guard at all! Coulson assured Tony he could be assigned an escort at any time, all he had to do was call for one. 

But Clint knew that wasn’t going to happen. The burden of ‘guarding’ would fall entirely on the team. He just hoped it wouldn’t break down the shallow trust they’d managed to build. 

Tony wasn’t happy, obviously. The entire time Coulson spoke, Tony slowly tensed up, as all the lights in the room flickered. Clint remembered the way his eyes flashed, his hand grasping tighter and tighter into the sheets… until Bucky grabbed his hand, squeezing gently with both flesh and metal. Tony froze, but Clint saw the way Bucky’s metal arm twitched. As if Tony had run a current through it. He'd hoped, at the time, that Tony wouldn't break the arm. Bucky had only gotten it back the day before. 

Bucky had glanced at Coulson, asked “can I speak to him alone for a minute?” 

By the time they'd all returned, Tony had agreed to SHIELD’s insane terms, looking more exhausted and defeated than Clint had ever seen him. 

Later, Clint asked Bucky what he possibly could have said to make Tony agree to that load of bullshit. 

Bucky had shrugged, said that he’d explained it was a temporary measure that would keep Tony safe until the Order was located and eradicated. He’d pointed out that they hadn’t been pinned down yet and might still come for Tony, and he wouldn't find a place in the world more well-defended than SHIELD headquarters. 

Clint knew there was more, but Bucky wouldn’t reveal anything else. Which was fine. The curiosity was only physically painful, that was all. 

Steve gave them a schedule to ensure Tony wasn't left alone too long: they would still plan to visit outside of that, of course, but it was good to have a commitment. That way Natasha would threaten him with physical harm if he ever forgot or got too busy. A good way to ensure follow-through. 

Speaking of Natasha: she was on her way over for lunch. He didn't plan to do a lot; she didn’t require much from him. He also hadn’t put much effort into grocery shopping, so he made sandwiches! Simple, easy, a quick shopping trip! 

When she arrived, she immediately grabbed her food and splayed inelegantly across his couch, ripping into her meal without comment. Clint followed her and sprawled out beside her, following her example of skipping a greeting. 

The first time he tried to eat after their escape, the food fell like a boulder into his stomach, rolling around and making him nauseous. Despite his hunger, he fought the urge to vomit for the better part of an hour. Natasha told him to eat slower, and he did. For a while. But the food seemed to sit easier by this lunch, and he was starving due to his lack of household preparation, so he decided to just dig in. 

“You’re going to make yourself sick again,” Natasha warned, taking another careful bite. He was already halfway through his sandwich. 

“Gotta return to normalcy eventually,” Clint shrugged, leaning back into the cushion.

“Right,” Natasha rolled her eyes, then glared at the boot still secured to her foot. 

“How much longer are you stuck with that?” Clint asked, going to nudge it with his leg before realizing how dumb that would be, leaving his leg uncomfortably stretched beside hers. He didn’t bother pulling away. 

“At least three weeks,” Natasha glared harder. “The docs are going to reevaluate after that.” 

Clint hissed sympathetically. “I’m making very little progress at physical therapy,” he said, hoping to commiserate. “Apparently it takes a lot of sustained effort to rebuild strength after extensive muscular damage.” He tried to sound light, but the bitterness burned his tongue. He was frustrated by the slow process, no matter how many times Coulson and the therapists told him he was going at a perfectly normal pace. He wasn’t meant to be normal. He was meant to be the top of his field. 

“You’ll get there,” Natasha said, “it’s not permanent.” 

“Right,” Clint sighed. 

Tony was still on his mind, despite his best efforts. Just the thought of the man sitting alone in a beige SHIELD-issue room, no personal effects or decorations or windows, made him feel like the biggest asshole in the world. 

“I can’t believe he actually went along with it,” he said, voice hard. He couldn’t believe he had gone along with the cruelest shit he’d ever heard of SHIELD attempting with a fucking torture victim. 

Natasha, of course, did not criticize his lack of context or prod for further information. She'd always been terrifyingly good at reading his mind. She took another bite, chewing thoughtfully as she turned his words over in her head. “He…” she started, trailed off. Her mouth tightened to a thin line. “I think he’s really tired,” she said slowly. She seemed to shrink in her seat, eyes drifting someplace far away. “He reminds me of myself back when SHIELD first took me in. Back then, I'd fully intended to run away the first chance I found. I went along with whatever they asked of me for ages, plotting and building up the will to carry out my plans. But I was exhausted by my life, and I let myself settle in rather than start all over again.” 

Clint nodded, finished his sandwich. He would never take food for granted ever again. Not that he had before. But especially now. “That’s what you think it is, then? A ploy, biding his time?”

She didn’t answer, leaning over to pass Clint what remained of her food. He took it without complaint. He was still so hungry. He always felt a little hungry these days. He considered getting up to get more, but he was comfortable. “We shouldn’t have left him there,” she said eventually. 

Clint sighed. He understood her guilt and hesitation, but he also understood they weren’t exactly given a lot of options. “We didn’t have much of a choice, Tash. He’s a ghost, one with PTSD like I’ve never seen before. They’re still trying to figure out his real identity, but they’ll probably have to build something for him from the ground up. He doesn’t understand the world or how to live in it, he can’t regulate his emotions enough to be a functioning member of society. He wouldn’t survive out here on his own.”

