Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Bucky was younger, there was no such thing as “PTSD.” There was shell shock or combat fatigue – apt words to describe the indescribable aftereffects of experiencing the unimaginable. 

Nowadays, there’s a diagnosis for everything. Anxiety. Depression. Post-traumatic stress disorder. 

They seem almost infantilizing, these new terms. The other day, he’d heard some kid whining about how she’d developed PTSD in response to losing some sort of competition. Her friends had laughed at the joke. Bucky had cringed and retreated faster than a speeding bullet. 

Dr. Raynor had spent an entire session trying to make him understand it – how all of his terrible experiences and their consequential effects on his mind could be wrapped up in a neat little bow and categorized according to this or that in the DSM-5. 

“These things you’re experiencing,” she’d said, “The nightmares, the panic attacks, the anxiety, the social isolation – they’re all symptoms of PTSD. Lots of people experience and deal with the same things. The good thing about this is, we know some ways that we can deal with this from what has worked with other people.” 

She’d taught him some breathing exercises, offered him drugs, told him to buy a coloring book, and sent him on his way. 

His mind wanders back to the girl and her friends. He wonders if she’ll ever know what a panic attack feels like. He hopes she doesn’t. 

Along with the breathing exercises and the sertraline that he has no intention of taking, Dr. Raynor had also printed out a sheet with a list of symptoms that could occur with PTSD. 

“When you come back next week,” she said, “I want you to tell me which of these you might sometimes find yourself experiencing. Then we can talk about coping mechanisms for each one.” 

He’d taken the sheet, read it once, and left it on his counter to be forgotten. 

The thing about it is, his so-called “symptoms” don’t manifest as much when he’s on a mission. When he’s fighting, his head is clear and his mind is focused. His hands are still, the trademark of a sniper. 

But once he goes home, once the adrenaline wears off and he settles back into a routine, then comes the panic attacks and the nightmares and so on and so forth. 

He doesn’t look at the list after reading it once. He figures he’s done well enough on his own so far, he can do without Dr. Raynor’s colored-penciled-in mandalas. He’s doing fine; he’s even been visiting Sam and his family every so often since the fiasco with the Flagsmashers. 

That is where he’s headed now. The plane will be landing shortly at the airport, where Sam is waiting in his temperamental truck to pick him up. 

Sure enough, the plane lands, and the passengers start to leave. The woman sitting to his left brushes past him as she walks into the aisle, and his muscles tense without his permission. Bucky grits his teeth as he feels his heart rate pick up and counts his breathing, exhaling sharply through his teeth for the allotted eight seconds. 

Touch-aversion, his mind supplies helpfully. The fourth item listed on Dr. Raynor’s list. 

He shakes his head sharply once to snap himself out of the potential spiral and makes his way off of the plane. 

***

Sam seems happy to see him, but then, Sam is always enthusiastic about the generally socially obligational niceties. He’d brought Cass with him this time. The kid is sitting shotgun, waving excitedly through the windshield. 

Bucky smiles wearily and waves back. 

Cass retreats to the truck's backseat, and Bucky gets in on the passenger side. 

There’s a warmth to it, sitting this close to these people in the truck. It’s a little overwhelming, and he’s surprised at how relieved he feels when they pull into Sarah’s driveway. 

Bucky gets out of the truck and walks toward the house. 

Sam sidles up to him as they approach the front porch, and slings an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. Bucky cringes and tries to suppress the shudder that runs up his spine. Sam notices, though, ever the observant one, and slowly removes his arm. 

“You seem kind of quiet,” Sam says in a faux-casual tone, “Everything alright?” 

Bucky ignores the ghost of sensation across his shoulders and smiles. “Of course.” 

Sam stares at him, unconvinced. “Alright, man. Let’s go get the couch made up.” 

***

The second time it happens, he’s sitting in the kitchen with Sarah while she cooks dinner. 

He’d offered time and time again to do something to help out, but she’d stubbornly refused. “I got this, Bucky. If I find something you can help out with, I’ll let you know.” 

So, he sits out of the way off to the side, making idle friendly conversation with her while she cooks. 

He likes talking with Sarah. There’s no pressure to talk about or avoid certain topics; she just talks about her day, little moments on the boat or with the boys. He likes the way she speaks, slow and easy, yet passionate and animated. It reminds him a lot of Sam when he’s relaxed. 

She’s telling him about how Cass had gotten in trouble at school for playing a prank on one of the teachers with a fond, bemused smile on her face when she brushes past him for some paprika, resting a hand on his shoulder as she passes by. 

He flinches and finds himself on his feet. 

Sarah rapidly clutches her hand to her chest. “Oh God, I’m sorry, Bucky, I-” 

“No, it’s okay,” he interrupts, hating the way his voice comes out stilted. “It’s okay, I’m just jumpy from the plane ride. You’re fine.” 

She relaxes. “Alright, well, if you need a break, just let me know. You can hang in Sam’s room for a while if you need some time alone.” 

He smiles. “Thanks.” 

It won’t be any use, he knows. The plane ride wasn’t the problem. 

***

It’s when he shies away from a hug from AJ that Sam pulls him aside. 

“Alright, man,” Sam sighs. “Something’s up. I’m not gonna make you talk, but I think it might help. So, talk.” He stares at Bucky expectantly. 

Bucky sighs and drags a hand over his face. “It’s just a thing. Raynor told me about it- uh. Touch aversion. It’s from- you know.” 

Sam hums. “Yeah, I’ve worked with people with that problem before. Did you and Raynor talk about what you can do about it?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Not yet.” 

Sam nods and stares at him with an odd look in his eye. Bucky stares out the window. 

“You know,” Sam says deliberately, “There’s one thing you might not have considered.” 

Bucky frowns. 

“You talk about touch starvation?” 

Bucky blinks. “What?”

Sam sighs. “C’mere.” He holds out his arms like he expects Bucky to-

“No,” Bucky says, “No, Sam, I’m not going to-” 

Sam grins. “C’mon, man, humor me?” 

Bucky rolls his eyes. 

Sam makes his face do A Thing. It’s not fair. “Please?” Sam asks, like he’ll be very disappointed if Bucky refuses. 

Bucky growls under his breath. “Fine,” he says. He takes a step toward Sam. 

Sam makes a sound of disapproval. “Little closer, man.” 

Bucky shuffles a little closer to Sam’s spread arms. 

Sam finally gives up and grabs Bucky’s bicep, pulling him in toward his chest. Next thing Bucky knows, Sam’s arms are wrapped around him, slowly moving up and down between his shoulder blades. He waits for a beat. 

“This is weird,” Bucky murmurs, voice muffled against Sam’s shoulder. 

“Give it a minute,” Sam says next to his ear, shifting a little so he's supporting more of Bucky’s weight. “And hug me back, you idiot.” 

Bucky brings his arms up against Sam’s back. He gives it a minute. 

At first, it’s uncomfortable. Bucky resists the urge to jerk away and create distance between them, all of his instincts screaming at him to do something. 

Then, he starts to relax. He feels Sam smile against the side of his head where his cheek is pressed into Bucky’s hair. 

It feels good. 

It feels like home, and suddenly memories of his mother and his father, and his sisters are flooding back into his mind. He feels safe and secure. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt this way. 

“Hey, you’re okay,” Sam says, and Bucky realizes that his breathing’s off. His breath is hitching against Sam’s shoulder, and his eyes are damp. Sam holds him tighter. 

“Sometimes,” Sam says, gracefully ignoring the fact that Bucky’s crying all over him, “When we go for a long time without friendly touch, it has an effect on the way we interact with people. Your ‘touch aversion’ is what can happen in response to that. The way we fix that,” he shifts again, taking most of Bucky’s weight, holding him tighter, “Is this.” 

“Sorry,” Bucky whispers unintelligibly, wet tracks running down his face. 

Sam smiles again. “It’s alright,” he says softly, running a hand through Bucky’s hair. “I don’t mind.” 

Chapter Text

Bucky had laughed when Sarah had described January weather in Delacroix as “cold.” He and Sam had arrived three days ago, and the temperature had never dropped below 50 degrees. It’s funny to see everyone out in coats and light gloves when he himself wears a t-shirt and jeans – a nice contrast to his former tendency to wear gloves and a coat even on the warmest of days to hide his arm. It’s what Sam would call “progress.” 

Despite the progress in that area, he still finds himself struggling on occasion. 

Case in point: it’s supposed to rain tomorrow, which means the pressure of the air is shifting in the atmosphere, which means the whole left side of his body is aching. It feels like being brought out of cryo, which brings back unpleasant memories. Last night, he’d woken up at four in the morning in a cold sweat, and he’d had to spend a good twenty minutes regulating his breathing. 

Needless to say, today, he’s a little on edge. 

Sam had taken the boys to one of their friend’s birthday party in NOLA, so he’d decided to go with Sarah to some social function some lady in the neighborhood was running to raise money for one of the kids in the area who needed some intensive medical care. He nurses a mug of coffee as he waits for Sarah to get ready. The steam billows up into his face, smelling pleasantly rich. 

Sarah makes her way downstairs, clad in a jacket on top of a sweatshirt. Bucky surreptitiously checks the weather on his phone - it’s 53 degrees out. He smothers an amused grin. 

“Don’t you even,” Sarah says sternly, catching his expression. 

He schools his face. “Sorry, Sarah.” 

Her scowl deepens. He laughs, not unkindly. 

Sarah holds out the keys to him. “Just for that, you’re driving.” 

He nods, accepting his fate. “Yes ma’am.” 

***

The fundraiser is being held in a rented-out gymnasium in one of the local elementary schools. There are tables set up everywhere, with everything from raffle tickets to booths selling baked goods, to little carnival games. 

“Nice turnout,” Bucky says, eyeing the crowded space warily. 

Sarah smiles, clutching her contribution to the baked goods booth - a box of peach turnovers - close to her chest. “Yeah, Tammy wasn’t expecting this many people to turn up. This is great!” 

She leads him through the sea of people over to the booth, and hands over the pastries, oblivious to the aching tension in his limbs. 

“There she is,” Sarah says, leaving the booth and approaching a tall woman standing over by one of the carnival games. “Tammy!” 

Tammy turns to her and smiles brightly. “Sarah Wilson! Glad you could make it! And who’s this?” 

Sarah introduces her to Bucky, and she reaches out to shake his hand. He cringes when she offers her right hand, and cautiously accepts it with his left. Maybe Sarah had the right idea with the coat after all. 

Tammy gracefully only startles a moment before taking his hand and shaking it with a friendly grin. “Pleasure to meet you, Bucky.” 

He manages a smile, heart pounding heavily in his chest. “You too,” he says faintly. The gymnasium seems incredibly loud, all of a sudden. Chills break out along the back of his neck and his spine. 

“How are the boys?” Tammy is asking. Sarah tells her about Cass’s victory in the school spelling bee, and AJ’s newfound interest in insects. 

Bucky tries his best to smile and nod along with their conversation, but his mind is getting foggy. He tries to ignore the instincts in his brain telling him to get the hell out of there, but all it seems to do is make him tenser. He finds himself cringing away from people when they brush past him. 

“You okay, hon? You’re looking a little pale,” Tammy says, and it takes him a minute to realize that the question is directed at him. His mind is going in a thousand directions at once, making up possible scenarios of how this could go wrong. What if the building starts on fire? What if someone has a gun? What if, what if, what if-

He opens his mouth to formulate a response when a hand makes its way onto his shoulder. 

His mind goes white, and he flinches. 

Hard.

Before he knows what’s happening, he’s knocking over a pile of carefully stacked plastic toy prizes. They clatter to the floor, the noise seeming to echo above the chatter of the crowded room. 

“Shit,” he hisses under his breath, throat closing up as if he’s choking. 

“Sorry,” Carlos says from off to the side. “I didn’t mean to startle you, Bucky.” 

“It’s okay,” he manages, hastily dropping to the floor to try to stack the prizes back the way they were before. His right hand has a tremor going through it, making the pile crooked. 

Sarah and Tammy kneel down next to him to help. Sarah brushes past his arm, and he flinches again, accidentally knocking over the small pile of prizes he’d managed to reconstruct. 

“God, I’m sorry,” he gasps. 

“You’re alright, hon,” Tammy says. 

“I was gonna ask you to help me bring something in from the truck,” Carlos says above him. His voice has some hidden meaning to it, but Bucky is too worked up to figure out the nuances and implications of what he’s saying. 

Sarah gently grasps his hand, and he grits his teeth when he cringes involuntarily again. “Go with him, Bucky,” she says softly. “Get some fresh air, okay? We’ve got everything covered here.” 

He nods shakily and rises to his feet, following Carlos along the edge of the gymnasium and outside into the cool air.

***

He moves straight to the truck once they get outside, and grabs one of the boxes there to bring it in. 

“Hang on a minute,” Carlos says.

Bucky loosens his grip on the box. Carlos digs a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it, bringing it to his lips. “Don’t tell my wife,” he cautions with a twinkle in his eye. 

Bucky nods, breathless. 

“Take a minute, kid,” Carlos says, inhaling deeply. “Fundraiser ain’t going anywhere. We got all the time you need.” 

Bucky inhales shakily, holds it, and exhales slowly. He repeats the action until his hand is steady again, then leans back against the bed of the truck, suddenly exhausted.

“Thank you,” he says softly, meeting Carlos’s eyes. 

Carlos smiles at him understandingly.

Bucky lets the calm settle over him.

Chapter Text

“Bucky.” 

The sun is sweltering above them, blazing down on the sandy landscape. Sweat drips from Sam’s forehead, evaporating quickly in the heat. There’s no shade this time of day, and they really should be going. 

“Bucky,” Sam tries again. He approaches his partner, who is crouched near where the fenceline meets one of the small, deteriorating brick sheds, murmuring in indecipherable, low tones. Bucky doesn’t acknowledge him. 

“Bucky,” Sam sighs, resting a hand on Bucky’s left bicep, which is surprisingly cool under the desert sun. “Come on, man, we gotta go.” 

“Gimme a minute,” Bucky murmurs, remaining in his crouched position. Before him, in the corner where the fence meets the building, Sam hears a low growling noise. 

“Oh no,” Sam says to himself. 

“We got any water?” Bucky asks. 

In front of him is a dog - some kind of shepherd mix, if Sam had to guess - backed up against the fence with the fur on its neck standing up straight. Its tail is tucked between its legs, and its ears are pressed against its head. There are ropes around its neck and middle connecting it to one of the fencelines. A plastic muzzle is fixed too tightly over its snout. 

Sam sighs. “Yeah, but-” 

“Give it to me.” 

Sam walks over to their jeep and grabs one of the canteens. When he gets back over to where the dog is, Bucky’s managed to get a little bit closer. 

“I need to get that thing off of his face,” Bucky spits with more venom than Sam would expect, even given the situation. 

“Okay,” Sam says warily. “Don’t get bit, okay? We don’t know if that thing could have rabies or something.” 

“He doesn’t have rabies,” Bucky dismisses. Softer: “He’s just scared.” 

The muzzle has straps going over and around the dog’s head. Bucky unfastens them with a lot more gentleness than he uses when giving Sam first aid, and tosses the black, plastic contraption aside with an air of disgust. 

“Water,” he says, holding out a hand. Sam hands him the canteen. 

The dog isn’t trying to attack them; it seems more interested in stretching its (presumable sore) jaw. It opens and closes its mouth a few times, licking over its lips and nose. 

When Bucky moves the canteen closer to it, it scrambles backward a bit and bares its yellow teeth. Even from here, its breath is terrible, smelling of rot and sickness. Sam resists the urge to gag. 

“It’s okay,” Bucky says softly, splashing a few drops of water near its forepaws. It stares at the wet sand, then back up at Bucky. 

