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Chapter Text

Sam POV

“You could try to reroute that through-”

Sam slaps Joaquin's hand away from his semi-damaged wing splayed out in the outdoor Tunisian cafe. “Could you not?”

“Oh,” Joaquin chuckles, backing his hand away. "Sorry."

“I’ve been working for the Air Force for six months now. Every time ops touches him, he gets all glitchy,” Sam explains, a humorous grin on his face. 

“You know, those poor techs can’t keep up with a billion returning IP addresses and your sick-ass Stark tech.”

Joaquin abruptly stands up, rotating his phone around the marketplace as though he’s searching for something. “All these LAF crews, they’re trying to take advantage of the chaos, make some money. That I get, but there’s- Oh, bam! There they are,” Joaquin exclaims, holding up his phone to show Sam the red handprint on his screen. “I’ve been stumbling onto their manifestos on message boards. They’re called the Flag Smashers.

“Is that a new thing?" Sam snickers. "Bad guys give themselves bad names.”

“There’s a lot worse names than that one," Joaquin says, tucking his phone back into his pocket. "But basically they think the world was better during The Blip. Trust me, it wasn’t.”

“Trust me. Every time something gets better for one group, it gets worse for another."

“Essentially, these people want a world that’s unified without borders. So you could see why a lot of people are into that.”

“Keep an eye on it. If anything gets serious, you let me know.”

“No doubt. I’ll, uh, I’ll track the online chatter, see what they’re saying. I do gotta ask you, though, ‘cause online there’s just been a lot of stuff about Steve, actually. Some crazy conspiracies,” Joaquin awkwardly hedges. “So, some people, they think that he’s in a secret base on the moon looking down over us.”

Sam humorously scoffs, shaking his head as he puts the final touches on his no longer damaged wing. "I told her to stop spreading that rumor!"

Joaquin frowns. "So it's really not true?"

"No. It's not. Steve’s gone."

"Really? You didn’t, like, fly him to the moon?"

"No, and if she was taking any of my calls I'd tell her to stop spreading rumors like that," Sam states, looking at him with a prompting look that Joaquin can't ignore. "How is she doing?"

Joaquin hesitates for a moment, his  expression stuttering to a conflicted, tense expression that tells Sam everything he needs to know: Joaquin's hiding something. Joaquin recovers with a quick shake of his head as he pulls a innocent smile on his face. "Fine! Yeah, she's doing fine."

"Really?” Sam prods. “Because you didn't seem so sure there."

"No. Yeah. No. It's- it's great."

"I'm so convinced," Sam deadpans, an unimpressed look on his face. 

Joaquin sighs, trying to carefully choose his words to appease Sam but to not break your trust in him. "It's hard. Harder than I think either of us anticipated. It's hard tracking down a ghost, even when that ghost is right next to you. Telling me that Steve Rogers is on the Moon."

"I know,” Sam exhales, a slight chuckle leaving his mouth. “That ghost lived with me and is now refusing to take my calls."

"That's not it,” Joaquin assures him. For a split second, Joaquin almost tells Sam everything. He's never seen Sam without something akin to a smile on his face, but he can tell that the continually growing distance between the two of you is really getting to the both of you. He's just the unlucky person that gets to see both sides of it happening. “She's disappointed. She wants to know more, but there's only so much to go on."

"Tell her to call me," Sam gently orders, forcing Joaquin to look at his pleading eyes. "Maybe I can convince her to come back home."

"Maybe," Joaquin remorsefully shrugs, because of all the things you were going to do, going back home was not at the top of your list. "But she's pretty invested."

"Yeah, that's what I was worried about," Sam mumbles, packing his things away. 

“So where you off to?”

“Washington.”

“What are you doing there?”

“Moon stuff,” Sam chuckles, shaking his head and rolling his eyes at the tall tale. He remembers when you first came back to Louisiana with him, how you told him you were going to start spreading ridiculous stories about where Steve had gone to see which ones people really believed. He really missed your irreverent, goofy sense of humor.

-

"I'm telling you, I'm going to do it," you promise, laughing as the two of you sit on his sister's porch.

"But why?" Sam laughs, standing up in a huff to re-activate the motion lights. 

Even though he knows he shouldn't be encouraging you, there's a pretty big part of him that thinks it's absolutely hilarious too. People just wouldn't stop with the questions about Steve Rogers. They wouldn't accept what was without some grand tale or some dramatic retelling. And as people who both knew Steve, it was emotionally draining.

"Why not?" you counter. "Maybe they'll finally leave us alone about it. Think about it: Steve Rogers is really living underground, protecting us from the mole people."

"Mole people?" Sam sputters out laughing as the timed light turns off again.

"Or- Or!" you bounce up off the stairs with unbridled excitement. "We could tell people he's on the Moon!"

The lights turn back on, but you still remain standing with your drink sloshing around in your hand. He tries to maintain his voice of a reason tone, but he finds himself smiling at his friend dramatically gesturing as you tell him all about the intricate stories you'll make up about Steve. "Who would believe that?" 

"Who wouldn't? An alien literally wiped out half the planet five years ago. And then we just show back up!" you exclaim, half your drink spilling onto the grass as you wave your arms around, gesturing to the world around you. "The world's a crazy place!"

"The Moon," Sam repeats, rolling his eyes with another laugh.

-

And more than anything, he missed his best friend. He just missed you. “Tell her to call me.”

“I will,” Joaquin promises as Sam walks away. Then Joaquin quietly mutters to himself, “If she listens is another story.”

Chapter Text

Bucky POV

“So Mr. Barnes, are you still having nightmares?” Bucky remains silent, pensively staring at the wall. Dr. Raynor speaks a little louder this time, finally catching Bucky's attention, “James, I asked you a question: Are you still having nightmares?”

“No.”

“We’ve been doing this long enough that I can tell when you’re lying," Dr. Raynor lightly scolds, examining the super soldier as he sits in the couch opposite her. He looks tired, exhausted even, and definitely more agitated than normal. "And, well, you seem a little off today. Did something happen recently?”

”No.”

This time he tells the truth. Nothing really happens anymore. His phone doesn’t ding with texts that he wouldn’t respond to either way. He’s accepted the silence. He welcomes it. Except for his amends, he's alone. And he's found a certain contentment with the loneliness. 

“You’re a civilian now. With your history, the government needs to know that you’re not gonna…” Dr. Raynor trails off, raising her first in insinuation. She drops her hand, giving Bucky an urging expression. “It’s a condition of your pardon. So, tell me about your most recent nightmare.”

“I didn’t have a nightmare,” he dryly insists. 

Dr. Raynor sighs in defeat, her eyes flicker up to Bucky’s stoic, unimpressed expression. "Did something happen? Have you talked to anyone?"

He shrugs, slightly raising his eyebrows.

"Let me see your phone," Dr. Raynor states, a firm finality in her tone that leaves Bucky no room to argue. 

A huff of annoyance leaves his mouth, reluctantly pulling the phone from his pocket to hand to Dr. Raynor.

She flips open the phone, tilting her head at Bucky in mild disappointment.

"You don't even have ten numbers on this thing, and I'm the only person you've called all week. That is so sad." She looks up from the screen to look at Bucky and the stone-faced expression still on his face, seemingly unaffected by anything she’s saying. "You're alone. You're a hundred years old, you have no family, no history-"

"Are you lashing out at me, Doc?" Bucky wryly retorts. "Because that's really unprofessional. I mean, when did that start with your clients-"

"You've ignored all texts from Sam. And let's not talk about Sunshine? I'm going to assume that's a nickname." This time Bucky unintentionally remains silent. Dr. Raynor notes the way Bucky's jaw ticks, clenching from the bittersweet memory of your short-lived emergence in his life. A tie that he himself cut without so much as a goodbye.

And though he really wishes that she wouldn't prod at the emotional wound, he's not naive enough to think she wouldn't to finally put a crack in Bucky's stoic, unchanging expression. 

And he has to commend her, because it's a very effective strategy.

His first curls in as she looks at the screen, reading aloud each unanswered message from you. Each text he can almost hear in your voice. He can almost picture the way your mouth would twist in disappointment as you realized he was never going to respond.

Each text read aloud just adds more salt in the wound. 

"I just wanna know if you're okay."

"Are we okay?"

"In case you see this, I miss you."

"Is that weird? Doesn't matter, it's the truth."

"I think I'm going to go with Sam to Louisiana."

"I don't think there's much left for me in New York."

"I'm leaving today."

"The sky's really blue here."

"If you see this, could you maybe tell me? No pressure."

"Okay, I think I should stop texting you now."

"Really hope that I haven't been texting a random trucker or something."

"Not that there's anything wrong with being a trucker, but you get what I mean. I think?"

"Okay, for real this time, if you don't respond I won't bother you anymore."

"Goodbye."

He's tempted to breathe a sigh of relief when Dr. Raynor finally finishes the chain of unanswered text messages. He keeps it to himself. He deserved to set that tight, burning sensation linger in his throat, constricting his airways and making his chest feel a million pounds heavier.

There was no point in psycho-analyzing it, it was done. You'd received his message loud and clear.

"You never even called her back, James. That's really awful," Dr. Raynor states like she's really trying to make him feel like an ever bigger asshole than he already felt like.

And he still remains silent.

Because, to him, there was nothing to say. He made his bed, now all there was to do was lie in his self-imposed exile.

It was better this way. He just needed to keep reminding himself of that. 

It was better this way. 

He only breaks the silence when Dr. Raynor scoffs and pulls out her small notepad. The loud clicking of her pen pulls Bucky out of his reverie this time. With an eye roll, he remarks, "Oh, the notebook thing, great. You know, that's really passive aggressive."

"You don't talk, I write," she reminds him, a slight smile on her face that annoys Bucky just even more. 

"And what would you like me to say?" he asks. 

“Why didn’t you respond?” she bluntly questions, setting the notebook down back down in her lap.

“There was nothing to say,” he dryly replies. She shakes her head, sighs, and picks up the notebook again. Before she can click the pen again, he interrupts, "Alright!"

"Good," Dr. Raynor starts. "Tell me about the nightmare."

"I didn't have a nightmare."

"Then tell me about the nickname."

His shoulders stiffen slightly. He can't remember the last time he willfully thought about you. Or the last time this particular emotional wound had been prodded in such rapid succession. Sometimes it crept up on him, little flashes, a kaleidoscope of memories. Most of his time was spent trying not to think about any of it. That was his goal most days: to repress and let go. He just hadn't figured that part out yet. And when he was being really honest about it, there was an even bigger part that didn't want to let it go. "What about it?"

"Did you give her the nickname?"

"No. Steve did," Bucky answers easily. 

"But you still use it?" Dr. Raynor correctly assumes. 

"Clearly."

"Why?"

"It's a nickname, Doc," Bucky defensively responds, clearly getting even more agitated as this line of questioning goes on. "Not much else to say."

"You clearly think it's appropriate. Or you wouldn't be using it."

"It is appropriate," Bucky admits. "But I'm not the one that gave it to her."

"Why is it appropriate?"

He thinks back to when Steve first explained it to him. He barely knew you. And he thought it was a bit of a ridiculous nickname for an adult woman, but Steve was adamant that it suited you perfectly.

-

"Sunshine," Steve calls, waving you over.

"Sunshine?" Bucky repeats, a slight disdain and question in his words. 

Steve dismissively shrugs. "It suits her."

"It's a ridiculous nickname," Bucky disagrees. 

You're in the middle of a conversation with Sam on the other side of the jet, you hold out your finger to Steve and Bucky telling them to give you a minute. 

"It just works. She's such a warm person. A freaking goofball. Especially after everything she's gone through, it suits her," Steve repeats. 

"Everything she's gone through?" Bucky cautiously questions. 

"That's a story for a different day, Buck."

Before Bucky can probe anymore, you make your way over to the two of them. 

"How can I help my Star Spangled friend and - " you stop, clicking your teeth together as you look at Bucky for a moment too long. You narrow your eyes at Bucky, rocking back and forth on your heels. For a second, he thinks you're scared, hesitant because he did just try to kill you only a few days ago. "Nope, sorry, I don't have a nickname for you yet."

Bucky's eyebrows furrow and in spite of his best efforts, a small chuckle bubbles out of his mouth.

"Told you, Sunshine," Steve repeats, a warm smile on his face. 

"It's a ridiculous nickname," you playfully complain, taking a seat in between the two super soldiers. As the words leave your mouth, you lightly punch Steve's arm. "I've told you that a million times."

"You love it," Steve scoffs, throwing his heavy arm around your shoulders.

From underneath Steve's arm, you look up at Bucky with a wide grin, "Don't listen to him, it's ridiculous."

-

"She's a warm person, all right," Bucky finally responds, still a touch too defensive to not be noticed by Dr. Raynor. "Bright, smiley, a freakin' goofball. But she's warm, everything about her."

Dr. Raynor sympathetically exhales, placing the notepad and pen on the small table beside her. "One day, you're going to have to open up and realize that some people really do want to help you, to be there for you, and that they can be trusted."

"I trust people," Bucky argues.

"So why didn't you pick up the phone?"

There were a lot of reasons, so he decides on giving her the easiest response to articulate, "Because she's warm. So freaking warm."

Chapter Text

Sam stops to look at the new ‘Cap is Back’ poster, his stomach twisting in a mix of emotions he doesn’t bother to separate and identify. At this point, it’s just another weight added onto his shoulders, just another drop in the bucket. 

The Flag Smashers.

Watching John Walker indoctrinated as the 'new Captain America'.

His best friend gone AWOL.

It was all just piling on. 

He could almost feel it when he walked, each step weighed down by the insurmountable grief, by the memories marred by tragedy. 

“Seems like a good guy,” Joaquin suddenly interrupts from beside Sam. “You met him?”

“No.” Sam finally tears his eyes away from the poster. "Thanks for doing this on such short notice, by the way."

"No sweat, I’m just finishing up the checklist. You’ll be all good to go once you land in Munich," Joaquin informs him, walking down the metal staircase to the plane. 

Sam sighs, sparing the poster another glance. The whole Captain America thing still weighs on him, but then he remembers he's got other, more pressing matters to take care of. 

He walks down the metal staircase with his duffle bag slung over his shoulder. He doesn't even need to turn his head to feel the familiar glare burning holes into the side of his head.

Sam stops at the foot of the steps, right into a very aggravated Bucky Barnes.

Bucky wastes no time with greetings or niceties, getting straight to the point of contention. "You shouldn't have given up that shield."

Sam rolls his eyes, continuing his walk down to the plane. "Always good to see you, Buck."

"Cut the shit, Sam. This is wrong," Bucky continues, his tone full of unspoken demands and unbridled irritation. 

Sam finally halts his walk, but only to wave Bucky off. "I'm working, alright? All this outrage is just going to have to wait."

Bucky accusingly points at one of the many new Captain America posters plastered all over the base. "You didn't know that was going to happen?"

"Of course I didn't know that was going to happen!" Sam indignantly exclaims. "You think it didn't break my heart to see them march him out there and call him the new Captain America?"

“You know this isn’t what Steve wanted.”

"And what would you like me to do? Call America and tell them I changed my mind?" Sam rhetorically asks, a humorless chuckle leaving his mouth. "Yeah, because that would go over so well. It's been a great reunion, buddy. Be well."

“You had no right to give up the shield!” Bucky barks, stopping Sam once more. 

This time Sam whirls around, his calm expression now straining to maintain composure. "See, this is what you're not gonna do. You're not going to come here in your overextended life and tell me about my rights. It's over, Bucky. It's done."

Bucky's jaw clenches, shaking his head in clear disappointment.

Sam takes another moment to collect himself. With one last exhale, Sam breaks the tense silence, "Besides, I've got bigger things to worry about right now."

"What could be bigger than this?"

Sam hesitates for a moment, wondering if he should really drag Bucky into whatever Joaquin stumbled upon with the Flag Smashers.

After another silent beat, he takes the phone out of his pocket, playing the blurry footage for Bucky. It doesn’t matter that the quality is shot or that the people in the video are shrouded in darkness. There's an unmistakable ability that only one person he knows actually has.

"This guy. He’s got connections with rebel organizations all over Central and Eastern Europe. I know you saw what he did in that video… And I think there's some people trying to replicate things that shouldn't be replicated."

Bucky's eyes flicker up from the footage with a grave, almost stunned expression, "Does she know about this?"

"No." Sam puts the phone back in his pocket. "And I'd like to keep it that way. Redwing traced them to an abandoned building outside Munich, so that’s where I’m going.”

“Well, I don’t trust Redwing.” Even as Sam starts to walk away, Bucky continues talking, “Just hold on a minute.”

“You don’t have to trust Redwing," Sam tells him. "But I’m gonna go see if he’s right. Because I have a feeling they might be a part of the Big Three, which means she might be part of the Big Three.”

“What Big Three?” Bucky questions, a furrowed look on his face. 

“The Big Three: Androids, Aliens, and Wizards,” Sam matter-of-factly explains.

Bucky's face drops into an unamused expression, “That’s not a thing.”

“Of course it’s a thing. Every time we fight we fight one of the Big Three.”

“Who do you think she is, Gandalf?”

Sam's eyes suspiciously narrow at Bucky. “How do you know about Gandalf?”

“I read the Hobbit. When if first came out, in 1937." 

“So you see my point?”

“No, I don’t. There are no wizards.”

“Dr. Strange.”

“- Is a sorcerer,” Bucky finishes.

“Ah-ha! Wizards are just sorcerers without the hat,” Sam triumphantly nods. “That was good, I just came up with that. But that’s not the point. We don’t know what we’re dealing with."

"Then I'm going with you," Bucky decides, following Sam as he tries to walk away again.

Sam stops again, shaking his head at Bucky, "No, you're not."

"Yes, I am."

Sam looks up at the ceiling, quietly groaning in defeat. His eyes flicker back to the determined look on Bucky's face, and he wordlessly turns to walk up the ramp of the small utility jet.  

It's quiet once they're both aboard the jet. No words are exchanged, not an single murmur of small talk or friendly catching up. It's a tense and heavy atmosphere as they both stare at each other from across the plane.

Except for the loud rumble of the engine as they soar through the air, it's all deafeningly quiet. 

“One minute to drop off, Sam,” Joaquin informs, breaking the tense silence. 

They remain staring at each other for a few moments, before sharply standing up to retrieve their communication devices. Surprisingly, Bucky is the first to speak, "Why didn't you tell her?"

"It's complicated,” Sam cryptically responds. 

"Why?" Bucky demands.

"She went rogue," Sam breathes. 

"She went rogue? What? I thought she went with you to Louisiana?"

"Oh, so you did get our messages," Sam sarcastically confirms. "Good to know."

"Can we focus on the rogue part?" Bucky impatiently redirects. 

"Okay, maybe rogue's a little dramatic," Sam sheepishly admits. "But she left a few months ago, right before Christmas."

"Before Christmas?" Bucky incredulously repeats.

"Are you just going to repeat everything I'm saying?"

"Sorry. Continue."

"Anyway, she said she needed answers," Sam somberly explains. "Answers that she's never had, that I've never been able to find. She wanted to go looking for herself."

"And why didn't you stop her?" Bucky protests.

"Stop her?" Sam defensively scoffs. He didn't want to defend himself to anyone, he could barely defend his own actions in retrospect. But he knew this was something that you needed to do, he knew you weren't happy, but most of all, he knew he couldn't really stop you without losing you entirely. So he just had to wait, wait until you came in with the rain.  "She's a grown woman, and it's not that unreasonable of a request. She promised she'd only do recon, no field work... And that she'd stay in touch."

"So where is she?"

"And that would be the rogue part," Sam tells Bucky, popping in the small communication device in his ear. "I haven't heard from her. She doesn't respond when I call, not a text, not anything. Guess you two have that in common."

Bucky huffs in annoyance, a frown on his face as the continues interrogating Sam, "So why didn't you go after her?"

"Because she asked me not to. Either way, Torres is helping her, so he keeps me updated. Apparently, there hasn't been that much progress."

"So she's keeping in contact with Torres but not with you and that didn't strike you as odd? Like maybe you should've gone after her!" Bucky angrily rants.

"Everything about this is odd!" Sam exclaims, throwing up his hands in frustration. "But she told me that she needed space, so I'm giving it to her."

"Sam, I've never met a person who hates space as much as she does." Sam's face furrows in response, clearly unimpressed by Bucky's response but he remains wordless. Bucky watches Sam's expression, noting that Sam doesn't accept a word he's saying. "What? You're telling me she just changed her entire personality?"

"All I'm saying is things are different now," Sam solemnly mutters, standing at the edge of the plane's exit. "Everything is different now."

Chapter Text

“Could’ve used that shield,” Bucky snarkily quips, still laying on top of Sam after their woefully unsuccessful brush with the Flag Smashers.

“Get off of me,” Sam grunts, shoving Bucky off of him and into the grass. 

For a moment, they both lie in the overgrown field side by side. Bucky shuts his eyes, and though he can't remember the confrontation he had with you as the Winter Soldier, he imagines that his body ached as badly as it did in this moment. 

There were plenty of differences as the two of them went head to head with the Flag Smashers. Firstly, they didn't hold back. It was almost reckless the way they didn't hold back. The raging flames could've easily destroyed their own trucks along with the vaccines they so intensely fought to retain. 

Another thing that was immediately clear to Bucky, they didn't have any idea of how to control their abilities. 

He remembers one of the few conversations he'd shared with you one on one. You confided in him that you weren't always able to control yourself, in moments of extreme duress or panic, sometimes you slipped up. But you'd worked hard in your twenty something years to have an impressive grasp over yourself.

And, regardless of your goofy, effervescent personality paired with your sweet disposition and wide eyed gaze, you maintained formidable amounts of discipline.

The Flag Smashers didn't have years, they'd had months, if even that.

Up until this moment, he mostly agreed with Sam, you shouldn't be dragged into this when you were off on your own quest.

Up until this moment, he was content knowing that you'd found some semblance of peace without him dragging you down. It was how he'd justified doing what he did. 

Now, he just wishes you were here. He wishes you would come back.

"They were all like her, Sam."

“I know,” Sam roughly exhales, slowly sitting up. He turns to Bucky, still laying down in the grass, “You’re welcome, by the way.”

"Shut up, Sam," Bucky grunts, standing up in one smooth movement. 

Sam hauls himself up, dusting himself off as the two men turn to watch the new Captain America and his partner still fighting on top of the semi-trucks. They remain watching them, until the inevitable moment when the Flag Smashers overwhelm the two of them, kicking them both down onto the road.

Even though a chuckle almost escapes his mouth, Bucky could almost feel bad for them. Almost. 

Without exchanging any words, they climb out of the field, and begin their trek to the airport.

“Sorry about Redwing,” Bucky offers after a few moments in silence.

“No, you’re not,” Sam bluntly states. As they continue walking, he turns to look at Bucky's pensive expression. “What’s going on in that big cyborg brain of yours?”

“It’s computing,” Sam continues, snickering as Bucky maintains the thoughtful, furrowed expression on his face. "You know what? I can actually see the gears turning. Oh no, they're malfunctioning, shutting down. And now it's on fire."

They were a lot of things that Bucky was thinking. Like how was the man that was so incredibly overprotective of you suddenly so okay with letting you leave? How'd you come into your powers? He sort of knew the answer to that, at least, he had the answer that you, Sam, and Steve had: you were born this way.

None of you had the real answer.

He wonders if in your journey to find answers, had you figured that out? Where were you?

Were you okay?

He reconciles that he doesn't have the right to ask those questions anymore. So he sticks with the one that feels the most pertinent. How were those people exactly like you? "I know you saw that."

Sam winces, rubbing the scorch mark on his gear. It was just another way the Flag Smashers weren't like you, the scorch mark was large, uneven, and clearly uncontrolled. It painted almost the entire top of Sam's shoulder and upper arm. He was just lucky it hadn't gone completely through the fabric. "Felt it too."

"But how?"

"I dunno," Sam shrugs. He looks back to Bucky, a new, much more conflicted expression on his face. "What? What's with that look?"

"Sam, how else could a someone duplicate the powers of one person and give them to eight other people?" Sam doesn't want to say the words, as though speaking them out into the world will bring them to fruition. Bucky continues, "I know you saw it, it's just like-"

"It's exactly like-" Sam agrees, his words halted by the rumble of a truck quickly approaching the two of them.

“So that didn’t go as planned, huh?” John Walker dryly jokes from inside the truck, opening the door as an invitation. Both their eye’s flicker to the truck and they both silently agree to keep walking. “Look, at least we have an idea of what we’re up against. And we’re pretty sure it’s a part of the Big Three, so…”

“Aliens, androids, and wizards,” Sam triumphantly huffs at Bucky. "Told you, it's a thing."

“There’s no such thing as wizards,” Bucky insists, his voice laced with irritation. 

“Then it’s aliens, or androids…” John continues. 

“Or the Sunshine serum,” Sam quietly mutters to Bucky.

But not quiet enough for John Walker not to hear, "I'm sorry, the Sunshine Serum?"

“Nice,” Bucky scoffs, elbowing Sam in the ribs. Sam can practically feel the vitriol rolling off of Bucky at this point, but he also has to commend Bucky for keeping his cool so far. Bucky's eyes flicker back to John, still riding in the truck, and with his best unimpressed, cold expression, Bucky snidely offers, “Inside joke.”

“Well, then we gotta work together,” John decides, wearing a smile that's clearly meant to impress adoring fans and TV cameras.

It doesn't impress them one bit. 

“Yeah, that’s not happening,” Bucky curtly declines, continuing his walk to the airport. 

“I think we stand a much better chance if we all just- " John continues talking, though both Sam and Bucky are walking away from him. 

Bucky angrily exhales when the truck slows to match their walking pace, over the rumbling of the truck, he shouts, "Just because you have that shield, doesn't mean you’re Captain America."

"Look, I’ve done the work, okay?” John quickly defends. 

“You ever jump on top of a grenade?” Bucky asks, though it's clear to Sam that there's nothing John could say that would win Bucky over. 

“Yeah. Actually, I have. Four times. It’s a thing I do with my helmet, it’s a reinforced helmet. It’s a long story, but it’s 20 miles to the airport. You guys need a ride.” John opens the door again, gesturing for the two men to get in. 

This time, they pause, sharing a silent conversation with knowing, reluctant looks. 

And in spite of the hesitation coursing through their veins, they get in the car.

“So we’ve got eight super-humans on a bulk supply run. Why?” John immediately starts.

Another reason Bucky wishes you were here, you could probably make this car ride from hell just a little bit more bearable. By talking to him, keeping him from killing John, maybe you'd rest your head against his shoulder like you did that one time.

Or maybe you'd actually like John Walker, maybe you'd talk to him, laugh with him.

Bucky grits his teeth, forcing himself to be present for the conversation before he kills John over something that hasn't even happened. 

"They say their mission is to get back things to the way they were during The Blip. Maybe they're just trying to help," Sam replies. 

“They’ve got a funny way of showing it,” Bucky sarcastically retorts.

"But you guys think it was a serum?" John probes. "The Sunshine Serum? I don't get it."

"Inside joke," Bucky harshly repeats, shutting down the question. 

“Look, if it's a serum, we really need to get to the bottom of this as fast as possible. Serums like that don’t exactly have the best track record," John adds, turning to Bucky with a half-heartedly apologetic expression, "No offense."

“We need to figure where they’re going,” Sam redirects. The absolute last thing he wants is John Walker hot on your tail. It would mean all the time and effort spent keeping you hidden and out of the limelight would be pointless. And every precaution and protective measure he and Nick Fury made to keep you safe would be entirely meaningless. “How’d you track them here?”

"Well, we didn't track them. We tracked you. Through Redwing," Lemar sheepishly corrects. 

“You hacked my tech?” Sam fumes.

John chuckles, shrugging apologetically. Once again, the apology is superficial and feeble, upsetting both men even more, “Sorry, but it’s not exactly hacking. It’s government property. We’re kind of the government.”

Bucky's jaw clenches tightly as he stares at the two men sitting across from him. John feels Bucky sizing him up in the tense silence, "Does he always just stare like that?"

"You get used to it," Sam flatly responds. 

“Okay, look, things have gotten kind of…” John trails off, searching for the right word to describe the situation at hand.

“Chaotic,” Lemar offers.

“Exactly, chaotic," John repeats. "The GRC is doing the best they can to get things up and running smoothly, post Blip.”

“Reactivating citizenship, social security, healthcare,” Lemar adds. “Basically just managing resources for the refugees displaced by the return.”

“The Global Repatriation Council does all that," Sam states. "I get it. So why exactly are you two here?”

“Well, they provide the resources, we keep things stable,” Lemar explains.  

“Violent revolutionaries aren’t usually good for anyone’s cause,” John offhandedly quips. 

Sam scoffs, shaking his head, “Usually said by the people with the resources."

“Well, we got a lot of resources. If you guys, if you joined up with us, we could-” John starts proposing.

“No,” Bucky curtly declines, cutting off the offer out of hand.

“I got mad respect for the both of you," Lemar offers. "But you were kinda getting your asses kicked until we showed up."

“And who are you?” Bucky snarks.

“Lemar Hoskins.”

“Look, I see a guy handing out of a helicopter in tactical gear, I need a lot more than Lemar Hoskins,” Sam demands.

“I’m Battlestar. John’s partner,” Lemar clarifies.

“Battlestar?” Bucky scoffs, remembering your words of advice to him in one of the first conversations you'd ever shared. 

-

"Sunshine?" Bucky gruffly chuckles, repeating Steve's nickname for you. "Very fitting alter-ego."

You laugh, rolling your eyes at him. "It's not an alter ego, just a nickname that Steve won't let go."

"Ah," Bucky nods. "So what is the alter ego?"

"I don't have one. It used to be 'The Asset' but now," you sigh. "Now, I guess I'm just me."

"The Asset?"

You do a lazy two-finger salute, nodding your head once. "SHIELD owned and sanctioned."

Bucky finds himself at a loss for words. Partly because it really does sound terrible. But mostly because he knows exactly how it feels to be reduced to nothing more than a piece of property. "That's... shitty."

"Yeah," you agree, twisting your mouth as though you've just accepted your situation as was is, like you've resigned yourself to the knowledge that it's what you are and will continue you be. Before Bucky can say anything else, ask anymore prying questions, you nudge your shoulder with his, the first time anyone's initiated physical contact with him in a very, very long time, "But just between the two of us, you can't trust people who give themselves super-hero names. Especially bad super-hero names."

"Good advice."

-

“Stop the car!” Bucky shouts. 

“Look, I get it," John frantically tries to appease Bucky, who's already vacated the truck. "I get the attitude, I do. You didn’t think the shield was gonna end up here, I get it. And I’m- I’m not trying to be Steve. I’m not trying to replace Steve. I’m just trying to be the best Captain America I can be. And it’d be a whole lot easier if I had Cap’s wingmen on my side.”

Sam scoffs, already stepping out of the car. “It’s always that last line.”

Chapter Text

"You should tell Sam," Joaquin repeats, finishing the last stitch on your arm while desperately trying to school his anxiety-riddled expression. He just couldn't help but wince on your behalf every time he had to force the needle through your skin. “I only have so much first aid training.”

"Have I ever told you how much I appreciate your friendship?" you ask, ignoring his question entirely as he clips the last jagged stitch. 

He sighs as you finish wrapping the dressing on the top of your arm. He winces at your furrowed face and the sharp inhale as you tighten the dressing. "It's only a matter of time before he realizes there's more than you're letting on. That's if he hasn't already."

"It's just a scratch, Joaquin,” you insist, cutting the bandage and laying it taut against your skin. You smooth it over, smiling proudly as though you're good as new. “See? No need to worry, I'm fine."

"And considering that's the fourth time you've said 'I'm fine', I'm kinda starting to question it."

"Really, truly, I am,” you chirp, pulling on your sweater to hide the wound and put it out of Joaquin's mind. “Sam'll just freak out and reel me back in."

Even as you start walking away from him and this conversation, he trails you into your room, remembering his promise to Sam to try and get you to talk to him. "When was the last time you talked to him?"

"A few weeks ago," you flippantly respond, heading back to the folders stacked on the small desk in your room.

It was a lie. It'd been months since you'd heard Sam's voice. You didn't even listen to Sam's numerous voicemails anymore. It hurt far too much. 

Joaquin walks right on your heels as you cross the threshold into your room.

You barely look at Joaquin as your eyes quickly scan through the thick stack of documents. The paper's edges are crumpled and weathered from all the nights spent passing them back and forth and poring over every word and line.

At this point, he's not even sure what you're looking for considering you've gone through those folders so many times before.

"You might want to give him a call, by the way. He asked me about you on the last op."

"Oh, and where did you guys go this time?" you ask, purposefully changing the subject while you continue scanning the documents. 

"Tunisia. You should've seen him, it was," Joaquin starts rambling. It's only when he notices the small grin on your face as you continue reading that he realizes how you just completely derailed the conversation. He accusingly narrows his eyes at you, "Hey! You did that on purpose."

"What?" you shrug, ignoring that you definitely just redirected the conversation. "Just making conversation."

"Nice try. Call him. He's worried," Joaquin pointedly adds, lowering the papers from your eye-line so you can see the pleading look on his face. 

You sigh, reluctantly nodding as you start pulling on your gear. "Alright, I'll call him."

He excitedly nods, sighing in relief, “Okay, that’s good-”

“But after we go follow this last lead,” you amend. 

You hold up the manila folder with the least amount of wear and tear. You hated even touching the folder, let alone reading its gut-wrenching contents. It felt like a bad omen. You'd kept this lead to yourself, holding it as your most dire last resort.

“No, come on, I hate lying,” he desperately pleads, clapping his hands together to emphasize his desperation. 

“You’re not lying, you’re omitting,” you quip, haphazardly tying your hair up to prepare yourself for your final lead. 

At least, that's what you've been telling yourself.

You're not lying to Sam.

You're simply omitting.

It's better off this way, and most of the time, you're confident in that. But when you were being honest, really honest with yourself, you weren't sure what was what anymore.

Still, you steeled your resolve day in and out, reminding yourself that Sam was finally with his family, his real family, and you couldn't get in that way of that anymore. And you certainly weren't going to drag him into another one of your messes. 

It was for the best. 

“You’re being dishonest,” he retorts. "And I'm being dishonest too! He asks about you all the time, you know that?"

Your eyes subconsciously find the small picture frame that remains hidden behind all the papers. The picture is slightly charred at the edges, crumpled, faded from the damage sustained to the Avengers Compound. But you can still make out the faces of the people crowding the photograph. Tony, Steve, Wanda, Vision, Natasha, Sam, all smooshed into a single frame at your insistence.

It doesn't escape you that more than half of the people in the picture are gone. 

"He does?" you quietly exhale, your throat constricting with heartbroken sadness. 

Because if there was one thing you wanted to tell Sam, more than anything, you wanted to tell him how much you miss him. That it took everything in you not to call him. That sometimes, on the rare night you found yourself actually sleeping without nightmares plaguing you, he'd meet you in your dreams, sometimes as your mentor to give you the best advice you'd ever received, but mostly, as your friend, your best friend that you missed dearly. 

Those night were increasingly rare as the days went on, as though you could feel Sam slipping away.

But that was for the best. You were the one that walked away. You were the reason you couldn't call him anymore. You reminded yourself of that a lot these days. 

And sometimes, on the nights you lay awake, sleep evaded, you thought about the super soldier who'd entered your life just abruptly as he left. You forced yourself not to think about him. But sometimes he'd infiltrate your consciousness, leaving you wondering about him all hours of the night.

You wondered if he'd managed to find some semblance of happiness, of peace in his life. You wanted that for him.

When you paced like a ghost in the middle of the night, you wondered if he lie awake too, fighting demons he'd only begun to face when you met him.

You wondered if you ever crossed his mind. You were pretty sure you had your answer to that question, the reply lay amongst the dozens of unanswered messages and phone calls. 

You figured you were probably lumped in with parts of his life that he wanted to nothing more than to forget. You understood, or at least tried to, so you gritted your teeth and accepted that he was another friend lost to fate.

Still, sometimes you were selfish, sometimes you wanted him to remember.

He never did. 

"He does," Joaquin promises. "All the time."

You shut your eyes, shaking away the stinging sensation of tears welling in your eyes. You take a breath, forcing your shoulders to relax before you speak. 

“Look, I know how Sam is. He’s going to freak out and get mad at me and I’ll never find anything. I can’t, Joaquin. I need to do this. Please,” you beg, slightly pouting your lower lip and giving him your best doe-eyed expression. 

“Oh, come on, don’t do that puppy dog thing.”

“Please?” you quietly plead. 

His shoulders slump in defeat, he slowly exhales, “Fine."

Even though he remains slumped in defeat, you eagerly throw your arms around him. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! A million times, thank you!"

“And then you’ll call Sam?” he asks, pulling you out of his embrace to stare you down.

“And then I’ll call him.”

You barely register how easily the lie leaves your mouth nowadays. 

"So where are we going?"

"To the beginning," you cryptically state, holding up the only folder Joaquin hadn't read himself. 

You could already feel the dread already creeping up your spine as you look at the coordinates of your final lead. You could barely look inside. You felt nauseous at mere descriptions of a building you knew so well, so how were you supposed to actually go back?

Strangely, you had pictured yourself going back over the years. You'd imagined yourself in that scenario so many times, you could just never figure out what you would do when you stood in front of the place that took away your life. If you'd stand in front of the building and curse it to oblivion. Or tear it down with your bare hands. 

When you painted that picture in your head, you also imagined Sam by your side. You always wondered what he'd do too. If he'd hold your hand as tears slid down your cheeks. If he'd stand aside while you allowed yourself a moment of reckless destruction. Would he tell you that you were doing the right thing? Would he help you understand the pain that had festered for 20 some years?

Would he tell you he was proud of you?

You wished you could call him. You knew you couldn't. Mostly because you knew you couldn't take another goodbye.

You couldn't hear his voice and then proceed to lie to him. The truth would break free. So you had to do this alone. 

You held onto a hope that you'd never have to follow this lead, that somewhere along your extensive piles of research you'd never have to do this, but here you were, at your wit's end, going back to the very beginning.

"That's... ominous."

"Ominous is an understatement," you admit, turning around to finish packing your bag. 

"Was that supposed to sell me on going? Because that was freaky."

"Freaky," you repeat, absently nodding. You spare another glance at the picture. You reach out to touch the cool glass. You shake your head, remembering that there wasn't a past to hold onto. It was pointless, you had to keep moving forward whether you wanted to or not. You flip the picture so the picture lays face down on your desk. You nod again, this time finally looking at Joaquin, "Freaky's a good word."

Chapter Text

"So are you going to tell me what this place is?" Joaquin finally asks, the two of you aboard a small utility truck on a winding road that seems to never end.

You sigh, the memory painfully prodding at the forefront of your consciousness. "This is where Nick Fury found me."

"Oh. This is where you...?" he trails off, momentarily looking away from the winding road to finish his question with silent insinuation.

"Yeah," you solemnly nod. You continue looking out the window, watching the scenery pass you by. The trees grow more sparse as you continue on down the unpaved, lonely road. The trees that remain standing look grey, sickly, as they slowly wither to nothing. "Spent 25 years in there."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," you say, offering him a tight smile. Even though you were normally an open book, you could never really bring yourself to speak about the horrors you'd faced in that time in your life. You don't explain any further, instead you half-heartedly chuckle, "You can probably tell why I didn't want to come back here."

"But you need answers?" Joaquin finishes. 

"Exactly." You determinedly nod, finally turning back to look at him. You manage a grin, superficial excitement lacing your voice, "So here we are!"

"You sure you can do this? Sam'll kill me if you get hurt."

You ignore the remark about Sam, instead answering Joaquin's worries, "Yeah, I can handle it."

"Are you sure?"

"You worry too much, Joaquin," you chuckle.

Even as the chuckles leaves your mouth, a vague sense of dread and unease trail down your spine. Maybe you weren't paying attention, but the clouds are suddenly a menacing gray, dimming the once bright blue sky.

A grey overcast settles over the entire landscape like color has been drained from existence and anything remotely akin to joy has died. As though the universe knows that the place you're approaching is forsaken, a place where poor souls came and never left. 

The wind is stale, but the cold continues to bite at your skin, your breath visible with each deep, semi-calming exhale. 

And maybe you're onto something because the second you take your eyes off the eerie sky, you see the building. It's nothing more than a small silhouette on the horizon, but it's enough for your blood to run cold. You feel a chill run through you, but this time it isn't in passing, it radiates from within you. In your peripheral, you see Joaquin shudder and pull his zipper all the way up to his throat. But you know a jacket won't appease the icy feeling settling from within. 

You watch as the tall, barbed wire fences approach on the horizon. You take another deep breath, pushing down all the memories of a life spent in captivity that you wanted nothing more than to forget. 

"Are you gonna be able to...?" Joaquin insinuates, using his wild, playfully gestures to mimic your abilities.  

His playfully imitation of your ability causes a sense of bittersweet nostalgia to rise in your throat. It reminds of your time with Sam and the many times he used to do the same thing. It reminds you of your time on the Avengers Compound, now completely destroyed. You shake away the sadness, focusing on the gates that get bigger and more menacing with each passing second. "I'm guessing you never heard about what I did to Steve's shield that one time?"

"No!" he exclaims. "What did you do?"

"Story for another time," you mutter, finally arriving at the gates of a hellhole you never wanted to return to. As the car comes to a slow halt, it occurs to you that you've never really seen the building before, not the gate, not the security posts. You don't really know any of it except the one room you were confined to. You step out of the car, the gravel crunching underneath your feet as the gate looms a few feet in front of you. "Just wait here. Keep an eye out for me."

"Sure," he hesitantly nods. 

You offer him a tightlipped smile before you turn back to the gates. They're thick metallic gates, abandoned security posts on either side. You'd only seen them once in your life when you were rescued. 

And yet, they bend only a light groan with a wave of your hand. 

Pain bubbles inside your stomach at how easy it is. Breaking out couldn't have been any more difficult than breaking in. You'd been told many times in your time on the outside that you couldn't blame yourself for not escaping into a world you didn't know existed. But you do. You still do. 

"I'll be back," you mumble, your words are so quiet that you're not even sure if Joaquin hears you, but you continue anyway.

You focus on the gravel crunching underneath your yellow Chucks, the sound they make, the way they shift beneath your feet. But all of the sudden the building looms tall over you, the old dilapidated bricks now within arms reach.

You jaggedly hiss when you see the busted doors and locks, torn down from the SHIELD raid that saved your life.

And yet, you don't do any of the things you once thought you would. Tears don't stream down your face, you don't indignantly rage, there's no sense of vindication, it just feels... empty. You feel empty. 

You step over the doors that lay on the ground. 

Even from the doorway, you can feel the eerie sense of abandonment. The wind quietly howls through the large corridor. It's dark, desolate. A thin layer dust rests on everything. The yellow walls are faded from the light filtering in through tattered curtains. 

You slowly trail down the hallway. You don't know this hallway well, only from stolen glimpses when your door was opened. The tiles beneath your feet are cracked, faded.  

You find yourself stopping in front of the steel door you know like the back of your hand. It lies there on the floor. If you didn't know any better, you'd say the door looked innocuous lying there. But you were there when Nick Fury and Maria Hill rammed the door down to free you. 

You crouch down, running your hand against the door that no longer held any power over you. You slowly rise, allowing yourself to catch sight of your room. 

Another shiver runs down your spine and your breath catches in your throat when you see the chains that kept you tied up, the room that isolated you from everyone else in the world. 

Your traitorous mind tells you that you should've done more. You know even at your weakest you probably could've broken out of those chains. The door may have been a struggle, but you should've tried. It didn't matter that you didn't know there was an outside world, you should've done more. 

You shake the remembrance away, pushing it even further down. You check every single room for the one that must've had some information on you. Something on where you came from.

At the very end of the hallway is a small room, just off to the side, it's the last room left unchecked, your last hope.

You enter the room with bated breath, hoping your wild goose chase could finally come to an end after all this time. Maybe this was just the start, maybe you could even put all the pieces of your life together. 

You enter the room with dim hope thrumming in your veins.

Only to find it completely unremarkable. A desk with completely emptied drawers. A chair strewn on the ground. The blinds tattered and half on the ground. There's nothing except a large bookcase lining the back wall.

All the books completely identical. Rows and rows of brown leather books.

Just as you're about to desperately tear through all these books, one, just slightly lighter than the rest, catches your eye. Just off to the right of the desk, so subtle you could almost miss it. But you're sure, it sits as the outlier to the rest of them. You lightly kick the chair aside, taking a few steps closer to the unusual book.

"Please be a secret bookcase, please be a secret bookcase," you quietly murmur to yourself, pulling on the book. The bookcase makes a loud, mechanical clicking noise. And with a pained groan, it slowly swings open. "It's a secret bookcase!"

"A secret bookcase?" Joaquin asks over the comms. 

"So cool!" you quietly cheer.

You step into the dark corridor without a second thought. You trail your hand along the cold bricks, feeling every ridge and imperfection beneath your fingertips until you see a dim source of light coming from just around the corner. You're momentarily caught up in excited curiosity to pay close enough attention to the practically invisible trip wire that lines the very beginning of a pristine storage room.

You trip, catching yourself against the stone wall. You cringe as you speak into the communication device, "Hey, uh, Joaquin, trip wires usually aren't just meant to trip people, right?"

"No. Not usually."

"Okay. Well, then, I definitely didn't just trip on one," you stiltedly lie, wincing as you look back on the pulled wire, now easily visible in the room's white lighting. 

"Get out of there!" he frantically orders. "It could've done anything."

"No," you hiss into the small earpiece. "This is as close as we've gotten. Just keep an eye out."

"An eye out for what?!" he frantically asks. 

"Just don't freak out," you interject, scanning through the rows and rows of white boxes, one of which are labeled or show any indication of their contents. The entire room looks clinical, sterile. Files that were never found or touched by SHIELD. "It's fine, I'll be out before you know it."

Before you even start rummaging through the boxes, you start walking the perimeter of the room. You crane your neck through each row, each practically identical to the ones surrounding it. Aisle after aisle of the same silver wired shelves, all with unmarked boxes. You've past almost a dozen of those rows when the back wall calls your attention.

You slowly trail to the end of the room, watching a large black pin-board line the entire back wall.

By the time you've reached the end of the room, you see ten pictures, all perfectly aligned with neatly typed labels beneath them. 

9 of those pictures are obscured with large, thick, black X's over them, slashing out the faces of the others. 

You already knew from your caretaker that you weren't the only kid there, you were, however, the only long-term resident. 

You shudder thinking about what those X's actually mean. You're an optimist, but not even you can delude yourself into thinking that they just let those other kids walk away. After all, you were the only one that SHIELD found alive. 

Your old therapist told you it was a textbook case of survivor's guilt, but that knowledge does nothing to change the weight you feel in the pit of your stomach. The knot in your throat that feels like it could suffocate you at any moment. Why did you get to survive when no one else did? 

And that thought echoes in your head over and over, amplifying with each second you stare at those pictures. Your mind starts running rampant, you can't stop yourself from thinking about the Avengers. All people you knew and loved, some dead, some gone, but one way or another, all completely out of your reach. 

You have to tamp down the feeling, push it down to refocus yourself on the reality of the moment. You trail down the long bulletin board. Yours is the very last picture in the row, the only one whose face isn't obscured with a faded marking. 

Beneath it, your first name, neatly printed on a small white label. You pluck the small Polaroid off the board, leaning in to closely examine it. Before you can spare more than a passing glance, you're pulled from your reverie. 

"Shit," Joaquin's voice crackles over the coms after what feels like no more than a few seconds. "You must've set off an alarm or something. You've got something incoming from above. And incoming quickly."

"Just give me a second," you hoarsely whisper, your shaky hand tucking the picture into your pocket. 

"You've got less than a minute. Get out of there!" he warns. 

You scan the room, hoping for any marker about which of the dozens of rows of identical boxes could contain any information about you. "This is our last lead! Something has to be here."

"Fall back, I promise we'll figure something else out." You don't respond, your eyes scanning for anything familiar. Even vaguely familiar. “Can you please answer me?”

“I’m - just give me a second!” You angrily groan, your hands clenching as you realize you have to throw in the towel now. Though it kills you that you've made it this far with very little to show for it, you bolt down the room back into the dark corridor. Just as you're about to leave, the secret bookcase snaps shut. The gears menacingly grind, a mechanical crunching sound halting any attempt at an exit. "Well, that's not good."

"What's not good?"

"Uh, how many seconds now?" you hesitantly ask.

"45, maybe?"

"Alright," you clap, trying to hype yourself up for what was shaping up to be a very difficult exit. "We'll see if I can get out of here in 30 seconds."

"Get out of where? Where are you?" Joaquin frantically asks. "I'll come get you."

"No!" you immediately shout, not wanting to put your friend in any danger because of your mistake. "You can't help. I'm stuck in a back room, but I think I can get myself out."

"Oh my God, Sam's gonna kill me."

"Not helping," you singsong, staring at the back of the bookcase. "Okay, I can do this."

The locked gears groan under the pressure you place on them, they hideously squeal, buckling under the weight of your ability.

"Come on," you grit, pushing your weight against the door for more added pressure. "Just a little more."

With one last big exertion, the gears move forward just enough to let you out. You squeeze your way through the small crack in the secret opening. "I did it! I can't believe I did it."

"You've got 10 seconds!"

"Oh, right!"

You bolt for the door as Joaquin desperately counts down.

10...9...8...

You've barely made it out of the office when you realize you're not going to back it out of the building before the whole thing blows. You've only made it halfway down the hall when you hear the final part of the countdown.

7...6...5...

And you get a dumb idea. A stupid idea. And idea you hopefully will not end up regretting. 

You remember the heavy steel door that locked you away. The door that has laid on the ground since Nick Fury rammed it down.  

You never thought you'd see the day that you'd seek refuge in that room, but you do. You slide under the door, bending it in half to act as your steel tent from the blow. And then the loud explosion booms throughout the building. 

And that's the last thing you remember before it all goes dark.

Chapter Text

And that's the last thing you remember when it all goes dark. 

You didn't used to be a person that carried regrets.

Once upon a time, you didn't really believe in regrets.

That was a new development. Now, you oftentimes looked back at the past and saw many regrets. Now, you carried them everywhere you went. 

On your darkest days, those thoughts of regret would infiltrate your mind. You swore to yourself that you didn't mean it. You could hardly think this regret, let alone speak it out into existence.

And though you'd never admit it, there were times when you found yourself regretting the day Steve Rogers walked into your life.

-

"Everyone we know is trying to kill us."

Sam freezes, completely startled by the appearance of Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff from his backyard. He recovers a split second later, opening the door to allow them inside. "Uh, come on in."

"Thank you."

He points to the bedroom off to the side. "You guys can get cleaned up in here."

"Thank you," Steve repeats. 

Sam nods, giving the two of them a minute to regroup themselves. He walks to the kitchen, checking the front door to make sure you haven't come back yet. He takes a deep breath, wondering how exactly he's going to tell you that Captain America and Black Widow are currently seeking refuge in your shared home. 

-

It was the start of an incredible friendship. It was also when everything went to hell. 

And you hated yourself for even thinking it. For thinking about your dead friend in that way. How could you regret the people that you loved like your own? But at some point, something had gone so terribly wrong that you found yourself all alone once more. 

And sometimes, no matter how much you willed them to leave your mind, those thoughts slipped in. 

You knew it wasn't fair. It wasn't right to place Steve as the catalyst for things going wrong. Everything still would've spiraled without or without Steve Rogers.

He did a lot for you in the time you knew him. Broke you out of the Raft. Helped you escape HYDRA masquerading as SHIELD. He was your friend. Understood you in ways few others could, what it was to be a person out of time, to feel so out of step with the rest of the world.

But you still carried those regrets like lead in your bones. Day in and out. Everywhere you went. In every breath you took. You felt them, lingering, festering, tearing you apart from the inside out. 

Because maybe, just maybe if Steve hadn't walked into Sam's house that day, maybe you wouldn't be here. You wouldn't be pinned underneath the door that held you captive all those years. Maybe you wouldn't be alone. 

Maybe you'd still be living a peaceful lie of a life. 

It didn't really matter. Once you learned to regret, once the feeling of regrets cemented itself into your psyche, you found even more. 

Regrets clung to your skin. Regrets built upon regrets. Every hesitation, every decision, every action uncovered more regrets. How could it not?

Thrust into fight after fight. Watching as your found family was torn apart right after you'd gotten a singular taste of happiness. And the icing on the cake, being turned to dust for another five years, reappearing in a world you, once again, knew nothing about. 

Regrets played back like a flashback in a film reel. 

But at least you were trying.

Right?

When you come to, you're shrouded in a thick smokey ash. It clings to your skin, your hair, you can almost taste it. 

You turn your head upwards to see your make-shift shield. It's almost completely pressed against you, pinning you against the floor. It took most of the blow, but you can feel from the blood coming from your forehead that tells you it definitely didn't protect you from all the debris and shrapnel. 

Your head pounds, a high pitched squeal rings in your ears, and your hands tremble as you try to reach for something to grab onto. You grab onto a large chunk of fallen cement, dragging yourself out from underneath the door. 

There's no sign of sunlight, not an ounce of brightness. Thick, dense smoke surrounds you, you can barely see your hands in front of you. Flames swelter and smolder around you. 

"Joaquin?" you rasp through the earpiece. 

There's no response, just a high pitch shriek that tells you the earpiece is not functional anymore. 

Though you can feel your muscles ache, you pull yourself up onto your feet. You still can't see more than a few feet in front of you as the smoke still plumes in the air. Most of the fire has ceased, but from what you can see, very little has remained. 

You stumble through the wreckage. And it's only after a few moments that your ears stop ringing and you can hear Joaquin bellowing your name.

“I’m okay!” you try calling, but the feeling of smoke in the back of your throat leaves your voice nothing more than a quiet rasp. 

You know he probably didn't hear you. You keep stumbling, throughout the now uneven terrain towards Joaquin's voice. 

"Oh my God," you hear him shout.

"I'm alright," you assure him, though you still can't see him. "I'm fine."

He bolts the second he makes out your shadowy figure. Into the thick ash, from where he saw an air strike drop the building only minutes ago, he stumbles to where he sees your cloaked silhouette amongst the rubble of the fallen building.

Though he has to stagger through the mounds of concrete and fallen infrastructure, he reaches you in a few short moments. He wraps an arm around your waist to support your weight, guiding you in the direction of the safety. 

Though you're clearly beat up, he feels relief flood his system. And he's certain he's never felt such an immense flood of relief as this one.

Your feet trudge through the rubble, but before you know it, he's pulling the car door open and sliding you into the seat. Your head slumps back, your breathing still ragged as you settle into the seat.

He closes the door behind you. And though he knows he need to get you out of here as quickly as possible, both for medical attention and for your own safety, he slumps against the car door for a moment. His head thrown forward, trying to catch his breath from the emotional rollercoaster he'd been on in the last ten minutes, he mutters to himself, "Sam's gonna kill me."

Chapter Text

Bucky throws the door of the police station open, the aggravation on his face clear as day. After the day him and Sam have had, he's just barely relieved that he's walking out as a free man after being arrested for missing his court-mandated therapy. 

"Well, I feel better," Sam sarcastically grumbles.

"I feel like shit," Bucky grunts, a fresh batch of irritation laced in his voice after that therapy session from hell.

And then their night gets just a bit worse when John Walker rings the alarm of the police car he and Lemar lean on, the loud whooping noise grating on Bucky's last nerve. 

"Gentlemen," John greets. "Good to see you again."

Sam and Bucky pad over to the car in silent resignation. Neither of them truly wanted to hear John Walker out, but they could both reluctantly admit that they sort of owed him for getting Bucky out of jail.

"Look, if we divide ourselves, we don't stand a chance. You guys know that," John matter-of-factly states, a proud smile on his face that borders on blatantly condescending.  "We need to find this Sunshine-"

"Don't call her that," Bucky angrily retorts, unable to stop himself from revealing their last card to John. 

That they know exactly who you are.

The proud smile on John's face slowly melts away to something akin to startled realization, "You know who it is." His eyes flicker to Sam's protective stance to the way Bucky's jaw clenches at the mere mention of the nickname. "You both know who it is."

Sam's arms drop, hoping a diplomatic approach could get John off of your trail, "It's irrelevant at this point, John." 

John takes a step forward in Sam's direction. "They could be responsible for this. They could be helping the Flag Smashers!"

"She's not!" Sam curtly denies.

John lowers his gaze, challengingly crossing his arms. "And how do you suppose they got all that serum, Sam?"

Once again, Sam tries to maintain his composure, to talk John from pursuing his newest obsession. "We don't know...but it doesn't matter. We-"

John cuts him off with a snort, "I'd beg to differ. Whatever this is, it's dangerous is. She's dangerous."

"You know, other than accusations, is there anything you actually have?" Bucky challenges, crossing his arms over his chest. 

"The leader's name is Karli Morgenthau. We've been targeting civilians who've been helping Karli move from place to place," John starts.

"They geotagged a location," Lemar continues. "Then scrambled the signal, but our satellites keep finding their symbols popping up in various displaced communities across Central and Eastern Europe."

"We think she's taking the medicine she just stole to one of these camps," John finishes. 

"Well," Bucky smugly starts, not putting any effort to conceal the smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "There are hundreds of those all over the planet since The Blip. So I guess you'll have to look real hard."

"Good thing I have 20/20 vision, huh?" John retorts.

"Where is she now, Walker? Do you know?" Bucky continues, egging John on with a smug, challenging simper on his face. 

"No," John admits, anger slowly seeping into his once composed voice. "We don't know, Bucky. It's only a matter of time before we find out."

"Things are really intense for you, aren't they, Walker?" Bucky taunts. 

"Alright, let's just take it easy. Walker's right," Sam interjects, stepping between the two men before any more words can be exchanged. "It's imperative that we find them and stop them. But you guys have rules of engagement and all kinds of authorizations you have to get. We're free agents. We're more flexible, so it wouldn't make sense for us to work with you."

"A word of advice, then," John adds as Sam and Bucky start walking away. They both turn slightly, watching the threatening expression appear on John's face so quickly that it's jarring to the two of them. "Stay the hell out of my way."

With nothing left to say, Sam and Bucky walk away. 

"Now, what?" Sam starts, slowly walking the pavement next to Bucky. 

Just as Bucky's about to answer, Sam's phone starts ringing. He pulls his phone out of his pocket to see Joaquin's name flashing across his screen.

Cautious excitement starts bubbling inside Sam at the hopes that maybe you've talked to Joaquin and have agreed to stop dodging Sam's calls. He eagerly answers the call, putting the phone to his ear. 

The second he lifts the phone to his ear, Joaquin's frantic voice is ranting at him, confessing everything all at once. 

"Whoa, whoa, slow down," Sam tries to speak, but Joaquin's words steamroll over his. He turns away from the questioning look Bucky's giving him, taking a few long strides away from him. "Joaquin, I can't understand you- Just hold- Just slow down and tell me what happened."

"I thought she got trapped, but she got out, and now she's getting checked out by doctors and I told her to tell you but she didn't want to worry you and now we're back in New York and I think you're going to be pretty upset. But I just had to tell you! I had to!" Joaquin rants all in one breath. 

"What are you talking about?" Sam wildly questions, trying to piece together any of Joaquin's words at the mile a minute rate they're being thrown at him. 

"She's hurt, Sam."

For a moment, Joaquin's words ring in Sam's ears. It's all he can hear.

She's hurt.

She's hurt.

She's hurt.

Even as Joaquin tells him that you miraculously escaped from God knows where with only a few minor cuts and scrapes. Even as Joaquin tells him that the doctors have cleared you. All he can hear is those words. You're here. In New York. And still a million miles away. 

And you're hurt. 

He can't remember the last time he felt his stomach sink this quickly and this intensely. 

"I'll be right there," Sam quietly breathes.

His hands have suddenly gone cold as the phone drops from his ear and gets shoved in his back pocket.

"What's going on?" Bucky questions, eyes widened at the strange look on Sam's face. 