As much as he hated the SHIELD plan, he also knew that it was the only half-way point the guy would get between the Forest and the rest of the world. Part of him wanted to break the guy out, try to set him up somewhere... but what? Then Tony would be a fugitive.

Clint just wished SHIELD would treat him better, really. The dude had been through enough already.

He was trying to convince himself as much as he was her, but it didn’t feel very effective. He could only hope he brought her some comfort. 

Natasha nodded, but her frown deepened. “It’s not going to go well for him,” she mumbled. 

Clint groaned, forcing himself to move so he could wedge himself against her side. He pat her knee in a way he hoped was comforting. “All we can do is hope for the best,” he said. 

The words felt awfully frail, but he clung to them regardless. 

Two Weeks After The Forest

Clint 

Clint tried really, really hard not to slam the door as he was leaving the gym. Did he succeed? It didn’t matter. 

He’d made a little improvement to his range of motion. He could hold the weight for longer before his muscles trembled and failed and sent aching pains down his back. The PT said it was normal. Clint had nodded and done his absolute best not to hate her. 

He was stalking off to the on-site cafe to eat his feelings when his phone rang. He didn’t bother checking who it was before answering: not many people had his personal cellphone number.

“What’s up—” he began, but was immediately cut off by Coulson’s carefully controlled ‘this is a bad situation but I'm handling it' tone. 

“I know you’re here,” Coulson said, voice hinting at the slightest amount of strain. “Get down to Barrack C now.” 

Clint’s stomach did a somersault. That was the wing Tony was staying in. “Did something happen?” He asked, rather dumbly, already jogging in that direction. He wasn’t too far, he could get there in a few minutes. He hoped that would be fast enough.

Coulson’s voice was clipped by nerves when he answered. “There was an incident. Tony's having… an episode. I need support down here, and something tells me normal SHIELD backup protocols will only make things worse.” 

Shit. What the fuck did ‘an episode’ mean? That could be anything. He could’ve blown up a building or started crying again. Tony was unpredictable like that. “Is anyone hurt?” he asked, feeling a little nauseous. 

“Just get down here quickly,” Coulson snapped, before pulling away from the phone to shout something Clint couldn’t make out, ending the call suddenly.

Okay, a light jog wasn’t going to cut it, then. Clint broke into a sprint, phone clenched tight in his hand as he tried not to imagine all the ways things could go horribly wrong when Coulson sounded that stressed.

When he got down to Tony’s room, he realized things were definitely very wrong. The lights in the hall were down; shards of glass from shattered bulbs littered the floor, crunching beneath his boots. The only light came from an emergency beacon on the wall, flaring red shadows across a chaotic scene. There was no alarm blaring, at least, though Clint knew that was probably because Tony didn’t want it to. He wasn’t really a fan of loud noises.

There was a huddle of bodies on the floor that Clint could only just make out, accented by shouting, snarling, and spitting curses. Clint approached carefully. 

Tony’s voice wasn't difficult to make out. He was the loudest, the most afraid. Desperate and threatening all rolled up in a dangerous ball. 

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” Tony shouted, writhing and jerking on the floor while three SHIELD agents fought like hell to keep him pinned down. “You think I don’t know what this is? You don’t control me anymore!” One of the agents jerked back suddenly as if hit, before gritting his teeth and holding tighter. Tony growled and raised his voice. “I’ll tear you apart, just like the rest of them. By the time I'm done, you'll be unrecognizable, you'll wish I'd just killed you—” 

“Tony!” Clint jogged forward, doing his best not to slip on the shards beneath him. No reason to let the tirade of threats go on longer than absolutely necessary. He stopped a few feet away, decided to approach cautiously. Tony clearly wasn’t in a good frame of mind, he might not recognize Clint as a friend rather than an additional threat. He’d met agents after particularly traumatic missions before: sometimes it took time for them to remember who their friends were, to remember how to differentiate between care and harm. 

Coulson’s head jerked up at the sound of his voice, and Clint was perceptive enough to recognize the relief settle into his features. Coulson had a knee shoved between Tony’s shoulder blades, his favorite taser thrown away from him as it sparked and bucked as if possessed. His eyes drifted meaningfully across the hall, where two SHIELD personnel—a doctor and an aid, by the looks of it— were being helped away by agents, leaning heavily against their comrades.

Clint swallowed. “What’s going on, man?” he asked, taking another tentative step toward his friend. His friend that had definitely flipped out and tried to kill someone. Not ideal, but it seemed like he hadn't succeeded in killing anyone, so things weren't as bad as they could be!

Clint felt useless. Out of his depth. This wasn’t what he was trained to do, he wasn't qualified to talk a ticking time bomb down from a well-deserved crisis.

 “You tricked me,” Tony growled, glaring as much as was possible when he could barely maneuver his body. “You fucking tricked me, and I’ll kill you, I’ll kill every single one of you—” Clint had never heard so much hatred and venom in the man’s tone before, not even when he'd been speaking about his handlers and trainers. It felt like ice in his veins, it triggered that little lizard-part of his brain that screamed run away from danger, not toward it! 