Bucky cups his left hand and slowly lets the water drip into it. At first, the dog stares distrustfully, but soon its thirst wins out and it laps at the water with a dehydrated pink tongue. 

When the canteen is empty, Sam takes it back from Bucky. 

“I need to cut the ropes,” Bucky says, more to himself than to Sam. He grabs his boot knife and moves toward the dog in as unthreatening a manner as a six-foot supersoldier is capable of moving. 

The dog snarls and snaps its teeth, but it seems too tired to attack. Sam grimaces when he sees how tight the ropes are tied around its neck and stomach; the bloody brown fur has matted over it. It must be very painful. 

Bucky has a stony expression on his face when he moves to cut the ropes, one that Sam has come to associate with an extreme feeling of disappointment in humanity. That someone could do something like this is very saddening. 

Bucky cuts the ropes free from the fence first before going to examine where they’re fastened around the dog. He makes a face. 

“You need me to hold him still?” Sam asks. 

Bucky nods wordlessly. 

Sam moves over to the dog and holds it as gently as he can as Bucky begins to work on the ropes. The dog snarls and kicks a bit, but Sam manages to hold him still. He looks over to see how Bucky’s progressing, and bile immediately makes its way into his throat. 

Bucky’s cut away some of the matted fur around the ropes, and underneath, the raw, open flesh is infested with maggots and flies. 

Finally, all of the ropes are removed, and Bucky takes the dog from Sam’s arms and settles it in his lap. Sam goes over to the jeep to get the first aid kit. 

Neither of them speak as Sam cleans and disinfects the wounds. When he’s done, they take a moment to rest in silence. Bucky absently strokes the dirty fur on the dog’s head. 

“We should get going,” Sam says “We can bring him with us.” 

Bucky nods. 

“I can grab him if you wanna drive?” Sam continues. He’d driven on the way there, and he’s tired as fuck. This is usually what they do, anyway; one of them drives to the location, and the other drives back. 

“Okay,” Bucky says. His voice is hoarse; he might be dehydrated. Sam makes a mental note to remind him to drink some water on the way back. 

“Let me grab the muzzle,” Sam says, moving to grab the plastic piece, “It’s a little hot from the sun, so we can let it cool down before-” 

“No.” 

Bucky is staring at him, eyes wild and posture tight. 

Sam blinks. “Bucky, we don’t know if he’s aggressive or not. We need to be safe. It won’t hurt him.” 

Bucky glares, cold as ice, and gently sets the dog at his feet. He marches over to Sam, rips the muzzle from his hands, and throws it as hard as he can into the horizon (which is pretty far, considering the fact that the man’s a supersoldier). 

“Whoops,” Bucky snarks. “Let’s go. Grab the dog.” 

He stalks his way over to the jeep and starts it, leaving Sam gaping in his wake. 

***

They drop the dog off at a veterinary clinic once they get back to civilization, and the vet says that he has a good chance at recovery. 

“I’ll talk to one of the local shelters and see what we can do for him,” she says with a kind smile. “Don’t worry. He’s in good hands.” 

Bucky is distant for the rest of the day, going off to do his own thing once they get home. Sam lets him have his space, getting the impression that he isn’t in a talking mood at the moment. 

***

That night, as Sam’s lying in bed, waiting for sleep to overtake him, an image comes to mind: a black leather-clad figure with long hair and a gleaming silver arm standing before him, black plastic obscuring the nose and mouth, tight over a square jaw. 

Chapter Text

Sam fucking hates knives. 

They’re incredibly annoying in combat. Sure, he’ll use one if he has to, but he prefers good old-fashioned fistfights, should it come to that. Not knives flying this way and that. Nobody likes getting an artery sliced. 

Bucky would disagree with him; the guy loves his collection of Gerbers and Ka-Bars and who knows what else. Sam has come to assume that he has at least three knives on him at all times. It’s kind of a problem. 

But back to the original point: knives. Sam hates them. 

He especially hates them when they’re in the hands of assholes, pressed against his sister’s throat. 

“What do you want,” he asks, fighting to keep his voice even. Sarah’s face is deceptively calm, and her hands are steady, but Sam knows better. He can see it in her eyes; she’s terrified. He tries to keep his voice and posture as reassuring as he can. 

“You’re not Captain America,” Asshole growls, tightening his grip on Sarah. She gasps, almost imperceptibly. 

“Okay,” Sam says slowly, “It sounds like you have a problem with me. How about you let her go and we talk about it?” 

“You’re not fucking Captain America! ” Asshole bellows. Spittle sprays from his mouth as he yells, and Sam gets a good look at his straight white teeth. His chestnut hair is well groomed, and his clothes look to be name-brand. Whatever problem this guy has with Sam, it doesn’t look like he’s wanting for much in his life. 

He hasn’t let go of Sarah; the blade of the knife is still pressed against her neck. It’s a flaying knife, one that he recognizes from her kitchen. Crime of opportunity, then? 

“Okay,” Sam says, holding his hands up non-threateningly. “Okay. I’m not Captain America,” he licks his lips, swallows. It stings to say it, despite the situation. He’s just now beginning to really embrace the title, to really believe that he can make a difference. “Let’s talk about it, okay? Put the knife down.” 

Asshole lowers the knife a little bit. It’s still dangerously close to Sarah’s jugular, but Sam’ll take the progress where he can get it. 

“That shield belongs to Captain John Walker,” Asshole says. “He fucking earned it. And you stole it from him!” 

Sam blinks. Oh, this guy has got to be fucking joking. 

“You know Walker?” he asks incredulously. 

Asshole frowns. “No, not personally.” He pauses, as if saddened by this fact. “But he’s my Captain America! The shield belongs to him! ” 

Sam wonders if this guy knows that Walker has murdered a man with the shield in broad daylight. Looking at Asshole now, he doubts that he cares. 

“Okay,” Sam says. “You want the shield, then? ‘Cause I gotta say, I’m not really cool with handing it over to someone who’s got a knife at my sister’s throat.” 

“Give me the shield, and I’ll let her go.” 

Finally, they’re getting somewhere. 

“Okay,” Sam says, “Let me go get it.” 

“Fine,” Asshole snaps, “Be quick.” 

Sam really hates this guy. He can’t wait to see his face when he comes to get the shield back from him. Better yet, maybe he’ll bring Bucky with and let him show Asshole how knives are really used. 

Sam slowly steps toward the house. “You want a lemonade, too?” he snarks. Sarah glares at him as if he is an incredibly stupid person. Sam shuts his mouth and goes inside. 

He removes the shield from its case and brings it back outside. 

“Give it to me,” Asshole demands. 

Sam shakes his head. “You first, buddy. Let her go.” 

Asshole releases Sarah, and she rubs at her throat with a grimace. Sam blinks. He hadn’t expected this to be that easy. 

“Now give it to me,” Asshole growls. Sam looks over at Sarah, who’s now a safe distance away, and frowns. 

“You know, man, I might just hang onto it.” 

Asshole yells in fury and lunges at Sam, knife in hand. 

Sam uses the shield to block the initial blow aimed somewhere around his shoulder, but the knife slides along the surface of the shield and slices into his side. He winces; Sarah really keeps her knives sharp. 

He parries the next blow, and the next, and the one after that. Asshole is incredibly pissed off, face red with exertion, breaths coming out in loud huffs. 

“Come on, man,” Sam tries, “Give it up.” 

“You!” Asshole gasps, lunging again, “Aren’t! Captain! America!” He stabs, and Sam blocks it. 

“Dude,” Sam says, getting really fed up, honestly, “Calm the fuck down.” 

As if summoned by Sam’s growing annoyance, sirens echo in the distance. Police cars come speeding into the driveway, and before long, Asshole is getting cuffed and sent on his way to prison, or perhaps, an insane asylum. 

“You okay?” Sarah asks, coming up behind him, cell phone in hand. “That was… something else.” 

Sam grimaces, lifting up his shirt to look at the cut on his side. “That’s gonna scar, ouch. Why do you gotta keep your knives so sharp?” 

She scowls at him. “Yeah, you’re fine. Need a drive to the E.R.?” 

Sam shakes his head. “I got a med kit here, I can take care of it.”

“You do that.” 

Sam presses against the cut and walks toward the bathroom, shield in hand.

Chapter Text

“So,” Steve says, sidling up to where Bucky’s lying down on the soft-looking stretcher waiting for the IV to run its course before he goes into cryo, “I read a little bit of your notebook, back in Bucharest. 

Bucky opens his pristine eyes, smiling wryly up at Steve. He looks preternaturally calm, here and now, dressed in white with his arms resting crossed over his sternum. The silicon, black sleeve over the remains of his left arm hides away the hideous-looking wires and jaded, singed metal - just as Bucky’s angelic expression is probably somewhat a farce, a mask to hide what’s going on under the surface. 

“I know, Steve,” he says, voice serene. “I saw.” 

Steve licks his lips. “Thing is,” his throat is suddenly dry. “The thing is, some of what I read, it didn’t make any sense.” 

There it is: a crack in the blemishless porcelain monument, a flicker of doubt. “In the early days - I wasn’t all coherent, Steve. Don’t worry about it.” 

It’s an offering, a truce: leave it alone, Bucky is saying. Let’s not do this. 

Steve has to do this. 

“It said you were drafted,” he says, blunt and to the point, ripping off the band-aid. 

Bucky winces and stares at the floor. 

It makes Steve feel bad. He doesn’t want Bucky’s last memories before going into cryo to be ones of hurt and unhappiness. He feels the urge to walk away, to leave this alone. 

But then, Steve was never one for walking away. 

“It said you were drafted, Bucky,” Steve presses. “You told me you enlisted- hell, you told your ma you enlisted, and Becca. I was there, I remember it.” 

Bucky nods, the nervous energy he’d exuded from his pores in Bucharest back in full force. 

“I thought you were proud to go overseas. I encouraged you, I- I tried my best to go, too. And this whole time, you never wanted to go in the first place?” 

Bucky shakes his head. “C’mon, Steve-” 

“ Bucky, ” Steve protests, distressed. Because if he’d been faking it that whole time - his enlistment, his enthusiasm for training, his excitement over his orders - what else had he been faking? Had he only joined the Commandos because of Steve? 

Had he only fallen into Hydra’s clutches again because of him?

Bucky glances away from him in abandon, an attempt to reinforce his calm facade. 

“You didn’t tell me,” Steve accuses, and the charade shatters into a million pieces. 

“How could I?” Bucky bursts out, “When all you could talk about was how nobody had any right to do any less than join up!” 

Steve freezes. 

Bucky drags his hand over his face, suddenly exhausted. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “Look, I didn’t want to make a big deal of it, at the time, okay? And I wasn’t devastated, it was happening to a lot of folks at the time. It was just what I had to do.” 

“You could have gone home,” Steve says, “After Kreischberg, but you didn’t.” 

A light dawns on Bucky’s face, sudden understanding. “I believed in what we were doing, Steve,” he says, and it’s all that needs to be said. 

Steve nods shakily. “Okay,” he says, “okay.” 

Bucky stares at him knowingly. “C’mere, idiot,” he says, holding out an arm. 

Steve practically falls into the embrace. 

He’d really missed Bucky’s hugs, he realizes. 

They stay like that, for a while, until they hear footsteps outside the door: the Wakandan doctors, on their way to help Bucky into cryo. 

Steve sighs shakily, squeezes Bucky once, reassuring, and steps back to let the doctors do their thing. 

He glances at the cryo chamber as he reapproaches, hating it and marveling at the advancement of the technology here at the same time. 

“You sure about this?” he asks. 

“I can’t trust my own mind,” Bucky says, smiling in a self-deprecating manner. “So until they figure out how to get this stuff out of my head, I think going back under is the best thing. For everybody.” 

As the cyro chamber seals around him, Steve can’t help but think: 

It’s not what’s best for me. 

Chapter Text

It was a simple mission: go in, gather all sensitive material, and let the local LEOs in to process the rest. An easy in-and-out solo mission, done in a couple of hours. 

So when Rhodey calls him and tells him he needs to get your feathered ass over here yesterday, Cap, Sam is understandably concerned. 

When he arrives, Rhodey is looking somber and a little sickly. 

“What’s up?” Sam asks, hoping that he just needs to get the antidote from some sort of typical Hydra bullshit he picked up at the lab and be on his way. That sort of thing has happened before, but it’s usually resolved without too much of a fuss. 

“This way,” Rhodey says curtly. Sam follows him. 

“Is this an emergency?” he asks, “Should I call Bucky in?” 

“No!” Rhodey says, a little too forcefully. Calmer: “No, that won’t be necessary as of right now. You just… need to take a look at this.” 

He leads Sam into one of your typical government-issued windowless brick rooms where a laptop is set up to look at some of the tapes Sam had gotten from the lab. His heart sinks; suddenly, he’s got a bad feeling about this. 

Rhodey closes the door and leads him over to the computer. “It’s… not pretty,” he says, and presses play. 

The footage from the camera is grainy and discolored a little, but it’s clear enough that Sam can make out what’s happening. The date on the bottom of the screen sets the video sometime during 2008, and a red dot flashes in the top right corner. 

Onscreen, he sees Bucky. His heart sinks further.

“Rhodey,” he says warningly, but makes no move to stop the video. 

The Bucky on the screen is shirtless, wearing only tac-pants and black boots. He sits in some sort of dentist chair from hell. An IV pole is set up next to him, and looks to be connected to his right hand. His left arm gleams in the low lighting. Offhandedly, Sam wonders if Bucky’d had a vitamin D deficiency. 

Not much is happening, but he doesn’t feel good about the video. The dissociated expression on Bucky’s face is pretty heartbreaking. Sam reminds himself that Bucky’s fine now, fucking around with stuff he probably shouldn’t be fucking with in Brooklyn. 

Armed Hydra agents and what look like scientists mill around the room, messing with this and that. Sam couldn’t begin to guess what they’re doing, but whatever it is, he doubts it was good. 

Finally, the scientists approach Bucky. He doesn’t seem to acknowledge them, lost in some sort of a fugue-like state. When they touch him and push him back into the chair, though, he flinches. 

Sam flinches with him. 

“Rhodey,” he says lowly, “What is this?” 

Rhodey sighs, but doesn’t give him an answer. 

On the screen, the evil dentist chair comes to life and restraints snap around Bucky’s arms, holding him in place. One of the scientists shoves something between his teeth. His hand is shaking, and his chest is moving up and down as he hyperventilates. 

Dread seeps into Sam’s gut. 

There’s no sound in the video, but when the halo-like contraption comes down and clamps itself around Bucky’s head, Sam can tell that he’s screaming. 

Sam squeezes his eyes shut and turns away. “Turn it off,” he demands. “Turnitoff, turnitoff, turnitoff. ” 

Rhodey does so with a somber look on his face. 

Sam feels like he’s going to be sick. He takes a deep breath in, holds it, and releases it slowly. He takes another breath. And another. And another. 

Finally, the nausea abates, though he still feels rattled. He turns to Rhodey. 

“What the fuck,” he demands, “Was that.” 

“That was the footage you pulled from the lab,” Rhodey says, gesturing to the bin of reels Sam had brought back. “I’ve only seen the one.” 

The nausea comes back in full force. “Jesus Christ,” Sam wheezes. 

“I don’t know what to do with it,” Rhodey says. “You know no government agency would use it for good.” 

Sam nods. “Burn it,” he says. “Burn it all. We’ve gotten on fine without it this far.” 

Rhodey nods, apparently appeased. “I will. I promise.” 

Sam sighs. “Thank you.” 

They leave the room, and Rhodey locks the door behind them. 

