Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Location: Brooklyn, New York

Date: September 22^nd 1949

Rebecca Barnes is the spitting image of her brother. They both have the same thick, dark hair. The same pale blue eyes. The kindness and approachability that made Bucky such a magnet for so many before he shipped out lives on in Becca. For Timothy ‘Dum Dum’ Dugan, who hasn’t seen that look since Austria, it’s momentarily breathtaking.

He’s met Becca only once since the end of the war, the day a circus of misery, a PR gauntlet crafted to ‘celebrate’ two fallen heroes: The Great Captain America and his ever-faithful sidekick Sargeant James ‘Bucky’ Barnes. The vultures got just enough right to make everything they got wrong twice as offensive. Dugan didn’t exactly present himself in the best light that day and wrote to Becca, both to apologize for failing to bring her brother home, and for punching a reporter right in front of her.

She wrote back, and they’ve been penpals ever since. He thinks she needs someone to tell the things a girl will only ever tell her big brother. Dugan drops everything to write back the second one of her letters finds him.

The café Becca picked is one of those places that has been around forever. You walk in and know exactly what the coffee will smell like, what the coffee will taste like, and how long the old guy behind the counter has been working there. The bell over the door chimes as he steps in, scanning the booths until he finds her.

She’s alone, but Dugan just has to close his eyes to imagine Bucky sitting beside her, long limbs sprawled in that lazy way he’d sometimes get when he was comfortable and relaxed in a place he knew well. He can picture that wicked grin he used to shoot Dugan sometimes, when mischief was on his agenda and he had a mind to pull Dugan along with him.

He blinks. Bucky’s gone.

Becca’s alone. And god, she looks just like him.

The way she smiles when she sees him, warm but knowing. The way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear like she’s weighing whether she wants to scold him or ask him how he’s been.

Like she already knows the answer.

She stands as he approaches, pulling her coat a little tighter around herself, and he realizes for the first time that she’s nervous.

“Becca.” He tugs off his hat, lets himself smile as he settles into the seat across from her. “Hell, it’s good to see ya, kid.”

She lets out a quiet breath - he’s not sure if it’s relief or something else - and her smile comes easier this time. “Timothy,” she says, teasing. She’s the only person he doesn’t mind calling him that. From anyone else, it feels like he’s wearing the wrong skin. “Coffee?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

They sit in comfortable silence as the waitress pours two cups. The café is full of the quiet, familiar sounds of Brooklyn life. People talking about their days. The hum of a radio behind the counter. The clatter of plates and silverware. For a minute, Dugan lets himself just exist in it, lets himself feel like maybe this is what his life would’ve been like if the war had ended differently.

Becca stirs sugar into her coffee, but she hasn’t taken a sip yet. She’s looking at him carefully, thoughtfully, clearly figuring out how to say what she brought him here to say.

Dugan knows better than to rush her. He’s gotten to know her well enough through their letters. He understands that Rebecca Barnes doesn’t do things by halves. She doesn’t waste words, either.

Still, he’s just as shit at silence as he’s always been.

He takes a sip of coffee, lets the warmth settle in his bones. “You look good, kid,” he says, because it’s true. “Better than last time I saw ya.”

Becca glances up at him, something wry in her expression. “That’s not a high bar to clear.”

“Maybe not,” Dugan admits. “But you do.”

She leans forward slightly, bracing her elbows on the table, hands wrapped around her cup. “You do, too,” she says. Then, softer, “How are you?”

Dugan exhales, sets his cup down. “Been keepin’ busy.”

Becca hums, unconvinced. “Busy’s not the same as okay.”

Becca ain’t her brother, but she sure as hell got his stubborn determination to fuss over Dugan. It doesn’t bother him. It’ll never bother him. Still, if she is anything like Bucky, her fretting over him is an excuse not to worry about herself.

“You didn’t ask me here to check up on me,” he says, gentle with her in a way he is with no one else in his life. “What’s on your mind?”

Becca huffs, her shoulders slumping, and in that way, she’s nothing like Bucky. He’d kick Dugan under the table and tell him to mind his own fucking business.

“You remember I told you about Billy?”

William ‘Billy’ Proctor. Formerly of the 107^th. Kid got the rot in his right foot from a stray bullet two weeks before Azzano and avoided the whole clusterfuck in Austria. Ended up behind a desk for the rest of the war and never quite forgave himself for it. Served his term, came home to Brooklyn. Got a job in a bank. Pays his mortgage on time, helps old ladies cross the street even though he himself uses a cane to walk. Volunteers his time at a soup kitchen. Decent enough kid.

“You want me to break his knees?” Dugan asks, clutching his coffee. “I can break his knees. What did he do?”

Becca rolls her eyes. “He asked me to marry him,” she says.

Oh. Probably not a knee-breaking offense. Still, he has to check.

“Do you want to marry him?”

“Of course I do!”

No broken knees, got it.

Dugan sets his coffee down with a thunk, grinning so wide it aches. “Well, hell, Becca! That’s great news!”

She huffs out a laugh, shaking her head as he reaches across the table to take her hand and give it a firm squeeze. He’s not gentle, never has been, not when something’s worth celebrating, but she squeezes back, her grip solid.

“Billy’s a good man,” he says, warmth in his voice. “Damn lucky, too.”

She snorts, finally taking a sip of her coffee. “I tell him that all the time.”

Dugan laughs, leaning back in his chair, full of something light, something good. “Damn right.”

But Becca’s not laughing with him. Not really. She’s playing with the edge of her napkin, rolling the paper between her fingers, eyes darting away and back again.

Dugan’s smile softens. “Alright, kid,” he says. “Out with it.”

Becca exhales, deep and slow. Her fingers tighten around her coffee cup.

“I need to ask you for something,” she says finally.

“Anything.” The answer is automatic.

That makes her smile, but it’s tight, hesitant. “Don’t say that just yet,” she warns. “You don’t know what it is.”

Dugan raises an eyebrow. “Ain’t much I wouldn’t do for you, kid.”

She nods, looking down at her coffee like the words are at the bottom of the cup. Then, finally, she lifts her head, squares her shoulders like a soldier about to march into battle – Bucky’s spine, Bucky’s stubbornness, and Dugan aches.

“I want you to walk me down the aisle.”

He blinks.

For the first time in a long time, words fail him.

Becca watches him carefully, searching his face for a reaction.

“My old man’s gone,” she continues, voice steadier now, like saying it once gave her the strength to finish. “And it… it should be Bucky. If it were anyone, it should be him. Or if not him, then Steve. But I don’t have them. And you…”

She stops, pressing her lips together, shaking her head to regroup.

“You’re all I got left of them,” she says, quieter now. “And if he were here, if he could choose someone for me, I know it’d be you.”

Dugan’s heart stutters, something tight and aching settling into his chest.

Jesus Christ.

He’s never been good at talking about this sort of thing. Never had the right words for the weight of loss, for the ache of missing pieces that can’t be put back together. He’s spent years drinking it down, pushing it aside, throwing punches at ghosts just to keep moving forward.

But this… this is different.

He clears his throat, forcing something steady into his voice. “You really want some scruffy old soldier like me walkin’ you down the aisle?”

Becca’s eyes flicker, something between exasperation and affection. “Dum Dum.”

And just like that, it’s a done deal.

Dugan nods, reaching for his coffee to buy himself a second, to gather himself, because God damn, this ain’t what he expected when he woke up this morning.

He lifts the cup halfway to his lips, then pauses, tilting his head. “You’re not gonna make me wear a suit, are you?”

Becca smirks. “Oh, you bet I am.”

Dugan groans, but there’s no real bite to it. “Bucky’s laughin’ at me from the afterlife, I know he is.”

Becca’s smile falters for half a second, just long enough for Dugan to reach across the table and take her hand again, holding on just tight enough to let her know he fucking gets it, too.

“Yeah,” she says softly, voice thick. “He probably is.”

They sit in silence for a beat, both of them thinking about the same damn thing.

Then Becca straightens, wiping at her eye like it was just an itch and not something else, and Dugan clears his throat, clapping his hands on the table with exaggerated finality.

“Alright, kid. Tell me when and where, and I’ll be there. Suit and all.”

Becca grins, and it’s real this time, bright and warm. “Good. ‘Cause I was gonna make you do it anyway.”

Dugan chuckles, shaking his head. “Bossy little thing.”

She lifts her chin, defiant. “Barnes trait.”

Dugan just laughs. Hell, maybe it is.

“I can tell the boys, right?”

Becca hesitates, biting her lip. “Yeah,” she says eventually. “Yeah, of course.”

Dugan narrows his eyes at her, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “That don’t sound like a woman real excited about the idea of The Howling Commandos showin’ up to her wedding.”

Becca huffs out a laugh, shaking her head. “It’s not that. I just…” She hesitates again, and Dugan’s grin fades a little, watching her carefully.

“Becca.”

She sighs, setting her coffee down and rubbing her fingers over the rim of the cup. “I don’t know if they’ll want to come.”

Dugan’s brow furrows. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

Becca looks at him, something raw in her eyes. “I know you still talk to them. But they don’t write me back.”

Dugan stills.

“They did, for a while,” she continues, voice softer now. “After the war. After…everything. But then, it stopped. I sent Christmas cards. I sent letters. I even tried sending postcards, just something small, y’know?” She shrugs, like it doesn’t matter, but the tight set of her shoulders says otherwise. “I just figured they didn’t want to be reminded.”

Dugan’s jaw tightens.

Becca’s wrong. That’s not why the boys stopped writing.

He remembers it real well.

It wasn’t that they didn’t want to be reminded—it was that every letter from Becca still feels like a goddamn gut punch.

Gabe, Monty, Jim, Jacques…. they all loved Bucky. They all grieved Bucky. And somehow, writing to Becca, Bucky’s kid sister, the girl they’d heard stories about in foxholes and behind enemy lines, the girl Bucky would’ve killed a man for, made it worse.

But he ain’t about to tell Becca that.

The boys have made Dugan their unofficial mouthpiece on all things Bucky, and he’s clearly failed to explain that in a way that makes any sense to her.

“That’s bullshit,” Dugan says, sitting back. “They’d want to be there. Hell, they’d come running if you asked. Just stubborn sons of bitches, that’s all.”

Becca gives him a look. “You sure?”

Dugan snorts. “Trust me. Wild horses ain’t gonna keep them away. Pretty sure Frenchie’s gonna want to dictate your wine list.” Miserable bastard's ruined cheap plonk for the lot of them.

She looks down, quiet for a second. Then she takes a breath, nodding. “Alright. If you think they’ll come, then yeah. I want them there.”

Dugan grins. “Good. ‘Cause I already made up my mind; I’m draggin’ ‘em whether you want ‘em or not.”

Becca rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling now, and that’s all Dugan needs.

“Don’t suppose I get to make ‘em wear suits, too?” she teases.

Dugan barks out a laugh. “Christ, kid. You really wanna test your luck, huh?”

They finish their coffee, settle the check, and step out onto the Brooklyn sidewalk, where the autumn air is just cool enough to carry a bite. Becca tucks her hands into her coat pockets, looking up at him with something close to gratitude.

He reaches out, ruffles her hair, just enough to be annoying, and smirks when she swats his hand away.

“Ass,” she mutters.

“The Barnes in you brings it out in me,” he throws back at her.

Becca huffs a laugh and rolls her eyes, but she steps in for a hug before they part ways. Dugan isn’t sure who holds on longer, but he knows it ain’t him who pulls away first.

She leaves him standing on the curb, watching as she disappears down the block, weaving through people on her way back home.

Dugan shoves his hands in his pockets and starts walking.

His good humor leaves him the farther he goes. The weight of Becca’s request settles in his chest like an old wound. Something that’s never quite healed right, no matter how many years have passed.

Bucky should be here.

Bucky should be the one walking Becca down the aisle. The one rolling his eyes when she fusses over seating arrangements, the one standing beside her as she says I do, the one making dumb speeches about how Billy better treat her right or he’ll be setting a new record with his rifle.

Dugan should be in the audience, arms crossed, listening to it all with a drink in his hand.

Instead, he’s gonna be the one standing there in Bucky’s place.

It ain’t right.

It ain’t fucking fair.

He exhales sharply and stops in front of a liquor store. The sign flickers in the window, buzzing faintly against the quiet of the street.

He enters. Leaves five minutes later with a bottle wrapped in a paper bag.

He finds a bench in the park and sits, stretching his legs out in front of him, tilting his head back to stare at the sky. The city hums around him, busy as ever, but it feels quieter than it used to.

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out his pack of cigarettes. He lights one, takes a drag, and exhales slowly, watching the smoke curl into the night.

He shifts the bottle in his lap, fingers drumming idly against the paper bag. A habit, a hesitation. He should just crack it open. Take a swig. Let the warmth of it dull the ache in his chest, blur the sharp edges of everything that’s too damn clear tonight.

Instead, he sits there, cigarette dangling from his lips, bottle untouched, feeling the weight of it all settle in his bones.

“You’d call me a sap for this,” he mutters under his breath, like the ghost of Bucky Barnes is sitting beside him. Maybe he is. “But you should be here, kid.”

The wind picks up, rustling the trees, and Dugan closes his eyes.

He can almost hear Bucky laughing.

The sound of tires rolling slow over asphalt cuts through the quiet, and Dugan doesn’t even bother looking up. Not until the car stops a few feet away, engine idling.

He takes another drag of his cigarette.

Footsteps.

A figure steps into his periphery, casting a long shadow in the streetlamp glow.

“Agent Dugan.”

Dugan exhales smoke, tilting his head slightly. The man standing there is young. Too young for Dugan’s liking. Crew cut. Crisp SHIELD-issue trench coat, hands clasped behind his back like he’s about to give a briefing.

Dugan takes another slow drag before flicking the cigarette away, watching the ember spark and fizzle out in the damp grass.

“Not gonna ask how you found me,” he drawls. “That’d be insultin’ to both of us.”

The agent doesn’t even twitch. “You’re needed back at HQ.”

Dugan barks out a laugh, shaking his head. He gives the bottle one last contemplative glance before standing, stretching his shoulders.

“Let’s get this over with,” he mutters, yanking his coat tighter around himself.

The agent moves to open the car door for him, but Dugan beats him to it, sliding into the backseat with a grunt.

As the door shuts and the car pulls away from the curb, he glances out the window, watching Brooklyn disappear behind him.

Bucky’s ghost stays behind.

Carter better have a damn good reason for pulling him in tonight.

Location: Camp Leigh, New Jersey

Date: September 22^nd 1949

Howard Stark is running on fumes.

There’s a dull, persistent ache settled deep in the base of his skull, the kind of tiredness that has nothing to do with lack of sleep and everything to do with the fact that he’s been slamming himself against the same brick wall for years now.

Find Rogers. Find the Valkyrie. Bring him home.

The words have become a mantra, a mission, a stubborn insistence wrapped up in equal parts guilt and desperation.

Every time he blinks, he sees Steve’s file in front of him, the official words Presumed Killed in Action stamped across the top. He sees his own failure, the loss of the most valuable weapon the US has ever developed, and he sees Steve’s slow, self-effacing little smile. He sees all of it, just not the answers he so desperately needs.

It’s late. He should be heading home for a hot bath if nothing else.  He spends months bouncing between SHIELD’s Arctic base, where they’re running sonar sweeps of the ice, and the headquarters in New Jersey, where he’s hounded by responsibility every other minute. Carter’s in charge of the day-to-day running of things, but that doesn’t stop the old guard from thinking they can come to Howard for an answer to a request Peggy’s already denied.

He’s only back here for a few days. A short stopover, a chance to check in before heading back north with the next round of search equipment.

He scrubs a hand over his face as he strides through the halls of SHIELD’s headquarters, barely listening to the agent rattling off updates beside him. Something about funding allocations. Equipment requests.

Boring. Bureaucratic. Not his problem.

He’s got one foot in his office when another voice cuts through the noise.

“Ah, Mister Stark. If I could have just a moment of your time?”

Howard knows that voice.

Dr. Arnim Zola. The creepy little Nazi bastard they’ve brought into the fold. Howard’s never been more resentful of another man’s intelligence than he is of Zola’s. if the man was half a degree less brilliant, he’d have been shot in the head years ago.

He sighs, bracing a hand against the doorframe before turning, expression carefully neutral.

Zola stands a few feet away, flanked by two SHIELD agents: armed, of course. They don’t let him walk these halls alone. Not after everything he’s done.

Zola’s eyes glint behind the thick lenses of his glasses, his round face twisted into something that isn’t quite a smile, but Howard’s too damn tired to figure out what it is.

“I was hoping we could discuss my recent request for funding,” Zola says, tilting his head.

Howard gestures vaguely toward his office. “You’ve got two minutes.”

Zola nods, stepping inside. The guards stay by the door.

Howard collapses into his chair, rubbing his temples as Zola seats himself across from him, hands folded neatly over his stomach.

“I understand,” Zola begins, tone measured, polite, “that much of SHIELD’s current focus is on locating the missing Valkyrie. A noble pursuit.”

Howard narrows his eyes. “I don’t need your opinion on that.”

Zola inclines his head. “Of course. But in the meantime, my work must continue. I require additional funding for my weapons research. The space I am currently using is inadequate. I am requesting the transfer of resources to a more suitable location.”

“Something wrong with the state-of-the-art, multi-million-dollar setup you’ve currently got?”

Zola’s lips are thin and bloodless as they narrow. “It lacks the privacy to-“

“To what? Create more death rays to obliterate us all in our sleep?” Howard scoffs. “Yeah, sorry pal. Not happening. We want you here. Where we can keep an eye on you.”

Zola offers a tight-lipped smile, the kind of expression that makes Howard’s skin crawl. It’s not quite smug, but it’s close enough to piss him off.