“Tony, I swear nobody here is going to hurt you,” Clint tried, forcing his feet to stay firmly planted to the floor, willing his voice to sound steady and calm, refusing to allow the frantic terror he was feeling leak through. He gingerly lowered himself to a crouch, careful not to rest his knees or hands on the ground lest he slice himself open. Tony's eyes were glazed over and wild, gaze faraway as if he were stuck in a daydream. “This was all a misunderstanding, and we can talk it through and make sure it doesn’t happen again. Okay?”

There! Sure, it was a weak proposition, but Clint had nothing else. Reasoning with the crazy guy always worked, right? Right. 

Tony paused, slowly falling limp instead of fighting the hold with everything he had. His chin jerked up, down. His eyes fell to the floor as if he were suddenly overcome with exhaustion. “Okay,” he said, voice dull and robotic and frail, “let’s talk.” 

Clint watched him relax, body pressing against the floor. He made no attempt to move again. 

Clint glanced at the agents holding him down and gave a quick nod—he figured the conversation would go better if Tony wasn’t being physically restrained. 

Which was a horrible mistake, obviously. Clint hadn’t been trained for this, and was, quite frankly, too overwhelmed to make any sort of logical decision. 

The moment the two agents pulled back—Coulson, who was smarter than all of them, didn’t budge—Tony jerked into action. He shoved himself up, throwing Coulson over his shoulder before rolling away from the fray at a speed Clint had never seen from him before. 

Tony was across the hall by the time Clint got his bearings and ensured nobody had been hurt in the scuffle, carrying a knife he must have clipped from one of the agents. His eyes darted wildly as he cornered himself against a wall, looking as panicked as a trapped animal as his chest started to rise and fall in rapid staccato. 

Clint stepped forward, hands raised in surrender. Tony pointed the knife with a growl, halting his progress. “Don’t take another step,” he hissed. 

Clint, who had always prided himself on his bravery (idiocy), decided to keep going. After all, Tony knew how to throw a knife. If he wanted to hurt Clint, he would have done so already. He just needed to be closer. He'd be able to disarm Tony before things got even more out of hand if he just got a little closer. “Tony,” he said softly, “you need to drop your weapon. You know me, I’ve been on your side since day one. You saved my life.” He swallowed, slowly dropping his hands. “We can figure this out, I can fix this. You just have to lower your weapon and let me.” 

For a moment, it seemed like Tony was listening. Even if his gaze was distant, even if he seemed to be looking through him rather than at him. Clint was, internally, very proud of himself. He’d done it! He’d broken through! 

But Tony, in a split second, surged forward. Clint fully expected to feel a stab wound somewhere entirely too vital for comfort, but it never came. Coulson appeared by Tony’s side, wrapping an arm around the mercenary’s neck. In his other… a syringe. 

He plunged the needle into Tony’s neck without hesitation, and whatever drug was inside had immediate effect. The knife clattered to the floor as Tony’s body went limp, held up by Coulson’s grip. He lost consciousness within seconds.

Clint took a deep breath, trying to get his bearings. The other agents were still in the hall, staring. Coulson gently lowered Tony to the ground. The emergency red was still flaring up, the hallway was still dark. “What the fuck was that?” 

“I didn’t want it to come to that,” Coulson said quietly, trying to ensure he didn’t lie the prone body on a pile of broken glass. 

“What even happened?” Clint snapped, gesturing to the disaster around them. “That was—he was—”

“I don’t know everything,” Coulson said, brushing off his pants as he stood. “I haven’t had a chance to take any statements. I’ve been monitoring the wing, so I was the first to respond when a distress signal went out. By the time I got here, he’d attacked one of our medical personnel and was in the process of strangling the other.” 

Clint groaned, remembering the two saps who’d been helped away while he was distracted trying to figure out how ‘deescalation’ worked. He ran a hand through his hair and glanced at Tony, who looked so peaceful splayed out on the floor. “I’ve never seen a sedative work that quickly,” he said.

“New development,” Coulson explained. “It should wear off in about an hour, maybe sooner if his metabolism works through it faster than average.” 

Clint nodded, guilt burning like fire in his limbs. He hated this. Hated drugging a guy because he was afraid, hated that he didn’t know how to help. Hated that he still thought SHIELD was the safest place for Tony to be. “You get him to his bed,” he said softly. “I need to make some calls.” 

He was really dreading that. 

Bucky

Bucky was cooking: he’d rediscovered the passion when he was first released back into the wider world, left to grapple with a new identity and everything he’d lost. New recipes were a godsend, something from this new world mixed with easy, pleasant memories and skills that came back to him as naturally as breathing. It was nice to hold a kitchen knife and know that the only flesh it would be cutting into was that of a vegetable, to start a flame on his stove and use it to heat up sustenance. His metal arm was a clunky addition at first, but one that grew used to the repetitive motions easily enough. 

It was a blissfully mundane activity after the forest. He was in a building with an abundance of food, not rationing at all! He had music playing softly from the next room (because total silence had made his skin crawl, that first night back at home, and he kept looking for bugs and feeling sick when he didn’t see them, or waiting for the snap of a twig or—) and was humming along. He was at peace, he was comfortable for the first time in weeks. 

He hadn’t been sleeping, really, but he didn’t need much sleep. 

The memories were worse, now, than they'd been before. As if meeting Tony had unlocked the vault, letting everything the Winter Soldier had done through in vivid technicolor. 

But he was at peace, now. Playing music and cooking. Not cracking at all, perfectly calm.