“Next time you see Barnes,” he says, then pauses. He shakes his head. “Just give him my best, yeah?” 

Sam nods. “Okay.” 

***

“Bucky, what the fuck were you thinking?” Sam tries and fails to hold in his laughter. 

“It seemed like a good idea at the time!” Bucky’s voice through the phone is somewhat muffled, though Sam can make out the scuffling of claws on a hardwood floor through the speaker. 

“Dual custody, though? Over a dog? ” 

Bucky laughs lightly over the phone. “ His new owners are older and don’t always have a lot of energy, and I’ve bonded with him. It’s a good arrangement. ” 

Sam shakes his head, a smile gracing his lips. “Whatever, man. I’m happy for you.” 

“ Thanks ,” Bucky says. “ Anyway. What was it you were calling me about? ”

His smile falls. 

Sam thinks about the grainy footage, gone up in smoke, never to see the light of day again. He makes a decision.

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” he says. “Just wanted to chat.” 

“ Okay, well, I gotta go before Dog chews a hole through my sofa .”

“Okay,” Sam says. “See you later. Rhodey says hi, by the way.” 

“ Nice of him ,” Bucky grunts, and Sam hears a muffled chastisement, presumably directed at the dog, over the phone. “ Gotta go. Bye, Sam. ” 

“Bye,” Sam says. 

The line clicks. 

Some things, Sam thinks, are better left buried where they belong.

Chapter Text

They’re sitting out on the dock when it happens. 

It’s a nice evening; no wind, mild temperatures, and clear skies. The sun is almost set before them, reflecting off the smooth water's surface. 

Bucky drags his fingers softly along the rough wood underneath him. It could use some sanding, he thinks, as it splinters under his touch. 

Sam is sitting next to him, feet hanging over the edge of the dock, swinging aimlessly, skimming the water. He hums a little tune incessantly. Bucky finds it incredibly annoying and has said so on multiple occasions. Sam, of course, ignores him. 

Bucky’s metal fingers click against the dock. 

Seagulls cry, circling overhead. Sam slaps a mosquito every so often, though the bugs seem to leave Bucky alone. The serum must make his blood taste bad, he figures, which is all as well. He can do without mosquito bites. 

Then, out of nowhere, Sam lets loose the most inhuman sound that has ever assaulted Bucky’s ears. He screeches and leaps to his feet as if he’s been fucking electrocuted. 

Bucky jumps to his feet, alert and looking for the cause of Sam’s distress. 

Sam, for his part, is staring somewhere near Bucky’s left knee with a look of absolute terror on his face. His breathing is rapid, chest heaving, and Bucky can see the whites of his eyes. 

“What?” Bucky asks, alarmed. “What is it?” 

Shakily, Sam points to Bucky’s pants leg. 

Bucky looks. 

There, making its way slowly up his thigh, is a small brown spider. 

Bucky frowns. He looks back at Sam, disbelieving.

Poor Sam is still hyperventilating, eyes fixed on the spider. 

Bucky sighs and gently plucks the arachnid from his leg and lets it crawl around in his vibranium palm. 

“It’s just a spider, Sam,” he says disarmingly. 

Sam sputters. “Kill it!” he hisses. “Throw it in the water!” 

Bucky grimaces. This level of violence seems inconsistent with the amount of harm the spider has done. He looks at the small creature exploring his shiny fingers. 

“No,” Bucky decides.

Sam gapes at him. “What?” 

Bucky turns and slowly walks along the dock toward the shore. Sam chases after him. 

“Bucky!” Sam protests. They reach the shoreline. 

Bucky walks up to one of the trees in the yard and lets the spider crawl from his hand to one of the leaves. 

“There,” Bucky says, a teasing note gracing his voice, “Now the spider won’t hurt you. No need to panic.” 

Sam shakes his head, slightly embarrassed, and punches Bucky in the shoulder. “Whatever, man,” he says. “Let’s go inside. I think there’s some pie left over.” 

They leave the tree and trek to Sarah’s front door. 

On the leaf of the tree, the spider mourns a failed assassination attempt. 

Chapter Text

Snowflakes drift softly down from the dark night sky, landing soundlessly on the carpet of white below. The whiteness of it makes it seem brighter than it is, like the whole field is lit aglow, dark rows of stones standing out against the luminescent blanket of snow. 

Before him stands a simple stone, a modest memorial to a life now past. Its surface is smooth and gray, blocky engraved letters standing out boldly even in the sparse lighting. 

Rebecca Barnes Proctor

1930 - 2022

Beloved Wife, Mother, Grandmother, and Friend

May She Rest In Peace

His sister. 

His eyes trace over the letters again and again as if they are unable to rationalize their existence. In his mind, Becca is still a happy little kid, hugging him tightly and imploring him to come back soon from his trip overseas. 

He wonders how many nights she waited by the window, hoping to see him walk up the street to his childhood home with open arms, encouraging her embrace with a bright smile he’s since lost. 

He wonders when she stopped waiting. 

.

There are flowers there, a beautiful bouquet of bright red poinsettias, and some white carnations. They’d been left by her kids or grandkids, he supposes. He’s never met them; he wonders if it’s a Christmas tradition. 

It’s cold out. The wind nips at his nose and the tips of his ears. He barely feels it. It’s like he’s in a vacuum, or underwater. Everything seems muted and far away. 

In his pocket, his phone buzzes. It seems deafening in the otherwise silent atmosphere. 

He barely registers it. 

He should say something, he thinks. That’s what people do, isn’t it? Reconcile with their deceased loved ones on their knees in the graveyard, numb to the sensation of melted snow seeping through the fabric of their jeans? Don’t they whisper admittances of trespasses long since committed, a cowardly attempt at penance, too little done too late?

The phrases manifest in his mind, swirling around like smoke trapped in a bottle, whispering over one another in tune with the cold, wintry breeze whistling through the hedges. He can imagine her, twelve years old again, clinging to the sleeve of his uniform asking, when will you be back, Bucky? Will you be back for Christmas? My birthday? Will you be back in time for my first date, for my wedding, Bucky? 

Her bright eyes shine as she begs for an answer, will you be there when my first child is born? My second? Will you be there when they grow up, when they move out, when my husband retires? Will you be there when he dies? Will you be there when I’m old and on my own? 

Her tears will fall, leaving shiny tracks down her rosy cheeks. Why weren’t you there, Bucky? Why weren’t you there for me? 

His tears fall in time with her own, the child in his mind, the way he remembers her. He tries to speak, tries to tell her, I love you, I love you so much, I wanted to be there, I wanted to come back to you and Ma and Dad and everyone, I tried, I tried so hard-

But it’s like he’s at the bottom of a frozen lake, clawing his way upward through frigid water. And just as he thinks he’s reached the surface, he hits a layer of ice too thick to break through. Above him, memories of his sister dance freely, silhouetted by the setting sun in the winter sky. He can hear them, dancing and singing, just out of reach, out of sight. He can remember his mother singing Becca to sleep, but when he tries to picture her face, he only ends up screaming soundlessly into a dark, cold, watery void, blocked. He can yell and beg all he likes, but he only ends up with ice in his lungs, dragging him down, down, down into the depths where his nightmares linger, whispering the procedure has already started, you’ve shaped the century, one more time, one more time, one more time…

His phone vibrates again, more insistently this time. As if on autopilot, he takes it out of his coat pocket and brings it to his ear. 

“Hey, Buck,” Sam says cheerfully. He can hear movement in the background, glasses clinking, people laughing. “I tried calling earlier, must have missed you.” 

His mouth opens, but no sound comes forth. He shivers in the breeze. 

“Bucky?” 

He must be underwater, still, stuck under that lake, fists beating against a wall of unpenetrable ice-

“Bucky, can you hear me?” 

-water filling his lungs, cutting off his voice, making him drown, dragging him deeper and deeper and deeper until he reaches the bottom-

“Bucky, hey, say something, man, come on-” 

-where dark tendrils wrap around his writhing form, holding him down while he stares longingly at the unreachable surface-

“-breathing doesn’t sound great, try-” 

- clawing at his dark binds, his resistance getting weaker and weaker as the cold overtakes him. Frost slithers up the metal of his arm, a pantomime of rust, making the limb stiff and useless as more and more dark tendrils surround him, whispering sinister phrases in his ears: Fist of Hydra, Winter Soldier, Criminal, Killer, Murderer-

“-ell me where-” 

- ”Murderer, you fucking Murderer,” Becca cries as she beats at his chest with her tiny fists, the blows useless against his unrelenting grip on her throat, silver fingers gleaming in the moonlight. “Why weren’t you there for me?” She screams, accusing, face turning red as she gasps for air. He tries to let go, tries to speak, but the mask on his face is too tight and his voice isn’t working and her face is pale now, too pale, and she- 

“Bucky!” 

There are hands on his shoulders suddenly, warm hands, hands so hot he thinks they might burn right through his clothes. 

The hands move to his face, tilting it upward. Sam stands over him, eyes crinkled in concern behind his goggles. 

“Hey,” Sam says softly, “It’s okay, you’re okay. Pretty cold, though, huh? How about we get out of here?” 

He opens his mouth to speak, but finds his voice to be locked somewhere far away. 

The warm hands move from his face to underneath his armpits, lifting him up and leaning him against Sam’s chest.

“You had us worried there,” Sam murmurs against his hair, “But I see you were doing something important, so we’ll let it slide just this once.” 

Bucky tries to offer an apology, but all that comes out of his throat is an embarrassing whimpering noise. 

“You don’t have to say anything,” Sam says. “You’re pretty cold, we gotta get you warm.” They’re moving, he realizes. The stone is no longer in his field of vision. An inquisitive groan makes its way past his lips. 

“Shh,” Sam says, hoisting him up a little, “We can talk later. Let me have my miracle and shut up for a bit, would you?” Despite the words, his tone is soft. 

Bucky nods wordlessly against his shoulder and surrenders to the silence.

Chapter Text

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Bucky mutters sullenly, shoving his gloved hands deep into his jacket pockets. 

Sarah lightly punches his shoulder, and Sam scowls. She never hits him that gently. 

“It’s a mall, Bucky,” Sarah chides, her lips fighting a smile. “What’s the worst that could happen?” 

Bucky’s scowl deepens. “You’ve jinxed it,” he laments, posture giving every indication that the world is about to end. If Sam didn’t know any better, he’d think Bucky Barnes is a melodramatic idiot. 

He shakes his head fondly and grabs Bucky’s arm, dragging him toward the mall entrance. “Come on, man,” he says, “you’ll be fine.” 

Bucky follows them unprompted into the building. 

The mall isn’t new, but a lot of the stores inside it are. Old businesses gave way to newer franchises, reprising the mall’s popularity. Teenagers stroll by in packs, migrating from store to store with bags hanging from their arms and phones clutched in their hands. A mother walks past them, arms full with a phone between her ear and her shoulder. Two men walk together towards the sporting goods store. 

They’re here to check out a new store that - fingers crossed - carries a specific brand of spices that is no longer sold at their local grocery store. Sarah has been searching for it for months now, and when she heard of this new store opening in the mall, she’d dedicated a whole Saturday to making the trip to check it out. AJ and Cass are with some friends for the weekend, and Sam and Bucky don’t have any missions, which means they’ve been recruited to come along. Sam doesn’t mind; he’s been wanting to visit the shoe store anyway. His sneakers have become worn with all of the running he’s been doing recently. 

As much as Bucky bitches about it, Sam knows he doesn’t mind coming along. It’s a thing, with him - he likes to feel included, though he’d never admit it out loud. Sam catches him scanning the exits of the building and sighs. 

“Anything you want to check out while we’re here?” Sam asks. 

Bucky shrugs, refocusing. “Dunno. Bookstore, maybe? I’ve finished the books that I’ve got.” 

“Head on over there,” Sarah encourages. “We can text you when we find what we’re looking for.” 

Sam shakes his head. “Nope, I’m going to buy some new shoes. You’re on your own, Sarah.” 

She rolls her eyes. “Whatever. Just text us when you’re done, Bucky. We can meet up and drag Sam from the shoe store, ‘cause lord knows he’ll stay there all day if we let him.” 

“Hey!” 

Bucky grins. “Sure. See you guys later.” 

He walks away. 

Sam turns to Sarah and frowns. “I don’t take that long-” 

She interrupts him with a sharp laugh and puts a hand on his shoulder consolingly. “You do, bro. Trust me.” 

Before Sam can offer a comeback, she’s walking away. He sighs and makes his way toward the shoe store. He’ll be in and out in record time. They’ll see. 

***

Sam is going to be here all day. 

He’s narrowed his choices down to six options, all of which have discernable pros and cons. He doesn’t know how he’ll ever make a decision. 

He stares at the shoeboxes in front of him, dismayed. The red and white ones have the most comfortable and supportive arch, but the traction on the blue ones is excellent. He sighs. 

“Can I help you, sir?” a store associate asks, watching him with some sort of shoe-knowledge-enhanced superiority. 

Sam shakes his head. “Nah, I’m just checking these out. Thank you, though.” 

The associate smiles. “No problem. Take your time.” 

Sam looks down at his options and closes the box on the green and blue ones. The colors are garish; as comfortable as they are, he’d never wear them in public. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He opens it and finds a text from Sarah. She’s found her spices and is making her way toward Sam. He sends a thumbs-up emoji, and closes the box on the blue and grey sneakers. He doesn’t like the way the toe of the shoe is shaped. 

By the time Sarah gets there, he’s narrowed his options down to the white and red shoes, and the blue ones. Sarah hums when she sees him staring at them. 

“Trouble deciding?” she asks sweetly, shopping bag grasped in her hand. 

Sam rolls his eyes. “I-” 

The lights go out, accompanied by a sudden bang! from somewhere in the mall. 

The store associate is on his feet, eyes wide and face flushed. Sam grasps at Sarah, bringing her closer to him. 

Within a few seconds, the lights are back on. The intercom system crackles. 

“Attention, shoppers! There has been some damage done to the building in the southwest region of the mall. Please slowly make your way to the north entrance and evacuate the building. The authorities are on the way; please remain calm.” 

Sam turns to Sarah, and she stares at him, wide-eyed. “We gotta go,” Sam says. 

He tries to pull her toward the door, but she grabs his arm. 

“Southwest,” she says. “Isn’t that where the bookstore is?” 

Sam thinks back to the map that they saw when they first came in, and his pulse picks up its pace. 

“Shit,” he hisses. “Let’s go.” 

***

The authorities haven’t arrived yet, so it’s pretty easy to get into the bookstore once they get through the mob of panicked shoppers. 

The bookstore is, to put it mildly, a mess. 

The smell of smoke is cloying and thick in the hazy air. Several bookshelves are knocked over. When they get over to the source of the calamity, the ground is covered with the white stuff that comes out of fire extinguishers. The sprinklers in the ceiling are on, soaking Sam’s clothes within seconds. He shivers from the cold. 

When he spots Bucky, he shivers for a whole different reason. 

“Oh my God,” Sarah whispers, hands coming up to cover her mouth. 

Bucky’s lying on the ground, surrounded by a bookstore worker, a barista, and some kind of maintenance man. His face is pale, and there’s blood dripping from his lips. Sticking out of his chest is some kind of thin pipe. Blood soaks his blue shirt and pools on the white tile underneath him. 

Sam rushes over. 

“I don’t know what to do,” the barista says, shaky and panicked. 

“We need to stop the bleeding,” Sam says. His voice sounds like it’s coming from far away. He takes a deep breath and takes stock of the situation. 

The maintenance man has some kind of cloth wrapped around the pipe where it’s sticking out of Bucky’s shirt. Sam hears sirens in the distance. He presses down on the cloth, trying to stem the blood flow. 