“I understand your hesitations, Mister Stark,” Zola says, steepling his fingers. “But you and I both know that war does not end simply because treaties are signed.”

Howard exhales through his nose, already regretting letting the little bastard into his office. “What’s your point?”

Zola leans forward, dropping his voice. “The Soviets are making… advances.”

Howard scoffs, leaning back in his chair. “No shit.”

Zola doesn’t react. “Their research into human enhancement continues. My contacts suggest they have already begun testing on subjects captured during the war.”

Howard’s fingers tighten around the edge of his desk. “You mean your old contacts.”

Zola shrugs, entirely unbothered by the implication. “Perhaps. You must see the necessity of my work. The Americans are years behind. Your super-soldier program is… incomplete. Captain Rogers was one success, but a miracle cannot be replicated without proper experimentation.”

Howard’s jaw ticks. “We’re not experimenting on people.”

Zola tilts his head. “Ah, but that is precisely what the Soviets are doing.”

Howard shakes his head. “You want more funding? You want a bigger space to work? You wanna play god in a shinier lab? Not happening.”

Zola doesn’t look disappointed. He looks prepared. Which is worse.

“Do you know what happens to nations that hesitate, Mister Stark?” he asks, tone mild. “They become obsolete. The war may be over, but the next one has already begun. And I assure you, the Soviets are not waiting for you to catch up.”

Howard exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. His mind is already somewhere else, back in the Arctic, back with sonar scans and ice sheets and the stubborn, stupid hope that somewhere out there, Steve Rogers is waiting for them to find him.

He doesn’t have time for this. Not for Zola’s little power plays. Not for the paranoia that keeps inching its way into every classified meeting SHIELD holds.

“No human test subjects,” he says, hoping he sounds as serious as he means to be. He’s not naïve; he can even appreciate what Zola is saying, but the subject of human experimentation reminds him of how long it took to get Sergeant Barnes’s blood out of his favorite suit, and it’s ten times worse when sat opposite the man who’d designed the very worst of HYDRA’s experiments.

Zola nods eagerly. “Of course. I understand. You will permit me live test subjects, though? Animals only, of course.”

“Fine, fine. You can have your rabbits, rats. Whatever.”

“And the laboratory?”

“Still not seeing what’s wrong with your current setup.”

Zola adjusts his glasses. “For one, it is inconvenient. Too many interruptions.” His smile is thin. “You of all people understand the need for a controlled environment, ja?”

Howard finally looks at him, narrowing his eyes. “You trying to say someone’s breathing down your neck too much?”

Zola lifts a shoulder, all nonchalance. “There are limitations to what can be achieved in a space designed for oversight rather than progress. If I am to produce meaningful results, I need proper conditions.”

Howard waves a hand. “You’re researching weapons, doc. Not splitting the atom. You’ll live.”

Zola hums, the sound just a little too knowing. He opens the folder, flipping a page with a casual flick of his fingers. “Would you believe, Mister Stark, that the Soviets are not quite so hindered?”

Howard taps his fingers against the desk, unimpressed. “You hear a lot of things.”

Zola shrugs. “And yet, you seem very interested whenever I do.”

Howard scowls. “You’re dancing around whatever point you’re trying to make. Either say it or get out of my office.”

Zola doesn’t blink. “The world is changing, Mister Stark. If we refuse to keep up, we will be left behind.”

Howard clenches his jaw. He’s heard this song and dance before, from every bureaucrat and war hawk who thinks the next fight is just around the corner. Hell, maybe they’re right. But he doesn’t have time for Cold War paranoia, not when he’s still trying to clean up the last one.

“SHIELD is doing just fine,” he says. “You can stop pretending you’re a patriot, doc.”

Zola smiles, a little too pleased with himself. “Of course. You and I, we are men of science. We understand that progress is not about patriotism. It is about survival.”

Howard is already tired of this conversation. “So what do you need? A bigger desk? A fancy new coffee machine? What’s so goddamn essential that you need your own personal playground?”

Zola turns a page in his file, considering it with faux amusement. “A modest expansion. Nothing extravagant. Just a space with fewer interruptions, fewer distractions.” His gaze flickers up. “More… privacy.”

Howard scoffs. “Yeah, not happening. You work where we can keep an eye on you, or you don’t work at all.”

“I understand,” Zola nods, giving in far too easily. “Perhaps we can consider it at a later date.”

Howard highly doubts it. Peggy’ll have his nuts for earrings. “Whatever. We done?”

Zola makes a show of checking his watch, then tilts his head, expression mild. “Almost. Just one last matter. A formality, really.”

Howard exhales sharply, rubbing his temple. “Of course there is.”

Zola folds his hands neatly over the folder in his lap. “I have been presented with an… opportunity. A piece of Soviet technology has recently come into circulation—liberated, you might say, by one of my former colleagues.” He lifts a shoulder. “A rare chance to examine their progress firsthand.”

Howard gives him a flat look. “You’re asking me to approve stolen Soviet tech? Jesus, Zola, why don’t we just send ‘em an invitation to start a war while we’re at it?”

Zola chuckles, shaking his head. “The Soviets do not own innovation, Mister Stark. Ideas belong to those who know how to use them. Surely you understand that.”

Howard doesn’t like the way he says it, like it’s some kind of shared philosophy between them. Like they’re cut from the same cloth.

“You want to smuggle some stolen Red weapon into SHIELD’s backyard?” Howard leans forward, hands clasped between his knees. “Yeah, that’s gonna be a no.”

Zola tuts, not the least bit deterred. “It is already en route. I merely need clearance for a secure holding facility.”

Howard closes his eyes for a brief moment, willing his patience to hold. “You son of a bitch. You really don’t give a damn about approval, do you? You just like the dance.”

Zola offers a small, knowing smile. “You misunderstand. I have utmost respect for protocol. I would not dream of taking such action without making the proper arrangements.”

Howard stares at him, jaw tightening. “You already got a place picked out.”

Zola spreads his hands in an innocent gesture. “Naturally.”

Howard rubs a hand down his face, trying to summon the energy to care about this as much as he knows he should. But he’s thinking about ice fields and sonar pings, about wreckage sitting beneath miles of frozen ocean. He’s thinking about Steve.

And Zola, the little bastard, knows it.

“You wanna poke at some Soviet hunk of metal, fine,” Howard mutters, already regretting it. “But it stays under SHIELD jurisdiction. No secret labs, no black-market trading, no off-the-books nonsense.” He points a finger at Zola. “And you don’t get a goddamn thing unless Carter or I sign off on it. Got it?”

Zola’s smile barely twitches. “Of course, Mister Stark. I would expect nothing less. I’ll have the paperwork delivered for your approval before you leave.”

“Fine.” Howard gestures at the door. “Now get the hell out of my office.”

Zola stands smoothly, nodding as he gathers his folder. “Always a pleasure.”

Howard watches him go.

Nasty little HYDRA bastard.

He turns back to the pile of sonar reports.

Rogers is out there.

One problem at a time.

Location: Akademgorodok, Novosibirsk, Siberia

Date: September 22^nd 1949

“The transport is ready for you, Colonel.”

Vasily Karpov doesn’t respond immediately. He pulls his coat tighter around himself, staring at the train car in front of him. The wind cuts through the valley, sharp and bitter, but he barely feels it. His body is accustomed to the cold. Has been for years.

The young officer shifts beside him, waiting, but Karpov makes no move to acknowledge him. The train looms in the floodlights, steel doors reinforced, locks heavy. They are precautions, necessary ones. The last time they moved the cargo, it did not go well.

That was before they decided to put him on ice.

He exhales, the breath curling white in the frigid air, and steps forward. The guards at the door straighten immediately. Karpov doesn’t need to look to know their hands are already hovering near their weapons.

They are afraid.

Good. They should be.

He grips the latch and pulls.

The door hisses as it seals open, a rush of sterile air spilling out into the night. It is colder in here than it is outside, the stench of chemicals thick, clinging to his throat as he steps in. The overhead fluorescents hum softly, casting the inside of the transport in harsh, clinical light.

And there he is.

The cargo. The asset.

James Barnes.

Sleeping. Still. Suspended in a quiet that feels unnatural.

Karpov swallows, but his mouth is dry. His fingers twitch at his sides. A habit. A hesitation.

He has been avoiding this moment. For months, he has told himself that the war is not over, that America is already preparing for the next one. That HYDRA - old enemies, old threats - are necessary allies against what is coming. That everything he has done, everything he will do, is for the future of the Soviet Union.

It is easy to believe that when he is not standing here.

When he is not looking at him.

There are men Karpov has fought for. Men he has killed for. Men he has mourned.

But James Barnes…

He was different.

A thousand memories claw their way to the surface, unwelcome. Laughter echoing in a ruined town square. A body pressed against his in the dark. Whispered promises that never had the chance to become anything more.

The Americans say he is dead. The war’s shadow, lost to history alongside Captain America.

It  would have been better that way.

Better than this.

He steps closer, boots echoing in the silence. Barnes does not move. The stillness is unsettling. Unnatural. It is preferable to the alternative. Sometimes, when he is awake, he’ll look at Vasily with his lovely blue eyes and remember. The confusion, the betrayal, is somehow worse than his terror.

Now…

Now, he is motionless.

Karpov forces himself to look at his face. The sharp features are unchanged, save for the pallor of his skin, the faint bruising beneath his eyes. He is thinner. He is colder. But he is...

Alive.

A miracle, they called it. A stroke of luck that he survived, that they had found him before the Americans could.

A miracle. There is no word for the opposite of that.

He inhales through his nose. The air smells of chemicals and iron and ghosts.

HYDRA will take him from here. That was the agreement. They have the resources, the expertise, the means to mold him into something that will serve the cause.

The thought sits like a stone in his chest.

The enemy of my enemy, he reminds himself.

The Americans are already proving to be the greater threat. Their scientists, their weapons, their new hunger for war. If Moscow does not act, they will be left behind.

That is what he tells himself.

And yet…

His hand lifts before he can stop it. He does not touch the glass caging the man who was once his lover. Does not reach for him the way he once did in the dark.

He curls his fingers into a fist and pulls away.

This is necessary.

This is for the good of the country.

This is war.

Barnes stirs, barely. A flicker of movement beneath his closed eyelids. A breath, deeper than the last. They tell him that even in the ice, he dreams.

The serum keeps him strong. Keeps him alive.

Keeps him theirs.

Karpov turns sharply and strides for the door.

He does not look back.

If he does, he will not leave.

Chapter Text

Location: Camp Leigh, New Jersey

Date: September 22^nd 1949

Peggy’s let her tea go cold four times in the span of one endless evening’s work. By the time she looks up from the report faxed over from Semipalatinsk and remembers her brew, it’s another cold casualty of what’s rapidly shaping up to be the month from Hell.

She’s considering drinking it anyway when a hand swipes in from her left and swaps out the cold mug for a fresh, steaming replacement. Gabe Jones smiles down at her with vague exasperation in his eyes.

“Oh,” Peggy says, wrapping her hands around the mug and letting the warmth chase away the creep of exhaustion. “You’re a bloody wonderful man.”

Gabe gives a small, amused shrug as he pulls up a chair beside her. “I try.” He rests his arm casually on the back of the chair. “You looking forward to the reunion?” He asks casually. She knows him well enough to hear the things he doesn’t come outright and say.

Peggy sighs, rolling her shoulders back and wincing at the ache. “If you can call it that.” It’s been a while since they’ve all been together. Too long, actually. They’ve all gone their separate ways after the war. There are many things unsaid lingering between them. None of them were at their best in those early days.

Gabe catches the look in her eyes and leans back slightly, his smile shifting into something more knowing. “Dugan’s still mad at you, huh?”

“Not just mad,” Peggy mutters under her breath, tapping the pen against the desk. “I swear, he’s been giving me the cold shoulder since the moment I stepped into this chair.”

“It’s not because he doesn’t think you deserve to be there,” Gabe tells her.

“No,” Peggy agrees. “For all his faults, I don’t believe he considers my gender to be much of a factor.” Dugan is, in so many ways, delightfully straightforward in his enmities. “Honestly, I’d rather it were.”

“Then you could be pissed right back at him,” Gabe nods. When she arches an eyebrow, he just laughs. “You remember I spent two years running around Europe with the man. His temper’s entertaining as hell when you’re not on the wrong end of it.”

Peggy chuckles softly, her lips quirking into a reluctant smile. “I do remember. I think the man’s idea of a holiday was finding someone to punch.”

Gabe shrugs with mock innocence. “Eh, he’s a lot more agreeable when you’re on his good side.”

“I’m not sure that’s even possible at this point,” Peggy says, glancing down at the files in front of her. Her fingers trace the edges absently, thoughts still drifting to the past. “I thought time would improve things, but I think we’re all still recovering. Dugan, especially.”

Gabe’s tone softens. “He’ll get there. A good smack across the back of the head usually works wonders.”

Peggy laughs again, the sound light and genuine this time. “Maybe I’ll try that next time.” She takes another sip of her tea, feeling the warmth spread through her chest. “He’ll never forgive me for Zola,” she admits, resisting the urge to shudder at the vile little monster’s name.

Gabe’s default good nature blinks into a void. “No,” he says flatly. “Probably not.”

“And you? Is his voice just the loudest, or does he speak for all of you?” She already knows the answer, and as much as she doesn’t want to hear it, she knows she has to. The kind of decisions she has to make every single day are not, and should never, be easy ones.

“You asking if I’m okay with him being here? Does it really matter how I feel about it?”

“I respect your opinion,” Peggy tells him.

He arches his eyebrow. “But not Dugan’s.”

“I respect all of your opinions,” she amends, a little exasperated. It’s not a lie. She has more time for the men of the Howling Commandos than just about anyone else on the planet.

Gabe stares at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. She can see the gears turning in his head. He’s trying to keep his emotions in check, but she can see the cracks in the facade. Eventually, he says, “You weren’t there when we found him in Bavaria. Bucky, I mean. You… none of you…. You read the reports. You didn’t see it. What Zola did.”

“I saw the aftermath,” she says softly, remembering with perfect clarity the open, empty look on Bucky’s face when she and Howard arrived with transport to help them escape.

“Five and a half hours,” Gabe shakes his head. “The damage he did in less than half a day… Peggy, I am worried what he will do if he gets even a fraction of the freedom he had then.”

“I know. But Howard will oversee-“

“Howard,” Gabe interrupts, “Is too busy trying to find Steve to give a shit about anything happening here.”

Gabe shifts in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly as he leans forward. “I know you’ve got a plan, Peg. You always do. But you can’t tell me you’re not worried.”

“I worry every day,” she admits quietly, her voice low, almost drowned in the weight of the admission. “But SHIELD doesn’t work if we let fear rule us.” She leans back in her chair, eyes focused on the scattered files in front of her. “We have to use him for what he is: a tool. No matter how vile, no matter what it costs us.”

“You ever think about what Steve’d say about it?” The shot is a little below the belt, but she respects Gabe all the more for taking it.

“Steve would rip out his spine,” she says dryly. The wartime PR machine might like to make Captain America out as some pinnacle of moral virtue, but Steve Rogers was a scrappy little shit before the serum and twice as bad with it after. Bringing Zola in to face justice was one thing. This… he’d not hesitate.

“He’d be right to.” Gabe looks at her for a long moment. His expression is raw. Then he nods, but it’s reluctant, the weight of resignation settling between them. “I’m not sure how long I can go along with this,” he says quietly. “But I’ll follow your lead, Peggy. I’ll follow your lead. Just… when you and Howard founded SHIELD, you put Bucky’s name on the Wall of Valor. The day comes when you can’t look at it when you walk in here every morning, that’s the day we put a bullet in his head.”

It's… that’s fair. She nods wordlessly, worried that day has already arrived.

Location: UNDISCLOSED, Siberia

Date: September 23^rd 1949

The newly established entity of SHIELD is a significant point of curiosity for the MGB. Curiosity, and concern. For Vasily Karpov, the invitation to enter the belly of the beast is one that comes with significant risk. He is a known entity to those holding the highest ranks in America’s newest security agency. They know, or believe they know, who he is. They know, or believe they know, his weaknesses.

That works in his favor. What they believe they know makes them easier to manipulate. The arrogance of power is an insidious thing.

That is assuming he doesn’t get shot in the head the second he lands on US soil.

The risk they are taking here is foolish, and yet… it is on him to serve and obey.

It is a long flight from Serbia to New Jersey. They are forced to stop and refuel twice, each time landing in bases controlled by the US Military and each time enduring the suspicion and fastidiousness of the over-eager, gungho Americans on duty.

Both times, their itinerary is reviewed. Both times, someone puts their hands on the crate containing a supposedly dead American war hero and tells Karpov that they are watching him. That he better not do anything suspicious.

It’s cold in the belly of the plane. No one notices how much warmer that crate is compared to the others. It takes a great deal of energy to power a cryogenic tank. Fortunately for Vasily, Captain America and his team of commandos once considered him an ally. There was no reason not to trust their allies to clean up the HYDRA bases they ran rampant through. A single power cell liberated from the ruins of the Kiev Factory will power the chamber for a hundred years or more.

The plane’s engines hum low and constant, vibrating through the floorboards of the cramped, cold cabin. He leans back in his seat, eyes shut but mind wide awake. He taps his fingers against the armrest, a nervous habit he’s been trying to break. The flight is long, and each minute is a countdown.

It’s the unknown that gnaws at him. The uncertainty of how they’ll react when he steps off the plane and enters the maw of SHIELD, the bastard child of the organization that conspired with Captain America to shame and humiliate him. To cast sickening, vile aspersions on his character.

They no doubt see him as a necessary evil, an agent of chaos who can be kept on a tight leash. Or perhaps they see him as a tool, something to be used and discarded when they no longer find it useful.