He was, of course, expecting something to go wrong.

He was chopping some chives when his phone rang, so he balanced it between his shoulder and chin. 

“Hey, Clint,” he said easily, dropping some butter into his heating pan. “What’s up?” 

“Hey,” Clint said, drawing the word out awkwardly. “How’s it going? Are you busy?” 

Bucky sighed. “What’s wrong?” He glanced at the pan. He didn’t want his butter to burn, so he lowered the heat a bit. 

“Everything’s fine—” Clint started, then cut himself off. He was quiet, then: “Tony’s had… um. There was an incident. With him.” He was speaking slowly, carefully, as if he were trying his damndest to pluck the perfect words from the air as he went. “If you could make it down to SHIELD, that would be great.” 

Bucky turned off the stove, dropping the knife and moving his phone to his hand, focused entirely on the conversation. “I’m on my way,” he said, turning away from his disaster of a kitchen without bothering to clean anything up, already heading for the door where his boots were waiting for him. “I’ll get there as soon as possible.” 

“Great, that’s great! Thanks.” He fell silent, was quiet long enough that for a moment Bucky wondered if he’d hung up the call. He was about to put his phone away when his voice picked up again. “Listen, Bucky. You should know, he’s, um… He’s not—” 

“You can tell me when I get there,” Bucky said, already shoving his boots on. No use working himself into a panic before he had a chance to do anything about it. No, it would be best to remain clear-headed until he arrived. Focused. One thing at a time: right now, that thing was travel. 

“Right,” Clint said. “I’ll see you soon, then. Bye.” 

Bucky’s motorcycle was nearby, and he was suddenly very glad for it. It would get him where he needed quickly: no waiting in rush hour congestion, he was a confident enough driver to break traffic laws safely. And nobody stopped to pull over the Winter Soldier when he was in a hurry. 

He tried to keep his mind clear as he rode, weaving between cars and taking short cuts wherever possible. It was a longer trip than he was strictly comfortable with, but he was able to cut his travel time in half by the simple solution of speeding like an asshole. Still, nearly an hour had passed by the time Bucky was stalking through the doors of SHIELD’s headquarters. Clint was waiting for him in the lobby, fidgeting nervously. 

Bucky took a deep breath and fell into step beside him, trying to match Clint’s pace. It didn’t make sense to run ahead into a situation he didn’t have any understanding of, no matter how badly he wanted to. Now that he was here, a million possibilities of what could have gone wrong were flooding his mind: Tony could have hurt someone, someone could have hurt Tony. Tony might have caused a facility-wide blackout and now they'd have to fight Fury about why he was no danger, really, just a silly guy who was absolutely not a threat to anyone! Fury could have figured out how to activate his training, Fury might have decided that Tony was better off dead than dangerous. 

“What happened?” he asked finally, aware his spiraling was only making things worse for his wellbeing. 

Clint swallowed, clearly uncomfortable. “I was in PT when I got the call,” he began, jaw tight. “So I don’t know everything. As far as I know: Tony’s medical team went down to see him and deliver some pain meds—apparently he screwed up his shoulder again—and the moment they entered the room with their supplies, Tony flipped out and attacked them. One of them managed to send out a distress signal. Backup mobilized and managed to control the situation, but not before Tony caused some injuries.” 

Bucky swallowed. “Nobody was killed, right?” That would be bad. It would be really, really hard to clean that up in a palatable way. And because people would be dead, of course. He had to care about that, no matter how much violence still thundered through his skull whenever he let his mind drift.

Clint shook his head, glancing at Bucky before staring at the floor. “No, but he was trying to. He strangled the doc, he's getting treated now.” 

“Do we know why he attacked?” Bucky asked. He didn’t want to sound relieved, not when someone was clearly very hurt, but he was. It wasn’t a complete disaster, at least. They could figure this out. He could fix this. 

He would fix it, and Tony would be safe. Whatever happened to that doctor didn’t really register as important so long as he was alive. 

“You’ll have to ask him,” Clint shrugged, “he hasn’t said. He’s really… he’s a little out of it right now, to be honest. We had to sedate him to get him to back down.” 

Bucky felt his body react instinctually, muscles tensing in anticipation of a fight. “Why the hell would you do that?” he hissed, “he already doesn’t trust anyone. You think drugging him will help with that?” 

“We didn’t have a choice,” Clint snapped. “He was out of his head! They had him restrained, and the second I had them back off he attacked again. Dude even tried to stab me. Coulson stepped in with the sedative as a last resort.” Clint’s voice was rough, his hands clenched into tight fists. “Neither of us wanted to do it, I know it’ll fuck him up. But what would you have us do? Let him use us as punching bags?” 

Bucky felt that little spark of rage die immediately, doused by a wave of shame. He shouldn't have assumed his team had anything less than the best intentions. He took a deep breath, forced his mind to settle. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, focusing on that foundation of trust that was so, so important. “I shouldn’t have assumed… and I’m sorry on his behalf. He shouldn’t have… I don’t know why he would do that.” 

“It’s fine,” Clint said, relaxing beside him. “It wasn’t your fault, you weren’t here. And I honestly don’t think it was his fault either.” He shrugged, shoved his hands into his pockets. He wouldn’t look at Bucky. “He wasn’t himself, even I could tell that much. It’s like… it’s like he was somewhere else entirely. I’m not even sure he saw me.” He kicked at the floor as they walked, clearly uncomfortable. “I want to talk to him about it, but I think it would be best if you went in first. He listens to you.” 