“I’m sorry,” the barista says, voice tremoring. “It almost hit me, he jumped in front of me, I don’t- are you Captain America?” 

Sam ignores her and slaps Bucky’s cheek, trying to get him to wake up. He registers Sarah kneeling down next to him. 

“He’s not breathing,” Sam says, ignoring her. He presses harder on the cloth, and Bucky makes a terrible gasping sound. The bookstore worker squeaks and empties her stomach onto the floor, coughing. 

“The ambulance is almost here,” Sarah says urgently, “I can see it in the parking lot.” 

“C’mon, Buck,” Sam mutters, slapping at Bucky’s face. “Come on.” 

He shifts, and his shitty worn shoes lose traction on the tile floor slick with blood. Sam falls forward, catching himself on Bucky’s chest. 

Bucky’s eyes fly open and he gasps in pain. 

“Sorry!” Sam hisses, eyes wide. Bucky’s eyes flutter, but Sam grabs his chin. “No, come on, stay awake. Stay with me. Come on, breathe. You can do it.” 

He can see Bucky forcing himself to keep his eyes open, forcing himself to inhale and exhale. Sam guides him through it as best he can. 

“There you go,” he says when Bucky gets five deep breaths in a row. Paramedics burst in through the doors carrying a stretcher. “You’re gonna be fine,” Sam promises. 

Sarah and the maintenance man move aside to make room for the paramedics. Bucky coughs, blood dribbling down his chin. He’s swiftly loaded onto the stretcher and carried away to the ambulance. Sam follows close behind them, hefting himself into the ambulance once they get him inside. As he sits down, they’re fitting an oxygen mask over Bucky’s face and holding gauze over where the pipe is sticking out of his chest. 

Sam doesn’t think he blinks all the way to the hospital. 

***

Sarah finds him sitting in the waiting room. 

“It was an accident,” she says, sitting next to him. “They were putting in a coffee shop in that bookstore. Some stuff got mixed up that shouldn’t have been mixed up and caused an explosion.” 

Sam shakes his head. “I swear that man can’t walk ten feet without getting into some sort of trouble.” 

Sarah smiles sadly. “That’s why you two get along so well.” 

Sam returns the smile. 

They sit together for a while - for a long time, too long - until finally, a tired-looking woman walks into the waiting room. 

“Family of James Barnes?” she calls out. 

She doesn’t question it when they get up to follow her, which is a huge relief, and leads them back to Bucky’s room. 

“We expect him to make a full recovery,” she says, clipping her chart to the end of the bed Bucky’s sleeping in. “The surgery went very well, and his vitals look good.” 

“Thank you,” Sam says. 

He and Sarah pull up chairs next to Bucky’s bed and watch his chest rise and fall with breaths made easy by a peaceful sleep. 

Chapter Text

It hurts. 

He’s cold, colder than he’s ever been in his entire life. Even trekking through the Alps hadn’t been like this; at least then, he’d had a coat. Here, he only has a concrete floor and metal bars and a metal contraption attached to his shoulder, sucking out the little body heat he’s managed to preserve. 

He hates the way they’re incongruent, the metal arm and his real one. The real one - his right hand - is bony, thin, and pale. Starvation does that, he supposes. The cold gives the skin a translucent bluish tint, like spoiled milk. He can see all of his veins through the bruises. His fingernails are purplish, and he doesn’t want to look at his toes. From how they feel and how he’s been dragged barefoot throughout this underground bunker, they’re probably in horrible condition. 

He shifts, trying to find a comfortable position on the unforgiving concrete floor. The chains around his wrists and ankles rattle insidiously, taunting him. 

Sharp footsteps approach. 

Every day, they come to get him. Every day, they try to break him. Every day, he resists. 

He wonders what it’ll be today. Yesterday, they’d beat him with sticks until his bones cracked, then brought him to Dr. Zola so that they could watch his bones heal as he writhed in pain on the table. Before that, they’d repeatedly stuck his head in a cold vat of water, screaming “ sdavat'sya, sdavat'sya, sdavat'sya” in his ears again and again and again. 

A key turns in a lock, and the door to his cell creaks open. Two guards come in with a small table and two chairs. He makes his way toward the corner, suspicious. 

The table and chairs are set up in the center of the cell, and the guards leave, standing just outside. Within a few minutes, a man walks in with a tray of food. He sets it on the table and offers him a smile. 

“Please, sit,” he says. 

He gets the feeling he doesn’t have much of a choice. 

***

The man watches him eat with a sympathetic mask over his face. He’s well-dressed; so much so that he doesn’t fit in with the uniform clothing that most of the people here wear. He wears a neat three-piece suit, and his hair is well-groomed. 

The food is divine, though he eats slowly. He’s only had watered-down soup with the odd vegetable or unidentifiable meat floating around in it for months now. The thick, hot stew and bread offered to him now seem incredibly rich. He doesn’t manage to eat even half of it before he’s too full to take another bite. 

The man picks up his tray and sets it in the corner of the cell next to his water bucket. He returns to his seat and plasters a smile on his clean-shaven place. 

“Hello,” he says with a genial smile. “My name is Dr. Faustus.” 

He stares. This is a trap; this man is not to be trusted. 

“I understand your reluctance to speak to me,” Dr. Faustus says. “But I assure you that no harm will come to you during our session. Do you understand?”

He sits and waits for him to respond. A minute goes by before he nods, a single sharp motion. It makes his hair fall over his tired eyes. 

Dr. Faustus smiles. “Wonderful. That’s good, very good. I think you will find that the two of us will become close friends.” 

Yeah, that’ll happen. He sneers, pulling back his lips to show his teeth. 

“I know, I know.” The doctor puts his hands up placatingly. “Before friendship must come trust, and trust must be earned, yes?” 

He hates this, the way the doctor expects him to participate in this conversation. He seals his lips. They might hurt him for his noncompliance, but they’ll hurt him either way. It doesn’t matter.

The doctor continues speaking as if he had responded. “I suggest we do an exercise to get to know one another. It’s simple - we only have to speak. I will force you to do nothing; you are in control here.” 

It’s a blatant lie, and it makes a fire burn in the pit of his hollow gut. The doctor must see this in his eyes. 

“I only ask that you give me a chance. What do you have to lose?” 

There’s always something they can take, he’s discovered. He narrows his eyes. The doctor meets his gaze, nonplussed. 

“Fine,” he hisses, voice hoarse from disuse. 

The doctor smiles. “Very good. Now, will you tell me your name?” 

He frowns. This is something he should know, something lodged in the very core of his being. He tries to remember, but his mind is hazy and difficult to navigate. 

“You are having some difficulty remembering, yes?” 

This doctor guy should shut the fuck up and let him think. 

“I may be able to offer some assistance if you will allow me.” 

Fuck this guy. He drags his gaze over to the doctor’s face. The doctor smiles. 

“Very good.” The doctor pulls something from his pocket, and it gleams in the dim lighting. He flinches away, expecting the sting of a blade. It doesn’t come. 

In the doctor’s hand is a spoon. He frowns, confused. The doctor smiles. 

“If you look here,” he taps the bowl of the spoon with a manicured finger, “You may find that focusing on this object will allow you to remember.” 

His eyes follow the spoon as it moves leisurely back and forth. Out of nowhere, words seem to come to his mind; sounds, letters brought together in specific configurations. 

“Bucky,” his mouth says without his consent. 

The doctor smiles. “Very good.” The spoon moves, gleaming. Bucky’s eyes follow it. 

“You may find,” the doctor says, “That when you focus your mind, a sense of calm comes over you. You will find yourself relaxing, existing in this moment alone. Nothing will harm you, because you are safe here.” 

He blinks, his head suddenly feeling very heavy. 

“I’d like you to do one simple thing for me,” the doctor says. “All I ask is that you listen to what I have to say. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” his mouth says. 

“Very good. Listen to my voice - that is all you need to pay attention to. Now, keep your eyes on the spoon.” 

The spoon seems brighter, silver in the low light. 

“As I said before, when we focus the mind, we find relaxation. You are focusing very well right now, which means you are beginning to feel relaxed. It starts at your toes, yes? It moves from your toes to your calves to your knees, all of your muscles feeling heavy and relaxed.” 

They are heavy and relaxed, he finds. The chain is no longer biting into his ankles, and his feet are not poised to jump away from danger. 

“As you focus, you become more and more relaxed. It moves from your toes to your knees to your thighs, sinking deeper and deeper with every breath you take.” 

The spoon shines. 

“We move now from your thighs to your hips to your back, all of your muscles relaxing and letting go, focusing only on my voice.” 

His eyes feel heavy. He blinks, still focused on the spoon. 

“Very good. Now, relax your shoulders and arms, letting go of all of your fear and tension. Now move to your neck, and relax.” 

His entire body is fuzzy and heavy. He feels like he’s sinking deep into a pool of warm water. 

“Very good, now release all of the muscles in your head and face, only focusing on my voice, sinking deeper and deeper as you take slow, deep breaths.” 

He feels slack, like he’s in freefall. 

“Don’t close your eyes,” the doctor’s voice says from far away, “Focus, now.” 

The spoon gleams silver. 

“Excellent. Now, I am going to count backward from ten. With each number we count, you will sink deeper and deeper into this relaxed feeling. Ten, still focusing on my voice.” 

He blinks, eyes heavy. 

“Nine, taking deep breaths as we sink deeper and deeper into this relaxation.” 

He exhales through his nose. 

“Eight, grasping onto our happiest, calmest memories, bringing them with us as we go deeper and deeper.” 

“Seven, eyes drooping, becoming heavier and heavier with every breath we take.” 

He blinks again, eyes watering. 

“Six, feeling so relaxed we might just sink right into a deep sleep.” 

“Five, still focusing, still breathing deeply.” 

He stares at the spoon. 

“Four, holding our right hand out in front of us.” 

His arm is extended out before his face, but his eyes are still on the spoon. 

“Three, feeling heavier and heavier with each passing second.” 

“Two, feeling so relaxed that when I get to one, we will drop our right arm and fall with it right into a deep, deep sleep. Very good.” 

His arm is heavy. 

“And One, sleep.” 

His arm drops, and his eyes close. 

The doctor’s voice smiles. “Otlichno, Soldat.”  

Chapter Text

After the Flagsmashers had been neutralized, Sam had been worried that he might never see Bucky again. It was entirely possible that Bucky would leave the cookout with a smile on his face and disappear for good. In fact, Sam had almost been expecting it. 

He was pleasantly surprised when Bucky showed up for his next mission, suited up in his leather tac gear and his signature grumpy scowl. 

That had been a while ago. Since then, they’ve been working together on this and that periodically all over the world. 

Despite the fact that their job is technically very high risk, major injuries don’t happen very often. They’re reckless and crazy, yes, but they’re reckless and crazy in a very professional, careful way. They train relentlessly to prevent accidents from happening. 

Unfortunately, practice does not always make perfect. 

He should have known from the start that something terrible was going to happen. Not out of a misguided sense that he has to take everything onto his own shoulders or take responsibility for everything that happens, though that is something he’s working on. 

No, usually when Hydra’s involved, something bad is bound to happen. 

He can see from the very beginning that Bucky’s distracted. He’s unusually tense and quiet during the briefing, and sullen on the plane out to the old abandoned factory where the Hydra cell is supposedly hiding out. Sam tries to talk to him, to no avail.

“I’m fine, Sam,” he’d grunted, slipping an extra clip of bullets into his pocket. His movements were stilted, less fluid than they usually are. He’s lying. 

“Okay,” Sam says cautiously. “We’ll take it easy, then.” 

Bucky walks past him off of the plane. Sam follows with a sigh. 

***

Sam can tell something’s wrong as soon as the first few rooms are cleared. Bucky’s breathing is off, and his movements are so controlled they seem automated. 

“Bucky,” he hisses. 

Bucky ignores him and moves to open the next door in the base. The motion makes shadows dance across the chipping gray paint on the wall. 

“Hey, careful,” Sam whisper-shouts. “We need to do this right, or it could-” 

“Shut up, Sam,” Bucky growls at him. He sounds breathless, like he’s just run a long distance. “If someone’s here, they might hear us talking. This way.” 

Sam doesn’t say another word, but remains vigilant as he follows Bucky through the dark, abandoned factory. Some old, rusty machinery lies around, but it doesn’t look like it’s been used in years. As they get further back into the building, some of the machinery they find is less rusty and more duplicitous. 

“This doesn’t look good,” Sam mutters, poking a large metal cylinder with a foot. When he looks over at Bucky, his earlier worries come raging back. Bucky is pale, and Sam can see the whites of his eyes as he stares at the cylinder. He’s hyperventilating. 

“Okay,” he says, “I’m calling it. We’re getting out of here.” 

Bucky doesn’t seem to comprehend his words. His gaze is still hyper-focused on the cylinder. It seems like some sort of a pod, made of reinforced steel with a thick glass window near the top of- oh. “Oh God,” Sam mutters under his breath. It’s a cryostasis chamber, he thinks. The only one he’s ever seen before was the sleek, kinder-looking contraption Bucky had stayed in during his stay in Wakanda. This looks like something out of a horror film.  

“Okay,” Sam says, gently grasping Bucky’s forearm to lead him out of the factory. “Okay, we’re leaving now. Let’s go, Buck.” 

Bucky doesn’t move, stuttered breaths echoing in the damp room. 

Something crashes outside the door. 

“Shit!” Sam hisses, bodily pushing Bucky out the door. “Move! Now!” 

Bucky doesn’t look like he’s completely snapped out of whatever panic episode he’d been dealing with, but he does move, franticly scrambling out the door. Sam follows him. 

He hears the mechanical roar of some large piece of machinery; a forklift, maybe, or some sort of crane. Low voices carry to where he and Bucky are creeping towards the entrance, but Sam can’t make out exactly what they’re saying. He hopes to all hell that they haven’t been detected. 

He pulls Bucky behind a large pile of what looks like scrapped machine parts; rusty pipes, old engine parts, maybe a car door or two. They crouch low as heavy footsteps echo on the concrete floor. As they get closer, Bucky’s breath hitches. He’s clearly struggling to stay in the present. Sam grabs his arm in warning. He feels a little bad about the insensitivity of it, but they have to stay hidden. 

The footsteps stop about fifteen feet to Sam’s right. He can see the boots of the man who’d approached them; they’re heavy workboots, with sturdy laces. 

They remain still for what feels like hours before the man heaves a breath. 

“Ah, It’s nothin’, Marco! Probably just that damned cat got in here again.” 

Sam exhales slowly, relieved. They hadn’t been caught. 

The man walks over to the scrap pile and tugs something free from it, making the whole pile they’re hiding beneath sway dangerously. Sam’s heart beats rabbit-quick in his chest. 

They hadn’t been caught yet. 

“Okay, Hank!” “Marco” yells back. “We’ll move that one you’re next to make room for the package being delivered today, then move on to the loading bay.” 

Sam swallows down some of the bile threatening to make its way into his throat. They need to do something, and they need to do it now. 

Hank grunts and starts to move around the scrap pile, fastening straps to various pieces of rusty refuse. He seems to be working on the far end of the heap, not yet working on the things near where Sam and Bucky are hiding. Sam pushes at Bucky a little bit, encouraging him to cower lower under the machinery. Bucky moves, dangerously pliable. Sam hopes he snaps out of it soon. 

A rhythmic beeping noise echoes through the factory as Marco drives a small crane over. He and Hank attack its hook to the pile of parts Hank had secured, and metal groans as the pile is lifted off of the ground. 

The movement over where the men are working makes the scraps Sam and Bucky are hiding under shift. Sam swallows audibly. The parts they’re hidden under are in danger of collapsing. They need to get out of here as soon as possible. 