Though internally he feels frantic, helpless, Sam's words are so calm, they almost feel cold and detached. Bucky can't even tell if Sam is pissed, worried, or scared. Maybe some overwhelming combination of all three. 

"I don't know," Sam absently remarks. "I have to go."

"I'll come with."

Sam immediately sticks out his hand, halting Bucky. Bucky's eyes widen at the abruptness of Sam's rejection. He couldn't deny they weren't on the best terms, that was clear after their session with Dr. Raynor, but something clearly wasn't right. 

It doesn't take Bucky more than a second to put it together. And in spite of the fact that he wants to know what happened to you that's got Sam all freaked, he knows you and him weren't exactly on good terms either. "It's- That's not a good idea. Something tells me this isn't going to be pretty."

Bucky's head jolts, but he nods, unsure of what else he's supposed to do in Sam's clearly conflicted state. "Alright, just-"

The rest of Bucky's words are a blur to Sam as his drive back to base starts eerily calm. The death grip on the steering wheel is the only indication that something isn't right.

At first, Sam can't think anything, his thoughts are rampant, worried sick. 

The next mile, he's panicked. What if the doctors were wrong? What if something was really wrong? Joaquin wouldn't be that panicked without a really good reason. 

By the time he's pulling onto the base, he's settled on angry. It's the easiest emotion to identify, even easier to let it course through him.

So he's angry. Angry that you lied. Angry that you went behind his back. Angry that you're hurt and you didn't even call him. No, he had to find out from a frantic Joaquin.

As he storms through the corridor after corridor on the base, the anger keeps building, stewing, and festering. 

He's about to ask the one of the nurses where you are when he hears Joaquin's familiar voice through one of the thin curtains that divide each hospital bed. 

“Look, maybe you should talk to Sam, I sort of -” Joaquin starts, his voice clearly strained with guilt and mountains of anxiety.

You cut him off, placing your comforting hand on his shoulder, “Trust me when I tell you, what Sam doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“Yeah,” Joaquin awkwardly winces. “About that-”

Joaquin is cut off with a dramatic flourish of the hospital curtain being pulled back to reveal a very, very angry Sam Wilson. "Are you kidding me?"

You barely spare Sam a second glance before you hang your head, loudly groaning, "You called Sam?"

"I'm sorry! It was getting rough and really chaotic and I thought you were dead for a solid 10 minutes- " Joaquin begins ranting, his hands begin dramatically waving around as he recounts his panic. 

"What?" Sam practically shouts, cutting Joaquin off. "You thought she was dead!?"

You finally look up, meeting Sam's intense glare, "It's not a big deal, Sam. I just got a little roughed up, that's all."

As you look up, that's when he gets his first sight of you in months. And it's clear you're understating the extent of your injuries. Everything from the gash on the side of your forehead, the bruise on your cheekbone.

"A little roughed up?" Sam scoffs, gently, but firmly, taking your chin in between his index finger and thumb. He examines the gash on the side of your head, mostly cleaned, but still so very noticeable to Sam. "Look at your face!" 

"Traitor," you grumble to Joaquin who looks ready to pass out.

He drops his hand from your face, he looks to Joaquin for a moment, then back to you. Still full of agonizing worry and frustration, he demands, "You were supposed to be doing recon. Only recon! What the hell happened?"

"Okay, so maybe I was doing a little more than recon," you concede, brushing Sam off as you stand up off the uncomfortable metal table. "So what? I need answers."

"Well, now you're going back to Louisiana," Sam angrily decides. 

The words surprise even himself. He had no intention of sending you back until the very moment he saw you and your extensive injuries.

Maybe if he wasn't so angry at you, at himself, so filled with worry, he'd think this through. But right now, he decides that protecting you is his priority.

Even if you didn't want him to anymore. 

You shake your head wildly, refusing to back down. "No, I'm not!"

"Oh yes, you are!"

You hastily reach out to grab your bag, forgetting another one of your injuries from a few days prior. You jaggedly hiss, tucking your arm back to your side. 

Sam's eyes widen even more, a fresh batch of worry washing over him. "What's wrong with your arm?

You cringe as the question leaves Sam's mouth. The absolute last thing you wanted was to give Sam another reason to solidify his causes for concern. "Nothing!"

"Take off your jacket," he demands.

"No!" you incredulously scoff. 

"Now."

"No."

"Do it or I swear I'm going to handcuff you to Redwing!" he threatens. 

"Fine," you huff.

You forcefully exhale, slowly peeling off your jacket with extra caution to avoid jostling any of your numerous injuries.

Unfortunately for you, the t-shirt underneath your jacket does nothing to hide the large white bandage wrapped around the top of your bicep.

"Are you kidding me?" Sam admonishes the second he sees the large bandage. "What happened?"

"It was a close call," you sheepishly mutter like a petulant child. 

"A close call with what?" he seethes. 

You wince, visibly cringing as you reply, "A bullet."

"You were shot?!"

"It's a flesh wound!" you insist.

"I - You - I don't even- You are grounded!" Sam angrily sputters.

"What?" you exclaim. "I'm not a child, Sam. You can't ground me!"

"Wanna bet?" Sam challenges. He points to Joaquin, who is still standing in the corner of the makeshift room as an awkward witness to this fight. "No more Torres."

"No more Torres?" Joaquin repeats from behind Sam.

"No Torres!"

"You said you would let me look," you accuse, feeling anger start to bubble up inside of you at Sam's overprotective, overbearing overreaction. 

"No, what we agreed on was recon, gathering information. We definitely didn't agree on busting down doors to get the answers you want!" Sam argues. 

"I'm not going back to Louisiana," you defiantly state. 

"Yes, you are."

“No, I’m not,” you grimace.

"Yes, you are!"

This time, when you feel the anger threatening to surface, you can't tamp it back down. Before you can grip onto it, it abruptly escapes your grasp. You grit, staring Sam down with a heaving chest, punctuating each word that spills out of you, "No, I'm not!"

You're shaken out of your stupor when Sam's eyes tears away from you and instead focus on the small fire erupted on the metal table.

The second you realize it, you force your breathing to slow, to tamp down all the emotions surging inside of you, shoving them into the box at the back of your head.

The bright blue fire dies as quickly as it began. 

This time, when Sam addresses you, his voice is calmer, laced with concern again. "It's getting worse. Isn't it?"  

You don't answer his question, still in shock at yourself. It's a terrible feeling, being so out of control.

Each time feels like an out of body experience, sometimes it feels like there's no way back to the real you.

Each time it seems less likely that you'll make it back to yourself, and you'll be stuck as this volatile being incapable of control. Your grasp on everything slipping before your very eyes.

You don't want to answer Sam's question, you don't want to fuel his concerns, so you find yourself conceding, "I'm gonna go grab my things."

Sam opens his mouth to say something, to say anything so you don't beat yourself up. He can't find the words, words to apologize, to comfort, to offer condolence, they all escape him. He says nothing as you shuffle out of the room. 

“I’m sorry,” Joaquin whispers to you as you pass by him.

With a warm smile, you put a comforting hand on his shoulder, “It’s alright, I’m not mad. Thank you, for everything.”

Sam throws his hands up from behind you, indignantly scoffing with a roll of his eyes, "Oh, sure, be mad at me but not at Torres."

"I can't hear you!" you call back over your shoulder.

"Yes, you can," Sam shouts back. Then he lowers his voice when he notices other people that more than likely heard this entire fight play out. He offers an awkward wave and smile to the people sitting behind the receptionist desk. He juts his thumb in your direction, sheepishly chuckling, "She heard me."

He takes a few steps back into your makeshift hospital room. Even though he knows everyone in a ten-foot radius just heard the entire argument between the two of you, his shoulders slump in defeat as he shuts the curtain for some pseudo-privacy. 

From the the therapy session from hell with Bucky to the explosive argument with you, the night really begins to weigh on him.

He rolls his neck, staring up at the tiled ceiling as he shakes his head. His rolls his neck back downward, the scorch mark on the table catching his eye again.   

Staring at the small scorch mark on the table, he wonders when everything got so out of hand, wonders at what point did you stop thinking that you could come to him about these things.

And at what point did he lose both of his friends?

Chapter Text

At what point did he lose both of his friends?

He thinks about this question relentlessly as he stares at the scorch mark on the metal table. And he can't pinpoint a single moment where things had gone so wrong? He can't even be sure when you started pulling away.

But he can pinpoint the moment the exact moment that everything had changed.

-

After the funeral, the two of you sat in silence, Sam only broke it as you both climbed into his car, still donning all black attire from Tony Stark's funeral. The question was innocuous, but loaded with so many unknowns, "So now what?"

"I have no idea," you slowly exhale.

You both decided to start at the Compound. You already knew it was mostly destroyed, but a big part of you wanted to believe that something had to have survived the battle. And maybe that was just foolish, naive hope, but you pulled up to the Compound in Sam's car with a heart full of hope.

It was stupid in the grand scheme of things. You knew it was. It still didn’t make it hurt any less.

The place you called home.

The magnificent and awe-inspiring Avengers Compound. Reduced to rubble.

Still, you stumbled through the ash, debris, and searched with a bright smile and your head held high.

Most was unidentifiable. But from what you could identify, you were able to find your old room. And it hurts even more.

The room painstakingly decorated with Nat and Wanda. Days the three of you spent laughing, teasing each other, all reduced to nothing. The bookshelf Steve and Sam helped you find and set up for you. CDs and records you collected from all around New York.

All gone.

Though you felt the stinging sensation of tears building in your eyes, you shook them away as though it could shake away the pain of the last few days. Or years - that would probably be more accurate. 

You told yourself that it didn't matter that everything you'd ever owned was now gone. It didn't matter that you went from nothing after being rescued to a room full of cherished possessions... back to nothing. All lost in one fell swoop. It didn't matter that you were once again dropped in a society that looked completely unfamiliar.

You were on the outside. Thanos defeated. Sam was alive. Bucky was alive. And maybe your family was no longer intact, but you still had something, a good starting point.

So you and Sam decided to lay low for a few days to collect your bearings.

You didn't know that things were about to go from bad to worse. 

“Technically, it’s SHIELD housing, just off the books," Sam tells you, pulling up to a small cabin just a few miles away from the Compound. "But I figure we can lay low while we figure out our next move.”

You take solace in the way Sam speaks about you as a unit. Even though he's no longer responsible for you, he's standing by you. You walk up the steps with a heavy heart that's lightened by the people you still had in your life.

You open the side panel, clearly stating your full name to the little intercom device.

“Access denied," the monotone voice drolls.

“What?”

You shake off the startle, this time carefully speaking your name again.

“Access denied.”

"Maybe Tony put in one of his nicknames?" Sam offers, though you can tell he's grasping at straws. 

"Why don't you try?"

"Sam Wilson," Sam pointedly states. 

“Access granted.”

You sharply inhale, your shoulders stiffening. 

"It's probably just a mistake, the stupid thing's been sitting here for five years untouched," Sam assures you. You half-heartedly nod, giving Sam a tight smile in response. He can't offer any other assurances because he simply doesn't have them. The whole thing is deeply unsettling to him too. "Don't worry, we'll figure it out."

There's no bags to set down as the two of you walk through the door together. Nothing to put away. 

The cabin is old, everything covered in a thin layer of dust. You're about to ask Sam what the two of you should do when his eyes linger on a small room off to the side. You take a few steps to meet his eye-line, his eyes have settled on an old SHIELD computer tucked into the corner of the room. 

"Sam," you warn.

What you didn't want to tell him, what you already knew, was something Sam would never accept. What he's refusing to accept.

It probably didn't even have anything to do with the Snap or being gone for five years, and had everything to do with forcing you back into submission. And more than anything, you just don't want to be proved right in this moment. 

He unlocks the computer anyway. The computer casts a slight glow across the dim room, Sam is clearly nervous as he unlocks the computer with his own code and it's not long before you he's pulling up the old SHIELD database. You wait with bated breath as Sam enters his own name into the SHIELD database. There's no delay or complications as his file fills the screen. 

"Just so we know it's working," he quietly explains. 

You slowly exhale as he types your name with a painstaking hesitancy. What neither of you say is that you're both already certain you have the answer. All Sam was doing was confirming what you both already knew. He hits the enter button with a sharp jab of his finger.

And all that appears is a small error message: Personnel Not Found.

You sharply inhale.

Now, you’d never claim to be the smartest of the bunch. But you knew in the depths of your bones what this meant: you’d been erased.

And now, you were officially back at square one. 

Sam's eyebrows furrow, but he doesn't stop typing, trying dozens of combinations of your name. First name, last name. Last name, first name. Silly aliases that you'd made up while on the run. Typing the ID number SHIELD gave you. 

None of it works.

The clicking sounds of Sam's typing become more frantic, more desperate as he refuses to accept what's happening to you.

You place your hand on his shoulder, prompting him to stop his typing.  For the second time in one day, tears burn at your eyes. This time you don't keep them from falling.

Now, you were gone. A person who never would be and never was. It was a gut punch you never thought you'd have to feel again. Something you didn't think you'd ever lose again. And most of all, you don't want to do this to Sam again. 

You remembered how hard he had to fight the last time, how much hell SHIELD put him through, and even worse was when SHIELD fell and no one knew what to do with you. But through all of that, at least you had yourself. And now they'd taken that from you too.

You decide in that moment that you can't put him through this again.

You squeeze his shoulder once. A silent apology to him for whatever comes next. "It's fine, Sam."

"No, it's not fine-"

You drop your hand from his shoulder. A melancholy settles over the room as you both come to the crushing conclusion that things really would never be the same. "Just leave it, Sam."

"But-"

"We'll figure out where we go from here tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," he agrees with a sharp nod.

-

It hurt. And after a while of sitting in the upstate New York cabin, you agreed to go to Sam's sister's house with him. You ignored the fact that you were leaving the first city you'd called your home, leaving a place you loved with all your heart. You ignored that there was nothing left for you in New York.

Instead, you rejoiced in the fact that Sam would now be reunited with his family. 

And every time Sam tried bringing up your current situation, you brushed him off, telling him to focus on his sister and nephews who'd gone five years without him. And in hindsight, he should've seen the signs, saw what was happening to you right before his very eyes. 

But before he knew it, you were blindsiding him. 

-

"Sam? You busy?" you meekly ask, shuffling into the kitchen.

"Mhh..." he hums, rummaging through one of the kitchen cabinets. "Just looking for this old family recipe. My mom made the best Christmas cookies, and I know she had the recipe around here somewhere. What's up?"

You dismissively wave your hand. "No, you're busy. We can talk later."

"No, no, it's fine. Come on, what's going on?"

"I think..." You have to stop to swallow the lump in your throat, mustering all your courage and nerve to say the words that you know will irrevocably change your friendship with Sam. But it's for the best, you tell yourself, Sam will be better off. "I think I have to go."

"I already told you, we can go Christmas shopping later. It's not a big deal, tons of people do their shopping last minute. No one can tell the difference."

"No, Sam," you object, this time a little more forcefully insistent. Simply at your tone, his head jolts upward, the smile falling from his face morphing into a concerned and confused expression. "I think I need to leave."

"Leave?" he echoes. "Leave where?"

"I need answers, Sam. Real answers."

"Well, hold on a minute, I'll go with you! We can go right after the holidays. The both of us-"

"No, no," you interrupt him. "Don't do that. Sarah, AJ, and Cass, you can't just leave them. You just came back."

"We both just came back," he corrects. "But you were so excited about the holidays, and now you want to take off? I don't- I don't get it. Why the sudden change of heart?"

"Sam, I just- I have to do this. Besides, I already talked to Joaquin, and he's not going home for the holidays this year, so he said he'd help me."

His back straightens, no longer leaning against the counter. Logically, he knew the sense of betrayal lodged in his throat was irrational. After all, you were talking to him about it. But it hurts, it stings, knowing that you went to someone else for help instead of him. It aches that you've suddenly decided to leave without him, to leave him entirely. This throat tightens from the emotional whiplash and the faint ache of what feels like a betrayal. "You talked to Torres before you talked to me?" 

"Yeah," you exhale, your eyes downcast. "I did."

That night was a quiet one. The Christmas music that previously filled the house was more faint, the twinkling lights more dim.

You left your bedroom door open as you carefully folded each of the few articles of clothing you still owned. The open door taunted Sam, partly a silent plea for him to talk to you, partly a painful reminder of the friend he was about to lose if he didn't give you your space. 

The quiet bled into the drive to the airport the very next day. For the first time in your entire friendship, neither of you knew what to say. The silence felt suffocating, crushing.

A breath remained in the back of his throat, ready to voice unspoken words at a moment's notice.

From the driver's seat, he could see the furrow in your eyebrows, the tension you carried in your shoulders, telling him you had your own unspoken words that you desperately wanted to voice.

Neither of you did.

It was only when he drove up to the terminal that the heaviness subsided enough to sustain spoken words.

"Promise me you'll be careful. Recon only. You know-" he starts, feeling the desperate urge to remind you what dangers lurk around the corner. 

The worries echoing in his head are almost enough to get him to ask you to stay. He doesn't.

"I know, I know. I promise I'll be careful."

He wants to offer to go with you, to tell you that you don't have to do this alone. Instead, he pulls your duffle bag from the trunk of his car. He extends it out to you, but pulls it out of your reach to give him the chance to issue another promise, "And you'll call me? Keep me posted?"

"I'll call," you repeat, carefully avoiding the word 'promise'. 

His throat starts tightening, the goodbye hitting him like a ton of bricks. "If you need anything, anything..."

You weakly smile to keep your bottom lip from quivering, "I know."

He throws his arms around you. You allow your small duffle bag to hit the floor as you wrap your arms around him, "I'm going to miss you."

"Miss you too," you mumble into his shoulder. 

-

Even now, he wasn't sure what he should've done. Maybe he was wrong for allowing you the space that strained your friendship to its current state. Or maybe he held you too close for too long. Maybe he should've spoken up a little more, told you that he wanted you to stay. 

Or maybe, the fault didn't lie with him at all. Maybe you really did just want answers and things had gone a little too far. 

But you walked out of his life with barely an objection from him. 

He knew sending you back to Louisiana wouldn't make you happy. And especially not when he was forcing your hand. But right now, he was still seething with anger.

You knew the dangers you were putting yourself in.

Aside from you physical injuries, there were other dangers lurking around you, dangers you were fully aware of, and you still did it anyway.

The phone buzzing in his pocket pulls him out of his reverie.

Before he answers, he says a silent prayer, hoping this call doesn't make his night any worse. Bucky's name flashes across his screen. He exhales once more before answering the phone, "Hey, Buck."

"Is everything okay?" Bucky asks, his voice crackling through Sam's phone. 

"Yeah, sorry I left so quickly, everything's fine here," Sam quietly whispers into the phone. 

He ducks his head out of the hospital cubicle, doing a quick scan of the area for any sign of you. He sees the nurses try to school their puzzled expression at his strange, almost erratic, behavior. He doesn't see any sign of you just yet so he ducks back behind the curtain.

His eyes flicker back forward, falling back on the blackened mark on the table.

"It’s fine."

“Yeah,” Sam sighs, crossing his arms. He looks over his shoulder again before continuing their conversation from earlier, “So, what are you thinking?”

“I know what we have to do," Bucky cryptically states. "Who else would know about serums like that?"

“We’re not talking about the Super Soldier Serum, Bucky.”

“But maybe it’s worth looking into.”

Sam shakes his head. He hates this idea, hates this lead. And he hates it a little more because it's the only lead they have. Bucky didn't even know everything about you, but if he did he'd be much more insistent upon this particular lead. “Not a chance.”

“Walker doesn’t have any leads,” Bucky reminds him.

“I know where you’re going with this, no,” Sam objects.

“He knows all of HYDRA’s secrets. Don’t you remember Siberia?”

“So you’re just gonna go sit in a room with this guy?” Sam rhetorically asks, hoping that Bucky will hear how insane this idea is. 

He doesn't. 

“Yes.”

Sam looks back up at the ceiling. This time he knows he's the one who has to make the concession. Even if he hated the idea, it was a damn good idea. "Okay, then. I guess we're going to Berlin. I'm on base."

"Why are you on base?"

"Long story," Sam forcefully exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Meet me up here? I gotta take care of something before we leave."

"Alright."

"Bye."

Sam takes another deep breath. He's lost count of how many of those he's done in this span of eight hours, but it doesn't seem like he's going to get a reprieve any time soon. 

He hasn't even been off the phone for more than a minute before you whip the curtain open behind Sam with an abrupt flourish of the thin curtain. Sam jolts, almost dropping his phone at the interruption. 

And though you startled him, he quickly recovers, eyeing you suspiciously, "What's going on?"

You languidly shrug, setting your bag on the table. There's a challenging undertone of your words, your head twisted like you're daring him to lie to you. "Just getting sent back to Louisiana against my will. Unless there's something you'd like to tell me?"

“No. Is there something you'd like to tell me?” he pointedly counters, hoping you'll reveal if you just heard that phone call. 

It's odd to him. This distance, fighting, it was completely uncharted territory with you. Sure, the two of you had your fights, bickered back and forth. The two of you never used to have secrets. It was your rule number one. And now, like most things in this day and age, that was gone too. 

“No,” you curtly reply, crossing your arms. “I’m still mad at you.”

He scoffs, mimicking your actions by crossing his arms over his chest, "Right back at you."

"Then I guess we don't have anything to say," you quickly retort.

“I guess not,” he coldly replies. 

Chapter Text

"Torres," Sam curtly greets, walking up the ramp to the utility plane. 

Joaquin winces as Sam coldly breezes past him up the ramp. He quickly follows him, desperately reassuring him, hoping to appease some of Sam's anger, "If it makes you feel any better, she really did try to keep out of trouble."

"It doesn't," Sam grimaces, pulling out his phone to call Bucky. As he's about to dial, he hears Bucky's heavy footsteps echo up the ramp. And even though Bucky has no idea what's going on, he can feel the tension between Joaquin and Sam. He knows there's about a handful of people in Sam's life that would get him this worked up in worry: Sarah, his nephews, and you. He finds himself unsettled with worry as Sam hisses at Joaquin, "You should've called me."

"Er... What happened?" Bucky hesitantly questions, placing his bag down on the seat. 

"I work with reckless idiots," Sam grumbles.

"And that’s why you’re pissed with Torres?" Bucky urges. 

"That would be Reckless Idiot #2," Sam angrily tells him.

Bucky frowns, "Oh."

"It doesn't matter," Sam curtly states, signaling to Bucky that he doesn't want to rehash whatever argument Bucky stumbled onto. "The other reckless idiot should be back in Louisiana with Sarah by now."

"You really think she shouldn't know?" Bucky exhales, taking a seat as the plane takes off. 

It was one thing ignoring you, but lying to you was entirely different. And as much as he hated to admit it, knowing that he was doing just that felt like a knot was twisting itself into the pit of Bucky's stomach.

"I don't know,” Sam admits, his bag haphazardly seated in his lap. “Doesn't matter, we need more answers before I drag her into this mess."

"I hate to admit it, but we’re over our heads with this," Bucky cautions. "This is literally centered around her."

Sam shakes his head, standing when he feels the plane steadily moving through the air.

He takes his duffle bag in hand, moving to place his bag on the small tarp where some of his other gear lay beneath. "We need to figure out where this serum’s even coming from. And how they’re making them in the first place."

"Yeah," Bucky reluctantly concedes. 

Sam haphazardly drops his duffle bag on top of the tarp. His eyes widen when from beneath the tarp, he hears a muffled, "Ow."

"What the-" Sam gasps. Bucky's head snaps up at the sound that came from underneath the dark tarp. Sam's jaw almost drops as he quickly reaches down and rips the tarp off of his gear. He bellows, "Oh my God!" 

You wince, curling further into yourself as your hiding spot is given away.

"What are you- Why are you- How did you-" Sam sputters, not able to finish a single question.

He's not even sure whether to be impressed by your tenacity, mad at your stubbornness, laughing that you actually stowed away. His mind races and he can't bring himself to settle on a single emotion.

"Right back at you!" you accuse, hopping up from your hiding place amongst some tactical gear. You point to Joaquin who's emerged from the front of the plane at the sound of the commotion, "You asked Reckless Idiot #2 for help? " Then you point to Bucky, who's settled on an amused expression as he settles into his seat to watch you two fight it out. "And Bucky!? But you didn't bother to tell me anything?"

"I knew you heard that phone call!" he loudly groans, his hands grasping at air in frustration. 

"Well, I’m glad I did. I can't believe you!" you argue back. 

"Me?" Sam shouts in disbelief. "You stowed away! You’re supposed to be back in Louisiana!"

"Because I knew you were hiding things from me!" you angrily defend. 

"I had nothing to do with this," Joaquin swears to Bucky. 

Bucky shrugs, throughly entertained by the fighting.

Even though he didn't know either of you that long, this was something that was distinctly familiar, this was something that he knew all too well.

Because, yes, you and Sam loved each other like siblings, but even more entertaining to Bucky and really anyone lucky enough to witness you two bicker back and forth, you both fought with each other like siblings.

Bucky quietly tells Joaquin, “In my experience, it’s best to let them fight it out.” 

You can feel the anger swelling in the pit of your stomach and rising in the throat again. And once again, it starts slipping through your grasp. Though you were just sailing through a clear, blue sky, the plane suddenly begins to sway and rattle like you're traveling through the eye of the storm.  

"We weren't expecting any turbulence, I should go check on that," Joaquin skittishly announces, barely excusing himself before scrambling to the cockpit and away from the fight.

You force yourself to take a deep breath, physically stepping backwards and away from your fight with Sam. 

"Yeah, turbulence," Sam half-heartedly agrees, carefully watching each one of your sharp inhales followed by choppy exhales. 

Taking another step back to lean on the utility crates, you do your best to shake away the moment.

It's only a few short moments before you've settled. And when you do, you become incredibly conscious of the third person sitting just a few feet away from you.

You turn your head, seeing Bucky for the first time in months.

You don't allow yourself a moment to take in how drastically different he looks. You pretend your eyes don't want to rake over his face to examine him for a moment.

You're not interested in the way he's changed all these months. Not in the exhaustion that seems permanently etched onto his face. Not in the incredibly short hair he now wears. Not in the stormy emotions clouding up his once brilliant blue eyes. 

No, you tell yourself you don't notice any of these things. You pretend you don’t care. It hurts so much less if you don’t care.

You simply acknowledge him with a tip of your head and a tight smile, “Bucky.”

The amused smile melts off of Bucky's face, slightly jarred by the use of his nickname, one you've never used before. In spite of his shock, the corner of his mouth twists up as he juts his chin in an awkward greeting, "Hey."

“Hi,” you repeat. 

Now that he's not entertaining himself with watching the two of you fight, he's taken aback by the sight of you for the first time in months.

His eyes rake over you and he's not even sure what he's supposed to be focusing on. The fact that you're not in some obscenely yellow clothes, well, except for your shoes. He almost cracks a smile at seeing the remnants of your bright personality. 

Your face is beaten up and he really has to tamp down the urge to demand who did that to you so he can kill them. There's a small gash on your temple, barely noticeable now that it's cleaned up, a yellowing bruise on the very top of your cheekbone. 

Now, now, you look like the SHIELD asset everyone always wanted you to be.

He'll concede that you look bad ass, a complete contrast from the person he once knew, the opposite of the person that you told him you so badly didn't want to be. And a part of him, a much bigger part than he'd ever admit, hates that, hates that he almost doesn't recognize you. 

Yeah, you sort of annoyed him when the two of you first met. But in the short time you knew each other, he also really liked you. You weren't scared of him. You made him laugh. He liked watching your banter with Sam, he liked that in some weird way he found an unexpected friend in you.

He fought that feeling of kinship and understanding. He fought it hard. He kept reminding himself that he only knew you a few months.

Because it didn't matter how much it felt like he'd known you forever, he didn't. 

And he especially hates that the words at the forefront of his mind sound like some sappy romance character. Because all that he can think is that it looks like someone dimmed the bright, bubbly person he once knew.

Like someone broke you. 

"Well, this is awkward," Sam quips after a long silence.

You both finally tear your eyes away from each other, both looking at Sam with a particularly annoyed expression. 

“Thanks for that,” Bucky retorts, rolling his eyes at Sam. 

“Well, since I’m here," you forcefully exhale, plopping yourself down a few seats away from Sam and diagonal to Bucky. "You guys wanna tell me what’s going on?”

Sam and Bucky share a look, silently debating who’s going to be the one to tell you about what they’d discovered. After a moment, Sam speaks, carefully choosing his words, “We think there's some sort of serum being worked on. There’s still a lot we don’t know.”

“What kind of serum?” you question.

“We’re calling it the Sunshine serum," Sam half-heartedly chuckles. "But from what we've know, it’s your DNA they’re copying.”

“My DNA?” you repeat, twisting and untwisting your fingers as a sense of uneasiness settles over you. 

“We don’t know where they would’ve gotten your blood, but someone’s got it,” Bucky adds.

“Gross," you dramatically recoil. "There’s people carrying around my blood?”

“A serum made from your blood,” Sam corrects. 

“The Sunshine serum?” you slowly repeat as the realization sinks in. Your stomach twists the second you hear serum leave Sam’s mouth again. You really hate the conclusion you come to. “They’re trying to make more of me.”

“There's still a lot we don't know,” Sam reminds you, his voice calm and assuring. 

“But that's what they're trying to do? Right?” You look frantically at the two of them. Neither want to answer your question. "Right?"

"Yes," Sam finally responds. 

"And neither of you were going to tell me about this?" you demand, finding it easier to slip into another argument with Sam than to deal with the tumult building inside you. 

"Oh, are we going to talk about honesty?" Sam rhetorically challenges. "Because I'd love to talk about honesty!"

Your jaw clenches, but this time you don't argue with Sam. Even though you really don't want to admit it, you know he's right. You knew you were taking things too far. And you knew what would happen if you got caught.

Sam had a right to be mad, so you sat back on the plane with your arms crossed over your chest as you accepted his snarky remarks.

"How about you tell me why the hell you two are going to see Zemo?"

"We think he might know something," Bucky offers. "It's a long-shot, but it's the only lead we have."

"You don't think-" you start asking Sam, finishing your question with a knowing look. 

Sam remorsefully shrugs. "I don't know."

"What?" Bucky asks, trying to dissect the silent conversation you and Sam were having. "Hello? Would someone like to fill me in?"

You nudge your head towards Bucky. Sam shrugs again, nudging his head in your direction. 

"Before SHIELD fell," you finally begin to explain, tearing your eyes away from Sam to look at Bucky, who waits with an impatient expression. "Nick Fury warned me about who I could trust. Said to 'choose wisely'. Go with my gut, that sort of thing."

-

It was already 2 in the morning. Missions were becoming more frequent, more grueling, and it was starting to weigh on you. Your legs felt like they were made of lead as you stumbled into your room to get some sleep before your next assignment first thing in the morning. 

'Tough mission?" a familiar voice asks. 

The lights flicker on to reveal Nick Fury standing in the corner of your room. Until this very moment, you believed him to be dead. In shock, your bag slips from your grip, hitting the floor with a muted thud. 

"You're alive," you gasp, abruptly throwing your arms around him in a tight embrace. "I thought you were dead. They said you died, Sam said-"

"It's going to take a hell of a lot more than a Winter Soldier to kill me," he chuckles, returning the embrace for the shortest of movements. 

You pull away from him, looking at him as he stands in the corner of your room in the dead of night. "I'm just so glad you're alive, Nick."

"It's not that simple," he corrects. "And that's why I need you to be careful."

Your sigh of relief catches in your throat. "What?"

"Nick Fury is dead," he ominously states. There's no remorse in his voice until he speaks his next sentence, "And that means I can't protect you anymore."

"From who?"

"From SHIELD."

"SHIELD? SHIELD saved me. You saved me, why do I need to be protected from them?"

"I know you've noticed that things are different, strange. Now that I'm gone, the vultures are going to circle. People are going to try to get close, try to win your trust. Go with your gut, it's never wrong."

"What are you talking about? I'm literally wrong all the time!"

"Not about this. Have some faith in yourself, I know I do."

-

"Nick Fury protected me, he was very careful about who had access to me. And once Nick Fury was gone... things started spiraling. It started with people trying to get close. Trying to find out things that even I didn't know. Then, it was trying to get me to go on weird, secret assignments, more off the book than normal. They wanted me to keep tabs on Sam, on Steve."

There's an absent look on your face as you recall those months leading up to SHIELD's fall. The lies that everyone kept trying to convince you were true.

Your suspicions were confirmed when they told you Sam and Steve were traitors, moles within the organization and you needed to distance yourself from both men before they took you down with them.

"And then?"

"I was put in the hands of someone I knew couldn't be trusted. I knew something wasn't right, so I started lying, making things up."

"Who?" Bucky finally asks.

You don't look back fondly at all those months you spent nodding along, pretending like you believed everything, second-guessing every person you spoke to, all the while being forced to follow every order that came from a man you knew couldn't be trusted. "Alexander Pierce."

Chapter Text

"He's just through that corridor," the guard informs you three, pointing down to the small door that lead to the room that contained the man you only knew by reputation as the catalyst to the massive rift that tore your family apart. 

"Just give us a second," Sam tells the guard. 

The guard nods, walking away without another word. 

"Okay, well, I'm gonna go talk to him," you inform Bucky and Sam, jutting your thumb in the direction of the door. 

Sam reaches out, careful to grab your uninjured arm to pull you back to the two of them, "Absolutely not."

"Not a chance," Bucky agrees.

"Of course, this you two can agree on," you scoff, rolling your eyes. "It should be me."

"No, it really shouldn't."

"And why not?" you demand. 

"Because it's Zemo," Sam forcefully states. "A very dangerous, very manipulative man."

"Like I'm going to fall for anything he says," you guffaw, a little insulted by Sam's lack of trust in you. "Despite what you may think, I'm not an idiot."

"You know I didn't mean it like that," Sam mutters, the edge in his voice dropping to something that sounds vaguely apologetic. 

"Didn't you though?" you retort.

"You know what?" Sam deeply exhales. "We can talk about this later, because you're still not going in there."

"It should be me. It's me they're trying to replicate," you insist. 

"I'll go. I'll talk to him and see what he knows," Sam offers.

"No, I need to do this. He could have answers for me," you continue. 

"Well, hold on a second, I think I should be the one going in," Bucky interjects. "I have the most experience with Zemo. And either way, you two were Avengers, you know how he feels about that."

"Well, technically, I was never an Avenger," you wryly point out.

Bucky snorts, rolling his eyes, "You lived on the Avengers Compound. I don't think he's going to change his mind on a technicality."

"It's not like you two were known for frolicking in the sun together," Sam counters. "If I remember correctly, he's not that big a fan of super soldiers either."

"He was obsessed with HYDRA," Bucky doubles down. "We have history together. Trust me, I got it."

"No, you don't got it," Sam quips.

"Well, it's either going to be me or you," Bucky counters.

"So it should be me!"

As the two of them omit you from the conversation entirely, you take a few silent steps backward, slowly moving away from the conversation and closer to the door the guard just pointed to.

You slowly shuffle backward, keeping your eyes forward as the two of them bicker back and forth.

With just a few steps, you see the door in your peripheral, You reach for the small buzzer and quip to the two of them, finally interrupting their banter, "Okay, great, while you two figure that out, I'll be right back."

The two of them break away from their hushed argument to the sight of you already by the door being buzzed in.

Before either of them can say a word, you dismissively wave your hand at them, "Don't worry, you can talk to him after me."

"Wait-" Sam starts, only to be cut off by the door shutting behind you. 

You pass through the first door, only stopping when the guard in front of you halts his footsteps.

The guard looks up at the camera in the top right corner, speaking a series of numbers before the next door buzzes open. 

You take a deep breath as he guides you through the door, leaving you alone with a man you only knew from the chaos he caused during your time on the Compound. 

He sits in the shadow, obscuring his face in the darkness. 

"Well, It's not every day someone I don't know comes to visit me in prison."

"Hello, Zemo. I'm-" you begin introducing yourself, not even a sentence in before he begins talking over you.

"Before you begin, I feel I must confess that your introduction is not necessary. Your reputation precedes." 

His words spark your curiosity. Few people knew about you, even fewer knew of you well enough to recognize you so easily. You know better than to take the bait, so you lightly hedge, "And what reputation is that?"

He finally steps into the light, a small smirk on his lips. You've never seen this man before, you also only know him from reputation, and to put it plainly, he's not at all what you expected. But you remind yourself of what Sam said, he's manipulative, dangerous.

"A mysterious woman with even more mysterious abilities. SHIELD's most valuable asset, worked closely with the Avengers. A particularly warm friendship with Steve Rogers." His head turns slightly, a calculating grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. His next words sound rhetorical, but he watches carefully for a reaction. "Pardon me, if I'm correct you maintained an affinity for both super soldiers. How is James Barnes?"

You sigh, shaking your head before ignoring your instinct to refute his claims, "Well, I'm sorry to tell you not all the stories you've heard are true."

"And what about your time with the Avengers? Is that not true?"

"It's true."

He hums, nodding with a smirk. You can see him plotting, figuring out exactly how he's going to push your buttons. "Tell me, did you enjoy your time as an Avenger? Did it feed your superiority complex?"

"I don't think I'm superior," you plainly state. "And I wasn't an Avenger."

"That's right," he humorlessly chuckles, nodding like you just played right into his hand. "You were SHIELD's little toy."

And there it was, his carefully laid trap. You swallow the bitterness of his words, nodding once, "Yes, I used to work for SHIELD. They rescued me."

"Rescued or commandeered?" he poses. 

"Rescued. From a room not much smaller than this actually," you offer, gesturing to the room surrounding Zemo. "From a life in captivity."

He snorts, shaking his head at your words. "Rescued, then weaponized for a war you knew nothing about. A war killing thousands of people who stood no chance against people like you."

It's then that you realize what he's talking about. And while you weren't present for the battle in Sokovia, you'd heard enough about the atrocities for your stomach to knot from guilt. "I know it's not enough, but for whatever it's worth to you, I'm sorry about your family."

He snorts in disbelief. "A tad hypocritical to offer apologies. Exactly how many people have died by your hand?"

"None. Not a single person."

A curt chuckle leaves his mouth, clearly not believing you, "Not even as an Avenger? Not as A SHIELD asset?"

"No, not even then." His eyes narrow, clearly trying to determine if you're telling the truth. You take this as your chance to win him over, to convince him to tell you what he so clearly knows, "I've only ever wanted to do what was right. To be more than what I was taught I was."

"And what is that?"

"A monster."

"Do you believe that you are? A monster, I mean?"

"I don't know," you answer honestly, shrugging your shoulders. "I know I didn't ask for this. And I don't know why I'm like this, but I am, so I deal. But just because I deal, doesn't mean other people should have to. And it definitely doesn't mean there should be more people like me."

"Because you want to be the only one?" he probes.

"Because I don't want people getting hurt," you easily reply. "And now with this serum or whatever it is, people are going to get hurt."

"And you think I know why you are the way you are? Who's behind this new serum?" He proudly nods, pointing at you through the glass, "You think HYDRA has something to do with this, which is why you came to me, which means you are desperate."

"I think you're a man that prides himself on knowledge. And knowing how one random person ended up this way is invaluable knowledge. It's knowledge that not even SHIELD had."

"I will admit, you defy my expectation. It's impressive."

"Thank you... I think?"

"But what you need to ask yourself is how did they get the source of the serum in the first place."

"What?"

"It came from you. This you know, but the question begs to be asked: how did they get your blood in the first place?" You've always been told you wore your heart on your sleeve. And usually, you didn't mind it, but in this moment you pray that Zemo cannot see the gears turning inside your head. He continues pacing the length of his small cell. "Because this organization, the one that held you captive, they wished to see you extinct, did they not?"

You unwittingly shake your head as you follow Zemo's insinuation. "Then it was HYDRA, it was-"

"You're so quick to exonerate SHIELD," he points out, once again donning a wicked smirk.

"They wouldn't have. SHIELD wouldn't-"

The words die on your mouth, because you know it's not true. Even before SHIELD had been overtaken by HYDRA, they absolutely would have. Even in those early days, you weren't blind to SHIELD's blatant power grabs. And you know they absolutely would've done it. 

"But it has crossed your mind," he correctly assumes. "They had the access, a simple blood draw to cultivate an army of unstoppable people such as yourself. Why else would they keep samples of your DNA? Samples of your blood?"

You're taken aback by this. You'd only ever told Sam about that small, fleeting confrontation with Brock Rumlow after you accidentally stumbled upon a hidden lab. It was an accident, but when you saw rows and rows of vials, your curiosity got the best of you. 

Your fingers had barely grazed a single vial before Rumlow found you and demanded to know what you were doing in that lab.

You didn't tell anyone except Sam about the strange incident. And it sort of fell to the back of your head amidst all the chaos that transpired in those next few months. "How did you-"

"You're so certain about SHIELD. About Nick Fury. But something tells me that's not a traditional employment practice. And deep down, you know it too." You remain wordless. Your mouth opens once, then closes without a sound as you carefully try to choose your next words when he speaks again, "I only wish to enlighten you. I mean you no harm."

"Is that true?"

"Your hands are clean. I can appreciate your innocence," he genuinely offers. "But as you can see I don't have the knowledge you want. Maybe James will be more successful in his interrogation."

You don't even question him on how he knows Bucky's coming in right after you. You simply nod once, your eyebrows furrowing as you mull over Zemo's words.

Just as quickly as you walked in, you turn on your heels, your mind reeling with the sting that SHIELD could very well be responsible for all the chaos ensuing.

You roughly push the door open. The second you enter the hallway, the heavy atmosphere lightens and it feels like you can breath again, you gasp for desperately needed air.

The weight in your stomach does not subside. You feel queasy, almost seasick, completely adrift in all the events of your time on the outside now slowly being picked apart.

It feels like you're slowly drowning, like you've been fighting for months to stay afloat but now you're truly being dragged to the depths of waters that just keep getting even murkier. Your muscles ache from exhaustion after all this time, and sometimes, you swear you won't ever resurface. 

You're immediately surrounded by Sam and Bucky both flanking you as they impatiently wait the play-by-play of what happened in there.

"Are you okay? What happened in there?"

You look at the tile beneath your feet as you process the information. You try to remind yourself that Zemo isn't exactly the most reliable source of information and this could all be a way to get under your skin.

But deep down, you know it makes too much sense.

"You remember the night Rumlow found me in one of the labs?"

Sam nods once, vividly recalling you telling him that you'd gotten scolded like a child for wandering the halls, "Yeah."

You finally look up at Sam with a gaze that's lost in recollection. "Those vials - there was a reason I got in so much trouble for that. He thinks they were keeping my blood. He thinks it was SHIELD."

Chapter Text

"What are you talking about?" Sam wildly questions, the three of you walking through some dark, desolate basement. "You wanna break Zemo out of jail? And where the hell are we, Buck? Have you lost your mind?"

"Not that anyone's asked my opinion," you quip, following behind Sam but in front of Bucky. "But I don't feel like this is the greatest of ideas."

"You know what's not a great idea?" Sam rhetorically asks, his voice filled with sarcasm specially reserved for you. "Using that little ball of flame in your hand instead of a flashlight! You know, the flashlight, the one on the back of your phone, the one used to take calls and not ignore me? Or did you forget about your phone because you were too busy being blown up!"

"You were blown up?" Bucky incredulously demands, his eyes wide as his head whips toward you. 

"No!" you adamantly deny, smothering the small blue flame in your palm. "The building I was in blew up. I was safely tucked beneath a steel door."

Bucky's almost stunned silent with a dumbfounded look on his face. He shakes his head, pointing at you, "Okay, we're gonna circle back to that in a minute. What was I saying...? Right, we have no leads, no moves, nothing."

"What we have is one of the most dangerous men in the world behind bars," Sam retorts. 

"And a serum that no one knows anything about. But Zemo does," Bucky insists, recalling the look on Zemo's face when Bucky questioned him after you left his cell.

It was the look of a man who knew more than he was going to say while still behind bars.

"Or he's just leading the two of you to believe that so you get him out," Sam argues. "Zemo's just going to mess with our minds. Especially yours, Bucky. No offense."

Bucky flips on a large power breaker, illuminating the room. "Offense."

You wait for a moment, leaning on one of the large metal shelves that faces the door you entered only moments ago. "He's a means to an end. The enhanced humans are against everything he believes."

"But she's not a superhuman!" Sam exclaims, doubling down. "She's a person, a person that I don't want Zemo anywhere near."

"He's crazy, but he still has a code."

"And we've all been on the wrong side of that code, Bucky! He blew up the UN, he killed King T'Chaka, and framed you for it. Did you forget that? You think the Wakandans forgot about that? It's a rhetorical question, of course they didn't." Sam pauses for a moment, eyes remaining on Bucky. While Sam continues his rant, you allow your eyes to wander the strange warehouse-like room Bucky lead you to. "I know this matters but we can't let it push us off the deep end." It's then that Sam's eyes snap back to you, pointedly remarking, "Or any further off the deep end." 

"Will you quit taking shots at me?" you frustratedly groan. "I haven't even said anything!"

"We don't know how they're getting the serum," Bucky quietly tells Sam, his eyes widening at Sam to silently remind him of the information they were still keeping from you. "We don't know even know how bad this is yet, Sam." 

"Sam, maybe we should hear Bucky out?" you gently urge. 

"Let me just walk you through a hypothetical," Bucky starts, his eyes flickering between you and Sam. "Can I walk you through a hypothetical?" 

Sam's ears perk up, his shoulder stiffening at Bucky's words. "What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything," Bucky guiltily replies. 

"Oh no..." you sigh, shaking your head. "What did you do?"

"The weakest point in any system isn't the software, the hardware. It's the meatware, the human element," Bucky continues, tapping his temple several times. "Now, in this lockup, it's nine to one, prisoners to guards. And if two prisoners start fighting then the protocol says four guards have to respond."

"So why would two prisoners randomly start fighting at that moment?" you question.

"Who knows? There could be many reasons. But the point is, these things escalate. Lockdown procedures would have to be initiated, and with all those bodies flying around left and right, it wouldn't be hard to slip down a hallway or two. And if the fire alarm got tripped while the prisoners were being separated, someone could use the chaos to their advantage."

As Bucky continues his rambling about the prison in suspicious amount of detail, your eyes wander the room. You remain leaning on the metal shelves, shifting from one foot to the other when the large drape in front of the entrance you just walked through shifts. 

"I don't like how casual you're being about this, it's unnatural. Now, where are we?" Sam demands.

You step forward, craning your neck to get a better look at the drape. Just through the other shelves in the room, you catch a shadowy figure emerge behind the drape. You reach out to touch Sam's shoulder, "Hey, Sam."

Sam slightly lifts his hand to dismiss you, "Just hold on. Bucky, what are-"

"Sam," you interrupt again, the pieces of Bucky's plan falling into place as the drape pulls back to reveal the key component to Bucky's farfetched plan. "I just want you to know that I had nothing to do with this." 

"Nothing to do with what?" Sam asks, following your eye-line to the doorway just in time to see Zemo enter the room in a guard's uniform. And most definitely not behind bars anymore. "What- Whoa, whoa, whoa!"

Bucky sticks out his arm to stop Sam. "No, listen-"

"What are you doing here?" Sam accuses, pointing at Zemo. "You're going back to jail!"

"I didn't want to tell you because I knew you wouldn't let this happen," Bucky defends, still stopped in front of Sam.

You settle back against the metal shelf, crossing your arms in amusement as you watch the chaos unfold. You know you should probably be upset with Bucky for making you and Sam an accomplice to breaking Zemo out or even a little worried that a man who vowed his entire life to getting rid of people like you is now standing only a few feet from you, but in spite of all of that, a laugh leaves your mouth, "This is way worse than the thing I did."

Sam's head snaps back toward you with an expression that goes far beyond irritated, "Then it's a really good thing I'm more than capable of being mad at the both of you at the same time."

"We need him," Bucky insists. 

"You're going back to prison," Sam curtly restates. 

"If I may-" Zemo starts. 

"No!" they both exclaim.

"Apologies," Zemo remorsefully mutters. 

And though only moments ago, Sam said he didn't want Zemo anywhere near you, Zemo sidles up right next to where you remain standing with an amused expression on your face. You quietly mutter to him, "If it makes you feel better, they don't listen to me either."

"When Steve refused to sign the Accords, you backed him. You broke the law and you stuck out your neck for me. I'm asking you to do it again," Bucky pleads. 

"I really think I'm invaluable-" Zemo tries again.

"Shut up," Sam cuts him off, turning back to Bucky with a bewildered expression. Sam points to where you stand in the room, "You know how he feels about her and you want us to work with him? You trust him not to kill her the first chance he gets? Because I was under the impression you gave a shit about what happens to her."

"Don't do that," Bucky sharply warns, gritting his teeth to bite back his unfiltered response, "I - He's a means to an end, Sam. It doesn't matter what we do or don't feel. We need him."

A huff of disbelief leaves your mouth as Bucky speaks, the words only confirming what you already greatly suspected, you saw something that was never there. 

"You are putting her in danger. Even more danger!" Sam exclaims, overemphasizing each word. "Zemo is a dangerous man."

"I can take care of myself, Sam," you angrily reply, once again a little insulted by Sam's complete and utter lack of faith in your ability to stand on your own two feet.

"Clearly," he scoffs. "Has everyone here lost their minds?"

"Even more danger?" Bucky repeats, clearly confused about what Sam's referring to. "What are you-"

"Sam," you finally interrupt, not wanting Sam to divulge any details of your current situation. "This is bigger than me. This serum getting out puts everyone in danger."

You look at Sam with an expression that carries millions of words, thoughts, and retorts.

He takes a large breath of concession. Because once again, it doesn't matter how much he hates this, you've got a point.

While you and Sam share a silent conversation, Bucky thinks and thinks hard trying to figure out exactly what Sam was talking about. He knew physically, of course, this line of work was dangerous. How many people hadn't been lost in one single fight? He'd seen it first hand. But that wasn't it, he knew it wasn't. There was something that you and Sam had been hiding. There had to have been a reason that this strange fight was still going on between you and Sam. So he raked through his brain, trying to remember anything and anything that could help him figure it out. 

All that comes to mind is one very cryptic conversation with Steve, coincidentally, also in Berlin.

-

"So what's her deal?" Bucky asks Steve, nudging his head in your direction.

"Her deal?" Steve chuckles, quirking an eyebrow at him. "Single, if that's what you mean."

"Funny," Bucky scoffs, rolling his eyes at Steve. "What's she doing here?"

"What are any of us doing here?" Steve questions, a slight huff of laughter as he watches you and Sam share some incredibly long, elaborate secret handshake.

"Are you done being a smart ass?" Bucky impatiently prompts.

"Alright, alright," Steve acquiesces. "It's Sam mostly. At least that's what I think, you didn't hear that from me."

"Sam?"

Steve shrugs. "Her story is... complicated."

"Ha," Bucky grunts in clear disbelief.

"I would argue as complicated as yours," Steve continues.

"Should I be insulted?"

"No," Steve assures, his voice a light laughter at Bucky's defensiveness. "She was a SHIELD asset. Best thing they ever stumbled on. Person in captivity. Clean slate. She just never quite fit the mold. 'Specially not with Sam watching out for her."

"Sam was her handler?" Bucky guesses.

"From what I know, yes. Even now, where she goes, he goes. He goes, she goes."

"Doesn't sound that complicated to me."

Steve's mouth remorsefully twists, trying to determine how much of your story he was at liberty to divulge without your permission, "SHIELD wanted things from her, had this idea of what she should be. It was unnerving, watching them try to take advantage of a person that didn't understand this world."

"Captivity?"

"Born and bred. Didn't see the light of day for the first 25 years of her life."

"But she's so...?" Bucky trails off, the four of you still waiting in the parking lot for the rest of your ragtag team.

"I know," Steve snickers, fondly smiling at you. "She's tough. Didn't matter what SHIELD through at her, she never folded."

"And now?"

"I don't know," Steve winces, shaking his head. "It's not really my story to tell."

Bucky snorts. "Who am I gonna tell?"

"Is there a reason you're this interested?"

"There's a reason you're deflecting," Bucky counters.

"It's complicated," Steve repeats. "SHIELD owned her. Like really owned her."

"But SHIELD fell... so she's free?"

"Sam doesn't think so. He won't admit it, but he's scared. How do you argue the freedom of a person that no one knows exists? A person that no one has ever considered a person?" And that statement really strikes a chord with Bucky - because isn't that exactly what Steve is doing for him? Isn't that exactly what he's been for 70 years? "SHIELD's gone, but what's stopping the government from staking their claim? She's not a citizen, of anywhere, no home, nothing. A ward of the state, really. Sam thinks that they're gonna come for her. He wants to keep her out of the fight, but he's not letting her out of his sight any time soon. It's how she ended up here in Berlin."

"And what do you think?"

"I think that she's here to do what's right."

"You think they'll come for her?"

Steve's mouth quickly opens, only to shut again. He waits for a moment, clearly thinking his answer through. "I don't know."

-

"Okay," Sam decides, the abrupt sound of his voice pulling Bucky from his remembrance. "But if we do this, you don't make a move with our permission. You don't look, talk, or even breathe in her direction with our say so. Got it?"

"I can take care of myself, Sam," you refute, once again, your words are unheard, and most definitely not acknowledged.

"Got it?" Sam repeats, ignoring you entirely. 

Zemo nods. "Fair."

"So, where do we start?"

Chapter Text

You didn't hate places. Most definitely not entire cities, but you were glad to be leaving Berlin again.

You reconciled that at least this time you weren't leaving in handcuffs. 

Though you rationally knew it had nothing to do with the city of Berlin, and everything to do with the choices and decisions you made in your life, it seemed like Berlin never had anything particularly good in store for you.

-

"You okay?"

"I'm not the one that got pushed down an elevator shaft," you quip. 

"Why'd you go after-" Steve starts, a concerned look painting his face. 

"I think you're right, Steve," you blurt.

"Right about?"

"He hesitated. Your friend, I don't- I don't know, but he hesitated."

"Hold on, hold on, just walk me through exactly what happened," Steve prompts.

You nod, taking a large gulp of air. "I was just down the hallway with Nat when the power went down, and I saw him tackle Sam down. He pushed you down the elevator, Nat went one way. And I know I'm supposed to be staying out of it, but I followed him."

"And?"

"His arm, it's made of vibranium like your shield. He heard me coming from behind him, I sort of grabbed his arm. I swear I wasn't trying to shove him that hard, but he fell down some stairs, his head hit one of the steps so I went to make sure I didn't, you know?" you insinuate with a wince. Steve nods, waiting for you to continue. "But when I went to look, he sorta popped back up. Steve, he could've killed me right there. I know that he could've, but he didn't. He just watched me for a second, and then he took off again."

"He hesitated," Steve murmurs under his breath.

"I know what he did to Nick, Steve," you remorsefully mumble. "I wouldn't be saying anything that I didn't really believe."

"And what do you believe?" Steve gently asks.

"He just, he looked..." you falter, fumbling for an accurate portrayal of a moment that was so fleeting but carried so much weight. Steve catches your eye again, silently urging you on. "He looked trapped."

"Want to tell me what the hell that was about?" Tony furiously questions as he strides into the room.

You already had the inkling that Tony saw your actions, or more accurately, your inaction earlier. You just hoped that he would've taken that as you being scared in the face of the Winter Soldier, but from the tone of his words you know that he knows there was more happening. You immediately begin apologizing profusely, "I'm so sorry, Tony. I guess I just- I hesitated-"

"No, I saw you. On the staircase, you had him and you let him go, and I want to know why!" Tony demands, his voice seething with rage.

"Tony," Steve chides, a little taken aback by Tony's vitriol that had never been directed at you.

"I already told you -" you start.

"You're a terrible liar, you know that? How about you try the truth this time!?"

"Tony," Steve admonishes once again.

Your eyes remain downcast as you finally admit what ran through your mind as the Winter Soldier stood in front of you while you did nothing to capture him. "He's a person, Tony. Just a person."

Tony scoffs, throwing his hands up. "Of course, leave it to you to try to find the humanity in the Winter Soldier. He killed Nick Fury. He killed the person who rescued you! Did you forget that? Better question, what happened to staying out of it?"

"I know, I know, but I think-"

"That's the thing, you didn't think!" Tony snaps. "Do you even realize what you just did? All that talking to Ross, making a case for you, all of it gone. You just proved to Ross today that you're a loose cannon."

"I'm sorry, Tony. I- I just I looked at him, right in his eyes and -"

"Oh, that's great, really great! I'll be sure to tell Ross you spared the guy because you thought he had pretty eyes."

And while you and Tony both knew you weren't talking about the color of his eyes, and though you most certainly weren't going to admit that to Tony, you were captivated by the vastness carried in his eyes.

For those few short seconds, you were mesmerized by what you swore upon every star that you saw. It was like there was an entirely different person trapped, begging and pleading for help as he was drowning in the depths of those ocean blue eyes. 

"That's enough, Tony," Steve curtly warns for the last time. "You're asking her to apologize for having mercy."

"Mercy?" Tony incredulously repeats. "That's mercy? Mercy is sending him to a psychiatric facility instead of a Wakandan prison. Not letting him go!"

"I didn't-"

"But you did!" Tony angrily exclaims. "And if anyone else gets hurt, that's on you two."

-

"So all this time you've been rich?" Sam remarks, gesturing to the private jet you three are about to board.

"I'm a Baron, Sam," Zemo explains, a slight undertone of disdain in his voice. "My family was royalty until your friends destroyed my country."

Zemo offers a greeting to the man waiting at the foot of the plane's staircase. They exchange what sounds like a warm greeting followed by a peck on each cheek. "Please, ladies first."

You nod at Zemo with a grin before beginning your ascent up the stairs, "Thank you."

Bucky watches you for a moment before he feels a sharp elbow in the ribs. "Eyes a little higher, Bucky."

"I wasn't-" Bucky starts, stopping only to glare at Sam. 

Bucky rolls his eyes, turning away from Sam to climb up the stairs. By the time the two of them are aboard, you've already taken your seat in the left aisle seat. Zemo steps out of the aisle and turning to the seat in front of you. 

"Oh no, you don't," Sam warns, grabbing Zemo's shoulder as he tries to take the seat in front of you. "What did I just say about staying away?"

"Sam," you admonish with slightly widened eyes. "Like he's going to try anything with all three of us right here. Unless you want him to sit with Bucky?"

"Fine," Sam begrudgingly huffs, releasing his grip on Zemo's shoulder. "But I'm watching you."

Zemo nods, a mischievous grin on his face as he slowly sinks down to his seat, "I expect nothing less."

Bucky takes the seat in front of Sam, who sits in the aisle beside you. He watches you for a moment. He wants to ask what Sam's talking about. What danger is lurking so closely that Sam is this mad at you?

His mind is flooded with millions of questions and wondering. He refuses to satiate his curiosity in front of Zemo. The last thing he wants is to give Zemo any more ammunition to use against either one of you. 

But he can't help that his eyes just keep wandering back to you. It's not just that you're oddly quiet, sitting with one of your knees propped up and your elbow resting on it as the plane takes off. It's not that your head rests against the window. It's the fact that you've yet to say more than a few words to him or anyone else on the plane, like you're pretending that they're not even here. 

He knows it's his fault. He knows that.

But a part of him wanted you to yell at him, to call him a jerk, an asshole. He could work with anger. He could even work with it being as it was. Friends was better than this.

Because right now, there was nothing.

You offer no quick-witted, off-handed remark. No goofy jokes or off-kilter anecdotes. It's a coldness in a person that was so warm. It's a masterpiece torn to shreds. 

"Apologies if it's a little warm," Oeznik says, bringing Zemo a flute of champagne once the plane is coasting in the sky. "The fridge is out, but I will see if there is some good food in the gallery."

Zemo quietly mutters something in Sokovian to his butler why a wry smirk on his face. You look away from the window, tsking and shaking your head at Zemo with a chuckle, "Guys, don't eat the food."

"What? Why?" Sam questions.

"Just trust me," you warn.

"You speak Sokovian," Zemo observes, tilting his glass to you in praise.