They were outside Tony’s door now. The hall was dark, the embedded lights on the ceiling jagged and hollow as if they'd been punched out. “He doesn’t really listen to me,” Bucky said weakly, “not when he has a choice.” 

“He’s here, isn’t he?” Clint shrugged. 

Yeah. Hell of a lot of good that did him.

Bucky didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. He didn’t bother knocking before entering, opening the door just wide enough to slip inside before shutting it behind him. 

The lights were intact in the dormitory, the room clean and neat with military precision. Tony was sat up in his bed, slumped heavily against the wall with eyes half-lidded, as if sleep still clung to his frame. His hair was a disaster, sticking up at odd angles, and he was splayed out as if he wasn’t sure where to place his limbs. 

“Hey,” Bucky said, taking a careful step forward. Tony turned to look at him, but did not otherwise react. “How are you feeling?” He asked dumbly, to which Tony just grunted. Bucky walked further into the room, stopping at the edge of the bed. “Mind if I sit with you?” 

“Sure,” Tony mumbled. He didn’t move. Bucky eased himself back onto the bed, sliding so his shoulder was against Tony’s, his back against the wall. Tony immediately leaned against him, laying heavily against his side, resting his head on Bucky’s shoulder. They sat in companionable silence for a while, Bucky itching to hug and comfort him and shake him until he explained himself, all at the same time. 

“I’m sorry,” Tony mumbled eventually. 

“It’s okay,” Bucky said. He found Tony’s hand, held it in his own. “Wanna tell me what happened?” 

Tony groaned, let his eyes fall shut. “I tried to kill the doctor,” he admitted, as if that were explanation enough. 

“Yes, I was filled in on that part,” Bucky said, speaking carefully, patiently. He could see now that Tony was incapacitated to some extent, but he also knew Tony well enough to know that he was playing it up, trying to avoid speaking about something he didn’t want to. Hell, he’d seen Tony do it more than once after a mission when he was too exhausted to give a report. It worked well on others. Bucky was tempted to pretend he fell for it and allow it to work as intended, to let Tony have the time he needed to process without probing and accusations. But he also needed to know as much as possible if he wanted to protect Tony from SHIELD’s wrath. “Why did you try to kill the doctor?” he added, squeezing Tony’s hand in a gesture he hoped was comforting. 

Tony huffed, pulled his hand away but otherwise remained curled up against Bucky. Bucky took that as a win. “I hated him and wanted him to die,” he said. 

“I don’t believe you,” Bucky said. 

Tony still didn't move away, shifting so he was even closer than before. “I can’t explain it,” he tried. 

“You can try,” Bucky insisted. 

Tony snarled, hands wrapping around himself protectively as he considered his next course of action. Bucky waited, trying to be patient. Tony was new to this, to healing. He hadn’t really tried it before. Bucky could allow him the space he needed to figure it out. But he did need to figure it out. He couldn’t avoid it forever. 

“They walked in with a tray of something,” Tony began, voice so low Bucky had to focus to make out the words. “A man in a white coat and a woman with a metal cart. I saw medical supplies on the cart.” 

“It was pain medication,” Bucky supplied gently, “for your shoulder.”

“I thought it was a treatment,” Tony said, spitting the word like a curse. “And something in me…. I knew the doctor was going to give me something, and it would hurt. So I tried to kill him, and his little assistant because she tried to get in my way.”

“I can understand that,” Bucky tried. It made sense, in an awful way. Tony had never been comfortable in the hospital, had watched the doctors carefully every time they spoke or approached the room. If one entered the hallway of their shared wing, Tony had warned the team that ‘they were coming’ and Bucky, like an idiot, hadn’t stopped to consider the weight of his warnings. “But why did you attack Clint?” 

Tony shrank. “I didn’t mean to,” he said shakily. “I didn’t see him, not really. I just saw the hallways, the endless labyrinth, the guards… And he sounded... he was being so quiet... soft... I thought it was a trick. Something sneaky, and I knew the moment I let my guard down, they would give me the treatment then punish me for my defiance.” 

“You were having a flashback,” Bucky supplied, heart sinking in his chest. He should have seen it coming, should've known Tony wouldn't adjust on his own. He chastised himself for his ignorance, for his lack of care. He knew exactly how hard it was to adjust, how much support and grounding someone needed to settle into a new sense of reality. He’d neglected his duties as a protector, as a friend. He’d left Tony to fend for himself without a second thought.

All because he’d been tired. Because he’d been focused on himself.

“Sure,” Tony said, dismissing him. “I don’t remember it clearly,” he admitted. “I think the drug, whatever they gave me, it’s messing with my memory.” Bucky didn’t feel the need to assert that his mental state was probably also playing a part, it didn’t seem like a good time. “Did I hurt him?” 

“Clint is completely fine,” Bucky assured him, “you were sedated before you could do any damage.”

“Good,” Tony said. 

“He doesn’t blame you for what happened,” Bucky said. “We all knew this would be an adjustment, that transitioning from… your facility, to this, wasn't going to be perfect or easy."

Tony scoffed, curling even tighter into himself. 