Thankfully, Hank and Marco soon retreat back to wherever they were before with the crane. 

“Okay,” Sam says, “C’mon, we’re clear.” He crawls out from under the pile and gestures for Bucky to follow him. 

Bucky stares at him for a second, eyes glassy and breathing still uneven. He’s at risk of passing out if he doesn’t stop that, but that’s something they’ll have to address once they’re out of the factory. Slowly, Bucky comprehends what Sam is telling him and moves to crawl out from under the scrap pile. His movements are jerky; Sam winces as he brushes up against an old, disassembled refrigerator. 

“Careful,” Sam cautions. 

Bucky nods and makes his way forward, almost all the way out. 

Something crashes on the other side of the factory, making both of them jump. Bucky hits the side of the pile, causing several items to shift and move around. Sam’s heart leaps into his throat when he hears Bucky’s choked-off scream; something large and heavy had fallen on his right leg. 

He’s hyperventilating rapidly now, loud in the echoey room. Sam stares for a full three seconds, stunned. 

“Okay,” he says, “Okay, we need to get that off of you.” 

Bucky doesn’t respond, completely out of it. 

Sam finds a sturdy metal pipe, and wedges it underneath the heap of metal crushing Bucky’s leg, 

“I’m gonna count to three,” he whispers, glancing in the direction Marco and Hank had gone to make sure they weren’t investigating the commotion. “You gotta crawl out of there when I lift this up. Got it?” 

Bucky doesn’t respond, eyes vacant and glassy. 

“Okay, here goes nothing,” Sam mutters. “One.” 

Bucky blinks. 

“Two.” 

On the other side of the factory, Sam hears the crane start up again.  

“Three,” he hisses and pushes down on the pole as hard as he can. The metal groans, and the pressure on Bucky’s leg is relieved. 

Bucky bites out a choked-off whine which breaks Sam’s heart, but manages to drag himself out of the way of the pile of metal parts. As quietly as he can, Sam releases his grip on the pole. He winces when the noise echoes through the room. 

Voices carry from the other side of the factory; Marco and Hank must have heard them. They have no time to spare. Sam grabs Bucky and half-carries him out of the factory to safety. 

***

He gets a look at Bucky’s leg once they’ve driven a reasonable distance from the factory. It doesn’t look good. 

“It’s broken,” Sam says. “I’m gonna have to reset the bones and splint it, then we’re getting your ass to a hospital.” 

“No hospital,” Bucky gasps, still a little out of it. 

Sam shakes his head, thinking it best not to argue the point at the moment. “Alright, this is gonna hurt, but I’ll go as fast as I can, okay? We’ll count to three again.” 

“No hospital, please,” Bucky whispers, glassy eyes tracking invisible assailants across the street. 

Sam sighs. “Deep breath for me, man, c’mon.” 

Bucky inhales shakily. Sam grabs one of Bucky’s leather gloves and folds it in half. “Bite this so you don’t crack your teeth. Deep breaths, man.” 

Bucky takes the glove with too-still hands and puts it in his mouth. He clasps his right hand over his left behind his back and nods. Sam frowns when his eyes don’t focus on his face. 

“One,” Sam says, getting his hands into position on Bucky’s shin. Bucky inhales sharply through his nose, and Sam grits his own teeth. He hates that he has to do this. 

“Two,” he says, taking a deep breath himself. Bucky’s eyes are glassy again. 

“Three,” Sam says and shifts the bone into place. A dagger of guilt drives itself into his chest when he hears Bucky’s muffled scream through the glove. He takes a shaky breath and ties the splint into place. 

“Okay,” he says, voice trembling, “I’m sorry, you’re okay, it’s okay now.” 

Bucky stares at him wide-eyed, the glove still in his mouth. 

Sam gently coaxes the glove free from his jaw and winces when he sees the indents his teeth left in the leather. 

“Breathe, Bucky,” he says, counting for him. 

They sit there, on the side of the road breathing together until they’re both calm enough to get into the car. 

***

Bucky doesn’t put up much of a fuss about going to the hospital, which gives Sam a pretty good idea of how he’s doing. After a few hours, he finds himself sitting at the side of Bucky’s hospital bed, waiting with him for the doctor to come in. 

“Stop it,” Bucky grumbles, breaking the silence. 

“I’m not doing anything,” Sam says. 

“You’re beating yourself up. Stop it.” 

Sam stares at the floor. He knows he did the right thing, but the whole experience had just… sucked. The sound of Bucky’s bone snapping back into place echoes around in his skull. 

“I should have listened to you, and I didn’t,” Bucky says. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t your fault.” 

Sam cracks a smile. “Doesn’t mean I can’t feel like absolute shit about it.” 

Bucky grins. “Guess not. But look on the bright side.” 

Sam blinks at him questioningly. 

“Sarah invited me down to her place while my leg heals. Which means you get to wait on me while I’m incapacitated. What an opportunity.” 

Sam snorts. “Shut up, man.” 

Bucky pulls out his phone with exaggerated excitement to prove it. Watching him, Sam smiles.

Chapter Text

Sam watches the scenery fly by as he peers out of the passenger side window. Bucky is driving (God save them all), and AJ and Cass are in the back seat playing I Spy. The trees are bright green from the recent thunderstorms, and there are puddles on the side of the road. The sky is cloudy, but in a cheerful sort of way; up ahead, Sam spots a rainbow. 

They’ve been in the car for nearly two hours now, making their way toward a wild animal rescue on the outskirts of Baton Rouge. Sam had seen an advertisement for it when he was driving to Sarah’s house on his way back from their most recent mission, and thought the boys might enjoy visiting. Sarah is spending the day with one of her friends, leaving them to have what Cass has dubbed their “guy’s day out.” 

Sam takes out his cell phone as Bucky pulls into the muddy, gravel driveway of the wild animal rescue. He texts Sarah to let her know they’ve arrived and makes sure that the flash on his camera is turned off. Bucky parks, and they herd the boys toward the building with a sign reading ‘office’ on the outside. 

AJ and Cass are practically vibrating with excitement. The office is dim and slightly musty; dust particles are visible where they float in the beam of sunlight coming in through a window. Bucky steps up to the front desk and rings the bell. 

“Not exactly what I expected from a place like this,” Bucky grunts, stepping back. 

Sam rolls his eyes. “Just because the office isn’t pristine doesn’t mean it’s a bad place,” he says. “Give it a chance.” 

“Yeah, give it a chance, Uncle Bucky,” AJ echoes, trying to get a look at the animals through the windows. 

“I was talking about the deer head on the wall, but okay,” Bucky mutters. 

Before Sam can retort, heavy footsteps approach from one of the rooms in the back. An older man with messy salt-and-pepper hair and a scruffy, uneven beard lumbers over to them. He wears a red shirt under dirty overalls and smells faintly of raw meat. His nametag reads ‘Pete.’ 

“Two adults, two children?” he asks. His voice is raspy, and his left eye wanders. 

“Yup,” Sam confirms. 

“That’ll be twenty-eight dollars,” Pete says. Sam hands over the money, and the man shoves it into his pocket. “Stay on the marked trails, don’t provoke the animals.” 

He turns and walks away. 

“Wow,” Sam says, turning to Bucky. “He’s almost as friendly as you are.” 

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Shut up.” 

***

They make their way from the office to the marked trails that Pete had spoken of. The trails are basically paths of mowed grass in a field of overgrown weeds. The enclosures look a little old, and the animals are difficult to see with all of the weeds. In some of the enclosures, old, rusty pieces of junk sit, presumably meant to be some sort of shelter for the animals. 

“There’s a fox,” Cass says, standing on his tiptoes and leaning forward to see over an old, wooden crate. “Cool.” 

The fox in question is lying in the only bit of shade in its enclosure, mouth open and tongue hanging out. Sam frowns and looks over to see Bucky’s reaction. 

Bucky looks concerned. “I don’t see any water in there,” he says. 

He’s right. Actually, come to think of it, Sam hasn’t seen any water available for the animals in any of the enclosures that they’ve visited. 

They make their way forward through the property. There are a variety of animals there; coyotes, two wolves, porcupines, a badger, a couple of gators, a bobcat, and even a brown bear. All of them seem a little worse for wear, and some of the cages seem too small. 

The boys are, overall, disappointed. Sam can tell by their neutrally downcast faces, even though they don’t say anything. By the time they get back to the car, Bucky is scowling. The boys get into the backseat of the car, but Sam stops Bucky before he can get into the driver’s seat. 

“I know that look,” he cautions. “What’re you thinking?” 

“This place is shady,” Bucky says. 

Sam rolls his eyes. No shit. “You wanna report them?” 

Bucky frowns. “I think I have a better idea.” 

Alarm bells go off in Sam’s head. “Bucky,” he warns. 

Bucky raises a hand to cut him off. “Hypothetically speaking-” 

“No!” Sam interrupts. “Nope, you and your hypotheticals are nothing but trouble.” 

“Just hear me out,” Bucky says. “Come on, Sam.” 

Sam sighs. “Fine. We can talk about this later. Right now, we should get the boys home.” 

Bucky nods. “Okay.” 

He gets into the driver’s seat and turns the key. The car engine roars to life, and within minutes, they’re on the road again, watching green scenery go by as they make their way back to Sarah’s house. 

***

Sarah is still out with her friend when they get back to the house, so Sam sends the boys outside to play. As soon as the door closes behind them, Bucky turns to Sam, vying for his attention. 

“Alright,” Sam says, “What did you have in mind?” 

Bucky’s eyes sparkle as he gears up to make his speech. The look would be amusing if it didn’t end up getting them into difficult situations so often. 

“We should go back tonight, and take a closer look around the place,” Bucky says. 

Sam frowns. “That’s trespassing, Bucky.” 

Bucky shrugs, eyes wide and innocent. “Only if we get caught.” 

Sam sighs and grabs his phone. “I’m going to call and report them.” 

“Wait!” Bucky grabs his wrist. “They can’t do anything without evidence. If they go to check it out, or the people running the place find out that they’ve been reported, they might cut their losses and move locations.” 

Sam’s brows furrow in concern. “And by ‘cut their losses,’ you mean…” 

“It looked like an animal trafficking ring,” Bucky says. “People keep animals like that and sell them to exotic animal collectors or poachers. They’d kill the animals and move shop.” 

Sam sighs and puts his phone back in his pocket. “All right.” 

Bucky grins. “Great. So, tonight we can drive around the back of the property, and-” 

“Hold on,” Sam holds up a hand. “If we’re going to do this, we’re doing it right.” 

Bucky nods. “What do you have in mind?” 

***

They pull up to the property at around ten pm. Sam turns off the headlights of the truck, and they creep around the edge of the property and park behind a grove of pine trees. 

They’re both dressed in all black (Sam is borrowing some of Bucky’s clothes), with gloves on their hands and boots on their feet. Bucky leads Sam over to the back side of the coyote enclosure. Sam turns on his flashlight and points it inside the fence. The coyotes’ eyes reflect yellow in the light. 

“There isn’t any water in there,” Sam says, gesturing to the still-empty water trough. “I saw a pump and some buckets over by the shed over there. You work on that, and I’ll get some pictures.” 

“Okay,” Bucky murmurs back. He melts into the shadows, creeping along the edge of the treeling until he’s out of sight. 

Sam shines his flashlight back into the enclosure and begins to take pictures. He moves from cage to cage, walking as quietly as he can manage. He doesn’t want to spook the animals or encourage them to make noise. 

He takes a picture of the bobcat’s cage and moves on. The grass is soft and dewy under his feet, and he’s suddenly grateful that Bucky had convinced him to wear boots. Each step he takes is calculated.

Sam steps on a twig, and the noise makes one of the wolves perk up. He freezes, his heart hammering in his chest. 

“I got some water to the coyotes, the badger, and the porcupines,” Bucky says, materializing behind him out of nowhere. Sam jumps and has a mild coronary. 

“ Jesus ,” he hisses. “Don’t do that.” 

“Just Bucky is fine,” Bucky says, smug. 

“I got some pictures,” Sam says. “Come on. I’ll help you with the rest of the water.” 

They go back to the water pump and quietly refill the buckets. Bucky shows him how to pick the locks for the enclosures and relock them when he exits. 

Sam creeps into the wolf enclosure and dumps two buckets of water into the trough. The animals watch him, but don’t approach. He stares one of them in the eyes, and its cool gaze sends a shiver down his spine. He can see the resemblance the Wakandans must have noticed in Bucky. 

He’s just exiting the bobcat’s cage when the light outside of the office building turns on, illuminating the property. 

“Shit,” he hisses, hastily relocking the enclosure. 

He slowly makes his way into the treeline so that he can remain hidden, and scans the area for Bucky. Two men make their way to the enclosures from the office building. Sam hears the sound of a rifle being loaded.

“Shit, ” he exhales. 

He wracks his mind, trying to think of where Bucky might be. They’ve gotten the badger, the fox, the coyotes, the wolves, the bobcat, the gators, and the porcupines. That just leaves… oh.

Oh no. 

Sam creeps toward the brown bear’s enclosure. 

Sure enough, Bucky’s inside with three buckets, filling the trough while keeping an eye on the bear. He doesn’t seem to have noticed that they have company. 

“Bucky,” he hisses. 

Bucky looks up at him and empties his second bucket, picking up the third. 

“Get out of there, ” Sam whisper-yells through clenched teeth. 

At that moment, the two men who had been up by the office approach them, prompting Sam to recede into the treeline to hide. 

“Hey!” one of the men - Pete, Sam realizes - shines his light onto Bucky, catching him red-handed. “You shouldn’t be here!” 

“Fuck you!” Bucky yells back. 

Sam sighs and wipes his hand over his face. 

The man with Pete runs around the side of the enclosure and locks it shut, with Bucky inside. 

Sam can’t hear Bucky from where he is, but his face clearly says “oh fuck.” 

The bear stirs and roars, and Bucky. Bucky drops his bucket. 

The bear charges. 

Bucky climbs the fencing of the enclosure, getting as high as he can. From there, Pete starts taking shots at him with his rifle. 

Luckily, Bucky has a lot of experience dodging bullets. He climbs along the top of the cage until he gets to the entrance, and breaks the lock with his vibranium hand. The bear charges him again, but he manages to get out of the cage before it manages to hit him with a swipe of its long, sharp claws. 

Bucky does something with the door to the cage, presumably to keep it shut, then barrels towards Sam like a 106-year-old bat out of hell. He grabs Sam’s arm, not breaking his stride, and drags him in the direction of the truck. “Go, go, go!” 

They get into the truck, and Sam starts the engine and drives away, going well above the speed limit. Soon enough, they’re home-free on the open road. 

***

Three days later, Pete and his associate are arrested and the rescue is shut down. Authorities have an anonymous tip with photographic evidence to thank; the animals are sent to a legitimate rescue. 

On a completely unrelated note, Bucky now refuses to participate in any conversation involving bears, which seems to be a new passion of Sam’s. 

Sarah desperately needs a vacation.

Chapter Text

It stands its ground, stance proud and menacing. The hairs along its body stand on end, and it extends its fangs in triumph. 

The journey has been long and arduous. Far has it traveled, from the man-made wooden structure over the water where its first attempt had been thwarted by the shiny-armed human, to the tree in the yard, and now to what the humans refer to as the ‘living room.’ It has the target of its attempts cornered. The time has come. 

Its soon-to-be victim cowers before it, releasing sounds akin to those of a dying rabbit. Malignant glee consumes its being; Captain America has nowhere to run. 

It scuttles forward. Captain America crawls backward again, to no avail. There is nowhere for him to go. 