"Since when do you speak Sokovian?" Sam guffaws.

"You weren't the only person I hung out with on the Compound." You shrug, fumbling with one of the laces on your shoes. "Wanda taught me a little."

"It's good to have you back, sir," Oeznik chuckles, shuffling back to the front of the plane.

This time you don't continue watching out the window, instead you watch the man for a moment as he takes a large sip from his glass. Zemo holds your gaze for a moment, a calculating look in his eyes as he begins speaking, "You don't know what it's like to be locked in a cell."

He pauses for a moment, turning to Sam first, "Oh, that's right, you do."

And then he turns back to you, the same wry, prying smirk on his face. "And I suppose you're more well versed in captivity than the two of us combined."

"Watch it, Zemo," Sam warns. 

"It's alright," you dismiss, brushing the comment off. 

You're not really sure what to make of the man. You know he hates people like you, people like Bucky. You know that he's the reason the Avengers imploded. But there was a sincerity in his voice when he said he meant you know harm that you can't ignore. But that wicked glint in his eye definitely doesn't match his previous sentiment.

"Why don't you just tell us where we're going?" Sam prompts.

"I'm sorry, I was just fascinated by this," Zemo says, peering into the book in his lap. "I don't know what to call it, but this part seems important. Who is Nakajima?"

Before you can even blink, Bucky is out of his seat, a hand wrapped around Zemo's throat. "You touch that again, I'll kill you."

"Bucky," you hiss, though you're not even sure if you're saying it to console him or to warn him. 

Bucky's eyes flicker to you, slowly dropping his hand from Zemo's throat. He snatches the small notebook from Zemo's hand, tucking it back into his jacket as he returns to his seat. 

"I'm sorry," Zemo apologizes, smoothing his jacket back down. "I understand that list of names, people you've wronged as the Winter Soldier."

"Don't push it," Bucky seethes, sparing Zemo one last cold glare.

"I've seen that book," Sam redirects, nudging his head toward the small notebook. "It was Steve's when he came out of the ice. I told him about Trouble Man, he wrote it in that book. Did you hear it? What'd you think?"

"I like 40's music so..." Bucky trails off, shrugging his shoulders. 

"Oh, no," you sigh.

Sam turns to Bucky with an incredulous expression. "You didn't like it?" 

"I liked it," Bucky half-heartedly offers.

"It is a masterpiece, James," Zemo explains. "Complete. Comprehensive. It captures the African-American experience."

Sam's eyes follow Zemo for a moment before turning back to Bucky with a vaguely annoyed expression on his face, "He's out of line, but he's right. It's great. Everyone loves Marvin Gaye."

"You said that about Star Wars too," you mutter under your breath.

"Those movies defined a generation!" Sam angrily exclaims. 

"Who said that?" you dramatically ask, theatrically looking over your shoulder to scan the rest of the plane.

"I'm surrounded by people with terrible taste. Steve loved Marvin Gaye!" Sam admonishes, his head turning to glare at you and Bucky. "And he loved Star Wars too."

"How interesting," Zemo muses. And even with those few words, you feel a vague sense of dread creep down your spine. "The three of you had such admiration for him."

He probingly looks at Sam. "As a mentor."

Then to Bucky. "A brother."

"And you," Zemo starts, pointedly eyeing you, "Steve Rogers meant a lot to you too."

Bucky almost freezes, his eyebrows furrowing as the statement that so easily leaves Zemo's mouth. Logically, he knew that Zemo was just trying to provoke you. Zemo would say whatever he could to do that. 

But there's always some truth buried in Zemo's words. 

Bucky had seen you interact with Steve on a handful of occasions. Seen you hold hands. Rest your head on his shoulder. Laugh and share exchange whispered words of kinship and understanding. From what Bucky saw, Steve had a real soft spot for you. Steve even encouraged Bucky to be friends with you, he pushed the two of you together whenever he could manage to.

But that was before you all became fugitives.

And two years is an awfully long time to get closer to a person. 

"Yes, he did," you plainly state, your voice not defying a single emotion. You knew he was bating you, trying to get a rise out of any one of you that he could. "He was my friend."

"Are you that close with all your friends?" This time you don't respond. And it solidifies Bucky's unfounded suspicions, there's something that you simply don't want to say, something worth hiding. Zemo turns back to Bucky with the same mischievous gleam in his eyes, "James, you would know, is she that close with all her friends?"

You grit your teeth, refusing to dignify his question with a response. You already knew what you meant to both super soldiers, and you weren't going to give Zemo the satisfaction of that answer.

"Watch it, Zemo," Sam grunts before Bucky can respond. 

It was a good thing too, because Bucky finds that picture so clearly in his head.

How close you were with Steve.

How close you could've ended up. 

Bucky only had stolen, fleeting moments with you. But he has to wonder: Did Steve get those too?

Zemo continues his tangent without even acknowledging Sam's warning, "But I realized something when I met him. The danger with people like him. America's super soldier, the enhanced human, is that we put them on pedestals. They become symbols. Icons. And then we start to forget about their flaws. From there, cities fly, innocent people die. Movements are formed, wars are fought. You remember that, right? As a young soldier sent to Germany to stop a mad icon. Do we want to live in a world full of people like the Red Skull? That's why we're going to Madripoor."

"What's up with Madripoor?" Sam asks. "You talk about it like it's Skull Island."

"It's an island nation in the Indonesian archipelago," Bucky quietly explains, his mind still helplessly reeling with Zemo's insinuations. "It was a pirate sanctuary back in the 1800's."

"It's kept its lawless ways, but we cannot exactly walk in like ourselves. James, you will have to become someone you claim is gone."

"That's enough, Zemo," you snap, not caring that you're falling right into Zemo's trap. "Bucky is not the Winter Soldier, so just tell us what we're doing and stop antagonizing him! Okay?"

Bucky's eyes slightly widen at your warning to Zemo. You'd been fairly quiet this entire plane ride, only offering the occasional quip and comment. You haven't even clarified or defended a single one of Zemo's borderline accusations.

But you defended him.

He's not sure whether to be elated that you so adamantly defended him against Zemo's blatant insinuation that the Winter Soldier still resided inside of Bucky.

Worried that you just gave Zemo more ammunition to use against the both of you.

Or if he should be upset that you definitely just called him Bucky again. 

Zemo tilts his head in your direction, a vaguely triumphant smile on his face. "My apologies."

Chapter Text

"Oh my God, it's like watching Bambi learn how to walk again," Sam teasingly quips, watching as you stumble once more.

"Thanks for that Sam," you angrily huff.

"You're welcome," Sam sarcastically retorts. 

You continue walking, ignoring Sam as you try to keep pace with the three of them.

You briefly wonder how Natasha made it seem so effortless, though you have to reconcile, Natasha Romanoff made every thing seem effortless. 

You've spent months trying not to fixate on the laundry list of people who'd left, of their own volition or not. But especially your fallen friends, there was no point, you told yourself over and over.

They were gone. You couldn't bring them back.

But you do wonder what sage nuggets of wisdom she'd impart for your current situation.

She was one of those people who seemingly had a solution to everything, even when you found yourselves on different sides of the Avenger's infamous Civil War. 

She warned you that nothing good would come from taking sides. She also told you nothing good would come from handing yourself over to General Ross.

It was one of the biggest regrets of your life, how you'd left things, how you, like everyone else, fell on one side, one right behind the other.

And yet, it wasn't a regret you could quantify. In reality, there was very little you would've done differently, but you so desperately wished it had played out differently.

-

"As much as I hate to admit it, if we're going to win this one, some of us are going to have to lose."

Sam looks at you, a pleading expression on his face. You know he's asking you to make a quiet escape, to leave while you still have the chance. He also knows you won't do that, you've never been one to stand aside when you could help. 

You offer him a crooked smile and a languid shrug, letting him know you're ready and willing to accept the consequences of your actions today. Whatever they would end up being for you.

"They're headed for the Quinjet," Tony informs Rhodey.

Before he can take off to stop Steve and Bucky, you catch the foot of Tony's suit, pulling the metal suit back to the ground against all the force of his propellers to keep him grounded.

"What the-?" he starts, his sarcastic tone dropping when he sees you standing there, maintaining an invisible grip on him. He deeply breathes, "Sam really just can't keep you out of it, can he?"

-

You couldn't blame Tony for taking that shot.

You didn't blame him when you took the blow that left you unconscious at that airport. You didn't even blame him when you awoke on the Raft, all alone and in shackles. 

You stop thinking about them when you trip once more. Your hands reflexively reach out in front of you, and this time you're certain you're going to hit the pavement in front of you.

That is until you feel two arms securely wrap around you. Your eyes widen when your palms hit the sturdy chest in front of you. 

You look up, your face flushed with both adrenaline and embarrassment. You breathlessly chuckle, "Hi." 

Bucky looks down at you, biting his lip to keep from smirking down at you. "Hi."

Sam loudly clears his throat, interrupting, "Hi."

Bucky's arms drop from your waist, though you can still feel the warmth of him through your dress. You turn to Sam with wide eyes and a sarcastic smile, "Oh, Sam, you're still here?"

"And here I was about to offer you my arm," Sam snarkily remarks. 

"And here I was about to offer you my arm," you mock, your face childishly furrowing at Sam.

Bucky looks between the two of you, no longer trying to keep the entertained smirk off of his face. He gestures between the two of you. "You know, the amount of respect and the maturity here is so admirable. Aspirational, even."

"Shut up," Sam grumbles, walking past the two of you. 

Bucky just rolls his eyes in response, an amused smirk still lighting up his face.

While you roll your eyes at Sam, Bucky looks down at you for the dozenth time tonight.

All night he's watched you.

Watched you and Sam argue, so much more than the normal bickering. Each verbal jab more pointed than the last. 

Watched as you left the back room of Zemo's plane in a little black dress he was loaning you. 

Watched as you stood off to the side, engaging with either of them as little as possible.

Doing his best not to overthink his actions, he silently extends a supporting arm out to you. 

"Thank you," you smile back at him, taking Bucky's arm. Just as the two of you begin to walk side by side, you call out to Sam, who's now leading you two by almost a yard, "That's a good look on you, Sam."

"Ha-ha," Sam sarcastically laughs over his shoulder. "But really we have to do something about this, I'm the only one that looks like a pimp."

Zemo scoffs, waving away Sam's comment, "Only an American would assume a fashion-forward Black man would be a pimp. You look exactly like the man you're supposed to be playing. The sophisticated, charming African rake named Conrad Mack, aka the Smiling Tiger."

"He even has a bad nickname." Zemo extends a screen out to Sam. Sam looks down at the photo, shrugging his shoulders, "He does look like me though."

"And who exactly am I supposed to be?" you ask, wincing as you tug down your dress for the dozenth time. 

"Just yourself," Zemo coos at you, a wry grin to taunt Sam and Bucky.

"Watch it, Zemo."

"And I can't just wear my normal shoes?"

"The yellow chucks that you let my nephews draw on?" Sam rhetorically asks, throwing an incredulous look over his shoulder, "I'm gonna go ahead and say no."

"The drawings add character, Sam," you shout back.

"You could always go back to Louisiana?" Sam offers, a challenging grin on his face.

"And let you have all the fun?" you quip. You shake you head at him, "I'll stick with the shoes."

Zemo inhales deeply. "You smell that?" 

"Yeah, what is that? Acid?"

"Madripoor," Zemo replies. He turns to you three with that same calculating glint in his eye, "Just remember, no matter what happens, we have to stay in character. Our lives depend on it. There's no margin for error."

"That's... a little unnerving," you shakily admit, subconsciously squeezing Bucky's arm a little tighter.

"Louisiana," Sam sing-songs to you.

Bucky watches the back and forth for a moment, wondering why you'd even gone to Louisiana when you so clearly didn't want to be there.

The thing was, you had nothing against Sam's home, you liked the community, the people, the space.

You couldn't actually explain what it was. You just had this sense, of guilt, of continually burdening those around you. No one ever gave you even the slightest inkling that the feeling was anything close to the truth. But it started to eat at you.

Uneasiness turned into anxiety, turned into restlessness, turned into a complete inability to accept peace in your life.

By the time you left, you were always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the next disaster to strike, for the next person to leave.

"Not funny," you sing back.

"High Town's that way," Zemo nudges his head to the bright skyline. "Not a bad place if you wanna visit, but Low Town's the other way."

"Please say we're going to High Town," you whisper to yourself.

"Let me guess, we don't have any friends in High Town," Sam remarks.

Zemo smirks. "No."

"Great," you exhale. You shake your head, pulling on a false bravado with the widest grin you can muster, "Sounds like a great time!"

"Oh, it certainly will be," Zemo agrees.

Chapter Text

Madripoor is every bit as chaotic as Zemo described.

A vaguely acidic smell fills your nostrils as you step out onto the bridge that leads to a grimy bar with a large, flickering neon sign hanging above the entrance. 

"Hey," you greet at three menacing men standing on the side of the road. You nod to another woman, who stands twirling a knife in her hand, "Good to see you again."

"What are you doing?" Sam hisses under his breath, pulling you away from the random strangers you're greeting.

"What? I'm blending in!"

"Well, stop it!"

You roll your eyes at Sam and continue walking the length of the road. And though Bucky is now fully immersed in his role as the Winter Soldier, he spares you a fleeting glance to check if you're okay. 

You nod ever so slightly, following right behind Zemo into the bar.

Zemo throws the door open, entering the bar like this is his domain, his most natural element. 

The bar is packed, filled with people who put Bucky's cold stare to shame. 

You can feel eyes on you four the moment you enter the bar.

And because Zemo has yet to tell you exactly what role you're to play tonight, you're unsure if you're supposed to shrink under the scrutiny or bear it with a head held high like Sam. 

The second you hear the whispers as you walk by, you're certain it doesn't even matter.

No one's looking at you.

They're all looking at Bucky. 

"Is that the Winter Soldier?" you hear someone murmur. 

You hear more hushed whispers, echoes of awe and fear about the infamous Winter Soldier as you walk towards the center of the establishment, straight for the bar.

You can't help but feel for Bucky. Even now you flinched when someone even said the word asset in your presence. You can't imagine being reduced to a mere weapon ever again, but here Bucky is, doing it flawlessly. 

"Hello, gentleman," the bartender gruffly greets. The bartender looks at Sam for a moment, "Wasn't expecting to see you here tonight, Smiling Tiger."

"His plans changed," Zemo interjects on Sam's behalf. "We have business with Selby."

The bartender's eyes shift around the room, making eye contact with another unfamiliar man. Then, without a word to the unknown messenger, the bartender turns back to Sam. "The usual?"

Sam nods once and your eyes scan the room as the bartender makes his mysterious drink.

In the sea of people staring at your ragtag group, you watch as the unfamiliar man disappears to alert someone of your arrival.

You turn back to the bar just in time to see the snake in the bartender's hand being sliced open. 

"Ah," Zemo smirks as Sam's snake venom drink gets placed in front of him. "Smiling Tiger, your favorite."

"One for the lady?" the bartender asks, but you immediately notice that he doesn't actually ask you, his head cranes over you directing the question at Zemo. 

Zemo's hand reaches out to clutch your bicep to pull you closer to his side. His grip is firm, borderline painful as Zemo unknowingly agitates your injury. "No. None for the asset."

A breath gets caught in your throat as your blood runs cold.

You do your best to suppress your wince but it turns to a jagged hiss as his fingers grip the gunshot wound on your arm.

And you immediately know why Zemo didn't tell you what your role was tonight, because Sam never would have allowed it.

All you can do now is hope the night doesn't get any worse.

Though Zemo maintains a hand on your arm, the moment the bartender isn't focused on you and Zemo, his grip loosens and allows you a slight reprieve.

For the shortest, millisecond Sam catches your eye, trying to discern if this whole charade needs to come to an end. You don't dare shake your head for fear of breaking character, you simply exhale and look away from him. 

"I love these," Sam plainly states, raising his glass.

"Cheers, Conrad," Zemo offers, clinking their glasses together.

Zemo is the first to put the drink to his lips.

Though Sam tries not to show it, he almost hesitates, not wanting to down the mysterious liquid.

You quietly clear your throat to smother your chuckle as Sam gulps the drink down. He schools his expression, giving the bartender a stone-faced thumbs up. 

"I got word from up high," the same man from earlier says, approaching Zemo from behind. "You ain't welcome here."

"I have no business with the Power Broker, but if he insists, he can either come and talk to me..." Zemo pauses, gesturing to Bucky.

"New haircut?" the man taunts Bucky, trying to show how unaffected he is by Bucky's menacing presence. 

"Or bring Selby for a chat," Zemo finishes. 

The man sneers, narrowing his eyes at Zemo.

Bucky's vibranium fist opens and closes once as a warning.

The man visibly hesitates, his hand hovering above Zemo's shoulder.

Bucky's jaw clenches, meeting the man's glare with every once of intimidation plus a little more.

After a second more, the man reluctantly backs down with a huff. 

"A power broker, really?" Bucky grunts as the man walks away.

You lose sight of the messenger in the densely packed crowd, while you scan the room you notice that eyes are still locked onto Bucky, everyone watching every single move he makes. 

"Every kingdom needs its king. Let's just pray we stay under his radar."

"Do you know him?" Sam quietly asks.

"Only by reputation," Zemo ominously states. "In Madripoor, he is judge, jury, and executioner."

The messenger approaches once more, but this time Zemo doesn't exchange another back and forth. Zemo turns to Bucky, speaking several words in Russian.

The atmosphere of the entire room shifts, the sudden tension thick in the air before anything even happens.

The man places a single hand on Bucky and before you know it, Bucky is attacking. 

You gasp at the first punch is thrown as Zemo pulls you away from the altercation. Bucky looks at you for the shortest second, eyeing as you watch the scene play out in front of you.

As quickly as he caught your eye, he turns to throw another merciless punch. 

You have to look away as Bucky pins the man to the bar.

Not because his actions scare you, but because you know it must be hard for him to pretend to be the Winter Soldier again.

You don't want to make it any more difficult for him. 

"Didn't take much for him to fall back into form," Zemo mutters, a light hand still holding your arm.

You whirl back around when you hear a loud cacophony of guns clicking and cocking throughout the entire bar and it takes everything in you not to intervene when he's so clearly in danger.

You would do the same for any of your friends, you tell yourself. 

Zemo tightens his grip on your arm in warning, still unaware of the pain radiating through the injured area. He whispers in your ear, "Stay in character or the whole bar turns on us."

"I could take the whole bar," you exhale.

The corner of his mouth twitches up, he chuckles, "As entertaining as that would be, we have a goal tonight." 

Zemo turns away from you and back to Bucky. Zemo mutters a few more words in Russian.

The second the words are uttered, Bucky stands tall, letting the unconscious man slump off the bar and onto the ground with a muted thump. 

"Selby will see you now," the bartender announces.

Before you can ask Bucky if he's okay, Zemo maintains the tight hold on your arm, tugging you through the crowd that parts for you like the Red Sea. He murmurs in your ear, "Now, play your part, Asset."

You're not even playing a role when you shudder as he starts pulling you forward like a guard dragging an inmate to their execution. 

"You good?" you hear Sam quietly ask Bucky.

All you hear is Bucky's sharp exhale in response.

Zemo continues dragging you through the crowd, through a long, menacingly lit hallway.

Your heart starts pounding in your ears, louder than the music that thumps throughout the bar.

Dread continues building, adrenaline slowly flooding and overwhelming your system until you reach a small, hidden room in the very back of the bar. 

A woman sits on the couch in the center of the room with two men flanking her. She begins with a calculated cadence, speaking with the same Machiavellian grin Zemo often wears, "You should know, Baron, people don't just come into my bar and make demands."

"Not a demand. An offer."

"A lot has changed since you were here last, Baron. By the way, I thought you were rotting away in a German prison. How did you escape?"

Zemo seems unfazed by Selby's line of questioning. He smirks at her, languidly shrugging, "People like us always find a way, don't we? I'm sure you've already figured out what I'm here for."

"You're taller than I'd heard, Smiling Tiger," Selby randomly observes, pointing at Sam.

Sam doesn't say a word, sharply nodding once. With a mischievous grin, she purrs at him.

She scans over your group, her eyes falling on you for a long, uneasy moment. Her intense scrutiny takes all the oxygen from your lungs and for a moment you're sure you're going to fold.

But her gaze leaves you just as suddenly and all of her attention focuses on Bucky, it's clear she already knows who he is. 

"What's the offer?"

"Tell us what you know about the new serum."

She nonchalantly shrugs. "I don't know what serum you're talking about."

"And I'll give you him," Zemo finishes, gesturing to Bucky. "Along with the code words to control him, of course. He will do anything you want."

A wide smirk grows on her face, a calculating glint in her eyes, "Now that's the Zemo I remember. I'm glad I decided not to kill you immediately. Alright, I'll confess, you were right to come to me. Arrogant, but right." Her eyes shift around the room once more. She slowly leans forward, ready to impart what she knows, "This new serum, it's being manufactured right here in Madripoor. I've heard of some glitches, but powers beyond your wildest imagination."

"And?" Zemo urges. 

She chuckles, leaning back into her seat, "The rest is going to cost you. It's a dangerous game going against the Power Broker."

"What about the girl?" Zemo offers. 

"The girl?" Selby scoffs, not even sparing you a second glance. "How cute, but I have not use for your little doll."

"Oh, no. This, this is a great weapon," Zemo creepily praises, stroking your cheek. You flinch away from his hand, feeling uncomfortable as the various people in the room leer at you. "Kept a strict secret. SHIELD's greatest asset."

"And how do I know you're not lying?"

"Perhaps a little demonstration will convince you. As an act of good faith." Zemo pushes you forward, further into the center of the room. You breathe heavily, almost tumbling over at the shove. "Now."

You freeze. Normally, you'd look over to Sam for a quick reassurance, but you force your eyes to remain locked on Selby as you weigh the ramifications of what you're about to do. 

You'd always been told keeping yourself a secret was your greatest source of protection, and here you were about to give it up. Words escape you, you can barely stammer, "I- "

"Soldier," Zemo curtly orders.

"Okay, okay!" you blurt, not even allowing a moment for Bucky to act. You're not even worried that he'll hurt you, you're worried that he won't and he'd blow everyone's cover instead.

So you give up your last real source of protection, so he doesn't have to.

You swallow the knot in your throat and with a shaky hand, you hold out a blooming flower to Selby. 

"How quaint," Selby condescendingly coos. Just as the words leave her mouth, the flower erupts in a bright blue flame. She quickly inhales, her entire face lighting up with intrigue, "And what else can you do?"

"Ah," Zemo interjects, grabbing your arm and tugging you back. "The demonstration was free. Anything more will cost you."

"Dr. Wilfred Nagel is the man you want to thank. Or condemn, depending on what side of this you're on. The Power Broker had him working on the serum, but ...things didn't go as planned."

"How so?"

"Your credit has run out, Baron," Selby tuts, standing up out of her seat. She begins to predatorily circle you. For the first time all night, you play your part, your eyes downcast at the floor beneath your feet, your head submissively slumping down. She triumphantly chuckles as you shrink under her scrutiny, "And before you get all cute, you won't figure out a thing without me. And most certainly not Nagel."

She only stops circling you when a loud vibration emanates from Sam's pocket. Her eyes snap towards him, "Answer it. On speaker."

Sam freezes for a second. All eyes remain on him as he reluctantly pulls his phone out of his pocket, tapping the screen several times before responding, "Hello?"

"Hey, um, we need to talk about this situation," Sarah's familiar voice echoes throughout the room. "It's been driving me nuts."

"What situation exactly are you talking about?" Sam stiltedly asks.

"Are you high?" Sarah retorts. "You know what situation. It's the only situation me and you have."

"What situation, Sarah? Say it," Sam sharply orders. 

"The damn boat. And watch your tone, okay? I let you slide at the bank."

"The bank," Sam dramatically scoffs. "Yeah. Laundered so much... Yeah, they'll come around."

"If that was the case then why'd they dog you out big time?" she chuckles.

"Yeah, you're damn right I'm big time. You'll see when I have the banker killed," Sam lies.

You're almost impressed with how easily he's playing off the conversation. 

"Oh and before I forget, you were talking about the airport earlier, is she still coming back? What's the deal?"

Sam humorlessly snorts, his eyes narrowing at you. "The asset has been apprehended and secured, definitely won't be trying anything like that again."

"The asset? Right... the SHIELD thing. So you're good? You don't need - Hold on, Cass!" Sarah shouts. "Sam, I'm sorry, I'm going to have to call you back."

"Sam?" Selby questions, a bewildered look flashing across her face. "Who's Sam? Kill them!"

Before anything can happen, one singular shot rings throughout the room, stopping everyone in their tracks.

For a moment, it all goes silent.

Selby's lifeless body slumps down on the floor, blood pooling on the back of her shirt as she lay face down on the floor. 

The first man standing directly beside Sam acts almost immediately, Sam dodges the first blow, punching the man square in the temple, knocking him out cold. 

Bucky tears the gun out of the man standing beside you, using the butt of the rifle to leave the man unconscious. 

You pry your arm out of Zemo's hold, the four of you scrambling to get out of any direct line of fire.

You're the first to huddle by the emergency exit, quickly followed by the others.

Sam scans the room again, more specifically, the three people strewn on the ground, "They're going to pin this on us."

"We have a real problem now," Zemo sighs, glancing down at his screen. You only catch a small glimpse of his screen with a large red banner above his picture. "So leave your weapons and follow my lead."

The four of you unceremoniously exit the building through the back exit with your heads down, walking at a normal pace to avoid calling attention to yourselves.

Before you can even make it more than a few feet, you hear a collective pinging of phones throughout the dirty streets of Madripoor as though one notification just went out to the entire city.

You wince, not bothering to suppress your visible cringe, "That's not good."

"No kidding," Sam sarcastically retorts as eyes begin finding the four of you.

"We-"

Before Bucky can finish his sentence, more shots ring out above you.

You all begin to move and move fast, a brisk walk turning into a fast jog that turns into a full on sprint through Madripoor. Your lungs burn as you follow behind Sam, Bucky trailing right behind you. 

"Shit!" Sam shouts as the streetlights above you begin to ominously flicker. They simultaneously shut off, leaving you all in a pitch black night, with no ability to see who's coming or how to defend yourselves.

"Come on!" Bucky shouts, guiding you and Sam off the main roads.

"I can't run in these heels!" Sam calls back to him.

Without a second worry about the dirty floor and jagged pavement, you stumble, kicking off your shoes, taking them in your hand to follow Bucky and Sam. Trailing right behind them, you scream, "Go, go, go!"

Several more gunshots ring out, but this time not at you, but killing the people that were just trying to kill you. 

You all halt your sprint, your eyes raking over the suddenly eerily quiet streets.

"Are we done running?" you wheeze, your hands on your knees as you try to catch your breath. "Please tell me we're done running."

"You seem to have a guardian angel," Zemo comments, following behind Bucky.

"Well, this is too perfect," a familiar voice calls from the shadows. "Drop it, Zemo."

Zemo gently places the weapon on the ground without a second thought, raising his hands in surrender.

Sam's eyes narrow, craning his neck to see through the pitch black street. "Sharon?"

"Sharon?" Bucky repeats.

"Sharon!" you excitedly greet as she steps into the light. She tugs down her hood, revealing herself to the four of you. "Oh, this is great! I haven't seen you in forever!"

She practically ignores you, offering only a half-hearted smile. Her eyes remain trained on Zemo, her gun aimed directly at him, her fingers are already grazing the trigger, "You cost me everything."

"Sharon, wait," Sam interjects. "We've got a situation."

"I don't care."

"Just hold on!" Sam implores. "Someone is creating this dangerous serum and Zemo had a lead."

She doesn't drop the gun, only removing her finger from the trigger to hear Sam out. "That explains why you guys are here. And why Selby's dead."

"So what are you doing here?" Bucky asks.

"I stole Steve's shield, remember? I also took the wings for your ass so that you could save him from him." She turns away from them to you, with an equally vitriolic glare, "I also lied to Ross about knowing where the hell you ran off to so you could help those three idiots. But unlike you guys, I didn't have the Avengers to back me up, so I'm off the grid in Madripoor."

"Hey, don't blow that smoke at us, we were on the run too," Sam defends.

"Was. Is. Big difference. I don't speak to my family anymore, I can't. My own father doesn't know where I am," Sharon sneers, her finger once again hovering over the trigger. 

"Sharon, we need your help," Bucky asks. Sharon incredulously chuckles at Bucky's words. "Please."

"This isn't over," she warns. With a begrudging sigh, she finally lowers her gun, placing it back in its holster, "I have a place in High Town. You'll be safe there." 

"Great!" you beam.

Sharon sighs deeply, finally sparing you a second glance. You're a little confused by the irritation on her face that seems to be reserved for you. Her gaze slowly rakes over you, ending at you feet on the floor, "And you are barefoot."

You sheepishly chuckle, holding up your shoes in your hand. "Sorta running for my life. They had to come off."

She shakes her head at you, rolling her eyes, "Let's go."

Chapter Text

"Here," Sharon offers, tossing some clothes on her bed for you. She juts her thumb to the shelf lined with shoes. "Take your pick. And try to keep them on this time."

"Ha," you chuckle, picking up the clothes off the bed. "You're so funny, Sharon. I missed that about you."

She raises her eyebrows, offering a tight smile. Without another word, you pad around to the other side of the partition and start to change. She waits a moment, taking a large gulp of air, "So.. you've just been with Sam since you've been back? You Blipped, right?"

"Sure did," you humorlessly snicker. You don't really know what it is, you considered Sharon a friend, not a particularly close friend, but a friend nonetheless. In spite of that, something in the very recesses of your mind was telling you to keep your answers vague and nondescript. You're about to dismiss that gut feeling when you faintly hear Nick Fury's reminder to always trust that gut feeling, it's never wrong. You quickly respond, "And yeah, mostly at Sam's sister's house."

"Oh," she hums. 

"But you've been in Madripoor? That sounds like fun!"

"Something like that."

Your eyebrows furrow at Sharon's strange response, but you shake it off as you finish pulling on the borrowed jacket. As you pull it on, you notice the fresh blood staining the white bandage on your arm. You quickly look away, ignoring the pain radiating throughout your entire upper arm.

After pulling on a pair of her shoes, you both make your way back to the living room where Sam, Bucky, and Zemo await. 

"Much better," Sharon quips at a shirtless Sam as you both enter the room to see Sam choosing his clothes for Sharon's party. 

"Gross," you mumble under your breath, taking a seat on the couch but leaving a sizeable amount of space between you and Bucky.

"What's going on, Sharon?" Sam asks, tugging on a dark turtleneck. "You don't ever wanna come back home?"

"They'll lock me up if I set foot back in the States. Madripoor doesn't allow extradition," she tells Sam, pouring herself a very generous drink.

"Look, I'm sorry I didn't call, but after the Blip and the chaos, I just..." Sam trails off.

"I mean, you know the whole hero thing is a joke, right?" Sharon bluntly interjects. "I mean the way you gave up that shield, deep down, you must know it's all hypocrisy."

"He knows," Zemo agrees, hiding his signature smirk behind his own drink. "And not so deep down."

"By the way, how is the new Cap?" Sharon asks.

Sharon's question is a reminder of yet another point for contention between you and Sam: he gave up the shield. You wanted to respect his choice, but the whole thing felt wrong. Steve was someone you cared about deeply, someone you would always care about, and watching someone tote around his legacy was shocking to say the least. 

"Don't get me started," Bucky quietly grumbles.

"Please," Sharon scoffs. "You buy into all that stars and stripes bullshit. Before you were Zemo's pet psychopath, you were Mr. America, Cap's best friend."

"Wow, she's kind of awful now," Bucky tells you, briefly noting that you've remained oddly silent this entire night. 

He hadn't really been able to talk to you one on one yet, but he sort of figured that you were going to be more than a little upset by the stunt Zemo pulled at the bar. It couldn't have been any easier than him pretending to be the Winter Soldier. 

He was just lucky that he got a front row seat to Sam chewing Zemo out for ambushing you like that.

Bucky saw it, how painful it was for you. You didn't think he saw it, but he did. The wince as the words left Zemo's mouth: asset. The way your eyes sunk to the floor. The way you curled into yourself like Zemo left you completely vulnerable in the middle of the bar with one word. 

More than anything, Bucky wanted to kill Zemo in that moment. And he would've if he it wouldn't have put you all in even more danger.

Even more danger. And since Sam had spat those words at him in Berlin, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about it. It was driving him crazy. None of it was adding up. And it felt even worse because he knew it was his fault that he felt like he didn't know anything about you anymore. 

"This Sunshine serum, it's dangerous. People shouldn't have that kind of power," Sam cautions.

Sharon nods at you. "Except for her?" 

"She didn't ask for it," Sam defends. 

"So because she didn't ask for it, she's 'worthy'," Sharon vaguely mocks. 

"Can we stop talking about me like I'm not right here?" you rhetorically ask the room. Then, you turn to Sharon to defend yourself, "And I don't think anyone should have it. But more than that, I don't want anyone to get hurt."

"Now, she," Sharon starts, pointing at you. "She still buys into the superhero bullshit."

"I'm not naive, Sharon," you retort, gently grazing your throbbing arm in an attempt to assuage the shooting pain radiating up and down your arm. "But this isn't right. And the Power Broker, they're trying to create this serum for a reason. And I don't think it's to make superheroes."

Sharon shrugs, raising her drink to take a drink, "All I'm saying is maybe you guys should steer clear of all this stuff, for your own safety."

"We know it's a risk," Sam tells her. "But we're not going to leave until we find the one who cracked the code."

"We got a name: Wilfred Nagel," Bucky adds.

"Nagel works for the Power Broker," Sharon informs the four of you. 

"We need your help, Sharon. I can get your name cleared," Sam offers.

She tilts her glass at you, raising her eyebrow. "Like you got her name cleared?"

You freeze, her words washing over you like a bucket of cold water. You weren't even sure how she knew that, but in this moment it doesn't even matter. And maybe you're just going crazy, but you have to press your lips together to keep a chuckle from bubbling out of your mouth.

You almost laugh. You actually almost laugh. Not because anything is remotely funny, but because it seems like all your emotional wounds from your entire life on the outside are out and open for discussion and dissection, a complete open season on all your dirty laundry for one night only. Each poke and prod adding insult to injury. Salt in a wound that won't stop getting torn open. 

It's like you're stuck in a constant loop of getting older but never wiser. And now it's clear why you shouldn't be left to your own devices, it's because you were the problem. And everyone already knew it. 

"That's a different situation and you know it," Sam curtly retorts. "And this isn't about her, it's about you, and getting your name cleared."

"So you're haggling with my life?" Sharon counters.

"Not like that."

"I don't buy that. You pretending like you can clear my name."

"Okay, maybe it is hypocrisy. Maybe you're right. What happened to you, but I'm willing to try if you are." Sam offers once again. Sam's voice drops, speaking only to Sharon, "They cleared the bionic staring machine, and he's killed almost everyone he's ever met."

"I heard that," Bucky grunts, still carefully watching you in his peripheral.

"I don't trust charity," Sharon vaguely declines. 

"Alright, a deal then. You help us out, and I'll get your name cleared," Sam proposes, extending his hand to Sharon. 

She hesitates a moment before taking his hand. She drops his hand with a firm shake, taking another long drink before standing off the couch. "Well, I sell to some pretty connected people. Lay low, blend in, enjoy the party. Try to stay out of trouble. I'll see what I can find."

"Done."

"Blend in," she repeats, eyeing you specifically.

Zemo playfully shrugs, his drink still in hand. "Trouble."

"Why'd she say it like that? Do I not blend in?" you ask, looking to Bucky and Sam for a response. You scoff, "I blend in just fine." 

"Anyway..." Bucky lilts, avoiding the question. "We should probably head down."

You nod, standing up off the couch. "Agreed."

"Hey," Sam's voice stops you before you can start for the elevators. His voice drops, looking to you with an expression filled with concern. "You good?"

You're not even sure which part of the night he's talking about. You're not sure which part of the night was more rattling. And though you're deeply unsettled by the events that occurred tonight and by old emotional wounds that won't stop being prodded, you don't want to tell Sam that.

Because here he is, once again, cleaning up a mess that he wouldn't even be involved in if you hadn't walked into his life. Another reminder that you're the problem, you're the monster on the hill looming over the unsuspecting town. You shrug your shoulders, "I'm fine."

Sam roughly sighs in defeat, clearly unhappy with your response. Through a clenched jaw, he coldly replies, "Great."

"Good."

"Hey," Bucky interrupts, watching you watch Sam walk away, another cold, curt interaction that left him even more confused at what was going on - and why no one was speaking about it.

He knew in actuality he'd only known you a few months, but still he felt incredible close to you, like you understood him.

And maybe that was irrational of him, but he couldn't talk himself out of that feeling. It didn't matter how many times he tried, and he tried so very hard. No matter how he tried to deny it, to cut ties and run, you'd gotten to him, worked your way underneath his skin, just like Steve said you would.

He thought back to some of those conversations then and none of them were equating to the way you and Sam were getting along now.

You stop in your tracks again. You turn around again, and for the quickest of moments he sees an exhausted, somberly disheartened expression on your face like the fighting with Sam was taking more of a toll on you than you wanted to admit. And he watches the way you come to life again, the way you turn back on.

You shake your head, pulling a tight smile on your face. It's jarring, the way you so quickly and so brightly smile like there's not a problem in the world.

Right now, that's not his question. Right now, he can't stop thinking about Sharon's cryptic comment about your pardon. He just can't stand the thought of some imminent danger looming over you while he stood to the side doing nothing. "What was Sharon talking about? About your name not being cleared?"

You keep the same tight-lipped smile on your face when you respond, "It's nothing."

"It didn't seem like nothing."

"Bucky-" you start, his name just a sigh leaving your mouth.

"And will you quit calling me that!" he abruptly exclaims.

"What?" you question, your eyes wide at the sudden outburst.

"You have never called me that. Ever!"

He can't even bring himself to care that he probably sounds like a crazy person. He doesn't even want to discern why he cares about a name this much, but he does. He really does.

Before, you were the only person that he knew that called him by his first name. And now you called him the same name everyone else did. It was eating at him for reasons he'd never admit.

Chapter Text

"Sam?" Bucky prompts, grabbing Sam's shoulder to stop him from following you, Sharon, and Zemo. Bucky pauses for a moment, allowing you to round the corner and just out of earshot before he speaks again, "And just what happens if Nagel says something about Karli? She'll know we've been lying about the Flag Smashers this whole time."

Sam takes a deep breath, another dose of dread pooling in his stomach. "I know."

"You know?" Bucky scoffs.

"Look, we'll cross that bridge when we get there. Nothing good will come from telling her right now."

"At least she'll know the truth. And she'll hear about it from you and not Nagel!"

"And then what? We drop a bombshell like that and two seconds later we expect her to face the guy? That doesn't sound like the epitome mental stability, Bucky!"

"Maybe-"

"Guys!" you call, rounding back from around the corner to find them after you realized they were no longer following Sharon. "What are you doing? Come on."

"Coming," Bucky calls back, sparing one last pointed look at Sam as he passes him. 

Sam ignores the pointed look, reminding himself that it was too late to go back and tell you the full truth. And now, nothing good would come from telling you before Nagel. He's sure of it. He joins you again, doing his best to pretend like nothing was wrong. Or at least, there weren't more things going wrong. "You know, Madripoor could give New York a run for its money." 

"They know how to party," Zemo agrees.

"Well, with that bounty on your head, the longer you're in Madripoor, the less likely you're ever leaving," Sharon warns. She nudges her head to a specific container off to the side. "Alright, he's in there. Container 4261. I'll watch while you guys talk to Nagel, but hurry, we're on borrowed time."

You nod, taking one of the earpieces in Sharon's hand. 

Sam is the first one at the container, slowly creaking the metal door open. You enter behind him, straight into the pitch black room. Sam turns the earpiece on, speaking lowly, "Hey, Sharon. You sure this is the right one? It's completely empty."

"Positive. It has to be," she quickly responds. 

You all stand there scanning the completely empty, unassuming cargo container. And you remember that secret bookcase from not that long ago, you slowly pad to the back wall, running your hand over the metal wall. You knock on it once. And just like you suspected, it's hollow. You cross your fingers, pushing on the corner of the wall. "Please work. Please work."

And with a small click, the door creaks open to a stairwell leading down to an underground room.

Sam nods, an impressed smile on his face. "How did you figure that out?" 

"I saw it in a movie once," you tell him. "It's worked out for me twice now."

He chuckles, stepping onto the metal staircase. As you walk down the staircase to the dimmly lit room, you hear quiet music floating through the room.

Sam takes the lead, followed by Bucky, both with a gun in hand. They scan the room, quietly stepping towards the scientist. The doctor's head stays down, not even realizing anyone is in the room with him. 

You watch him for a moment as you creep towards him, the way he tinkers with vials and unknown liquids. He almost looks harmless, but there's a strange quality in the way he works, his eyes flickering back and forth, the quiet hums and groans that leave his mouth. 

As you watch him, slowly stepping closer and closer to him. The music ceases, the silence cutting through the room. Dr. Nagel's head snaps up, gasping when he sees you standing less than a yard away from him.

"Dr. Nagel?" you ask, taking another step towards him. 

"Who are you?" Dr. Nagel frantically demands, scrambling to put distance in between the two of you. "What do you want?"

"We know you're working on a serum, Doctor," you gently state, hoping a soft approach will make him more amendable to answering your questions. 

"Get out of my lab," he orders, throwing the metal tray in front of him directly at you. 

You stop the tray before it hits your face, stopping mid-air only to clatter at your feet harmlessly. Nagel gasps softly, eyes lighting up with recognition. You know that glimmer of recognition in his eye doesn't bode well for you considering you've never met this man before. "Please, Dr. Nagel. We just need answers."

"Hey," Sam warns, directing Nagel's attention to him and Bucky.

Dr. Nagel stops all movement when he sees the two of them standing at the foot of the stairs.

It's clear to you that he knows exactly who you and Bucky are.

"So you know who they are," Sam guesses, gesturing to you and Bucky. Bucky takes slow, calculated steps to stand by you. The proximity makes Dr. Nagel even more anxious. "And this is Zemo, but you knew that too." 

Dr. Nagel remains silent, still staring you and Bucky down. At this point, you're not sure if he's looking at Bucky who looks much too ready to pull the trigger, or at you, the very person who's blood he'd been experimenting on.

Nagel stays silent, trying to figure out how to escape the room. Sam strides to him after a moment, harshly gripping Dr. Nagel's shoulder to shove him into a seat in front of you and Bucky. "You seem like a pretty smart guy, so you better become conversational pretty quick." 

Nagel chuckles bitterly, a maniacal smirk on his face. "How about a counter proposal? Make me a better offer and I'll talk."  

"Guys, we have company," Sharon's voice crackles over the comms. As Bucky puts a gun to Dr. Nagel's head, Sharon speaks again. "Every bounty hunter in the city is here. We gotta go!"

You flinch as Bucky fires the gun once, just behind Dr. Nagel's head. "Okay, okay. I was brought into a HYDRA program to synthesize a new serum. When HYRDA fell, I was recruited by the CIA. They had blood samples from a SHIELD asset, a test subject. Someone kept so hidden, no one knew anything about. Can you imagine that? In this day and age," Dr. Nagel carelessly laughs, like your life was meaningless to all of the parties involved, like you were nothing but a pawn in their game. "After much labor, I was able to isolate the necessary compounds, some specific elements of her DNA. I was a god. I did what no other scientist had ever done. One human able to manipulate all the elements."

"How have we never heard about this?"

"Because before I was able to complete my work, I turned to dust," Nagel angrily states, his eyes falling back on you. This time you hold his gaze, forcing him to look at you - it was the least he could do after everything they'd subjected you to. You maintain eye contact as he continues speaking, "Then when I returned, it was five years later, program had been abandoned, so I came here. The Power Broker was more than happy to fund the recreation of my work."

"How many vials did you make?" Sam demands.

"Twenty," Nagel replies, flinching as the barrel gets put back against his head. "Karli Morgenthau stole those so..."

"Karli Morgenthau?" you repeat, finally looking away from Dr. Nagel. You look to Sam and Bucky who aren't asking the same question. You take a step closer to Nagel and ask, "Who's Karli Morgenthau?"

Dr. Nagel's eyes flicker to Sam and Bucky. From the Sam's dropped gaze to the tick in Bucky's jaw, it doesn't take much for him to put the puzzle together. He wickedly snickers, "Oh, that's rich. Still keeping the asset in the dark, I see?" 

"Stop talking," Sam seethes. 

"Who's Karli Morgenthau?" you ask again. 

"It doesn't matter," Dr. Nagel shrugs. "I can only imagine what the Power Broker has planned for that poor girl."

You look away from Dr. Nagel to Sam with pleading eyes. "Sam?" 

"Where's Karli now?" Sam asks, doing his best to avoid your questions. 

"I don't know, but a couple of days ago she called and asked if I could help someone named Donya Madani. Poor woman has tuberculosis. Typical of overpopulation in displacement camps like that."

"What happened to her?"

"Not my pig. Not my farm," Dr. Nagel blithely responds.

"Is there any serum in this lab?"

Dr. Nagel remains quiet. You sharply inhale when Bucky puts the gun even closer to his face. "No."

"Now what?" Bucky asks.

"Guys," Sharon calls, running into the room. "We're seriously out of time here."

Just as you look away from Dr. Nagel to look at Sharon, a gun shot is fired. You gasp, watching as Dr. Nagel goes flying back into his seat, slumping down on the floor.

"No," Sam shouts, diving to take the gun out of Zemo's hand. 

"What did you do?" Sharon exhales, helping Sam pry the gun out of Zemo's hand.

And just when you're certain it can't get any worse, a large blast is blowing you back.

You roughly hit the floor, the air leaving your lungs with how hard you hit the ground. For a moment, you lie still on the ground your ears ringing and heart pounding with adrenaline. As the heat begins to swelter in the room and the air starts becoming unbreathable, you start trying to pull yourself up. One hand on the ground, now covered in soot and ash, you groan, "Why is this the second time this happens to me?" 

"Anyone see Zemo?" Sam roughly exhales, trying to find his footing.

Bucky is the first one up, scrambling to his feet as alarms blare throughout the room. He scrambles to you, desperate to make sure you're okay. He finds you clutching your ribs while trying to sit up. Without even thinking about ramification or hidden meanings, he cups your face frantically searching for any sign of critical injury. As he cups your face, he rasps, "Are you okay?" 

You're not even sure what has you more dumbstruck, the feeling of Bucky's hand unexpectedly touching your face or the fact that you're all in a burning cargo container. You nod, "Yeah."

"Come on," he urges, taking your hand to pull you up. 

He breaks away from you for a moment to help Sam and Sharon up. Though you're very literally in a burning building, you pause, trying to take in the room for anything of importance, anything that could tell you more about yourself. You're sure it's only been a few seconds when Bucky snatches your hand and pulls you out of the container.

You four have only made it a few feet away from the room when the entire container explodes, landing slanted on the other shipping containers. 

Smoke plumes from the wreckage, and you four run along the side of containers to find cover. 

"Alright, wait for my signal!" Bucky calls, the gunshots ringing around you giving no one a chance to recover from the explosion. 

Sam bolts anyway, running for cover underneath another one of the containers. You follow right behind him, right into a gaggle of mercenaries with guns pointed right at him. He reflexively places an arm protectively in front of you. 

"Okay," you call out to the dozen men in front of you. "I'm going to be nice and give you guys the chance to do the right thing and walk away. No one has to get hurt."

Sam looks at you with a bewildered look in his eye. 

You roll your eyes, swatting Sam's arm away. "Would you move?"

The blown off container door that lay strewn on the ground, suddenly lifts vertically with a wave of your hand. Before the men can react to the fantastical sight, the door sweeps across the small plane, pinning the hitman against another container in one fell swoop. 

Sam looks at the smug smirk on your face, he narrows his eyes, grumbling, "Show-off."

You triumphantly chuckle, "You're welcome."

"Go," Sam orders, seeing more hitman appear through the spaces of the containers.

You both duck, zigzagging your way through the labyrinth of shipping containers. In your peripheral, you see Bucky duck behind the fallen shipping container that only provides marginal cover. 

"Damn it," Bucky hisses, ducking back down to take cover from the seemingly endless amounts of bullets swarming your group. He's still ducked down, when he watches you and Sam join him underneath the container. He snarkily quips, "Good of you to join me."

"I thought you guys didn't want my help," you sarcastically retort, quickly hitting the floor beside him as stray bullets ricochet off the metal container. 

"And you like living here?" Sam shouts over his shoulder as Sharon joins you three. 

"It's not terrible," Sharon replies, firing another round from her gun. 

If your life wasn't being threatened, the bounty hunter's reactions to their guns flying out of their hands and skidding across the floor, would almost be funny. You continue on the defensive, only occasionally ducking behind the metal container at stray bullets you don't have a chance to stop. 

"Get that guy!" Sam calls, pointing to a man behind you. "Why didn't you get that guy?"

"I can't stop guns I can't see, Samuel!" you frustratedly shout back. 

"Did you just use my full name? I know you didn't just use my full name!" Sam loudly rants. 

"Yes, I did, Samuel Thomas," you exaggeratedly enunciate. 

"Hah," Bucky chuckles, ducking back down. "Samuel."

Sam fires another round into the large courtyards, yelling at Bucky over his shoulder, "You shut up! At least, I didn't go the wrong way."

"I was clearing the way!"

"I came out first. You had to follow me!"

"Will you both shut up?" you call back to them.

"Guys, not the time," Sharon shouts over her shoulder. She quickly ducks, checking her clip for any more ammunition, "Great, I'm out."

They continue screaming at each other and suddenly you're the only one still actively doing anything.

You're about to start yelling at all of them when another shot rings out, but this one is followed by a large billowing flame that almost clears out the entire courtyard. 

You recall seeing the mask of Zemo during the time of the Avenger's Civil War on some security footage, but actually watching as a masked Zemo grabs another man to use as a human shield while firing shots at another four men that still remain standing, is more than a little unnerving.

"Go," Bucky exhales, tapping your shoulder.

The four of you continue to run through the maze of shipping containers, most shots still echoing above the four of you. 

"Buck!" Sam calls, pointing to another container to take refuge in. 

Before Sam can tug you into another container, you notice more mercenaries flanking each side of the container so you quickly shut the door on him and Sharon. 

Sam gasps as the door shuts with you still on the outside. He tries to ram the door down with his shoulder despite knowing that he'll never get it open if you're the one holding it shut.

On the other side of the door, you and Bucky stand completely surrounded by even more hitman. Your heart thrums in your ears as you and Bucky stand back to back, each of you facing a plethora of men that want you all dead. 

This time, you don't offer a warning to any of them when you see a large metal pipe on the floor. The pipe whips across the courtyard, hitting one of the men on the head on its way to your hand. You notice how the man slumps down where he stands. You shrug with pursed lips, "I can work with that."

The pipe leaves your hand again, wildly swinging around the area. You nod, impressed with the off the cuff technique that works quite effectively, even 6 against 1. Still one man quickly dodges the pipe, only to be clipped on the return back to your hand. 

"Can I?" Bucky asks, taking the pipe from your hand. 

"Sure." You turn back to the container still holding Sam and Sharon hostage when you hear a wet thump followed by a pained shout. You turn to the source of noise to find a man pinned against one of the shipping containers, the metal pipe ran through his now bloodied shoulder. You gesture to the man. "Oh my God!" 

Bucky innocently shrugs. "What?"

You sigh, shaking your head at him. You walk back to the container still holding Sam hostage. You creak open the door to a furious Sam standing there still trying to pry it open. "Oh, Sam, there you are!"

"What the hell was that?" Sam fumes, taking a large step out of the container to storm towards you.

"What?"

"That vigilante shit! That reckless-"

"Guys," Bucky interrupts. "We gotta go."

Sam grimaces for a moment, clearly not wanting to be done with this argument. He grits his teeth, jutting his thumb to the other side of the container. "Come on."

You wince to yourself, but follow them through the other side of the container. You exit out the door to hear tires squeal as Zemo miraculously pulls up the gravel road in a convertible. Zemo grins, proudly commenting, "Supercharged."

"You're going back to jail," Sam glowers, clearly fed up with all the eventfulness of Madripoor. 

"Do you want to find Karli or not?" Zemo rhetorically asks.

And there it was again.

The sharp reminder of something so obviously being kept from you. The adrenaline makes your mind race, coming to conclusions that you're not sure you want to face.

But one very important thing dawns on you, you weren't the only person keeping secrets. 

"He's right. We need him. There's three of us, and-" Bucky's words falter as he slides into the car. He catches the look on your face, and it's not just uncharacteristic, it's so cold that it's almost not a person he recognizes. It's bone chilling. You shake your head, the absence in your expression fading and bringing you back to a person Bucky remembers. And still, he sees the suspicion lurking behind your eyes. He can see the pieces coming together in your head, and he knows that you won't like that picture in the slightest. The volume of Bucky's voice tapers off as he finishes speaking, "...And we don't know what we're up against."

"Fine," Sam reluctantly agrees, hopping in the front seat. "But if you try that shit again..."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Zemo assures. 

"Well, that was one hell of a reunion," Sharon sighs, shutting the door behind Sam.

"Come back to the States with us," Sam offers.

"I can't. Just get me the pardon you promised," Sharon reminds him.

"Thanks for everything," Sam calls over his shoulder. 

"Bye, Sharon!" you call back to her. "Nice seeing you!"

"You're not going to move your seat up, are you?" Bucky asks Sam.

"No."

Chapter Text

John looks up from the screen, facing the security guard, "You said that Sam and Bucky were here on the day this happened?"

The guard quickly nods. "Yes. Along with a woman."

"Do you have the woman's name?"

The guard frantically nods again, looking back at his screen to the visitor's log. "Regina Phalange."

Lemar covers his mouth, attempting to stifle the chuckle that leaves his mouth. John grimaces, his gaze hardening at the guard. "Regina Phalange? Like from Friends?"

The guard winces, stammering, "She said it was french. You don't think they had anything to do with this, do you?"

"Let's go," John mutters, tapping the counter as he pushes his weight off the desk. John turns back offering a halfhearted smile, "Thank you, sir." 

John and Lemar walk down the prison hall, away from the guard's station in search of anything else they could find about Zemo's escape from prison.

And the mysterious woman that they couldn't stop hearing about. 

"What?" Lemar questions, trying to break the pensive expression on John's face. "Come on, John. You don't seriously think that Sam and Bucky would've broken a guy like Zemo out of prison. Last we checked, they hated the guy as much as the next person."

"And an unknown female," John hisses. "It's not like they aren't hiding things from us already."

"Not wanting to work with us is not the same as hiding things, John. You can't let that get to you."

"Lemar," John imploringly states. "I think that's exactly what they did. They were as desperate for leads as we were. It makes perfect sense."

"You know as well as I do that you can't accuse them of something like that with out a hell of a lot of evidence to back it up." 

"And what about the woman? That just happened to be here too? There's a reason we've never met this lady, Lemar," John doubles down. "They're hiding something. They're hiding her."

"Maybe she's shy," Lemar offers, desperate to talk John off of the ledge he just kept wanting to leap off of.  

"Or maybe she's exactly the person we've been looking for. Think about it, there's a reason they used an alias."

"Regina Phalange is hardly an alias, John. Anyone with access to Google could figure that one out. And if they were really trying to hide her, why would they bring her here?"

"I don't know," John admits, his voice pensive and detached as he mulls over their next move. "Which is why you and I are just gonna run with this for a minute." 

"John," Lemar implores. "Think about this. Really think about this."

"Do you trust me?"

Lemar sighs, his shoulders reluctantly slumping in defeat. "You know I do."

"She's dangerous, Lemar," John states. "And look at what happened here, it's already chaos."

"You're right," Lemar agrees. "So I guess what happens next isn't a strictly on the books type thing, is it?"

John rests a comforting hand on Lemar's shoulder. "If we get this done, you really think they're going to sweat us on the how?"

"Guess not."

John smirks, a calculating glint in his eye. "Then, I think we've got some digging to do." 

Chapter Text

"I heard what became of Sokovia," Zemo states, breaking the silence that had weighed on your group since the plane. "Cannibalized by its neighbors before the land was cleared of rubble. Erased from the map. But I don't suppose any of you bothered visiting the memorial?"

"I did," you correct. 

Sam cranes his neck to try to get you to look at him. "What? When?"

You ignore Sam's question, instead pointing to your remark to answer Zemo's question, "I went with Wanda, she's Sokovian. Her brother died during the battle."

Zemo smiles at you, "You continue to surprise me."

"I'll take that as a compliment," you half-heartedly quip, the mental and emotional exhaustion weighing down each and every step you take.

"We are here," Zemo states, gesturing to the building on the other side of the cobblestone road. 

"Great," you sigh with a semi-relieved smile, glad to be able to get at least some semblance of separation from both Sam and Bucky. 

You climb up the first step leading to the building when Bucky unexpectedly says, "I'm gonna go on a walk."

"You okay?" Sam asks from right behind you.

"Yeah," Bucky assures him. "See you guys in a bit. Try not to kill each other."

Zemo clutches his chest, responding with an indignant scoff, "I wouldn't dream of it."

"Yeah, surprisingly, I wasn't talking about you," Bucky amends, pointedly looking at you and Sam.

You roll your eyes, turning back toward the entrance. Faced away from Bucky, you grumble under your breath, "Well, I make no promises."

"I heard that," Bucky calls back to you.

"Still make no promises," you mumble, dropping your voice even lower. 

"Still heard that," Bucky calls again. 

"Bye, Bucky!" you shout over your shoulder, pushing the door open before he can respond again. 

As the first through the door, you drop your bag near the armrest of the couch leaving only enough room for you to sit between your bag and the armrest. You flop down on the couch with a frustrated huff.  

"Hey," Sam tries. You deeply sigh, looking up at the tiled ceiling as something else to focus on other than Sam's incessant attempts at getting you to talk to him. "Come on. You're really not going to say anything?"

Sam's question goes without a response. This time you shut your eyes, resting your uninjured arm over your face.

"Seriously?"

You lift your head, creaking one eye open to look at where Zemo is currently sitting on the other side of the couch watching this entire argument play out. "I'm sorry, Zemo, did you say something?" 

"Real mature," Sam scoffs, striding over to where you sit on the couch. "I would just like to remind you that you lied first."

You furrow your face as you do a quick scan of the room, pretending like you can't see Sam standing in front of you. With a soft hum, you shrug, "Must be the wind."

"You're really going to do this in front of Zemo?"

"Please," Zemo assures, raising his hand to brush Sam's concern off. "Even I can understand a familial fight."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Zemo. There's no one that I'm fighting with," you sharply remark, glaring at Sam. 

"Fine," Sam huffs. "Two can play at this game."

For the shortest second, you remain confused about what Sam's talking about and why he stands towering over you while you sit on the couch. But just as you're about to move, Sam's hand stops less than an inch from your face. 

You scoff, moving your chin back away from his hand. 

When you move back, he moves his hand so it remains hovering in front of your face. 

You sharply exhale, glaring up at him. He looks down at you with a triumphant, smug grin. "Not touching you, can't get mad."

You quickly move again, but Sam's hand tracks each and every movement you make. Every time you try to skirt around his hand, he moves it with you. Until you've finally had enough, you slap his hand away. "Seriously, Sam, how old are you?"

"Ow." He jolts his hand back, finally out of your face. "But at least you're acknowledging my presence."

You give him a bitter thumbs up. "Good for you. You're here. Now, leave me alone!" 

"No, we can't just pretend like our problems don't exist. In case you haven't noticed, we're in deep shit right now. We have to be a team!"

"Maybe you should've thought about that before you lied to me!" you retort.

"I lied to protect you!"

"Because you think I can't take care of myself!" you accuse.

"Yes- I mean, no - It's - Well, because-"

"I am not your problem anymore, Sam!" you seethe, cutting off his stammering. You're so angry that you don't even feel the control slipping through your grasp. You don't hear the quiet creaks slowly increasing from the marble column beside Sam. "Why can't you get that?"