Bucky sighed, slowly moving his arm to wrap around Tony’s waist to pull him closer. Tony didn’t need distance right now, to beat himself up and feel alone. He needed support, he needed to know that Bucky was still on his side even though he left him. He wished he could read the mercenary’s mind, wished he could unravel his barbed thoughts and smooth them out into something kinder. But he didn’t have that ability, so he instead settled on just trying to be a friend.

“I’m sorry I left you alone to deal with all of this,” Bucky said, expelling the poisonous thoughts infecting his mind and replacing them with something more palatable, something honest without all the venom. “I should’ve done more to be here with you, to prevent anything like this from happening.” 

Tony shrugged as much as possible given his current position. “You didn’t have a choice,” he said dismissively. 

“I did have a choice,” Bucky said, an edge to his voice that he immediately recognized and tried to shove back, “and I made the wrong one. I should have stuck by your side, Tony, I shouldn't have abandoned you as soon as the initial job was done. I’m sorry.” 

“It’s not your fault I couldn’t handle things,” Tony said, “I'm meant to be better than this. I was built stronger than this.” 

Built sent a shiver down Bucky’s spine. He hated it. He hated that Tony thought of himself as a product, an object molded for a single purpose, as if he weren’t capable of any complexity or humanity outside of that. He hated that Tony knew so little about what humanity really was.

“Would it help if I stuck around SHIELD for a bit, stayed closer to you? That way I can help you process these new things as they come. Like you did for me, back in the day.” The offer was one made with the utmost sincerity, and it was the easiest thing Bucky had ever done. Tony hadn't left him to suffer alone when he was confused and afraid in the prison of The Order. Now it was time to return the favor. 

“You shouldn't have to abandon your home because I've been weak and traitorous,” Tony snapped. 

“I don’t have to,” Bucky agreed, “but I want to. Would it help?” 

Tony was still for a moment. “I hate being alone here,” he whispered, as if it was a great, shameful secret. “I keep forgetting where I am. I keep getting lost...” He clenched his jaw, looked down at his hands. 

“So I’ll stay,” Bucky replied confidently, leaving no room for argument. In his mind, the decision was made, set in stone. “I’ll need to work some things out, gather some stuff from home. But I can move here by the end of the day.” He was already working out the logistics: Coulson would likely handle anything necessary on SHIELD’s end, but he knew nobody would have an issue with it. They were probably already planning on assigning Tony supervision, Bucky being a willing volunteer would only simplify matters. He would pack a duffle from home: he didn’t need much, knew how to live simply. It was only temporary, after all. He wouldn't allow Tony to spend a second longer in the SHIELD base than was absolutely necessary. 

“I’m sorry,” Tony muttered, the shame of his perceived weakness practically leaking from his pores, filling the air with a toxic weight. 

“Don’t be,” Bucky said, “it’ll be nice to spend some time with you in the absence of peril. We might even manage to get to know one another.” 

“This place does not feel absent of peril,” Tony admitted. 

Bucky squeezed his side, tried to pull him even closer. It was strange to see the wild man in such a subdued state. To see him admit his fears and his pains. But Bucky was glad to see it, to see any piece of vulnerability Tony would offer him. “Get some rest,” he said. “I’ll talk to some people, get things worked out. I’ll be back by the time you wake up.”

Tony pulled away, eyes heavy, leaning against the wall as if his weight were simply too great a burden to bear. “Tell Clint I’m sorry for attacking him,” he mumbled.

“He knows,” Bucky assured him, slipping from the room as quietly as possible. 

As soon as he made it outside, he leaned heavily against the door, fighting the urge to sigh dramatically. It felt a little excessive, even to him. 

“How is he?” Coulson asked, having appeared sometime after Bucky entered the room.

“Tired,” Bucky shrugged, already fighting a migraine. “It was the way the medical staff approached that set him off,” he explained, focusing his explanation on Coulson. If anyone could address the issue, it was him. “For years, Tony’s conceptualization of ‘doctors’ was more akin to torturers than medical professionals. They wore white coats, like some of the staff here. In the future, it'd probably be best to provide a warning and explanation of treatment before sending anyone down. Tell them not to assume Tony has any medical knowledge, and he'll pretty much always assume the worst. It might help to have them dress down in casual clothes so they don’t bring up the same memories.” 

Coulson nodded, writing a note in his phone. “I’ll meet with his care team to update them. But we need to have some sort of briefing with Tony, get an idea of what other triggers he might have so we can avoid them before there's an incident.”

Clint looked uncomfortable. “He might not know his triggers, sometimes things sneak up on you, things you thought were fine can bring up trauma. We might not know what to avoid until after something happens.” 

Bucky nodded. “We can work on a briefing, but I don’t think he’s ready to talk through everything. He’s struggling, even with me, and I was there for part of it. I… He doesn’t have any frame of reference, doesn’t know what to mention as something ‘bad’ and what should be considered a normal part of life. I think he needs counseling to start working through that mess.” He ran a hand across his face, took a deep breath. “In the meantime, I’ll work with you to address as much as I can.” 

“I’d appreciate that,” Coulson said. 

“There’s something else,” Bucky said. “He’s not ready to be on his own yet, the isolation isn’t good for him. He’s overthinking everything, panicking. We pulled away too soon.” 