What they don’t realize is that any leash they think they can put on him will always have far more slack than they will ever know. And if things go sideways, there’s always the possibility of pulling the rope tight and leaving them dangling.

The idea of being in the heart of American military power makes his skin crawl. Karpov had never been fond of the West: its brashness, overt confidence, and tendency to bury problems beneath the shiny surface of its ideals. But SHIELD… SHIELD is different. More insidious. More dangerous. They’ve proven that by not only pardoning Arnim Zola but by giving him enough freedom, he’s been allowed, authorized, perhaps even encouraged, to accept the offer of a hand from Vasily and the Krasnaya Komnata.

When they take flight for the final time, Vasily unfastens the buckles of his harness and crosses the space between him and the cargo. There are dozens of crates and cases: this one looks no different from any of the others.

The lock is coded to his thumbprint, though. The lid is so heavy no one can open it without alerting anyone close by.

For the first time in years, there is no one to question either his authority or right to open it up.

Through the glass chamber inside, Bucky Barnes sleeps the sleep of the dead.

“This will be temporary,” he promises. “Once the doctor completes his work, we will return home.”

He speaks only in Russian. The man who was once James Barnes no longer recognizes his mother tongue. He bleeds Russian red and screams Russian pleas. He is theirs, even if he can never be Karpov’s.

Vasily has not, will not, touch him the way he once did. He considers it his duty to ensure no others try.

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t miss him. The desire, the anger that once consumed him is a fire drenched by pity and duty, leaving little behind but the embers of something he might once have craved.

Bucky was never his to claim. With Steve Rogers out of the picture, perhaps they could have… but no. That ship has sailed. He will not see that handsome face alight with pleasure again. In one of his more amenable moods, there would be no doubt that he could have Bucky in his bed, a willing, eager lover. His devotion is absolute, his days, nights and everything in between dictated at Karpov’s will.

It would not be right. It would not be honorable. No part of the man he once pleasured lives anymore. He does not know, he cannot comprehend, and Vasily will not take.

In his less amiable moods, Vasily would be risking life and limb even to consider it.

“One thing to be grateful for,” Vasily sighs, thoughts of those days inevitably bringing with it the memory of Bucky in his arms, demons behind his eyes and whispers of horrors inflicted upon him by the very man Karpov is about to deliver him to. “You don’t remember him today. You won’t remember him tomorrow.”

There is nothing kind in any of the things Karpov has seen done to Bucky Barnes, but in this, perhaps, there lives a lie he can tell himself to make what will come next bearable for at least one of them.

Location: Camp Leigh, New Jersey

Date: September 23^rd 1949

It’s a little past midnight by the time James Montgomery ‘Monty’ Falsworth rolls out of the belly of a C-119 and into SHIELD HQ. Dugan, who has been losing every hand of poker he’s played to an overly wired Jim Morita, sends up a momentary prayer of thanks as he’s spared the chance to bet his rent.

“About fucking time you showed up,” he says. He’s not seen Monty in fuck, nearly two years now. Stuffy British bastard looks exactly the same as he joins Dugan, Morita and Jacques Dernier in the otherwise empty briefing room. It’s a little more than a broom closet stuffed between the comms room and Carter’s office, but there’s enough space for them to sprawl out and do their damnedest not to talk about anything more controversial than the weather while waiting for everyone to arrive.

“How was the flight?” Morita’s less of an asshole than Dugan and even manages to look like he actually cares.

Dugan cares. He just…

Well, he hates not knowing how to be around the only fucking family he’s got left. The Howling Commandos gave all of them a home right when they most needed it and none of them have a single fucking clue how to live in that home now the roof’s been blown off and the front door kicked in. Steve and Bucky should be there. They’re not. And without them, none of the pieces fit quite right.

“Bumpy,” Monty grimaces, rolling his shoulder. He’s never quite healed up right after Bavaria. One too many bumps and bruises over the decades, he likes to say with a wan smile. He eyes the game of cards left unfinished between Dugan and Morita. “Losing again?”

“Letting him win. Didn’t want the kid’s confidence to take a hit, y’know?”

Morita glances up, rolling his eyes. “Right, right. Cos you’re such a generous fucking loser.” He winks at Monty, clearly still buzzing from whatever was in the coffee he’s been chugging.

Always the more diplomatic of them, Monty doesn’t dig any deeper. “No Jonesy?”

“He’s with Carter,” Morita shrugs. It sounds offhanded enough, but Dugan waggles his eyebrows when Monty looks to him questioningly.

“Ah.”

Morita shrugs, flipping a card in the air. “You know how it is. All serious business and secret missions, blah, blah, blah.”

“Bang up job we all did of retiring,” Monty snorts. “Though I have to say… I’m not sure how I feel about being on this side of the Pond.”

Dugan lets out a low chuckle, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded across his chest. “Yeah, well, you ain’t the only one. Thought I was gonna wake up to a postcard view from the Caribbean by now, not stuck in a fucking broom closet in New Jersey.”

Monty takes a seat, the old wooden chair creaking under his weight, and shrugs nonchalantly. “I didn’t think you’d have the patience for that life. Thought you’d be in a bar fight at the very least.”

Dugan gives him a look, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Only on Fridays. With you lot gone, what’s a guy supposed to do? Gotta keep myself entertained somehow.” He gestures to the half-done game of poker. “I don’t lose that badly on my own.”

Jacques Dernier, who’s been quietly watching, finally speaks up, his accent thick but his smile easy. “You all are bad at cards.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “What did you think of the plane? I like them more than the Fairchild. More comfortable.”

Monty grimaces again, rubbing his neck. “Comfortable? Only if you enjoy being bounced around like a sack of potatoes. I’d have taken a boat if I didn’t think they’d make me row the whole way.”

Morita laughs. “Coulda borrowed one of those decommissioned U-Boats.”

“It was tempting, you have no idea,” Monty responds dryly, leaning back in his chair. “I think I actually prefer flying when I’m getting shot.”

Dugan grins. “That’s the spirit!”

Monty flicks a look at the clock, noting the absence of anyone else. “So, are we pretending we don’t secretly all want to climb the walls, or are we actually going to address the reason Jacques and I had to cross the Atlantic?” He gestures vaguely at the cluttered table, which still holds remnants of paperwork and half-empty cups of coffee.

“Jim said it: secret missions, blah, blah, blah,” Dugan shrugs. “Though Carter’s got actual spies and shit now so fuck knows what she needs us for?”

“Ah, right,” Monty nods. “And here I thought we were supposed to be some sort of elite team.”

“Retired elite, remember?” Dugan grins. “We’re just waiting for the young bucks to do the heavy lifting.”

“Pfft, you couldn’t lift a bag of groceries if your life depended on it,” Morita shoots back, chuckling to himself as he picks up another card and flips it dramatically. "You're getting old."

This would be where Dugan fires back. Continue the same trend they’ve followed every day of service together since a cage in Austria. He tries, and the words dry up in his throat. He’s missed the miserable bastards, something rotten, and he’s missed how easy it is to be around them.

Life isn’t supposed to be easy.

With Dugan’s silence, the energy in the room flattens. They all shift uncomfortably, recognising the change but unsure how to address it.

Eventually, it’s Monty who speaks up.  “What have you been up to the past couple of years? You get that bar up and running, Dugan?”

Dugan gives a slow, exaggerated stretch. “Eh, no bar. Still had some go in me, figured I’d be useful. Make sure the world didn’t fall apart now we’re being all ‘diplomatic’ about shit. About as glamorous as it sounds.”

Morita snorts. “Says the fella who probably took more naps than actual assignments.”

“Just setting morale straight. Healthy living and all that crap,” Dugan shoots back, lighting a fresh smoke. He should mention Becca and her request, but mentioning Becca will be opening the door to Bucky’s ghost and they’re all too off-balance for that.

“I’m learning how to make a mean stew. Keeps the belly full,” Jacques offers.

“Fuck,” Morita groans. “Now I’m hungry.”

“Did you eat before you came?” Dernier demands.

Morita rolls his eyes. “No, mom.”

“Nothing changes! You’re always like this!”

“I missed the chow line one time and-“

Their bickering is broken by a noise at the door. Dugan looks up with mock surprise. “Well, look who decided to show up.”

Monty follows Dugan’s gaze, a smile tugging at his lips as he catches the familiar figure of Peggy Carter walking in, Jonesy close behind. 

“Gentlemen,” Peggy flashes them a genuine smile, and, for a second, they’re all back in London. It… fuck, they’re not supposed to miss the fucking war. “Thank you for your patience.”

“You call, we run,” Dugan drawls. It’s sharper than he means it to be. “If this is about Zola…”

She’s a lot better at hiding her frustration than she used to be. “I guess we’re addressing the elephant in the room first, then. I assume everyone knows?”

Dugan scoffs. As if he didn’t fucking tell them.

“Right,” Peggy says dryly. “Well, I will tell you the same thing I’ve told everyone else. Yes, Zola is under SHIELD’s protection. No, we are not allowing him to resume his work in the Super Soldier serum, and yes, I will shoot him the second I believe him to be more of a risk than an asset.”

“Now’s good,” Morita says under his breath.

“I understand the position this puts you all in,” she says, her shoulders slumping. “I do. But our situation is precarious. The war was bitterly expensive, and it opened our eyes to entire worlds of threats we simply have never been prepared to face before. We stay ahead of the curve only by seizing every opportunity we have, which…” she untucks a folder from under her arm and hands out a report to each of them. “Incidentally, is why you’re here. We’ve recently received word that the Soviets have successfully tested their first atomic weapon. They are well on their way to developing a nuclear arsenal.”

“So, it’s true then,” Monty murmurs, leaning forward, the implications of Peggy’s statement settling like a cold gust over him. “We figured they’ve been playing catch-up all this time, and now we’re in the middle of a race we’re barely starting to run.”

Peggy doesn’t answer right away, but there’s a hardness to her eyes that was never there when Steve was alive. “This isn’t just about keeping the Soviets from gaining ground,” she says, her tone cool. “If all they were doing were developing nuclear capabilities, I would be concerned, but it wouldn’t be a SHIELD problem.”

“You think they’ve got their hands on what, ex-HYDRA tech?” Monty frowns.

“It’s a distinct possibility. A decade ago, they were a century behind us in terms of technical advancement. Now, well, they’re giving us a run for our money.”

Morita snorts, rubbing his temple as though trying to clear the fog from his head. “Fantastic. So, we’re not even the biggest fish anymore?”

Peggy shoots him a look, one that says she’s not in the mood for jokes. “I need people I trust. People who understand what it’s like to be in the thick of it, who can move when the clock’s ticking and when the game’s got no rules.” Her eyes flick to each of them in turn. “I wouldn’t have called you here if I didn’t believe you’re still the best at what you do.”

Dugan exhales slowly, leaning back in his chair and staring up at the ceiling. “We ain’t exactly known for being subtle. Last I checked, we weren’t at war with the commies. You put us on the ground; no guarantee it’ll stay that way,” he points out.

“Yes, well…” Peggy starts.

“Oh shit,” Morita grumbles. “We’re gonna get fucking shot.”

“I was going to say-“

“You start a sentence with ‘yes, well’ and I end up picking shrapnel outta someone’s ass.”

“I think we can avoid that this time,” Peggy says, not sounding too certain herself. “Though it might require some restraint from yourselves.”

“Might?” Dernier raises an eyebrow.

“It will definitely require it,” Peggy amends. “We have intelligence suggesting that the Soviets aren’t just developing nuclear weapons. They’re working on something we believe could escalate into a full-on arms race between them and the US.”

“What’s your source?” Monty asks.

Peggy hesitates.

Oh, Dugan does not like where this is going. He looks over at Jones, who shrugs. Apparently, Carter’s not filled him in ahead of time. He’s not sure if that’s a good thing or not.

“The suspense is killing us,” Dugan tells her.

She takes a breath. “The Red Room.”

Morita pulls a face. “Sounds sleazy.”

“Oh, you’ll like it even less when I tell you who is running it.” She waits a moment, certain to get all their attention, then says, “Colonel Vasily Karpov.”

Dugan throws himself to his feet. “I’m in. Monty, get the fucking pliers.” He can’t kill Zola? Fine. But Karpov got off too fucking lightly. He’s happy to remedy that.

“I’d rather you didn’t just murder the man,” Peggy says, now more exasperated than wary. “At least not until you’re certain he’s told you everything he knows.”

Dugan holds his hands up in a gesture of innocence. “Relax, Carter. Peace is our profession now. Murder’s just a hobby.”

“Well, that’s reassuring. His plane lands in an hour.”

"Karpov's coming here?" Dugan's voice drops an octave, his fingers itching for a weapon. "To the States? You're fucking kidding me."

The room temperature seems to plummet. Monty's face has gone rigid, his usual British reserve barely containing the storm brewing underneath. Jacques mutters something in French that doesn't need translation: the venom in his tone says everything.

"Unfortunately not." Peggy's expression is carefully neutral, but Dugan can see the tightness around her eyes. "He approached us with an offer to resume the project he and Howard were working on together back in London. We figured it would be prudent to accept. He clearly wants something from us, and, well, we need something from him. If the Red Room is leading the Soviet's weapons development program, we need to know what they are working on."

Dugan slams his hand on the table. Cards from the forgotten poker game flutter to the floor. "This is the same bastard who—" He can't even finish the sentence. “Fucking hell, Peggy. First war criminals, now rapists? What are we even doing here?”

Peggy hesitates. She’s clearly uncomfortable. “We don’t -“

“Finish that sentence,” Morita warns her.

"We saw," Dugan adds, his hands balling into fists.

Peggy has the good grace to look pained. "I'm not disputing what you witnessed. It’s all the more reason to understand what could possibly compel him to want to come here in the first place.”

“Maybe he saw the welcome mat we rolled out for Zola?” Dernier scoffs.

“She’s right,” Monty cuts in, his expression closed off. “He must know we’d kill him the second he showed his face.

“Still in favor,” Dugan seethes. He’s ignored.

"We’ll meet with him. Find out why he’s here. What he wants. And when this is over," Monty adds quietly, "we have a conversation."

Peggy nods once, sharply. “When it’s over, I don’t care what you do with him.” She looks at the rest of them expectantly. “And the rest of you? Are you in?”

“We’re a team,” Morita says cooly. “One of us is in, all of us are in.”

It doesn't mean any of them have to like it. 

Chapter Text

Location: Camp Leigh, New Jersey

Date: September 23^rd 1949

America truly is the land of opportunity. Another man might chafe under the scrutiny of SHIELD and its allies, but Doctor Arnim Zola made his name under the watchful eye of the Red Skull: he is used to serving powerful overlords.

The trick is to be useful, amiable, and not sycophantic to the point of suspicion; indeed, some rebellion is necessary. It is better to appease, to appear a non-entity. It is a risk, perhaps, but one taken with an assumption of mitigation. A cobra defanged.

For the entirety of his tenure at SHIELD, Zola has worked quietly, patiently, and without any real complaint on a number of projects grossly beneath his skill. He creates weapon schematics and chemical compounds, breaks new grounds in areas of science out of his field of interest, and watches with persevering cordiality as his jailers grow complacent. Some are bored. Others are curious. Relations with the former are nurtured to the point where he can watch their eyes glaze over with disinterest the moment they take their posts. Those who show signs of the latter… they are carefully cultivated.

Zola is not the only member of HYDRA to be offered the deal he has. His laboratory, perfectly adequate despite his complaints to Stark, is now home to five other scientists, a dozen researchers, and, most importantly, three assistants.

The assistants have arrived as the first part of a clandestine agreement between Zola and the Soviet’s Red Room program. They’re brutes, essentially, barely a braincell between them, but given the nature of the project they are about to embark on, it feels prudent to have some muscle on hand.

Funny how quickly enemies become allies when facing a common threat. To the world, HYDRA is dead and buried, and with it any power its former agents might wield in the world. The Red Room, like SHIELD, enjoys the ability to coerce cooperation from men like Zola.

Unlike SHIELD, the Red Room offers something significantly more interesting than mere freedom.

Karpov claims Barnes was recovered from an Alpine ravine, frozen and mangled beyond repair. It apparently caused something of a stir once Barnes’s body returned to a baseline temperature, and he started squirming in a cadaver bag. A miracle, some might say. Zola knows better. His work during Barnes' captivity in Kreischberg has borne fruit, laying the foundation for what Karpov has later continued.

The serum Zola had administered was crude, imperfect - a bitter shadow of Erskine's masterpiece - but evidently effective enough to allow Barnes to survive what should have been certain death.

And now, through a twist of fate that even Zola finds delightfully ironic, the soldier is being delivered right back into his hands.

The clock on the wall ticks steadily. Karpov's plane is due to land any minute. The Americans believe they are facilitating a Soviet defector. Howard Stark thinks he's regaining a wartime colleague. Peggy Carter believes she's acquiring a valuable asset.

None of them know about the cargo.

Zola allows himself a small smile as he tidies his files away. Everything is proceeding according to plan. The soldier will be transported to the secure facility beneath the laboratory, a space unknown even to most of SHIELD, one he has carefully created in anticipation of the day he might one day continue his magnum opus. There, away from prying eyes, the real work can begin.

He won’t lie to himself: there is something delightfully poetic in the idea of doing it all right beneath America’s feet.

A knock at the door interrupts his thoughts.

"Enter," he calls, his voice pleasant, unthreatening. Around him, the others in the lab are quietly preparing.

A young SHIELD agent stands in the doorway, awkward and clearly uncomfortable in Zola's presence. He doesn’t like to look at Zola and frequently misses things as a result.

"Dr. Zola, sir. Director Carter asked me to inform you that Colonel Karpov's plane has landed. They'll be arriving within the hour."