"Oh my God, you're so stubborn!" he bellows in unbridled frustration.

"If I might suggest-" Zemo tries interjecting.

"No!" you both shout. 

From the other side of the door, Bucky stands, sighing to himself as he hears the loud voices echo through the heavy wooden door. It's only been a few seconds of steeling himself when he decides that if he doesn't break this up, this fight is not going to end any time soon. 

"Guys!" Bucky tries to call over the bickering. "Guys!" 

"I don't need protecting!" you shout, barely even noticing as Bucky strides in from outside. You certainly don't hear the quiet creaking of the marble pillar standing beside Sam. Just as the words leave your mouth, the quiet groaning turns into a large, frightening cracking noise. Sam flinches away from the marble column, looking more than a little freaked out by the sight of the large split in the column. You jolt, clearly startled. "I'm - I'm sorry."

Bucky sucks in a breath, though the column still looks structurally sound, the massive fracture in the middle of the column is severe. The atmosphere in the room shifts. A suffocating silence fills the room.

Sam takes a single, cautious step toward you. Not because he's scared you're going to hurt him, but because he can see the self-loathing already brewing in your eyes. The anger and frustration melts from his voice, he reaches out to console you, "It's fine. Just take a breath. Okay?"

Before Sam can make contact, you stumble backward, further away from him. Always just out of reach. You sharply shake your head once, an angry expression covering your fearful reaction. "Just leave me alone."

Sam sighs in defeat as you bristle past him to the corridor that leads to the guest bedroom doors. They all hear the sharp slam of one of the doors slamming shut. "That's great."

Bucky still stands there shellshocked. It takes him a moment to process everything that just happened. On the plane he could rationalize it with you getting blindsided with a massive revelation. This only solidifies his suspicions that there was so much more going on with you. He has half a mind to chase after you, at least that's what he desperately wants to do. But then he remembers that he has another urgent development to share with the group, "I hate to make things worse, but the Wakandans are here. They want Zemo. I bought us some more time."

"Were you followed?" Zemo asks.

"No."

"How can you be so sure?" Zemo continues. 

"'Cause I know when I'm being followed," Bucky sharply retorts. 

"It was sweet of you to defend me at least," Zemo offers with a polite smile. 

"Hey, you shut it," Sam orders, fed up with the events of today. "No one's defending you, you killed Nagel."

"Do we really have to litigate what may or may not have happened?" Zemo implores, meekly shrugging his shoulders. 

Bucky feels the vibration of his phone in his back pocket. He pulls it out, looking down at the phone. His screen is lit up with pictures from an explosion from the night before. And it's like he gets another insight into the magnitude of people with abilities like yours. And it's another piece falling into place when it comes to figuring you out.

Mostly, why you just uncharacteristically stormed off.

He knows that you'd never risk hurting the people closest to you, even if that meant you were hurting yourself in the process.

"There's nothing to litigate!" Sam exclaims in disbelief. "You straight shot the man." 

"Sam," Bucky interrupts.

"What?"

"Karli bombed a GRC supply depot."

"What?" Sam quietly gasps. "What's the damage?"

"Eleven injured. Three dead. They have a list of demands and are promising more attacks if those demands aren't met."

"She's getting worse," Zemo comments. And though Sam knows Zemo is talking about Karli, he can't help but make that connection to you himself. Since the Blip, he'd watched you struggle. From everything to coming back without a single possession to your name. From finding out your identity was completely erased. And General Ross letting you know you weren't off the hook from the Accords. And everything else in between. For months, you forced a smile on your face, doing everything in your power to convince him and everyone else you were happy, all while you were withering away inside. "I have the will to complete this mission. Do the two of you? Does she?"

"Karli is just a kid," Sam defends.

"You're seeing something in her that isn't there," Zemo calmly states. "You're clouded by it. She's a supremacist. The very concept of an enhanced individual will always trouble people. It's that warped aspiration that led to Nazis, to Ultron, to the Avengers."

"Those are our friends you're talking about," Sam warns. 

"The Avengers, not the Nazis," Bucky clarifies.

"So Karli is radicalized," Sam concedes. "But there has to be a peaceful way to stop her."

"The desire to become superhuman cannot be separated from supremacist ideals. Anyone with that serum, anyone with those powers, is inherently on that path. She will not stop. She will escalate until you kill her. Or until she kills you."

"You're wrong," Sam forcefully states, feeling the overwhelming urge to defend you against Zemo's beliefs. But for a moment, it's not like he's debating Zemo against Zemo's beliefs. He's arguing with you against your own. The ones that were so deeply embedded within you that it was a constant silent battle you fought day in and out. The ideas that were shoved down your throat from the day you were born that truly had you convinced that you were a monster that needed to be contained. "They're people. People with lives just like you and me. And maybe she's a little misguided, but that doesn't mean that you can just give up on her. Just because she can do shit other people can't, doesn't mean she should be treated like any less of a person. She deserves that, after everything, she deserves that much. And it doesn't mean she's not worth fighting for. After everything, she deserves to have at least one person fighting for her."

Zemo pauses for a moment after Sam finishes speaking. A smile pulls at the corner of Zemo's mouth before he speaks, "Are you still referring to Karli?"

"Maybe we should just give him to the Wakandans right now," Bucky offers, no longer wanting to listen to Zemo goading Sam for defending you as he takes a seat on the edge of the couch. 

"And you'll give up your tour guide?" Zemo challenges.

"Yes," Bucky easily replies. 

Sam takes a large breath of concession, because whether any of you like it, Zemo is still very much needed. "Let's just focus on Donya, alright? From what we know, Donya's like a pillar of the community, right? So, when I was a kid, my Titi passed away-"

"Your Titi?" Bucky interjects with a raised eyebrow. 

"Yes, my Titi."

"Who is your Titi?"

"Fine." Sam rolls his eyes, starting over, "When I was a kid my aunt passed away, and the entire neighborhood got together for a ceremony. It was like a week long. Maybe they're doing the same thing for Donya."

Bucky shrugs, standing up off of the couch. "Worth a shot."

"Your Titi would be proud of you. Turkish delight?" Zemo offers, tossing a piece of the wrapped candy to Sam. Sam catches the piece of candy, looking strangely at Zemo as he dumps the rest of the bag on the counter with a smirk, "It's irresistible."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Let's just go."

Bucky falters in front of Sam. He furrows his eyebrows, nudging his head down the hallway you stormed down minutes ago. "Uh, Sam? Aren't you forgetting something? Someone, maybe?"

Sam shakes his head, still trying to calm himself down from his earlier tangent. "She's not coming out of there any time soon."

"So just walk in there and talk to her? Have one of your little pep talks or something!" Bucky states like it should be obvious to Sam.

"Bucky, I'd be lucky if I even got the door open. She's not going to hear a word I say right now, I pushed too hard." Sam looks back to Bucky who still wears a hesitant expression. "It's for the best. Give her some time to cool off."

Bucky looks back to the guest bedroom door, feeling so utterly helpless to do or say anything that could to get you back to a place where either of them could reach you.

Or at least to get you out from the other side of the door. 

Chapter Text

You shakily exhale when you hear the door slam followed by complete and utter silence.

Gut-wrenching, deafening silence.

All alone once again.

At this point, it seemed like you were destined for a life alone. It was better that way, you'd told yourself so many times. 

Your mind races. All your thoughts flood your psyche all at once. You can't stop thinking. It bombards you.

You're barely treading the choppy waters as it is, but you're floundering now.

You're drowning, you know you are.

You can't scream. Each inhale fills your lungs with those heavy feelings that threaten to drag you to a place where you'll never see the sun again. Each exhale leaves you sputtering until you're on the floor helpless. 

And you just can't breathe. 

Your leadened feet guide you to the center of the room where you sink to your knees, crumpled by the waves of heart-stopping hurt, begging for solace, begging for atonement, begging for it all to finally stop, for your tired heart to finally know peace.

You lean forward, your head hung so low it almost rests upon the floor. Your hands cup your face. You feel each silent tear slip between your fingers.

Your breath comes faster. You're not sure what you're doing anymore. Praying to some higher being that's never granted you mercy. Rocking yourself like the child you never got to be. Trying to compose yourself to be the soldier everyone expected you to be. 

A pained gasp gets stuck in your throat.

You remember the guided meditations Bruce once made you do with him all that time ago.

You figure it's your best shot. Your foot slips beneath you. You force yourself to sit upright against all the weight pulling you down. You rest your hands in your lap. Your hands interlock of their own accord, your fingers grip each other so tightly it hurts. 

The pain doesn't bother you as much as it probably should. Pain was simple. Pain was familiar. Even your bloodied, injured arm, that was easy to ignore.

It wasn't easy to keep pushing down the emotions raging against you, fighting your so hard they threatened to break out of your ribcage and tear right through your skin.

You squeeze your eyes shut, forcing yourself to focus on the memory of Bruce's words echoing through your head. 

Breathe in.

Breathe through.

Breathe deep.

Breathe out.

You try them over and over again, trying to bring yourself back to a person you remember. You were sitting here all alone because of an ugly mess of pride, miscommunication, grief, and hurt. So, so much hurt.

And you didn't know how to fix it anymore.

Part of you wanted to scream that you couldn't even look at them anymore, that there was nothing that they could say to make any of this right again, that you didn't need them.

But you did need them.

You do need them. 

It's clear to everyone that you do.

 It's clear that you're not able to let any of it go: not the pain, not the hurt, not the thrill of it all, not the rush that came with it, and most certainly not them. It was selfish. You were selfish, but you weren't strong enough to let them go, and you most certainly weren't strong enough to hold onto them.

And you remain on the other side of the door because you're scared, scared that you can't even control yourself anymore. Few could sympathize, even fewer could empathize, but sometimes you needed the world to be small again. You needed the world to exist within the confines of four walls. You needed it to make sense again. 

Sometimes you wished the world was still small. Sometimes you wished you didn't know freedom felt like. Sometimes you wanted nothing more for your tired, aching soul to rest. 

And what was really terrifying, what was truly sick, was that you didn't regret it at all. You're glad you breathed that first gasp of fresh, freeing air. Through all the fighting, tragedy, and loss, you can't bring yourself to regret any of it. 

And it scared you how selfish that was, how selfish you could be. 

You miss the person that you used to be. The person who would never dream of being this selfish, who knew right from wrong, who could trust themselves, their own intuition and moral compass. A person who could control themselves. That person deserved happiness, deserved peace. And that's certainly not you anymore. 

It was a complete and total crisis of your faith.

So you do more breathing. Legs crossed, eyes shut, in and out, over and over again. 

Every time you found stability, it was ripped away before you could hold onto it. 

Every thing you touched became sick with sadness.

Every thing you set your sights on rotted from the inside out.

And lately, you'd only found one common denominator. Shutting yourself away was the only way to protect those around you. You'd proved that time and time again. In some strange sense, you were a catalyst to chaos.

How could you blame Steve when it was clear that you were the real problem? 

You were the sickness.

You figure that maybe Steve was onto something with the Sunshine nickname. When you really thought about it, it made perfect sense. From a distance, you were bright, cheery, and warm. But every time people got close, they got burned. Nothing good came from being close to you, even keeping a steady gaze on you was a hazard. That's who you were. A living, breathing cautionary tale. It now made sense why everyone fought so hard to keep you under lock and key. 

When all the cards were down, when you were being honest, brutally honest, with yourself, you found that your only real regret was you.

The pain you inflicted on others with your proximity.

You're a wound that would never close.

You regretted not knowing any better. For being so foolish. For being so trusting, so naive. You regretted not seeing it.

After all, a gold cage is still a cage.

You should've known from the moment you were freed. You weren't meant for a happy, peaceful life. Maybe if you hadn't been so caught up in the beauty of the world, in the feeling of being important and cared for, maybe you would have noticed it. Noticed what was happening around you. To you. 

You would have seen the walls closing in. You would've felt the noose slip around your neck, slowly tightening with each painful tick of time. 

You had yet to take a single moment to breathe, let alone focus on what you'd lost. Your focus had always been moving forward, keeping yourself from burdening others with your own emotional baggage.

Most days you forgot that you didn't know a life without a fight constantly looming on the horizon.

You'd only lived with Sam for a year before being thrown headfirst into all things SHIELD. And even that didn't last, 6 months into your role as SHIELD's most valuable asset, Nick Fury died and Steve Rogers burst into your life. 2 years on the run soon after that. And before you knew it, you were dusted. 5 years gone in the blink of an eye.

There was never time to show yourself some grace, to process the whirlwind you found yourself caught in. 

You were tired. Mentally, emotionally, physically drained. Given everything you had to the fight and then some.

For a while, you convinced yourself that everything was good. You were on the outside, no longer held captive, that was as good as you would ever get. You told yourself, if you could just smile through it all, laugh when people wanted you to, you'd be happy.

But loss after loss, tragedy after tragedy, you weren't sure how much more you could take.

How many times could you be pulled apart and still come back together? How many times could you be torn to shred and left to glue yourself back together? How many times could a heart break and still keep beating?

It almost wasn’t fair. That your heart still beat. Torn apart limb from limb just to come back together with a smile on your face. Surely, someone should've known that the cracks would start showing. That eventually, you wouldn't be able to pull yourself back together anymore. 

It often occurs to you that you have no idea what peace feels like, let alone how to accept it. 

And on your worst days, you regret the day that Nick Fury freed you. 

So you keep breathing.

Breathe in.

Breathe through.

Breathe deep.

Breathe out.

Even as you hear Bucky, Sam, and Zemo return, their voices carrying through the walls, you just keep breathing.

Legs crossed, hands resting in your lap, eyes shut as you will your world to shrink, for yourself to shrink into a person that fit within the confines of those four walls. 

"Well, we got nothing," Bucky sighs, pulling off his jacket and chucking it on the couch. He looks for any sign of you, any indication that you've left the room. He finds nothing, not a single trace, not a single sound. It all seems a little darker without your presence. "No one's talking about Donya."

"Yeah, because Karli's the only one fighting for them," Sam vaguely defends as Bucky frustratedly groans. Sam watches Bucky for a moment as Bucky settles himself on the couch. Sam hesitantly adds, "And she's not wrong."

"What do you mean?"

"For five years, people have been welcomed into countries that have kept them out using barbed wire. There were houses and jobs. Folks were happy to have people around to help them rebuild. It wasn't just one community coming together, it was the entire world coming together. And then boom, just like that it goes right back to the way it used to be. To them, at least Karli's doing something."

"You really think her ends justify her means? Then she's no different than Zemo or anybody else we've fought," Bucky quietly argues, shutting his eyes as he rubs his temples with one hand. 

"She is different," Sam objects. "She's not motivated by the same things."

After silently padding away to the kitchen, Zemo returns, shuffling back into the living room with a tea tray in hand.

"That little girl? What did she tell you?" Sam prompts, watching as Zemo sets the tray down on the coffee table.

"The funeral is tomorrow afternoon," Zemo casually informs, not offering any more information. 

"You know the Dora's coming for you. In fact, they're probably lurking outside right now. I'd keep talking," Bucky sharply warns. 

"Hmm..." Zemo's lips purse, his head tilting to the side as he theatrically mulls over Bucky's words. After a second, Zemo shakes his head. "Leaving you to turn on me once we get to Karli. I prefer to keep my leverage."

Those words feel like Bucky's last straw.

He angrily stands out of his seat, taking one large step in front of Zemo. Bucky takes the glass from Zemo's hand, throwing it against the wall. The glass shattering loudly echoes through the room, shards of glass skidding across the floor. "You want to see what someone can do with leverage?"

"Hey, just take it easy," Sam interrupts, stepping in front of a seething Bucky. "Don't engage him. He's just going to extort you and do that stupid head tilt thing."

At Sam's observation, Zemo straightens the insinuating tilt of his head, still wearing his head held high under Bucky's scrutinizing glare. Sam pats Bucky on the shoulder once. "Just let me make a call."

Bucky remains silent, still glaring at Zemo as Sam leaves the room to make a call. 

"Would you like some cherry blossom tea?" Zemo offers, seemingly unaffected by Bucky's hostility. 

"No," Bucky snarkily declines. "You go ahead."

Sam steps down the hall, stopping just short of the room you were currently taking refuge in. He takes a deep breath, rolling his neck before pulling his phone out of his pocket. He dials the number of someone he only hopes could help them.

"Hey, we found the camp," Sam mutters into the phone, still watching your room's door. "No one here is telling us shit. Zemo found out the funeral is tomorrow, but he's holding us hostage with the information."

"And that surprises you?" Sharon guffaws. "But you don't want to go in blind."

"Sharon, listen, I know I owe you already, but we could use a trustworthy set of eyes on the camp. You got anymore tricks in your bag?"

"I may or may not have access to a satellite or two," Sharon tells him. "Let me see what I can do."

Sam sighs in relief. "Thank you."

"Listen, Sam you gotta play this out until the very end. If Karli disappears, we're not gonna find that serum until it's too late."

"I know."

"The Power Broker went apeshit when he heard about Nagel. He wants that serum back. You killed his Golden Goose. It's only a matter of time before he tries to find the real Golden Goose, and when he does, Madripoor's gonna get real nasty." 

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. Just find Karli," Sharon vaguely orders. 

"Will do."

"And Sam?" Sharon adds. 

"Yeah?"

"If I were you, I'd be really careful with her. Power Broker's got connections everywhere, so - just keep her safe, keep her with you, okay?"

"I will," he promises, hanging up the phone.

He shoves his phone back in his pocket, still watching your door.

He honestly doesn't know if you're just so angry with him that you don't want to be anywhere near him, if you're in there beating yourself up, if you're doing those weird breathing meditations that Bruce taught you. He figures it's probably some combination of all three. 

He knows you're probably in there beating yourself up for what happened earlier. It always scared you when you slipped up like that, especially so violently. It didn't matter that you'd never hurt a single person, even the slightest inclination that you were about to freaked you out. 

He spends a good portion of that evening meandering in that hallway, waiting and hoping that you'll come out, even if it is just to yell at him again. With each passing minute, the chances of you making an appearance get more slim.

As the sun begins to set, he knows it's highly unlikely. With the ticking of time starting to drive Sam crazy and Bucky keeping watch of Zemo, Sam decides there's very little he's going to accomplish by loitering in the hallway in front of your door. He tugs his jacket back on and briskly walks out the front door, mumbling a quick explanation to Bucky of going to pick up something for the four of you to eat.

Because the cool air and night time scene offers no reprieve to Sam, he returns with two bags of food in his hand. He holds an ounce of hope that you might make an appearance, but it's quickly dashed when he walks into the house to find Zemo blithely sipping his tea and Bucky intently staring at your door. 

Sam hands Bucky one of the bags. Bucky shakes his head, barely looking away from the door to accept the food in Sam's hand, "Nothing. Not a sound."

"Kinda figured," Sam slowly exhales. He makes his way down the hall to your room with the other paper bag in his hand. He lightly knocks on the door, making no attempt to forcefully enter. His forehead rests against the door as he speak through the door, "I know you can hear me. And I know you're pissed, but you can be pissed and eat."

No response. 

"And I want you to remember that it was an accident, okay? No one got hurt. No one's upset. You're a person, just like the rest of us. Accidents happen." His words hang in the air as he waits with bated breath for any sign that you're even listening to him. And when there's none, his shoulders slump in defeat, his eyes closing with the weight of your strained friendship. He gently places the food at the door. "Okay... Well, tomorrow's a new day, okay? It's a fresh start... Good night."

A tear slips down your cheek, and it takes everything in you to not open the door. And though you know he can't hear you from the other side of the door, you brokenly whisper, "'Night."

Chapter Text

It was probably because the man who framed him for bombing the UN was currently sleeping in the room just down the hall from him.

Being on guard was completely rational, even if the situation he found himself in was not. 

It could also be because you were incredibly pissed with him. Or maybe because you did not once emerge from your room for the remainder of the evening. And also, maybe. slightly because you kept calling him Bucky. 

Even the unfamiliar location could be blamed, the mattress that felt too lush, so soft it felt like it might consume him as he slept, those were all good reasons that he was up in the night, tossing and turning, laying in bed even though he knows it's completely futile. 

But he knows the real reason.

As an insomniac super soldier who hadn't slept a full night since he'd returned from Wakanda, he knows sleep wouldn't come even if Mr. Sandman himself came and brought him the sweetest of dreams.

Bucky gives up laying in the suffocating bed at around 2 AM. 

He tears off his blanket with an annoyed huff. His bare feet hit the cold floor and he honestly has no idea what to do with himself. It's too quiet in the dead of the night. The shadows seem just a little darker in the unfamiliar space. The demons lurking around the corner seemed just a little too frightening to stay in this room.

He dresses himself, prepared to wander the halls all night until someone makes an appearance.

Somewhere in his tired, muddled head, thoughts begin slipping in. Because who knows, maybe you'll be wandering the halls too. And maybe he'll be able to convince you to tell him what's going on. Maybe he'll coax out some of the secrets that haunted you to help you carry that burden.

He knows he sounds like a crazy person. The overthinking, borderline plotting, on some strange off-chance he might run into you. 

He tries telling himself that maybe your insomnia was short-lived and that you were now peacefully sleeping through the night. He audibly scoffs at himself as he exits his room.

As much as he wants that to be true for you, he knows it's not.

It's like a strange sixth sense. He just knows it. He knows you lie awake at night. He knows you've also counted ceiling tiles while you laid in bed waiting for a reprieve that you know will never come, stared up at a bright midnight moon until the sun chased it away, watched lonely cars pass through even lonelier streets. 

And with that final thought, he knows he's going crazy. A few conversations and a sense of familiarity that tugged at his soul did not mean he knew you. It meant he was crazy. And that's all it meant. 

At least that was what he was telling himself. When he was being honest with himself, he knew it was just a way to feel less shitty about the way he left things with you.

You stand in the kitchen in the dead of the night, gritting your teeth as you unravel the bloodied bandage that covered the gun shot wound on your arm. 

Pain was easy for you. Pain you knew like the back of your hand. Pain was familiar, like an old childhood friend that just wouldn't let you go.

It was the emotional stuff that you weren't good at. Or at least, you weren't good at anymore. 

You were so good at ignoring the pain that now radiated up and down your arm, that by the time you stood over the kitchen sink, slowly peeling the bandage off of your skin, your arm was weak, trembling as you exposed the wound to the cool night air. The muscle beneath it twitched and your hand shook of its own accord. 

You crane your neck to get a look at the entire wound and you don't have to be a doctor to know it's really not good. “Damn it.”

Your small hiss of pain cuts through the silent dead of the night. It's like a beacon, calling out to Bucky to follow the sound. Without thinking, he feels himself being pulled into the kitchen to the sight of you hunched over the sink, your right arm extended out as your left hand tightly grips the marble counter. 

“Wow… " Bucky quietly, teasingly whistles, unaware of the questionable first aid you were administering to yourself. "Now you’re swearing? Going rogue really changed you.”

“I did not go rogue,” you huff, dropping the the bandage on the floor as Bucky's voice cuts through your isolation.

“Not according to Sam," Bucky quietly grunts, slowly padding over to where you stand. The second he leans himself against the kitchen counter, he sees where your arm is extended as you try to disinfect and re-bandage your arm by yourself. He sharply inhales when he catches the sight of your wound. Blood is caked all over your arm, bled through the bandage that lay on the floor, all down your arm. And beneath the dried blood, see that the wound looks so painful, even to him. It's angry, clearly infected and inflamed. "Jesus...how long have you been walking around like that?"

"Since the bar," you reply, barely looking at him as you rummage through the small first aid kit for gauze and something to clean the wound.

"That was two nights ago."

"And Sam's dramatic," you redirect, pulling out multiple pieces of gauze along with several cloths you found in one of the cupboards. 

"Yeah, he is," Bucky half-heartedly chuckles. His eyes expectantly flicker back down to your arm, "And the gash?"

"It’s nothing,” you mutter, running the cloth under warm water. He forcefully eyes you, like he knows you're trying to avoid the subject. You feel his glare burning holes in the side of your head. You roll your eyes with a sigh, "People just don't like it when you trespass on private property."

“Yeah, sounds about right," Bucky breathes. He takes a look at your arm again, how you're trying to twist it to clean it but can't because it probably hurts too much. "Here let me.”

“Don’t do that.”

He falters, stopping just short of making any physical contact with you. He looks up at you questioningly, his hand still hovering less than an inch away from touching you. “Don’t do what?”

“Be sweet to me when I’m trying to be mad at you two.”

“Would you prefer I yell at you like Sam?”

"I'd prefer it if you didn't lie to me."

"Touche." His hand slowly moves closer to your arm. Hovering so close to your arm he can feel the warmth radiating off your skin, he looks up to you for permission before touching you. You reluctantly nod, finally accepting the help he offers. His right hand closes the distance, trailing the six jagged, crooked stitches up your arm. His touch is feather light. You can just barely feel the rough, calloused pads of his fingers as he lowers himself to tenderly examine the wound. "You popped a stitch or two... Three, actually. What'd you have a pre-schooler stitch you up or something?"

You school the shudder that rakes through your body as Bucky's breath trails down your arm. "Joaquin, actually."

"You've been spending a lot of time with Torres?" he probes, his eyes flickering away from his examination and back to you.

And just as quickly, you shut his inquisition down. "We're not doing that."

"What?"

"That," you pointedly repeat. "We're not going to do the whole catch up, find out where I've been, thing."

He stands up from his examination, a gently demanding look on his face. "And why not?"

"Because I'm tired. So not tonight."

He nods, his mouth twisting in a sad smile that almost breaks your resolve. He clears his throat, "It's infected."

Though he's not used to touching people anymore, particularly not with his metal hand, he raises it, pressing the cool vibranium against the heated, angry wound.

You breathe a small sigh of relief, the coolness alleviating some of the pain you've been desperately trying to ignore. "Thank you."

"Any time."

As he stands there, his face inches away from your arm, his eyes wander the wound again. They trail up and down the arm and that's when he notices it. The litany of scars, scratches, imperfections littering your arm. Some so old they are barely visible to him. Years of fighting, of surviving, all worn on your skin.

He knows that some are new, some would fade and no one would ever be able to tell. He also knows that some would never fade, some would always be there to serve as a reminder of battles and wars you probably wanted nothing more than to forget. And that was only talking about the physical scars.

One sticks out to him. One that he knows would never fade. Not physically, not emotionally, and certainly not mentally. Not with the way it's embedded into your skin. Not with how far up your forearm it goes. One straight line. Decisive. So deep that another person couldn't have done that to you. You would have moved away. It's human instinct to move away. Even if you were held down, the angle, the placement. The conclusion screams so loudly that it can't be ignored. 

When you feel a hitch in his breath still ghosting down on your arm, your eyes flicker to him for a moment. You don't really have to. You already know what he's seen. You don't meet his eyes as you raise your hand to cover the scar, you quietly murmur, "It was a long time ago."

Still holding his hand to the wound, he asks, "Did you mean it?"

"It was a long time ago."

In that moment, he decides to return a little piece of the vulnerability that you once showed him. Just a little piece that no one, not even his therapist had ever heard.

"Steve was the reason. My reason. Of why I didn't... you know?" he lowly stammers out. He figures that you don't need much more of an explanation than that, if anyone could understand what he's trying to say, it'd be you. You look up at him, finally meeting his intense gaze. There's a vulnerability in them that you can't reject. That you can't for the life of you shut down. You silently nod, not encouraging him to continue, not for anything except to offer a quiet understanding. He shrugs, grabbing one of the suture kits in the first aid kit. "I just couldn't be selfish. After everything he did, I couldn't. I know it was rotten work, but he did it anyway. I owe him that much."

The words hang in the air for a moment before you reply, "Steve didn't see it like that. I hope you know that."

"I know." For a moment, he allows the silence to overtake the room, for the vulnerability to envelope the both of you. He clears his throat just a second later, focusing back on your injury. "You're gonna need to be stitched up. Do you see anything there to numb you up?"

Without even sparing a fleeting glance to the first aid kit laid out beside you, you shake your head. "No. I don't need it anyway."

His face furrows, unable to hide his repulsion at your suggestion. "What?"

"It's fine," you flippantly restate. "You can do it without it. I'll be just fine."

"It's infected," Bucky explains, hoping this is just some miscommunication and that you're not really offering to have him stitch up an infected wound without any sort of pain management. "It'll hurt like a bitch. A hell of a lot more than a fresh wound would've." 

"I know, I can handle it. Promise."

"I'm not interested in testing your pain limits," he vehemently refutes.

"I'm telling you, it doesn't bother me," you insist.

"And I'm reminding you that you're still a person," he angrily counters, frustrated by your general lack of concern over your own well-being. "A human, that as far as I know, sure as hell feels pain."

You sigh deeply, rolling your eyes at him like all of this is complete overkill, because yes, you felt pain, but you weren't lying when you said it didn't bother you. It wasn't that it didn't actually hurt, it was that you'd had decades of practice ignoring it. 

You used to do it to yourself. Hurt yourself as punishment. It was ingrained within you, taught to the people that locked you up like an animal. It was what you had earned for the darkness that lurked beneath your skin, or at least, a darkness others claimed you had within yourself. 

You recall a time long ago when you were first living with Sam.

Even now, you remember the situation so clearly. He'd just slammed the door shut. Still, the sharp noise startled you, and the glass in your hand shattered at your feet, shards scattered all over the floor, over your shoes.

In retrospect, it wasn't anything that couldn't be easily fixed, but as a newly minted person in the outside world, you felt guilt overwhelm you, for making his life harder, for breaking things in his home, for being a burden when he so kindly took you in.

The following action was reflexive. Turning on the stove, holding your hand over the scalding flame, it was second nature. You weren't proud of that. You remember how quickly he yanked your hand away from the stove, and throughly lectured you about how wrong that was.

Pain was not punishment. And there was no virtue in suffering. 

You never did it again. And to you, that was progress.

You didn't welcome pain into your life, you just tolerated it when it was there.

That was improvement. 

"Yes, I feel pain," you concede. "But it doesn't even bother me."

"Did Torres stitch you up without numbing it?" Bucky furiously demands.

"No."

"Well, I'm not going to either." He storms to the other side of you, furiously raking through the first aid kit that seemed to be packed with everything a person could need for an emergency - except for something to numb your arm. "If I can't find anything, then I'm taking you to the hospital myself."

"No!" you frantically object, startling Bucky. His gaze widens in shock, flickering over to you. You take a split second to compose yourself. "No hospital. No doctors."

"You're hurt."

"No hospital. No doctors," you repeat, dropping your tone back to just above a whisper. You look up at him with pleading eyes, silently begging him to trust you. "Please."

He silently acquiesces by continuing to search through the first aid kit. He stops when he sees a tube of some numbing cream, over the counter, a low dose of pain relief, but it's all he has unless he's going to let you walk around with a gaping, bleeding wound. He looks at you with a concerned, deeply apologetic expression. "This isn't going to do much, but it'll help. It'll be better than nothing at all."

"Okay."

You push the thought of pain out of your head as he gently but thoroughly coats the wound in the numbing gel. 

"We should give it a few minutes to give it it's best shot." 

"Okay," you agree with an extended exhale and a reluctant nod.

The waiting seemed to make it all the worse. The anticipation of that pain that would come. Waiting here, Bucky standing there, so close to you. You weren't sure the last time you were this aware of his proximity.

Actually, you were. You knew the exact moment he was this close to you. And then you remember how terribly that moment ended. So terribly that he cut you out of his life. The remembrance is grain of salt in the wound. 

And now he was here. Standing so close to you that you were almost positive he could hear your heart racing. 

To put the slightest amount of distance between the two of you, you whirl around to face the counter behind you where you'd placed one of Zemo's nicer bottles while rummaging for the first aid supplies. You haphazardly twist the cap, pouring yourself a generous serving in one of Zemo's crystal glasses. 

You turn back to find him watching you with a questioning look in his eye and an amused grin lighting up his face. 

"Hey, you're fixing the outside wounds, I need something for the inside wounds," you dryly joke. 

"Inside wounds," he says, trying his best to maintain a serious inflection. He breaks only a moment later with a short but hearty laugh. "I never thought you were the time to drink your troubles away."

"Maybe you don't know me as much as you think you do," you quip, your words carrying more weight than you intended. 

"Or maybe I know you well enough to know when you're deflecting."

You're taken aback by his quick retort. You're so unused to anyone seeing through you anymore, but even in the way he says it with such ease. His words are callous, offhanded, like he's telling you the color of the sky, as though it's basic fact to him.

He sees right through you like he's known you all along.

But you'd spent months convincing yourself that you made that feeling up, that you saw things that were never there, felt things that weren't real.

You're not vindicated by Bucky's words, by the knowledge that he does, in fact, know you. It still doesn't change any of it, not what transpired, not where you were, none of it.

Because if he did, if he really did know you, then that must mean he just didn't like what he saw. And from a person you thought you'd shared something with, you couldn't accept that, you couldn't accept the fresh batch of fears and insecurities that your new conclusion would force you to wade through.

"Or maybe I just had to grow up. Maybe I had to learn to stand on my own two feet for once," you bite back. "That's what everyone wanted, right?"

The words exchanged are bittersweet, it's sad, beautiful, and tragic all at once.

It's a victory that you're still speaking to him. A loss that you're so angry with him. Devastating because he knows the role he played here. But maybe he doesn't know you as well as he thought he did.

Even now, he swears there was a moment he did.

In just these few short days with you, that feeling keeps bubbling up, threatening to seep out, for the words to pour out of his mouth. Before he can stop the feeling from dripping out into his words, he quickly and quietly responds, "Not everyone." He waits a beat, hoping that an ounce of courage will seep in, just enough for him to finish the sentence. He wants to say it. He thinks it over and over, 'I didn't want you to be different'. The bravery doesn't come. "But maybe-"

"I think that's enough maybe's for tonight," you cut him off, a small laugh embedded in your words.

He chuckles with an awkward smile. "Probably."

You laugh along with him for a second. You jut your chin up towards the small cupboard just off to the right, "Grab a glass."

"Sure." He grabs one of the crystal glasses, placing it down right beside yours. The corner of his mouth twitches up as he watches the heavy hand with which you pour his drink. 

He raises his eyebrows, silently challenging you, not quite believing you'll drink your glass in its entirety. 

"Wow," Bucky laughs, watching as you down the drink without even a wince. He smiles tipping his own glass in your direction as the liquor passes through his lips. He does his best to school his wince with a forced clearing of his throat, "I'm impressed."

"You don't befriend Tony Stark and Natasha Romanoff without learning to hold your liquor."

"You're different," Bucky wistfully observes, a conflicted smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Maybe you just don't know me as well as you thought you did."

"Maybe I don't." His words are bittersweet. Because maybe he doesn't know you as well as he thought he did. But there was a moment all those years ago that he swore he did. He never told you. He never told anyone that. It didn't change that the feeling thrummed beneath his skin every time you were near. He decides to do what he does best, ignoring his own confusing feelings for the sake of the mission. He softly shakes his head as he opens the small suture kit, "I'm gonna start. You're gonna tell me if it gets too bad and you need me to stop, okay?"

"Okay."

"Swear?"

You softly chortle, agreeing with a small nod. "Swear."

"So tell me then, tell me what I don't know, what I'm not understanding."

"I thought we weren't doing this tonight," you chuckle, trying to focus on anything but the sensation of the needle digging into your flesh for the very first stitch.

"What's going on with you?"

"With the powers?" you ask, though you get the sense that's not what he's actually talking about. You exhale as the worst of the first stitch is over. All you feel now are the odd sensation of thread tugging at your skin. Though that's not really what he means, it's still something, so he nods, watching for your both your response and to check to make sure you're still okay. "I don't know. I've been like this since we've been back."

"You didn't say anything."

"No, I didn't." 

"Is this why you left Louisiana?" he gently prompts, hoping to distract you as he begins the second stitch.

"No - Partly - I- I don't know, I guess I was looking for something." You don't know how to articulate what it was that you were searching for. Sure, there's the actual logistics of what you were searching for: a birthdate, biological parents, place of origin. Answers - that's all you were looking for. But what you searched for was far more difficult. Something intangible. A feeling. An idea. Something that felt like the bittersweet waves of nostalgia that often washed over you. Something that felt like home. Something that you couldn't ruin. Or infect. Or destroy. Something that wouldn't leave. Something that couldn't be taken from you. "Something bigger than myself. To hold onto... It sounds stupid when I put it like that."

"It's not stupid. It's - That sounds perfectly reasonable, actually," he assures you, tying off the second stitch. "But can I ask you something?" You look at him with a challenging expression and an unimpressed smirk. "Just one. Please?"

The corner of your mouth pulls up at the sight of Bucky's pleading expression. You loll your head once, reluctantly agreeing to another question. "Maybe just one."

"Isn't that what family is for?" he muses.

You halfheartedly smile. "I don't have a family. Remember?"

His eyebrows pull together, the corner of his mouth slightly pulling up as he goes back to finish the third stitch. "Really? Because that's not what that looked like to me. Earlier with Sam, I mean."

"I'm not Sam's family. Sam has a family."

He stops himself from rejecting your words out of hand. He knows how untrue they are, but it's clear to him that you don't. He thinks of the only thing that's even comparable to you and Sam. "You know, me and Steve used to fight like that."

"That's not the same and you know it. To Sam, I'm - well, I'm just Reckless Idiot #1."

"Maybe I'm just tired of fighting wars we'll never win," you unexpectedly offer, the confession surprising even yourself. 

"We did win," he gently reminds you.

You look up at him with a vaguely pained expression that has nothing to do with your newly stitched up arm. "It doesn't feel like much of a win, does it?"

"No, it doesn't."

You quietly inhale. "People just don't get it, you know? Constantly going from one fight to the next. Waiting for the next thing to happen because it'll always happen. Something's always going to be lurking around the corner. We're always just going- "

"From one fight to the next," Bucky finishes for you, remembering how those exact words left his mouth only weeks ago. 

"From one fight to the next," you repeat, your voice dropping as you look, really look, at Bucky for the first time all night. You keep speaking, holding his intense gaze, "And sometimes all I want is to be done. To have a little bit of quiet, to try and be happy for once, to- to have- "

"To have peace."

"Peace," you softly breathe.

The word feels odd in your mouth, the taste of it is unfamiliar, the syllables don't sound right as it leaves your mouth. You've known for quite a while that you were not meant for peace. Your only hope was that you wouldn't ruin anyone else's hopes for peace. And that included Bucky. 

Without looking away from you, he grabs a fresh bandage, gently wrapping it around the wound. "I understand."

"Thank you."

You mean it for everything, for taking care of you, for sharing parts of himself you weren't sure he'd shared with anyone else, but mostly, mostly for understanding you in a way that you weren't sure anyone else ever could. It reminded you that, on the few times he allowed you to see it, his soul looked so much like your own.

"You're welcome."

"We should try to get some rest. Big day tomorrow," you whisper, looking down at his hand that lingers on your skin though the bandage is already secured.

Though he notices you don't say anything about sleep, he doesn't point it out. He knows there's a very good chance the two of you will lie in your lonely beds until the morning sun finally ends your nighttime misery.

He drops his hand slowly, trailing your skin for a second longer, "Yeah, that's a good idea."

In spite of your words, you both remain standing there, in the dimly lit kitchen, for another long moment. The tension is palpable, electricity crackles in the air.

And even now, you can't help but notice that Bucky's ocean blue eyes are like a current that just kept pulling you back in. The thing was, you couldn't risk getting swept up again, you couldn't take another goodbye, so you finally gather the will to look away. "Good night."

"Night."

Chapter Text

Though you haven't actually slept, you creak open a bleary eye to the sunlight filtering in through the bedroom window.

A new day, just like Sam promised.

And though you want nothing more than to pretend none of this is happening, that there aren't people exactly like you running amuck and wreaking havoc, you can't find it in yourself to turn a blind eye. 

You keep imagining what Karli Morgenthau looks like. Was she scared the first time she held a flame in her hand? Did her face light up with all the possibilities, both good and bad, brimming all around her? Was she revered? Or shunned like you were?

Did the world around her feel different? 

You know there's only one way to get answers to those questions. And it might not be fair, but you know the only way to get those answers is by facing your fears. You reach for the doorknob, turn it, and face the outside world once again. 

The morning outside your room is quiet, the air still. It's almost a comfort that the world turns with or without you, that people will march on, the sun will continue to rise and set regardless of you. 

You almost laugh at how narcissistic the sentiment sounds, but after the years you've had, the world continuing to turn was all a person could really ask for. And the world turning without you having to fight for it was more than you'd ever gotten. 

You quietly pad down the hall to the living room where Sam sits on the couch staring out the stained glass window. You watch him for a moment, the pensive, solemn expression that replaces his normal goofy grin. You wonder what heavy thoughts running rampant in his head are currently weighing on him. 

You timidly clear your throat to make yourself known. 

He slightly jolts, snapping out of his reverie to find you standing in the doorway. He softly smiles, "You're up."

You nod, offering a tight smile. "It's a new day, right?"

He cracks an even bigger smile, eagerly nodding, "Right."

"Morning," Bucky awkwardly greets, trying to play off his surprise at seeing you out and speaking to Sam without any bickering back and forth. 

"So now what?" you prompt, plopping down on the couch, not quite beside Sam, not quite across from him, but perpendicular to Sam. 

"Now, we go to this funeral and try to reason with Karli," Sam slowly exhales, rubbing his hands on his pant legs.

"Good," you agree. "I like that plan."

"Karli Morgenthau cannot be reasoned with," Zemo blithely responds, strolling into the room with an air of nonchalance and an unburdened smile. "She is too far gone."

"She's a kid," Sam defends. 

"Hold on, Karli's a kid?" you interject.

"She didn't seem very child-like when she blew up a GRC building with people inside," Zemo guffaws.

"What?" you exclaim, wide eyes looking to Sam and Bucky for answers. 

"She doesn't know how to control herself yet," Sam defends. "We know that."

"How do you know that?" you pointedly ask, demandingly crossing your arms as you face Sam.

"Things got a little out of hand when we first found out about them," Bucky responds for Sam. "Nothing too crazy."

"It wasn't your shoulder she set on fire," Sam bitterly mutters under his breath.

"She did, what!?"

"But-" Zemo starts again.

"Alright, everyone shut up," you curtly interrupt, rubbing your temples. "That's a lot of information to get in thirty seconds."

"As much fun as this debrief has been, we gotta go," Sam informs the group. "Remember, keep our heads down. Don't call attention to ourselves. And let's try to end this without anyone getting hurt."

"Whatever you say, Cap," you dryly remark. 

Sam scoffs, rolling his eyes, "Don't start."

"Hm..." Bucky knowingly hums. 

"You either," Sam warns. 

Bucky innocently shrugs. "I didn't say anything."

"You didn't have to. Now, let's go," Sam instructs, ushering Bucky and Zemo out the door. Before you can follow Bucky and Zemo out the door, Sam places his hand on your shoulder to stop you. He looks at you with a pleading expression, "Look, I know you're probably still mad and you have every right to be, but please, please, do me a favor and keep your head down. The last thing we need is more people breathing down our necks. And you know-"

"I know," you interrupt, already knowing the particular danger Sam was referring to all too well. And in spite of Bucky's words last night, you feel guilty that Sam carries around this sense responsibility for you. It was terrible work. People got hurt doing that work. And on top of that, you were barely speaking to each other. And he was still doing it, he was still taking care of you. You nod with a sad smile. "I'll keep my head down."

"Thank you," Sam sighs in relief. "Now, let's do this."

"Let's do it," you agree with a slow exhale.

You both walk out, trailing just behind Zemo and Bucky. Bucky turns to the two of you with a confused expression. "Everything okay?"

"Besides the imminent threat to the greater good and the world in constant need of saving?" you cheekily remark, joining them as Zemo guides you down the cobblestone roads. "I think so."

"So, same old, same old?" Bucky quips, slowing his pace to walk by your side. 

"Exactly."

For a moment, the only sound are the footsteps along the old cobblestone roads as Zemo guides you to Karli Morgenthau. In your peripheral, you see Bucky walking beside you, perfectly in step with you and you find it so easy to pretend like you're both friends again, real friends this time. You find it easy to pretend he didn't cut you out of his life and that he's not just forced into the same situation with you. That he could actually be here for you.

That daydream ends with a loud bellow from an unfamiliar voice at the other end of the street, "Karli Morgenthau is too dangerous for you guys to be pulling this type of shit."

"Great," Bucky grimaces.

You only catch a fleeting glance of the man bellowing down the street before Bucky takes a large step to place himself in front of you. Over his shoulder, Sam mutters to you, "If I asked you to walk away right now, would you?"

"Probably not."

"Didn't think so," he frustratedly exhales.

"So how'd you find us this time?" Bucky shouts back. 

"I'm going to go ahead and guess that you guys know who that is," you assume.

"Unfortunately," Bucky grunts.

"Mind cluing me in?" you urge.

"It's no one worth knowing."

"I could decide that for myself if you guys weren't acting like my human shields." You tap on his shoulder, trying to step around him when Sam steps in front of you, literally shielding you from whoever is coming. "Seriously, guys, what just happened?"

"John Walker just happened," Sam quietly seethes.

"John Walker?" you question. "How many people did you two manage to piss off?"

"A lot," Sam confesses.

"Come on," yet another voice chimes in. You try looking around Bucky's shoulder, but now Sam's in front of you too, completely closing ranks around you. "You think two Avengers can walk around Latvia without drawing attention?"

"No more keeping us in the dark," John demands, his heavy footsteps closing in on you. "You could start by telling us why you broke him out of prison."

"He did that himself, technically," Bucky sarcastically retorts.

"This better be an unbelievable explanation."

You hear the man getting closer, and you keep reminding yourself that you just promised Sam you'd keep your head down, but your curiosity is starting to get the best of you.

"Hey," Sam warns, pushing John away. "Take it easy - before this gets weird."

"I know where Karli is," Zemo offers.

It's at that moment that Lemar catches your eye from behind Sam and Bucky. "Uh, John?"

"What?" John frustratedly sighs.

Lemar nudges his head toward you. And it's then that John really notices you, slightly crouched down as a halfhearted attempt to keep your promise to Sam, tucked behind Sam and Bucky. 

"That's fantastic," Sam sarcastically quips.

In this moment, you decide that you've sufficiently fulfilled your promise to Sam and kept your head down as much as possible, but now was the time for a new plan. 

You pry your hands in between Sam and Bucky, forcing them to separate their human blockade. You take a step forward, a large, welcoming grin on your face. You extend your hand out to John, you greet, "Hi!"

John doesn't take a step forward, doesn't reciprocate the gesture of greeting, instead, his eyes flicker down to your hand. You can't make out the expression that flashes across his face, but you do know what he's doing. This is something familiar. His eyes rake over you, scrutinizing your still extended hand, your wide eyed gaze, and the grin that slowly slips off your expression.

He's sizing you up.

You can't say you're not trying to take the sight of him in too. The sight of another person carrying your friend's legacy: Steve's shield, toting around his title, a title he gave to someone who you wholeheartedly believed deserved it. No matter your own internal battles, Steve was a person you cared about, someone you would always care about, and they replaced him without a second thought.

In spite of the knot twisting itself in the pit of your stomach, you offer a tight smile as your hand drops. You awkwardly chuckle, "Not a fan of handshakes, huh?"

"Not when I know what you are."

"John," Lemar hisses.

"It's alright," you insist, waving Lemar off. "But didn't anyone ever tell you that girls don't actually have cooties?" 

"He means an enhanced human," Bucky grunts, his fist tightly clenched. 

You frown, your eyebrows furrowing at John. "I know."

"You know, I've heard a lot about you," John starts. "Regina Phalange..."

"I told you that was a stupid alias," Sam mutters under his breath.

"And it was still better than Ken Adams," you easily retort, recalling one of his aliases when you were both on the run.

"Sunshine..." John declares. 

"Don't call her that," Bucky automatically sneers. 

"It's okay. I think we got off on the wrong foot, John," you offer, trying to extend an olive branch instead of escalating their hostility. You briefly offer your name to the two men along with a warm, hopefully placating smile. "And I'm just-"

"You know, Sam and Bucky have put a lot of effort into hiding you. People don't hide unless they've got a reason to," John vaguely accuses, cutting you off. 

"Was there a question there or are you just trying to waste our time, Walker?" Bucky retorts.

"Are you helping the Flag Smashers?"

"Helping them?" you repeat, an eyebrow arching at the absurdness of the statement. "I'm helping these two, and trust me, that's a full time job."

"Then how do you suppose they got a serum replicated from your DNA?"

"Oh wow," you dramatically exhale, resting your hands on your hips. "You guys are like way behind. See? This is why you don't skip steps! Um... where do you want me start?"

"I can't believe I'm saying this but can we get back to Karli?" Sam impatiently prompts. 

"Good idea," Zemo agrees, turning to walk away from John and Lemar. John stops Zemo with a firm hand on his chest. "Well, where is she?"

"All we know is it's a memorial," Sam responds. "So we're gonna intercept her there."

"That means civilians. High risk of casualties," Lemar murmurs.

"Alright, good. We'll move in fast. Take her by surprise," John tells Lemar.

"No, I want to talk to her alone," Sam forcefully insists.

"Well, I'm not losing her again," John immediately refutes.

"Look, the person closest to her died. She's vulnerable. If there's any time to reason with her, it's now," Sam argues, trying to be the voice of reason. 

"What? No. Wait, no! Stop. Just stop, okay?" John abruptly orders, stepping in front of the group to stop you again. "I think we're way past reasoning with her. Unless you forgot that she blew up a building with people still inside it."

"Sam, you walk in there cold, she could kill you," Lemar calmly objects. 

"And if I walk in hot and the op goes wrong, more people will die."

"Are you gonna let him do this?" John asks Bucky, his tone dripping in condescending judgement. "You're gonna let your partner walk into a room with that freak all alone?"

"Hey!" you object. "I'm not a freak."

"No offense," John half-heartedly offers.

"Offense!" you exclaim. "So much offense!" 

Bucky grits his teeth, standing beside you, desperately trying to hold onto the last of his patience as John continually insults and accuses you. He clenches his fist, speaking through gritted teeth, "He's dealt with worse. And he's not my partner."

"I used to council soldiers dealing with trauma, okay? This is in my wheelhouse," Sam continues, trying his best to persuade them before the interaction escalates any further.

"Yeah, I know. And I know those soldiers, which is why this is a bad idea."

John's words raise an immediate red flag for you. You can't help but wonder how exactly John knows the soldiers that Sam used to council. It wasn't uncommon knowledge that Sam used to council veterans with PTSD. But knowing the soldiers that he counseled was far from common knowledge. You knew a few of them, mostly in passing when you visited the VA with Sam. You decide to let the strange foreboding feelings John's words evoke go to focus on the current problem at hand. You take a step forward, "He's not going in alone, I'm going with him."

"What?" Sam hisses, whipping his head around to stare you down with wide eyes. "No, you're not."

You meet his bewildered stare. And then, Bucky, Lemar, John, and Zemo all watch what could only be described as a weird silent conversation between the two of you. There are no words exchanged, just wide-eyed stares, slight tilts of the head, and some clipped exhales.

Sam sharply shakes his head. In response, you dramatically nod. 

Your eyes open a little more. Sam's narrow in response.

He wordlessly guffaws. You counter with a quiet huff and a knowing tilt of your head. 

"What are they doing?" John scoffs.

Bucky holds up a hand, rolling his eyes at John. "Just let them fight it out."

It's almost a full minute of watching the two of you mime a conversation that Sam throws up his hand in defeat. You clap once, giving the group a proud thumbs up. 

"Fine," Sam grunts after a moment.

"Ha!" you gloat triumphantly. "I win. I'm going with him."

"Neither of you are-"

"Wait, John," Lemar interjects. "If they can talk Karli down, it might be worth a try."

John scoffs, shaking his head as he weighs his options. He turns back to Zemo with a hardened glare. "We'll deal with you later."

"I'm sure it will all come to an agreeable conclusion. My associate is just up ahead," Zemo says, gesturing to a little girl watching your group with weary eyes. The girl stands alone at the edge of the street. Your heart clenches as you examine her for a moment, the forlorn, exhausted look that should never be on a child's face, the tattered, dirty clothes that you're sure aren't uncommon for people in the displacement camps. Zemo is the first to approach the child. He greets her with a warm expression. "Hello, my friend. This is for your family." He extends a hand full of neatly stacked bills to her, "This is for your family. Can you show us the way?" 

"What the hell?" John mutters.

You wordlessly shrug, following the little girl and Zemo just up the cobblestone road to a large stone building. As you enter the large building, you can hear the faint echoes of voices coming from up the winding staircase. 

You crane your neck to look up the staircase, not hearing anything other than the faint voices. You turn back around to find John handcuffing Zemo to a large radiator pipe. You disapprovingly frown, pursing your lips, "Is that really necessary?"

"You've got ten minutes," John sharply warns. "Then, we do this my way."

Chapter Text

You and Sam stand perched over a large balcony, watching Karli speak at Donya's memorial service, "I don't remember my mother or father. Same goes for siblings, cousins, grandparents. What I do remember is being alone. Worse than being hungry or cold or scared, I was alone. Until Mama Donya. Like a lot of you here, Mama Donya saved me. She clothed me, fed me, loved me."

You find yourself resonating with Karli's words quite a bit. You'd never forgotten the first person that had ever shown you kindness. Your caretaker was that person for you.

Caged like an animal for the first 25 years of your life, trapped in a world that existed within the confines of 4 concrete walls, she showed you that good existed even in the bleakest of circumstances, that good was a choice and it was never too late to make it.

She was also the first person in what would turn out to be a massive list of people that would leave you. You knew that wasn't entirely fair, she was killed because of the kindness she'd shown you after all.

After her death, you vowed to always make that choice. To choose to see the good in the world. To be the brightness that she was for you. To be the good where you didn't see any.

If only you'd known then what you know now.

You feel for Karli. You find yourself connecting to her without even knowing her yet. 

Losing, losing in a way that you know she had, it one of the hardest things a person could suffer. And while you still wanted to live by your caretaker's message, you also know how easy it is to lose yourself in the grief, to let yourself die with your loved ones. 

You want to walk down the steps, to look her in the eye and tell her that it's never too late. 

Karli's eyes flicker up to the open window in that moment, not to see you and Sam bombarding the memorial service, not an attack in sight, no discernible sign of threat, but to you and Sam quietly standing in front of the balcony window, watching the service. 

She hands over the child in her arms to another woman, and continues speaking more pointedly, "She taught me that we have to do for each other, because they won't. And we know who they are. They impose struggle and hardship on us. Then labeled us as criminals for pushing back, but the struggle is what brings us all together. People who have nothing in common. For we are, after all, simply one world and one people."

She looks up at the two of you, now clearly speaking to you and Sam, "So live accordingly."

The minutes lull as each solemn mourner rests flowers on the body surrounded by candles and small remembrances. The memorial comes to a quiet close as people slowly trickle out of the room, leaving Karli alone. 

Karli's shoulders stiffen at the sound of you and Sam entering the room. Her hands defensively curl, poising herself for an attack. "I saw you back there."

"It's easier if you have open hands," you unexpectedly offer from the doorway.

She falters at the advice. She turns to you, an angry, furrowed look on her face. "And why would I listen to you?"

You shrug. "Try it."

Her palm raises toward the ceiling, a small, well-rounded flame emerging in her hand. Her eyes questioningly flicker back up to you. 

The corner of your mouth slightly pulls up as you take a single step into the room. "I just wanted to meet you."

"Bold of you," she commends.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Sam offers, taking a step behind you.

She scowls, "Don't condescend to me. I'm not a child."

"I'm not," Sam reassures, passing a glance at Donya. "I know what it's like to lose someone. Believe me."

She furiously shakes her head, immediately rejecting the sentiment, "No, you don't. Not like this."

"You felt helpless," you absently state, staring at the floor as you vividly recall what that loss felt like to you. Seeing the first person to show you what love felt like, gone. Even worse, watching them die. That moment was forever branded into your memory, holding a lifeless body, sitting in a pool of blood that didn't belong to you. Sitting there, tears staining your cheeks, shaking your caretaker as though you could will her back to life. Words spilled out of your mouth at the time, garbled apologies marred by violent sobs, tear soaked pleas for her to come back. "Like despite having the powers, it meant nothing because you couldn't- you couldn't save the people that mattered most."

"How did you-"

"Trust me. I know the feeling." You sadly smile, taking a deep breath. You nudge your head at Sam, placing your hand on his shoulder. "We both do."

You drop your hand after a second, allowing Sam to move closer to Karli. "It doesn't have to be a war, Karli."

"They started the war as soon as they kicked us out of our new homes and onto the street," Karli seethes. "People all around the world need me. Millions of them."

"I can't speak for millions," Sam acknowledges. "But I can understand you. I understand your frustration. I understand your helplessness."

"So you want me to stop because people are getting hurt, right? But what if I'm making the world a better place?" Karli poses. "What if I'm the only one actually doing anything to help?"

"It's not a better place if you're killing people. It's just different," Sam explains, resting on a wooden table across from Karli. He plants his hands on either side of him, looking up at Karli as he continues speaking, "This guy we know, knows more about super humans than anyone else on the planet, he says, you're a supremacist."

She incredulously chortles, "Me?"

Sam nods, "Yeah."

She vehemently shakes her head, looking to both you and Sam as she defends herself, "That's ridiculous. Everything I do is to end supremacy. These corporations and the beasts who run them, they're the supremacists."

"So let me ask you, you have more serum, right?" Sam asks.

Karli defensively shrugs. "So?"

"Are you going to increase your army? You're killing innocent people."

"They're not innocent," Karli furiously retorts. You can tell she's now speaking from a place of not completely unjustified anger. "They're roadblocks in my journey and I'd kill them again if I had to."

"Wow..." Sam slowly exhales.

"No, no, no, I didn't mean it like that," Karli immediately backtracks. "You tricked me into sounding like-"

"Like what?"

She takes a long breath, looking to Sam only this time, "The people I'm fighting are trying to take your home, Sam. Why are you here instead of stopping them?"

"You know, my sister's waiting for that exact same answer," Sam replies. "We're not your enemy, I agree with your fight. I just can't get with the way you're fighting it. And I'm sure she wouldn't either," Sam says, nudging his head to the body that lay in the center of the room.

Karli looks back to Donya for a long moment. Her gaze softens ever so slightly, clearly torn up trying to reconcile all the events that led her here. 

You nudge your head toward the pile of flowers surrounding the body, and raise a freshly grown poppy in your hand. "Can I?"  

Karli's eyes incrementally widen at the sight of the blooming poppy in your hand. "How'd you do that?"

"You don't know how?" She silently shakes her head. You mull over her words for a moment as you place the flower amongst the others. In truth, you didn't know how. You just did it. It was more of a feeling than an outright decision that you made. "I know what I think may not mean much to you, but I always thought it was all supposed to work together. No air, no fire. No water, the earth is dry, lifeless."

"Are you going to start singing?" Karli sarcastically remarks.

You chuckle. "No, and I know it sounds silly. It's just my theory. I just know what it feels like. In a weird way, I feel connected to you. The serum in your blood came from my blood. Actually, it's kinda gross if you think about it too much."

She shakes her head at you, a new thought entering her head that changes her entire attitude toward you.

"You've had this your entire life, and yet what have you done to help the people suffering? You could've been a Prometheus, and you chose to be a SHIELD lackey," she spits, making no attempt to hide her disdain for SHIELD.

"Karli," Sam sharply warns.

You shake your head at him, raising your hand to stop Sam's defense of you. "No, it's okay. I did what I thought was right at the time. I know they're not perfect- "

Karli snorts, rolling her eyes, "That's an understatement."

"But I learned a lot," you continue. "And one thing I've learned is that the world is not as simple as we want it to be. You can give people fire, and it can bring warmth and light, oh, and those little smore things at bonfires-"

"Focus," Sam mutters under his breath.

"Right," you nod. "It can be beautiful, and it can be good, but it can also turn everything to ash. I've seen the destruction that power like this brings. And trust me, that's not what any of us want."

"You're wrong."