“Nat said the same thing,” Clint crossed his arms. “Said it wasn’t going to go well. I should've listened to her.” 

“We can’t change the past,” Bucky sighed. “I’m going to stay here for a while, with Tony, until he adjusts.” 

“I’ll have a room prepared,” Coulson said. 

“That’s not necessary,” Bucky said. “Just pull a cot into his. I’m going to go pack a bag, but I’ll be back tonight and stay in his room.” 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? He might—” Coulson began, but Bucky held up a hand. 

“I don’t want to leave him alone, not right now. We can talk about inserting some distance later.” Then, he turned to Clint. “He is sorry he attacked you. He asked if you were hurt. He felt backed into a corner, and you were right. He wasn’t in a good headspace.” 

Clint nodded. “Is he alright?”

“The sedative's still wearing off,” Bucky said, “but if you want to, you should go talk to him. I think he’d appreciate it.” 

Clint nodded, already crossing the hall to enter the room. 

Bucky waited until he was inside to speak again. “Thank you for handling things today,” he said. “I know it’s not protocol to do things this way.” Normally, Tony wouldn't be allowed to remain unsupervised and unrestrained in his room after a stunt like that.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Coulson said. “We don’t have a protocol for situations like this.” 

Bucky scoffed at the loophole. “I’m sure Fury will have one written soon enough,” he said. “You know he hates leaving things vague.” 

“I’ll work with him on it, try to encourage some compassion,” Coulson said. 

“You’re really invested in this for someone who played no part in the mission,” Bucky pointed out, tilting his head. “Why is that?” 

Coulson acted as if he didn’t know what Bucky meant. “I was on the extraction team. I’m ensuring the wellbeing of all those extracted.” 

“You’re doing it for the team,” Bucky said bluntly. 

“It wouldn’t do to have the Avengers turn against us over the mistreatment of an ally,” Coulson replied. 

“Right.” Bucky was already pushing away from the wall, intent to get home so he could return as quickly as possible. “I’ll see you around.” 

“Apparently we’ll be seeing a lot of each, going forward,” Coulson said. 

Bucky felt, suddenly, very grounded. He no longer felt directionless, lost, afraid. He didn't feel like he was dwelling in his terror, because now he had a goal. Help Tony understand the mysterious forces around him, like Tony had once helped him. Make sure Tony got through this in one piece.

He could be afraid after. He could continue to work on his own jagged edges after. 

Tony needed him. And it was good to be needed. It was good to have a reason to keep himself together.

July 2016

Tony 

Tony woke up suddenly, the vague vestiges of a memory still coiled around his throat. His muscles jerked with remembered shocks, his hands ached from imagined damage to long-healed bones. He took one shaky breath, then another. 

“Tony?” Bucky’s gravelly voice was near-silent in the room, and Tony could just make out his half-asleep form slowly pushing himself up in bed. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” Tony said. 

“Nightmare?” Bucky asked, sitting up straight. 

“No,” Tony lied, despite the blatant shiver that had taken over his body. 

“Alright. I can’t sleep, though,” Bucky said, following Tony’s deceptive example. “Sit with me awhile?”

Tony wasn’t too proud to accept an offered hand like that, even a poorly concealed one. “Fine,” Tony said, sliding off the bed and silently crossing the room to Bucky. He hoped his teeth chattering only sounded so loud to him. He settled on the bed, resisting the urge to wrap himself around the other man. “I wasn’t having a nightmare,” he insisted, even though Bucky hadn’t said a word to the contrary. It seemed an important point to make. He felt off-balance, a little sick. He hated it, wanted to cover it up, to pretend he didn’t feel it at all.

“It’s fine if you were,” Bucky said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He'd clearly lied about needing a companion, he'd been sleeping just fine. Bucky was a bad liar, always had been. 

“I wasn’t having a nightmare,” Tony snapped. 

“You screamed,” Bucky replied, sounding mostly casual, slightly accusing. 

Tony felt a low growl vibrate in his throat, and he hoped it would encourage Bucky to shut the fuck up. He knew exactly what Bucky was trying to do, he was doing the same shit he’d been doing since he'd moved into the room. Trying to get Tony to open up, to sniffle and whine and talk about how he was feeling. 

He was feeling fucking terrified. He didn’t like talking about that. 

“I do that sometimes,” Tony said. 

“Coulson wants you to start speaking to a counselor,” Bucky said. “You know it’s a condition of your full release.” 

“I thought I wasn’t a prisoner,” Tony snapped, feeling violent and defensive and about two seconds away from trying to strangle his friend. 

He still loved Bucky, couldn’t help it. He also thought Bucky was the most insufferable man alive, sometimes. 

“You agreed to it,” Bucky sighed. 

“What is it you keep telling people?” Tony asked, voice snide and mocking. “I’m a trauma victim. I don’t always say or do what I mean to say or do. I’m not in my right mind.” 

“Tony—”

“I don’t need to talk to a fucking agent about my life as a fucking agent,” Tony spoke over him, voice hard. “What could they possibly say that would help me? Fix me?” Tony scoffed. “There is no fixing me, Bucky. This is all there is.” 

“It’s not about fixing,” Bucky said, not for the first time. “It’s about helping you understand this world—this place you’ve never been to or interacted with outside the context of murder—and adjust to the life you can live in it.” 