It feels the vibrations of another human approaching from another area of the structure. It must make haste. 

Now is its time to strike. 

As it rushes forward, Captain America releases a devastating screech. The sound encourages it onward. 

“Sam, what in the ever-living hell.” It’s another human, a female with notes of disapproval in her voice. It rushes on; it must reach Captain America before it is noticed. 

“Spider!” Captain America stutters. 

Goddamnit. 

“Oh, what the hell,” she says. Her thundering footsteps approach it. 

It hastens its pace. It must reach Captain America! It must run! It must fly! It must-

The shadow of a large human foot falls over it. Two of its eyes look up; the female human is poised above it.

Before it can process a plan of attack, the foot is falling. 

The spider dies as it lived; small, angry, and unfulfilled.

Chapter Text

Sitting in uncomfortable places for long periods of time is familiar for him, as a sniper. He can remember a mission in the early 70s when he’d perched himself in between two buildings, the toes of his heavy combat boots digging into the cracks between the bricks to hold himself up hundreds of feet from the streets below. He’d held that position for eight hours before taking the shot. The mission had been a success, of course. There had never been any margin for error. 

There’s a meditative quality to it - waiting for the target to appear in his crosshairs, running the calculations for distance and windspeed through his mind, lining up the perfect shot. Inhaling, letting his finger fall to the trigger. Pulling, then letting out a long exhale as the target dropped dead. A sense of overwhelming relief when the words cross his mind: mission complete. 

Here and now, his days of hunting the names on Hydra’s blacklist are over. He finds his calm in the humid Louisiana breeze sending ripples over the surface of the water, in the sound of Sam’s nephews’ laughter, in the feeling of belonging that overtakes him when Sam’s hand falls on his shoulder or Sarah sends a blinding smile in his direction. 

It’s seemed unreal to him for so long, like a paradisal fever dream he’d somehow concocted. Too good to be true; too kind to be real. 

It’s funny how it takes a calamity to solidify the present’s reality in his mind. 

It was a stupid, stupid mistake. 

He and Sam had been out fixing something up on the boat. It had been raining. Sarah’d told them to wait until tomorrow, when the weather was supposed to be clear. Sam and Bucky hadn’t listened. 

The wooden deck of the boat had been slick with rainwater, and Sam had slipped and fallen. He hit his head on the hard, wooden railing of the boat and was out cold. 

Bucky doesn’t remember much of what happened after that. 

He remembers watching Sam fall, the moment playing over and over again in his mind, vividly colorful. Sam losing his footing. Sam’s startled cry. The crack of Sam’s head hitting the railing. 

He knows he must have carried Sam off of the boat, and that Sarah must have driven to the hospital, but the entire time is blank in his mind. The amnesia scares him, but distantly; the fear is muted, as if shouting at him from far away. 

And now, he sits where he’s sat for the last four hours - in a plastic chair by the side of Sam’s bed, waiting for him to wake up. 

He shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. It’s funny; he’d spent eight hours wedged between two buildings and been fine, but he can’t manage four hours in a plastic chair. It could be his inherent hatred of hospitals, he tells himself, though he knows that may not be the most probable explanation. 

He stares at the clock. Four hours and seven minutes now. 

He looks at the rain-stricken window and sighs, settling in for the long haul. 

***

Bucky jerks awake when there’s a change in the rhythmic beeping of Sam’s heart monitor. 

He looks over at his friend to see him twitching, moving his hand a little bit in the scratchy, cotton hospital blankets. 

“Sam,” he whispers. 

Sam groans. His eyes do not open. 

Bucky leans closer to him to see if he’s waking up. He finds himself smiling when Sam moves some more, opening his eyes and squeezing them shut again, sensitive to the light. 

“You’ve got one hell of a concussion,” Bucky says lowly, pressing the nurse button on the little remote by Sam’s bed. “How’re you feeling?” 

“Like shit,” Sam groans, voice raspy. “Where’m I?” 

“Hospital,” Bucky says. “I just called a nurse. They’ll be in to have a look at you soon.” 

“Ngh. Fine,” Sam murmurs, breathing evening out again. 

“Sam,” Bucky says, gently shaking his shoulder to keep him awake. “Wait for the doctor, okay? You can sleep again later.” 

“Mph,” Sam says, attempting to bury his face in the pillow. 

“Suffocating yourself won’t get you out of this.” 

“Ugh,” Sam groans. “So bossy.” 

Bucky frowns. “I resent that.” 

There’s a soft knock on the door, and Bucky calls for the nurse to come in. She looks Sam over, goes over some medical stuff with him, and then says he can go back to sleep. He’s out light a light before she even gets out the door. 

Bucky sighs and takes out his phone to text Sarah. 

Suddenly, these plastic chairs don’t seem so uncomfortable after all. 

Chapter Text

She clocks him as someone to keep an eye on as soon as he boards the plane. 

It’s become a habit after years of doing this; she’s come to notice the little things about people. How the teenager with the headphones will actually be less disruptive than the chatty businessman with the prominent ego. How the grandmothers tend to be mischievous, often in cahoots with their grandchildren in their harmless schemes. How the ones with the stiff postures and shifty eyes tend to be the ones with a fear of flying. She’s kept the peace during many a panic episode, though she tries to prevent these incidents whenever she can. 

He’s young; handsome, despite the dark rings beneath his eyes and the heavy burden he seems to carry under his skin. Even from here, his eyes are a piercing blue, observant and flicking every which way. He’s dressed heavily, with a worn hoodie pulled over a grey shirt, and black gloves on his hands. His brown hair is long and unruly, but tamed into something manageable. When he takes his seat, he walks with a stiff, uneven gait, like he’s injured on one side. 

He avoids eye contact when he passes her to take his seat, shuffling into the aisle with more grace than she would have expected. He sits near the window, tense as more passengers begin to fill in the rows. A young woman wearing a leather jacket and ripped jeans sits in his row leaving one seat between them. After a few minutes, the man seems to settle, and she makes her way up to the cockpit.

“We’re ready for lift-off,” the pilot says, and after the perfunctory safety speech, they take flight. 

Once they’re in the air flying steadily, she grabs her snack cart and begins to wheel it down the aisle. Peanuts and packaged cookies, it looks like. She’s partial to the oatmeal creme cookies, herself. 

She hands out a package of peanuts to a pair of grubby, toddler hands and makes sure to offer the mother a warm smile. Young mothers sometimes have such a hard time flying - they’re under so much pressure to keep their kids quiet. 

She sees him again when she comes near to the back of his plane. He’s pressed himself into the corner between the back of his seat and his window, still shifty and agitated. She makes sure to keep her posture open and her voice quiet as she approaches. 

“Peanuts or cookies?” she offers. He jumps and stares at her, wide-eyed. 

“Cookie,” the woman next to him grumbles, setting her phone face down in her lap. She hands the cookie over and offers a smile to the man. 

“Would you like anything?” she asks. 

His eyes get wider, if that were possible, bloodshot whites showing above and below the iris. His breathing picks up, and she sees the signs before she conceptualizes what’s happening in her mind. 

“It’s okay,” she says soothingly, “Just take a deep breath. You’re okay.” 

These anxious fliers always garner her sympathy. This seems to be one of the worst cases she’s ever seen - his body is still, but his breathing is irregular and he’s clearly worked up. 

“Is he okay?” the woman next to him asks. 

“He’s just anxious, I think,” she says calmly. The last thing she needs is more people getting worked up in response to this man. Directed to him, she asks, “Can I sit?”

He doesn’t say yes, but he doesn’t say no either, so she makes her way past Leather Jacket woman and sits beside him. 

“You okay?” she asks, “First time flying?” 

He shakes his head, hair flopping in front of his eyes, and swallows heavily. 

“Okay,” she says, “So if you’ve flown before, what’s something that helped you out with it then?”

He swallows again, and blinks once. Twice. “I-” his breath hitches, and his eyes water. She feels terrible, now - it seems she’s set him off again. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, leaning back a little to give him more space. Leather Jacket woman has earbuds in now, she realizes. 

He shakes his head helplessly. 

“Do you like cookies?” she asks. Maybe eating something might help; she’s more prone to nervousness when she’s hungry, herself. 

His mouth opens, but no words come forth. His eyes well up, and a single tear falls silently down his pale cheek. 

“I don’t know,” he whispers. 

It reminds her, suddenly, of cousin Jamal - the way he’d looked so worn and tired after finally coming home from Afghanistan. The way he walks, the gloves, the heavy clothes - it would make sense if he were a soldier. 

“How about we find out,” she suggests, offering him a package. Oatmeal creme; she wants him to have the best. 

He opens it slowly, like he’s never encountered packaged food before. Even slower, he brings the cookie to his mouth and takes a tentative bite. 

As he chews, his eyes light up and his lips curve into a smile which she finds herself returning. 

“Better?” she asks. 

“Affirmative,” he says around a vigorous mouthful. As much as he’s managed to endear himself to her in the last five minutes, this boy needs to learn some manners. 

“Alright, then,” she says. “You let me know if you need anything else.” 

She leaves him happily devouring his cookie, the shiny tear track drying forgotten on his face. 

Chapter Text

“I can’t believe you did that yourself, ” Sam groans, putting his head in his hands. “Seriously, Sarah, it would have taken you five minutes to call me, and-” 

She finds herself raising her eyebrows, grinning ironically. “Right,” she says, a scoff in her voice, “Five minutes to call, and then ten minutes for you to get your lazy ass over to the dock, and then another two hours or so of you complicating the whole process and making a mess of things. Sound about right?” 

“Mhm,” Tammy agrees, eyes laughing. “I remember that group project I had with you in eleventh grade, Sam - you remember it? The one where we had to build the bridge?”

“Sure,” Sam says. “I remember getting an A on it-” 

“It took three days for you to agree on all of our building materials!” Tammy exclaims, laughing. 

Sam groans. “Oh, come on! I’m good at things! Come on, Buck, back me up here.” 

Bucky blinks, his head jerking up into an alert position from where it had been drooping down toward his chest. “What?” 

Sarah lets her lips curve into an amused smile, laughter, and fondness bubbling up in her chest. Sam and Bucky had just arrived home late last night from some hush-hush mission God knows where, both exhausted and dead on their feet. Sam had gone straight to bed like a sensible person for once, bless him, but Bucky had insisted on staying up to do some paperwork. It seems he’s feeling the repercussions of pulling an all-nighter. 

“I’m good at things,” Sam reiterates. 

“Oh,” Bucky says, blinking several times in quick succession in a supposed attempt to vanquish the fatigue from his eyes. “Uh, no.” 

His hair is sticking up all over the place like the fur on the scruff of a disgruntled cat, and his blue eyes are wide and owlish. He blinks sleepily. The image it makes, along with his words, make the hysterics in her chest boil over. 

She can’t help it. Sarah laughs. 

Tammy joins in after seeing the offense and betrayal painted across poor Sam’s face. 

“Shut up,” Sam mutters. 

It’s really nice outside this evening - humid, but not unbearable; warm, but not sweltering. A soothing breeze whistles through the trees every so often, stirring the wind chimes just enough to get a couple of clear notes from the metal tubes. The four of them are sitting on the porch - Sarah and Tammy in the wicker chairs, and Bucky and Sam on the bench across from them. A small table sits between them, holding the pitcher of lemonade and their cups. 

“Well, you can,” Bucky backtracks, “do the, uh,” he waves a hand, searching for his words. He blinks, and blinks again. Seemingly pulls a blank. Grimaces sheepishly. “Uh. I forgot.” 

Sarah stifles her giggles. 

Sam sighs. “Thanks for trying, buddy,” he mutters. “So, Tammy, how’re things going at work?” 

Tammy talks about her job and her annoying coworkers, telling them about her overbearing boss and her desperate need for a change of pace. Sarah grimaces in sympathy, grateful that she doesn’t have to deal with a lot of that particular brand of tomfoolery being self-employed. 

She and Tammy get to talking about organizational tools, and she doesn’t realize how long they’ve been rambling until Sam lets out a soft “oof.” 

She and Tammy both turn to him at once. As soon as she sees what’s happened, her hand flies to her mouth to stifle her laughter. Tammy is shaking in silent hysterics beside her. 

“He must’ve been really tired,” Sarah whispers with a stifled grin. 

Sam scowls. 

Bucky, it seems, had fallen asleep where he’d been sitting. In doing so, he’d sort of fallen over sideways right onto Sam. 

“This is so cute,” Tammy says. 

“Hand me my phone,” Sarah orders quietly.

Sam’s scowl deepens. “Shut up,” he mutters. “Bucky,” he shakes Bucky’s shoulder gently. “Bucky, wake up.” 

Bucky snores and nuzzles into Sam’s shoulder. 

It sets Sarah and Tammy off again. 

Sarah’s hand is shaking as she holds her phone up to get a picture, but she thinks she manages to get at least one decent one. 

Sam’s scowling like a grumpy old man in all of them, but she’ll make do with what she has. 

Neither of them will ever hear the end of this.

Chapter Text

His reflection stares back at him with dead eyes curtained by long, greasy, blood-slick hair. Its teeth are bared in a way that does not emulate his own current expression, and chills run down his spine and into his ribs. His stomach churns, disturbed. 

“You aren’t me,” his mouth tells it, moving without his consent. The glass caging his reflection reflects the red glow of the hazy atmosphere around him. 

The reflection sneers, a faint flicker of violent intent uncloaking itself in the bloodshot eyes. “You deserve this,” it says in low, Russian-tinted tones. 

There is a sharp, clear noise, like ice shattering underneath heavy feet. 

The glass holding the reflection splinters and the cracks in its surface spread, vacating the confines of the area containing the reflection and migrating above him, behind him, all around him. 

As the cracks in the surface of the glass spread, the reflection moves from shard to shard, its menacing snarl dripping with malice. 

Its face contorts, features shifting. The Soldier disappears, and in its place-

“Aw, c’mon, Soldat ,” Rumlow taunts. “What’s with the face?” 

He squeezes his eyes shut, but the darkness burns his eyelids. He opens his wet eyes, searching for an escape. 

“ Sol-dat, ” Rumlow taunts. 

He hears the glass splintering again. Shards of glass fall around him, on top of him. He winces as they slice his skin, red blood welling up from the cuts. 

“C’mon, Soldier,” Rumlow drawls. “You’re fine. Suck it up.” His voice echoes off of the falling shards of glass, bouncing around, back and forth, inescapable. 

Blood drips into his eyes from a cut near his hairline. He attempts to blink it away, searching the falling pieces of glass for the specter-like reflections that seem to be out for his blood. It doesn’t take much effort; first glass shard he looks into, he sees Rumlow’s cruel eyes glaring back. 

“Pathetic,” Rumlow hisses, and his face shifts again, twisting in over itself until it takes the shape of another face-

A falling shard of glass cuts his cheek and a small cry of pain escapes his lips. He can barely see through the blood in his eyes, and his entire body feels like it’s burning. 

“I shouldn’t have saved you,” Steve says, blue eyes accusing. 

He tastes salt on his cracked lips. The face changes. 

“Let me out,” his mouth whispers. The sound is lost in the vacuum-like void he seems to be trapped in. 

A piece of shattered glass slices through his sleeve and into his arm. 

“Please,” he chokes out. 

“Deviation from given orders will not be tolerated,” Pierce says. 

“Shut up,” Bucky whispers. 

“Wipe him.” 

Glass falls against his throat, and his mouth opens to scream. No noise comes out; something warm and tacky slides down his throat and into the collar of his shirt, wetting it and making it stick to clammy skin. 

Pain wracks his entire body, stinging and aching and pulsing. He closes his eyes, trying to drown out the noise of the angry voices and the shattering glass, their sounds twisting together to form a horrible cacophony. 