You shrug, "I know I don't have all the answers, but I can help you. I want to help you."

Her eyes narrow for a moment to determine if your offer is actually genuine. As she watches you and tries to take in your words, you can help but feel a little sad for her. It's not a pity sort of sad, but an empathetic sadness. It's a difficult position she's in. Always on guard. Never knowing who you could truly trust. Constantly looking over your shoulder. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting to feel the knife in your back.

She lets out a slow breath, her shoulders slightly relaxing, "You're not what I expected."

"I get that a lot."

She offers you and Sam a small, fleeting smile, "You're either brilliant or just hopelessly optimistic."

"I'd like to think a little bit of both."

With imploring eyes, she takes a step toward you, "You could be a Prometheus."

And in the exact moment that you feel like you're actually getting through to her, that all this could possibly have a good ending, John Walker's voice booms through the room, "Karli Morgenthau, you're under arrest."

Her eyes widen and you can see the hurt and betrayal flicker in her as she looks at you with disbelief. "So that's what this was?" 

You vehemently shake your head. "No, no, Karli, wait."

"Tricking me until back up came?" she sneers.

"You had enough time to talk," John declares. 

"Nazi," she spits at John, a fight ensuring between the two of them. It's clear that, like you, Karli does everything in her power to avoid hand to hand combat. With suggestion you gave her earlier, she startles John with a flame that grazes a little too close to his face for comfort. John jolts away from her hand, allowing her to slip away from him. She bolts up the marble staircase, and instead of collapsing the staircase, she sets the entire thing on fire.  

Bucky tries to vault himself over the railing, faltering when the flames uncontrollably grow. He scrambles back as the flames consume the entire case. "Shit!"

"Karli!" you shout, following her without hesitation. 

As you reach the fire, it starts dying, easing with your proximity. As you bolt up the stairs, Karli is already diving towards the maze of hallways in the building.

"Karli," you bellow, doing your best to keep up with her as she zigzags down the halls. In the dark, stone hallways that almost all look identical, it's hard to keep your sense of direction. Every time you get close, she bolts into a new hallway. You can hear Sam and Bucky's voices echoing through the corridors, not far behind you.

You only stop when you lose sight of her completely. You pant as you scan the empty, stone room you stand in. There's over at least six different doorways she could've gone down, each with more pathways that would only lead you further into this labyrinth of a building. 

"I lost Karli," Bucky groans, stopping beside you. 

"This place is a maze."

"Oh my God," you wheeze.

"What?"

"There's so many stairs," you continue panting, your hands on your knees as you try to catch your breath. "Why are there so many stairs?"

"Come on," Sam scoffs, patting your back. "We gotta keep looking."

Just as you nod and stand upright, the three of you hear a loud commotion in one of the doorways just ahead. Without wasting a moment, you three bolt for the room. You throw the steel door open, Sam and Bucky trailing you.

You three stand on top of the metal stairs, and you take a moment to take in the chaotic scene in the room below you. Zemo unconscious on the floor, a mysterious yellow fluid pooled on the floor mixed with the glass of broken syringes, and John Walker looking up at you with an odd, unsettling look on his face.

"What the hell did we miss?" Sam quietly exhales.

Chapter Text

"Would you give them up?" Zemo asks you, his forehead covered with a cold compress after Zemo complained about his head being sore after John confronted him about the serum vials. 

You took the slightest amount of solace in the fact that the vials were all gone. Now, no one could have them. Not John Walker. Not the Flag Smashers. Not even the Power Broker. 

You sit on the couch, staring at the massive fracture in the column once again. You don't even have to think about it before you reply, "If I had the opportunity, yes."

"No hesitation. Very impressive," Zemo commends, laying on the couch perpendicular to you. He sits up, watching you intently as he speaks, "You can't hold out hope for Karli. No matter what you saw in her, she's gone. And we cannot allow that she and her acolytes to become yet another faction of gods amongst real people. The enhanced individual, they cannot be allowed to exist."

"Isn't that how gods talk?" Sam prompts, pausing his typing on his laptop. He turns himself on the stool to glare at Zemo, "And if that's how you feel, what about Bucky? What about her? Blood isn't always the solution."

Bucky quickly strides into the room, only just getting back from another sweep of the area to give him peace of mind. "Something's not right about Walker."

"You don't say," Sam sarcastically mutters. 

Bucky haphazardly tears off his jacket, tossing it onto the back of the couch. "I know a crazy when I see one. Because I am crazy."

"Can't argue with that."

"I don't think you're crazy," you kindly offer. "You're like me and I'm not crazy."

"Yeah," Sam looks at you with his lips pulled in and his eyebrows comically raised. Sam nods, patting the marble column with the large crack in the center from your earlier outburst. "You're both the picture of mental health."

"Just another reason you shouldn't have given him the shield," Bucky snarks.

"For the last time, I didn't give John the shield!" Sam borderline shouts, clearly frustrated with the subject at hand. 

"Well, Steve definitely didn't. Which actually brings me to another question," Bucky whirls around to pointedly stare at you. "Did you know he was going to do that?" 

"Me?" you scoff, standing up off the couch with a huff. "No, he was too busy lying to me!"

"Lying?" Sam repeats in disbelief. "You left! You just up and left!"

"I didn't just leave!" you loudly fume. "You knew where I was going!"

"No, I didn't! Because you lied to me!" Sam accuses. "Are we just moving past the fact that you lied to me and then stopped speaking to me? No phone calls. Not a single text message. Nope, I had to ask Joaquin to make sure you weren't lying dead in a ditch somewhere!"

"I only omitted, I never lied! And why would I be lying dead in a ditch anywhere?" you rant.

"I don't know! It's an expression and it's also still a lie!"

"Honesty is always the best policy, Sam," Bucky smugly adds. 

"And don't even get me started on you," you furiously retort, pointing at Bucky while still glaring at Sam. "You lied just as much as he did!" 

Bucky sputters for a moment, turning to you with wide eyes, "What? How does that even-?"

Before Bucky can finish his defense, the door flies open again. John stands at the center of the door with Lemar at his side, he harshly commands, "Alright, I order you to hand over Zemo right now."

“Hold on!” you shout, holding one finger up to John and Lemar. You turn back to Sam and Bucky with narrowed eyes. “We are not done fighting, but I don’t want to be rude so we will call this a time out.”

"Fine," Sam huffs.

"Fine," Bucky grunts. 

"Fine," you repeat. 

"That's it. Let's go, I'm ordering you to hand over Zemo," John repeats, this time he nudges his head at you. "Her too."

You jolt, bewildered by John's order. You point to yourself, "Me?"

"Slow your roll," Sam curtly interjects. "Shield or no shield, the only thing you're running here is your mouth. Now, we had Karli and you overstepped. He's actually proven himself useful today. We're gonna need all hands on deck for whatever's coming next."

"How do you want the rest of this conversation to go, Sam?" John sneers, stepping up to Sam. "Because I really don't think you want to find that out."

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” you interrupt, inserting yourself in between Sam and John. “No one yells at Sam except me. And sometimes Bucky!”

As the words leave your mouth, you notice an eerie look flash across John's face. Just as he takes another step forward, this time toward you, Bucky stalks toward him, and with a murderous look on his face, Bucky quietly warns, "Don't piss me off, John." 

John ignores Bucky's warning, taking another menacing step towards you. Sam grabs your arm, trying to pull you away from him. Your feet remain firmly planted, your curiosity overriding your own self preservation instincts. 

"You know, I've done my research," John starts, his voice low and threatening. And suddenly, all your suspicions are confirmed. The reason John knew about Sam previous counseling work, because he'd been digging up dirt on the two of you. "And I actually think it's pretty interesting, at least what hasn't been erased." John looks to Sam first, "Tell me, Sam, what does a person have to do to get Nick Fury's attention? For him to be so interested that he calls you all the way down to SHIELD headquarters? And when you leave, you leave with a mysterious SHIELD asset. There's not much on this 'asset', I'll admit, but if it was kept that quiet, I'd imagine it meant a lot to SHIELD. Something unprecedented." John's eyes flicker back to you, and now, you have not a doubt in your mind that he knows everything, "Or someone unprecedented."

"You know, for a lot of words, you're really saying very little," Sam seethes.

"I have to wonder though. What did you, of all people, do to get Nick Fury to trust you that much?" John continues prodding. 

"Nick Fury didn't trust anyone," you reply for Sam. "He was just a good judge of character. Duh."

"Maybe," John muses, clearly ready to use another of the tricks up his sleeve. "He picked well then. He's got two people who call themselves free agents still doing SHIELD's dirty work. After all this time, still doing Fury's bidding."

"Do you ever stop talking?"

You raise your hand to stop Sam before he stops John from speaking. Not because he's saying anything that you didn't already know, but you're interested in finding out exactly how much he actually knows. 

"But you," John finally turns to you. "I won't lie, you intrigue me. You just - you don't add up. After everything Sam and Bucky did to you, here you are, still standing by them."

"Those are my friends you're talking about," you retort. 

"Friends?" John snorts. "Some friends they are."

"What the hell does that mean?" Bucky demands. 

"It means, I wouldn't be so quick to call you two friends." Though, only moments ago, you wanted to know what John knew. An eerily foreboding sensation starts creeping up your spine. Like he knows too much, more than you did. More than Sam did. And definitely more than Bucky knew. "Sam, weren't you the one who dragged her to Berlin and got her charged with obstruction of justice?"

"How did you-" Sam starts, his voice just above a soft exhale. 

"It's interesting what you can find out with just a little bit of time and effort."

"I would choose your next words very carefully, Walker," Bucky glowers.

John hums. "Tell me Bucky, did you get a little too close to Sunshine?"

"Don't call her that," Bucky snaps.

"I mean that is why she let you go, right?" John muses. And just like that, you've confirmed that John Walker is ready to tell all of your secrets. But mostly, the one you never wanted Bucky to know. "I have a hard time thinking of people that I would take on both Tony Stark and General Ross for. I can't help but think that maybe there was something else going on. But maybe I'm wrong, maybe it was for Steve Rogers?"

"That's not true," you adamantly deny. Your eyebrows furrow as you softly shake your head, "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I? Because if I remember reading those transcripts correctly." Your heart sinks into the very pit of your stomach as John continues talking, all you can do is hope that the conversation he uncovered wasn't the one that you were thinking about. You knew the truth, but you also knew how it looked and sounded. He'd blame himself. He wouldn't hear that it wasn't his fault. "Tony was the one that saw you let Bucky go. He told Ross. And Ross, well, you know what Ross did. But really, if you think about it, you ended up on the Raft - because of Bucky."

John's words take Bucky so aback that he actually looks to you for an answer. His eyes flicker over to you, the question leaving his mouth in a choked whisper, "What?"

You keep your eyes trained on John, your hands curling into fists as you try to remain composed. 

"I see I've hit a nerve," John chortles, his eyes flickering to Bucky who still maintains a pleading expression aimed at you. "I guess it doesn't matter, she's coming with me - of her own volition or not."

"You're either incredibly arrogant, or incredibly stupid making demands like that," Sam spits. 

"Or maybe I just know how to play my cards right. Like taking back an asset. An asset that never signed the Accords, and if I'm right that means acting in any 'free-agent' capacity is against the law."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Sam sneers. "All you know is how to run your mouth."

"Maybe I don't know what I'm talking about, but I'm sure Ross would love to know what you three have been up to. Let's see, that would be aiding and abetting, obstruction of justice, again, performing acts of vigilanteism, and I'm sure there's plenty more where that came from."

"You're getting real close to making a new enemy, John. Watch it."

"I think you need to watch it. I may not have enough to send you all to prison, but I know for a fact I've got enough for just one of you," John states, his eyes traveling back to you. "All that grey area, Sam? Mistakes get made. Assets get lost. Tell me, Sam, how much convincing do you think it'll take for the UN to take back what's rightfully theirs? To take back their property?"

"She is not their property," Bucky sneers, speaking through gritted teeth and with a glare that could kill on its own.

John takes another step toward you, ignoring the daggers Bucky stares at him. "She belongs to -"

Just as John's about to approach you, Bucky pulls you behind him, "You touch her and I'll kill you."

"Whoa," you slowly exhale, your hands coming to rest on your hips as you feel a furious blush creeping up your cheeks. "I'm sorry, I think I just hallucinated."

"Not the time," Sam hisses under his breath.

"Right," you clear your throat, shaking your head to clear the sudden haze coating your thoughts. "Um...what were we talking about again?"

Sam throws his hands up in the air in exasperation. "Great, you broke her!"

"Even more reason she should come with me," John repeats, reaching out to grab you.

Bucky grabs John's hand before he even touches you, he sneers, "If you want to keep that hand, I'd suggest you keep it to yourself."

"Okay, now you're doing it on purpose," you playfully accuse, hoping that Bucky can't hear the way your heart rate just spiked.

"Seriously not the time," Sam sharply admonishes. 

"Right, right," you quickly agree. "Are you guys done? Can we talk like adults now?"

"Bucky," Sam interjects, stepping in between the two men. "This doesn't solve anything."

You put your hand on Bucky's shoulder. His eyes flicker to you, his gaze finally softening. "He's baiting you. I'm not going anywhere. He knows that."

"You sure about that?" John chuckles, resting the shield against one of the pillars. "How about I put down the shield, Sam? Make it fair?"

Just as you're about to intervene, a spear flies through the air, cracking the pillar the shield rests on. You look in the direction of the weapon to see a single member of the Dora Milaje suddenly in the corner of the room. 

You all collectively look at the doorway with the single member of the Dora, glaring at you with a stone faced expression. Bucky's face drops as the sound of boots thumping against the ground in perfect cohesion fills the room. 

A recognizable face appears through the doorway bringing a pleasant smile to your face. "Ayo! I haven't seen you guys in forever."

Ayo's gaze shifts to you for a moment, and though it's a little hard to tell, you see a hint on her otherwise stoic expression, "Always causing trouble, aren't you?"

You chuckle. "What else would I do with my time?"

John clears his throat, taking a step toward Ayo with an extended hand. "Hi, John Walker. Captain America." His hand remains in the air for another moment, only for the moment to be completely unreciprocated by Ayo. He awkwardly drops his hand, "Well, let's just put the pointy stick things down and we can talk about this, huh?"

"They're actually called spears, John," you wryly inform him, taking another step back away John. "But you go."

John shows no hesitation when taking another step toward the Dora. You cringe at John and Lemar. You lean closer to Sam and Bucky, quietly muttering, "I got five on Ayo."

"Take it easy, John," Sam advises. "You might wanna fight Bucky before you tangle with the Dora Milaje."

"The Dora Milaje don't have jurisdiction here," John firmly states. 

"The Dora Milaje have jurisdiction wherever the Dora Milije find themselves to be," Ayo forcefully retorts. 

"Okay," John chuckles, slightly backtracking, "Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot."

But John's words a cut off with the blunt end of the spear to his face. You audibly wince at the sickening sound of John's face taking what you know has to be a painful blow. 

"We should do something," Sam mutters, the three of you watching the chaos ensue from beside the couch.

"Looking strong, John," Bucky sarcastically remarks, his arms proudly crossed across his chest. 

"Yes!" you exclaim, giving Bucky a thumbs up. "There's the positivity I'm looking for! Go Ayo!"

Sam puts his hand on your shoulder, silently shaking his head as he mouths, "No."

You innocently shrug, "What?" 

"Bucky..." Sam cajoles. 

Just as Ayo has the pointed tip of her spear in John's face, Bucky huffs and reluctantly helps John. Bucky grabs the spear before it makes impact and tries to pry it from her grip. "Ayo, let's talk about this."

"I should stay out of this," you mutter to yourself as Sam rushes in to assist Lemar. "I'm going to stay out of this."

But as you see all four men getting overtaken and overwhelmed by the Dora Miliaje, you defeatedly sigh to yourself, "I'm not going to stay out of this. Am I?"

Just as you take a step toward the fight, you notice someone missing from the room. And now that you think about it, a voice that hadn't interjected anything sarcastic or with the intention of instigating more turmoil. 

Zemo was gone. 

You scan the room, craning your neck to look over the fight. That's when you notice the bathroom door slightly ajar. 

Without a sound, you slowly creep backward. With no one even paying attention to you, you're able to quietly pad to the open door without being spotted.

You slip in through the bathroom door without pushing it any further open to see the bathtub slid from it's normal position to reveal an escape tunnel. And to find Zemo stepping down into the hole. 

He freezes, his shoulders slumping when he hears you clear your throat from behind him. You can tell by the lack of his signature quick remarks and antagonizing smirk that you've genuinely caught him off guard. 

He remains turned away from you, frozen in anticipation of whatever action you'll take to stop him.

It doesn't come.

Instead, you gently state, "You know they're not just going to let you walk, right? They'll come for you."

"I know," he solemnly murmurs. 

"Zemo?" you prompt, taking a step away from the makeshift tunnel and back towards the door. His head turns to look at you over his shoulder. His eyes widen as he finds you shuffling away from him. "It was nice working with you. Mostly."

"You are more than I expected," he offers in return. "I'm...pleasantly surprised."

"High praise coming from you."

"Don't get me wrong, I'd still kill you if I had the chance," he jokes, or at least you think he's joking. 

You snicker, "Maybe next time."

"Thank you," he whispers as he slips down into the tunnel and out of sight. 

You take a breath as you watch him leave. This was another facet of your new life. You didn't trust yourself anymore. You didn't trust your moral compass to tell you the difference between right and wrong anymore. Rationally, you knew what you did was wrong. Letting Zemo go.

It was something you'd done before. John wasn't lying about that. You did let Bucky go. 

But you also knew the things Zemo had done - all of his own volition. 

You took comfort in the fact that you didn't really let him go. You were right, Bucky and the Wakandans would never just let him walk away. 

All you really did was give him a little time. You had a sneaking suspicion about where he was going. And you decided that like everyone else, Zemo also deserved a chance to say goodbye. 

You shake away the conflicted feeling, pulling on your best shocked expression as you bolt into the room to deliver the news of Zemo's escape. Without the mention of you aiding and abetting that escape. 

Your announcement is cut off by a loud metallic clang reverberating through the room. Your eyes widen as you find Bucky's arm now on the ground, followed by the look of despair and bewilderment on Bucky's face. 

You shake away the sadness you feel for Bucky in that moment to call through the room, "Guys, Zemo's gone."

Ayo sharply turns away from Bucky, striding past you to kick the bathroom door fully open. She lets out an angry breath when she sees Zemo's intricately planned escape route. 

She turns to the Dora standing behind you, "He is gone."

Ayo turns to the member of the Dora Milaje that stands over a defeated John Walker with the shield in her hands. She sharply shakes her head, "Leave it."

As they march out of the room, Bucky bends down to pick up his arm as he tries to process the fact that they'd always kept a fail safe on him. That, like he always suspected, no one ever really trusted him. 

"Did you know it could do that?" Sam asks.

"No," Bucky exhales, circling his arm back in place. 

"You alright man?" Lemar asks, crouching down to help John.

"They weren't even..." he trails off. 

For just a split second, you start to feel bad for John. But in the next moment, the expression on his face changes, darkens to something more sinister. His eyes snap over to you. "You."

You recoil away from him. "What did I do?"

"John," Lemar warns, glancing at the angry faces of Sam and Bucky. "Maybe let's leave it alone."

He shares a tense look with Lemar. After a moment, John nods. As he rises to his feet, he maintains a rage-filled, threatening glare with you. "You'll get what's coming to you. You'll all get what's coming to you."

Sam pulls you back and closer to the two of them as John stands and picks up the shield from the floor.

No one says a word as John storms out of the room with Lemar in tow. Sam moves to examine the bathroom escape route as the front door slams shut. Sam shakes his head, muttering, "I can't believe he El Chapo-ed his way out of here."

"I can," Bucky replies. 

For a few seconds, a heavy silence fills the room.

You're not sure what you're supposed to do anymore. You remain conflicted on your actions earlier as both Sam and Bucky stand in shock at Zemo's escape. You also don't like the fact that John has so much to hold over your head.

It's too much and you find yourself struggling to figure out what the right thing to do is. All you know is that you're really tired of feeling helpless. 

And as you stand beside them, you remember Steve's advice to you:

-

"And where are you going?" Sam questions. 

"I'm going to go talk to them," you breezily say. "Open communication, you know?"

"Please don't," Bucky exhales. 

"You're gonna go talk to the guy that just threatened to kidnap you?" Sam deadpans, hoping you'll hear how ridiculous that sounds. 

"Is it still called kidnapping if I'm not actually a kid?" you wonder. 

"I dunno, but the point stands. It's a terrible idea!" Sam exclaims. "What if he just, I don't know, decides to snatch you up off the street?"

"I'm a little offended that you don't think I could defend myself against John," you retort.

"Or you could just say, 'Sam, you're so right! That's a terrible idea. Thank you for always looking out for me and having my best interest in mind'," Sam says, pitching up his voice to imitate you. 

"Oh, come on," you dramatically complain. "You can't honestly think that I actually sound like that."

"I'm being serious."

"Me too. Just give 5 minutes. I'll be quick."

"Fine," Sam reluctantly agrees with a grimace.

"You've got five minutes," Bucky repeats, finally breaking his silence. 

"Great," you beam, ignoring the probing look on Bucky's face that tells you he's not going to let anything John said go, and turning on your heels to scamper out the door without another word. You quickly dart out onto the streets, scanning the area for John and Lemar. You see them only a few yards down the way. "John!"

He turns around at the sound of your voice. The burning rage is gone from his expression, instead he greets with a challenging expression and a condescending smirk. You can't help but think that maybe Bucky is right, because there's definitely something a little unhinged with John Walker. "I won't lie, I'm a little shocked they let you out of their sight."

You brush off the snide comment, walking down the steps onto the cobblestone road. Even as you speak, you keep a wide grin on your face. "John? I want you to know, I'm really a very nice person. I am. And I know people who say that usually aren't, but really I am. Steve Rogers nicknamed me Sunshine, I mean if that doesn't tell you what kind of person I am, I don't know what will... But anyway, I know how it looks, and in spite of what anyone thinks, I don't take orders from anyone anymore."

"Not even Sam or Bucky?" he scoffs.

"Not even Sam or Bucky. They have my loyalty, they don't need my obedience."

"Then you should really-"

"Uh," you condescendingly tut, cutting him off. You hear Steve's words echo in your head again: bend when you can, snap when you have to. And you'd just about had it with people steamrolling over you. "I wasn't done talking. It seems like you really want to get to know me, so I'll give you a fun fact, just as a show of good faith: I play nice because I want to play nice. You should remember that."

"Was that a threat?"

"A threat?" you incredulously laugh. "No! Of course not! I wouldn't do that. My nickname is Sunshine! I'm a very sunny person." Then as quickly as you picked up your normal, optimistic personality, it drops from your expression. Your voice drops, weighed down by the threatening undertone of your words, "So don't be an Icarus, John, and we'll get along just fine."

"You know, you're not the only one with threats!" John calls as you turn away from him. 

You smile to yourself, turning around to face John once again. "I know I don't know you that well, but I don't doubt that you're a smart man, John. So go ahead. Call the U.N. Call General Ross, I'll even give you his number. Do it. I dare you. But if you ever threaten my friends again, I'll take care of you myself... And unlike you, I don't need the U.N. to do that."

"Who do you think you are?" John grits.

"Leave my friends alone, John. I won't ask again," you tell him, ignoring his question. You lightly clapping a hand on his shoulder with a beaming grin. "I'm so glad we had this chat! See you guys around!"

You turn and walk away, leaving a bewildered, seething, and slightly stunned John Walker in your wake.

Chapter Text

You stride back to the safe house with adrenaline thrumming in your ears, your head forcibly held high in spite of the dread churning in your stomach, and a relentlessly racing mind.

You don't even make it all the way inside before your suspicions are confirmed, Bucky wanted answers, and he wasn't going to take cryptic bread crumbs of truth anymore.

He stands to the side of the door, his arms crossed as he looks at you expectantly, "What was John talking about?"

You can't meet his pleading gaze, too afraid you'll tell him everything. "We should go look for Zemo."

"You can't avoid the question forever."

You swallow the knot forming in your throat, "I know."

"Is it true?" he pleads. You keep your eyes off of him, staring at the stained glass window above the door. He decides to take your silence and refusal to answer his question as his answer. "It is true."

"No," you instantly respond. "It's - it's complicated."

"Just tell me if it's true or not! Were you on the Raft because of me?" You remain standing in front of him without a word. He groans in frustration, "Can someone just tell me the truth? Sam?"

"Don't look at me," Sam retorts, holding up both his hand in innocence. "I wasn't even there when Tony saw whatever Tony saw, I was chasing after Zemo."

"Who we should really be looking for right about now," you dryly point out. "Before John finds him."

"I'm not dropping this," Bucky forcibly states. 

You shut your eyes for a second, rolling your neck with a long deep breath. "I know. I'll explain later."

"Promise?" he demands.

You open your eyes to find him standing right in front of you, his face lingering only a few inches away from yours. You nod, "Promise."

Sam loudly clears his throat. "Take your time, guys. It's not like we have a fugitive to catch or anything."

You roll your eyes, theatrically gesturing to the door. "Let's go then."

As the three of you walk out onto the street, a silence settles over the group. The entire time you pretend you can't feel the Bucky's lingering gazes that always seem to cause goosebumps to trail up and down your spine.

Bucky's not even sure he can help it, his eyes seem to have a magnetic pull toward you, and in spite of his best efforts, he can't keep his eyes off of you.

Logically, Bucky knew John was going to take whatever he found in his 'research' and make it hurt as much as he possibly could.

Logically, this, his current reaction, the feeling of being torn apart at the seams, was exactly what John wanted. 

But Bucky also knew there were very few things that occurred between you and him that could be described as logical. Nothing about the way he felt was logical nor rational - and he wasn't sure that it was supposed to be either of those things. 

But now, every time he found you in his peripheral, he could see it.

He knows how they treated people on the infamous Raft. He can picture you sitting there, curled up in a corner as you prepared to spend the rest of your life there. 

And then he remembers how you once mentioned that you were intensely claustrophobic.

A new detail is added to his increasingly vivid daydream, you sitting there, restrained and pleading with the guards to let you out, hyperventilating, tears streaming down your cheeks as you try to calm yourself, steeling yourself and doing your very best to tamp down the phobia. 

And it was his fault. 

It's like you know that Bucky's thoughts are running rampant when he hears your voice break him from his reverie, "So what are we planning on doing about Karli?"

"We stop her," Bucky grunts.

"I meant, after that," you amend.

"They're dangerous. I don't think they're gonna just let them walk after everything."

"They're not dangerous," you automatically refute, feeling a little more defensive for Karli than what was probably rational. "They just don't know how to control themselves. Yet. They need someone to give them a chance, to teach them."

"You didn't have anyone to teach you," Bucky points out. 

You slightly frown, not liking where this conversation is headed,  "No, I didn't."

"And you know how to control yourself just fine," Bucky continues. "A whole lot better than fine, actually."

"That's not the point," you softly mutter. 

"Maybe that is the point," he counters. "They don't want to learn, if they did, they'd be trying to figure it out. Not burning down GRC buildings with a dozen people inside."

"They need help."

"You didn't-"

"No one should have to learn the way I did!" you snap. "No one."

Bucky pauses for a moment.

He'd known you for years technically, but he could count the number of actual, long conversations shared between the two of you on both his hands.

In that short time, you opened up to him, showed him a vulnerability he never thought anyone would ever trust him with again.

Hell, you told him you were incredibly claustrophobic followed up by a long explanation of how you tolerated elevators only because you didn't like taking the stairs all over the Avengers Compound in your third interaction with him.

You told him all of that, but you always sort of glazed over the topic of your life before the Avengers.

He didn't even really know how you made your way to the Avengers. He only knew what Steve told him, a life in captivity, a childhood stuffed into a cell because you were different. He finds that he doesn't need to know, not really, he knows enough of what that's like. He wouldn't wish the way he learned on his worse enemy either. "I'm sorry."

You shake your head, slowly exhaling, "It's fine."

And you mean it. You don't blame him for unintentionally prodding at one of your most emotionally vulnerable spots. How could he know that? You'd never told him that. You hardly told anyone that.

You wonder how you go about telling him that. Tell him that, yes, your control was unmatched, impressive, masterful even.

But everything came at a price.

Should you tell him that when you made mistakes as a child you’d be starved meal by meal, day by day?

Or how as you got older, more powerful, food deprivation wasn’t enough. Being strapped down to a table days at a time until you swore upon every star that you’d never slip up again. Should you tell him that?

Beaten into submission. Caged like a dangerous animal.

Before Bucky can press the issue any further, Sam's phone breaks the moment's tension with a sharp ring. 

"It's Sarah," Sam murmurs before answering the phone. Sam's eyebrows furrow as you hear Sarah's muffled, frantic voice pour in from the other end of the line, "Karli said what?" He nods along to for a moment before speaking again, "Right. Just hold on. I know, I know. Listen, here's what you're going to do. Pack an overnight bag and take the boys. Someplace safe. Cash only."

"What's going on?" you frantically ask.

"Karli called Sarah. Threatened AJ and Cass," he quickly replies. His expression slightly softens as he speaks into the phone again, "Let me know when you get there. I love you, guys. I'll never let anything bad happen to you, you know that. Okay. Be safe. Bye." 

A shocked breath lodges itself in your throat. 

There's an embarrassingly big part of you that wants Sam to blame you as he hangs up the phone.

You know you blame yourself. You want him to yell at you. To curse the day he ever met you. Even worse, the day he brought you home to his family. 

There's another part, just as big, that begs him not to. That prays that this isn't the straw that breaks the camel's back.

You find yourself waiting for it. For him to turn on his heels with an enraged expression all pointed at you, he'll tell you that you're a plague and that's he sick of it, of you. That he regrets the day he met you and he never wants to see you again.

You're not sure you could take losing the last member of your found family.

But Sarah allowed you into her home. Never showed you anything but kindness. AJ and Cass were two of the sweetest kids you'd ever met.

And they were in danger, because of you. 

You feel bogged down by crippling waves of heartbreak as the world around you starts blurring before you. 

You're drowning again. The current just keeps getting stronger. Sam continues speaking, but his voice sounds distant, coming from the surface. You try to resurface once more, but you can't. There's no light on the guiding you to life or salvation, it's so dark that you're tempted to let yourself drown. 

Though Bucky keeps internally denying that he felt any connection to you, he can see the look of unbridled despair and self loathing forming on your face. He instinctually reaches for your hand, squeezing it once to bring you back to the moment.

Like he's pulling you out from the riptide, you sputter for breath, still choking on waves of anxiety and pools of dread. 

You look over to him for a split second, silently thanking him for reeling you back in. He squeezes your hand once more, allowing his thumb to gently caress the back of your hand. He drops your hand as Sam starts to speak again, "Karli wants to meet you. She left a contact number."

You immediately pull out your phone and frantically type in a response before Sam can say anything else. Your phone chimes within seconds. The message reads: The rooftop above the North Plaza. Come alone. 

Your eyes rake over the message again and again. Not even because you're worried about the danger you're putting yourself in, but because of the danger you've put those around you in. It's you she wants. And she wants you to go alone. You hunch over, hyperventilating as you think about those you've once again put in danger, "Oh, I think I'm going to be sick."

Sam places a hand on your shoulder, pulling you back upright. "Hey, no one's getting sick. They're packing up a bag and taking off. They're gonna be fine."

"How are you so okay with this?" you practically shout, wrenching your arm from his hold. 

"I'm not okay with it, but- "

"But nothing!" you exclaim with desperation. "Sarah, AJ, Cass, they're your family and they're in danger because of me."

"It's not because-"

"Yes. Yes, it is! It's all my fault." Your breathing starts coming quicker again as tears well in your eyes. "I'm not stupid, Sam. I know the only reason she threatened your family is because I don't- Because there was no one else to threaten."

"That's not-"

"It is. You know it is. She knows we used to live together. She knows I lived with you and Sarah, and- and, it doesn't even matter because I need to go."

Bucky grabs your wrist, stopping you from leaving. "Just hold on a second, alright? You can't seriously be thinking about going alone? Or that we're just going to let you go alone." 

"Yes! Yeah, I am. I have to," you desperately insist. "They could get killed because of me."

"Breathe," Bucky whispers. Before he can even think about it, he finds his hand cupping the back of your neck. He forces your frantic, desperate, red rimmed eyes to meet his calm and collected steel blue eyes. He drops his voice, whispering, "Just breathe. Okay. You're not alone. And that means we're coming with you. Okay?"

You slowly breath out, "Okay."

Chapter Text

"Karli!" Sam bellows, you and Bucky following on his heels as you finally make it to the designated coordinates. 

She pokes her head up from the balcony of the seemingly abandoned building. Her head tilts to its side with calculated grin, "I thought I told you to come alone. 

"You called my sister, that's how we're going to play this?" Sam sneers. 

"I would never hurt her," Karli assures him. She looks between you and Sam, now standing side by side, "I just wanted to understand the two of you."

"Well, here's a crazy idea, you ask!" you incredulously remark.

"The Power Broker had it right then. About the two of you," Karli gestures between the two of you. "You're not romantic-"

"Gross," you and Sam simultaneously respond. 

"But you're more than friends," Karli continues. "The Power Broker's file was right about a lot of it, now that I think about it. It's why you're all here. Together."

"Does everyone have files on us? Is that a thing now? Are we allowed to see these files?" you rhetorically ask. 

"End this. Now," Sam demands.

"I don't want to hurt you," Karli offers. "You're just a tool in the regimes I'm looking to destroy. You're not hiding behind a shield. If I were to kill you, it'd be meaningless. I was going to ask you to join me. Or do the world a favor and let me go."

"I will teach you," you blurt. 

Karli's eyes snap over to you, clearly taken aback by your offer. "What?"

"This is not the plan," Sam hisses under his breath. "I repeat, not the plan."

"You haven't been able to figure it all out, right? I'll teach you," you offer once more. You slowly pad to the bottom of the staircase that Karli stands atop of. "I'll teach you, but you can't hurt anyone anymore."

Her eyes narrow at you, cynicism laced in each of her words, "And what's in it for you?"

"No one else gets hurt. This war, it ends. Now."

"Have you always been such a pacifist?" she poses.

"If you don't hurt anymore people, I will go with you. Everything I know, you'll know. I'll be your Prometheus."

Karli's glare softens incrementally, and for a moment you're certain you're getting through to her again. When out of nowhere, Sam's eyes snap to you from the small screen on his wrist, "It's Walker." 

When you look back to the top of the stairs where Karli stood seconds ago, she's gone. Already running to her next location. "You know for a kid, she's really fast."

"I'll send you the location. Go!" Sam sharply instructs, taking off through the open rooftop.

"I'll follow Sam," you call after Bucky. 

"How are gonna-"

But before he can finish his question, you reach out to the brick and mortar pillar in front of your. And with a slight rumble, footholds appear along the bricked pattern. Bucky looks on in complete wonderment as you scale to the top of the awning in no time at all. You reach out for the awning, lurching forward and hauling yourself up along the rooftop. To follow Sam, just like you said. 

With his neck craned up, he watches your skilled movements get you up onto the roof in no time at all. He stares up in awe with an uncharacteristically proud smile on his face, he quietly marvels, "Wow."

You look back down at the ground from the rooftop to see Bucky standing there with an odd look on his face. "What are you doing? Go!"

He jolts, shaking his head, "Oh, right!"

You watch as he takes off before taking off yourself across the rooftops. You follow him, bounding across rooftops as you track the faint white engine marks left by Sam's wings until the moment he nose dives for Karli's next location.

Once you reach the building Sam dove towards, you splay your hand across the large widowed ceiling. Within a second, cracks start forming, all centering around your hand. You turn your head away, squeezing your eyes shut when you hear the glass shatter with a large, fragmented pop. 

You stare down the now gaping hole in the ceiling and with a shrug, you leap down into the building. 

"And superhero landing," you exclaim, only to turn and face an empty room. You grumble to yourself, "And of course, no one was here to see that. Am I really the first one here? I hate being the first one."

"I wouldn't worry about that," a familiar voice rings out from above you. You whirl around to see 5 of Flag Smashers, including Karli, lurch down from their platform. "This is your last chance. Stand down."

"Alright, this doesn't seem very fair," you state, all the Flag Smashers slowly closing in on you. "For you guys, I mean."

"Cocky," Karli comments. "You really are an Avenger."

You stand in the center of the room, allowing the Flag Smashers to circle you. They all remain masked except for Karli. "I am not your enemy, Karli."

"You're either with the cause or against it."

You shake your head, raising your hands to signal your neutrality. "It's not that simple, Karli. You have to know that. You've seen war. There is no glory, There are no winners."

"Yes, there are. Do you know what this place is?" You look around the room to take in your surroundings. Old metal cots line the walls of the room. Tables with scattered papers and old medical supplies are strewn everywhere. "It's an infirmary. Abandoned once your little friends decided that we weren't worth the money to keep alive."

"I'm sorry, Karli."

She lowers her mask with a glower, "I don't want your apologies, they mean nothing to me. Just stay out of our way."

"You see," you wince apologetically. "I've always been sorta bad at the staying out of it thing."

Karli hums apathetically, shrugging her shoulders as she defensively raises her hands. "I figured as much."

Though you've dropped your hands, you refuse to raise them, instead purposefully keeping them tucked at your sides. "I won't fight you, Karli."

A flame emerges in her hand, "Then this should be really easy."

"Guys," you try talking into the comms device Sharon gave the three of you in Madripoor. "Now would be a really great time for you guys to show up."

"What? No backup this time," Karli chuckles.

With no reply or even an indication that the device in your ear was even working, you decide you're on your own for now.

"I already told you that it wasn't much of a fair fight," you quip, a bubble of water slowly pooling in your fingertips. 

You can tell she wants to ask you how you did that. How you knew that moisture in the air was almost always an option instead of always choosing raging flames. She doesn't ask, instead she snorts, "You and your little bubble of water?" 

In your peripheral, you see one of the Flag Smashers prepare themselves to lunge at you. You duck down as they lunge, their extended arms harmlessly passing over you. They smack against the stone pillar just behind you. The water freezes the second the water bubble smacks against the stone, freezing their hand to the one of the stone pillars and rendering them immobile.

"How did you-?"

"I've got plenty more tricks, Karli. Please, just let me help you," you implore, pleading with every once of genuity you can muster. "You are not the villain in this story. Don't let them make you one."

"You had your chance."

Before she can act, John storms in with Sam right behind him. Her eyes snap over your shoulder at the sight of John Walker. She wastes no time before throwing a knife in his direction.

As the knife flies past you, it sharply curves downward, landing with the blade embedding itself into the floor less than a foot away from him.

"This is the part where you say thank you," you snark.

"You okay?" Sam asks you, the three of you still outnumbered by the Flag Smashers. 

"I'm fine," you promise. "But they're really not backing down this time."

"They took Lemar. They threatened Sarah and the boys... " Sam quietly seethes, his eyes scanning over that room. "Hold on, why is that guy frozen to a column?"

"No time for questions, Sam," you quickly reply, watching John lunge for Karli. 

"Where is he? Where's Lemar?" John furiously demands, dodging Karli's first fiery swing at him. 

"Oh look, there's Lemar," you exclaim, pointing to a side door that Lemar bolts in through followed by Bucky. "Bucky too. Anyone else we're missing?"

John immediately releases Karli, focusing his attention on Lemar. He sprints over to Lemar, clearly a little rattled by being kidnapped by the Flag Smashers. "Are you okay? What happened? What'd they do to you?"

"I'm okay," Lemar assures John, wiping dried blood from the corner of his mouth. 

While the other Flag Smashers continue their assault, Karli watches for a moment as the Flag Smasher with the frozen hand delivers one final blow to the column that holds them captive. She sees you overtake one Flag Smasher with ease, pinning them down with bent metal framing that belonged to one of the old infirmary beds. 

Bucky struggles, trying to out maneuver a different Flag Smasher. They were barely outnumbered now. And they couldn't sustain the fight against experience and skillful knowledge.

John, no longer distracted by the Lemar's reappearance, lunges for Karli, but his attack is circumvented by her second in command shoving him away. 

Just as it looks like John's losing his fight, and the tides might now be turning in their favor, you quickly leave the now restrained Flag Smasher to help John.

She knew it wouldn't be long before you took down another one of her friends.

She, now truly concerned about how the odds were stacking against her, looks back to the Flag Smasher fighting Bucky, just in time to see the large beam behind Bucky crack once at the top. Your eyes widen as you see the column begin to fall over Bucky. You sharply gasp, leaving John to fend for himself while you help Bucky.

Karli's face lights up with an idea. She drives her hand in the direction of the pillar opposite from you. A crack runs up from the very top to the bottom.

Bucky looks up to see the large stone hovering less than a foot above him. His eyes, now wide with shock, snap back to your focused, determined expression, "Thanks."

"You're welcome," you grunt, clearly strained under the weight of the marble beam. Just as you're about to let the column still suspended mid-air down, you hear another violent cracking noise from the stone behind you. Before this one can collapse, you take hold of that one too. Before you can drop the beam that almost killed Bucky, yet another beam starts fissuring under the Flag Smasher's assault. It doesn't take long before you realize their strategy: keep your hands full while they overtake Sam and Bucky. You frantically call out to the room, "Are any of these structural?" 

"I don't think so," Bucky grits out, trying to fend off the Flag Smasher that stands in front of him holding uncontrolled flames in both his hands. 

You shrug, letting the one of the now three falling columns to the floor. Just as you let it go, a large piece of the stone archway collapses with it. A loud boom reverberates through the room as the stone smashes against the floor, leaving a giant cratered surface where it landed. "Okay, they're definitely structural."

"Can I get any help here?" Sam shouts, two Flag Smashers slowly ganging up on him.  

"Do you want help or do you want to not get crushed by these stupid columns?"

"You could just say that you're busy, you know that?" Sam rants.

"I'm busy!" you bellow. You stand there, too focused on keeping the columns upright to notice John Walker leave Lemar to finish off the Flag Smasher. He closes in from behind you. You're still only half paying attention to him as his hand wraps around your bicep with a death grip. A wince leaves your mouth, but you know you can't break concentration without the building at least partially coming down on you all. "What the hell are you doing?" 

"You're as much of a threat as Karli Morgenthau," he spits. "I'm not letting you get away either."

"Are you seriously threatening me after I just saved your life like half a second ago?" You try to wrench your arm out of his hold, only for him to squeeze it even harder. You jaggedly hiss, "Seriously, what is your problem?"

"You," John sneers. "You're my problem."

"You really need to get your priorities straight," you sarcastically remark. "Now back off, John. I'm not your enemy here." 

"What? Not going to fight back?" he taunts. "No more threats?"

"You're like weirdly obsessed with me, you know that?"

But that's not what strikes John as odd. It's that you don't do anything. Even as he stands there right in your face.

You don't do anything.

With another clenching of his fist, you forcefully state, still desperately trying to stay focused on keeping the heavy stone pillars from crashing to the floor and the building along with it, "This building's going to come down without me. Back off."

You can see realization light up John's face: you can't fight.

At least, not in the traditional sense. You always tried, but you'd never really had the time to learn. Natasha taught you some basic self defense, but that was all you had in your arsenal.

You also hated it. Hated the idea of putting your hands on someone to incapacitate. You liked to stay away, letting familiar powers course through you. It was more familiar, more comfortable, like an extension of yourself.

And even those, you tried to use only when necessary in a fight. 

"I don't think I will." He checks his shoulder into you, mostly to test his theory. With your focus broken for the second that you're stumbling against John's hard shove, more cracks form into each of the columns, making it even more difficult to keep them upright.

You harshly exhale under the immense strain. "You'd let Karli go, let the Flag Smashers get away for pride?"

"For justice." The moment the words leave John's mouth, he shoves you into the pillar behind you. Your concentration breaks in that moment, and you're not even paying attention to the sounds of stone crashing against the tiled floors that reverberate through the room. You groan, a searing pain radiating through the shoulder that just crashed into the heavy stone. A pained groan leaves your mouth as you double over, clutching your shoulder. He hauls you back up by the same injured shoulder. "You know what I think, I think you're all bark and no bite. I think, deep down, you're still the same scared little girl Nick Fury had to rescue all those years ago."

And then, John reaches out to grip your chin.

And in that moment, it's like you're dropped in a new yet eerily familiar scene. John's right in that sense.

You're reverted back to that person who didn't know the outside world even existed. You're the person held in captivity, never destined to see the light of day, let alone take a freeing breath of fresh air. Standing before you is no longer John Walker, but the same captors told you that you were an evolutionary mistake, a blight of this earth, a monster.

While you told yourself and everyone else that most of those memories were long repressed once you were freed, that's simply not the truth. Not with the way the scene so vividly replays itself in your mind.

You'd curled into yourself, tucked yourself tightly into a ball to protect your most vital organs. You begged them to stop. You told them you'd give anything. Heavy boots dealt blow after blow, you could almost feel your ribcage cracking. 

And for one miraculous moment, it stopped. 

You knew better than to relish in the moment free of pain. But you always did. 

You coughed, blooding dribbling down your chin. Your captor reached up, dragging you up to your feet by your chin.

And with pain and fear mixing in your bloodstream, you stop him in the only way you can think to.

"What the hell-" Sam remarks when one of the stone columns suddenly starts collapsing.

Sam leaps out of the way. The rest of Sam's indignant remark dies on his mouth when he sees John's hand stopped an inch away from your face. John's hand trembles, clearly wanting to defy the way his body is moving of its own accord.

Without anything touching him, it's like he remains frozen as his hands shakily try to reach for you. His feet unnatural drag against the floor away from you. "What are you doing to me?"

"Just stop, okay? Just stop hurting me," you shakily mutter.

"Did you know she could do that?" Bucky murmurs under his breath.

Sam solemnly shakes his head, "No."

Bucky delivers a boot to the chest of the Flag Smasher standing in front of him, now desperate to make his way over to you. 

The building thunders, the entire infrastructure rattling as the last column plummets. You Jolt away from your stupor, the current moment rushing back in. You look around you, Sam still watching you with a shocked expression, John Walker now standing pinned against the pillar he just threw you into, and Lemar trying to protect himself against flames being waved in his face. 

"This building's coming down," you loudly warn the entire room. "We need to get out. Now!"

Before John can recover, a Flag Smasher jumps at him from behind. With a piece of metal framing in the Flag Smashers hand, he presses it against John's throat, with both hands he pulls it as hard as he can, suffocating John.  

"Lemar, don't-" you shout, Lemar immediately jumping in to save John.

But before you can finish your warning, Lemar lunges for the Flag Smasher crushing John's windpipe with a metal pipe. Before Lemar can see it in his peripheral, Karli shoves him from the side and into one of the fallen columns. 

Lemar reaches out to catch himself as he stumbles toward the ground, but his fate is sealed by the fallen column behind him. 

His head smacks against the fallen column with a bone chilling thump.

For a second, it all stops. Like all the air has somehow left the room, there's not even the sound of a single breath. Lemar's head slumps back against the stone, his open eyes now lifeless and his body completely unmoving.

"Lemar," John calls, shoving the Flag Smasher away from him. The Flag Smasher backs away without a fight. John reaches Lemar's lifeless body, desperately shaking him, "Come on, Lemar. You gotta get up."

A quiet gasp escapes Karli's mouth. She stumbles back, a startled, terrified look on her face. She looks to you with wide eyes and a slight tremble of her open mouth. 

For that split second, she doesn't look like the leader of a rebel organization, she just looks like a kid.

You take a small step towards her, reaching your hand out to her with a small, "Karli,"

Your voice breaks her out of her stupor, and she bolts at the sound. She whirls around on her heels, vaulting herself over the banister and onto the next flight of stairs. To the side of you, the ceiling starts crumbling away, concaving on itself. 

You follow her, vaulting yourself over the railing. A well timed burst of air cushions most of the fall, but you're left dodging large chunks of stone that start collapsing ever faster. 

You squint your eyes, trying to see through the puffs of dust and rubble now tainting the air. You look through both exits, one left, one right. And make your best bet. 

You take the left, running out into the street in hopes of finding her;

Crowds of people line the streets. You crane your neck to try and get a glimpse of her signature curly hair, but you see nothing. Not a trace of her. You hiss, "Damn it."

You shake your head, ready to turn back to the building to find Sam and Bucky, only to see the exit you came out of now blocked by mounds of concrete and other rubble. 

Sharp whispers and frantic murmurs line the streets. People begin congregating around the other exit on the other side of the building. 

In the crowd, you see Sam and Bucky both facing whatever is captivating the crowd. "Guys, I lost her."

Neither of them turn around. It's then you notice almost the entire crowd is holding their phones up, all of them pointed in one very specific direction. "Guys?"

You walk around to take a look at what everyone is staring at. And that's when you see it.

John Walker standing with the shield bloodied in his hand. A lifeless Flag Smasher at his feet. Blood pools around John's feet as he scans the crowd. Anger and frustration paint John's expression, nowhere do you see any remorse. 

You sharply gasp, whirling yourself around to look away from the body.

Without any thought, you tuck your face into Bucky's shoulder. Your eyes squeeze shut and your firsts clench as you try to erase the image of the man killed by John Walker.

Bucky raises his hand, cupping the back of your head as though comforting you is second nature. He gently strokes the back of your head and quietly murmurs words of affirmation, "It's okay."

"Shit," Sam exhales, looking up at plumes of dust and rubble still emerge from the building. The new Captain America standing with a murdered body at his feet. It was the very definition of an international incident. In that moment, he knew, the world was watching. "You gotta go."

"What?" Bucky sharply demands. "We have to go after him!"

You reluctantly tear yourself away from Bucky, scanning the street to see recording phones still lining the street. You shake your head, "No, he means me."

Sam pulls the hood of your sweater up and over your head, "Keep your head down. Call Torres. Send me your location and we'll meet you after we find John."

You sigh in defeat, knowing you were out of options, "Okay."

"What the hell aren't you guys telling me?" Bucky asks, his eyes frantically flickering between you and Sam.

You squeeze Bucky's hand before you turn to leave, "I'll explain later. Promise. You guys go."

"Be safe."

"I will."

Chapter Text

"So?"

"The GRC is conducting raids to try and find Karli, but so far they've only found her followers," Joaquin quietly informs Sam, the two of them standing in a now empty gymnasium just searched and torn apart by the GRC. "They've searched this camp, and just like the last camp, nothing. She's gone. Don't think we'll ever find her."

"And what about?" Sam finishes his question with a silent insinuation and a knowing look. 

"You were right," Joaquin agrees. "And Captain America killing a foreign national in public, it's kinda a big deal. They've got the whole thing on video, so international incident big deal. Higher ups are all over it now, but there's, uh, been a few unfamiliar faces poking around. Asking about certain things, people, caught on video. Throwing Ross' name around."

"That's what I was worried about," Sam groans, rubbing his temples with one hand. "Damn it."

"I wouldn't worry about it too much," Joaquin offers. "If they would've had something, Ross would already be here gloating."

"Probably," Sam concedes.

"They cordoned off the whole camp already, took everything and left about an hour ago," Joaquin continues. "Without finding anything, I might add."

"Anything?" Sam emphasizes. 

Joaquin snorts with a roll of his eyes, "I'm pretty good at hiding things, Sam."

Bucky stands at the entrance of the gymnasium, a bruise now painting his cheekbone after his scuffle with John. He crosses his arms, an unimpressed frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. "She's in the room behind you, isn't she?"

"Hey!" Joaquin exclaims, surprised at Bucky's sudden reappearance. Joaquin looks at Bucky standing there with his jacket, and the sleeve he'd torn off before jumping off the plane now back in place. "Look at that, you've got your sleeve back."

Bucky maintains his unimpressed expression, his frown deepening at Joaquin. 

"Are you off to take care of Zemo?" Joaquin asks.

Bucky's jaw clenches, because yes, he was going to take care of Zemo, but he had one more loose end to tie before he could focus on anything else.

Joaquin tries to hide his knowing smirk, nudging his head to the door behind him. Bucky rolls his eyes and doesn't respond to Joaquin's silent assumption, instead breezing past him without another word. 

"Okay, good to know you survived!" Joaquin calls after Bucky.

He watches you as you sit perched on a folding table, swinging your legs. Your head is down, staring intently at the floor.

You were a person who used stare up at the sky in unbridled awe and wonderment, never to the floor beneath your feet in contempt. 

He can't help but remember the last time he approached you like this. How badly he fucked it all up. He knew there was no taking back the things he said nor the way he treated you. 

He knew if he'd given you, hell, given himself, half a chance, things would probably be very different. You wouldn't be sitting there all alone. He wouldn't have spent months in exile.

It was an entirely self inflicted wound.

He told himself that you deserved someone who could give more than half a chance. Someone not so fucked in the head. He convinced himself he saw something that wasn't there. You were being nice. He was reading into it. You could never tether yourself to someone like him.

Steve said it himself, you were sunshine. He was more like midnight rain. 

-

Weeks had passed since the battle was won. There was no morning glory. There was no air of victorious excitement. It was quiet. Weeks of intense contemplation.

And yet, Bucky watched you hold your head high. You never let anyone see you waver. It was always the moments that he catches you off guard when he realizes you're as hurt as anyone else. Of course you are, he scolds himself. You just lost so many friends after being gone for five years.

In the days since the battle, a sort of comfort settled between the two of you. You were so honest with him.

You tell him about your own struggles. About yourself. You tell him story after story. You hold out your hand to him and he's more than happy to take it. Every night, he finds you up. Wandering the cabin like him. After everyone else has gone to bed. You two shared hushed laughter, whispered tales, and you share so much. 

He still can't figure out why. He doesn't know why you trust him when no one else does. You have no qualms of resting your head on his shoulder. Of holding his hand. 

It's too much and not enough all at once. 

And now, it was finally the day that this nightmare of a chapter would finally close. Steve would put back the stones and it would all be over.

He watches you for a moment. You sit on the porch landing. On the second to last step, holding a bright yellow sunflower in hand. You sit there pensively picking flower petals off the stem as you all await Steve.

-

He looks at you and he knows you're not the same person. Not by a long shot. Who would be?

He misses you. The thought hits him like a truck. 

He doesn't just want you here for the sake of the mission. He yearns for it. For the unrelenting optimist. For the goofball that also had a joke to spare. For the only person that looked at him like an actual human being in the last 70 years. He'd do just about anything for an ounce of the warmth that once overwhelmed him, the smile that could light up an entire room. Hell, he'd do anything for you to look at him like you did before he tore it all up. 

You were smart. He knew that. You were so much smarter than you gave yourself credit for. And you certainly knew what a rejection was, what it felt like. You'd told him that in those few weeks before Steve left. You and rejection were life long companions.

So even now, he wasn't sure what possessed him to do it twice. To drive that point home just to show you that he really meant it. To turn back and break your heart and leave without another word.  

While he walks over, you remain standing by Bucky. 

You find yourself reaching for Bucky's hand, lightly squeezing it while he watches Sam finally reach Steve. "Are you okay?"

He takes a moment to relish in the warmth of your fingers radiating throughout his entire hand. All from one simple, fleeting touch. For the singular moment he allows you to hold his hand, you feel a glimmer of hope that maybe he wasn't leaving you behind. Before you can breathe your sigh of relief, he tugs his hand back, indifferently muttering, "Fine."

"Listen," you hesitantly start, feeling dread wash over you all over again."About earlier-"

"Don't worry about it. It was nothing."

If you didn't know any better, you would have sworn that you could feel your stitched up heart being torn to shreds. You softly exhale, "What?"

He kept his eyes on the lake in front of the two of you, but even from his peripheral he could say your face slowly drop. He steels his resolve, telling himself that he's just seeing what he wants to see. It's not what it looks like. Your heart isn't shattering right before his very eyes. The words taste bitter, but he's used to bitter. He's used to hard truths and crushing fates. And he wasn't willing to drag you down with him. "It was nothing."

He can't pretend he doesn't hear the small sharp inhale that leaves your mouth. You clear your throat, pulling on a smile a moment later. "Right. Just wanted to make sure we were okay.... Are we?"

"Well, I'm fine," he curtly states. 

He knows you'll hear the absence of the 'we'.

"Listen, James, if this is about earlier, I'm - I'm sorry, I just, I-" you start, fumbling for the right words to keep him from leaving you. You're not sure you could take it. You're not ready to utter yet another goodbye. The words clumsily fall out of your mouth as you desperately try to figure out how to fix it, "You just - you mean a lot-"

"I already told you to drop it, alright? It meant nothing," he spits, more harshly than he intended. "I don't know what you think, but I'm not your charity case, so go bother someone else."

He's not even sure where the words came from, how they poured out of him without pause, but they do. Each syllable is pointed, clear and concise, there's no mistaking what he said.

And from the gut-wrenching look on your face, there's no taking it back. 

You sharply inhale like he's just punched you in the gut. Your mouth immediately snaps shut, your lips press together to hide the wince of pain that tries to form on your face. 

He wants to tell you that he's sorry. Sorry for hurting you. Sorry for his casually cruel words. Sorry for leaving. He reminds himself that you deserve better than someone who can put that look on your face. 

From your peripheral, you see Sam make his way back to where the two of you stand. In a choked whisper, you murmur, "I should go talk to Steve."

He nods wordlessly as you start making your way to the older man.

As you start walking, you take several deep breaths to calm your fracturing heart. 

You're good at playing pretend, pretending like your heart had been shattered, like almost everyone in your life hadn't just left you behind. The mask is almost too easy to slip on. 

“Steve?” you ask, hesitantly broach the much older man with features so much similar to your friend. 

You know it's just denial, but you don't want to believe that Steve Rogers is standing in front of you. His gray hair and weathered face taking place of the friend that stood before you only minutes ago. 

“Hey, Sunshine,” he warmly greets, a kind smile on his face.

“Wow, even after all that the nickname sticks,” you halfheartedly chuckle.

“Yeah, guess it does.”

"So are we going to talk about the elephant in the room?" you joke. Steve chuckles, shaking his head. You reach out for his hand, gently squeezing it. He finally meets your gaze, and you can feel another fracture in your heart when his distinct blue eyes find yours. It confirms that it's Steve. It's really him, and now it was time to say goodbye. Time to mourn another friend. Time for another person to leave you. It's not fair, you tell yourself, your friends have no obligation to you, no obligation to stay. Just because you couldn't move on didn't mean that everyone else couldn't get a chance to. You swallow the bitter sorrow that rises in your throat like bile, asking a simple question, “Are you happy?”

He definitively nods, staring wistfully out to the lake before you. “I am.”

You sharply inhale and then slowly exhale, “Then that’s all that matters to me.”

Steve nudges his head in the direction of the two men standing several yards away from you. “He likes you, you know?”

No, he doesn't, you internally tell yourself. Instead, you shake your head, a light snicker leaving your mouth as you try to keep the tears at bay. “Once a meddler, always a meddler.”

“It’s true. Bucky’s a little-“

“Grumpy?” you supply.

Steve chuckles,“He's rough around the edges, but he’s a good man. You two have a lot in common. Two sides of the same coin.”

"That was corny," you easily quip.

"It comes with the old age," Steve retorts. 

"Any other wise words of wisdom?" you ask, hoping he'll tell you how you can past all this loss. 

You wonder if he'll finally tell you how he does it - how he did it.

You shakily inhale, preparing yourself for your next goodbye. You wish you would've known. You wish you could've planned what to say, so you wouldn't miss a single thing. You want to reminisce with him, for him to tell you what to do, for the answer of how you continue on like this. More than anything, you want to thank him, to tell him that he'd left a permanent mark on you. Instead of saying all of that, you rest your head on his shoulder, something you'd done so many times. The only difference is that you're so viscerally aware this time will be the last. “I’m gonna miss you.”

“Me too.”

Only allowing yourself the a short moment of tears silently trickling down your face, you stand and say your final goodbye. You wipe the tears before you walk about to where Sam and Bucky stand. 

And when you finally find the strength to finally walk away, your eyes instinctively find Bucky, only for the heartbreaking reminder to settle back in. You quickly divert your eyes, staring at the grass beneath your feet as you rejoin them.