“What life?” Tony laughed, more than a little bitter. “I don’t have a life. I don’t exist. The Or—they’re still out there, looking for me as we speak. They probably already know where I am, they're just waiting for the right moment to strike.” His voice grew thicker the longer he spoke, his chest felt tighter. The reality of it all was oppressive. “It doesn’t matter what hoops I jump through, what rules I follow. I’m a prisoner either way.” 

“You don’t know that,” Bucky sighed. “You left the base. Nothing happened, no one chased after us. There hasn’t been any suspicious activity in the area.” 

“They’re waiting,” Tony insisted. He couldn’t breathe. 

“I won’t let them take you,” Bucky said. He turned in the bed, grabbed Tony’s shoulders and pulled him close, resting their foreheads against one another. “It’s going to be okay. Breathe.” 

“I’m breathing,” Tony wheezed. The walls were closing in. “They’re going to find me.” 

“We’ll find them first,” Bucky squeezed his shoulders. “You’ve got the world’s best spies on your side, Tones. That’s gotta mean something.” 

“I have genetically engineered hunters chasing me,” Tony gasped.

“We’ve killed plenty of those fuckers,” Bucky said. “We’ll do it again.” 

“I can’t,” Tony said. Horrifyingly, his eyes were itching. He was going to cry. Again. “I can’t do it anymore.” 

“I’ll do it for you,” Bucky said. 

“Aren’t you tired of this?” Tony asked, pulling away. 

“Tired of what?” 

“This. You, always having to sit here and pick up the pieces while I go off, or fall apart, or mess up. Always having to step up and fight my battles because I can’t. Isn’t this exhausting for you? Fuck, Bucky, you moved into my room. Don’t you hate me by now?” Tony wanted to peel off his own skin, he wanted to throw up his organs. He'd never felt so helpless in his life, and he hated dragging Bucky down with him. He hated that the man he was once willing to die for was now stuck babysitting him. 

“You did it for me,” Bucky insisted. 

“You don’t owe me anything,” Tony snarled, the sheer revulsion at the idea that Bucky viewed him as an obligation was almost enough to knock him to the floor. “I helped you because I didn’t want to be alone, Bucky. I wanted to own you, to keep you for myself. I did it for purely selfish reasons.” 

“I want to do this for you,” Bucky said. “Because I care about you. Because I don’t want you to be alone.” 

Tony curled in on himself, trying to keep his body together when it seemed determined to pull apart. 

At least this time he didn’t blow up any of the wiring: he’d gotten better at controlling that particular consequence of his outbursts as they started to become more and more common. 

“I’m not an obligation,” Tony repeated. 

“You’re not,” Bucky said. “I’m choosing to be here.” 

“I’m sorry,” Tony murmured. He wasn't sure what else there was to say.

“I’m not,” Bucky sighed. “Come here.” 

Tony didn’t move, but Bucky took him into his arms anyway, maneuvering him to lean against his chest. Tony wasn’t crying, he was just weak, limp as a corpse. He took that as a win. 

“A counselor, Tony, would help you with this. These feelings you have, this overwhelming guilt and shame and fear. The job is not to fix you because you aren't broken. They just want to help you process everything so you can manage it better.” 

It was devious, really, sneaking it in when Tony was too weak to fight back. 

He didn’t want to argue anymore. He just wanted to be warm. 

“I’ll think about it,” Tony said. 

“Thank you,” Bucky sighed. “Why don’t you sleep over here tonight?” 

“It’s fine,” Tony mumbled. “I’m not going to fall back asleep.” 

“Will you try?” Bucky said. “I think it’ll help if I’m here. Feel more like you’re camping out, help your body remember you’re not alone.” 

Tony considered the offer, decided he was too exhausted to cross the small distance of the room to reach his own bed. “Okay,” he said. 

“Okay,” Bucky repeated, voice soft. “Come on, that doesn’t look comfortable.” 

Bucky maneuvered their bodies so they were laying side by side, forced to press against one another in the cramped space of the small bed. Tony curled around Bucky’s side, tangling their legs together until he felt squished in a comforting sort of way. He pressed his face into the crook of Bucky’s neck, the steady thrum of his pulse a welcome lullaby. 

“I appreciate you being here,” Tony admitted, the words hardly more than a breath against Bucky’s skin. It felt important to say it, at least once. As much as he thought Bucky deserved better things than to sit around and pat Tony’s back, he didn’t actually want to push Bucky away. He didn’t actually want him to leave. 

During the first few days Bucky spent in his room, Tony expected it to be a temporary measure. But Bucky had made no mention of leaving, had just continued to sit by Tony’s side, making sure he ate and slept. He told him about the world, played him music that Bucky had liked when he was first released, sat him down for movies that had nothing to do with any of Tony’s ‘triggers’. He sat by his side when Tony freaked out and pulled him away from situations before he tried to kill anyone. He collected Tony’s meds so he didn’t have to speak to the doctors, and got his friend Bruce to do his last exam because “he’s a part of the team, I trust him. He’s like you, in a way.”

It was nice. It was good. He was still a prisoner, but he felt freer than he'd ever imagined. 

Bucky had so much patience with him. He wanted to get to know him. He wanted to take care of him. 

It made his heart ache in a horrifying way. 

“Of course,” Bucky murmured, voice rumbling in his chest. It was nice. “Anything, Tony.”