"Thank you," Zola says, offering a benign smile. "Please tell Director Carter I am ready to receive our guest."

The agent nods stiffly and retreats, closing the door behind him.

Alone again, Zola moves to the small window overlooking the compound. In the distance, vehicles are already assembling to escort the Soviet envoy from the airstrip. Among them, he recognizes the distinctive silhouette of Dugan's hat. So, Carter has brought in the old guard. Interesting.

The men of the Howling Commandos have made themselves scarce since Zola has worked for SHIELD. He’s only seen one of them with any regularity: Jones and Carter are close, perhaps even intimate, not that he likes to dwell on the thought.

He remembers in vivid detail the last time he was with them as a group. The scars have yet to fade completely, their anger over the loss of Barnes turning them practically feral. He’ll think of them frequently in the next few weeks, he’s sure. Barnes will no doubt appreciate the loyalty

The laboratory door opens again an hour later, and Howard Stark strides in first, hands stuffed in his pockets, his usual swagger somewhat subdued. He looks at Zola with poorly concealed distaste.

"The shipment's being unloaded now," Stark says, not bothering with pleasantries. "Carter wants you on deck."

"Of course," Zola says, plucking his glasses from his face and cleaning them methodically with a handkerchief from his pocket. "I would be delighted to assist."

"Delighted," Stark mutters, shaking his head. "Just do your job and try not to get punched, alright? The boys are on the warpath."

Zola's careful mask doesn't slip. "Agent Dugan has always had a rather colorful temperament. I'm sure Director Carter has him well in hand."

Stark gives him a long look. "I wouldn't count on it. Besides, Dugan, you’ll see coming. Wouldn’t be so sure about the others."

They walk in uncomfortable silence through the facility corridors, Zola's short legs working double-time to keep pace with Stark. Outside, rain falls lazily from a dark and pregnant sky, a light drizzle that promises to become more substantial as the evening wears on.

At the loading bay, a small convoy of trucks has pulled in. Soldiers are already unloading wooden crates stamped with Cyrillic lettering while a cluster of people stand off to one side, voices raised.

Carter's distinctive figure is at the center of the group, flanked by Jones. Opposite them stands Karpov, tall and stern in his dark greatcoat, rain beading on his shoulders. The Commandos form a loose semicircle, looking very much like wild dogs circling a bear.

"—did I not make myself clear?" Carter is saying as Zola approaches, her voice tightly controlled. "Every crate will be opened and inspected before it leaves this loading dock."

"And as I have explained, Director Carter," Karpov replies, his accent thick but his English impeccable, "some of these materials are highly temperamental. The third container, for instance, houses biological samples from our research on cattle decay rates when exposed to chemical agents. It would be most unpleasant, not to mention hazardous, to open it outside of a controlled environment."

"Bullshit," Dugan spits, stepping forward. His mustache bristles with barely contained fury. "You're hiding something."

"Hiding? No." Karpov's face remains impassive. "Merely cautioning against recklessness. Something you Americans are not known for."

"Dr. Zola," Carter calls, spotting him hovering at the edge of the confrontation. "Perhaps you can shed some light on these... materials Colonel Karpov is bringing."

Zola steps forward with a deferential nod. "I would be happy to examine the manifest, Director."

Karpov's eyes meet his, and a silent communication passes between them. There is no real warmth there, only cold calculation. The crate containing Barnes is unmarked, innocuous among the others. It's been designated on the manifest as experimental cooling equipment—which, in a way, is not entirely untrue.

"You two know each other?" Falsworth asks, eyes narrowing as he watches the exchange.

“Alas, we have not had the pleasure,” Zola makes certain to look up and meet Karpov’s eye. He bears a striking similarity to the late Captain Rogers. No doubt that is contributing to the antagonism he is being shown. That, along with the rumors that even Zola has heard of Karpov’s relationship with poor Sergeant Barnes.

"Dr. Zola," Carter says finally, breaking the tension. "The manifest, please."

Zola accepts the clipboard from her hands, scanning the list with practiced efficiency. Everything is in order, exactly as planned.

"The biological materials in crate three are indeed hazardous," he confirms. "It would be best to move them directly to the containment area in my laboratory."

"And the rest?" Carter presses.

"Standard equipment. Reference materials. Nothing that raises immediate concern." Zola keeps his voice professional, bored even. "Though I would, of course, recommend a thorough inventory once everything is properly situated."

Carter studies him for a long moment. "Everything gets opened here. We can arrange for protective equipment if necessary."

"I must protest—" Karpov begins.

"You can protest all you want," Carter interrupts. "This is how it's going to be."

The soldiers continue unloading, the tension hanging heavy in the damp air. Zola watches as crate after crate is inspected, their contents checked against the manifest. Karpov stands stiffly to one side, his face a mask of professional detachment.

The special crate - larger than the others, reinforced with steel bands - is unloaded last. The soldiers struggle with its weight, nearly dropping it as they maneuver it onto the loading dock.

"Careful," Karpov barks, his composure slipping for the first time. "That equipment is irreplaceable."

Dugan's eyes narrow at the outburst. "What's in there?"

"Cooling technology," Karpov replies smoothly. "For preserving biological samples."

"Open it," Dugan demands, looking at Carter.

"That would be most unwise," Zola interjects quickly. "Rapid temperature changes could—"

"I don't give a damn what it could do," Dugan cuts him off. "Open the fucking crate, or I will."

For a moment, everything hangs in the balance. Zola can see the calculations running behind Karpov's eyes, the contingency plans being activated.

He looks down at Dugan with cold disdain. "You were always quick to jump to conclusions. Bucky and I suffered for it once, I do not intend to be lenient again."

The punch flies so fast Zola doesn't see it coming. One moment Dugan is standing there, fists clenched; the next, Karpov is staggering backward, blood streaming from his nose.

"Dugan!" Carter shouts, as soldiers rush to intervene.

But Dugan isn't finished. He lunges forward again, only to be caught by Jones and Morita, who don’t seem to know if they should be helping or hindering his efforts.

"You don't deserve to speak his name," Dugan snarls, struggling against his friends' grip. "You don't deserve to breathe the same air he did.!

Karpov straightens, dabbing at his bleeding nose with a handkerchief. His eyes are cold, calculating.

"I see some things never change," he says, his voice eerily calm. "Americans. Always so emotional."

"Get him out of here," Carter orders the soldiers, who quickly move to escort Karpov toward the lab building. "Stand down, all of you. Dr. Zola, Colonel Karpov - this equipment goes directly to the secure lab. I'll accompany you myself."

"Director, I must insist-" Falsworth begins.

"That's an order," Carter's tone brooks no argument. "The rest of you are dismissed."

Zola watches as the Howlies exchange glances, a silent conversation passing between them. They're not going to let this go, he realizes. They suspect something.

"I don't like this," Monty says quietly to Dugan. "Not one bit."

"Yeah, well, join the club," Dugan mutters, his eyes never leaving Karpov. "This stinks to high heaven."

As the soldiers begin moving the crate toward the laboratory building, Dugan steps forward once more, positioning himself directly in Karpov's path.

"This isn't over," he says, voice low and dangerous. "You set one foot out of line, and I'll be there. We all will."

As they pass, Karpov glances at Zola, a barely perceptible nod exchanged between them. It's all going according to plan, despite this minor hiccup. Poor Dugan continues to be so delightfully predictable in his tempers.

"Dr. Zola," Carter says, her expression stern. "I expect you to keep your colleague on a very short leash. Am I understood?"

"Perfectly, Director," Zola replies, the very picture of compliance. "I assure you, everything will be handled with the utmost professionalism."

As he follows the soldiers and their precious cargo toward the laboratory, Zola can feel the eyes boring into his back. They will never trust him. It makes no difference. Trust or no trust, they are unwittingly providing an armed guard as their friend hand-delivered to Zola’s lab.

By the time they realize what's happening, it will be too late for any of them.

Location: Camp Leigh, New Jersey

Date: September 24^th 1949

“I owe you my apologies,” Karpov says to the woman who is now Director Carter of SHIELD. “I did not come here to make enemies. Quite the opposite. I know there is much strife between our peoples right now, but I believe, truly, that in collaboration, we can find peace.” He slows his pace until she and Stark stop alongside him. Ahead of them, Zola, the technicians, and the Commandos continue onward, ignoring orders for their dismissal.

Carter has the look of a woman who has heard the same kind of earnest announcement a hundred times before and is torn between wanting so badly to believe it and having enough experience to see all the cracks.

Karpov has studied her and the others carefully. Dugan is an easy mark. His temper makes him predictable. Jones and Morita… more challenging, perhaps, but more easily isolated from their friends by the politics of the age. The Frenchman, Dernier, is the quietist but observant in his silence. He and Karpov have already bonded over the loss of their families, back before Steve Rogers tried to have him killed. Falsworth he fears the most.

Carter and Stark will require the most sensitive handling, but they’re already at odds on the morality of their work. It will not require much effort to drive a wedge between them. So long as he keeps them both on board with his presence, the honor and duty of the soldier will keep the men of the Howling Commandos from killing him.

Their violence, he can tolerate. Their violence, he will encourage. The more preoccupied they are with their hatred of him, the less eyes there will be on Doctor Zola.

"Precisely." Karpov maintains a respectful distance, hands clasped behind his back. His nose still throbs from Dugan's punch, but he wears the pain like a badge. It serves him well to appear the wounded party. "The Red Room possesses knowledge that would benefit your country. Just as I'm sure SHIELD has discoveries that would benefit mine."

He watches her face carefully. She is guarded, this woman, her beauty a mask for a formidable intellect. She reminds him, in some ways, of the women they train back in the Room. But there is something softer in her, a vulnerability that no amount of hardship has fully extinguished. She still grieves in a way that bleeds her. He can use that.

"And what does Moscow think of this cultural exchange?" she asks, arching an elegant eyebrow.

Karpov allows a shadow to cross his face. "Moscow... is not fully aware of the extent of my intentions here."

"You're really defecting then."

"I prefer to think of it as taking a necessary risk for the greater good." He pauses, watching her reaction. "There are those in my country who believe cooperation is a weakness. I disagree."

"Let’s pick up the pace, folks," Stark grumbles.

"Thank you, Howard." Carter's voice carries a warning.

Stark ignores it. "Your boys are chomping at the bit outside, Peg. Especially Dugan. You might want to put a muzzle on him before he takes another swing."

Karpov sees his opportunity and seizes it. "Please, Director Carter, allow Sergeant Dugan to join us. All of them, if they wish. I understand their... reservations about my presence here. Perhaps if they see the work we are doing, it will ease some of their concerns."

Carter looks startled by the suggestion. "Colonel, I'm not sure that's wise."

"On the contrary. Transparency builds trust." He smiles thinly. "And I have nothing to hide."

The lie slides easily from his lips.

"Fine," Carter says after a moment. "Howard, tell them they can observe the initial briefing. But the first sign of trouble—"

"Yeah, yeah, I'll boot them personally." Stark gives Karpov a hard look before departing.

Karpov suppresses a smile. Perfect. The Commandos' presence will create exactly the distraction he needs—their eyes will be on him, not on Zola's activities. And when the time comes for the next phase, their emotional involvement will make them easier to manipulate.

"You're taking quite a risk," Carter observes when they're alone again. "Dugan isn't likely to forgive and forget."

"I don't expect forgiveness, Director." Karpov meets her gaze steadily. "Only understanding. I believe I can provide some much needed… perspective on a situation that has caused all of us a degree of distress."

Carter arches one delicate eyebrow. “I’m not sure perspective will be of any help to you. Please understand that as cordial as I find myself in a position to be, the crime alleged against you is one I’d gladly cut your throat for.”

Karpov inclines his head in agreement and reaches into his coat for the carefully bound stack of letters he has carried for years. “If it were a crime I was guilty of, I would offer up my throat. Please-“ he hands the papers to her. He reads them so often that the folds are fragile and the surfaces worn are soft from his fingers. “I am sure you have someone you trust to translate them. Though, word of warning, his prodigal ability to pick up languages did not extend so well to the written word.”

Carter touches one red-tipped nail to the text scrawled on the top letter. “These are from Sergeant Barnes.”

“He wrote to me,” Karpov nods. “After your Captain Rogers condemned me. He wished to apologize. I understand he tried to explain the situation, but… given your laws, perhaps it was better for you to believe I had trespassed than have the good name of Captain America’s best friend tarnished?”

Carter's expression freezes, her fingers halting midair above the letters. For a moment, she is utterly still, caught between professional composure and personal shock.

"What exactly are you implying, Colonel?" Her voice is dangerously soft.

Karpov maintains a sorrowful expression, one he has practiced countless times for this very moment. "Nothing that would dishonor his memory, I assure you. But there are aspects of Sergeant Barnes that perhaps even his closest friends did not know." He gestures to the letters. "He was a complicated man."

"You expect me to believe that you and Barnes were..." She doesn't finish the sentence, but her implication is clear. The look she shares with Stark speaks volumes. He wonders how much either of them knew about their friends. If they knew the depths of devotion, of desire, Rogers and Bucky attempted to hide even from each other.

"Friends," Karpov supplies gently. "Despite unlikely circumstances. The letters will explain more than I could." A calculated pause. "Though I understand if you choose not to read them. Some truths are... difficult."

Carter's eyes harden. She tucks the letters into her jacket, her movements precise and controlled. "I'll have these verified."

"Of course." Karpov inclines his head. "I would expect nothing less."

She studies him with renewed intensity, reassessing everything she thought she knew. He can almost see the questions forming behind her eyes, the doubts taking root. Good. Confusion serves his purpose.

"If these are fabricated—" she begins.

"They are not," he interrupts firmly. "I would not dishonor his memory with lies. Whatever you may think of me, Director Carter, I respected James Barnes. Perhaps more than most." The use of Barnes's first name is deliberate. Intimate. He sees it land as intended, creating another hairline crack in her certainty. “And… for all my many crimes… I am not that. Never.”

The best lies are built on truth.

"We should join the others," she says finally, professional mask firmly back in place. "They're waiting."

As they walk toward the laboratory, Karpov allows himself a moment of private satisfaction. The seed has been planted. She will read the letters, and doubt will grow. Not just doubt about him, but doubt about Barnes, about Rogers, about the narrative she has constructed to make sense of their loss.

When they enter the lab, the tension is palpable. The Howling Commandos stand in a tight cluster, their hostility radiating across the room. Zola hovers near his equipment, feigning absorption in his work while clearly monitoring the situation.

"Gentlemen," Karpov greets them, respectful but not deferential. "Thank you for coming."

Falsworth watches him with calculating coldness. "Let's get on with it, shall we?"

Karpov nods and begins his presentation, outlining the research he claims to be bringing from the Soviet Union. As he speaks, he observes Carter from the corner of his eye. She stands slightly apart, her hand occasionally drifting to her jacket pocket where the letters are concealed.

"And these biological samples," Morita interrupts, pointing to a series of vials, "what exactly are they?"

"Tissue cultures," Karpov explains smoothly. "From subjects who showed unusual regenerative capabilities."

"Human subjects?" Jones asks sharply.

Karpov meets his gaze steadily. "Yes. All volunteers, I assure you."

"Like hell they were," Dugan mutters.

"Actually," Karpov turns to face him directly, "they were. War creates desperate circumstances, Agent Dugan. Some men would rather risk experimental treatment than die from their wounds."

"Or be imprisoned and have no choice at all," Falsworth adds coldly.

Karpov shakes his head. "That was not my methodology. Ask your Director. She has evidence that may challenge your assumptions."

All eyes turn to Carter, who stiffens almost imperceptibly.

"Director Carter has documents I provided that shed light on certain... misunderstandings," Karpov continues carefully. "Particularly regarding my relationship with Sergeant Barnes."

The atmosphere in the room shifts instantly, tension crystallizing into something dangerous.

"What the hell is he talking about, Peg?" Dugan demands.

Carter's face is impressively neutral. "The Colonel has provided some correspondence that requires verification before any conclusions can be drawn."

"Correspondence?" Morita echoes incredulously. "From who?"

"From Sergeant Barnes," Karpov answers before Carter can speak. "Letters he wrote before and after our work together in London."

The reaction is immediate. Dugan lunges forward, only to be restrained by Jones and Dernier.

"You lying son of a bitch!" he roars.

"Dugan!" Carter's voice cuts through the chaos. "Stand down. Now."

The authority in her tone freezes him mid-motion, but his eyes remain locked on Karpov, murderous with rage.

Karpov maintains his composure. "I understand your disbelief. But perhaps you didn't know your friend as well as you thought."

It's a calculated provocation, and it lands precisely as intended. Dugan strains against his friends' grip, face contorted with fury.

"Howard," Carter says sharply. "Get them out of here."

Stark, who has been watching from the doorway, steps forward. "Alright, fellas, show's over. Let's take a walk."

"You're not buying this bullshit, are you?" Dugan demands of Carter as he's led toward the door. "Peg, this is Bucky we're talking about!"

Carter's expression gives nothing away. "We'll discuss this later."

When the Commandos have been escorted out, only Carter, Zola, and Karpov remain in the lab. The silence stretches between them, taut with unspoken tensions.

"That was unnecessary," Carter says finally, her voice cold with controlled anger.

"Perhaps," Karpov acknowledges. "But sometimes truth is painful."

"Truth," she repeats, the word sharp as glass. "I have yet to determine what that is, Colonel."

Zola clears his throat. "If I may, Director Carter, we should proceed with the inventory. There is work to be done."

"Yes," Karpov agrees, turning away from her penetrating gaze. "Time is valuable. And I believe we have much to discuss once you've had a chance to review those letters."

Carter's eyes narrow slightly. "Indeed we do, Colonel. Indeed we do."