You offer a small, tight lipped smile to the two of them.

"You okay?" Sam asks when you remain silent.

"Yeah," you nod, your eyebrows furrowed as the three of you stand amongst the shattered remnants of your family. "I'm fine."

-

You look up suddenly, like you instinctively feel Bucky's presence. A soft gasp leaves your mouth at the sight of Bucky's freshly bruised face, "Are you okay?"

He humorlessly chuckles, "Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing."

You take a passing glance at your deeply bruised shoulder. A dull throbbing sensation has settled over the region, but you're quick to ignore it. A small snort of dismissal passes through your lips, "This? It looks worse than it actually is."

"I feel like I've heard you say that before."

'Ha- ha," you sarcastically laugh. "Honestly, I'm more upset about Karli getting away."

"They do have a real knack for running."

"It's easy when no one wants you around."

The lighthearted, witty tone drops from Bucky's inflection, he frowns, "Come on. Don't let John Walker of all people get into your head."

"Guess it's bad enough he got the jump on me," you try to joke. 

"I wouldn't go that far," Bucky says without thinking.

"I didn't mean to," you quickly reply, still vividly recalling how you'd defended yourself against John. "He just - well, like you said, he got in my head."

"What did - how did...?" Bucky's questions trails off into a thick silence.

He's not sure what he's asking. All he knows is what he saw: John's body seize up like he had no control over what was happening to him, the shock on John's face has his body moved off its own accord. Even the look on Sam's face, Sam knew you better than anyone, and even he was stunned by what you did. 

He's not sure that he's supposed to be asking this, but once again, the irrationality of you seems to win out. 

"The human body is like 70% water," you explain, your voice just above a quiet whisper as you stare at the floor with a solemnly pensive expression. The memory comes back in flashes. Being held against your will. You remember that day, still in captivity. It was the day your caretaker got caught sneaking in food for you. The memory is hazy, mostly because conscious kept slipping away from you. "I've only done that once. Before. I'm not proud of it, they just - they wouldn't stop hurting me. I thought they were going to kill me."

"You did what you had to survive."

"Don't defend me," you sharply respond. 

"I don't think I can help myself," he softly mutters.

"I don't want to talk about this anymore."

Your words surprise him, but then he remembers that they shouldn't. You weren't the same person anymore. While you used to be so open to sharing and speaking freely in front of him, he figures it probably a little difficult to trust someone who hurt you so easily. He knows he's got his fair share of blame there. The silence hangs in the air for a moment. He pauses for another second, mustering the courage to ask the question that had haunted him for days now. "Well, is it later yet?" 

You chuckle, a small sigh of relief embedded in your words at the change of conversation, "You're really not going to let this go, are you?"

"No," Bucky immediately responds. "What was Walker talking about?"

You sigh, insistently shaking your head, "It wasn't like that. He twisted it to make it sound bad."

"So you didn't go up against Tony? Or Ross?"

You breathe deeply, anxiously wiping your hands against your pants as you try to figure out how to tell the story without allowing Bucky to think it was his fault. "I did what I thought was right. I wouldn't change any of it."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Do you remember when we met?"

"At the airport," he replies.

It's mostly the truth. That's the first time you truly met and spoke to Bucky Barnes. It was not, however, your first interaction with him.

You remorsefully shake your head. "When we actually first met."

He does, he wants to instantly reply. Of course he does. The only thing that leaves his mouth is a meager, "Oh."

That memory was one that came back in flashes, until all the pieces fell into place to paint in an incredibly vivid memory. Sometimes, he tried to convince himself he made the whole thing up. In spite of his best efforts, it was something he remembered all too well. 

"Because of the Winter Soldier," you continue. "And, well, you know that Sam and I didn't used to split up. It was his job to stay with me, but he was helping Steve and I was sort of dealing with Pierce. And then Steve recognized you, and even from the way he talked about you, I knew you meant the world to him. And the whole thing is a pretty long story, I don't even think I fully understand what happened."

"Start with Berlin," he hoarsely suggests. "You weren't supposed to be there."

"No. I wasn't. When the Accords happened, I was supposed to keep my head down. I definitely wasn't supposed to go to Berlin. Definitely not get charged with obstruction of justice with Steve, Sam, and surprisingly, T'Challa. They let us go, obviously, and then the power went out. Sam went after Zemo. And I saw you kick Steve down an elevator shaft. Next thing I knew I was running after you. And I just - I couldn't do it." 

"Why?" he implores.

You don't look at him as you speak, clearly lost in remembrance of the day you crossed paths with Bucky Barnes, "You turned around and looked at me, and I didn't see a cold blooded killer. I saw good. A person that was trapped. And I wasn't going to let them do to you what they did to me. I wasn't going to be responsible for handing you over. So I let you go."

"I thought you were scared of me."

A short laugh bubbles out of your mouth at the suggestion that you were scared of Bucky. You stop laughing when you notice Bucky wasn't laughing with you, "Oh, you're being serious?"

He playfully rolls his eyes, but he finds it oddly comforting that there isn't a part of you that's scared of him, "I don't know if I should be offended or not."

"I've been a lot of things at you - scared was never one of them," you quietly admit. The words hang in the air for a moment. It takes you a moment to realize what you almost admitted. You shake your head, clearing your throat before continuing, "Anyway, Tony saw. He saw me let you go. I tried telling him that I just froze, but he wouldn't hear it. He blamed me and Steve for whatever happened next. I think I really hurt him. Not signing. Not staying on the Compound. He was hurt. And then, you know, he shot me at the airport."

"He shot you?" Bucky repeats in disbelief.

"In Tony's defense, he asked me to let him go. Actually, he asked me to stay out of it, but I didn't do that either. When I woke up, I was on the Raft. They separated me and Wanda from everyone else. Straight-jackets. Collars. It was a good look," you sarcastically remark.

"So it's true?" Bucky concludes. "You ended up on the Raft because of me. Because you let me go."

"No," you immediately refute. You reach for his hand, squeezing it tightly as you speak, "James, I need you to understand that: it wasn't your fault. The second I decided that I wasn't going to fall in line anymore, they were going to do whatever it took to get me to go back." You finally look at him, your eyes boring into his. In spite of his neutral expression, Bucky's heart flutters slightly as the sound of his name leaving your mouth - just like you used to call him. It's a glimmer of hope in what felt like a losing battle. "I made my choice. I don't get to make a lot of those. But for the first time in my life, I got to make a choice. I wanted to do the right thing. And I'll never regret that."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Bucky's eyes bore into the side of your head. You can feel it. He watches you with a conflicted expression. He felt like a terrible person before this, and now, there wasn't a strong enough word for what Bucky felt like. He can hardly believe everything that you did for him without even knowing him: helping him escape twice, given him the benefit of the doubt, you'd stuck out your neck for him. And what did he do in return, he killed the person that rescued you, someone who obviously meant a lot to you, he gotten you thrown on the Raft, whether or not you wanted to admit that. And only after completely obliterating your life, he left, but not before stomping all over you. You showed him kindness, something he'd long forgotten, and maybe even something more, and he walked away. "And don't look at me like that."

The unexpected sound of your voice snaps him out of it. He jolts, finally tearing his eyes away from you. "Like what?"

"Like - like you'd kill John Walker for touching me."

"But... I would," he immediately replies. 

"No," you vehemently shake your head. "You don't mean that. Don't say things you don't mean."

"I do mean it," he doubles down.

"No, you don't," you mutter, refusing to meet his eye. 

"Yes, I do!" he sharply insists.

"I can accept that you don’t want me around," you interject, "I can even accept that you left. I can accept all of that. Just - please, don’t say things you don’t mean."

"But-"

"No!" you insist, your voice laced with desperation, imploring for him to not break your heart with promises he had no intention of keeping. "Because I'll believe you. I'll always believe you, so don't say things you don't mean anymore. I'm begging you."

"Then believe me when I tell you that I would kill him with my bare hands for threatening you," Bucky fiercely states. "I wanted to. I more than wanted to. I don't care what kind of person that makes me because I will always protect you. Believe that."

"You left." The words are soft, but they echo throughout the backroom where you and Bucky remain. It's only two words, but Bucky knows exactly what they mean, and it cuts him deep. "You left me. You cut me out. So you don't get to look at me like that and tell me that after you cut me out. I needed you. I don't let myself need people anymore, James, but I did. I needed you - and you left."

"Because you deserve better."

"You know, I'm pretty tired of people telling me what I do and don't deserve."

Your words hang in the air for one moment, then another, then another. Bucky's not sure what he's supposed to say, if he's supposed to say anything. There's no words that can make up for everything. It doesn't change that he wants to apologize for it all, for everything, even the things out of his control.

Before he can start rattling off a long list of apologies, you shock him with a short laugh that cuts through the tension. He looks up at you with a confused, furrowed look on his face. A small chortle leaves Bucky's mouth, "What?"

"I was just thinking that we just left Sam out there waiting for us."

Bucky humorously snorts, "Probably. Our timing for these things has never really been that great, has it?"

"Definitely not. We should really work on that."

"Probably."

And just like before, the humor slips away from the moment, leaving you and Bucky alone, sitting so close together and still so far apart. It occurs to you that you didn't finish telling Bucky what he wanted to know. Not why you were in hiding. Not why Sam was so mad at you for being here. You know that you could probably just leave it, but you know he'd always wonder, always have the questions in the back of his head, and the last thing you want to do is haunt him. You unexpectedly continue, "John was right, you know. He was a jerk about it, but he was right. I’m supposed to be a civilian.”

“I thought when you came back -”

You know what he's trying to ask you. He's trying to ask if you signed the Accords. “No, I never signed.”

“Why? I mean, wouldn’t have just been easier to-” he stammers.

He hates that. He hates that in spite of Steve being so adamantly against the Accords, he's so willing to tell you to sign if it'll keep you safe. He knows Sam did. It's why he can still do what he does. He didn't sign, it's why he's retired, that and no one wanted the Winter Soldier back out of the streets under any circumstances, but he has to wonder: if you wanted to go off and search, why didn't you just sign?

“Yeah, it would've been," you agree. "Except they didn’t want me to register like everyone else.”

“How did they want you to sign?”

“When Ross came to the team as about the Accords, I won't lie, I was conflicted. Steve was fighting for one thing. Tony something completely different. So I decided that I needed to make up my own mind, I read the whole thing front to back and something about it didn't feel right. The way they worded it was like anything owned by Stark Industries or SHIELD would be forfeited to the UN. I wasn't an Avenger, I was just living on the Compound. Even though SHIELD was mostly gone, technically, I still belonged to them. Sam was against it from the start, but I asked him and he agreed, it didn't sound right. I went to Ross myself, just hoping it was a mistake, that they couldn't actually sign a person away to the UN. But it wasn't a mistake. Because I’m not an enhanced individual, I’m not a person-”

He hangs his head as he finishes the statement for you, “You’re an asset.”

“So I would go from being owned by SHIELD to being owned by the U.N. By 117 countries. Telling me what to do. Passing me around like a toy. I mean, I barely listen to Sam. Can you imagine listening to 117 countries?”

“So you didn’t sign.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“And that’s why Sam’s so pissed at you,” Bucky concludes.

“Pretty much," you shrug, a resigned expression on your face. "Ross made it pretty clear that I wasn't off the hook after the Blip. He couldn't arrest a person who just helped save the world, but I knew he'd take the first chance he got. If I get caught, I’ll either be forced to sign my life away to the UN or I’ll spend the rest of my life on the Raft.”

“Can’t Sam - I mean, I’m sure he could-”

You shake your head. “When we came back, he tried to help me register like all the other ‘enhanced individuals’ I was turned away. Everything that he fought for me to get was gone. I couldn’t get my ID back, any clearance I had was gone, the Compound was gone, I had nothing left. It seemed like the world forgot about me. He tried. Don't tell him I said this, but I don't even think he knew where to start. He'd just gotten back to his family and all he could think about was how he could fix my life all over again."

"So you made the choice for him?"

"Sam deserves a chance to be happy without me interfering all the time. It's not his job to fix my life for me. He's earned so much more than to be saddled with a ghost."

"I highly doubt he sees it that way."

"I don't know."

He rests his hand on yours, gently squeezing it. “If anyone could figure it out, it’s you and Sam.”

"Hey," Sam suddenly interrupts, poking his head in from the doorway. "We should get a move on. In case they come back or something."

"Yeah, be right there," you tell Sam. You stand up off the table, your eyes finally finding Bucky again. You hopefully ask, "I'll see you?"

"Yeah," he nods, an unspoken promise in his words. "I'll see you."

Chapter Text

You've always liked the feel of the warm breeze against your face.

You shut your eyes as the wind blows through your hair and the gentle rays of sunlight warm your face. You tilt your head back, allowing yourself to at least somewhat relax after days of constantly running.

The free flowing breeze always reminded you of freedom. Your shoulders relaxed with each exhale. Each inhale slowly filled the pit in your stomach that remained constant from the moment you cut ties with Sam. 

In this moment, pretending that the world only exist within the confines of Sam's car, you can't remember why you did that in the first place. 

"You okay?"

It's a question Sam's asked many times before. The words always carry so much weight. He always wants a real answer.

You allow your head to loll in Sam's direction, still slouched back against the headrest.

You bite back your instinctive remark, 'I'm fine'. You pause for a moment, allowing the wind to whistle in your ears. The breeze fills your lungs once more, creating a lightness that didn't exist hours ago, "Yeah, I'm okay. You?"

"Hanging in there." You hum in agreement, but otherwise, you remain silent. The sound of the rumbling engine fills the car once again until Sam breaks the silence again, "You didn't sleep on the plane."

"How could I with you snoring the entire time?" you tease.

He humorously snorts, "I don't snore."

"You definitely do."

The familiar rapport is calming, it brings you back to an easier time. You smile to yourself, your eyelids closing with the feeling of ease and comfort.  

Even with your eyes shut again, you can feel Sam's gaze routinely shift from the road back to watching you. You open your eyes with a huff, "I can feel you staring at me. What?"

He innocently shrugs, "Nothing."

"Something," you insist. 

You can see the hesitation stop Sam saying his initial response. That never used to happen before. Secrets never existed between the two of you. He softly smiles, his eyes on the road as he speaks, "Just - it's good to see you back here, back home. Thought I'd have to drag you back kicking and screaming."

You playfully roll your eyes, "Well, that's a little dramatic."

"Oh, please, you literally stowed away to keep from coming back here."

"It wasn't to keep from coming back here," you correct him. "It's because I knew you weren't telling me something."

"So you're telling me that you just knew I wasn't telling you about the Flag Smashers?" he doubtfully questions.

"Yes, because I know you. I know when you're hiding things."

"Touche," he quips, only for silence to fill the car again. This time you don't shut your eyes again, instead watching Sam as he drives down the increasingly familiar roads that tell you you're almost home. He was arguably the person you knew best, the person you were most familiar with. You knew his mannerisms, the cadence of his speech. He was your most trusted confidant, your only true constant, and slowly, you watched as the two of you became people you didn't fully recognize. 

It was an unimaginable pain. Mourning was hard. Mourning someone who was still very much alive was even worse. He feels your gaze on his profile after a few moments. His eyes flicker over to you, "What?"

You're not sure how to phrase the question. The one that asked when you two started keeping secrets. Or when you stopped answering his phone calls. Or when 'Rule Number One', the rule of complete and total honesty and confidence, ceased to exist between the two of you. "What happened to us?"

The honest truth was that you missed your best friend. You only hoped that he could say the same. 

He doesn't need an explanation to know exactly what you mean. He takes a long inhale of air, his shoulders raising and falling with a defeated slump, "I don't know. Life, I guess."

"Do you think life is always this emotionally abusive?" you audibly wonder, staring at the road that passes you by. 

He softly chortles. "Maybe. Maybe it's just the hand we're dealt."

You wonder if that's true, if it's simply the hand you're dealt, fate, if this is really how your life is destined to turn out. You're not even sure if it's supposed to be comfort or not.

On one hand, that would mean that none of it was your fault. You never would've been able to save everyone, which was a strange, double edged comfort. On the other hand, it meant that you'd been dealt a cruel, borderline torturous hand. That the deck was stacked against you from the very beginning. 

Either way, it meant you were on your own. Always on your own.

This time, no one breaks the silence. Your eyes slowly slip shut once more, though sleep still does not find you. You've lost track of how many days have gone by without a moment's rest. You slow your racing thoughts with a focused ear, listening to the to the sounds of the gravel crunching beneath the tires, the quiet crackle of the radio that no one is really listening to, Sam's fingers anxiously thrumming against the steering wheel. 

Time passes too quickly in the comfortable silence as the car comes to a slow stop. 

"Ready?" Sam asks, placing the car in park. 

Your eyes leave the still waters on the horizon to the distantly familiar house. You resist the urge to smile at the house. You haven't forgotten the danger you put them in. You also know that you don't have many options on where you could go. "As I'll ever be."

Sam nods and offers a reassuring smile once but offers no other assurance as he opens the car door. 

"Sarah!" Sam bellows as he steps out of his truck. "AJ! Cass! I got a surprise for you."

"Surprise?" you hear the boys excitedly ask from the side of the house. 

You step out of the truck, rounding to the other side of the car where Sam stands to see the two little bounds bounding towards their uncle. 

In a strangely heart warming and also amusing turn of events, they brush past Sam to throw their arms around you. "You're back!" 

A flurry of questions leave their mouth as the look up at you for answers to all of them. "Where were you? Fight any bad guys? Were you on a mission? Is it top secret? Did-"

"Boys!" Sarah chides, approaching from behind them. "Let her breathe."

"It's okay," you assure Sarah, embracing each boy with a side hug. "I've never felt so cool. I don't think anyone's ever been this excited to see me before."

"No, you guys go ahead, spend some time together." You awkwardly jut your thumb to the house. "I should probably go settle in anyway." 

"Okay," Sam reluctantly agrees, watching as you pull your duffle bag out of the trunk. "Are you sure you don't want to come with? It'll be fun."

"No," you insist. "You guys have fun. I'll be fine."

"Okay," he repeats, watching as you silently meander to the house.

"You guys are so lucky," AJ tells Sam, just loud enough for you to hear as you walk away. "You get to fight all the bad guys and you don't have to do homework or anything."

Sam hangs his head, loudly groaning when he hears the sound of the screen door shut behind you. 

"Everything okay, Uncle Sam?" Cass asks.

He slowly lifts his head, pulling a wide smile on for his nephews, "Just adult stuff. Nothing that can't be fixed."

You think about AJ's off handed comment as the screen door shuts behind you. You certainly didn't feel lucky. You know that Tony used to soak up the glitz and glamour of the superhero life. That life even found Steve a time or two. John Walker enjoyed that up until yesterday.

But that wasn't the reality for most of you. The reality was that most good deeds didn't go unpunished, and you weren't the only one paying the price. Often times, it was those closest to you that paid the most. You loved Steve, but you knew you were all still paying the price for his crusade. 

And now, those around you paid just as much. 

A lot of the time you felt an immense guilt, wishing upon every star that you could give it all up. Of course, then you remembered, you didn't know how to live a life like that.

Even in this moment, your palms twitched with anxiety. You stood in the door way of Sarah's house and couldn't figure out what to do with yourself. 

During your time with SHIELD, Sam's official task was that of a glorified babysitter. His real task, the one given to him by Nick Fury himself, was to teach you to be a person. After a life kept away from the world, social norms evaded you. You were unbound and free. You didn't yet bear the burdens of everyone's expectations.

Now, you were acutely aware of them. Expectations. Unspoken rules. A game of politics that everyone else seemed to know the rules to. 

You were now almost into your eighth year of freedom.

You weren't even a year into your new life when Steve barreled into your life. Two years on the run after that. Five years blipped away.

Eight years and you'd never felt less free. 

You didn't feel lucky at all. 

You gently place your duffle bag at the door. You weren't sure what you were supposed to do. Should you go back to your old room? Wait where you stood in the center of the living room for someone to tell you what to do? Should you go find Sarah and apologize profusely for everything?

Lost in your thoughts, you almost don't notice that Sarah enters the house only moments after you. She finds you standing in the center of the living room, now stripped of the Christmas decorations that hung when you left. Your singular duffle sits tucked by your feet.

"Everything okay?"

You abruptly turn to look at her with a remorseful smile, "I, uh, I wasn't sure if I-"

"If you could have your old room back?" Sarah says, finishing your sentence so you don't have to.

Anxiously fiddling with the friendship bracelet that matches Sam's, you blurt, "I'm sorry for just showing up here again."

"Please," Sarah humorously scoffs, dismissively waving her hand, "I liked having you here, and I know Sam, he can be pretty stubborn when he wants to be. I doubt he even said please." 

"I'm sorry for that too," you add. "I didn't mean to just take off like that - I wasn't really thinking straight."

"So how did the soul searching go?" Sarah wonders.

"Nothing like sleeping on a glorified cot for a few months to give you a chance to think," you sarcastically remark. "But, you know, it was pretty insightful."

"Insightful?"

"Well, I got more questions than answers, but that's usually how these things go."

"You're not selling the boat?" Sam blurts, abruptly bursting in through the back door. He apologetically cringes when he sees you and Sarah standing in the kitchen, clearly mid conversation, "Oh, sorry, did I interrupt?"

Sarah comically gestures toward Sam, "See? No manners."

"I have manners," Sam snorts. 

You chuckle at the two of them, shaking your head as you wave off Sarah's comment, "It's okay, you guys talk, I should go put my bag down."

"Your stuff's all still in your room," Sarah tells you. "If you need anything just let me know."

You offer Sarah a warm smile, taking your bag back in your hand, "Thanks."

Out of the corner of Sarah's eyes, she watches Sam's shoulders slump in defeat as you gently pad up the stairs. She turns to him with a shake of her head, "That's your own fault. We were having a very nice conversation until you barged in."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"About the conversation or about the boat?"

"Both."

"Because you just got back," Sarah explains. "And you both drove up looking all sad puppy dog. Then you went to worked on the boat to get the boys out of their homework - for all of twenty minutes, by the way. What exactly was I supposed to do?"

"It's been a rough few days."

"I can tell, and I assume that's why you're both back here."

Sam props himself up against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms with a meek shrug. "Things got complicated."

"Do you mean," Sarah trails off, nudging her head to the stairwell. 

"It's not right - putting her back in hiding. That's no way to live."

"You wanna talk about it?"

"No." Sam shakes his head. "Just trying to figure out where we go from here."

"Okay, well I'm here," Sarah offers one last time. "But as far as I'm concerned, Mr. Dinh backed out. There's too many repairs. It'll cost more than it's worth to fix."

"Listen to me, don't worry. I'm gonna fix the boat," Sam promises.

"Aren't you supposed to be off saving the world? Fighting some sick and twisted bureaucracy? Why are you back here bothering me?"

"Because my family's well-being is a part of the world," Sam confidently states.

Sarah snorts in disbelief, "So you're waiting for a lead?"

"No... but the government sorta stepped in, took control. Now, it's too risky for her to be seen, and we can't make a move until they stop sniffing around. We're benched until further notice."

The conversation ceases when the door opens again to the boy's chattering and giggling as they make their way into the kitchen. "You guys heading over to Bennet and Elling's?"

They both excitedly nod. Sarah hands them each a brown paper lunch bag. "Can you please make sure Bennet and Elling each get one?"

"Okay," AJ agrees, taking both lunches. 

"Have fun, guys," Sam calls as they make their way out the front door. 

"Bennet and Elling's dad cannot get up before noon," Sarah explains. "Kids keep showing up hungry, but the dad is too proud to ask for help."

"And you're just like mom feeding all the kids in the neighborhood," Sam fondly reminisces. He pauses for a second, mulling over his nostalgia, "Hey, how many people still owe Mom and Dad something?"

"All of them. All that's left, for sure."

"It might be time to call in a few of those favors," Sam suggests, reaching for the kitchen drawer in front of him. He reaches in, pulling out a small contact book. He waves it at Sarah with a conspiratorial smile, "We're gonna fix this damn boat."

Chapter Text

You smile proudly, sitting at the edge of the dock in front of the Wilson family boat as Sam directs some unfamiliar faces with a wide grin on his face. He claps a hand on the man's shoulder, walking away from him to move onto his next task.

He only stops when he sees you sitting on the edge of the dock, something he's told you not to do a million times before. You always rolled your eyes and balked at Sam's overprotectiveness extending to you accidentally falling in the lake.

Still, he watches you for a long moment. Your legs hanging over the deck, swinging just a few feet above the water. You hold your injured shoulder, absentmindedly rubbing it in a meager attempt to soothe what he knew had to be painful after that blow from John. 

Though your shoulder concerns him, not as much as the distant look on your face. Before, you were never one to people watch. Never one to sit on the sidelines while life passed you by. You twiddle your thumbs with a look of contemplation on your face as you watch people walk up and down the dock, never once engaging or interacting with anyone. It was a far cry from the person who used to jump at the chance to talk, even just meet, someone new. 

Without a word, Sam takes a seat beside you, his legs dangling off the deck in defiance of his own advice. The absence leaves your expression as soon as you become aware of Sam's presence. You turn to him with the best smile you can muster, "This is a great turn out, Sam."

"How's your shoulder?" Sam asks, his eyes flickering to the nasty bruise he knows lie beneath your t-shirt. 

You look up at Sam to find him intently watching you like the moment he looks away will be the same moment you run away again. "I'm not miserable here. I'm happy."

Like you just said the funniest joke he's ever heard, Sam makes no attempt to smother his boisterous, clearly disagreeing, laugh, "You are not happy. Maybe you want people to think you're happy, but I know you're not."

"You can't just tell me that I'm not happy, Sam," you point out. 

"Oh, yes, I can. You know why? Because happy people don't run away. Happy people don't shut everyone out for six months. Happy people don't constantly try to sacrifice themselves for the greater good. But you know what, more than any of that, I know you. I know you, not the SHIELD asset, not the Avenger, not Sunshine, you. And you're not happy."

He was right. That much you both knew. It was like the happiness was leeched out of you, back into the world where you thought it belonged. Happiness was better utilized in the world than with you. All you could do was hope that maybe that would be mark you left on the world. It would be better that way. The only blood that would stain your hands would be your own. 

You'd done it all. Given your blood, sweat, and tears to the fight. You'd searched far and wide for something that wouldn't leave you, that couldn't run away, something that couldn't be taken away from you. You couldn't lose any more. You had nothing left to lose. You were on your own. And you were just now realizing that you'd always been on your own. "I'm trying, Sam. I'm really trying."

"I know." Sam stops himself from saying anything else, too worried about driving you away again. He pauses, staring out at the lake. "It feels like a lifetime ago, doesn't it?"

You don't need to look at him to know what he's talking about. "Yeah, it does."

"You miss it?"

"What? D.C.?" you ask.

He shrugs. "D.C., New York. You ever wish we could go back?"

"I don't miss being owned," you solemnly whisper. You realize you'd probably made the moment too heavy. Just to cut the tension, you add, "I don't miss you waking me up at 5 in the morning for a run either."

"Well, I know I miss it," Sam admits. "I miss when our biggest problem was trying to figure out how to get the receptionist at the VA to go out with me."

You chuckle at the fond memory. Despite knowing very little about social norm or customs, you were essentially one of the only people in Sam's day to day life that he could ask for help. It was one of the very last days of normalcy you had. You sent him to the VA with a large bouquet of flowers you bloomed that same morning along with Sam's phone number scrawled on a little card. The sweetness of the memory fades when you remember that he never went back to the VA after that day. He never got an answer. Phone numbers were disconnected. Later, they were changed. Lives abandoned. It was all different after that. "There's no point. There's no going back. We have to move on."

“You’re still allowed to be grieve,” Sam informs you. "You're even allowed to be mad."

The words sound odd in your ears. It was strange. No one had ever given you permission to be anything other than happy. That was what everyone expected, what they wanted from you. 

Were you allowed to be mad? You didn't think so. It was a definitive part of your personality: not mad.

Happy.

Cheery.

Sunshine.

You'd come out the other side. Free to do as you pleased in the world - mostly. You survived being Blipped. Survived the battle with Thanos, a feat many others were not able to claim.

What did you have to be upset about? Your things were gone, friends dead, no real sense of belonging in the world. But you were alive. Sam took you in. You were surrounded by people that were kind and cared about you. So what was there to be mad about? 

“I’m not mad, I’m really grateful,” you reflexively reply.

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive. I hope you know that," he tells you. "You’re a person, feelings are complicated. You can be grateful you’re on the outside while also being mad at the situation you were put in.”

"This place is amazing. You guys are amazing," you respond, not really answering Sam's question. 

"But?" Sam urges.

"But it's not your job to take care of me anymore," you softly state.

"Alright," he interjects, holding his hand up to stop you. "That's like the third time you've said that to me. What the hell does that even mean?"

"It means," you pause with a choked up sigh, "Isn't it time for me to find me own place in the world? This isn't your job anymore, Sam. And I am more than capable of taking care of myself."

"No," Sam abruptly responds.

"No?" you questioningly repeat. 

"No."

"Yes," you indignantly insist.

"No," he repeats with a shrug. "I don't accept that."

"But I can take care of myself," you insist. "I should -"

"No."

"Will you stop that?" you demand. Sam opens his mouth, the 'no' at the forefront of his mouth once more. You accusingly point at him, "And don't say no again!"

Sam closes his mouth, taking a moment to think of some other way to convince you that you weren't the burden or job you thought you were, "What's your last name?"

"Sam, you know my last name," you mutter.

"I know," Sam agrees, clearly leading you right into a conversational trap. "But apparently, you don't know."

"Because it's a technicality," you easily retort. "And you know that too." 

"Technicality, my ass," Sam scoffs. He turns to you with an expectant look, "So what's your last name?"

"Yeah, guess I did," you chuckle. "You taught me well."

"You gotta stop hanging out with Bucky, his sarcasm's wearing off on you," Sam grumbles, rolling his eyes. He lifts his legs back onto the deck, standing up in one swift movement. He extends his hand out to you, "Now, come on."

You take his hand with a confused expression, standing up from your spot, "Come on, what?" 

"We got a boat to fix." You look at him with an eyebrow raised. He laughs at your expression. "What, you thought I forgot? You're still grounded."

You roll your eyes at him. "You know I was going to help anyway."

"I know. I just like telling you what to do," he teases.

"Hey, Sam, if you're done gossiping, we could use a hand over here," one of the volunteers call from next to a fully loaded pick up truck. You both jog your way over to the truck to see a heavy piece of machinery. "So how do we get it off the truck?"

Sam's eyes knowingly flicker to you. You shake your head with an exasperated look, "Well, don't look at me."

"Sam," another man calls from behind you two. "We need another hand over here, there's too much water below deck."

You clap your hand on Sam's shoulder, "Now, that sounds like a job for me."

"Traitor," Sam shouts after you, already skipping down the dock to help on the boat. Sam and the three volunteers stare at the large piece machinery, a very heavy piece of machinery none of them stood a chance of getting off the pick up alone. "What if we all lift together?"

"Anyone have any better ideas?" the man chuckles. The next moment, the heavy engine shifts, slowly raising off the bed of the truck and onto the ground. The volunteer exclaims, "Oh!" 

The engine is gently placed on the dock without a sign of strain from the super solider. Bucky looks at Sam with an arrogant smirk, "You're welcome."

"Bucky?" Sam questions. "What are you doing here?"

"Just dropping this off," Bucky replies, placing a sleek silver case on top of the engine. "You can sign for it and I'll go."

"Well, what is it?"

"I called in a favor from the Wakandans," Bucky cryptically answers. 

"Sam! Oh, hey Bucky," you flippantly greet, barely noticing anything off with the super solider's sudden presence. You disappear back below deck for a second. It hits you suddenly. You immediately backtrack, literally walking backwards to confirm Bucky's presence with a quizzical look. "Bucky?"

"Oh, Bucky's here, by the way," Sam calls back to you. 

"Uh, well, we could use your help over here!" you urgently beckon Sam over.

Sam jogs aboard the boat with Bucky in tow to see a violent stream of steam coming from a loose pipe. He grimaces as he frantically battles with the wrench to try to close it.

"Hold on, you gotta go up," Bucky instructs, taking the wrench from Sam and closing the valve within seconds. 

With the steam finally stopped, you turn to Bucky with another question, "Why didn't you use the metal arm?"

"I don't always think of it right away," Bucky sheepishly responds. "I'm right handed."

"Makes sense," you agree. 

"So this is the boat, huh?" Bucky wonders with a scan of the Wilson family boat. 

"This is it," Sam proudly boasts, slapping the stern of the ship. 

"It's nice. Need any help?" Bucky offers. 

"Need all the help he can get," you mumble under your breath.

"I heard that!" Sam retorts. 

"Well, I'm glad your hearing still works," you slyly quip.

Bucky smiles to himself as the two of you descend into quick-witted bickering throughout the day. Even after hours, Bucky doesn't ever stop finding the bickering and never ending discourse annoying. It's strangely endearing to him, almost reminding him of the way he and Steve used to banter back and forth. 

Even as a hushed moment falls on to the three of you, he finds it no less comforting. The sun warms his face, the fresh air constantly blowing, it was almost second nature to be here. 

He also finds that his eyes constantly wander to you, to find out what you're doing, how you're doing. He looks over once more to find your face turned up o the sun soaking in the warmth that the day offers. 

He smiles to himself, finding comfort in the ease that paints your face. It's nice to know that the part of you that you swore was gone was still there. It's an ease to the guilt that hadn't quite left him since you confessed everything to him. 

"Do you guys think Karli's ever gonna stop?" you audibly wonder, breaking the comfortable silence that descended over the three of you. 

Sam inhales deeply, "Honestly, I think she's gonna double down."

"So how do we stop her?"

"Zemo says there's only one way," Bucky answers with a grimace.

"Since when do we take advice from Zemo?" Sam guffaws.

"I know he hates enhanced individuals and everything, and he would probably kill me the first chance he got, but I gotta say, he wasn't actually that bad. Think it'd be weird if I visited him in prison?" you ask.

"Yes," Bucky deadpans. "He also said to tell you hi. And thank you, didn't say for what though."

"No idea," you guiltily mutter. "Not a clue. Pfft.. I don't even know who Zemo is. Don't think I've ever met a Zemo."

"You know what? I don't want to know," Bucky flatly decides. 

"That's probably a good choice," you admit with a chuckle.

"What about the Power Broker?" Sam unexpectedly asks.

"What about the Power Broker?" you question.

"I mean, and not to be all doom and gloom about it, but something's not sitting right with me. He wanted to make some of the most powerful people on Earth-"

"Aww... thank you," you interject.

Sam shoots you a glare before continuing, "And he just gave up? I don't buy it."

The more you thought about the last week, the more wrong it felt. Karli. The Flag Smashers. The Power Broker. John Walker.

"Hey," Bucky nudges your uninjured shoulder with his. You're so lost in thinking about Karli and the Power Broker that you didn't even realize he'd come to sit by you. "You okay?" 

You shake away the thought, "Yeah, just thinking."

"Well, we need to get the rest of the water off the deck if we're going to finish the other side," Sam explains, tossing you a bucket. "Might want to grab a bucket, Buck."

"Guys, might be easier if I just," you interject, nudging them back with a gentle shove. 

The two men take a step back when the water pooled on the deck starts forming an unnatural bubble. The bubble raises in the air, only to gently fall off of the boat and into the lake with a small splash.

Sam bitterly scoffs, sarcastically muttering, "Well, if you have to show off, I guess."

Bucky snickers, an amused grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, "Thanks, doll."

Sam's eyes snap over to Bucky, his arms crossing with an angry huff. With a coy smile that tries its best to hide the furious blush on your face, you murmur, "You're welcome."

"Hey, uh, could I get your help for a minute?" Sarah calls from the deck. You three turn around to face her. She points at you beckoning you over. 

"Oh, me!" You begin to climb over the slippery edge of the boat. "I'll be back. Probably."

"You better come back," Sam grumbles. 

"Here, let me," Bucky offers, extending his hand to you. 

You take his hand. The feeling of his incredibly warm hands is distantly familiar, and yet you can't help but think that it reminds of you of home.

You smile down at him as you climb onto the deck, "Thank you."

Bucky's not sure what it is about being here. Something about the day spent with possibly the last two people in the world that still know him, brings his guard down just a little bit. Maybe it's just the sun beaming down on him that's making him slightly delirious. Still, something about it emboldens him, and with a goofy grin, he winks at you, "You're welcome."

You can barely keep yourself from giggling like a school girl as you let go of Bucky's hand. You both maintain eye contact with each other for a moment too long when Sam clears his throat from beside Bucky. 

"I should go see what Sarah needs," you state, though you make no move to leave with Bucky's eyes still locked on yours.

"Yeah, you should go do that," Sam forcefully states, causing you and Bucky to break eye contact and look at Sam with a confused expression. 

"Okay, I will, you weirdo," you scoff, rolling your eyes at Sam. 

Your heart still beats just a little too quickly as you walk toward Sarah at the end of the dock. She stands at the end of the dock just beneath the shaded wooden canopy, still looking down at her clipboard.

"What's up?"

Sarah juts her thumb over to the coolers over by the large working table off to the right. "Would you mind? The cooler's getting low on ice." 

"Oh, no problem."

She looks up at you from her clipboard with a wide grin, "And while I have you here, can I ask you something?" 

You shrug, bending down to start refreezing the coolers, "Sure."

"What was that?" 

"What?" you question, though you have a good sense of what she's taking about. 

"Doll?" Sarah chuckles, a knowing smile on her face.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you deflect, staring a little too intently at the cooler. 

"Oh, come on," she cajoles. "You leave to go soul searching, and just happen to come back with a super-soldier making goo-goo eyes at you?"

"We're friends," you insist.

"Friends? Or friends?" Sarah teases, playfully nudging you with her clipboard. 

"Don't start," you wave her off, your eyes wandering down the dock and back to the boat where you see Sam and Bucky still working. "Besides, Sam would lose it."

"Forget Sam," Sarah scoffs. "His heart's in the right place, but can be a little..."

"Overprotective?" you supply.

"I was going to say annoying, but that works too."

"We are just friends," you repeat, failing to convince even yourself. 

"Well, if you're not gonna go for it," Sarah mutters, looking down the dock to where Bucky sits on the edge of the boat. "He's pretty cute."

"Hey!" you teasingly warn. "Get your own super soldier."

"Oh, so now he's your super soldier?" Sarah laughs, a mischievous, wide grin painting her expression. 

You dramatically suck in a breath, accusingly pointing at Sarah, "You did that on purpose!" 

"Maybe," she shrugs with a laugh. She places her hand on your shoulder as you both look back at the two men working on the boat, "Or maybe you just need to go for it. Let yourself be happy every once in a while."

Chapter Text

You needed to buy them more time. You needed to do that for them.

Sam begged you, pleaded with you. With Fury's warning and Steve and Natasha's appearance in your house, it was too dangerous. They could very well be onto you two. 

"I have to go," you announce to Sam, picking your repacked duffle bag up off the ground. 

"There's no way you're going!" Sam vehemently refutes. "First, you just got back. Second, we're sort of harboring fugitives in our house. It's a recipe for disaster."

"They'll know something's up if I don't go," you remind Sam.

"Tell them you're exhausted. You haven't even been back a whole day and they can't just send you on another assignment, it's too dangerous."

"You and I both know they can do whatever they want to me."

"You can't go. It could be dangerous. We don't know what they know," Sam desperately insists. 

"They don't know that we know about them either," you counter. "I promise I'll be careful. The longer Pierce thinks we're still with him, the more time you guys have to take them down."

Sam shuts his eyes, shaking his head, "I really hate that that makes sense."

"I'll be okay," you promise. "I'll see you in a bit, okay?"

"Okay."

With that, you take off, leaving Sam, Steve, and Natasha to make their plans.

You don't even remember making your way to SHIELD headquarters, all you knew is that you'd never felt dread quite like the one pooling in the pit of your stomach as the building looms over you.

You stare up at the building, steeling your resolve. You had to do this for them.

With a shaky inhale, you walk into a building that you knew so well. 

On this day, it feels like you've never been here before. There's no sense of familiarity. There's no ease in any of your actions. 

Before you can make your way to your locker or to get your mission brief, you see Rumlow expectantly standing at the lobby. His arms crossed over his chest and a cold expression, he scans the lobby, clearly waiting for someone.

The moment you step out of the revolving door, you know he's not just waiting for someone, he's waiting for you. 

His eyes snap over in your direction, he strides over, "Pierce wants to see you."

"Oh..." you manage to choke out, shocked by the abruptness of the order. 

"Problem?" he challenges.

"No, no," you quickly assure Rumlow. "Just had something- no, no problem."

"Good. He's waiting."

You weakly smile up at him, "Great."

You try to appear unaffected by Rumlow's suffocating presence. You try to make small talk, offer a kind smile that you know doesn't look even remotely genuine.

You can feel a sense of impending down creep up your spine. There was nothing normal about this.

Pierce liked to maintain a facade of warmth with you, he never summoned you. He'd invite you to the conference room, meet you in the briefing room. Never this.

By the time you're shoved into Pierce's office, the one formerly belonging to Nick Fury, your hands have gone cold with dread.

"What do you know about Captain Steve Rogers?" Pierce questions the moment you stand before his desk, wasting no time with fake niceties.

"Captain Rogers?" you repeat, pulling your lips in as you shake your head. As Pierce stares you down, it feels like he can hear every single one of your racing thought. You try not to think about the fact that Steve is currently sitting in your kitchen plotting HYDRA's demise. "Only by name."

Pierce purses his lips, scanning your face for the lie you're so desperately concealing, "That's good to know."

"Okay," you awkwardly lilt, clapping your hands in front of you. "Well, I think it's time for me to go. I wouldn't want to waste your time and I have a logistics meeting."

"Speaking of logistics," Pierce interjects. "I think it's time we reconsider a few of your own logistics. Your living arrangements in particular."

"What?" you humorlessly chuckle. You look over you shoulder to see Brock Rumlow still standing in front of the door with his arms crossed over his chest. "What are you talking about?"

"We didn't want to frighten you, but we believe there's been a breach of security within the organization. We think it best that you stay here."

Just let yourself be happy.

Just let yourself be happy.

Just let yourself be happy...

But that was the problem, wasn't it? You weren't happy. Happiness was such a distant memory. The happiness you do remember... Well, there's times you're not even sure it was real. You're not sure that it wasn't just some clever facade that you'd fooled yourself into believing.

It was one giant puzzle that you couldn't solve. You're not even sure that you want to solve it. 

Worry consumes you. What if you don't recognize yourself once you're stitched back together? What if you don't like the person you've become?

Sam's words earlier sparked something inside you. His words sparked a runaway train of thoughts and memories that you hadn't allowed yourself to think about in months. 

It all makes you feel selfish.

It wasn't supposed to be like this. It shouldn't have been you. You weren't the hero of this story. Steve, a paragon of goodness and honor. Tony, who deserved to watch his child grow up. Wanda, who deserved her epic love story more than anyone else.

The words implant themselves in your brain before you can tell yourself that you didn't mean it: the world would be better off with them, without you. You were never meant to be. An accident. A mistake. 

You find yourself in one of the few places in the world that still felt like peace. Just outside your bedroom window. Legs crossed as you stare at the endless night sky. The cool night time wind is refreshing, if not a little chilling.

The quiet is soothing. You never liked the quiet before. 

You place your hands in your lap, shutting your eyes as you focus on your breathing.

Breathe in, breathe through, breathe deep, breath out... 

The flame that forms in your cupped hands is as natural as breathing. It's not quite burning you, but just hot enough that you feel the warmth of the flame lick at your hands and work its way up your arms. 

You open your eyes, feeling your racing heart slow with your practiced breathing. Like a pulse in your hands, it swells with every exhale and ever so slightly shrinks with every inhale. 

The flame flickers in your hand when the noise of the screen door shutting below you cuts through the night. 

You hear familiar footsteps creak down the porch and down onto the stone path that leads away from the house. 

"Bucky?" you call out. 

He jolts at the unexpected sound of your voice. With a terse exhale, he places one hand right over his racing heart, "Jesus, what are you doing up there?"

You don't answer the question, instead gesturing up to the sloped rooftop beside you, "Feel free."

He dramatically sighs with his hands on his hips, but even from the roof you can see the corner of his mouth twitching upright. "Really?"

"Unless you're too scared." You shrug, scooting forward to the edge of the roof. You reach out over the edge. A thick vine winds its way down the edge, stopping right in front of Bucky. 

With a feigned huff of annoyance, Bucky takes hold of the vine and climbs up. A laugh bubbles out of his mouth as he reaches for the edge of the roof to haul himself up. "God, I haven't snuck onto a rooftop since I was a teenager."

Finally taking a seat next to you, he looks at you up and down taking in the sight of you in your yellow pajama pants, and a wide grin forming at your fuzzy white bunny slippers. "Nice."

"Shut up," you laugh, nudging his shoulder with your uninjured one. "We can't all look cool when we're going to bed."

"You think sweats and a hoodie is cool?" he counters. You roll your eyes as a crisp breeze cuts through the cool night. Without thinking about it, Bucky unzips his sweater and puts it around your shoulders, "Here."

“Thanks.”

“Maybe now we put out the fire?” he prompts, his eyes flickering to the small flame in you've carried in your hand since he saw you up here. 

“Oh,” you chuckle, closing your hand to smother the flames. “Sure.”

"Why is it blue?" he blurts. He has to suppress the visible cringe that desperately wants to form on his face. Before you can even answer the question, he's backtracking, "Is that an inappropriate question, like too personal? I don't know a whole lot of people with powers."

"Joaquin has some theories."

"Does he?" Bucky sarcastically remarks. 

"I'll have you know that Joaquin is a pretty smart guy," you playfully defend. "A little goofy sometimes. Actually, he reminds me a lot of Sam. Except for the fan girling over Steve. But honestly, I think Steve would've loved it."

"You've successfully avoided the question again."

"He thinks it's me," you finally respond. "Like when I'm angry or something."

"So you're angry now?"

"No."

"Then we've already successfully disproved Torres' theory," Bucky matter of factly concludes. 

"No," you quietly hum. "Things always seem to burn brighter with you."

You weren't even sure if that was a good or bad thing. It was more a statement of fact.

For better or worse, things always burned brighter with him.

Like when he left. It hurt. It hurt too much. Far too much with how long you’d known him. The pain burned so bright you thought it was going to tear through your skin.

You often wondered why did it just feel like a hole had been punched in your chest? Being rejected by a person you thought understood you on some cellular, soul baring level, was a hurt that left you gasping for air.

You’d been left before. Many times before. You’d mourned. Grieved. Getting left by a person who was leaving of their own volition, mourning a person who was still very much alive, it broke you.

Still, you knew he was just being honest. It meant nothing to him. And that was fine.

"Did you ever figure it out?"

"What?"

"The day that Steve - when he put the stones back, you said that there had to be something. some grand scheme or something. That just because we couldn't see it, didn't mean it wasn't there. did you ever figure it out?"

You're surprised he remembered your words so exactly, practically word for word what you said. You're not even sure if you still believe that yourself. "No. I thought I did, but - well, life doesn't always work out the way we want it to, does it?"

"Definitely not."

You hum in agreement.

"Do you still feel it?"

You pause, really thinking about your next words. You want to tell him that it was nothing, that what you felt meant as little to you as it did to him. But you can't. You just can't.

Because even now, it meant everything to you.

Even after everything that passed between you two, after so long apart, the feeling still lie beneath the surface, thrumming to life with each whispered word, each passing glance, and every lingering touch,. "Yeah, I do."

He wants to tell you that he feels it too. He wants to give you the assurance that it's not just you. But you were always braver than he was, "Oh."

You chortle, shaking your head. "Don't worry about me. I know how to lose things."

"What does that mean?" he guffaws.

"Nothing," you shake your head. "It was just a joke."

"No, what does that mean?" he demands.

You vaguely remember how easily the truth came to you.

Once upon a time, lies just didn't make any sense to you. As a person who didn't understand or abided by the typical social contract, honesty was always what came naturally to you.

You didn't know how to be that person again. You didn't know if you should be that person again.

But you missed that person. You missed seeing the good in the world. You missed unabashedly laughing.

You missed smiling.

You didn't know if you could get back to any of that, but you figure you could at least start with the truth. Even if it wasn't a pretty truth. "I'm a very easy person to leave behind, James. I know that. I try not to take it personally."

You can tell Bucky's at a loss for words, so you try to paper over the cracks in the conversation, "Sam used to tell me that some people aren't meant to stay in your life forever. Some for a season. Some for a reason. And if you were lucky, some for a lifetime... I think I'm a season to most people."

Chapter Text

Bucky's eyes flutter open as the soft morning rays filter in through the window. 

He internally gasps. 

He's surprised at himself. He can't remember the last time he fell asleep so deeply that the sun was the one waking him up.

He can't remember ever sleeping wrapped up in someone's arms. He can't remember the last time he ever liked another person the way he liked you. Probably even more than like, though he's not ready to admit that to himself just yet.

But what he does remember is Sam's warning to him when you were talking to Sarah. Something along the lines of chopping him up and feeding him to the fish if he didn't stop flirting with you. 

And now, he's almost entirely certain that Sam's going to kill him. 

The real kicker was that Bucky didn't even care. 

At least he would die a happy man, having known at least one night of peace. His arms still wrapped around you, he tenses them ever so slightly to make sure this was real and not some fever dream high. 

He listens to the percussion of your beating heart, the steady thump all he can find himself focusing on. He tries to commit it to memory, something to fill his mind on those lonely sleepless nights. Instead of counting sheep or the number of times his fan oscillates in the night, he'll think of the number of heartbeats he got to you hold to.

That was the mistake he made the last time, he left in anger, he left in hurt. He didn't memorize the cadence of your speech, the way your eyebrows furrow together, the slope of your nose. He didn't commit it to memory.

All alone, he found one of his biggest regrets was not the way your memory flickered every time it called out to him, but how fuzzy it was. So often he found himself getting lost in the haze. Almost like a dream.

And he found that one of greatest fears was that he'd forget that dream, he'd forget the warmth of your hands, the rhythm of your laugh, the way your eyes glistened. 

This time, he commits it all. He counts the beats of your heart, each one another second that he finally had you. He memorizes the feeling of your hand clutching his shirt, pulling him closer to you. 

Your head remains tucked into his chest, your even breathing dancing across the collar of Bucky's shirt. He shivers slightly. 

He's not sure if it's the shudder or the sunlight filtering in through the window, but your eyelids flutter ever so slightly as a quiet groan leaves your lips. 

Bucky holds his breath for a second, hoping that this isn't ending yet. That's all he wants. Just another second like this. 

But, alas, the universe is not that kind. 

You stir, and just like that, Bucky knows that his time with you is coming to an end. He had to go. You had to stay. 

"Mmm," you hum, your eyes still closed as you curl further into Bucky. 

His heart flutters at the action, at the mere thought of you not wanting to part either. 

"Hi," he murmurs, his voice even more gruff from the first good night's sleep he's had in decades. 

He looks down at you, still locked in his embrace, to find you staring up at him with your wide eyed gaze. It hits him that it might not be a fluke that you're holding onto him. Even wide awake, you don't want to let him go, "Hi."

Since you'd resurrected after the Blip, you had this terrible habit. You'd always wake in a slight panic, always a little confused of where you were. You'd always scan the room in a frenzy, looking around for any clues of where you were. Sometimes, you thought you were back in D.C.. Sometimes, New York. Sometimes, you thought you were back in your cell. It always took a moment to convince yourself that you were someplace safe. 

And, of course it didn't help that you'd spent the last six months living on a base with Joaquin as the only familiar face. 

This morning, there was no such panic. There was no fear. You didn't doubt where you were for even the slightest moment because you were immediately encompassed with the feeling of home. Whether that was being back in a familiar place or waking up in the secure embrace that could truly only belong to one person, you didn't know. 

Your mouth opens a little, only to close it without saying a word. You didn't know what to say. You said it all last night, and you were both well aware that the next words exchanged were going to be a good bye. 

Some foolish hope remained within the two of you that if you simply didn't say anything, it would delay the inevitable and keep you in this moment forever.

"Shit," he mutters, seeing the time flashing on your alarm clock. And just like that, the dream of forever is gone once again. "I-"

The words die on his mouth, failing to find the strength to finish the sentence. He finds that he doesn't want to leave. Not even a little bit.

"I know."

You unclench the hand that held onto Bucky all night. With a heavy heart, you sit up in your bed. You look out the window to the bright morning sun. For a split second, you curse the morning light for forcing you to let him go all over again. 

He throws his legs over the edge of the bed, his shoulders dejectedly slumping. He hangs his head, his hands planted on either side of him amongst the tangled sheets.  

"Chin up," you lightly joke in an attempt to ease the tension. "We still gotta sneak you out of here before Sam gets back."

"That's probably a good idea," he chortles, though the humor lacks any real conviction. "He threatened to cut me up and feed me to the fish if I didn't stop flirting with you. Can you believe that?"

"That depends. Were you flirting?" you cheekily remark.

"I guess that depends," Bucky quickly responds with a faint blush on his cheeks. "Were you flirting back?"

"I-" you falter, all words lodged in your throat. A furious blush paints your face as you pad over to the door. "I think that Sam would kill you if he found you in here."

"Yeah, for some reason, I don't think spending the night in your room was on Sam's approved list of activities. I just- I don't know- I couldn't help-" Before Bucky can finish his sentence, you hear the front door slam shut. 

"Do you hear that?" you whisper, cutting off Bucky. Your eyebrows pull together as you creep closer to your bedroom door as you listen out for any sign of Sam. 

Too focused on the vulnerability he was trying to convey to you, Bucky misses the sound of Sam trailing up the stairs, "I don't hear anything."

"Look, I know -" Bucky starts again.

You hold out a finger to stop him. "Hold on."

"I'm trying to be vulnerable and you're kinda -" You clap your hand over Bucky's mouth, not letting him finish his sentence once again. 

"Sam," you mouth, hearing the footsteps thump up the stairs. 

You were fairly accustomed to Sam's routine, even after many months apart.

He always got up at the crack of dawn for a run. Sometimes, he tried to get you to go with him. Most of the time, you yelled at him and told him that you weren't running unless your life depended on it. 

But instead of hearing Sam's footsteps retreat to the bathroom for a shower, they stop in front of your door. 

You keep your hand clapped on Bucky's mouth as your eyes widen. This was not part of Sam's normal routine. He didn't usually try to wake you up after his runs, only before.

This didn't bode well for keeping last night a secret.

You were fairly certain that Sam wouldn't have noticed the couch was not slept on. He always snuck out through the backdoor to avoid waking anyone up, it was entirely out of the way of the living room. You were fairly certain you wouldn't be caught. Unless, for some unknown reason, Sam decided to change his routine and he did indeed see that the couch was not slept on. 

Sam taps on the door again. "Hey, you awake yet?"

You cringe, silently shouting at yourself. You clear your throat, "Yeah, what's up?"

"Have you seen Bucky?" Sam calls through the door. 

"Bucky? Bucky? Hmm... Nope, not that I can think of. No Bucky here!" Without thinking about it, your hand remains clapped over Bucky's mouth as he stands directly opposite of Sam on the other side of the door. "Alright, good talk, Sam!"

"Why are you talking like a cartoon character?" Sam audibly wonders.

"Like a cartoon character?" you repeat in disbelief, your voice still pitched higher than it should be.

"Did you not sleep or something? I thought I heard someone walking around last night," Sam continues, resting his head against the door to listen for any unusual sounds in your room.

"No, no," you quickly deny, still speaking through the door. "I, uh, I slept. Really well, actually."

"Oh," Sam frowns, eyeing your bedroom door suspiciously, "Well, if you see Bucky, let him know I'm looking for him."

"Will do," you squeak, thankful that Sam couldn't see the panic on your face.

You sigh in relief as the sounds of Sam's footsteps recede down the hall. It's only then that you realize that your hand is still over Bucky's mouth. You can practically feel the smirk forming below your fingertips that matches the smug, challenging raise of his eyebrows. 

You slowly drop your hand, feeling the softness of his lips as they trail down his face. Once again, you're captivated by him, too enchanted by his presence to think straight. "Sorry."

All you can hear is the beat of your heart roaring in your ears. You're not sure who moved first or if anyone even moved at all, all you know is that he feels so much closer than he was before. 

Too close. 

And still not close enough. 

"Your heart's racing," Bucky observes, once again listening to the rapid beat of your heart.

You place a tentative hand on his chest, "So's yours." You find that you can't bring yourself to move your hand as you feel the racing thump of Bucky's heart beneath your palm. "Are you this scared of Sam?"

He looks down at your hand resting on his chest, relishing in the warmth that seeps through his shirt and warms his skin. He silently hopes that if your hand rests there long enough, it'll leave some kind of visible mark. Something to prove that this was real. "Let's not talk about Sam right now."

You shakily inhale. With how close Bucky is, you can feel his breath dust across your cheeks. Your exhales become his inhales. His becomes yours. Your voice trembles as you open your mouth, leaning closer to him, "We shouldn't do this."

You know that, and yet, you can bring yourself to move away. 

"No, we shouldn't," he agrees, making no move to step away.

Your feet refuse to cooperate with your sensible side that begs you to save yourself from another heartbreak. You look up at him with pleading eyes, though you can't quite decide what you're pleading for, "You're leaving."

"And you're staying."

You feel like you could suffocate in his overwhelming presence, but you know if these were your last breaths, you'd die happy. "You know we can't do this."

"I know, I just can't remember why," he admits in a slow exhale.

Looking into his eyes, it was easy to pretend that he wasn't leaving once again. It was easy to pretend that you could stay like this even though you both knew in the very depths of your soul that you couldn't.

It was easy to pretend that he was yours. 

Except he wasn't. 

He was leaving.

He had to go.

You had to stay. 

It's how it had always been. Like two ships passing in the night. Like the sun and moon, one always chasing each other, never destined to meet. 

"Just promise me something?" you ask hopefully.

"Anything."

"Don't forget me this time."

His hand finds the back of your neck, forcing your eyes up to his. He speaks slowly, sure to enunciate every syllable, "I could never forget you. Not in this lifetime or the next."

He leans down, still so close to you. You tilt your head forward, leaning your forehead against his. He reaches for your hand squeezing it once. He can't bring himself to close the gap between your lips and his. He knows it's too selfish. It wasn't fair to you when he was leaving all over again. He feels his throat tighten as he rests his forehead on yours. "I have to go."

"I know."

Your eyes flutter shut as he presses the most tender kiss he can muster to your cheek. 

And that's it. That's all you can take. You can't spend another moment like this knowing how it ends.

You open the door, craning your neck out to check for signs of anyone wandering about. Hearing no more footsteps up and down the hallway, you're certain that the coast is clear. You signal for Bucky to follow you. 

"Oh!" Sarah suddenly exclaims. 

You jolt, freezing as you realize how bad this looks. Bucky sneaking out of your room first thing in the morning. The fact that you're standing so close to each other. Or maybe it was because you didn't even need to look in the mirror to see how flustered and flushed you both looked. 

"Sarah," you gasp, jumping away from Bucky. "We were-"

"We just-" Bucky tries, faltering when no excuse comes to mind. 

Sarah's lips pull in to hide her amused smirk, "You know what? I was not here - did not see a thing."

"No, it's -" you try to stop her to explain. 

"Didn't see anything," she sing songs, walking away from the two of you.

"That's not good, is it?" Bucky asks.

"Probably not," you reply honestly, leading Bucky down the stairwell, "But I think Sam went back downstairs, so we should be in the clear."

You stop behind him at the foot of the stairs. He turns to you like he instinctively knows this is where you part ways again. 

There is no other longing goodbye or unspoken promises left to exchange. There are no words that can change any of it. He knows that too. He juts his thumb toward the front yard, "I should go, uh - I should go talk to Sam."

You smile, "Okay."

"Okay."

"I'll see you," he vaguely promises.

You swallow the knot in your throat again, "I'll see you."

You remain standing where you are. You let Bucky be the one to walk away once again. It isn't until he's out of reach that you regain the ability to move, to breathe on your own once more. 