The noise fades, and the glass stops shattering. 

Cautiously, he opens his eyes. 

There is only a single mirror before him now, like when he was first here. In the mirror is a single reflection. 

Dead eyes peer into his soul, shadowed by long, matted hair. He ignores the bared teeth. 

“What do you want,” he asks, defeated, voice hoarse. 

“I deserve this,” the reflection says, bruised face solemn. “And I am you.” 

“You’re not a part of me anymore,” he tries, voice tremulous. “You’ve been gone for years.” 

“No,” the reflection sneers. “I never left.” 

It lunges through the glass and grips him by the throat with a silver arm. 

“You deserve this,” it hisses. 

Oxygen deprivation clouds his vision, and the red, hazy glow in his peripheral fades to black. 

***

Bucky jolts awake, gasping. His hands climb to his throat on their own accord, tenderly pressing on vulnerable flesh, searching for bruises. 

The clock on the wall ticks, its presence solid and formidable. 

His eyes search the room, taking in his surroundings. He’s in the Wilsons’ living room. According to the clock, it’s about five minutes past three in the morning. 

He sighs, letting his hands drop into his lap. He shifts on the couch, uncomfortable in his clammy skin. 

Bucky lies back, resigned. He doubts he’ll be getting back to sleep any time soon; might as well wait here for dawn to grace the Louisiana morning with its presence. He wills his heart rate to slow, and attempts to moderate his breathing.

The small bird figurine on the windowsill watches with mocking eyes.

Chapter Text

Sam stares bemused as Bucky neatly tosses each of his combat knives straight into the center of the wooden target they have set up in Sarah’s yard. Once the last knife meets its target with an annoyingly satisfying thwack, Bucky turns to Sam with a cheeky grin. 

“We can go get them now,” he says.

Sam scowls and stalks toward the target, picking up each of his knives. Unlike Bucky’s, which are all in a neat, tight circle in the center of the target, Sam’s had either bounced off of its wooden face or gone too wide and out into the yard beyond it. It takes a painstaking amount of time to locate each of the knives, as they seem to be hidden in the long, green grass. Sarah’s yard could really use a mow. 

By the time he’s collected all of his weapons and made it back to their throwing point near one of the large oak trees in the yard, Bucky’s already ready to go again. 

Sam goes behind him and watches as he tosses each knife into the center of the target with an unerring accuracy. 

Again. 

Sam grimaces. 

Once Bucky’s last knife has been thrown, he turns to Sam. Catching his expression, Bucky grins. 

“You’re not that bad,” Bucky offers. 

“Yes,” Sam groans, “I am.” 

Bucky tilts his head to the side and sucks on a tooth like he agrees but doesn’t want to say so. 

“You’re pretty good with knife fighting, at least,” Bucky amends. 

Sam sighs. “I’ll get it,” he says. “I just need to practice, I guess.” 

“And fix your stance,” Bucky says. 

Sam frowns. “What?” 

“Like this,” Bucky says, moving his feet into the stance he adopts while he’s throwing. “Especially when you’re just learning, using the right stance will help your arm to move the right way when you throw, which will help with your accuracy.” 

Sam takes another look at Bucky’s positioning. He’s right, Sam supposes. He’s been standing stiff and rigid with his annoyance. He takes his knives, walks up to the makeshift throwing line they’d made, and moves his feet to mimic Bucky’s stance. 

“There you go,” Bucky says. 

Sam takes a knife in hand, takes a deep breath, and lets it fly, making sure to perfect his form. 

The knife sticks in the target with a satisfying thwack. 

He turns to Bucky, grinning. 

“There you go,” Bucky says with a smile, looking self-satisfied for some reason. 

“I think I got it now,” Sam says. 

He throws the rest of his knives. This time, four out of the six knives stick in the target. 

They retrieve their knives and sit in the shade to sharpen them and put them away. 

“Thanks for the tip,” Sam says as he tucks a knife into its case. 

Bucky nods, flipping a knife expertly and putting it away. “No problem.” 

“You gonna teach me that?” Sam asks. He’d never admit it, but Bucky’s knife skills have always impressed him a bit. He remembers how terrifying it had been watching the Winter Soldier and his blades go toe to toe with Steve, how fast the weapons had twisted and turned in mismatched hands. 

Bucky flips a knife again with a short laugh. “You sure?” 

“Sure,” Sam says, grasping a knife by the flat of the blade. “Show me again, slowly.” 

Bucky flips the knife again, a little slower. “It’s a lot of practice,” Bucky says. “Used to do this when me and the Howlies were waiting for Steve to get out of the tent Colonel Phillips had set up as his office, which was quite often.” 

Sam tries the flip very slowly and catches the knife by the handle. He smiles. 

“Why was Steve in the Colonel’s tent so often?” Sam asks. “They didn’t let you guys in on the meetings?” 

Bucky laughs. “No, he was getting reprimanded,” he says, flipping the knife from his left hand to his right. “He got in trouble all the damn time.” 

Sam snorts. “That tracks.” 

He tries the flip again, a little faster this time. As soon as the knife leaves his hand, the front door slams, startling him. 

“Sam,” Bucky says, alarmed. Sam looks at him. His eyes are wide and fixed on… 

Sam looks down at his lap. 

Oh. Shit. 

His knife is sticking handle up out of his leg. 

“Shit,” Bucky hisses, tearing part of his shirt off to press around the wound. “Hold that.” 

Sam presses down on the cloth, trying to stem the blood flow. “Grab some of Sarah’s kitchen towels,” he says through gritted teeth as the adrenaline wears off and the pain begins to set in. “And grab the car keys. You better not wreck my truck on the way to the hospital.” 

Bucky rushes off into the kitchen and returns shortly with Sarah on her heels. 

“Sarah’s driving,” Sam grits out as Bucky presses the a clean towel around the knife wound and secures it in place. Bucky’s driving skills leave something to be desired; he doesn’t think the guy is fully aware that traffic laws exist. 

Bucky frowns. “I drive faster, though.” 

“That’s the damn problem!” Sam hisses as Bucky helps him up and wraps his arm around his shoulder to support him. 

“Stop arguing and get in the damn truck!” Sarah says, rushing into the driver’s seat. 

Sam groans as Bucky hefts him into the passenger seat and does his seatbelt for him. “Seriously?” Sam grouses. His leg is injured, not his arms. 

“Safety first,” Bucky says, crawling into the back.

Dust flies up behind them as Sarah speeds out of the driveway. 

***

“You should be okay to go home as soon as we’re done talking here,” the doctor says. “No major arteries were cut. The stitches will need to be taken out in a few weeks. You should be careful not to tear them. I’m assuming you’re familiar with all of this, Mr. Wilson?” 

“Yep,” Sam says. 

Sarah scowls. “Too familiar,” she mutters under her breath. 

“Alright,” the doctor says. “I’ll leave this here for you then, and you’re free to go as soon as you’re ready.” 

She leaves the room. 

“Okay,” Sam says, grabbing the papers and handing them to Bucky. “Let’s get out of here.” 

“I don’t know, Bucky,” Sarah says. “You think if we leave him here he’ll learn his lesson?” 

Bucky shrugs. “Nah,” he says. He blushes and shifts from foot to foot. “Besides. It may not have entirely been all his fault. Maybe.” He stares at the floor. 

Sarah’s eyebrows raise. “That so?” 

Bucky nods, still staring at the floor. 

Sam snorts. “Cut the kicked puppy act, Buck,” he says. “We’re all good. Now let’s get out of here.” 

“Alright, fine,” Sarah says, lips turning up into a smile. 

“I don’t look like a kicked puppy,” Bucky mutters as they make their way out of the hospital. 

“You do,” Sam says. “You really, really do.” 

“Boys,” Sarah chides, unlocking the truck door. “You don’t stop arguing, I’ll leave you both here.” 

“Yes ma’am,” Bucky says, herding Sam into the truck like an overenthusiastic border collie. 

She pulls out of the parking lot, and they drive home. 

Chapter Text

Sam tugs at his cuffed wrists in a futile attempt to free himself. He’s sitting up against a large tree, green grass soft underneath him. His arms are shackled in front of him with a rope looped around the chain between the cuffs and tied to the tree's lowest branch. He’s stuck. 

Footsteps approach him, and Sam’s spirits rise when he catches sight of Bucky. 

“Bucky!” he whisper-shouts. “Help me!” 

Bucky stalks toward him with that stupid murderstrut of his, weapon in hand. He stares at Sam, face contemplative. 

“What are you doing?” Sam hisses. 

“Sorry, Sam,” Bucky drawls. “The other side’s given me a better offer.” 

Sam’s mouth drops open in shock and betrayal. 

Bucky levels his gun at Sam’s face. 

“For what it’s worth,” Bucky says, “We had a good run.” 

“Don’t do this, Buck,” Sam pleads. 

Bucky pulls the trigger. 

Sam sputters, face immediately drenched by the stream of water. AJ giggles, running over from behind Bucky. 

“We got him!” Cass shouts. The neighborhood kids cheer victoriously. 

Sam scowls at Bucky. “Traitor.” He presses the release button on the toy handcuffs, and they drop off of his wrists. 

Bucky offers his most charming smile. “No hard feelings?” 

Sam grabs a bucket of water and dumps it over his head.

Chapter Text

Steve hates it. 

As much as he abhors the notion of a third party influencing his sense of justice and what is right, he has to admit that all of the war propaganda had gotten to his head back home. The war he’d pictured then was full of bravery, valor, and heroism. Out here, in the cold, muddy country where they’re camping, waiting alert for any sign of German soldiers, a disillusioned reality tosses itself before his eyes like one of the fainting ladies in the old stories. 

He’d expected to see the blood and gore and the atrocities that are bound to come with any sort of warfare. Nothing could have prepared him for what it is really like. 

They’re doing good work. He knows that they’re doing good work. But sometimes, when he takes a candid look around at his surroundings and his companions, he wonders if this is worth it. 

With Bucky, especially. 

All of the Howlies have the shadow in their eyes, that occasional stare that speaks to unfathomable horrors witnessed. But Bucky especially - whether it’s because Steve knows him better than the rest or if he’s just that affected by whatever went down in the factory - he can’t stand to see Bucky’s happy, childhood self fade away into a seasoned soldier. 

He’s contemplated sending him home. Drafted a few letters, even, only to toss them into the fire when nobody was looking. Bucky would hate him for it, he thinks. And maybe there’s a little selfish spark in his own self that can’t stand the thought of being here without him. Bucky’s always been his safe place, his protector - without him by his side, what is Steve? 

Little guy from Brooklyn, too dumb to run away from a fight, Bucky had said. That’s about it, isn’t it?

Bucky wouldn’t go even if he was ordered to, Steve thinks. They’re both stuck here - Hydra needs to be defeated, and they’re the guys for the job. He hates it, though. Seeing the shadows in Bucky’s eyes grow and spread, making his smile brittle and his shoulders tense. He’d come back to camp several times in the past to see someone covering Bucky’s mouth with their hand as he screams in his sleep. Dum Dum’s solemn face - “He can’t be screamin’, Cap, the Krouts will hear.” 

Eventually, he’d stopped screaming. He shook like a leaf - in his sleep only, awake he had the steadiest hands of all of them - and the shadows in his eyes got deeper, but he plastered a smile so fake it hurt onto his face and said “Where to next, Cap?” and “I’m right as rain, Stevie,” and “I got your six” with that sharp grin of his. 

“No, you’re not,” Steve wants to say. He doesn’t. Bucky smiles, and he does his job, and they move on again and again and again. All the while, Bucky’s eyes become more haunted and his grin spreads wider, strained. 

Steve wishes he would scream. He wishes Bucky would acknowledge the ghosts in his eyes, the tremor in his hands when he isn’t quite awake yet, the nights where he stays awake smoking, unable to rest. 

Bucky doesn’t, of course. He follows Steve, devoted and loyal, like a lamb to the slaughter. 

He jumps at small noises and makes a joke. He ignores Steve’s worried glances, smokes another cigarette, and cleans his rifle.

Steve wishes he would scream. Anything but this. 

He finally gets his wish one day, hurtling through the Alpine mountains hundreds of feet above a treacherous ravine. He realizes he was wrong as Bucky’s final screams fade into the biting wind; he could handle the fake platitudes before - at least they were something. 

This final, absolute silence? This is what he can’t handle. 

Anything but this, he thinks to himself. Anything but this.

Chapter Text

The wall against the Soldier’s back is cold and rough, abrasive against bare skin. The palpitating heart throws itself against his chest again and again and again, vying for release from its confines. He doesn’t blame it. 

The handle of the knife is cool against the fingers of the inferior hand, slick even with the crushing grip he has on it. Pink-tinged fluid drips from the forehead into his vision. The blade is not regulation, fitted into a handle made of smooth, polished wood with metal pins. It made for a poor grip, slipping around in his palm as he’d been slicing and stabbing. Its shiny silver color resembles the superior arm; he’d managed to use it with a similar deadly force, severing jugulars and puncturing gastric arteries. 

The metallic scent of blood overwhelms the senses. Bodies lie still around him; some are fresh, and some seem to be in the early stages of decomposition. Small insects crawl into open cavities, emitting a buzzing noise as they flit around the blood-soaked room.

The time that the Soldier has spent here is indeterminable; his mind is clouded, and the chronology of recent events is unclear. There was a building, he thinks, and a target successfully eliminated. Then… then this. 

His knees dig into the unforgiving wooden boards of the floor, protected by the thick canvas tac pants covering his legs. The fabric is wet, clinging to his skin and constricting his movements. 

The door on the far end of the room creaks open, and the Soldier is immediately on his feet, attention focused on the intruder. He hadn’t heard anyone approach the building; sloppy, on his part - an infraction, a malfunction of his systems. 

The knife is held in a defensive position as the intruder slowly makes their way inside. It is a man - a single man - unarmed and unassuming. The Soldier is a formidable force, an indomitable opponent. For a single man to be sent up against him is either folly or a dangerous threat. 

“Hello,” the man says, showing white teeth. His posture is non-threatening in a way that is disconcertingly indeliberate. 

The Soldier does not engage. 

“Do you know where you are?” the man asks. He approaches slowly, pausing whenever the Soldier tenses. 

When the Soldier offers no response, the man exhales heavily, staring into his eyes fearlessly with an expression that prompts sensations of unease to arise within the Soldier’s gut. 

The Soldier presses himself further against the wall, inhaling shallowly. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the man says as if the very notion of the idea is laughable. White teeth flash in the low light. “I just want to help. Do you know where you are?” 

The Soldier growls, fingers tightening around the knife in his hand. “No.” 

The man’s smile widens. “That’s okay.” His voice is soft, harmonizing with the buzzing noises coming from the bodies. “You’re in New York. Do you know who you are?”

New York. It sparks something in the mind, shakes loose soft sensations in the memory. 

The man steps closer, and his grip on the knife changes from defensive to offensive. 

“Okay,” the man says, showing his palms. He takes a careful step backward. “Can you answer my question, please? Do you know who you are?” His light hair makes his position incredibly visible even in the dim lighting. 

“I’m…” the Soldier pauses, his mind offering no answer. He shakes it once from side to side as if a revelation will fall free. 

“It’s okay if you don’t remember,” the man says. 

The Soldier snarls, facing him. “Shut up,” he says, gaze flicking back and forth between the man and the door through which he came. 

“If you want to leave, you’ll have to go through me,” the man says, voice sterner than it’s ever been thus far in their conversation. “I don’t think you want anyone else to get hurt.” He stares pointedly at one of the corpses. 