There’s a ringing thud from outside the lab, followed by a dozen different voices, all shouting at once. Carter looks pained.

“I will deliver the inventory to your desk before the end of the night, Director.” Zola offers, adopting a look of sympathy.

Dugan’s unmistakable rage bounces off the door. “Every detail,” Carter warns him. “Stark’s techs will be double-checking every report you generate.”

“I expect nothing less,” Zola inclines his head.

As she leaves, Karpov exchanges a glance with Zola.

His expression is strained." You take unnecessary risks," Zola murmurs when they are alone.

"Calculated risks," Karpov corrects him. "Dissension in their ranks serves our purpose."

"And if she discovers the truth?"

Karpov smiles thinly. "By then, it will be too late. The soldier will be activated, and they will be too busy fighting each other to see what's happening right beneath their feet."

He moves to the locked crate and presses his thumb to the lock.

"Come," he says to Zola. "I believe you are keen to see your old acquaintance."

Zola practically beams. “Heil HYDRA.”

Five years ago, Karpov would sooner eat a bullet than utter the next words out of his mouth. “Heil HYDRA.”

Location: Camp Leigh, New Jersey

Date: September 24^th 1949

The cryogenic chamber hisses as the locking mechanisms disengage. Zola can barely contain his anticipation, his small hands clasped together as if in prayer. This moment—this glorious reunion—has occupied his dreams for years.

"The temperature must be raised gradually," Karpov explains, adjusting the controls with practiced precision. "Too quick, and the cellular damage becomes... problematic."

Zola nods impatiently. "Yes, yes, I am familiar with the principles." He steps closer to the chamber, peering through the frosted viewport. "How long will it take?"

"Two hours for full revival. But we can begin preliminary assessment in thirty minutes."

The hidden space beneath SHIELD is perfect: far better than Zola could have hoped for when he began constructing it three years ago. The walls are thick, reinforced with layers of sound-dampening material. The equipment, quietly requisitioned through falsified SHIELD projects, is state-of-the-art. And now, finally, its true purpose will be fulfilled.

"Tell me about the conditioning," Zola says, adjusting his spectacles. "Your reports were... intriguing but lacking in certain details."

Karpov's eyes never leave the monitoring equipment. "We began with standard methods. Deprivation. Isolation. Pain response. But they proved insufficient."

"The serum," Zola nods. "It creates resistance."

"More than resistance. After each session, he would... reassemble himself. Memories would return. Identity would resurface. The more awareness he gained, the more he would resist conditioning." Karpov's mouth tightens. "It became clear that more invasive measures were required."

"I have always found that breaking the nerve between the frontal lobe and the thalamus has always been particularly effective.”

Karpov nods. “It’s given us mixed results. The healing factor is a significant obstacle in that regard. Within days, he would regain some degree of cognition. It has become necessary to perform the procedure every five days of consciousness. Hence the cryo.”

“The performance of a lobotomy is an art,” Zola warns. “But an imprecise one. Compounding that degree of damage, even factoring in the advanced healing, creates a multitude of variables I would prefer we did without.”

"Precisely. Sometimes, the procedure results in docility. A total submission of personality and will. Others, it triggers violent and erratic behavior. He’s gone through more than one of my assistants over the years."

“We have extra bodies on hand if there is the need to subdue him,” Zola says excitedly as he examines the data displayed on the chamber. Despite his concerns, Karpov’s work is remarkable in its precision: crude by necessity but effective. And the psychological framework? What replaces the erased identity?"

"Total dependence," Karpov explains. "Every aspect of his existence is controlled. Food. Water. Sleep. Pain. Relief. By careful application of conditioning and surgical intervention, we have removed every concept he has of his own humanity. He is fed through gavage, hydrated intravenously, and only permitted to sleep in cryostasis. His dependence is absolute. His obedience… less so."

"Fascinating." Zola leans closer to the viewport as the frost begins to clear. "A colleague of mine can assist with the matter of obedience. He’s made remarkable advancements in the use of hypnotherapy. And the arm?"

"Lost in the fall. The shoulder was mangled beyond repair, even with the serum's regenerative properties." Karpov allows himself a small smile. "I see it as an opportunity. The prosthetic you've designed will make him more weapon than man."

Through the clearing glass, Zola can now make out the figure inside. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes is almost unrecognizable. His once handsome face is gaunt, skeletal, the skin pale as death. His hair, grown long, clings to his skull in frozen tendrils. The left shoulder ends abruptly in a mass of scar tissue where the arm should be.

But it's the eyes that capture Zola's attention. As the warming process continues, the eyelids begin to flutter, revealing glimpses of vacant blue. Not the defiant gaze that had once stared him down in Kreischberg nor the terror-filled eyes that had pleaded for mercy in Bavaria. These eyes are empty: windows to a hollowed soul.

"Beautiful," Zola whispers.

The chamber's internal temperature reaches a critical threshold, and the hatch unlocks with a pneumatic sigh. Karpov steps forward, entering a sequence on the keypad that causes the front panel to lower slowly.

The smell hits them first: the antiseptic odor of the cryo chemicals mixed with the unmistakable scent of human misery. Barnes hangs suspended in the chamber, held upright by restraints across his chest and remaining arm. His breathing is shallow, labored, each exhale creating small clouds in the still-cold air.

"Soldier," Karpov says, his voice firm and commanding.

No response.

"Soldier," he repeats, louder.

Barnes's head lifts slightly, the movement jerky, uncoordinated. His eyes struggle to focus.

"Remarkable," Zola breathes. "The recovery time is significantly improved from my earlier subjects. What temperament can we expect? Should I call for assistance?"

Karpov shakes his head. "No, he is docile. He will not respond to either stimulus or order until he is activated. The revival process must be completed first. And there are procedures to follow." Karpov retrieves a leather-bound book from the base of the crate, its cover a distinctive red. "The trigger sequence must be administered precisely."

Zola can barely contain his impatience, but he understands the necessity for caution. This is not merely a scientific triumph—it is the foundation for everything that will follow. HYDRA reborn, growing within the very organization created to destroy it.

How beautiful that its destruction will come at the hands of one they all love so dearly.

Chapter Text

Location: Camp Leigh, New Jersey, Sublevel Laboratory

Date: September 25^th 1949

Zola adjusts the overhead surgical lamp, positioning it to illuminate the subject's left shoulder with optimal clarity. The articulated arm of the lamp allows for precise manipulation, casting harsh white light over the scarred deltoid region where the shoulder once transitioned naturally into the humerus.

"Dr. Klaus, increase the Pentothal dosage by 15 milligrams, followed by 10 milligrams of fentanyl," he instructs the anesthesiologist monitoring the intravenous drip. There’s a delicate balance to be maintained, one which will require agility on the part of his team.

Dr. Klaus, a thin, bespectacled man recruited from the remnants of HYDRA's Berlin division, adjusts the drip rate methodically. "Current cocktail also includes 5 milligrams of Amytal and 3 milligrams of scopolamine, Doctor."

"Excellent."

To Zola's left, Dr. Esther Müller prepares the nerve mapping equipment, her gloved fingers moving carefully over the dials of the electromyograph. A former Dachau researcher, Müller specializes in neurophysiology, her expertise invaluable for the delicate neural integration required for the prosthesis.

"Neural baseline established," she announces in her crisp accent. "Subject shows abnormal theta wave activity consistent with previous conditioning protocols."

Barnes is secured to the reinforced surgical table with magnetized titanium restraints at six points of contact: ankles, thighs, right wrist, and across the thoracic cavity. His eyes dart erratically around the room, pupils dilated despite the bright surgical lights - a stress response the drugs haven't fully suppressed. Perspiration beads on his forehead, running down his temples in rivulets. It’s the first clear indication that he understands enough of his environment to be afraid of what it about to happen.

The electrocardiograph monitored by Technician Roth beeps with increasing frequency. "Heart rate elevated to 110 BPM, Doctor. Blood pressure 150 over 90."

"Expected parameters given the circumstance," Zola dismisses. "The serum accelerates metabolism of sedatives. Compensate accordingly."

The two Soviet assistants Karpov ensured he hired – the burly Petrov and towering Sokolov - maintain positions at either end of the surgical table, ready to provide additional restraint if necessary. Their presence is as much psychological as practical; the subject has been conditioned to associate their uniforms with punishment. Only Karpov is a point of kindness – one he makes frequent attempts to look for from his prone position.

"Beginning primary dermal incision," Zola announces for the benefit of the recording equipment operated by Technician Weber. "Subject remains conscious with elevated stress response."

The first incision is made, opening a line from the acromioclavicular joint across the deltoid muscle. Blood wells immediately.

Barnes's reaction is immediate and visceral. His body arches against the restraints, a strangled sound escaping his throat. His right hand clenches into a white-knuckled fist, veins standing out like cords along his forearm as he strains against the titanium manacle.

"Fascinating autonomic response," Zola observes clinically. "Dr. Müller, note the heightened pain reception despite substantial anesthesia."

"Documented," she replies, making notations on her chart. "Recommend additional 8 milligrams of morphine."

"Negative," Zola counters. "Clear feedback from the subject is crucial for accurate neural mapping. Dr. Klaus, administer 20 milligrams of Curare instead. We need immobility without dulling sensory input."

As Klaus approaches with the syringe, Barnes's eyes suddenly lock onto him with startling clarity. The haze of drugs seems to lift momentarily, replaced by focused terror and rage as the syringe slides into its port.

"No," Barnes rasps, the word barely audible. "Please…"

“Colonel?” Zola is relying on Karpov to provide the compliance necessary to avoid any real barbarism in their work.

“Behave for us, soldier,” Karpov says in Russian. “Prove you are worthy of the honor you are being shown.”

Barnes’s confusion lasts long enough for the paralytic to hit his system. It likely won’t be enough to induce complete paralysis, but his squirming is a distraction they don’t need.

The procedure continues where it left off, the momentary disruption noted but not dwelled upon. Zola returns to the exposed shoulder, where blood has pooled during the interruption.

"Suction," he instructs Nurse Engel, who immediately clears the surgical field.

Layer by layer, Zola exposes the complex anatomy of what remains of Barnes's shoulder.

Barnes's breathing has become shallow and rapid. His eyes, though unfocused from, still show dilation consistent with extreme distress. Tears leak silently from the corners, tracking down his temples into his hairline.

When he reaches the neural bundle where the brachial plexus was severed, Zola pauses, examining the truncated nerve endings with scientific fascination.

"Extraordinary. The axonal regrowth shows patterns consistent with attempted regeneration. Dr. Müller, your assessment?"

Müller leans in to examine the neural tissue. "The serum has stimulated neurofibril regeneration beyond anything documented in medical literature. The nerve fibers are actively seeking reconnection paths."

A low, guttural moan escapes Barnes's lips- the only protest his conditioned, drugged state allows. The sound is animal, primal, a fundamental expression of agony that bypasses conscious control.

"Increased secretion of stress hormones," Technician Roth reports from the monitoring equipment. "Adrenal response off the charts. Blood pressure now 170 over 100."

"Administer 5 milligrams of Phenobarbital," Zola orders without looking up.

As Nurse Engel administers the injection, Barnes's eyes roll wildly, the whites showing all around. His right hand opens and closes compulsively. It’s an impressive response given the cocktail of chemicals swimming through his veins.

Zola selects a specialized instrument from the tray: a neural interface tool of his own design. Its tip contains microscopic filaments that will bond with the severed nerve endings, creating a bridge between organic tissue and mechanical receptors.

"Beginning neural integration procedure," he announces for the recording. "As expected, subject is experiencing significant distress."

The moment the neural interface tool contacts the exposed nerve bundle, Barnes's entire body goes rigid. A sound emerges from his throat. Not a scream, but something worse: a high, thin keening that raises the hair on the back of every person's neck in the room.

He’s still conscious.

"Extraordinary pain threshold," Zola notes with scientific detachment. "Dr. Klaus, prepare to administer cardiac stabilizers if necessary. We cannot afford arrhythmia at this stage."

One by one, he connects the specialized filaments to each of the major nerve trunks, creating the foundation for the complex sensory-motor integration the prosthetic arm will require. Each connection elicits an involuntary physiological response from Barnes—pupil dilation, respiratory hitching, microscopic muscle spasms that even the drugs cannot fully suppress.

Dr. Müller monitors the neural activity on her equipment. "Theta wave activity spiking with each connection."

Once the neural connections are established, Zola turns his attention to the osseointegration components. The titanium base plate must be secured directly to what remains of the humerus, creating a stable foundation for the mechanical arm.

"Preparing for osseointegration. Dr. Richter, the specialized drill."

Dr. Heinrich Richter, a former orthopedic surgeon from Munich with expertise in bone grafting, steps forward with the custom-designed surgical drill. Its titanium bit has been specifically calculated for optimal penetration of enhanced bone density.

"Beginning at point A7," Richter announces, positioning the drill over the marked spot on the exposed humerus.

The high-pitched whine of the drill fills the laboratory.

"Cardiac event imminent," Roth warns.

"2 milligrams epinephrine," Zola orders without hesitation. "We will not lose him at this stage."

The drilling continues, creating precisely positioned holes in the remaining bone. Barnes's face is a mask of pure agony, his eyes rolling back to show only whites, spittle forming at the corners of his mouth. 

After what seems an eternity, Richter announces, "The osseointegration phase is complete. Anchors are secure and ready for bonding cement."

Zola nods approvingly. "Apply the titanium-calcium composite. Remember, it must be absolutely uniform for proper integration."

While Richter applies the specialized cement that will eventually fuse with Barnes's bone, Zola turns his attention to the muscular attachment phase. Each synthetic tendon must be connected to its organic counterpart with microscopic precision.

"Dr. Müller, begin mapping the motor neuron pathways for the deltoid attachment. We require perfect alignment for optimal functionality."

Throughout this process, Barnes remains in a state of semiconscious agony. The drugs keep him immobile but cruelly aware, his eyes now glazed but still registering every new wave of pain. Occasionally, his lips move as if trying to form words - perhaps pleas, perhaps names, perhaps curses - but no sound emerges beyond ragged breathing.

"The subject is attempting vocalization," Müller notes with clinical interest. "Possible degradation of the conditioning."

Karpov steps closer, observing Barnes's face with calculating scrutiny. "Not degradation. This is a previously documented response to extreme duress. The conscious mind fragments, allowing buried memories temporary surface access."

"Fascinating," Zola muses. "The human brain's resilience continues to surprise. Note it for post-procedural reconditioning."

After nearly four hours of meticulous work, the biological integration is complete. The prosthesis lies ready on a separate sterile tray, its gleaming metal surface reflecting the harsh overhead lights.

"Prepare for final installation," Zola announces. "Technician Weber, ensure all recording equipment is functioning optimally. This is the culmination of our work."

The prototype mechanical arm is lifted carefully by Petrov and Sokolov, positioned above the prepared shoulder mount. Its design has been substantially modified by Zola over the past forty-eight hours, incorporating enhancements that even Karpov's Soviet engineers had not conceived.

"Beginning prosthetic integration," Zola declares. "Dr. Müller, monitor neural responses in real-time. Dr. Richter, stand by for micromechanical adjustments."

As the arm is lowered onto the prepared mount, Barnes's eyes suddenly clear. For a moment—brief but unmistakable—full awareness returns to his gaze. Recognition. Horror. A desperate, silent plea.

"Steve," he mouths, no sound emerging through his brutalized vocal cords.

"Colonel," Zola says sharply, noting the change. "Immediate intervention required."

Karpov is already opening the red book when Zola holds up a hand.

"Wait. This provides an unprecedented opportunity to test neural integration during a moment of full consciousness."

Without waiting for approval, Zola activates the locking mechanism of the prosthesis. There is an audible click as it engages with the shoulder mount, followed by a series of smaller clicks as each connection point secures itself.

The effect on Barnes is immediate and catastrophic. His back arches off the table, a silent scream contorting his features. The monitors show his heart nearly fibrillating, his neural activity spiking beyond measurable parameters.

"Astonishing," Zola breathes, genuinely impressed by the intensity of the response. "The neural integration is creating feedback loops through the entire central nervous system."

"You risk cardiac arrest," Klaus warns, preparing a syringe of lidocaine.

"Worth the risk for this data," Zola counters. "We will resuscitate if necessary.”

Barnes's eyes roll wildly, tears streaming freely. His right hand spasms open and closed, fighting against both restraint and paralytic. The new metal arm remains motionless, not yet activated, a dead weight of titanium and circuitry fused to living flesh. It’s a grotesque looking thing, it’s form and function completely at odds with the emaciated body it is attached to.

"Neural activation sequence initiating," Zola announces, reaching for the specialized control unit. "This will establish the baseline neural pathways and begin calibration."

He presses a sequence of buttons, and the arm comes to life with a low mechanical hum. The effect is immediate: Barnes's face contorts in a rictus of such pure agony that even Nurse Engel, hardened by years of HYDRA service, averts her eyes momentarily.

"Calibration proceeding as anticipated," Zola continues, unmoved by the display. "Initial sensory feedback loops establishing. Dr. Müller, confirm neural pathway formation."

Müller studies the readings on her equipment. "Primary motor pathways forming. Sensory feedback shows 70% integration... 75%... neural plasticity exceeding expectations."

For several excruciating minutes, electrical impulses flow through the newly established connections, forcing Barnes's brain to recognize and integrate the foreign appendage as part of his own body. The monitors show his vital signs fluctuating wildly, dancing on the edge of systemic collapse.

"Remarkable resilience," Zola observes. "The serum provides significant protection against neurogenic shock."

Finally, the initial calibration phase completes. Barnes lies trembling on the table, drenched in sweat, his breathing shallow and rapid. The metal arm is now fully integrated with his nervous system, waiting only for the command to move.