His presence no longer overwhelms you - it makes the loneliness all the more striking. You've done this before, you remind yourself. Your life will continue, even if every time you close your eyes you see him there, even if you can still feel his touch lingering on your skin. Life would go on just like it had before. 

You pad through the quiet house. This was how it had to be, you internally chant, this was always how it had to be. 

"So...Bucky's taking off?" Sarah asks, seeing you longingly gaze out the kitchen window.

Your eyes flicker away from Sam and Bucky conversing outside to Sarah as she stands beside you with an apologetic smile. You nod, "Yeah."

"You okay?"

You nod again, this time with more conviction. It was already working, you told yourself, you could make yourself believe that this was for the best, "I'm okay." You lip your lips, crossing your arms. A faint blush appears on your cheeks as you thought about the compromising situation Sarah found you in earlier, "And listen, about earlier..."

She waves away your concern with a chortle, "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me."

"Really?" you sigh in relief. "Thank you, Sarah. That means a lot to me."

"Come on, of course I got you," she chuckles, nudging you with her shoulder. She watches out the window with you for a moment. After a second, she turns away to find you still longingly staring out at Bucky. "Besides, you guys have that whole twin flame thing going on, it's very intense. Kinda want to see where it goes."

You manage to pull your eyes away from Bucky and back to Sarah, "Twin Flame?"

"You know, like the whole 'two people, one soul' thing." You look at her with a confused, quizzical expression. "You meet that person and it just clicks. Time, distance, none of it matters. All roads lead to them."

"You sound like you're speaking from experience."

"I am," Sarah admits, clearly lost in her own memories. "So I know it probably feels like your heart is tearing in two right now. But something like that, it doesn't go away. Never. Not in this life or the next."

"Oh." You mull over her words. The corner of your mouth twitches upward as you think Sarah's words. There was something oddly comforting about it. Even if it wasn't real, having someone else articulate the feeling made gave you the validation you so desperately needed. It felt like another piece had fallen into place.

"So what happens now?" Bucky asks Sam, after finding him outside working with the shield.

"And what part of this shitstorm we're in are we talking about?" Sam looks back to the house to find you conversing with Sarah. "She has to stay. It's the only way to keep her safe."

"What if that's not what she wants?"

"I know it's not what she wants, but with the Flag Smashers, the Power Broker..." Sam trails off, worry painting his features. There was so much that he didn't know. So much he couldn't protect you from. 

"And General Ross," Bucky supplies.

"She told you about that, huh?" Sam questions, with a knowing look on his face. "And we're talking about a person with an impressive track record of acting like a sacrificial lamb."

"You think she'll try to sacrifice herself?"

"I really hope not," Sam groans, hanging his head, recalling your number of near death experiences in the time that he knew you. "God, I hope not."

"And the Flag Smashers?"

"We're missing something. I know it," Sam vehemently swears, shaking his head. "I just don't know what."

"I'm starting to think that too."

"We're gonna lay low here for now. Try to figure out how it all comes together. I guess I'll let you know if I figure it out or if Karli surfaces again."

"Yeah," Bucky nods. "Let me know. Don't worry, Sam, you'll figure it out. If anyone can, it's you two."

Sam's head snaps up to Bucky with a bewildered expression, "Was that... optimism? Who are you and what have you done with the real Bucky?"

"And that's the last time I'm ever nice to you."

"Oh good," Sam playfully sighs in relief, theatrically wiping his forehead, "I was getting worried there."

"Seriously, don't know why I bother sometimes." Bucky rolls his eyes, only to look back to the Wilson family home to find you looking at them through the window.

He smiles, raising his hand slightly. You return a smile that he swears could light up the entire night sky.

"Hey, Buck?" Sam calls.

Bucky turns back, tearing his eyes away from you, "Yeah?"

"What's your hoodie doing up on the roof?" Sam asks, gesturing to the red hoodie sitting plainly in front of your window. 

"Oh wow, would you look at that!" Bucky lamely exclaims, suddenly staring down at his empty wrist. "I'm gonna miss my flight."

"Bucky!" Sam calls again. 

"Bye!" Bucky calls over his shoulder, sparing one last fleeting glance with you. 

"You sure you're okay?" Sarah asks you as you both watch Bucky start to leave. 

"Yeah." You smile as Bucky spares you one last longing glance through the kitchen window. You raise your hand, shyly waving as he turns to leave. "It's for the best."

Chapter Text

A huff of laughter bubbles out of your mouth, you turn to Sam with an incredulous look, "A truce?"

Sam raises his right hand, waving an invisible flag, "Yup, I'm waving the white flag."

"I'm confused."

Sam finds himself at a loss for words again. He was doing his own quiet contemplation when he saw you sitting out on the dock all alone. It had been a difficult couple of days for the both of you. Sitting and waiting while Karli was likely plotting her next move, saying goodbye to a friend once again, feeling completely and utterly helpless, it never got any easier. 

Even after all these years, he remembers the day he met you like it was yesterday. 

Nick Fury told him that, if he agreed to be your handler, he couldn't just decide to leave one day. That what you needed, more than a handler, more than a training buddy, more than anything else, was a friend, one person who wouldn't leave. No matter what. 

Sam distinctly remembers the feeling of his heart breaking when Nick Fury told him that you never once in your life had that. It was a tall order for someone he'd just met, but friendship came so easily. It was natural. And somewhere along the way, you started to feel more like his long lost sister than an asset assigned to him.

So much had happened since those early days. 

And honestly, he failed to consider that one day it would be you leaving him.

And the more he thought about it, he couldn't be the one to stop you. Sam had always feared that there was a tinge of truth in what Tony said to him on the Raft, about him and Steve exploiting you as their friend. You fought hard for your freedom time and time again, he couldn't be the one to take it away this time. If what you needed was time, he would give you that.

"Tony came to see us on the Raft. I don't know if you remember that or not."

Your eyebrows furrow, you didn't know that.

You always thought that the last words you and Tony shared was at the airport in Berlin. You didn't remember most of being on the Raft. It was all a blur, a confusing meld of hazy memories that didn't follow any rhyme or reason.

-

Escorted by three guards, Tony slowly approaches your cell. The glass makes it feel more like a zoo than a maximum security prison. But, he figures, that's what you are to them. Nothing more than a pawn. Tony does his best to ignore the guards intensifying glare as he approaches the cell.

He sees your face dejectedly slumped against the cell wall, balled up in the corner closest to him. He looks up at you in horror. Your face is grey, sunken in, like the life and soul had been sucked from you. "Pinkie?"

It's only when he calls for you that you even noticed your visitor. Recognition lights up your face. You look up at him with the best smile you can muster, "Hey, Tony."

His heart breaks a little bit, your smile is lifeless and lacks any real conviction, he knows you're only doing it so he doesn't feel like an even bigger asshole.

"How are you holding up?"

"I've been better," you slur, finally managing to hold your head up off the wall. "How... how are you?"

It's not just your marred, garbled speech that alarms him, but he notices an IV running out of your straight-jacket. You can't reach the IV cart from where you're chained up in the corner of your cell, but he can see the IV bag filled with a yellow-ish liquid that continuously drips down into the tube leading up into your arm.

"Pinkie?" Tony calls again, this time slightly louder. "What is that?"

You tiredly exhale. You blankly stare at him for a moment like you don't understand what he's asking. It takes several long moments for the words to process, "My fault. I freaked when they put me in here...Sedating me helped."

A few things pop into his head immediately.

First,  between the way they were keeping you and Wanda, he feels completely and absolutely sick to his stomach. They treated you both like weapons, and nothing more. It disgusts him. 

Second, he knows how claustrophobic you are. He can only imagine the panic that must have coursed through your veins when they threw you in here all alone. He imagines all the control you once had gone in a split second.

Third, he knows it can't be healthy to keep an adult so heavily sedated for this long. This is not good for you. Not in the slightest. 

A furrowed expression remains on your face as you try to piece any of the memories back together. You don't remember it at all. You shake your head, "No, I don't remember. Any of it, actually."

"He came to see us. We'd already been separated and I'm not gonna tell you what he said, but I thought about it." He pauses for a moment like the words pain him to say, "And am I really any better than SHIELD or HYDRA or the people from before if I make you stay somewhere you don't want to be?"

"You're nothing like them." That's your immediate response. Sam is nothing like the people from before. He is good, kind, he cares about whether you live or die. You never believed yourself to be anything more than a weapon, but Sam did. He was everything they weren't. 

"But it's true," Sam reconciles. "So I'm not going to make you stay here anymore. You can go - if you want to."

You feel your heart break a little, unsure of what to make of Sam's words, "What?"

"Don't make that face," Sam instantly replies, though he hasn't even looked at you. He doesn't have to in order to know exactly when you were thinking, but this time, he leaves no room for you to doubt your place in his family home, "You're more than welcome to say. I want you to stay, but I think I went a little out of my mind trying to protect you, I didn't even stop to realize you were suffocating. I just - I don't want to lose you... And I feel like I've been losing you."

"You're not going to lose me," you promise. 

Sam finally turns his head to look at you, "Sometimes it feels like I might."

You feel the intensity of Sam's words. You don't look at him, too afraid of what you'll see in his expression. Truth, you fear. A pill that was much too hard to swallow.

You weren't just tearing yourself apart. You were tearing those around you apart, too.

You shake your head in some meager attempt to make light of your behavior. "I don't do that anymore. I don't hurt myself, Sam, you know that," you insist.

"Steve told me," Sam abruptly confesses. 

This time, you do look at Sam. Your head whips toward Sam, "What did Steve tell you?"

"About the deal you wanted to make. The deal to bring the rest of us home. Everyone except you," Sam morosely explains. "He said you saw us struggling on the run, that you thought 3 lives for one was a pretty good deal."

You take in a large gulp of air, twisting and untwisting your fingers as you speak, "That was supposed to be between me and Steve."

Sam snorts, "He told me that too."

"Traitor," you grumble under your breath. You look up to the sky with narrowed eyes, "When I get up there, I'm gonna kick your ass, Steve."

Sam dismissively waves his hand with a roll of his eyes, "Don't blame Steve."

"You know, I always knew Steve Rogers couldn't keep a secret," you remark.

"What I meant was, you might not be holding your hand to a stove anymore, but we both know you're not above hurting yourself to save someone else. And I don't want to hurt you anymore." Sam's words stun you. It hits you in a particularly emotionally raw spot.  "Just think about it, okay? If you want to stay, if you want to go, whatever it is, just make sure it's what you want, not what you think other people want to hear. Think about it."

You hesitantly nod, "Okay. I'll think about it."

The silence returns and you're not sure how long you sit beside Sam. You both stare out into horizon, searching for something much more obscure than the boats coming and going.

There's still unspoken words in between the two of you. You decide that you don't want that anymore. You want to go back to how things were with your friend. "Can I say something?"

"Shoot."

"I think you know better than anyone that I haven't exactly been the most optimistic person lately," you begin.

"Really? I couldn't tell," Sam quips.

"Ha-ha," you sarcastically laugh, shoving Sam's shoulder. He laughs at your playfulness, it almost reminds him of how you were before. He can't remember the last time the two of you really laughed together. You fully turn to him as you continue speaking, "But you know what never changed?"

"What?"

"I never stopped believing in you. Even when I was so angry with you. Even when I left. I never stopped believing in you, even at my worst. And if you wanted to keep that shield-"

Sam slumps his shoulders, "Really, you too?"

Since it came into his possession once again, the shield had weighed on Sam. He wanted to believe that he could do it, that he could navigate such a precarious, delicate society as the new Captain America, but he had his doubts. He wanted to believe that society would accept him, but he wasn't sure of that either. It felt like the world had once again been placed on his shoulders. 

"Just hear me out, okay? I won't pretend to get it. I know there's complexities and- and the social contract or whatever it's called, that I don't understand. And I'll probably never understand, but Sam, if there's anyone in this world that could do it, it's you. Even when I didn't believe in myself, I believed that you would make a great Captain America." Sam turns to examine your expression. He finds nothing but a genuine sincerity. He sees that you truly believe the words that you're saying. The words fall out of your mouth as concrete facts, like the words are as true as the sky is blue. "Fury saw it when he made you my handler. I saw it from the very first day that I met you. And Steve, even if he was a little misguided, he saw it when he gave you that shield." You turn to him and nudge your shoulder with his, "And besides, I knew the last Captain America, so, I'm practically an expert."

He chuckles, a grin slowly pulls at the corners of him mouth, "You know, that was actually really insightful."

You roll your shoulders back with a playfully boastful grin, "Yeah, I'm pretty wisdomous."

Sam huffs in laughter, rolling his eyes, "And you just had to ruin it."

"I'm glad we're not fighting anymore," you exhale, resting your head on Sam's shoulder. "Being angry with you is exhausting."

"I'm glad too."

Sam allows himself to relish the reconciliation for a moment before he remembers another topic of discussion he had for you. "Hey, since we're back on speaking terms, can I ask you why Bucky's sweater is on the roof?"

"Oh, wow," you lamely exclaim, lifting your head off of Sam's shoulder and sitting completely up. You abruptly stand up off the dock. You awkwardly chuckle and jut your thumb back toward the house, "You know what? I completely forgot, I was supposed to go help Sarah with that thing!"

"But-" Sam tries to stop you. 

"No time to talk, gotta help Sarah!" you dramatically state, clapping your hands once as you walk away from him. 

"Sarah's not even home!"

"Can't hear you!" you shout over your shoulder.  

"You're both terrible friends!" Sam bellows back. 

"Love you too!" 

In spite of Sam's curiosity, there was a sense of relief that came with knowing that we were all okay. The three of you were finally all going to be okay.

There's a lightness in your lungs as you amble down the deck and back to the empty house. 

Though you finally feel like you can breathe, the weight in your bones remains. You didn't understand how everyone expected you to bounce back like nothing happened when you were just now stitching yourself up again. You always hated how every time one wound finally felt like it was closing, you'd begin to feel the pain of another one long forgotten. 

There's a strange sensation tugging at the back of your consciousness as you pad back to your room. You couldn't name it. It felt like something lurking just over the horizon, just around the corner. Watching your every move, ready to unravel everything at a moment's notice. 

You shook your head as though it could shake the thoughts out of your head. You'd been here before, pacing your room like a ghost. Feeling like the room was on fire, only to find invisible smoke.

You couldn't wait for the other shoe to drop. This couldn't be your life. 

You clutch Bucky's sweater as a source of comfort, having pulled it off the roof when you saw it lying there. It a silly way, it made you incredibly happy that you still had a piece of Bucky with you. In another, sadder sense, you hoped that, if for nothing else, it gave him a reason to come back. You grip it tightly, locking it in your embrace.

Even Bucky's lingering scent is enough to bring you back to what it felt like to spend a night in his arms. Safe. Secure. Loved. 

It occurs to you that you can't trust yourself like you did once before. You decide that you couldn't trust yourself yet, you couldn't trust your mind to tell you the truth, couldn't trust your gut to tell you when danger lurked around the corner.

Your train of though is running in circles, until the very moment you hear Sam's footsteps bounding up the stairs.

You're placing the sweater on the very foot of your bed when Sam abruptly appears in your doorway, "Sam, I don't know how the sweater-"

"We got a lead," Sam abruptly cuts you off.

Your eyes widen slightly, clearly stunned by the news. "What?"

"Torres just called me," Sam explains. "He thinks the Flag Smashers are going to try and stop the GRC vote tonight."

Even as you stand there trying to process the news, you automatically know there was no way Sam would let you anywhere near this. Especially after everything that happened in Latvia.

Still, you nod, trying your best to pull a smile of assurance on your face for Sam. This was still a good thing. Even if you couldn't go with them to help, this meant that this whole ordeal could finally be put to rest. "Oh, alright. Do you want me to let Sarah know or-"

He nudges his head toward the door, "Aren't you coming?"

You look up at him with wide eyes and a confused, if not a little suspicious, expression, "Really?"

Sam languidly shrugs, as though it's not a big deal, "Well, I need my sidekick."

A wide grin grows on your face. You eagerly nod, "I know that was supposed to be an insult, but Captain America's sidekick? That's pretty freaking cool."

"I know! The second I said it, chills, literal chills, everywhere," Sam jokes, theatrically rubbing his hands over his arms.

"Just let me get changed," you tell Sam. "When do we leave?"

"An hour? I gotta find Sarah and let her know."

"Whatever you say, Cap."

The next hour passes in a blur. You can't remember the last time you prepared for a mission like this, let alone one that wasn't part of your self imposed exile. 

There's something that sets your teeth on edge, something that sends a fluttering sensation to your stomach, and chills down your spine. And yet, there was something incredibly gratifying about being there to help stop Karli, to hopefully save Karli. 

And sure enough, an hour later, Sam appears in the doorway once more. Duffle bag in hand, he asks, "Ready to go?"

"I think so. Lucky shirt, check. Friendship bracelets, check." You tap the breast pocket of your jacket. There's something doubly comforting about it. You'd had the jacket itself for so long, it was one of the first things Sam bought you in D.C., something you'd worn on so many missions, so many big moments in your life. And then tucked inside your pocket, the only picture you had of your friends and family, all resided over your heart. "I think that's everything."

"That's really everything you need before we go and try to save the world?"

"Well, we've done it like three times before," you scoff.

Sam shakes his head, his words coated in disbelief, "There's something very flawed in that logic."

You blithely shrug, "It hasn't failed me yet."

"Just one more thing, before we go," Sam adds, his tone suddenly solemn. "Before we go, I need - I need you to do something for me."

Your head twists to the side, you hesitantly nod, "Okay..."

"I need you to promise me you'll fight back."

You sigh with a dejected slump of your shoulders, "Sam, I always-"

He wanted to trust you. And he liked to think he did.

Just not with this.

Not with you.

You were too willing to let yourself go, to be the hero, to be the sacrifice. You hadn't learned that you were more than a weapon, more than a tool to win wars and political battles.

"No, I need to to promise me," he vehemently interjects, practically pleading with you. He shakes his head, "Not like the last time. For real. No sacrificing yourself for the greater good. No using yourself as bait. No letting yourself get hurt. I need you to promise me that."

You meet Sam's gaze and you stomach sinks when you see what resides in the depth's of his eyes. Fear. Pure, unbridled terror. You find yourself nodding before you regain the ability to speak, "Yeah, okay, I promise."

"Swear?" he begs.

"I swear."

"Thank you," Sam sighs in vague relief. 

You pluck your duffle bag off your bed, stepping out into the hall. You playfully nudge your head down stairs, "Now, come on, Cap, we have to save the world. Again."

"Let's do it."

Chapter Text

"We have breaking news. There's a complete lockdown at the GRC meeting in Lower Manhattan where authorities are saying they're tracking multiple threats from groups seeking to stop the GRC's vote on global resettlement. There is a no-fly zone in effect..."

You watch the broadcast in the storefront before you in abject horror.

You so badly believed that there was good in Karli. You wanted to believe that she would do the right thing and stop this before it got out of hand, but here it was.

Completely and totally out of hand.  

Your earpiece crackles to life, pulling your attention away from the screen. The voice you hear is not the one you were expecting, "Sam, this is already a shit show. Can we really handle this ourselves?"

Sam's voice suddenly fills your ear, "Don't worry, I called in backup."

"Backup?" Bucky asks, wading through the spectators formed around the GRC building. 

You look away from the screens, scanning the street for the sight of Bucky. You find him in the middle of the sidewalk, his neck craned up to look at the skyscraper that was supposed to host the now delayed GRC vote tonight. 

Though you're certain he can't hear your approach over the loud sounds of sirens waling and people scrambling through the frantic scene, you see his eyebrows furrow, he quickly looks away from the building, frantically scanning the area. 

He finds you in an instant, his eyes drawn by some inexplicable gravitational pull to you. A breath lodges in his throat at the shock of seeing you.

In that moment, he swears his heart skips a beat. 

A goofy grin pulls at the corners of his mouth the moment he sees that it's really you, you're really here, standing just a few feet away from him. So close he can almost touch you, "Hi."

You gently wave as he steps up to you, "Hi."

He resists the instinctive urge to pull you back into his arms.

There's so much he doesn't know right now. He doesn't know where he stands with you. He doesn't know how tonight will end. What he does know is that nothing feels more right that having you by his side. So instead of pulling you into his arms or keeping you at arm's distance, he just keeps smiling that boyish grin, "You're here. I - I can't believe you're here."

You nod, your fingers incrementally lift, subconsciously reaching out to him, "And you're here."

Sam's voice once again echoes in your ear, his tone dripping in sarcasm, "And now that we've established that we are all indeed here, we need to keep our eyes open."

You know Bucky's hearing the same thing you are from the unimpressed frown that weighs down his smile. "That's your plan? Keep our eyes open?"

"Sam's never been one for the plans," you whisper to Bucky.

"I heard that," Sam chides.

"And I say that with all the love and respect in the world!" you add. 

"They're gonna move in on the building soon," Sam informs you and Bucky as he soars around the perimeter of the GRC building, "Karli's not gonna be far from the action. Be ready."

"Be ready. Got it," you mutter to yourself, rolling your shoulders in an attempt to psych yourself up, "Good call, Sam. Be ready."

"Shut up," Sam grumbles. 

"What? I said it was a good call!" you incredulously exclaim.

"I can't believe you're actually here," Bucky continues, chewing on the inside of his cheek to tamp down what he's certain is a ridiculous smile, "It's good to see you. Here, I mean - It's good that you're here."

You shyly smile up at him, "It's only been a week, James."

"Doesn't matter," Bucky nonchalantly shrugs, though he swears his pulse stutters when his name falls from your lips. Just like before. He wants to tell you that this past week since he left Louisiana has felt like one of the longest weeks of his life. He wants to tell you that he doesn't know how he survived six months away from you when a single week was this heart wrenching. He wants to say that now that he's had another taste of what life is with you, he doesn't intend on living without it again. He's still not brave enough. He fleetingly wonders if he'll ever be. "It's always good to see you. Always."

Now, it's your turn for your heart to stutter in your chest. You suck in a soft breath, unsure of what to say to him.

You know what he means, though. You know that there's never a time when you're not happy to see him. Even when you're angry with him, even in the most dire of circumstances, your heart will always be content when he's near. A rightness overtakes you, like you're whole again.

It feels like home.

It feels like peace.

"Alright, guys, I got visual," Sam interjects, cutting through your reunion with Bucky. 

You immediately crane your neck, looking up to the night sky to try to spot Sam, "On Karli?"

"On you guys, just standing there, staring at each other," Sam deadpans. 

"You're an asshole, you know that?" Bucky sharply retorts, following you as you begin wandering toward the building. 

"The power's still out in the building," you tell them, walking along the edge of the taped off scene. Bucky trails behind you, intently listening to your every word. "I know it sounds like a bad idea, but I think we might be better off splitting up."

"I've never heard of a worse idea," Sam dryly remarks, still soaring around the perimeter of the GRC building. "You sound like the first person that dies in a horror movie."

"I happen to agree," Bucky reluctantly admits, sparing you an apologetic glance over his shoulder. 

Your mouth twists to one side, crossing your arms over your chest, "So you guys only ever agree to overrule me, huh?"

Bucky shrugs, trailing behind you as you work your way through the crowd, "It's a shock to me, too."

"Why would they-" Just as you begin to speak, a loud hissing sound reverberates through the building. Bucky instinctively grabs your arm, pulling you away from the building and closer to him. You look over your shoulder at him, "That can't be good."

"Sam, they gassed the building," Bucky urgently informs Sam. 

"Why the hell would they gas the building?" Sam mutters, more to himself than to you. He sucks in a small breath, just barely audible to you and Bucky, "She's not trying to get inside, guys."

"She's trying to get everyone out," you finish, a sinking feeling taking root in the pit of your stomach. 

"We have to find her," Bucky firmly states. 

"As opposed to what we were trying to do earlier?" you snarkily retort. You quickly shake your head, placing your hand on your chest, "Sorry, I get sarcastic when I get nervous."

"Maybe you should stop spending so much time with Bucky," Sam teasingly suggests. 

Bucky scoffs from beside you, "Let's focus on one thing at a time, alright?"

"I'm going inside," Sam tells you. "I'll warn the evac team and tell them to keep people inside. You two focus on finding the hostages. Find the hostages, you find Karli."

"Now, that's a plan!" you exclaim. "The trio is alive and well, everyone!"

Bucky smiles at you, watching as you beam at the reunion from his peripheral. You turn to him when you feel eyes on you, he doesn't look away, instead he nods, jutting his head in the direction of the building's garage, "We should go."

And with that, you and Bucky are off.

He knows you're trying to stay out of sight. He knows the risk you've taken by coming here tonight. It doesn't change that your presence seems to be magnetic. People have always liked you, been drawn to you. Who wouldn't turn to the light in times of darkness? 

As much as you try to shy away from the cameras, you don't keep your head down, too preoccupied with finding Karli as quickly as you can. Your eyes drag across the scene, looking for anything that might point you in Karli's direction. 

You've both only trailed half the perimeter when you notice a masked Flag Smasher duck into the sealed off garage. 

You place your hand on Bucky's forearm, pointing at the building's garage, "Look." 

He wordlessly nods, walking side by side with you as you approach the entryway. You duck around the corner, only slightly peaking your head out to get a better idea of what you're walking into. 

"They're further in the garage," you whisper. "We should be able to get in without being seen.

"Alright," Bucky agrees, he taps on the earpiece, informing Sam of your plan, "Sam, we're gonna work the building from the bottom, Sam. Let the evac team know to keep people inside -"

"Like I said already," Sam points out. 

"And we'll cover the exit points from the garage, we can't let her move hostages, it makes the chance of recovery a lot lower."

"There's some hostages being taken up to the roof, there's a helicopter there, but I keep getting-" Sam abruptly stops speak and you hear a pained grunt come from his side of the comms. 

"Sam?" you frantically call out to him. 

"Sam!" Bucky calls. 

Dread washes over you as nothing but silence is heard from Sam's end of the comms device. You sharply inhale, holding your breath. You're not sure if it's to stop you from taking off to find Sam or if it's simply to offer comfort, but Bucky's hand quickly reaches for yours, squeezing it tightly. 

"Sorry," Sam apologizes after a long, drawn out moment. He sounds a little out of breath and agitated, "There's Flag Smashers everywhere. Their supporters are crawling around too. Trust me when I tell you that they are not interested in talking to us."

Though he does his best to hide it, you can see the breath of relief that overcomes Bucky when you hear Sam's voice. Bucky nods, though Sam can't hear him, "We'll watch our backs."

"I'm making my way to the roof. Again. I'll let you know when I've got the hostages secured."

"Got it," you agree. As you both sneak into the garage to surveil the Flag Smashers, Bucky doesn't drop your hand. Hand in hand, you hug the walls of the dim garage, just out of sight of the Flag Smashers operating further in the garage, "You know, none of this makes sense, James."

"How do you mean?"

"Karli is trying to stop the vote tonight. She did that. She's got her hostages, so why go out of her way to create more chaos? Why force people out of the building?" 

"It's a misdirect," Bucky whispers, the pieces finally falling into place in Bucky's mind. "She's not out to stop the vote anymore. And I can bet that she's not planning on letting those hostages go."

"No," you vehemently refute, refusing to accept such a morbid answer, "I know Karli's misguided, but that's a little far, even for her."

Bucky frowns, debating on whether or not to voice his doubts about Karli. He tries not to let Zemo get into his head, but he can't help but think that Zemo might be right about this: you are too close to Karli. You can't separate your fate from hers. "Has it ever occurred to you that she might be too far gone to save?"

"No."

He takes a deep breath, he tries to tell you what he fears as gently as he can, but there's no easy way to say that he's not sure there is a path back to the light for Karli. He wants there to be. He's not quite convinced of it himself though. "I know you want there to be good in her, but there might not be anymore. We may need to accept that."

"People used to say that about me too, you know?"

"You are not Karli!" Bucky frustratedly groans, sweeping across another parking row. "And I want to help her as much as you do, but-"

"But nothing!" you forcefully state, keeping low as you join Bucky behind a concrete wall. You do your best to remain level headed about this, to keep your emotions from clouding your judgement, but you can't help but see yourself in Karli's shoes. You can't help but think that, under slightly different circumstances, you would've been Karli. Without a Flag Smasher in sight, you both continue working your way through to the other side of the garage, "She's a kid, she just needs someone to look at her long enough to see the good there. You know that as well as I do."

"You can't -" A large commotion cuts Bucky off. A group of Flag Smashers whip a side door open, tugging more hostages and shoving them aboard a stolen armored truck. You grab his arm and tug him out of sight just behind one of the structural beams. You slightly poke your head out, watching as the final hostages are loaded up on the armored truck. 

"The hostages," you mouth.

"What are you doing?" he hisses.

"We need to be careful," you quietly reply, hiding behind the pillar. "If we jump in they could run, or worse, they could hurt the hostages. We need to assess the situation."

He snorts, "Since when do you assess situations?"

You dramatically sigh, rolling your eyes, "I sorta told Sam I'd be careful. One bullet wound and he thinks I'm reckless and 'self destructive'."

"Then let's assess, shall we? These are choices that Karli is making of her own volition. Choices that you and I never got. You and I didn't get to choose, not once," Bucky softly explains, gesturing to the hostages being loaded onto one of the armored trucks, "All this, this is her choice."

"I know that," you quietly admit, swallowing the tension that rises in your throat. You remind yourself that you swore to always see the good in the world, to be the good where there wasn't any. You hadn't done that lately, but helping Karli was a pretty good place to start. "But this can't be it. This can't be how her story ends. And I know she can still choose to be good."

Bucky opens his mouth to speak, but before any words come out, Sam is cutting him off with another urgent piece of information, "Where are you guys?"

Bucky clicks his comms device, unmuting himself, "South exit of the garage, why?"

"Karli's got another truck full of hostages on the street," Sam informs you. "Just pulled up out of the garage. Out of the north exit."

You and Bucky share an uneasy look. "Another one? We're watching the truck they have right now."

"They're splitting up the hostages," you mumble to yourself.

"What?"

"They're splitting up the hostages," you repeat, this time loud enough for Sam and Bucky to hear. As you speak, you hear the armored truck you'd been watching rev its engine. You look up to Bucky with a remorseful gaze, "Which means we're gonna have to split up."

"No!" Bucky reaches out and gently grabs your hand, refusing to let you go. "Just hold on a second, isn't that playing right into Karli's hand? We're giving her exactly what she wants."

"She's a kid, James. And I know you don't believe in her, but I need you to believe in me," you plead, squeezing his hand as tightly as you can. "Her story doesn't have to end this way."

"It's too dangerous. Please," Bucky begs, his voice hoarse with desperation. 

His eyes bore into you. They glisten with sincerity, concern, and worst of all, fear. You rest your other hand on his, trailing your thumb on the back of his hand. "I can do this. I can help her. I'll be okay."

Bucky stiffly nods in concession, "You better be."

"I will," you promise, squeezing his hand one last time, "I'll see you in a minute."

Without another word, he takes off in one direction, you in the other. 

As you reach the north exit of the garage, you press your earpiece, "Sam, where's the other truck?" 

"About a block north of the building, it looks like they just stopped in the middle of the street. The street is sealed off, but if you cut through the garage and take a right, you might be able to get through."

"On it."

And though lately you've felt plagued by misfortune, you can't help but feel like you've finally found your luck. Just like Sam said, the truck is stalled in the middle of the street. Not surrounded by Flag Smashers nor by police cars like you anticipated, you find only one person.

Hidden behind a Flash Smasher mask, a head of red hair pokes through, telling you've found the person you've searched for all night. 

It barely registers in the back of your mind that this is almost too coincidental.

A set up, like Bucky said.

You shake it off, you can take whatever Karli throws at you. 

As you approach the truck, you hear the muted screams of the hostages reverberate in the truck. 

"Karli!" you call out to her, almost gasping at her current state. You find her standing in front of a truck full of hostages, holding a flame over the truck as a threat to not come any closer. "What are you doing? This isn't helping anything!"

She chuckles triumphantly, like your predictability will be your downfall, "I knew you'd show up here eventually."

You stand before her, your hands up to show you mean no harm, "That's what you wanted, right? Everyone to finally pay attention to your movement - to you?"

She furiously rips her mask off, sneering at you, "You still don't get it. This isn't a vanity project like your Avengers. This is the only way to help ourselves! All we ever wanted is to matter."

You inch closer to her. You freeze when she shifts the flame closer to the truck, warning you once more. "You do matter. You've always mattered."

"I will never matter to people like you," she seethes, the anger in her voice causing the flame to pulsate with every syllable spoken. "You only care about power. You only listen to power."

"What are you talking about?" you frustratedly question, this time remaining where you are as to not push her any further down this path, "I'm here to help you. I don't care about the GRC. I don't care about any of it. I came here to help you."

"You're a liar," she spits, standing her ground in front of the truck, "You only help yourself."

Not having made any progress with her, you hear a familiar voice bellow down the street. 

"You have got to be kidding me," you grumble to yourself. This is a bad position to be in, you immediately realize. Enemy to your right, enemy to your left. Standing wedged between them, it's hard to keep an eye on either of them, let alone the both of them. You sigh in exasperation, "Of course, you're here, John." 

"I couldn't let you have all the fun, could I?" John stands there, still in full Captain America gear, holding an odd replica of Steve's shield before him. He eerily states, "I couldn't have planned this better myself. You're just the people I was looking for." 

"Couldn't have been creepier if you tried, John," you bitterly quip. "What do you want, John?"

"I want to finish this," John grits. 

"I never meant to kill your friend," Karli offers as a condolence, it's clear to you that she's just as shocked as you are at John's appearance. "I don't want to hurt people who don't matter."

John winces, his grip tightening on his shield, "You think Lemar's life didn't matter?"

Even in the dark night, you swear that you see remorse flash across Karli's face. She shakes her head, "Not to my fight."

"And what about those hostages, Karli? They have families, friends. They matter as much as you do," you bargain with her. 

"Those people?" Karli coldly repeats, still swinging a flame in her hand. "The people that want to take everything from us? Rip away the only homes we've ever had? They matter as much as we do?"

"Karli! Don't do this!" you exclaim, unable to turn to her entirely with John still standing there. You look over your shoulder, shaking your head, "It doesn't have to be this way!"

"I already told you, if you're not with me, you're against me. And I know who you are." Karli's words sound more and more like an accusation. You don't miss the betrayal and hurt that she hurls at you, almost like she no longer believes any good resides within you either. "I know what you stand for. You're no better than them."

"What will killing those people solve, huh? What do you gain?" you ask her.

"And if I let you stop me? I get labeled the bad guy, a danger to society." Karli's voice gets louder and louder, becoming more pointed with every statement. There's a bewilderment in her actions that you know won't be assuaged by any words you have to offer. "I get thrown on the Raft. And you? You get to save the world all over again. You get to be the hero."

"You're not a bad guy." You look between Karli and John. You hold out your hands to each side of you. You finally give in, fully turning to face Karli, "Please, don't let them make you a villain, Karli. Stop this."

John takes the opportunity to strike while you're distracted. He throws the shield, it cuts through the air, striking you in the shoulder. 

You jaggedly hiss, clutching your shoulder at the impact against your injured arm. You swear that you feel the old gunshot wound tear open as the makeshift shield clatters at your feet. 

You look down at the shield, no sturdier than a piece of plywood. And with that, your final thread of patience with John Walker snaps. You glare at it as it ignites on the ground. 

"Did you just throw that at me?" you fume, the shield burning at your feet. 

"General Ross offered me a deal," John tells you as he picks up a piece of disassembled scaffolding. He clenches the metal pipe in his hand, "I give him you and Karli and I get it all back. I get my legacy back."

"The legacy of executing an innocent man?" you rhetorically ask. 

The pipe violently slices through the air. You stumble back, just barely dodging the swing. John's chest heaves with anger, too lost in his own grief to realize that he'd let Karli get away once more, "Lemar's death is gonna mean something. And I'll finally be a hero."

"This is not how you become a hero, you idiot!" you yell, ducking down he swings the pipe at you. 

You spare a glance over to where Karli stood, and just like you suspected, she's gone.

But what shocks you is that she didn't leave without igniting the armored vehicles, it terrifies you that she truly left those people to die. 

"John," you caution as he stands poised to attack. You notice that eerie look in his eye again, but this time, it doesn't just flash in his eyes. It takes him over. "You want to be a hero? Let me help those people."

His eyes flicker to the burning truck, the sounds of panicked, frantic screaming floods his ears. He tentatively nods, allowing you a moment to subdue the flames. The smell of smoke fills the air as you rest your hand on the hood of the armored truck. With a swipe of your hand through the air, the flames begin to smolder out. 

You slowly exhale, the smoke beginning to clear with the gentle breeze you pull in. You turn around with a grateful smile, "Thank-"

Before you can finish speak, John catches you off guard, rushing forward to pin you against the truck. "You are not a hero."

"I never claimed to be," you grunt, pushing back against the pipe as it digs into your clavicle. You know you can't win like this. He's too focused on you, and you'll never get to talk Karli down with John on your tail. And more urgently, you can't save those hostages like this. You need to play this smarter, convince him to let you go for now, "But I'm not what you need to worry about. Karli's gonna get away and you'll never get your shield back. You'll never avenge Lemar's death. You'll never be a hero."

"Shut up," John demands, attempting to pin you again. 

You bend the pipe toward John, relieving all pressure against you. He looks down at the U-shaped pipe with a defeated, bewildered expression, then back to you. "What's more important, John? Me or being a hero?"

John's chest heaves in anger as he breaks away from you. His fists twitch with indecision as he debates his next move. He sucks in a breath, stepping away from you, "You're next."

Those are his last words before he takes off after Karli. Considering her expert evasiveness, you're not worried that he'll find her before you do.

And if you're lucky, he'll run into Bucky or Sam before you have to confront him again. 

You bolt for the back of the armored truck. Holding the hostages inside is a piece of knotted metal pipe wrapped around the door handles. 

You lay your hand on each end of the pipe, prying it open. The pipe groans as you unwind it from the door handles. When it's mostly straightened out, you swipe the pipe away, finally releasing the hostages. You pop the door open, poking your head in, "Is everyone okay?"

In the hot bed of the truck, they waste no time before rushing out for the exit. One by one, you help the hostages down from the truck, taking each of their shaky hands as they scramble back to safety. 

And finally, a woman, the last hostage on the truck, throws her arms around you the moment her feet hit the ground, leaving you a little shocked. She cries, "Thank you, thank you so much!" 

You momentarily stiffen at the unexpected gratitude. You'd become accustom to working in the dark, no one knew who you were, no one knew what you did, no one even knew you existed. It was the definition of a thankless job. You'd always been okay with that. You figured that as long as you left the world a slightly better place, it was all the thanks you needed. That was the only legacy you'd ever need. 

After the moment of shock passes, you return the embrace, she sobs into your shoulder. Though you're the one comforting her, there is something that is equally soothing to you about someone knowing you, about not working in the shadows anymore. You gently comfort her, patting her back, "You're safe now."

The moment you're done guiding the hostages towards the paramedics stationed at the police lines at the end of the street, this never ending night continues with even more chaos.

This time it's Bucky's voice that comes through on the comms, "Was anyone else aware of Walker being here?"

Anger floods your veins, testing the last of your patience for anything John Walker related. You speak through gritted teeth, "Where are you?"

"Construction pit, a block south of the building."

Though you're not sure how, too overcome with anger and frustration, you make it to Bucky in what has to be record time. Fists clenched, nostrils flaring, pain shooting from your once again bleeding wound, you find Bucky standing in an abandoned construction pit.

"Where is he?" you demand the moment you see Bucky.

Bucky's eyes widen, more at the bruise sweeping across your collarbone from John's attack than the building frustration in your tone, "What the hell happened to you?" 

You snap your head over to John, "John Walker happened."

"Hold on!" Bucky interrupts. 

You look up at Bucky with a bewildered expression. Bucky hesitates for a second, stepping between you and John, "He was actually sort of being helpful. Trust me, I hate it as much as you do."

"Ha, even your boyfriend's on my side," John taunts.

"Alright, that's it!" you snap, lunging at him, "Let me at him! Let me at him!" 

"No," Bucky warns, locking his arms around your waist to keep you from charging at John. "He's not worth it."

Bucky holds you firmly against him as your hands violently grab out, your legs kicking out as you try for a single hit, "Just this once. Just one time."

"She's crazy!" John shouts at you. 

"Call her crazy again and I let her go," Bucky sharply threatens.

John's lips snap shut as he glares at you. You grab the hand that rests against your midsection, "Just one hit, James. Just one, I promise."

"As fun as that would be to watch, we've got bigger things to worry about. We've got to get to Karli," Bucky reminds you, his embrace less about restraining you and more about grounding you. "She's not too far gone, right? We can still change how this story ends."

You finally allow yourself to settle, with a long deep breath. You look up at Bucky with a tender smile, "You're right."

"I knew we'd see eye to eye eventually," John remarks. 

You don't respond to John, instead silently glaring at him as you walk away to remove yourself from the situation. 

Bucky steps up to John, speaking in a low, threatening tone, "Make no mistake, Walker, if you fuck her over, if you sell her out, I'll kill you without a second thought."

The muscles in John's clenched jaw tighten, this time, he knows better than to say anything with Bucky staring him down. 

"Hey, guys," you call from the center of the pit. "What exactly was the plan to save the hostages stuck on the scaffolding?"

Bucky jogs back over, refocusing on what they were doing before you stormed over here, "We tried getting up there, but the scaffolding is too unstable. Any movement could tip the truck."

"And the hostages?"

Bucky shakes his head, "Same problem. Sam's dealing with a rogue helicopter, so it's on us for now."

You hear a pained groan from the welded pipes that make up the scaffolding. Even the cool nighttime breeze causes the structure to sway and dislodge the armored truck. 

You step forward, standing directly underneath the collapsing scaffolding, "That thing's coming down any minute. Do we have time to get up there and get them out from the back of the truck?"

Your answer comes with a loud snapping noise above you. The piece of wood lodged against the front wheel finally gives to the weight of the truck, just as the truck is about to tip over the edge, you bolt to the center of the pit, right into the path of destruction. 

"No, don't!" Bucky shouts, sprinting to push you out of the way.

Just as it begins its free fall right on top of you, you stop it. The hood of the truck groans, the metal slightly rippling with the amount of pressure placed on it as you muster every ounce of strength and power you have. 

Bucky freezes before you, his eyes squeezed shut as the shadow off a falling truck hovers over him. After a split second, he creaks an eye open. With no crash before him, his head snaps up to the supernatural sight. 

Above him, above you, the truck floats several yards above. Bucky's jaw drops, eyes comically wide as he looks up with an unabashedly proud smile as the truck levitates mid-air, "Wow."

"Who made armored trucks so heavy?" you complain through gritted teeth, straining as you try to bring down the truck slowly. 

"I think that's the Scarlett Witch!" you hear a civilian shout from behind police lines. 

Though you have no regrets about saving those people, you know from the crowd formed behind you, that you've just sealed your fate. If General Ross didn't see you in Latvia, he was certainly going to catch you now.

You can't focus on your grim fate as the weight of the truck starts to take its toll on you. 

With a low, guttural sound building in the back of your throat, the truck begins its descent to the ground. Slowly, it falls to the ground, landing with a violent squeal of the truck's suspension. 

"No, it's Black Widow!"

"Black Widow doesn't have powers," another stranger argues. 

"No, no! I'm no one, just a random person. No one important," you call back once the wheels of the truck are all firmly planted on the ground. 

"I think Redwing caught that on camera. I know I called you a show off before, but that was insane," Sam beams through the earpiece, a light chuckle embedded in his words. 

"So much for assessing the situation," you laugh in between pants, trying to catch your breath from overexertion. You rest your hands on your knees, muscles burning from tension. 

Overcome with the need to make sure you're okay, Bucky places his arms around your shoulders without a second thought, "Are you alright?"

You nod, muscles still begging you for rest as you stand up, "Yeah, I just need a second."

"You're amazing," Bucky whispers in awe. 

A deeper flush builds on your cheeks, "Thanks."

The breathy tone from his voice continues as he slowly leans closer to you. He brushes a stray strand of hair away from your cheek, "I mean that."

You shift your weight to the balls of your heels, "You're pretty - Pretty amazing too, I mean."

He chuckles, his hand glides down from your shoulder, skating down your arm to the palm of your hand. He laces his fingers with your, gently dipping his head down.

"All the hostages are accounted for, guys," Sam announces. You both jolt away at the sound of Sam's voice flooding your ears again, "Now, we find Karli."

"Have I ever said how much I hate Sam?" Bucky frustratedly sighs. 

"No, but I'm starting to get why," you sarcastically remark. 

"You okay?"

You shakily nod, "Yeah, I'm alright, but you should probably go fill John in. The less I have to speak to him, the better."

As Bucky walks over to John, who unloads the hostages from the last truck, you stand off to the side, still desperately trying to catch your breath when something in your peripheral catches your eye.

Amidst the cloud of debris kicked up by the truck, you notice something in the entrance to the underground construction site. 

You look out into the smokescreen to see a cloaked figure standing there. You slowly approach, careful with each footstep to ensure you don't alert them to your presence. 

Unbeknownst to you, a piece of scaffolding lies on the ground before you. Your foot swipes it, sending it clattering further into the garage. 

The figure whirls around, clearly startled at the sight of you. You can't make out their face in the dim light and they don't miss a beat before taking off further into the underground tunnels.

You don't know why, but something possesses you to sprint after them, following them as the smoke screen beings to clear. They sharply turn down the labyrinth of corridors. Over and over again. Over and over again. Over and over again. 

By the time you realize it, you're so far into the underground tunnels you're sure that you're not going to find your way out without help. 

You've almost lost all hope, until you run right into a familiar face, "Sharon?"

"Thank God," Sharon sighs in relief, clutching her midsection in fear. "I've been trying to find you all night. I- I came because I thought you guys could use a hand, but I found Karli first and I didn't think I could take Karli alone so I stayed hidden." Sharon nudges her head in the opposite direction of the corridor you though you saw Karli run through. "She went through there. Batroc too."

"Batroc?" You vaguely recognize the name. "That French guy? Did all bad guys just decide to show up here tonight?"

She chuckles with a nod, "Guess so. I think they might be working together."

Your shoulders dejectedly slump, "Of course they are."

She juts her head down the hallway, pulling out her gun as the two of you begin scanning the abandoned corridor. You walk side by side. She watches your back, you watch hers. The hallway lights flicker above you as you approach the door.

She looks back to you as she takes the door handle. You silently nod, urging her inside. She turns the handle and slowly creaks it open. She slides in first, skating against the wall with you behind her.

Without a word, she points to the right side of the room, you point to the left. 

There's nothing in the room. Nothing at all. No sign of Karli. No sign of anyone having been here recently. 

By the time you've searched your side of the room, you're certain that Karli has once again slipped away. 

"Anything?" Sharon calls. 

"No, I don't see either of them," you shout back, making your way back to the center of the room. You remorsefully sigh as you stand in the center of the room. "No sign of Karli or Batroc."

She drops her gun, smiling at you. It's the first friendly smile you've seen her give you since before you both went on the run, "You know, me and you would make one hell of a team."

You return the smile, "Thanks, Sharon. I think so too."

You stare at the back wall of the room, scaffolding surrounding the area casting all sorts of eerie and creepy shadows all over the room. Your eyes drag over the room once, twice, three times. It just doesn't make sense. If she'd run through here, she'd still be here. There was only one way in this room. 

Only one way in, only one way out. 

Only one way in, only one way out. 

Only one way in, only one way out. 

Chills radiate down your spine and set your nerve endings on fire. It feels like ice cold water is now stuck in your veins. 

Suddenly, everything about tonight hits you all at once. All the chaos. All the panic. All the disconnect. The fact that you're standing alone in a room that no one could ever hope to find you in. Split up from your team. From the only people you know you can trust. 

Trust was a rare commodity, Nick Fury once told you. He also told you to go with your gut. And right now, an uneasy feeling swelled in your gut as you slowly turn to find Sharon Carter standing between you and the only exit route, gun in hand.

Pointed at you. 

"Sharon?"

Chapter Text

Trust was a rare commodity, Nick Fury once told you. He also told you to go with your gut. And right now, an uneasy feeling swelled in your gut as you slowly turn to find Sharon Carter standing between you and the only exit route, gun in hand.

Pointed at you. 

"Sharon?"

You suck in a shaky breath. The whole thing feels like a trap - and that means you're already in one.

She looks up at you, a distant, unsettling look in her eyes. She's angry, you're just not entirely sure that it's you she's angry at. "You know, me and you, we're a lot alike. Always getting left behind. Left to fend for ourselves. Screwed over, again and again."

You take a step back and away from her, "Sharon, I think I should head back now." You slowly reach up, pressing the small button on your comms device, "Sam? James? Where are you guys?"

"They can't hear you." Sharon triumphantly smirks, slightly dropping the gun. Dread swells in the pit of your stomach, not only because you have no way to contact the only two people you knew you could trust, but because it all seems so perfectly calculated. You've fallen face first into the perfect trap. You're in the lion's den. "Comms can be so temperamental sometimes, can't they?"

You gulp, trying to keep your voice as even as possible, giving her not an ounce of the reaction she hopes to pull from you, "I really think we should go back now."

She condescendingly shakes her head, tsking once, "This wasn't how it was supposed to go, was it?"

"What?"

"Any of it," she softly replies, answering you honestly. Her words are true. Much like you, this wasn't what she thought her life would be, where it would go. This wasn't what she wanted. But she couldn't have what she wanted, so she'd have this instead. "For either of us. We were supposed to be heroes. We were supposed to be heroes and yet they threw us away the second we weren't helpful to them anymore. That's hardly fair, is it?"

Her words strike a chord deep within you. The feelings you'd fought hard to fight were the same feelings Sharon embraced wholeheartedly. You'd fought hard to overcome the bitterness, the anger, and mostly importantly, the resentment that threatened to overtake you time and time again. And still, there's a small part of you that can't deny that she's right, "No, it's not fair."

She rolls her neck slowly, circling her shoulders back to stand even taller, "Steve Rogers breaks the rules and he gets a museum, a fucking musical. He gets a legacy. No one even knows who we are."

You parrot the responses that you'd told yourself time and time again, "We were apart of something bigger than ourselves. We saved the world."

Her head snaps back up, raging eyes glaring at you. Your words burn at something deep inside her.

A resentment she'd harbored specifically for you.

Here you were, Sam and Bucky in tow, ready to fight the good fight.

Once again, jumping at the chance to save the world, to put a troubled soul on the path to self-righteousness.

She could never claim the glory of saving the world, no, she'd been abandoned far before that. Not you. No, no one forgot you. No one left you behind.

So here you were, once again the hero. 

But you didn't want that. You didn't want to be a hero. You didn't want the glory. You didn't want any of it. 

"And where did that get you?" she spits out. "You know what it got me? I got seven years on the run. They used me and then left me to rot in exile."

Your eyebrows pull together, furrowing as Sharon's carefully cultivated cover story falls apart. Seven years wouldn't add up, not unless she didn't Blip like everyone assumed she did. You suppose that might be possible with the chaos of the Blip. She could've flown under the radar, allowing people to believe she was gone while she slowly gained power in Madripoor. "Seven years?"

She shrugs, "I guess it's not all bad. I made a new life for myself in Madripoor. No one holding freedom over my head. No more getting steamrolled. No more getting tossed aside."

And just like that it snaps into place. It's why the bounty on your head piqued the interest of every person in Madripoor. It's why she knew about Doctor Nagel. It was her. It was her the whole time. 

"You're the Power Broker," you whisper in shock. 

She wickedly smiles, sighing in relief,  "I think I underestimated you at first. I always wondered what Nick Fury saw in you, but I think I see it now. He really believed in you, you know?" She waits a beat, hoping to inflict as much emotional damage as she possibly can, "Right up until the moment that he left you too."

"He didn't- " you falter, trying to convince yourself that he didn't actually leave you behind. But Sharon's words are hitting home, so many of them hit you right in your most vulnerable spots. You find yourself understanding every single word she says. But it's like Sam told Karli, you can get behind the fight, just not the way she's fighting it. You shake your head, trying to force the seeds of doubt out before they take root, "Sharon, think about what you're doing here. We can fix this, if we stop the Flag Smashers, we can get your pardon and -"

"You just don't get it, do you?" She takes a long stride toward you, "Where did being a good guy ever get me? What did being good ever get any of us?"

You find that you don't have an answer to her question.

You don't know where being good got any of you. You'd watched friends die in the fight for good. You watched people you loved lose themselves trying to be good. You'd torn yourself up so many times in the name of good. SHIELD made you their property, their own personal weapon, all in the name of good. 

And even though you knew that it indeed got you nowhere, you still can't justify tearing up the world so you could finally have a piece of it.

"I understand where you're coming from. You know I do." Your words are steady and unwavering, they hold out a hand to her in solidarity. "Look, we worked for the good guys once, we can do it again. It might not be the same as SHIELD, but -"

"You really think SHIELD was the good guy?" she guffaws. 

"I know they weren't perfect- "

Sharon bitterly snorts, "That's an understatement."

"But they were the good guys."

"You're still so naive." Her eyes narrow at you, looking down at you. This close to you, you can see resentment and anger burning in her eyes, "SHIELD, HYDRA, they're all the same. They were never different."

"No. You're wrong. " You firmly shake your head. "No, no, that's not true."

"Come on," she scoffs. "Deep down, you have to know that. You know that they weren't the good guy that you wanted them to be. Why else were they so desperate to create the - what were you guys calling it? The Sunshine Serum." 

"Stop," you practically beg. 

"Nagel was working for them way before he was working for me."

You refuse to believe her, "No. Nagel said it was the CIA."

"And where do you think the CIA got that blood from?"

You stumble back in disbelief, shaking your head over and over. Your chest heaves as your breath becomes more ragged, "No, Nick would've told me. He would've - I trust Nick."

"Who do you think gave them the order? The one person Little Miss Sunshine trusted most."

"No. No! You're lying. You're just messing with my head." You don't want to believe that the person you trusted most, the one you devoted so much of your life to, would betray you like that. He would've told you. He knew how you felt about your abilities, he wouldn't have robbed you of that choice. 

"I'm only finishing the work that they started. I remember it all too well. The people working around the clock, vials and vials being replicated over and over again, that same blood being passed around like candy. Everyone knew what they were doing," She ambles closer to you, practically dancing around you, taking a sort of pleasure in the way she obliterates everything you once believed in, in the way she deconstructs everything you'd built your life on and then sets it ablaze before you, "Everyone except you."

"I don't believe you," you spit.

You only wish your words were as true as they sounded. 

"There's no such thing as good and bad, heroes and villains. It's all the same, it's all bullshit. And deep down, I think you know that. I think you know that it never mattered what you did, who you were, no one ever gave a shit about us."

Your head snaps up, your eyes darting from the floor back to Sharon, "So that's the plan? No one cared so now you're gonna make them care."

"No. I don't need them to care anymore. I don't need anyone anymore. I'm here offering you an out. Me and you? We could rule so much more than Madripoor."

"I'm not interested," you firmly reject. 

"I came to offer you something that no one else has ever given you: Freedom," she proposes. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You say as you're holding a gun to me," you speak through gritted teeth.

"If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead," she retorts. 

"So, if I said no, you'd let me walk?"

Sharon rolls her eyes, the patience in her tone thinning with each rebuttal and defense you put up, "You're not that naive."

"What you're doing is wrong, Sharon."

She sighs, shaking her head. "You and Steve with that unfailing moral compass, I'm not doing anything that SHIELD wasn't already doing, nothing that they aren't willing to do themselves. Work with me and you'd never have to worry about Ross. Not about the UN. You'd never have to sign the stupid Accords."

"A gold cage is still a cage."

Sharon stops speaking for a moment, in the dim light it's hard to tell, but you swear you can see her eyes soften for just a split second, "In another life, I think we could've been friends."

"Friends don't lie to your face. Friends don't try to trick you. And friends don't point a gun at you!"

"But then again, we were never really friends, were we?" Sharon rhetorically asks. 

"I never did anything to you, Sharon," you seethe, poising yourself for an attack. Your muscles tense, hands curl into fist, but mostly, you mentally prepare yourself to fufill your promise to Sam, you'd fight your way out of this. Even if it was you or her. "Drop the gun, Sharon, I won't ask again."

"Or what? What are you going to do?" she antagonizes.

You hear the taunt, the challenge in her words, daring you to follow through on the threat. It throws you off.

You knew Sharon Carter. She was smart, cunning, a truly impressive adversary. She also knew when she was outmatched. You may not be able to best her in hand to hand combat, but a gun was hardly a defense against your powers. She had to know that.

Alarm bells were, once again, blaring in your head. And if it feels like a trap, you're already in one. 

"Don't make me do this," you beg. 

She cocks the trigger, steadying her aim, "Funny, I was gonna say the same thing."

With one look and a flick of your hand, the gun whips out of her grip, clattering against the concrete floor. A stream of water flows up your fingertips, pooling in your hands. You figure water is your best chance of defending yourself without seriously injuring her. Your eyes narrow at her, challenging and ready for whatever comes next, "Did you honestly think that would work? I don't want to hurt you, Sharon. We can still-"

But there it is again - that wicked smirk. The one that erases any trace of the Sharon you once knew and replaces her with the notoriously cut throat Power Broker, "Made you look."

There isn't time to wonder about her cryptic statement. There isn't time to act.

There's nothing except the feeling of a sharp blade in your back. 

You sharply inhale, desperately gasping for the air that escapes your shocked lungs. 

For a long, surreal moment, it's like those out of body experiences. The kind that people have when it's the end of their line. The one at the end of their story, that wraps it up with a beautiful montage and the hard lessons learned. 

There is no montage. There is no hard lesson learned. 

You look down and you can't understand any of it. 

Not the sleight of hand. 

Not choked whimper that escapes your lips. 

You just feel the deep slice of the knife in your back. There is no pain. You feel no pain. You feel betrayal. You feel confusion. You feel lost. Your montage isn't beautiful, it's distorted, choppy, a broken, warped record, replaying the moment when everything went wrong.

A familiar voice whispers in your ear, "You could've been a Prometheus."

Chapter Text

Karli.

A shaky breath escapes from your lips as your eyes slowly fall to your bloodied hand. Your legs buckle, bringing you to your knees. You fall to the ground, clutching your midsection. "Karli?"

"Poor, poor, Sunshine," Sharon condescendingly coos. She sighs with mock remorse, "If only you'd listened, it really didn't have to be this way."

"You're working for Sharon?" you weakly ask, clutching your stomach, doing your best to ignore the chilling sensation of blood trickling out of your wound. "What about wanting to change the world?"

"She made a good point," Karli stands before you, bloodied knife in her hand. "Once a SHIELD lackey, always a SHIELD lackey. Even just a dozen of you, people wouldn't go hungry. We'd have no need for the GRC or any government really. One world, one people."

"A SHIELD lackey?" you question. 

"Save it," Sharon snarks, cutting you off before you can tell Karli the truth, "I told her everything she needed to know about you."

"What did you say to her?" you seethe, flexing your other hand.

Your hand trembles, unable to remain steady enough for combat, any flame you muster flickers in and out like a candle in the wind. You can't defend yourself. Not like this. 

The pain surges once more, you double forward, one hand still desperately clutching the wound, the other rests on the concrete floor, trying to hold yourself up. 

Sharon circles you, taunting you like she's the predatory and you're her prey. This is it. She's got you exactly where she wants. Finally, she would win.

Vindication swells in Sharon's ribcage, inhaling and exhaling it with every breathe. You didn't know it, but this was about so much more than what she could take from you. It was proving something to everyone, to herself even. That she won. That, in the end, she was the last one standing. It should've been her. It should've been her all along. And tonight would prove that. "I told her the truth. I told her that you'll always be loyal to SHIELD, to Nick Fury. That you wouldn't never see the world like we see it."