“I don’t,” the Soldier says before thinking. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. They-” 

“It’s okay,” the man smiles again, stepping closer with his hands visible. His eyes are blue. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt either. Seems like we want the same thing, huh?” 

Hesitantly, the Soldier lowers the knife. Cautiously, he nods once, the movement sharp and stilted. 

“Okay,” the man says, the word getting mixed up with an exhale. He’s close enough now that his breath blows over the Soldier’s face. It smells faintly of peppermint candy and makes him think of Christmas. He’s not sure when he last celebrated Christmas; it feels like it’s been a long while. 

“You’re confused,” the man continues. He rests his hand on the Soldier’s metal shoulder. The Soldier doesn’t flinch. “I’d like to help you, if you’ll let me.” 

The Soldier considers the earnest blue eyes, the yellowish hair, the seductive words. His mind offers no counter, and the unease seems to vacate his body. 

“Okay,” he says.

The man smiles with white teeth, and there is a sudden, sharp pain in the left side of his neck. The man moves with him as he slides to the floor, the knife clattering from blood-slick fingers. 

“Good,” the man says with a kindly smile as the Soldier’s eyes flutter. “You just go to sleep now; you won’t remember a thing when you wake up.” 

He doesn’t. 

Chapter Text

Sam watches the second hand on the large clock in their current safe house as it ticks with each passing second. It’s early in the evening, but with how dark the sky is outside, it may as well be late into the night. Rain thunders down against the tin roof, sliding down the windowpanes in cascades of dripping water. Sam sighs. 

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Joaquin says from where he’s seated at the table tapping away at his laptop. “He’s probably just driving slowly because of the weather.” 

Sam treads over to the table and seats himself across from Joaquin with a grunt. “Bucky was right,” he says. “New Jersey sucks.” 

Joaquin huffs a laugh. 

They’re hiding out in a cabin in the woods a few miles outside of the Jackson township, laying low while the excitement from their most recent mission blows over. Bucky had left with the rental vehicle a while ago to pick up some food, and he hasn’t gotten back yet. 

Sam knows that the guy is more than capable of taking care of himself. If anyone actually tried to make a move on Bucky, chances are they’d be in for a nasty surprise. Still, sometimes it seems like Bucky neglects to include the rational side of his brain in the decision-making process. He can be a trouble magnet on the best of days; so Sam worries. Sue him. 

Thunder roars in the sky above them, echoing through the woods and rattling the bones of the cabin. Joaquin looks up from his laptop, the light from the screen illuminating his face. “Damn,” he mutters. 

“Tell me about it,” Sam says. “I’m going to try giving Bucky a call. Make sure he didn’t get struck by lightning.” 

Joaquin closes his laptop and packs it away in its case. “I’ll double-check the backup generator, and make sure it's in working order.” He walks off to the attached garage, and Sam takes out his phone. 

He cringes at the one bar of service showing on the top of the screen and punches in Bucky’s number. Bucky’s ghosting habit better truly be well and gone, or Sam is going to be having words. 

Thud. 

The noise comes from the front door. He freezes. 

Sam sets his phone down on the table. “Hello?” he calls. 

Thud.

Sam grabs one of the knives from the wooden block on the counter and slowly creeps toward the door. Carefully, he quietly undoes the slider lock. 

“Who’s there?” he asks again. 

Thud. 

Sam grabs the doorknob and throws the door wide open, knife at the ready. 

Bucky stands at the front step, one grocery bag in each hand, soaked to the bone. His hair is plastered to his forehead, and water is dripping down his face. He looks downright pathetic. Sam lowers the knife. 

“S-Sam,” Bucky stammers, teeth chattering from the cold. “Y-you going t-to let me i-in?” 

Sam steps aside, allowing him entrance into the cabin. 

“Man, what the hell happened to you?” Sam shakes his head, dumbfounded, watching as Bucky drips water all over the floor. 

Bucky shakes his head like a dog, making water droplets fly everywhere. Sam scowls when his shirt gets wet. 

“C-car b-broke down,” Bucky says, dropping the bags on the floor and tugging at his drenched jacket. He gets it off and drops it on the floor where it lands with a depressing splat. His blue t-shirt sticks to his skin underneath it. “Had t-to walk.” 

He turns back to face Sam, scowling. 

“Right,” Sam says, staring at the ruined groceries. “And how does- is that blood?” 

Sure enough, the whole front of Bucky’s shirt is darker than it should be, even wet with rainwater. The pool underneath Bucky’s person is definitely tinged pink under further inspection. 

Bucky sighs and mumbles something inaudible.

“What was that?” Sam asks, already moving closer to him to see where the wound is. 

“I had a b-bloody nose,” Bucky says, staring at the floor. 

Sam drops his hands from where they were about to tear Bucky’s shirt off. “How do you get a bloody nose?” 

“It was h-hard t-to see,” Bucky murmurs, sullen. “There was a t-tree on the s-side of the road, and-” 

“You walked into a tree,” Sam interrupts, the corners of his mouth turning up in amusement. 

Bucky scowls. “F-fuck you, Sam.” 

Sam can’t help it. He laughs. 

Bucky snarls at him, water still dripping from him onto the floor. 

“Come on, man,” Sam says through his giggles, dragging Bucky in the direction of the bathroom. “You need dry clothes.” He shoves Bucky inside, then gets some clothes for him from his duffle. A few minutes later, Bucky rejoins him, much dryer. 

“So,” Sam says with a grin. 

Bucky glares. “Don’t even go there, Samuel.” 

Sam raises his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine, I’ll drop it. You still cold?” 

He can tell by the expression written across Bucky’s face that he’s going to deny it, but the suppressed shivers going through his body give him away. Sam doesn’t give him a chance to respond; he herds him toward the futon couch by the fireplace and dumps a pile of blankets on top of him. 

“Get comfy,” Sam says. “I’m going to make some tea.” 

When he returns with two steaming mugs and a box of cookies he’d managed to salvage from the sodden grocery bags, Bucky is nearly invisible where he’s burrowed in his nest of blankets. 

“Gimme,” he mutters ungratefully, voice muffled by the fluffy green knit comforter covering half of his face. His damp hair sticks out in spikes above the nest. 

Sam gives him the tea and sets the cookies on the small coffee table in front of them within reach. 

There’s a small TV with a DVD player set up above the fireplace, and a shelf with movies on it off to the side. Sam turns on the TV, selects a move, inserts the disk, and presses play. Grand music fills the small room. 

He returns to the couch and sits next to Bucky, wrestling a single wool throw free from Bucky’s tangled blanket monstrosity. Bucky stares at him and chews his cookie slowly and deliberately. Sam rolls his eyes. 

“You should like this one,” Sam says as Frodo and Gandalf greet one another. 

Bucky hums, burrowing himself deeper into his cocoon. 

They sip their tea and munch on cookies as the hobbits embark on their journey. At some point, Joaquin emerges from the garage. 

“Generator’s good,” he announces, taking in the scene in front of him. “Oh, cool. Movie night?” 

“Take a seat,” Sam says, gesturing to the large chair off to the side. Joaquin swipes a cookie on his way to the armchair. 

They all settle in, warm, safe, and dry, oblivious to the pouring rain and the howling wind outside. 

Chapter Text

“You will tell me what I need to know,” the bald man says confidently, pacing leisurely before where Bucky and Sam are bound. 

Bucky glares at him and keeps his mouth shut. This guy’s somehow procured magnetic cuffs strong enough to hold him to his chair good and tight - there won’t be an easy way out of this situation. The fact that he and Sam had been caught at all still grates at him; it was a stupid mistake on his part, not clearing all of the rooms of the abandoned house they’d been searching. And now, they’re stuck, and Sam’s going to be late for Cass’s birthday party. 

Bucky feels like an asshole. 

“Tell me where Hydra’s laboratory is located, and you will not be harmed,” the bald man says. 

It’s a stupid question; when it was active, Hydra probably had well over a hundred laboratories active worldwide. Bucky doesn’t say that, though; he braces himself and stares the man in the eyes, defiant. 

Sam scoffs from where he’s cuffed to his own chair beside him. “Man, I have no idea what you’re talking about. And even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.” 

The bald man growls and stomps off to the side of the room. It’s not a very nice room; kind of dark, kind of musty, no windows, lots of gray. Bucky stares at the drain in the floor conveniently located beneath their feet. In the corner of his eye, he sees Sam tense as the bald man picks something up from a table placed up against the wall. 

“You know,” Bucky says quickly, trying to draw the man’s attention, “Coconut oil works wonders for the hair. You could give it a try,” he focuses his eyes on the man’s shiny scalp. 

Sam snorts. 

The bald man isn’t fazed; a slow smile creeps its way onto his face. In his hand is a hammer. Shit. 

“I know what you are doing,” he says, grin still in place. He turns his attention to Sam. Shit. “He,” he points at Sam with the hammer, “Would not know the information I seek. But the Winter Soldier would.” His smile widens. 

“Hang on now,” Bucky says. 

“And I am not so arrogant that I believe I could tame you ,” he says to Bucky. “But you seem quite fond of your friend here, yes?” 

Sam sucks in a sharp breath as the hammer gets a little too close to his face for comfort. 

“If you do not tell me what I want to know,” the man continues, “I will hurt your friend. Capiche?” 

“You don’t need to do that,” Bucky says, getting a little desperate now. 

“Don’t tell him, Bucky,” Sam says through gritted teeth. He’s already anticipating being hit. Shit. 

“Tell me,” the man says. 

“Wait a minute,” Bucky tries, grasping at straws. 

“Wrong answer.” The man brings the hammer down on Sam’s shin, and Sam lets out a choked-off scream of pain. “Shall we try this again?”

Sam is breathing raggedly, fingers digging into his palms. 

“Please,” Bucky says. He flinches as the hammer strikes bone again, even though he isn’t the one being hit. Sam is heaving, his breaths coming in loud and raspy. 

“Wrong answer,” the man says. 

Bucky closes his eyes. “I don’t know,” he says, desperate. 

There is silence. Slowly, Bucky opens his eyes. The bald man is standing in front of him, hammer hanging from loose fingers. There’s blood on it. Bucky immediately feels a surge of nausea overtake him. 

“I don’t believe you,” the man says. He smiles, white teeth gleaming. 

“Please,” Bucky says. “I really don’t know.” He tugs at his restraints futilely. 

The man laughs, loud and booming. It covers up the quiet ping of something small and metallic hitting the concrete floor; Bucky probably would not have noticed it if not for his enhanced senses. Something brushes up against his hands where they’re bound behind his back. Sam is handing him a loose nail. He immediately takes it and surreptitiously begins to work on his cuffs. 

“I still don’t believe you,” the man says. He turns to Sam just as Bucky manages to pick the mechanisms on the cuffs. They drop to the floor with a thud, and he springs from his seat, grabbing the man’s wrist and taking the hammer from his stupid, meaty fingers. Grasping onto the man by the collar of his shirt, he smashes his head against the wall. The man goes down fast, out cold. 

Bucky turns to Sam. There’s blood soaking his pants leg, dripping down onto the floor. He grimaces. 

“It’s not so bad,” Sam says through gritted teeth. 

“Shut up,” says Bucky. 

He walks over to the man where he’s crumpled on the floor and takes his belt, then finds a few more hammers (seriously, what the fuck) on the table on the side of the room. He finds the ones with the longest handles and breaks off the metal heads. 

“Here,” he says, using the materials to create a makeshift splint for Sam’s leg. He tightens the belt and makes sure it’s secure. “We should get out of here.” 

“Yeah,” Sam says. He’s sweating, probably in a lot of pain. They’ll need to find a hospital as soon as possible. “Take care of him first.” He nods toward the bald man. 

Bucky drags the man over to the chair he’d been sitting in and secures him with the abandoned cuffs. They’ll call the authorities to come and pick him up later. But for now-

“Okay,” Bucky says, helping Sam to his feet. Sam immediately grabs him for support, hissing as he takes the pressure off of his injured leg. 

“Okay,” Sam says, grabbing onto Bucky’s shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.” 

They slowly make their way out into the open air, and hail a car to drive them to the hospital. 

“I’m sorry you’ll be missing out on Cass’s party,” Bucky says. 

“Man, that’s not your fault,” Sam says, and yelps when the car goes over a pothole in the road. “Stop it with the eyes,” he says through gritted teeth. 

Bucky frowns. “What eyes?” 

Sam gives him his signature deadpan expression. Before Bucky can ask what that is supposed to mean, they’re pulling up at the entrance to the emergency room, and Bucky is helping Sam out of the car. He’ll have to ask him later. 

“If you drop me in the middle of the E.R., I’ll never forgive you,” Sam says as they make their way toward the reception desk. 

“I’m not gonna drop you,” Bucky grouses. 

He doesn’t.

Chapter Text

It’s a slow day, which is why he immediately notices the car. 

The small, blue Volkswagon bug wouldn’t be too noticeable on its own; but when three huge, grown-ass men drag themselves out of the tiny vehicle, Jonas can’t help but pay attention. The display is laughable; the third guy struggles as he tries to get out of the cramped back seat. 

One of the men pulls out a map and spreads it out over the roof of the car while another starts filling the gas tank. Tourists, probably; they get those here every so often. The third man walks across the pavement toward the store and opens the door, which gives a cheerful ding . The man jumps at the noise. Jonas busies himself behind the register, pretending that he hadn’t been watching the customers. 

The man is dressed in a dirty red shirt and jeans; his heavy boots are surprisingly silent as the makes his way over the tile floors near where the snacks line the shelves. Jonas watches as he paces. The poor guy doesn’t seem to know what he wants, wandering through the aisles nervously without an apparent destination. 

After about five minutes of watching the poor guy suffer, Jonas decides to do something about it. It’s a slow day anyway. What the hell. 

“Hello,” he says, approaching the man. “My name is Jonas.” 

“James,” the man says. He doesn’t seem startled by Jonas’s presence, but his eyes are still fixed on the snack items in front of him, flicking back and forth between the colorful bags. 

“James,” Jonas repeats, “Hi. Um. Can I help you find anything?”

James doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and Jonas almost goes back to his register, mortified. But then, he lets out a long, shaky sigh. 

“I don’t remember what he likes,” James says. His eyes are suddenly boring into Jonas’s, and he looks so pitiful that Jonas’s heart clenches in his chest. 

“Oh,” Jonas says. He peeks out the window; the other two guys are still busy near the bug. “Um. Okay, well, these are always a favorite-” he points to one of the most popular snack items on the shelf, “-or, you could always get these,” he points to another package. “I’ve never met anyone who didn’t like them.” 

James’s eyes flicker between the two suggestions like the wrong choice might bring about the end of the known world. 

“Peanuts,” he says suddenly, “Roasted peanuts. We used to get them at the baseball games.” 

“Oh,” Jonas says, blinking hard. James looks faintly ill, grimacing at the fluorescent lighting like his head hurts. “Okay. I think we have some of those, follow me.” 

James ends up bringing three packages of roasted peanuts, two bags of beef jerky, and some water bottles to the front counter. “Thank you,” he says somewhat sheepishly as Jonas rings up the items. 

“No problem.” Jonas smiles. 

Just as he’s scanning the last water bottle, one of the other two men makes his way into the store. 

“Hey,” he says, nodding stiltedly at James. 

“Sam,” James says, staring at Sam’s shoes. 

“I’ll pay for everything, and the gas,” Sam says, taking out his wallet. To James, “You better have gotten good snacks.” 

“I did,” James says confidently, defensively. 

Jonas feels inexplicably proud of him. 

“We’ll see,” Sam says as Jonas hands him his receipt. “Thanks, man.” 

“You’re welcome,” Jonas says. “Have a good day.” He smiles at James. 

James takes the snacks and drinks and smiles back.