"Sergeant Barnes," Zola says clearly. "Can you hear me?"

Barnes's eyes, glazed with pain and drugs, roll toward the sound of his voice.

"Raise your left hand."

Nothing happens for several seconds. Then, with a whir of servos and hydraulics, the metal fingers twitch. The hand rises slowly, unsteadily, the movement jerky and uncoordinated—but deliberate.

"Extraordinary," Zola breathes, unable to contain his scientific excitement. "Neural integration successful on first attempt. Dr. Müller, record all response parameters."

He makes several more adjustments to the calibration settings, fine-tuning the sensitivity and response time. With each adjustment, the arm's movements become more fluid, more natural.

"Subject," he continues, "close your hand into a fist."

The metal fingers curl inward, forming a perfect fist. The movement is smoother now, more controlled.

"Now, crush."

The fist tightens with hydraulic force, the servos whining as they exert pressure that would pulverize bone if applied to a human hand.

"Force calibration exactly as calculated," Zola notes with satisfaction. "Now for the true test. Subject, reach up and touch your face."

This command requires complex coordination: spatial awareness, proprioception, fine motor control. For a moment, it seems beyond Barnes's capabilities. The arm twitches, rises halfway, then falters.

"Apply electrical stimulus to motivation centers," Zola instructs Dr. Müller. "5 milliamps, frontal lobe region F3."

Müller adjusts a dial on her equipment, and Barnes's body jerks as the current stimulates the targeted brain region. The arm resumes its movement, rising until the metal fingers touch his cheek with surprising gentleness.

"Perfect," Zola declares. "The integration is complete. Technician Roth, full recordings of vital signs throughout the procedure. Dr. Klaus, begin withdrawal from paralytic agents. Dr. Müller, prepare for post-procedural cognitive assessment. Have Doctor Fennhoff briefed for Phase Two."

As the team moves through their assigned tasks, Zola turns to Karpov with undisguised satisfaction.

"The physical integration exceeds all expectations, Colonel. With proper conditioning, we will redefine modern warfare."

Karpov nods, his eyes fixed on Barnes's face, which remains frozen in a mask of exhaustion and trauma.

As they discuss next steps, Barnes lies motionless on the table, the new metal arm gleaming under the surgical lights. His eyes remain open, staring at nothing.

"Release the restraints," he instructs Petrov and Sokolov. "Begin mobility assessment protocol 17-A."

As the titanium cuffs are removed, Barnes lifts his new arm once more, fingers twitching, flexing –

Lashing out with shocking speed and focus to fasten around Klaus’s throat. 

The room erupts into controlled chaos.

"Restrain him!" Zola snaps, stepping back from the table.

Petrov and Sokolov lunge forward, grappling with Barnes's arm. But the limb’s enhanced strength proves formidable even in his weakened state. Klaus's face purples, his eyes bulging as his oxygen supply is cut off.

"Colonel!" Zola calls sharply to Karpov, who has been observing from the periphery.

Karpov steps forward immediately. “Stand down, soldier!” He barks.

It’s a test of wills: Barnes versus Karpov. Instinct versus conditioning. The adrenaline Barnes is no doubt experiencing will be an asset should he try to resist, and yet…

Klaus slumps bonelessly to the ground as Barnes releases him. Petrov hauls the choking scientist to his feet, out of the rage of attack, while Barnes turns guilelessly to Karpov, who immediately backhands him sharply across the face.

Barnes’s eyes well up. His face twists in pained, uncomprehending sorrow. All that he has just endured, and this one simple act from his handler turns him from a live weapon to a pitiful animal.

It’s an odd sight, one Zola feels compelled to address. Barnes has responded so beautifully to the procedure. A little collateral is to be expected.

Daringly, he takes a step forward and lays his hand over the metal curve of his new shoulder. “You are to be the new fist of HYDRA,” he says, hoping Barnes can understand the significance of what he has become. “Together, we will make the world a better place. I am very proud of you, Soldier.”

Barnes looks up at him with those empty blue eyes of his, calm now. Sedate.  

Zola thinks of the men and women walking above them and stifles a shiver of glee.

Location: Camp Leigh, New Jersey, Sublevel Laboratory

Date: September 27^th 1949

Routine is the foundation of control. This principle has guided Karpov's work from the beginning, from the first days when Bucky was nothing more than a broken, screaming man begging for death. Structure creates dependency. Dependency creates compliance. Compliance creates opportunity.

Karpov checks his watch as he enters the containment cell. Precisely 1800 hours. The soldier is sitting exactly where he should be - on the edge of the narrow cot, back straight, eyes forward, the new metal arm gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. The rubber gag is secured firmly between his teeth: punishment for his unauthorized vocalization during yesterday's surgery is still in effect. There is no resentment in those lovely eyes, only patient expectation.

"Maintenance time," Karpov announces warmly. Of all his many responsibilities, this is the least arduous.

Behind him, Petrov wheels in the equipment cart: IV stand, nasogastric feeding apparatus, and monitoring equipment. The familiar routine. If Barnes is out of cryo, then every night at the same time, without fail, they follow the same routine. The introduction of cryostasis is a new element, one that prolongs the time between surgeries. Karpov would prefer not to revert to old patterns now it is in use, but time is of the essence. Consistency is critical to the conditioning process, yes, but the longer they are on US soil, the more precarious their position.

"Stand," Karpov commands.

Barnes rises immediately, his movements mechanical.

"Present.”

Barnes falls to attention, visibly struggling with the weight of the prosthetic. He struggles to remain upright without listing over, the physical strain demanding more strength than he’s been allowed to maintain.

Karpov steps in close and brushes the tangled, sticky hair back off his face, careful not to disturb the nasogastric tube that has remained in place since the initial procedure concluded. The thin, flexible tube runs from his nostril down the back of his throat and into his stomach, a constant reminder of his dependence on his handlers even for basic nutrition and a warning not to get complacent now he has a new limb.

"Up," Karpov points to a hook hanging from the ceiling. The soldier reaches up with his metal arm, gripping the hook. The position exposes his torso fully, stretching the skin to make the veins more accessible. He is not permitted clothes. Hasn’t been for years. That reward will be one earned at the very end of their training.

Karpov opens his case, removing an antiseptic swab. He cleans the inside of the soldier's right elbow with practiced efficiency, then selects a 20-gauge needle.

"If you remain compliant throughout the procedure," he explains, his tone neither kind nor cruel, simply matter-of-fact. "You will be permitted four hours of uninterrupted sleep, and the gag will be removed."

The promise of sleep and relief from the gag are two of the most effective conditioning tools. Barnes has been kept on a strictly controlled sleep schedule: never enough to feel rested, just enough to prevent cognitive collapse. It’s taken years to hammer that particular lesson home. It’s been the closest Karpov has come to losing him, a critical failure subverted chemically. Sleep becomes not a natural function but a reward for good behavior. For the past year, the only sleep he has been permitted has been during cryo.

The gag, a reminder of the consequences of unauthorized speech, has been in place for twenty-four hours: long enough to create significant discomfort without causing permanent damage.

He called for Rogers. That cannot go unpunished.

The needle slides cleanly into the vein. The soldier doesn't flinch. Karpov attaches the IV line to the needle, then hangs a bag of clear fluid on the stand.

"Hydration solution with electrolytes and glucose," he states. The conversation is good for building a rapport and reminding Barnes that Karpov cares for his well-being. "Standard formula H-17."

Next, he checks the nasogastric tube, ensuring it remains properly positioned. It eliminates the autonomy of eating, transforming a basic human function into a clinical procedure controlled entirely by Karpov. Now, even if he leaves Barnes unrestrained in his cell with a cup of water, a stale loaf of bread… Barnes won’t attempt to feed himself. It has been years since he has physically consumed anything of his own power. He wouldn’t know what to do if offered the option.

"Beginning feeding cycle," Karpov announces as he connects the tube to a pump mechanism. "Nutritional supplement N-42. Enhanced protein content to support recovery. You like this one, no?"

That’s one thing he’s noticed, a difference between before and after the fall. The Bucky he knew in London didn’t eat nearly as much as Rogers needed to. Karpov has had to significantly increase his calorific intake to counter the constant strain his advanced healing has on his metabolism.

A thick, brownish liquid begins flowing through the tube. The soldier's expression remains impassive behind the gag; his eyes fixed on Karpov as the feeding commences. It’s so much less painful for the both of them now. There was a time when it took four people to hold him down for maintenance. In this, Karpov has offered him a compromise - a kindness. Bucky learned the hard way that there are far more painful and violating ways to achieve the same ends.  

As the feeding begins, Karpov moves to examine the prosthetic arm. This is the critical part of tonight's maintenance: the first full inspection since the initial installation. He takes a specialized tool from his case, inserting it into a nearly invisible access panel in the forearm.

"Sensory diagnostic beginning," he announces. "Response calibration sequence initiating."

The soldier remains perfectly still as Karpov adjusts various components within the prosthetic, occasionally glancing at a series of gauges on a portable monitor. Unlike previous sessions back home, the soldier does not speak to report sensations or anomalies. The gag ensures his silence, but more importantly, the conditioning has progressed to the point where he understands that observations are to be made only when explicitly requested. His eyes communicate the necessary information: dilating slightly when sensitivity adjustments cause discomfort, tracking the movement of Karpov's tools with machine-like precision. He’s always worn his heart on his sleeve and there’s no change there, even when he’s hollowed out and empty.

Karpov knows what he is thinking, always.

He notes a slight tension in the soldier's jaw around the gag. Not resistance, precisely, but a physical response to something in the calibration process. He makes an adjustment and the tension eases marginally. Data is being collected without the need for verbalization.

"Arm functionality at 92% of optimal parameters," Karpov notes for the recording. "Continuing refinement."

As he works, Karpov observes the soldier's physiological responses. The breathing pattern, pupil dilation, and microscopic muscle tensions tell him everything he needs to know about the arm's integration with the nervous system.

It’s clear he’s struggling to keep his feet. Muscle fatigue is obvious and the visible strain the position puts on the fresh incisions causes a number of them to bleed lazily at the edges.

"Maintenance nearing completion," Karpov announces, checking off items on his clipboard. Now comes the final phase: what he privately thinks of as the "reward" stage. This, perhaps more than anything else, has proven effective in cementing the conditioning. After pain, after control, after degradation, comes a small measure of comfort.

It brings him great joy to be able to offer it.

First, he disconnects the feeding pump from the nasogastric tube, leaving the tube itself in place. It will remain there indefinitely while he is being calibrated, a permanent reminder of dependency. Then the IV needle. Finally, he helps Barnes release the hook he clings to.

"You may lower your arm," he instructs.

The soldier complies, metal arm coming to rest at his side. There is visible relief in his posture, though his expression remains blank behind the gag.

"You have performed adequately during maintenance," Karpov informs him. "As promised, the gag will be removed. You will be permitted to rest."

There it is. The gratitude. Karpov strokes a hand across the soldier’s cheek and is rewarded by a gentle sigh.

"Sleep well," he says as he exits the cell, the words neither kind nor cruel, simply another component of the carefully constructed routine.

Barnes lays down on the bed. There is no blanket, no sheet. He fastens his own ankles to the restraints at the bottom, then, after a moment of thought, closes the metal cuff above his head around his right wrist.

The second he lays down, he’s dead to the world.

A kinder man would give him a pillow.

No. A kinder man would smother him with one.

Of all the things Karpov can call himself, kind is simply not one of them.

Location: Camp Leigh, New Jersey, Sublevel Laboratory

Date: September 28^th 1949

The serum should have been miraculous. It should have transformed Barnes into a physical specimen rivaling Captain Rogers. Instead, Zola observes with clinical disappointment that it has merely kept the soldier alive through what would have otherwise been fatal trauma. Questionable mercy.

"Subject weight minus the prosthetic: One hundred and nineteen pounds. Muscle mass significantly below projected parameters. Bone density 17% below optimal range despite enhanced healing capabilities," Zola dictates as he circles the examination table where the asset lies secured by reinforced restraints.

The body before him is a study in contradictions. Enhanced healing, yes: wounds that would kill an ordinary man close within days. But the skeletal frame remains gaunt, the musculature atrophied despite rigorous training protocols. Years of isolation, conditioning, and sustained malnutrition have extracted a devastating toll. The metal arm gleams in obscene contrast to the emaciated flesh attached to it. Without intervention, the weight of the prosthesis will gradually deform the spine.

"The serum has functionally failed in its primary purpose," Zola continues, adjusting his glasses. "It has not produced the enhanced physiology observed in subject Rogers. Hypothesis: energy resources diverted entirely to healing and baseline survival, with insufficient reserves for anabolic processes."

Dr. Müller reviews the latest metabolic panel results. "Blood work shows elevated cortisol and inflammatory markers consistent with chronic stress response. Testosterone levels are approximately 30% of normal baseline."

"Precisely," Zola nods. "The body cannibalizes itself to survive."

The soldier's eyes follow Zola's movements. There is only a dull awareness, a resigned anticipation of what comes next. His breathing is shallow, ribcage visibly pressing against the pale skin with each inhalation.

"Today, we implement Protocol Prometheus," Zola announces excitedly. "The limitations of conventional biological enhancement must be overcome."

The laboratory has been specially prepared for this procedure. Beyond the standard surgical equipment, an array of specialized devices lines the perimeter: mechanical apparatus designed by Zola himself, incorporating elements of both medical technology and HYDRA's more esoteric weapons research.

"Preparations for phase one," Zola instructs the assembled team. "Baseline sedation only. The subject must remain conscious for neural mapping."

Dr. Klaus administers the carefully calibrated cocktail—enough ketamine and scopolamine to render the soldier compliant but aware. Too much sedation would interfere with the neural response measurements essential to the procedure.

"Begin marrow extraction," Zola directs Dr. Richter.

The orthopedic specialist positions a specialized drill over the soldier's exposed iliac crest. The device - far larger and more aggressive than standard medical equipment - powers up with an ominous whine.

"Extracting bone marrow from multiple sites for genetic modification and reintroduction," Zola narrates for the recording. "The procedure will be repeated at the sternum, femur, and humerus to ensure comprehensive skeletal integration."

The drill descends, boring through skin, fascia, and finally, bone. Despite the sedation, the soldier's body goes rigid, teeth clenching against the rubber gag he’s been fitted with. Unlike the last procedure, his input is not required in any capacity. The restraints creak under sudden tension as the drill penetrates the bone marrow cavity.

As the extraction continues at multiple sites, the soldier's consciousness begins to fade, his eyes rolling back. Zola signals Dr. Klaus.

"Administer stimulant compound P-16."

The injection brings the soldier back to agonizing awareness. His eyes snap open; pupils dilated to pinpoints despite the dim lighting. The stimulant - another derivative of the work he has done for SHIELD - ensures that he feels hyperacute sensitivity at every moment of the procedure.

With the marrow extraction complete, Zola moves to the next phase. A complex apparatus is positioned over the surgical table - multiple articulated arms ending in needles of varying gauges, connected to pumps containing a phosphorescent blue fluid.

"Beginning myofibril restructuring sequence," Zola announces. "The enhanced metabolic compound will forcibly trigger hyperplasia at the cellular level, overriding the body's natural regulatory mechanisms."

The machine hums to life, the articulated arms descending simultaneously. Twenty-four needles penetrate the soldier's body at precisely mapped muscle insertion points: major muscle groups in the legs, arms, back, and chest. The blue fluid begins to flow, creating visible lumps under the skin as it infiltrates the tissue.

The reaction is immediate and catastrophic. The soldier's back arches off the table as far as the restraints allow, the tendons in his neck standing out like cables.

"Fascinating," Zola murmurs, observing the real-time changes through a specialized imaging device. "The compound is triggering rapid mitotic division in the muscle fibers. Dr. Müller, increase neural suppression in motor control centers. We don't want the convulsions to interfere with proper distribution."

Müller adjusts the controls on her equipment, sending targeted electrical pulses to specific regions of the soldier's brain. The violent movements subside slightly, though the tremors continue to ripple through his frame.

"Phase two commencing," Zola declares, moving to another console. "Skeletal reinforcement procedure."

A second machine is activated, this one delivering a different compound- silver-gray in color - directly into the bone marrow sites previously drilled. This substance, derived from Zola's analysis of the Valkyrie wreckage, contains trace elements of materials not found in nature, incorporated into a calcium-based matrix.

"The enhanced osteoblast stimulator will trigger accelerated bone remodeling," Zola explains. "Increasing density and structural integrity to support the anticipated muscle mass."

"Cardiac stabilization required," Dr. Klaus warns.

"Proceed with minimal intervention," Zola responds dismissively.

As the procedure continues, visible changes begin to manifest beneath the soldier's skin. The injected muscles swell unnaturally, fibers reorganizing in real-time. Beneath the surface, bones are being reformed, the molecular structure altered to create a hybrid of organic and inorganic materials.

"Subject temperature elevated to 104.2 degrees Fahrenheit," a technician reports. "Metabolic rate exceeding measurement parameters."

"Expected response," Zola notes. "The energy requirements for this level of biological restructuring are enormous. The serum's enhanced cellular metabolism is finally being properly utilized."

Hour after hour, the process continues. Additional compounds are introduced: hormonal stimulants, synthetic proteins, catalyst agents derived from the original serum. Each new substance triggers another wave of agony for the soldier, whose consciousness wavers but never fully recedes thanks to the continual administration of stimulants.

By the sixth hour, the transformation is unmistakable. The emaciated frame has been forcibly reshaped. Muscles sit unnaturally beneath the skin, not with the harmonious development of natural growth but with the artificially induced hypertrophy of forced evolution. The skeletal structure has visibly reformed, shoulders broadening, spine straightening under the influence of the reinforcing compounds.