"Nick Fury saved my life." You know it's the wrong thing to say. You should disagree, especially if what Sharon told you about Nick was actually true. You shouldn't be loyal to a man who betrayed you, but you can't bring yourself to believe it. You can't believe that the closest thing you had to a father figure saw you like everyone else did. Because then what? What would happen if he saw you as nothing more than a weapon for war, a tool for victory? So you refuse to believe it. You choose to remain loyal, because what other choice is there? You choose to believe in his faithless love one last time. "I never would've seen the light of day without him."

Sharon scoffs, rolling her eyes like you're nothing but a thorn in her side, "See? I told you."

"And how - how exactly do you see the world?" you grimace, speaking more to the floor than to either Sharon or Karli. 

"I see a world where we don't need superheroes, where the people can help themselves. A world without SHIELD. A world where we don't need you."

You place one of your feet flat on the ground beneath you, using all your strength to try to stand. You get halfway up before you lose your shaky footing and crash back to the floor, "This isn't how you help people, Karli. You have to know that. What you're trying to do, it's dangerous."

"Is it? Or are you just too scared to stand up? Too weak?"

You manage to bring yourself to your knees, looking Karli in the eyes as you tell her the truth, "You risk putting power in the wrong hands, Karli. Trust me. I've done it before. Fought the good fight for people who didn't deserve it. I know - I know that you want to believe that you're doing good, but this isn't the way to help people."

A twinge of remorse needles at Karli's skin at seeing your deteriorating state, but she had to do this, and it was either you or her vision of the world she desperately wanted, "It's the only way to help them."

"And what's to keep Sharon from turning on you the second she gets what she wants?" you ask her. 

It's what happened to you, after all. You'd given power to people who took advantage of a person who didn't know any better. You'd given everything to SHIELD, and they'd bled you dry. They tore you apart and discarded you. You never stood a chance, not then. It was only in hindsight that you saw you were never meant to come out unscathed. 

You knew better now. You wouldn't allow Karli to feel the pain of the scars left just beneath the skin from when they pulled you apart. 

Karli takes a long stride before you, her even tone wavers, showing a hint of defensiveness, "Sharon needs me." 

"And when she doesn't?" you prompt.

Karli's eyes shift toward Sharon with a precarious glance. At best, it's a shaky alliance. At worst, it's Sharon deceiving Karli to exact her revenge. 

You take their tense moment as another chance to escape. You plant your foot again, using momentum to swing yourself upright. You stand on a shaky leg, adrenaline beginning to pool in your stomach. The pain ebbs and flows with each and every movement as adrenaline flows through your veins. 

You barely make it a single step before you're knocked back down by the sharp pain. You gasp, a pained yelp leaving your mouth as you crumble again. 

You’re not even sure what you’re trying to run to. You know they’d catch you even if you made it out of this forsaken room. You’re just trying to get to the door. To get to a weapon. To do anything except lie there and watch your freedom be stolen from you all over agin.

She's right, you know. You won't get very far like this. Blood seeps out of your back and stomach, weakness is slowly creeping up your arms. From pain or shock, you're not sure. You're in an underground labyrinth. No way to talk to Sam or Bucky. For all intents and purposes, you're in pretty bad shape. It doesn't look good for you. 

You shake your head, forcing yourself to focus, to not allow yourself to succumb to the worst case scenario. 

For a long while, you resented the person that you once were. Naive, gullible, a person who believed in everyone, who believed in good. Some days, you hated her, you blamed the person you were for the person you became. You blamed her for where you ended up. 

Right now, you needed that person. You needed the person that believed in everything, that everyone believed in, the one that was never afraid to fight. You need her. 

She would get up. 

She would fight her way back to her friends. 

You look to the side of you, a piece of loose scaffolding beside you. It's almost exactly like the pipe you used to fight with in Madripoor. You watch it for a beat too long, willing it to do anything. It gently rocks and rattles against the floor, inching its way closer to your outstretched hand. 

Hope dies as quickly as it bloomed when you feel another gun press into your shoulder. A voice behind you tuts, "Ah ah."

"Perfect timing," Sharon praises. "And I guess, now that we've got you here, why don't I walk you through how the rest of your night is going to go?" Sharon speaks as though this is the most entertaining night of her life. Like she's the ringleader about to host the most grand circus the world has ever seen. This is all one big game to her, you realize. She wants to draw this out, to make it hurt. Sharon freely gestures to Karli, "You, of course, know Karli."

"And maybe you'll remember Batroc," Sharon gestures to the man looming behind you. You turn your head over your shoulder, recognizing the man that escaped both Steve and Sam all that time ago. "I'm sure he'd love to meet a friend of Steve Rogers, best friend of Sam Wilson. You know how much he loved those two."

He winds his hand in your hair, gripping it tightly. You jaggedly hiss as you scramble to your feet as he raises you up off the ground by your hair. "Do you realize what your friends have cost me?"

"Go to hell," you defiantly spit.

"You first," he darkly chuckles, tossing you back on the ground. 

"Yeah, I do. And to think, we could've been a team."

“I will never help you.”

“I didn’t really think you would.”

"What do you think's going to happen, huh? That you'll just kidnap me and Sam and Bucky won't go looking for me?" you rhetorically ask. "That I won't spend the rest of my life trying to get away from you? I will never help you," you sneer. "I will never, ever stop fighting for my family."

"See, I thought you might need some incentive," Sharon crouches down before you, "Do you think even a super soldier could take a bullet between the eyes? What about Sam? Sarah? Poor AJ and Cass?" 

“They trusted you. We trusted you," you bark.

Something inside you breaks, snaps, back into place or further into a million little pieces, you're not sure. It fills you with a rage you never wanted to feel. It burns in the pit of your stomach, taints every bit of light and good you thought resided within you. You've spent your whole life trying to be more than the monster you were told you were. And with those words, you're not sure that you are any better.

“And don’t you worry, I’ll keep their trust. I’ll walk out of here, panicked. Maybe I’ll tell them I heard a gunshot, but I don’t know where Sunshine went. I’m so scared," Sharon fiegns terror, her voice trembling. "The three of us, we're gonna make such a great team! We'll search high and low, leave no stone left unturned. And still, no trace of you.” Sharon nonchalantly shrugs, “After a few months of tirelessly searching, some breadcrumbs will start appearing. A yellow shoe with drawings will pop up on the freeway. Maybe it’ll be those friendship bracelets. Now that, that would be heartbreaking.”

“You can’t do this,” you spit, planting your feet firmly on the ground again. 

“But I can. And I am. And you want to know the real kicker?”

She waits for you to reply, but you remain defiantly silent keep trying to stand up. 

“The real kicker is that I was just going to kill you. Put you out of your misery, if only because your incessant meddling was really starting to annoy the shit out of me," Sharon rants at you. "It would've made it so much easier - but then you got Nagel killed. And just like always, you ruined everything. And if I can't have the Sunshine Serum, I'll just have Sunshine."

You clammer your way back onto your knees, speaking through labored breaths, "You can't have me."

"Honestly, I'm a little disappointed, I expected more from you than boring cliches."

"I'll kill you."

The words slip out of your mouth without a second thought. You've never killed a person before. You've prided yourself on that. Blood has never stained your hands. In this moment, you don't care. You want Sharon Carter, you want the Power Broker, dead. It hits you like a ton of bricks. It hurts that you've sunk so far. The mighty have fallen. You've lived long enough to watch yourself become the person you never wanted to be.

And what makes you hate yourself even more, is that you really, truly mean that. 

"Wow..." Sharon chuckles, dragging out the word. "Big talk coming from Sunshine."

"If you touch any of them, if you hurt my family, I'll kill you without a second thought." The threat sounds weak when you can't bring yourself to fully stand. You prop yourself up against one of the wooden crates in the room, using it as a crutch you help pull yourself up. 

Before you can fully sit upright, you see Batroc looming over you in your peripheral. He looks to Sharon, then back to you. Batroc looks down at you for a long moment, watching you, examining you, no, it's a look that's far more sinister, he's appraising you.

He suddenly announces, "I want triple."

One of his hands still wound in your hair, his other arm presses itself against your windpipe.

He presses his forearm tighter against your throat, suffocating you. You claw at his arm for much needed breath.

He lifts his arm higher, dragging you to the very tips of your toes, shoes barely scraping against the concrete floor. Still, Sharon looks unbothered at the life slowly draining from you. 

He flexes his arm around your windpipe, "You let us walk or I kill her now and no one gets her."

Sharon takes a moment, her mouth twisting at the sudden blackmail. Without a word, she turns her gun away from you and to Batroc. An expert marksman, she hits him in his temple without missing a beat. No negotiation. No remorse. It's as cut throat as you've heard the Power Broker can be. You shriek when you feel his blood splatter against your face. His arm falls limp on your throat, dropping you in an instant. 

You fall to the ground, gasping for air as Batroc's lifeless body falls behind you. You cough, a metallic taste flooding your mouth. Your breathing comes faster and faster as your lungs burn and ache from the lack of oxygen. 

Sharon approaches your convulsing body crumpled on the ground. She watches as your fingers twitch toward the pipe again, poising for an attack. She tucks her gun under her chin, forcing your eyes to meet hers. "Ah, I wouldn't do that if I were you. Do you really want to bet that your powers are faster than a bullet this close to your throat?"

"You didn't let him kill me," you point out through your coughing fit. 

"Don't sound so pleased," Sharon rolls her eyes. "After everything I did to make sure tonight went just right, I'm not going to let anything get in my way. It all came together so beautifully, I'm not going to let Batroc of all people ruin this for me."

"You still won't get away with this."

"Sure, I will! And let me tell you, it was easy. It was so fucking easy!" she brightly exclaims. "General Ross did all the heavy lifting for me after he had you erased."

"What?" you whisper, frozen where you sit. You're not sure if you heard her right, but the revelation still hits you like a ton of bricks. For years, you'd lived with the fact that you'd hurt Tony so terribly he'd erased any trace of you and your mark on this world, that he erased any identity trace of an identity you'd built. You lived with the fact that he never forgave, nor would he ever forgive you. For years, you'd lived with the thought that you'd betrayed him so terribly that he erased you, he'd washed his hands of you. "It - it wasn't Tony?"

"Tony?" Sharon bitterly chuckles. "Tony was off living his life with his family, ignoring everyone else, leaving the rest of us for dead."

"It wasn't Tony," you whisper to yourself. You chuckle through your shaky breaths, tears welling in your eyes, "He didn't hate me."

"How nice," Sharon sarcastically remarks. "Your friend didn't hate you."

You look up at her, still caught up in the relief of a weight you'd carried for years now, "He didn't hate me."

"No, Tony Stark did not hate you," Sharon offers, mildly annoyed that your relief is overshadowing the pain she was trying to inflict on you. "But I did have a question for you."

You wordlessly grunt in response. 

“How does it feel? To go from SHIELD’s plaything to the Avengers plaything, I mean even if I didn’t take you, the UN owns you, Ross will be on your ass before you make it outside. You’ll always just be an asset, you're just a weapon. That’s gotta sting, doesn’t it?”

It does sting. It's always stung that you've spent years getting tossed around. Never meaning anything more to them than what you could do for them. It's an ache you don't think will ever truly go away. You school your expression, not wanting to give Sharon the reaction she's fishing for. 

Karli's head snaps up in that moment, a confused expression forming on her face. "What did you just say?"

"Stop talking, Karli," Sharon warns, her finger dancing over the trigger. "We're about to get everything we ever wanted, so shut up."

“Wait, SHIELD owned her? But you said she was a SHIELD lackey, you said she would always be loyal to SHIELD,” Karli frantically repeats, her eyes darting between you and Sharon, “What does that even mean?”

“What difference does it make?" Sharon seethes. "I’m helping your cause, not her.”

“You said she was a supremacist. That she wanted to get rid of us,” Karli accuses, pressing the subject with an urgency you hadn't seen from her since she watched a friend die before her eyes in Latvia. Karli looks at you, desperation flooding her eyes, "You - you said you were loyal to SHIELD."

You shake your head, "I was loyal to Nick Fury, I never said I was loyal to SHIELD."

Sharon petulantly sighs, shaking her head at Karli, “You couldn’t have just kept your mouth shut?” 

"You lied to me," Karli hisses through her teeth.

"And you stole from me. After everything I did for you when you got to Madripoor," Sharon reminds her. Sharon turns to you, disappointedly shaking her head, "She reminded me of a younger me. I took her in. I gave her an opportunity. And she betrayed me without a second thought." 

"You said if I helped you get her then we were even," Karli forcefully states. "You said we could change the world. Together."

For the first time since she's cornered you, Sharon takes her gun off of you. She pivots, swinging the barrel to face Karli. "What? Did you honestly think you were going to walk away from this? After you stole from me?"

"Sharon," you demand, halfway up on your feet. 

"Honestly, I was hoping you'd get caught, end up on the Raft, but if you want something done, you have to do it yourself," Sharon rants. 

Karli sharply inhales, staring down the barrel of Sharon's gun, “But you said-”

“Yeah,” Sharon unapologetically winces. “I lied.”

“Sharon, don’t!” you shout, unable to get to your feet before she pulls the trigger.

You don't think. You just do. You don't make it to your feet. And you're not quite sure the how or the why, if it was all divine intervention, or just the last ounce of power you stored somewhere within you.

All you know is Sharon trembles with rage as Karli stands before her completely unharmed. 

Karli’s eyes open after a moment and still no impact. Her eyes blow wide, the bullet curved downward, now embedded into the concrete before her. She looks at you bewildered. “You saved me?”

Your breathing comes harder and harder as you finally manage to prop yourself up against the wooden crate beside you. Your heart races like it's going a mile a minute. Sweat beads across your forehead, pain and adrenaline overwhelming you.

“Why?” Karli demands, her fists clenched and almost shaking, with unbridled rage that you can’t quite comprehend.

She’s angry. Angry you had the audacity to defy the archetype she’d built of you in her mind. Angry that you saved her, and by doing so shattered every ounce of contempt she had for you. Every justification she had, gone. She stabbed you in the back and you saved her.

“You’re just a kid,” you pant, darkness starting to envelope the sides of your vision. “We were both just kids.”

"As touching as that is, I'm about done here."

Sharon raises the gun again, but this time you sloppily throw your body weight against her, with just enough force to knock the gun out of her hand. The gun clatters against the concrete. Sharon grapples with your weakening body for a moment before she shoves you back onto the ground. You fall in a heap, pained groans leaving your mouth as pain sears through you. Your hand reaches out, only to clatter against the cool gun metal. 

Once again, you don't think, you just do. You reach for it without a second thought. You sit on your knees, gun in hand and pointed at Sharon. Even as darkness starts to envelope the side of your vision, your anger wins out, "I warned you, Sharon."

Sharon chuckles, not believing for one second that you'd actually go through with shooting her. "Do it, then. Kill me."

The gun is heavy in your hand. It weights down more than just your shaky hand, it bogs your spirit down. You feel yourself unraveling, something coming undone deep within you. You wonder the look in your eye was the same broken look you'd seen on Sharon's face at the start of the night. She'd lost her way. She'd gone down a path from which there was no coming back from. If you pulled the trigger, was that going down the same path? Would you permanently lock away your old self with one bullet? 

You think about that little girl in the picture you'd saved from before. It was you. You just couldn't recognize yourself. You'd spent years trapped, begging to be let out. That little girl pleaded every night, tears streaming down her face, screaming until her voice was completely hoarse. 

Like Bucky said, there was nothing that girl did to deserve being locked away, caged like an animal. You can't stand the thought of that little girl trapped at the back of your mind, begging for you to let her out. She deserved so much more than that. You can't be the person that seals away that little girl again. 

You just can't do it.

You can't bring yourself to pull the trigger. Your hand trembles in a way that has nothing to do with the blood loss, and everything to do with the fact that you can't bring yourself to do it. You can't kill her.

You knew how to use a gun, Natasha once showed you.

You knew that your family was in danger because of her.

You knew that this would be the end of it all.

And still, you can't do it. 

You toss the gun to the side, out of her reach. This wasn't you.

She was right, you couldn't beat her. Not like this.

She laughs again, taunting your inability to beat her at her game, "I knew you couldn't do it. You're pathetic."

"No," you wheeze, shaking your head, "You just can't have me."

Her eyebrows furrow as she stalks toward you. Before she can, you focus every ounce of energy, every cell in your body, every glimmer of power you could muster. Every fiber of your being screams at you, telling you to stop.

The dark spots in your vision grow, deepening with each moment you use your powers to stop the airflow to Sharon's lungs, you quite literally are sucking the life out of her.

A quiet, choking sound comes from Sharon's mouth. Oxygen seeps from her lungs, slowly dragging her to the edge of consciousness. She reaches for her throat, grasping for the air that simply won't come. 

Sharon sinks to the ground, her face turning an unnatural shade of red. It shouldn't be this easy for you, it shouldn't be this easy to hurt someone you used to call a friend, and though it makes you hate yourself, it is. It's that easy. 

You watch as the life bleeds from Sharon's face, until she slumps down onto the ground. 

Karli sharply gasps, taking a hesitant step towards Sharon's unconscious body. Her eyes flicker to you, "Is she...?"

"No," you definitively shake your head, slumping down onto the wooden crate. You can feel the last of the adrenaline and anger fueling you dying your veins. You've done it. You've truly given everything you had. Blood, sweat, and tears. All while holding onto the last part of the old you that you still had. "She's just unconscious." 

And just like that, it's done. It's over. You've won. That was it, it was finally all over.

You could rest now. 

Your breaths come slower and slower, and you're positive your heart has never raced like this. 

Clarity was in death, and you'd never been this close before. A stillness washes over you, a calmness you'd never known. You now understand why Tony was so still, so at peace in his last moments. There's a serenity in the moment as it all stops. The tension in the room fades. And the quiet lulls you to a dream-like state. It washes over you like a lullaby.

You could finally know peace.

Karli's eyes tear away from Sharon, only to find you on the brink of unconsciousness too. 

You hear panicked breaths as Karli rushes over to you. Your head lolls up to look at Karli, her eyes frantic when a pained yelp slips from your mouth as she places pressure on the wound. With all the force you can muster, you take Karli's hand removing them from the wound, you warmly smile up at her, "Karli, you have to go now."

Her eyes snap up to your sickly gray face. She swears that she can see the life slowly seep out of you. "What?"

"Go," your voice barely a soothing whisper, you gently pat her bloodied, "They'll find me."

"You'll die before they do," she spits back, blood stains her hands and face as she immediately continues applying pressure to the wound. 

You don't truly believe it, they won't find you, not in this underground labyrinth that you'd found yourself lost in. They won't find you, not until you've bled out.

But you knew if by some miracle that they did find you down here, Karli being here would cement her fate. They'd blame her. She'd never know freedom ever again.

And in spite of everything Karli had done, this could be her chance. This could be her way out.

And if it came down to you and the child sitting beside you, it was an easy choice to make. Sam would understand. Bucky would understand. You're sure of it. They had to understand. They just had to.

"I'm tougher than I look."

She glares at your attempt at a joke, pressing down even harder. Blood doesn't stop seeping out of the wound. She knows you're about to run out of time. She can't just leave you here, no one would find you in time. If she doesn't leave, she can't go get help. She almost forgets to factor in the fact that she's one of the most wanted people in the world right now.

"Just shut up and let me think," she demands.

"Go, Karli. Please, while you still can."

"I can't leave you," she whispers, tears streaking down her face.

Each tear clears a path of the blood on her cheeks. Karli had seen death before. She'd watched her friends die. Watched her family slowly wither with each passing day. This was different. This wasn’t just by her own hand. Not just out of cold blood.

Perhaps it was wrong for you to smile at the person who'd quite literally drawn first blood, but you did. You knew you'd done it. This was her making a choice, refusing to be the villain. 

You look up at her and see the little girl she never got to be. You see a child blinded by the treasures of war that no one ever seemed to win, lost in the illusion of the morning glory that never came. She'd seen past the mirage and freed herself from the trance.

It was confirmation of the good you knew was somewhere inside Karli. And though you may never know true freedom, you were content that she would.

You'd shown her that there was no morning glory, no justice to be had in war. If that was your legacy, then so be it.  

"I didn't know," she whispers, choked sobs slowly overtaking her, wracking through her body. "I swear I didn't know."

"I know, it's okay," you gently shush her. "It's okay." 

"You can't die. Please," she pleads with you.

"I won't," you promise as though it was entirely your choice.

After all, that's what it all boiled down to, wasn't it? A simple choice. The choice to allow yourself to succumb to that darkness that called out to you like a siren. The choice to slip away and embrace the inevitable.

You didn't get a lot of choices in your life, but this one, this one was entirely your own. Just one choice.

Life or death.

And, like most of the people you knew and fought alongside, you'd thought about your death, your legacy. You were all acutely aware that you'd have to go at some point. And you knew that this would be a good way to go. It was everything a person like you could ask for and more.

A hero’s death.

This could be your legacy.

It was everything and more.

And yet, still not enough.

Not when the feeling of Bucky’s touch still lingered on your skin. Not when the way your name fell from his lips was still echoing in your mind.

Not when Karli kneeled over you, begging you not to add to her list. You swore that the only blood that would stain your hands was your own, but now they were staining hers too.

And not when you promised Sam.

Your surroundings slowly fade away as you sink further and further away into the darkness. You can't quite put your finger on what's happening until you see a blurry figure approaching in your peripheral.

The darkness calls out to you like a siren trying to drown you in a stormy sea. You try to fight it off, but it's so enticing. It's just so enticing. You're so tired. You can't fight the current, it doesn't matter how much you want to. You keep sinking. Further and further away. It lulls you further down. It envelopes you in the warmth that feels so good against your cold hands.

You lose the light at the surface, until there's almost nothing left. 

Until you hear a voice bellow, "Karli!"

Chapter Text

But there was no erasing the feeling of holding your best friend's lifeless frame in his arms from his memory.

He's seen this film before. He knows how it ends. 

It was a film reel that would never fade. One that had a permanent residence in his mind for moments just like this. Moments that he knows all too well. After all, who would know better than the person that had a front row seat to it all? 

The memories rush forward, pummeling Sam over and over again:

"Rumlow's headed for the Council," Maria Hill shouts into her comms device. "41st floor, Sam."

"I'm on it," Sam grunts, sprinting up the staircase of SHIELD headquarters. He flies through the doorway, throwing a fist right into Brock Rumlow's jaw without a second thought. "Where is she?" 

Sam goes for another quick jab, only for it to be deflected. With a strong lunge that knocks Sam off his feet, Rumlow chuckles, "Doesn't matter anymore. You're too late."

"What did you do to her?" Sam seethes, his anger and worry only compounding with every single minute of radio silence since you'd walked into SHEILD headquarters and never walked out.

"She just wouldn't shut up," Rumlow taunts, rolling his eyes. "She told us that she'd never stop fighting us, that her friends were coming, something about justice, I wasn't really listening, she just wouldn't stop talking... so we threw her brain in the blender. She doesn't even know who you are anymore."

A pained gasp leaves Sam's mouth. It feels like his lungs were being squeezed of all oxygen, "You're lying."

"You never should've let her walk into the meeting with Pierce, she walked right into his trap, you know?"

"Shut the hell up," Sam bellows, tackling the man into the glass control panel behind him. He pins Rumlow, "Tell me where she is."

"I was there, you know?"

"Tell me where she is!" Sam demands. 

"HYDRA doesn't take prisoners, Wilson. We only accept order. And order only comes with pain." Rumlow slips out of Sam's grasp, landing several punches into Sam's sides. Rumlow menacingly snickers, wiping the blood pooling from the corner of his mouth as the two of them stand up. "You should feel so honored. She respected the hell out of you, swore up until the very end that you were coming for her."

"She got all weepy." Rumlow punctuates every antagonizing sentence with a sharp punch. "She screamed for you. Cried when we strapped her down. But you never came."

Sam would later come to learn that it wasn't true, just a lie to get into his head.

He was fairly sure that was exactly what they were going to do to you given the chance, but thankfully, Maria Hill had smuggled you out of SHIELD headquarters just in the nick of time. 

His muscles burn with exhaustion, still running to get you out of this forsaken place. He can't help but remembering. There's nothing to do but remember. Remember each and every time you'd almost lost your life, every time he'd almost lost his long lost sister. 

It was probably the closest you'd ever come to the point of no return. And still, the most brutal blow came from a person you both called a friend.

Sam had a front row seat to the whole altercation, even mid-battle, he'd seen it, every moment, every detail. And to this day, he couldn't erase the feeling of holding your lifeless body in his arms, your blood, still warm, staining his hands. Deja vu washes over him, reliving the painful moment all over again.

It was exactly like this. 

He flew over the collapsing flight tower at the airport in Berlin, Rhodey trying to shoot the Quinjet down, Sam chasing him down to stop him. He looked back for a split second to find you standing in front of Tony Stark, begging Tony to reconsider, begging him to let Steve and Bucky go. 

He couldn't make out the words Tony was saying to you, he could only hear your words through your comms device, "You know what they'll do to me."

"I'm sorry."

The moment those words left your mouth, Sam's head snapped over his shoulder just in time to see the person you both called a friend raise his canon and take the shot.

He still remembers what was running through his head as Tony took aim at you: there was no way you were going to actually let him shoot you, you wouldn't do that, you were going to jump out of the way, you were going to realize that your life meant more than winning this stupid battle for this stupid civil war.

"What are you doing?" Sam frantically speaks into the comms device, trying to reach you before it's too late, "This is not the plan. I repeat, this is not the plan."

But it was clear to Sam that you were both too far gone to hear anything anyone else was saying. Tony too angry. And you too willing to give yourself up as the sacrificial lamb.

It happened so fast, yet the moment seemed to last a lifetime. 

The blow sending you hurling back, your body skid against the pavement, only for your head to smack against the ground with a sickening crack. It seemed like the moment stopped everyone, he could almost hear the collective gasps from his team mates. It seemed like everyone watched in abject horror. No one could believe it. No one could believe that this is what had become of your team, your found family.

He remembered trying to convince himself that you were just going to pop back up, that you would stand up and bellow an assurance to your team that you were okay.

None of those things happened.

Before he knew it, he was diving to dodge a blast from Vision, one that send Rhodey hurling to the ground. 

It was all a blur, scrambling across the airfield to make it to you. And what he found would forever imprinted in his memory. He found you all alone, sprawled out on the pavement, unmoving.

"Oh God," he quietly gasped, awkwardly landing on the ground. He barely landed on his feet, too focused on making sure you were okay.

"Hey, hey, you have to get up now," he frantically nudged you. scooping you up in his arms. Completely unresponsive, your head slumps back. He tapped at your cheeks, shook you as hard as he could, still no response. He raised his two fingers to check your pulse, and relief only incrementally came when he felt your pulse still beating underneath his fingertips. "Please, you have to get up. Come on, please, get up." 

He removed his head from the back of your head, only to find his hand now covered in your blood. 

"Help, we need help over here!" he screamed, pleading with whoever would listen. "Please, please, please, we need help!"

“Sam?” you call, stumbling through the Wakandan forest. "Steve? Where are you, guys?"

“Over here,” he frantically shouts back. He looks to Steve, who also searches the forest for any signs of Thano's destruction, "What just happened?" 

“Hey, Sam,” you shakily exhale, finally in Sam’s line of sight. You stop a few feet away from him, a strange, distant look on your face as you stumble. He catches you before you hit the ground. “Sam, I don’t- I don’t feel so good.”

His breath catches in his throat when he sees your hand start to dust, little particles floating away in the air. “No!”

“Awww,” you whine, looking down at your hand slowly disappearing. “Why is it always me?”

And then you were gone. Right before Sam’s eyes. 

Even though he blipped just moments after you, he would never forget the heart-stopping helplessness he felt in that very moment. 

And here it was once again. Down to the depths of his soul, he's not sure how much more either of you could take. He couldn't keep watching you be torn apart. There was no world in which he would be okay with that, no war worth winning, no victory worth claiming.

For a split second, he wonders if it might be better like this, maybe this was the only way the universe would allow you to rest. He regrets it immediately.

This wasn't for the best. Not at all. 

Whether you believed it or not, the world needed you. Not as a weapon or a hero, but as the beacon of light you were. In a world without hope, with darkness constantly looming just over the horizon, you were needed. He needed you. His family needed you. Bucky needed you. 

He soars through the air, cutting through the chaos and straight to the sounds of ambulance sirens. 

"She needs help," Sam immediately tells a paramedic the moment his feet touch the ground. 

"Sir, we've got a full-" A small gasp slips from the paramedics mouth when they see the pale pallor and pool of blood staining your favorite shirt, your lucky shirt. That was never a good sign.

They immediately nod, sprinting to grab a gurney. Relief only comes in a small dose for Sam, but at least he was close to getting you the help you needed. 

"Thank you." Sam decisively nods at the EMT running back with a team of paramedics and a stretcher in tow. He gently places you on the gurney, the sirens blaring above him, "You're gonna be okay." 

You reach for his hand as he sets you down. Sam has to bite back the sob that builds in the back of his throat at the feeling of your once warm hand turned ice cold. You softly call out for him, "Sam?"

"I'm here," he promises, squeezing your hand. 

"Karli..." Your singular word sounds more like a question rather than a statement. Even as you lie against the gurney, relishing in the warmth of the paper thin sheets, your wild eyes bounce back and forth as you search for her in the frenzy. "Karli."

"They've got her," Sam assures you. "Don't worry, they got her."

"No," you weakly object, his assurances alarming you more than soothing your worries. You clumsily try lifting the oxygen mask off of your face. You frantically shake your head as you fail to sit up. You feel utterly helpless as your vision whirls around, splotches of darkness and bout of dizziness swell as you feel consciousness slipping away from you. You can barely lift your head, fervently shaking it.

A pained groan leaves your mouth as you try to will yourself to focus on the kid that you know desperately needs your help right now. She was just a kid. You couldn't let them have her, too. 

"You need to lie back," one of the EMTs sharply instructs. "Just relax, you've lost a lot of blood."

You keep shaking your head as Sam stands over you, keeping a firm hand on your arm to keep you down, "No, Sam, we've - we have to help her- can't let them have her."

It hits him in that moment. You don't have to say anything more. It all clicks into place. You don't want what happened to you, to happen to Karli. You don't want them to have her. 

It practically tears him in two. He knows you're right. If they get their hands on Karli, she would never know freedom again. They would turn her into a weapon, a tool at their disposal, or they'd lock her away for the rest of her life. 

But you needed him, too.

He looks down and sees his best friend dying before his very eyes. You're slipping away and he's so acutely aware of that. You needed help, help that couldn't be given if you were out tracking down Karli. And he's not quite sure that you or him would ever be able to forgive yourselves if you didn't save Karli from that cruel fate.

He looks down at you, pleading, "We have to get you to a hospital."

Your hand twitches, he guesses that was your attempt to squeeze his hand back. You're fading a lot quicker than you're letting on, and still, you're fighting.

You'd always fight.

It's your fatal flaw and greatest strength.

You'd always get back up. You'd always fight, until your very last breath.

"She's just a kid. Please."

"Ma'am, we need you to relax and stop moving," the EMT orders.

"Sam," you beg. "Please."

In Sam's peripheral, he sees Bucky darting through the crowded, chaotic street looking for you. "Sam!" Bucky shouts the moment he sees Sam. "Sam, did you-"

A shocked breath leaves Bucky's mouth, "Oh God."

Sam's eyes dart between you and Bucky for a moment. There isn't a lot of time, for you or for Karli. His eyes flicker away from you and onto Bucky. He silently begs Bucky, pleading with him to take care of you, "Stay with her?"

Bucky firmly nods, swallowing the lump in his throat, "Always."

Sam's eyes flicker back to you, squeezing your hand one last time, "Stay alive."

Chapter Text

Bucky POV

For a long moment, there’s nothing. A numbness. An empty ache radiating from where his heart once resided. For that moment, Bucky is sure that if he were to look down onto the pavement, his still beating heart would be on the ground at his feet. 

The next moment, he thinks he’s going to throw up on the street. All over his torn out, battered heart. 

He can almost feel his mind snap in half as it races to process the fact that you’re being loaded onto the ambulance. You’re being loaded onto an ambulance. You’re actually being loaded onto an ambulance.

There’s no time for him to reconcile that your life is hanging in the balance, he just needs to be by your side again. 

He climbs into the back of the ambulance and immediately takes his place by your side. Without a second thought, he takes your hand, lacing his fingers with yours.

He squeezes your hand.

You don’t squeeze back. 

Once he takes your hand, he doesn't let it go. Not once. He meant what he said to Sam. He had no intention of leaving you again, not in the way he did. Not now. Not ever again. 

“I- I’m sorry,” you whisper through the oxygen mask, just barely loud enough for Bucky’s ears to pick up. 

He can’t help but notice - it sounds an awful lot like a goodbye. 

A single tear slips down Bucky’s cheek without warning. He immediately shakes his head, speaking through gritted teeth, “Don’t talk like that.”

He doesn’t wipe away the tear. He lets it trail down his cheek, down his jaw, until it dries at his neck.

He crouches down beside you, kneeling before you as though you were his altar. Even through all the exhaustion, both mental and physical, of the night, there's nothing more important than this. There's nothing more important than you.

”I just need you to keep your eyes open for me, alright? Keep them open.”

You nod your head ever so slightly, but even as you do, your eyelids keep sinking. Each time, he worries that it will be the last time he ever gets to see your eyes. He curses himself for not studying them every chance he got. 

The ambulance is a flurry of movement from the paramedic. He can see the panic painting their faces.

They try not to look at him as though they’re allowing him the privacy and intimacy that should come with saying a final goodbye. 

He wants to yell at them. He wants to scream at them that this isn’t a time to say goodbye or to have that stupid look of pity on their faces. This isn’t a time for helplessness. This is a time for action.

The logical part of him knows as the paramedic scurries around the back of the ambulance that they’re doing their best. The part of him that feels like he’s losing you wants to demand that they do more, that they pull a miracle from one of their medical bags and just save your life. That’s all he needs, for you to be okay again. 

He so badly wants to scream at them, but that’s not what you need right now.

And so, he ignores it.

He ignores everything that isn’t you. In this moment, there is only you. He likes that idea. Just you and him - though he could do without the possibly fatal wound. 

He squeezes your hand again, this time, your eyes just flutter slightly, barely opening anymore. 

“That’s all you need to do, just keep your eyes open, because I swear I will never forgive you if you leave me. You can’t leave me.” His voice breaks, cracking at the thought of you leaving him all alone in this world. That’s how it would go. He knows that. This would break him. This would break Sam. There would be nothing left of either of them. He’d be all alone, left in a world where there was no you. “You - you just can’t.”

There’s a bravery in that, he figures. In letting you know how scared he actually is. In allowing his voice to break as he pleads for your life. It’s his life too. 

There’s a cowardice in it too. He can’t bring himself to say these words to you when you look up at him with your bright eyes and kind smile. 

He was a coward then. He was a coward each and every time he refused to answer your messages, return your phone calls, listen to the sound of your voice in his voicemail. He wasn't strong enough to keep you in his proximity and then push you away all over again. It was bad enough that he felt your absence everywhere, from the depths of his bones to the way all of New York City screamed your name. He wasn't strong enough to walk away from you and for a while, that meant staying away from you. 

Now, he swore his heart would give out with how fast it raced. He felt sick to his stomach. He listened to the sounds of the heart monitor beeping uncontrollably, to the paramedics shouting back and forth, but he focused on the sounds of your soft breaths, the feeling of your hand in his, right where it belonged. 

It was strange to him, how bravery only came in moments of crippling fear. He couldn't bring himself to admit his own feelings when you were awake, when you demanded to know why he'd left, when you reminded him that he had no right to be angry with you when he cut you out of his life.

He couldn't tell you that it scared him.

He couldn't get the words out to say that good things didn't happen to him, that people always left, and he wasn't sure that he could take you leaving if he allowed himself to love you. 

The words echo and amplify in the recesses of his mind. Love. Love. Love. 

They say that if it's right, you know. And he does know. It would be so easy, so right. It would be his peace in this life and in every life after - and probably those before too.

Decades of experience told him that wasn't in the cards for him. He'd screw it up with how messed up his brain was.

You deserved someone who could promise forever and mean it. And that simply wasn't him. 

But here he sat, in the back of an ambulance, tears catching on his eyelashes. And maybe that was more him than he thought. Maybe he could give you that. So long as you stayed here, on this Earth with him. Just as long as you stayed. 

He wanted to shout from the rooftops, to curl up in a ball, to dissipate into a puddle of tears, to hold your hand until everything was okay once more.

More than anything, he wants to stay, he doesn't want to leave anymore. His blue heart couldn't take it. 

It's jarring, being here, in this moment like this. He'd held you before. He knew your touch. He recognized it like he'd held it in every life before this one. Warm. Soft. Steady. This time, your hand is none of those things.

Worst of all, this time, you weren't holding his hand back. 

Nothing had ever felt so wrong.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

"Bucky!" Sam bellows down the hall, running as fast as he can down the hall. He skids around the corner of the hospital corridor, desperate for any update on you.

He halts the second he sees Bucky.

Sam's blood immediately runs cold. He isn't quite sure what it is about the scene that does it, but he assumes the worst. It hits him like a truck. The familiar ache of dread. The silence right before the storm breaks over the horizon, before it consumes every ounce of sunshine in its path, before it consumes him. 

No words appear before him in the aftermath. There's nothing to say. Nothing to do. 

He watches from all the way down the hall. The nurse bows her head at Bucky, murmuring something that Sam can't quite make out from his distance. He can't bring himself to take another step forward. 

It's over. 

And he's not ready for that. He's not ready to turn to the last page. He knows what awaits them there. He's certain Bucky will understand and agree. They're not ready for a story that doesn't have you in it. 

He'll stand in the hallway forever if it means that it's not over. He'll stay here forever if it means he doesn't have to say goodbye. 

Bucky hangs his head, holding it in his hands. It's as close to the fetal position as a grown man in a hospital waiting room can get. Sam is positive that he's never seen Bucky doubled over like he's going to be sick. 

The worst hangs over his head. This is it. The worst. There would never be another goodbye as hard as this one. 

His lips refuse to form the words. Goodbye. It was so simple. A fleeting word with an everlasting impact. Goodbye. It tastes bitter in his mouth. It poisons all his thoughts. His mouth falls open. All that can be heard is a breath that sounds as hollow as Sam feels. Goodbye. 

How do you say goodbye to something, to someone, that was bigger than the whole sky? How do you say goodbye to someone that would forever reside in your heart?

He can't help it. He can't bring himself to have hope.

After the events of tonight, with the memory of finding you lying in a pool of your own blood fresh in his mind, hope is sparse. Hope was left in the pool of blood he found you in. Hope was left in the tears, the ragged sobs Karli shed for you. Hope, was something he simply didn't have in this moment. 

He can't bring himself to say words he doesn't believe. 

His leadened feet start leading him to the where Bucky remains hunched over, hugging himself like his arms are the only thing holding him together.

Sam's body tenses itself on instinct, bracing himself for the most painful loss he'll ever face. 

A few feet away from Bucky, Sam's hoarse voice weakly calls out, "Bucky?"

"Sam..." Bucky's head snaps up, immediately sitting up straight. He immediately sighs in relief, "Thank God, you're here."

"Is she-"

Bucky's frantic voice steamrolls over Sam's dreaded question, "They won't tell me anything, Sam. I've asked everybody in this entire fucking building and no one will tell me anything. I've yelled, begged, pleaded, threatened, and nothing. I almost put a fucking hole in the wall. I tried lying and telling them - you know, it doesn't matter what I said, they just keep tellin' me immediate family only."

"Okay. Okay," The knot in Sam's throat loosens ever so slightly. He places his hand on Bucky's shoulder, mostly to keep Bucky from angrily bounding out of his seat. "We'll figure it out."

"That's her doctor, right there," Bucky points out the doctor he watched dart in and out of the hospital waiting room all night.  

"Excuse me," Sam frantically calls after the doctor.

The doctor stops in his tracks, sighing something under his break. He turns around with an expression that borders on irritation. Sam can only imagine the amount of times Bucky demanded an update. The doctor tucks his clipboard against his chest. He turns on his heels, and Sam's not sure what it is, but the doctor's expression morphs from irritation to almost apologetic at the sight of the distress on Sam's face, "As I've told your friend, sir, I can only disclose information to immediately family."

"Me," Sam insists. "I'm her immediate family, she's my sister... And I'm also her legal guardian."

The doctor quirks an eyebrow at Sam, "She's in her late twenties."

Sam frowns, crossing his arms over his chest expectantly, "Are you going to tell me how she is or not?"

The doctor's eyes flicker between Sam and Bucky for a moment. He sighs in concession, "The last update I received was about an hour ago, it was touch and go. She lost an extraordinary amount of blood. To be quite frank, I'm shocked she held on as long as she did. Take solace in the fact that your sister is a fighter."

Sam nods, the frown melting off his face back to a concerned, pained expression, "Thank you."

"As soon as I know anything, I'll come find you," the doctor assures before scurrying away. 

Sam trails back to the seat beside Bucky. He slumps down beside Bucky, knowing there was nothing to do but wait.

And wait.

And wait. 

And wait. 

"I didn't think I'd be here again," Sam confesses after a long while. 

They're not sure how much time has passed in silence, all they know is that hope is getting harder to hold onto with the clocking ticking over their heads. Every doctor that passes them is another that reminds them of the doctors working to save your life. They wait with bated breath for anyone to tell them anything. 

"Neither did I."

"She didn't want this life." Sam isn't even sure why he's telling Bucky this. He doesn't know what point he's trying to make. He just knows that right now, there was an immense weight on him that he couldn't carry alone. "Everyone knew it. I knew it. Steve knew it. Tony knew it. Nick Fury knew it. We all knew it. And not one of us ever put a stop to it. And now, now, she just - she doesn't know a life without the next fight around the corner."

"If anyone's been there for her, it's you. Every step of the way. Good, bad, and ugly."

"I was- " Sam's breath wavers, just barely noticeable to even Bucky's super soldier hearing, "I was so concerned with fixing everything, fixing her, that I didn't even stop to ask if she was okay."

Bucky remains silent, pensively staring at his clenched hands. 

"Aren't you going to say something?" Sam urges.

"I don't want to say the wrong thing," Bucky softly mutters. 

"I don't think there's a right or wrong thing to say."

"I feel like a dick," Bucky exhales.

Sam chortles at the brashness of Bucky's words. It was, without a doubt, the wrong thing to say, but there was something oddly comforting about it anyway. "That's definitely not the right thing to say."

"Told you." Bucky allows a beat of silence. He's not sure Sam knows all the ways he screwed up. He's not sure he wants Sam to know how he'd broken your heart. "I just - I keep fucking up, Sam. I messed up. A lot."

"I know," Sam agrees. It surprises Bucky that Sam knows how badly he messed up. There's a part of him that still wonders if Sam really knows everything or if you left out some of Bucky's worst transgressions. He can't imagine that Sam wouldn't have at least tried to kick his ass if he knew about the things he said to you after Tony's funeral. "And I won’t lie, a part of me wants to kick your ass for leaving her like that… But an even bigger part knows it was the right thing. For both of you."

"Both of us?" Bucky questions, finally picking his gaze up off the floor.

"If you hadn’t noticed, she needed to figure out some things for herself. You both did. I know life doesn't give us a lot of guarantees, but you two-"

"Gentleman," a new, different doctor approaches, cutting off Sam. "I was your friend's surgeon tonight."

Sam and Bucky immediately jump to their feet, waiting for their next cue. Would they finally breath that long awaited sigh of relief? Would they dissipate into a puddle of tears like a crumpled up piece of paper? Sam urges with desperation thick in his voice, "And?" 

"And she made it through surgery," the surgeon replies. "It was touch and go for a while. To be quite frank, there were times where we thought we lost her. She lost a tremendous amount of blood tonight. There were extensive internal injuries, but by some stroke of luck, the knife narrowly missed anything that could've done much more permanent damage."

"Can you please just skip to the part where you tell us if she's okay?" Bucky asks through gritted teeth.

The surgeon withers slightly underneath Bucky's intense glare, he nods, "She's in recovery right now. She suffered quite substantial injuries of all different kinds. Frankly, most people wouldn't have made it onto an ambulance. In any other case, I would be very weary about making any promises or guarantees for recovery, but if I were a gambling man, I'd bet on your friend."

Hope swells in Sam's chest for the first time in a very long time. He breathes a sigh of relief, raising his hands on the top of his head as he takes a long, deep breath, "So she's okay?"

"She's very lucky," the surgeon repeats. "Once she's out of recovery, we'll move her to the ICU. You can see her then."

"Thank you."

The doctor takes one singular step before stopping. He softly exhales, and turns around to face Sam and Bucky once more, "And gentlemen? A word of advice?" Sam nods, remaining silent to allow the doctor to continue. "Whatever your friend was doing tonight-"

"I told you, it was a mugging," Bucky interrupts.

The doctor nods, not believing a word of the Bucky's off the cuff cover story. It wasn't a very good cover up, even Bucky could admit that, but his concern upon arrival wasn't creating an elaborate story. No, he'd been far too rattled for that. His one and only concern was you.

"There is no scientific reason that your friend should've survived," the surgeon matter of factly states. "Whatever your friend was doing, it will get her killed. Not tonight, and maybe not tomorrow, but one day. Luck only lasts so long."

A heaviness tugs at Sam's heart as any trace of a smile melts off of his face as the doctor's words sink down to the very pit of Sam's stomach. He nods once more, "Thank you, Doctor."

While they wait, all Bucky and Sam can do is think about what the doctor said. They hated how right the doctor was. They hated how you were never given a choice.

Most of all, they hate the idea that one day you may not get up.

One day, you may not be so lucky.

One day, there would be a goodbye, one final goodbye, a real one. A goodbye that couldn't be taken back.

They weren't ready for that. They wouldn't ever be ready for that.

Sam can't stop thinking about what the doctor said. Not even for one second to rejoice in the fact that you survived. Yes, you survived tonight, but how long before your luck ran out? How long before your own humanity caught up with you? 

You defied all scientific reason. There was no explanation. No rhyme. No reason. Tony Stark and Bruce Banner, two of the greatest scientists to have walked the Earth, found nothing to explain the phenomena of you. There was no reason. Did a bird flap its wings over in Asia? Did some force will you into existence? There was no answer. 

There were others, in the place from before, there were others that didn't survive. You were the lone survivor and no one could figure out how or why. There was no logical reason behind the way you always got back up. Every time, without fail. There was no reason that you lasted as long as you had. The way you got up after every fight, every battle, every loss, defied all expectation, defied everything known and then some. 

But more than any of that, you were a person.

And there would be no other you. That much was clear - both to Bucky and Sam. There would never be a person that could do what you did. No person with the spirit, the heart, the goodness within them. 

You weren't a scientific anomaly. Not some experiment. Not a weapon or a political pawn. Just a person.

Through it all, Sam never lost sight of that. He knew down to the depths of his bones that you never wanted this. You held your head high, fought with honor and dignity. None of it changed that this was not the life you wanted. You loved your found family. You loved Nick Fury. Steve Rogers. Tony Stark. Natasha Romanoff. The list went on and on of the reasons why you stayed. 

And still, given the choice, he knows you'd give it up for a quiet life. For a life spent by the garden, soaking up the sun, life without constantly looking over your shoulder. For a life of peace. 

Not that anyone asked you what you wanted. It was never a choice placed in your hands. You both were acutely aware of that.

Your future hadn't been yours in quite some time. Your dreams. Your hopes. Your aspirations. Over the years, they'd been lost, scattered and abandoned on the path to becoming a hero. 

No, no one asked you what you wanted. But the worst part by far, the part that left Sam reeling and wondering, was when, or even why, he stopped asking you that too? His jaw tenses, his teeth painfully grinding together as he combs through his memory trying to remember the point that he gave up on your future too.

He couldn't remember the last time he asked you what you wanted, what you envisioned your life to be like. 

"Gentlemen?" Their heads snap up. A nurse stands before the two of them, she warmly smiles at Sam and Bucky, "Your friend is out of recovery. She isn't awake quite yet, but if you'd like to see her, I can take you." 

"Yes, please," Bucky hoarsely whispers, his voice breaking with despair. 

The nurse moves quickly, guiding and aiming them through the labyrinth of hospital corridors. Flashes of the night come to Sam with each and every turn in the winding corridors. Before Sam can get sucked into his own memory, a familiar voice echoes through the halls, sending chills down Sam's spine. 

He stands taller, moving faster as the nurse's pace quickens to find the source of the altercation. Sam's face blanches, a fresh wave of dread washing over him. He looks over to Bucky who wears a similar stunned expression. It truly was the night that wouldn't end for either of them. 

"This is a hospital," a receptionist insists, standing beside a security guard who looks entirely out of his element as SWORD agents rummage through the receptionist's desk. "You can't just-"

"Would you like to be charged with obstruction of justice tonight?" the familiar voice threatens. 

The receptionist doesn't shrink under the intense scrutiny nor the SWORD agents tearing up her desk for information, "This is an intensive care unit. You cannot-"

"Sam..." Bucky warns the moment that he sees the source of the familiar voice. 

"We've got the room number, General," a SWORD agent announces. 

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," Sam hisses under his breath, biting back the string of curses that bubble from his mouth.

"How much trouble do you think I'd get in for killing him?" Bucky questions, his tone so clear and sharp that Sam can't be sure Bucky isn't actively planning a murder in his head.

"A lot," Sam easily replies. 

Bucky's eyes flicker between the three corridors that all lead into this main room. All perfect for an escape if he did end up killing General Ross tonight. "It'd be worth it."

"Yes, it would," Sam blankly mutters, staring at the man that sent your life spiraling all those years ago. General Ross. In the flesh. Standing before the receptionist's desk, with SWORD agents flanking his sides. Sam briskly strides over, wedging himself in between General Ross and the corridor to your room, "General Ross, something tells me you're not here to drop off flowers."

General Ross deeply inhales, his face as stoic and unimpressed as ever, "Step aside, Wilson."

"Do you wanna do this here?" Sam wonders, gesturing to the room filled with nurses, receptionists, and dozens of other civilians walking through the recovery wing. "Awful lot of witnesses for SWORD to take care of."

"We are well within our jurisdiction."

"Sentient Weapon Observation and Response Division," Sam states, tilting his head slightly. "Last I checked, she wasn't a sentient weapon, General."

The General quirks a challenging eyebrow. "Check again."

"You wanna say that again?" Bucky sharply threatens, taking a long step forward, stepping right in the General's face. 

"You know the rules, Wilson," Ross states, ignoring Bucky all together. "Your flagrant violation of them only proves what I knew six months ago, the Asset is a danger to herself and to the general public. We'll be taking over from here."

"She has a name," Bucky seethes, Sam's extended arm the only thing holding him back from lunging at General Ross. There's an anger that simmers beneath his skin. You weren't even awake, not even conscious yet, and you were once again fighting for your life without even knowing it. He remembers that night in Latvia. The night he stitched you up. You begged him - no doctors, no hospitals. You were right. You were so entirely right. Not even at your most vulnerable, in your least threatening state, would they ever let you have peace. Even on the brink of death, they didn't care. They would do what it took. 

General Ross' eyes flicker between Sam and Bucky, "I warned you both that this would happen. She can't help herself, can she?"

"She just saved New York and stopped the Flag Smashers," Bucky speaks firmly, his voice harsh and unwavering. "Something you wouldn't know anything about."

"I'd watch your mouth, Sergeant." General Ross' eyes snap over to Bucky, "You're lucky I'm not throwing you both in cuffs too."

"For what?" Sam demands.

"Aiding and abetting."

"We aren't fugitives," Sam counters.

"Karli Morgenthau certainly is," General Ross shoots back. 

"I don't know where Karli Morgenthau is."

General Ross scoffs in disbelief, "You really expect me to believe that?"

"It's the truth," Sam emphasizes. He throws his hands up in frustration, "Do you honestly think I would help Karli Morgenthau in any way, shape, or form after almost killing her? Do you think I want anything to do with her or any of the Flag Smashers?"

"The rest are dead, Wilson," General Ross states, dropping the bombshell like he's telling them that the sky is blue. 

Sam inhales in shock, "What?"

"The Flag Smashers. Every enhanced individual - except the Asset and Karli Morgenthau."

Sam's spine stiffens, standing up taller as the weight of the revelation settles over him. Yes, they were misguided, but they were people. People that you believed could be more than what they were told they were. "How?"

"En route to the Raft," the General answers. "A detonator controlled from a remote location." 

"And let me guess, you can't find the remote location?" Bucky guesses, quirking a knowing eyebrow at the General, his arms still crossed across his chest.

General Ross looks to Sam with an imploring look, the sharpness in his tone drops, "Can you really keep her safe? Both of them safe?"

Sam's eyes flicker up, rage lighting up his entire expression, "You want to talk about safety when they died in your custody?" 

"Where is she, Sam? Before you get the both of them killed," General Ross sharply orders. "You can't keep them safe. You can't keep her safe."

"You don't know anything," Sam remarks, emphasizing each and every syllable. "About any of us."

"If you could, if you could truly protect her, she wouldn't be lying there half dead."

Sam sucks in a breath like he's been punched in the gut. The words hit him hard. It's only Bucky's rooted stance that keeps them from steamrolling over the two of them. 

"Excuse me? If I may-" an unfamiliar voice interrupts, both Sam and Bucky too enthralled in their argument with General Ross to have noticed the man insert himself in their heated discussion. 

"Hold on," Sam curtly interrupts, cutting the man in the red tinted glasses off. Neither Sam nor Bucky spare a second glance to the man in the suit and tie, holding a briefcase tight in his hand. "Let's not pretend that you're suddenly concerned about the health and well being of anyone other than yourself, General. You want control. You want power."

"I want order," General Ross retorts. "Something you and The Asset have no interest in keeping. Tell me where Morgenthau is. Now."

"General Ross, is it?" the unknown man pivots, turning to face General Ross. "I think my client has made it abundantly clear that he's unaware of Karli Morgenthau's whereabouts. Perhaps sending your henchman to actually search for her would be a more fruitful use of your time."

"Your client?" Sam repeats, his head snapping over to look at the lawyer. 

"Client?" General Ross guffaws, his eyes snap back over to Sam, glaring at him, "A lawyer, Wilson? Do you think there's a lawyer good enough to get the three of you out of this mess? There's not a lawyer in the world that could get that criminal off the hook after what she did tonight."

"And do you think there's a jury in the world that would convict that hero in there after she single-handedly saved New York? After she stopped the Flag Smashers?" the lawyer counters, pointing in the direction of your room. He turns to Sam with an expectant look, "How many truck fulls of GRC members did my client single-handedly save tonight?"

"3," Sam chokes out, sharing an uneasy look with Bucky.

"3 trucks filled with people whose lives were save by the person you're so desperately trying to imprison. 3 trucks filled with people that I can guarantee are feeling especially gracious right now."

"She broke the law," General Ross fumes, lowering his tone to something more cold and calculating. "She knew that the second she stepped foot back in New York."

"There's not a jury in New York that would convict that woman in there," the lawyer matter of factly remarks. "You have the Accords - and that's all you have, General."

"You think I need a jury?" General Ross questions. 

"Careful, General," the lawyer warns, his voice eerily calm and composed. "You're treading some very dangerous waters there."

General Ross takes a singular step toward the lawyer, this time, speaking only to him, "You do not want to make an enemy of me."

"Funny, I was going to say the same thing," the lawyer cooly retorts. "Unless you have a warrant, or my client is actually being charged with something, we're done here, General."

"Is this how you want to play this, Sam?" General Ross asks, turning back to Sam. There's a look in the General's face that tells Sam everything he needs to know, this wasn't going to end without a fight. A fight Sam had fought before and lost. Sam's eyes flicker between Ross and the unknown lawyer, a person whose name he didn't even know. Did he want to put your future into the hands of a stranger? Was General Ross right, was there even a person on this earth that could change your story's ending? What other choice did Sam have? To give up on your life without so much as a fight? Seeing the conflict warring in Sam's eyes, General Ross seizes the opportunity to tip the scale in his favor, to pour another helping of salt on Sam's fresh wounds, "I can guarantee you won't like the outcome, Wilson. You haven't in the past."

In that moment, Sam decides. You hadn't let him down. Not once. Not even when you were off fighting your own internal battles. You've always had his back. Now, it's his turn to do the same. He decides to bet on you one more time, "Have a good night, General."

A look of burning rage flashes across General Ross' face before it steels into something much more sinister. His shoulders roll back. He stands tall, looming over the three men.

And with one final verbal jab, General Ross turns on his heels, and leaves them in the wake of a first battle won, but a war just beginning, "Don't say I didn't warn you."

"What just happened?" Sam exhales with a long breath.

"The court of public opinion," the lawyer cryptically responds. He turns toward Sam and Bucky, "It wouldn't be a good look to arrest someone who was critically injured while saving the city, but this won't end here. We won the battle, but the war isn't going to be as easy. General Ross is tenacious, I'll give him that. He knows what he wants and he's not going to stop until he's got his prized possession back under his thumb. You're going to need a really good lawyer."

"Well, um, not to ruin this whole moment, but who the hell are you?"

"A really good lawyer." The lawyer extends a hand out to Sam, then to Bucky, "My name is Matt, Matt Murdock, a friend thought you might need some help."

Sam quirks an eyebrow, his mouth twisting with unease, "A friend?"

"A friend," Matt repeats, his way of politely telling them that he wasn't going to divulge anything about the mysterious mutual friend that sent him.

Sam turns back to his seat, plopping down onto the hard plastic as he tenderly rubs his temples, "I just want this night to be over."

"And it will be soon," Matt promises, folding up his white mobility cane and taking the seat beside Sam. He speaks softly, but with a firmness that tells Sam how dire the situation is. "But this is only going to get worse. It's going to get ugly before it gets any better."

"I don't think it can get any worse," Sam remarks.

"It can," Matt retorts. "General Ross isn't going to go search for Karli, that's not his concern right now. Right now, he's going to use the chaos of tonight to figure out how to win. I wouldn't underestimate how far he'll take this. He's a force to be reckoned with, but so are you."

"We've fought this fight before. We lost the last time."

"You didn't have me last time."

Sam turns to face Matt, "Do you really think you can win?"

"Yes, I do," Matt insists. "At some point, General Ross lost control of the most powerful tool at his disposal. There's no regaining that control - not after tonight."

"What do you mean?" Bucky wonders, still not quite trusting the man seated before him.

"Your friend made quite the splash tonight," Matt explains. "There's videos circulating everywhere. She's the hero the city was waiting for."

"No, she's not," Sam immediately denies.

"Mr. Wilson-"

"Sam," Sam corrects. 

"Sam-"

"She's not the hero the city was waiting for," Sam forcefully continues. He didn't expect Matt Murdock to understand why his offense to the statement. You weren't the hero. You spent years being the hero and he wasn't about to sign you up for yet another fight. Not this time. "She's a person. A person that is tired of fighting. She's tired. We almost lost her tonight. I'm not signing her up for another fight."

"I can understand that - so ask her."

Sam falters at Matt's suggestion. He was the first person, aside from Sam and Bucky, in a very, very long time to suggest that you should get to choose what should become of your life. "You - you want me to ask her?"

"It is her life, after all. If she says yes, I'll do everything I can help you win."

"And if she says no?"

"Then I'll do everything in my power to make sure she gets off Ross' radar."

And perhaps, Karli was right about him. Perhaps Sam was an optimistic fool. But those words tell Sam everything that he needs to know. He knows that he can trust Matt Murdock with his life. He can trust him with you. "Okay."

"So why don't we start at the beginning? From the moment General Ross lost control."

Sam sighs, rewinding back to the moment that General Ross lost you for good. The airport. It wasn't the first time you'd stepped out of line, but it was the first time you'd ever gone against direct orders. It was the first time you'd ever told him no. The ripples of that day were still felt to this very day. "It'll always come back to that day at the airport, won't it?"

"The airport?" Matt asks. 

"It's a long story," Sam answers, but before he delves back into your long history, he turns to Bucky who'd stood before them staring at your door with anxiety and longing practically rolling off of him with a soft smile, "Hey, Bucky? Why don't you go in? One of us should be there when she wakes up."

Bucky nods, giving Sam a slight smile of gratitude, "Thanks."

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