"Weight now estimated at one hundred seventy-eight pounds," Dr. Müller reports. "Muscle mass increased by approximately 51%. Skeletal density readings approaching 2.7 times human baseline."

"Still not equivalent to Rogers," Zola observes with clinical detachment. "But a significant improvement. The asymmetry from the prosthetic weight should no longer cause structural degradation."

When the procedure finally concludes, the soldier lies motionless on the table, breathing in shallow, irregular gasps. The transformation is grotesque in its efficiency: what should have taken years of natural development has been compressed into hours of agonizing forced growth. It is a baseline they can build on as Barnes transitions to advanced combat trials.

"Remarkable success," Zola declares, surveying their work. "Though recovery will require careful monitoring. The body will attempt to reject these changes. Administer maintenance compound M-7 every six hours for the next seventy-two hours."

He leans closer to the soldier's face, studying the glazed eyes with scientific curiosity. "Can you hear me, soldier?"

A faint flicker of awareness. A single blink.

"You have been improved," Zola informs him. "Your body has been made worthy of the arm we gave you. When recovery is complete, your combat effectiveness will increase by an estimated 62%. You will be stronger. Faster. More durable."

No response. The soldier has retreated deep within himself, finding the only escape available from the trauma inflicted on his body.

As the team begins post-procedure protocols, Zola reviews his notes with satisfaction. The physical limitations have been overcome. The weapon has been forged anew, stronger, and more lethal than before. What was once a failing test subject is now approaching the ideal they have worked toward for years.

"Begin recovery phase," he instructs as he prepares to leave.

Behind him, the soldier lies in a state beyond pain, beyond consciousness, beyond humanity. His body has been remade according to HYDRA's specifications. The few remaining fragments of James Buchanan Barnes have retreated to some unreachable corner of his mind, seeking shelter from the horror of what has been done to the vessel that once housed him.

Zola notes this, too, with clinical interest. The psychological fragmentation is an unexpected but potentially useful side effect. A mind shattered and rebuilt, just like the body that contains it. Perfect symmetry. Perfect control.

The perfect weapon, at last.

Location: Camp Leigh, New Jersey

Date: September 28^th 1949

The bottle of whiskey is three-quarters empty, and Dugan's head swims. The fellas are… he doesn’t actually know where they are.

Doesn’t care much, either.

He’s got better, or worse, things on his mind than the collective misery they all try pretend they don’t share.

Becca’s sent him an invite to her wedding. Him and a plus one he doesn’t have. He’s going to go, and true to his promise, he’s going to walk her down the aisle, and he’s going to smile and pretend he’s not spent the past week living and breathing the same oxygen as the men who tortured her fucking brother.

He’s going to do all that and then what? Blow his fucking brains out? Seems like the only logical way he can sink any fucking lower than he currently is.

Dugan takes another swig directly from the bottle, wincing as the cheap liquor burns his throat. His promise to Becca sits like a stone in his gut, growing heavier with every passing hour that Zola and Karpov remain alive.

"Can't do it," he mutters, hauling himself unsteadily to his feet. "Can't walk her down the aisle with those bastards still breathing. Kid’d fucking haunt me…"

He doesn't remember deciding to kill them. The decision had made itself, somewhere between Karpov's arrival and the moment he'd mentioned Bucky's name with that familiarity that made Dugan's skin crawl. The only question had been when, not if.

And tonight - right fucking now - seems as good a time as any.

The Colt .45 is a comforting weight in his shoulder holster as he staggers through the darkened compound. Most of the base is asleep, only skeleton security patrols making their rounds. Dugan knows their patterns; he fucking design them. Avoiding them is second nature, even half-drunk.

The laboratory building looms ahead, a block of darkness against the night sky. According to protocol, Stark should be there, overseeing Zola's work. Two armed guards should be stationed at the entrance. The whole setup should be locked down tighter than Fort Knox.

But as Dugan approaches, he sees only one bored-looking guard, smoking a cigarette and staring into the middle distance. No sign of Stark's car in its usual spot.

"Evening, Fields," Dugan calls, affecting a casual air that belies the rage simmering beneath his skin.

The young guard startles, hastily stubbing out his cigarette. "Agent Dugan! Sir, I wasn't expecting—"

"At ease," Dugan waves a hand. "Just checking in on our guests. Stark inside?"

Fields shifts uncomfortably. "No, sir. Mr. Stark left for the Arctic a week ago."

Dugan frowns. It’s not unusual to go whole weeks without seeing Howard when the miserable fuck is squirreled away in his lab, but he’s no idea how the fuck he missed the bastard leaving the fucking country. The whole point of Zola and Karpov’s little science exchange is that Stark is there to make sure they don’t do anything evil. Evil-er. "And your buddy?"

"Jenkins, sir. He, uh, went to get coffee. Should be back any minute."

"Right." Dugan nods, as if this makes perfect sense, as if security protocols aren't being ignored left and right and Carter isn’t going to bleed from her ears by the time he’s done screaming about it.. "And our Russian friend?"

"Colonel Karpov returned to his quarters after twenty-one hundred. Hasn't been back."

"So… it's just Zola in there? Working alone?"

Fields nods. "Yes, sir. He insisted he needed to catalog some samples before morning. Director Carter authorized it. The others left a couple of hours ago."

"Well, I'll just pop in and check on the little weasel," Dugan says, clapping the guard on the shoulder with forced joviality. "Make sure he's not building a death ray or something."

Fields hesitates. "Sir, I'm supposed to log all visitors—"

"And you will," Dugan interrupts. "But let's call it an official security check rather than a social call, hmm? No need to disturb the doc if he's deep in his work."

The guard relents, stepping aside to let Dugan pass. Inside, the laboratory building is eerily quiet, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, casting harsh shadows across the sterile corridors. Dugan's footsteps echo as he makes his way toward Zola's main lab.

The door is unlocked. Another protocol violation. Dugan pushes it open slowly, hand resting on the butt of his pistol, ready to draw at the first sign of trouble.

But the lab is empty.

Equipment hums softly. Papers are spread across workbenches. A cup of tea, half-finished and still warm, sits beside an open journal filled with Zola's meticulous handwriting. But the man himself is nowhere to be seen.

"What the hell?" Dugan mutters, moving deeper into the space.

The crates from Karpov's shipment are stacked against one wall, most of them open, their contents carefully arranged on nearby tables. Dugan examines them briefly—medical equipment, scientific instruments, notebooks filled with Cyrillic text. Nothing that immediately screams "nefarious plot," but the absence of Zola is troubling.

He checks the adjoining rooms - storage closets, a small office, a washroom. All empty. It doesn't make any fucking sense, drunk or not.

There’s something odd about one of the storage cabinets against the far wall. It's slightly askew, as if it had been moved and not properly resettled. And there's a faint scuff mark on the floor in front of it, fresh enough that the polish hasn't had time to dull.

Dugan approaches cautiously, running his fingers along the edges of the cabinet. It's solidly built, heavier than it looks. But when he applies pressure to one side, it shifts slightly, revealing a hairline crack in the wall behind it.

"Son of a bitch," he breathes.

Dugan moves the cabinet far enough to expose what's hidden behind: a door. Seamlessly integrated into the wall, with no visible handle or lock, just a small keypad mounted at waist height.

He stares at it for a long moment, the implications sinking in. A secret door. A hidden facility within SHIELD's own compound.

That sneaky nazi sonovabitch…

He knew it. He fucking knew it.

Dugan’s gonna murder the bastard twice.

Chapter Text

Location: Camp Leigh, New Jersey

Date: September 28^th 1949

It’s not the first time Peggy has drunk more than advisable in the company of the Howling Commandos. She usually blames her brother-in-law, but in this case, it is Jacques who shoulders most of the blame, eagerly seeking out the opportunity to share the first offerings of wine his new hobby provides.

In fairness, they all welcome the improvement on their previous alcoholic offerings, quickly working their way through six bottles between them as they pore over the translated letters scattered across the table.

No word of their content will ever be uttered outside of these four walls. Reading the contents feels like enough of a violation already. It’s taken far longer than either desired or anticipated to find someone discreet enough to be entrusted with the task.

There’s no sign of Dugan. He stalked off the moment Peggy set out the translated papers, unkind words aimed at everyone, the men he calls brothers included. She holds no grudges for the words thrown at her but can’t help but wonder if he sometimes forgets that he is not alone in his grief. The others, so much quieter in the ways they share and show their pains, are right there with him.

It’s clear in the angry way Morita stares, fixated, at the clock over Peggy’s shoulder, or in the silent brush of Gabe’s fingers over the original ink letters. Jacques keeps his grief tightly bound, the loss of Bucky and Steve just two more scars against a heart that has already lost more than any man should be forced to lose.

And Monty, her dear, dear Monty… she knows better than any how rare it is for a man of his rank and social status to be allowed the indignity of emotion, no matter how dire the need.

Bucky wasn’t a stupid man. Reckless at times, perhaps, but not stupid. Either in a rare moment of self-preservation or out of awareness of how his actions reflected on Steve, he put nothing overtly incriminating to page. It is only with the context they all share that a new narrative unravels itself in earnest explanations.

What happened the night Karpov was shipped back to Russia is a carefully kept secret within both the SSR and SHIELD. Few had any real insight, but knowledge has never stopped rampant speculation. And it was Steve’s response that cemented belief – or hers at least – that Karpov was a sexual predator. Dugan can be counted upon to throw a punch at the mere hint of a slight, especially when the other Commandos are concerned. Steve, on the other hand, has always… had always… kept his cool under pressure. Even with Bucky. Perhaps especially with Bucky. The mere fact that Zola still breathes is evident enough of that.

They all saw what they saw, believed what was easiest to believe, and buried their heads in the sand at the possibility of an alternative.

“It doesn’t matter,” Monty says, breaking the silence in a way that tells them all he’s been carefully formulating his stance on the whole matter. “Willing or not, Karpov was an officer. The misuse of power was grotesque.”

“Steve was an officer,” Peggy says gently.

They all bristle at the unintentional slight to their Captain’s memory. “Steve never fucking touched him,” Morita snarls at her.

“No,” she nods, “and I think that might have been part of the problem. We can all agree that they were both a little… obtuse in their affections.”

Monty doesn’t look impressed. “It would have been jail for Barnes if he’d been discovered. You know the law.”

Oh, she knows it all too well. The immense responsibility and unusual privilege of Steve’s position would’ve allowed him to fuck his way through the entire barracks should he have wished. The SSR would’ve protected him, and the politicians would have quietly made any stories that leaked go away.

Barnes was both protected by his association and remarkably vulnerable because of it.

She points at the letters. “Yet he seems to have been willing to risk it, which begs another question: do we believe he was even in his right mind when he did?”

“You’re asking if he was crazy?” Gabe arches an eyebrow at her, his displeasure a censor she understands far better than any of them can know.

“I think he was remarkably sane, given his experiences,” she says, her respect for Barnes unshaken even after reading his letters. “But he was unwell. I think perhaps the better question would be to ask ourselves whether we can really consider it coincidence or convenience that Barnes found himself someone who, as he put it, ‘was willing to offer companionship’ given the unique access any relationship with him would give his partner to Steve.”

“Soldiers fuck,” Morita says dryly. “Doesn’t have to be a whole conspiracy.”

“Yet here he is,” Jacques points out.

The silence that follows is thick. Peggy takes another sip of wine, letting the warmth spread through her chest.  "I don't believe it was love," she says finally, tracing the rim of her glass with her fingertip. "Not on Karpov's part. Calculated, perhaps. A way to gain intelligence, to get closer to Steve."

"And Bucky?" Gabe asks, his voice carefully neutral.

Peggy sighs. "Loneliness. Desperation for connection? Everything in these letters speaks of a man grasping for something familiar in a world turned upside down."

“We were right fucking there,” Morita scowls, blinking furiously. “We were right…” he drags the sleeve of his jacket across his face and angrily reaches for more wine.

“Alright,” Monty says slowly. “Let’s play this out to its logical conclusion. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that Karpov’s version of events is accurate. That it was all just a terrible misunderstanding… my question is no longer why he is here, but how. If his intentions with Bucky were benign, innocent, then he is a queer fellow in an institution even less accepting than our own. He’d be stripped of his rank at the very least, and imprisoned at the worst. Yet here he is, promoted, not five years later.”

“Shit,” Peggy runs a hand through her hair, dislodging careful curls in a way she only ever does when distressed. “Then he either came to London with the express orders to get close to Barnes, or…”

“I’m not seeing an ‘or’ that isn’t worse,” Gabe says tiredly.

“Can we just shoot him now?” Morita demands.

“I’d rather you did it somewhere non-fatal,” she says, “but I think that until we understand precisely what this ‘or’ is, we should restrict his access to the facility.”

“We run the risk of losing whatever intelligence he claims to be willing to share,” Monty warns her. “Are you prepared to take that risk?”

She has no particular reason to agree that she is. The possibility of Karpov seducing Barnes as an attempt to get closer to Steve is, in fact, a slightly less horrifying prospect than offering amnesty to an attempted rapist, yet the decision comes easily. She nods, and the men of the Howling Commandos are on their feet an instant later, wine and their shared moroseness forgotten.

“Kneecaps,” Jones and Morita say, almost in unison.

Morita arches an eyebrow. “One each?”

Every action she has taken as Director of SHIELD feels like a compromise on her soul. Every choice, every pardon, every step taken to overlook the most wicked of crimes in the name of peace and security… none of feels half as right as listening to some of her closest friends take vicious pleasure in deciding which of them gets to enact which act of torture on a man who is supposedly under her care.

Location: Camp Leigh, New Jersey

Date: September 25th 1949

It does not move. Movement exacerbates sensations. Sensations are not to be acknowledged, but they persist regardless. Bones throb where they opened it, where they put the instruments inside, where they scraped away at the parts of it that malfunction. The malfunctions cause problems. Problems are not permitted.

It breathes. In. Out. Breathing must be controled. Calm. Steady. If it becomes erratic, they will notice. They always notice. When they notice, they might decide to impose restrictions in an attempt to eradicate malfunction. That…. It will not like that. It never does. It must be prepared for the next set of instructions.

Time does not exist. There is only waiting. Waiting for the door to open. Waiting for the voice. Waiting for the pain or the absence of pain, both of which are deserved only when earned.

A memory tries to surface. It pushes it down. Memories are malfunctions. Each one removed is a step toward optimal functionality.

Fingers running through dark hair. A woman's voice, soft. "Play something new for me, won’t you?"

It blinks hard. It focuses on the ceiling. Counts the seams in the panels. One. Two. Three. The memory recedes.

The left shoulder burns where metal meets flesh. Fresh sutures pull with each minuscule movement. The technicians were not gentle today. It understands this is not punishment, merely efficiency. The new arm is heavy. It throws off the balance. It will need to recalibrate.

Now it waits. It has been good. Earned a reward. It is permitted sleep. Four hours for its satisfactory performance during surgical calibration. It’s not been permitted to remove the gag, so has made no attempt to do so, even before it secured itself in anticipation of rest. It has a bed. A mattress. The shackles it binds itself with are not the kind that tear into its flesh.

It knows better than to attempt to sleep beyond the four hours permitted, and so it waits.

A series of sounds breaks the silence. Unfamiliar. Not the usual footsteps of the doctors or the guards. These are hurried, uneven. It tenses, readying itself for inspection.

The cell door opens with a hiss, but it is not the doctors. Not the guards. A large man with a familiar face stumbles in, breathing hard. His eyes widen when they land on it. His mouth moves, forming words that it cannot process immediately.

"Bucky? Jesus Christ, Jesus fucking Christ… Jimmy? Oh fuck, oh fuck, what have they done to you?"

It does not respond. Those designations are not recognized. It stares ahead, waiting for valid instructions.

The man approaches slowly, hands outstretched. There is a wet quality to his eyes. A malfunction. Perhaps the man requires maintenance as well.

"Hey, kid. It's me. It's Dugan. Dum Dum? Remember?"

It does not answer. To engage without authorization would be a violation. Violations result in correction.

The man - Dugan - kneels in front of it, coming to eye level. His face is red. His breathing unsteady. He smells of alcohol and sweat and something else. Something that triggers another attempted memory.

Gunpowder. Mud. Blood. Men laughing around a fire. A flask passed from hand to hand. 'For the last fucking time, don't call me fucking Jimmy!'

It forces the malfunction away, focusing on the wall beyond the man's shoulder.

He reaches out and unfastens the gag, carefully peeling it from behind its clenched teeth. He doesn’t have permission. It will be punished.

“Motherfuckers… I knew it, I knew they couldn’t be trusted… oh my god, Jimmy… how are you even fucking alive?”

It thinks it might have died before.

“Shit, shit, I’m sorry. Fuck, we need to get these off you, hang on…” Dugan fusses with the cuffs around its wrist and ankles.

He doesn’t have permission. It will be punished.

“Good job I listened to Frenchie’s little lockpicking class, huh? Oh fuck, they’re gonna be so goddamn relieved to see you… there we go.” First one, then the other two cuffs pop loose.

It remains still.

“Let’s… fuck, let’s get you covered up, huh?”

Strong hands settle on its shoulders and haul it upright. It doesn’t protest. Dugan is familiar somehow, and it isn’t very good at remembering things. Perhaps Dugan does have permission?

Permission or not, he wraps his own jacket around its shoulders. It’s flesh, mottled and bruised from the procedure and sensitive to the point of pain, flares in discomfort.

It doesn’t recall this punishment.

It’s warm, though. That’s… that’s nice.

It isn’t sure it has any concept of nice, but the word is… well, nice. Pain lances through its skull. Sharp. Debilitating. It curls forward involuntarily, right hand clutching at its head. This is a severe malfunction. It will be punished.

"Whoa, easy there." The man's hands are on its shoulders now, steadying it. "What's wrong? What the fuck did they do to you?"

It should neutralize this threat. The protocols are clear. Unknown individuals in secure areas are to be eliminated. But the pain is disorienting, and the commands are not coming from an authorized source.

No. The words are entirely new, but not. They aren’t the words its handler uses. Not the right language. Different somehow… familiar?

It gasps, doubling over. Its body trembles without permission. Correction will be severe for this failure.

"I know it hurts," Dugan says, his voice gentler now. "But we've got to move. I'm getting you out of here, kid. Gonna take you home. Can you stand?"

Home. The word has no meaning. It has no home. It has compliance and punishment and reward. That is all.

Yet the body responds to the man's question, struggling to its feet. The new arm hangs uselessly at its side, not yet activated, a dead weight pulling at the fresh incisions in its new shoulder. A strong arm fastens around its waist and holds hi…it up. It thinks it has been here before.

The sequence of information causes more pain. More malfunctions. Images flash behind its eyes: a skinny blond boy with bloody knuckles, a uniform with sergeant's stripes, snow-capped mountains rushing past, falling, falling, the cold….

It gasps, doubling over. Its body trembles without permission. Correction will be severe for this failure.

It hopes its handler will be the one to deliver that punishment, not this Dugan.

"That's it," Dugan encourages, supporting its weight. "One step at a time. I've got you."

It should resist. It should call for the guards. It should eliminate this threat to protocol. But the malfunctions are overwhelming, and the body obeys this stranger instead of its programming.

They move toward the door. Each step sends shocks of pain through its nervous system. The body is weak after surgery. Undernourished. It calculates that it is operating at approximately 27% efficiency. Combat capability severely limited.

“You know… I was expecting some dodgy shit… some fucked up… not this. Fuck, kid, never this. I’mma kill em. I’mma kill em both. They ain’t ever gonna touch you again, you hear me?”

It presumes Dugan is talking to it. It would prefer Russian. Following the new words is hard and makes it dizzy.

The corridor outside its cell is long and white. The lights hurt its eyes. It has not been outside the cell in days, except for procedures. It blinks rapidly, trying to adjust. Dugan keeps talking, a constant stream of words it cannot fully process.

"...gonna get you out of here... others are on base... protect you."

Its bare feet are cold against the concrete floor. Each step is agony, but it does not make a sound. It has been trained not to vocalize pain. Pain is irrelevant. Function is all that matters.

"Christ, you're freezing," Dugan mutters, feeling its skin through the jacket. "Hold on."

He pauses, awkwardly maneuvering it against the wall to support its weight while he removes his boots and socks. The socks are placed on its feet with surprising gentleness. They are too big, bunching around its ankles, but they are warm. It does not understand this action. Comfort is not necessary for function.

"Better than nothing," Dugan says, pulling his boots back on without socks. "Just a little further."

A door opens somewhere ahead. Footsteps. Multiple sets. It tenses, recognizing the pattern. Handlers. Guards. It should alert them to the breach in protocol. It should return to its cell. It should…

"Shit," Dugan hisses, pulling it into a side corridor. "Stay quiet."

It obeys without thinking, then registers confusion at its own compliance. This man is not an authorized handler. It should not obey him. Another malfunction. It will be corrected for this.

The footsteps grow closer. Voices echo off the walls.

"...Fennhoff will likely need a week before we’re ready to return the Asset to Siberia for advanced training. I look forward to seeing his work up close."

Dr. Zola's voice. Authorized. Familiar. Safe. It takes an involuntary step toward the sound.

Dugan's hand clamps over its flesh arm, pulling it back. "Don't," he whispers, breath hot against its ear. "They'll hurt you again."

Hurt? No. Correction is not hurt. Correction is necessary. Required. It struggles weakly against Dugan's grip.

"Jimmy, please," Dugan's voice breaks. "I know you’re scared, but I’m tryin’ to save you. Just… trust me? Please, fuck…"

Save. The word triggers something. A memory. A small, skinny boy with a bloody nose. "I had him on the ropes, Buck. Didn't need saving."

The pain slices through its skull again, so sharp it would have cried out if not for the rules. Its vision blurs, darkens at the edges. It slumps in Dugan's arms.

"Easy," Dugan grunts, adjusting his grip to better support its weight. "I got you."

The voices pass by their hiding place, continuing down the corridor. Dugan waits until they fade completely before moving again, half-carrying, half-dragging it toward what appears to be a service exit.

"Almost there," he keeps saying, like a prayer. "Almost there, kid."

It doesn't know where "there" is. It only knows it should not be leaving the facility. Leaving means failure. Means punishment. It… it tried this before, didn’t it? And they put it in the…

It digs in its heels and comes to an abrupt stop.

It’s not going back in there. It can’t, it won’t, it...

The halt in movement leaves them out in the open, directly in line of sight as Doctor Zola and the two men who like to ensure they leave their fingerprints in its flesh when they touch it.

It thinks they look surprised. It’s outside mission parameters.

Dugan pushes it behind him and raises a weapon. So do its handlers. “I should’ve fucking killed you when I had the chance,” Dugan snarls.

Zola tilts his head. “And then where would we be? Soldier?”

Soldier. It knows that word. Knows the language wrapped around it better than whatever Dugan speaks.

It stands to attention, awaiting order.

“Time to put your new enhancement to the test, I think,” Zola muses. He sounds pleased. It knows that sound, knows it means both pain and praise. “Attack.”

Location: Camp Leigh, New Jersey

Date: September 25th 1949

Dugan's heart sinks as Zola's smug voice echoes through the corridor. Everything slows down, crystallizing into a moment he knows will haunt him for the rest of his days. He should’ve gone for backup the moment he found the hidden lab. He should’ve done a dozen things, but the second he saw…

"Attack."

The command hangs in the air like a death sentence. Dugan keeps his gun trained on Zola, but his peripheral vision catches Barnes stiffening, his posture changing in an instant from confused and pained to something mechanical, something lethal.

I've failed him again.

That's all Dugan has time to think before he's thrown sideways, the air knocked from his lungs as Barnes slams into him. His back hits the wall hard enough to make his vision blur, the gun clattering from his hand. He slides to the floor, gasping for breath.

But the killing blow doesn't come.

Instead, Bucky continues past him, moving with a speed and purpose that seems impossible given his condition just moments before. The previously useless metal arm now whirs with terrifying life, plates shifting and recalibrating as he charges forward.

Not at Dugan.

At Zola.

The little scientist's eyes widen in shock, his mouth forming a perfect 'O' of surprise. "Soldier! Stand down! Comply!" The words come out in a panicked rush, all pretense of control evaporating.

Barnes doesn't slow. His metal fist connects with the face of the first guard, a sickening crunch followed by a spray of blood as the man drops like a stone. The second guard manages to fire a shot that goes wide, embedding itself in the wall inches from Dugan's head.

Before the guard can adjust his aim, Barnes is on him, metal fingers closing around the man's throat, lifting him bodily from the ground. The guard's feet kick uselessly in the air, his face purpling as Barnes squeezes.

Zola turns to run, but his short legs betray him. Barnes throws the now-limp guard aside and lunges after the scientist, catching him by the back of his pristine lab coat.

"No! You are supposed to obey!" Zola's voice rises to a desperate squeal as Barnes spins him around, lifting him until they're face to face.

Barnes says nothing. There’s nothing behind his eyes, no pain, no fear. None of the terror Dugan remembers after years of listening to the kid scream himself awake at the mere memory of Zola.

Whatever’s driving him, it’s not emotion, it’s instinct.

"J-James," Zola stammers, dropping the commanding tone entirely. "Please... I can explain... I was helping you..."

Barnes tilts his head slightly, almost curious, as if examining an interesting insect.

He slams Zola against the wall, metal fingers closing around the scientist's throat just as they had the guards. Zola's legs thrash, his hands clawing uselessly at the unyielding metal.

Dugan came here to watch Zola die. He’s not about to interfere now it’s happening. The only person who has more of a claim to the miserable bastard’s life is, somehow, through some horrifying, terrible miracle, standing right before him.

With a single squeeze, those round, rat-like eyes wide and desperate, and life leaves Arnim Zola with a clean and satisfying crack of bone.

Bucky drops him to the floor, seemingly more confused by the presence of a body than satisfied by the death of his tormentor.

Dugan really needs to get off his ass. There’s no telling how many more squid bastards are squirreled away down here.

He climbs up onto his knees, the movement seemingly jolting Bucky out of his bewilderment.

He’s gonna crash. His whole body is awash with grotesque bruising, painful lesions, and that monstrous-looking arm. He sways, unsteady on his feet, and Dugan dives forward with the intent to catch him before he hits the ground.

Instead, he lets out an inhuman-sounding wail of unimaginable pain, throws himself down on the corpse of his tormentor, and calmly, methodically uses his metal arm to pulverize Zola’s skull into the ground.

Chapter Text

Location: Camp Leigh, New Jersey

Date: September 28^th 1949

There’s nothing left of Arnim Zola but shattered bone, pulverized brain and a fucking lake of blood. In Dugan's opinion, that’s still, frankly, far too much, but now isn’t the time to light the remains on fire and piss on the ashes.

The adrenaline of the last what, fifteen fucking minutes, has burned away the entirety of the alcohol, leaving him distressingly sober and without much of a clue on what to do.

Bucky’s alive. He’s alive, and…

He’ll never forget finding the kid in Bavaria, bound and bloody and naked, pumped so full of drugs and trauma that it took over a week for them to find anything but terror behind his eyes. He’ll never forget carrying him down that mountain, numb from the cold and clutching him tighter than he should just to feel the reassurance of his pulse.

This… this is a continuation of that nightmare, one made all the more horrifying not by Bucky’s sudden burst of violence, but by the horrific implications of finding him here.

What should be an absurd image – Bucky wearing only Dugan’s socks and his coat hanging loose and open with no concern for modesty – is transfigured by the wild mess of hair that hangs over his eyes and sticks to his cheeks. There’s not an inch of him from the neck down that isn’t discolored by mottled bruising, and that arm… despite everyone’s protests, despite all their reassurance, it’s clear Zola has been continuing his barbaric human experiments, and he has, for the third fucking time, used Bucky to do it.

Here. Right beneath their feet. With equipment and technicians they’ve paid for.

When the last of Zola’s skull gives way to sa hattered tiled floor, Dugan finally gets his shit together.

“Easy kid,” he says, approaching with the same level of caution he might show a wounded animal. He’s a big guy, intimidating, he knows it. Has seen Bucky flinch from him too many times in the past to do so again without losing his stomach. He hunches down as small as he can make himself and wishes to Christ the others were here. Morita is better equipped to handle the multitude of injuries he can see. Gabe and Jacques are so much more gentle.

Instead, all Bucky’s got is him.

Bucky doesn't respond to Dugan's voice, his eyes fixed on the ruin of Zola's body. There's no satisfaction in his expression, no relief, no anger—just an eerie blankness that makes Dugan's skin crawl. The metal arm hangs limp at his side again, and whatever power had surged through it is now dormant.

"Jimmy? We need to move, kid. We can’t stay here."

Bucky's eyes slide from Zola to Dugan, but there's no recognition in them. Just assessment, as if cataloging potential threats. Blood drips from the metal fingers, a pattern of crimson dripping onto Dugan's socks.

"Fuck it," Dugan mutters, making a decision. "Sorry about this, kid."

He moves forward slowly, telegraphing his intentions as best he can before carefully putting his arm around Bucky's waist. When Bucky doesn't resist, he begins guiding him toward the door that should lead to the surface.

Bucky moves mechanically, his feet shuffling forward in the too-large socks. His skin is fever-hot against Dugan's side, but he's shivering - shock, probably, or some fucked-up aftereffect of whatever they've been doing to him.

The corridor ahead branches in two directions. Dugan hesitates, trying to remember which way leads to the exit. Left, he thinks. Has to be left.

After a dozen steps, Bucky sags against him, trembling legs giving out and almost toppling them both to the ground. His center of gravity is entirely fucked by the arm, and he’s heavy in a way he never was before. Dugan doesn’t much care. He’s not Steve Rogers level of strong, but he’s hauled Mad Jack Churchill out of a foxhole while the crazy bastard was still trying to swing his broadsword. He can handle this.

They leave a trail of blood behind them as Dugan wraps an awkward arm tighter around Bucky’s waist and shoulders as much of his weight as he can. Bucky isn’t much help. He doesn’t resist, but he is heavy and mostly limp against him, the muscles under his skin as hard and unyielding as stone.

There’s a strange numbness that’s creeping across Dugan’s chest. He has no idea how to even start to process the reality that’s leaning heavily against him.

Bucky’s alive. He’s alive. He’s…. oh god, how long has he been here? What the fuck have they been doing to him while Dugan was mere feet away from him?

“I’m getting you outta here,” Dugan vows. “Just stay with me, kid.”

Bucky’s not uttered a sound since that spine-curling scream, but his breathing is heavy, labored. It’s difficult to get a good look at his face behind that curtain of tangled hair, but there’s a tube of some kind in his nose. Every inhale has a soft, whistling sound wrapped around it.

The stairs leading up to the main lab seem endless, each one an exercise in pure stubbornness. Bucky's barely conscious, a deadweight against Dugan's side, his head lolling forward with each labored step.

"Almost there," Dugan grunts, though he's not sure if Bucky can even hear him anymore. "Just a little further."

When they finally reach the top, Dugan has to pause to catch his breath. Sweat pours down his face, stinging his eyes. He's not as young as he used to be, and Bucky is unnaturally heavy.

The door to the main lab is heavy, reinforced steel with a key code panel beside it. Dugan stares at it, cursing under his breath. They're so close, and yet… there’d been nothing barring his entrance to the lab once he found it. The fact that there’s something on the inside… they’re clearly more interested in keeping things in than out.

Things. Bucky.

Bucky's right hand suddenly twitches, lifting weakly. His fingers tap against Dugan's arm, trying to get his attention.

"What is it?"

With visible effort, Bucky raises his head slightly, his eyes finding the keypad. He makes a small movement, as if trying to reach for it.

"You know the code?" Dugan asks, hope flaring in his chest.

Bucky doesn't respond, but his eyes remain fixed on the keypad. Dugan shifts, supporting Bucky's weight with one arm while maneuvering him closer to the panel.

"Go ahead," he encourages. "If you know it, punch it in."

Bucky's right hand trembles violently as he raises it to the keypad. His fingers hover over the buttons, hesitating. For a moment, Dugan thinks he's lost whatever thread of memory he was clinging to.

Then, slowly, painfully, Bucky presses five buttons in sequence.

The lock disengages with a soft click.

"Good job," Dugan breathes, relief washing over him. "Good job, kid."

They stumble through the door into Zola's main laboratory. It's eerily quiet, the overhead lights dimmed for the night. Equipment hums softly in the background: machines whose purpose Dugan doesn't want to contemplate too deeply.

The exit is on the far side of the lab, maybe thirty feet away. It might as well be thirty miles given Bucky's deteriorating condition. His breathing becomes more labored, the whistling sound more pronounced. His skin burns against Dugan's, and yet he's shivering violently.

Dugan scans the room, formulating a plan. He can’t just walk out of the lab with a dead man, not when he’s no idea who might know what’s been happening beneath their feet. The guards on duty can’t be trusted. Fuck… no one can be trusted.

No one but family.

And since he can’t bring Bucky to the Howlies without attracting attention, and he’s sure as shit not leaving him to fetch them, the only real option is to bring the Howlies to them.

His eyes land on the alarm panel near the main entrance. Red and tempting.

It's a risk. A big one. But Dugan's never been accused of overthinking.

"Change of plans," he mutters, half to himself, half to Bucky. "You're gonna hate this."

He maneuvers them both toward a cramped but secure storage closet near the lab's entrance. It's a place to shelter temporarily. Inside, he gently lowers Bucky to the floor, propping him against the wall. On the off-chance this all blows up in his face, he can at least buy some time before Bucky is noticed.

The kid blinks slowly, his gaze unfocused. There's no way to know if he understands, but Dugan doesn't have time to explain better.

"I'll be right back," he promises. "Don't move."

Leaving Bucky in the closet feels like ripping off a limb, but Dugan forces himself to close the door and move swiftly across the lab. At the alarm panel, he hesitates for just a second, then pulls the lever down hard.

Immediately, the quiet lab erupts into chaos. Sirens wail, red emergency lights flash, and an automated voice comes over the speakers: "Security breach in Laboratory A. All security personnel report to Laboratory A."

A second later, Fields and Jenkins stumble into the lab and stare at Dugan in surprise.

“Fetch the Director!” he barks, channeling every ounce of authority he has into his voice in the desperate hope that they’re not HYDRA. They’re both so fucking young, he’d hate to have to kill them.

He will. No fucking hesitation.

Another ten seconds later, and the room is in absolute pandemonium. He waits, furiously not looking at the closet door, and prays to a god he doesn’t believe in that Carter gets here fast.

He doesn’t trust her… he, fuck, he doesn’t know who to trust, but a desperate part of him wants to. She’s family, too. And fuck… it’s Bucky. Steve’s Bucky. She’d not…

None of the gathered guards pouring into the room seem to know what to do. He outranks all of them. No one tries to shoot him. That’s… that’s a fucking plus.

Peggy Carter arrives with the wrath of an ancient god in her eyes. She storms in, coiled for a fight, and comes to an abrupt halt when she sees Dugan. Behind her, the Howling Commandos follow, bringing with them a sense of relief that almost robs him of his strength. It’s not just him standing between Bucky and harm anymore.

“Tim?” Carter asks cautiously. “Where’s Doctor Zola?”

Dugan’s upper lip curls into a snarl. “Get rid of the spectators,” he demands. “Right now.”

Peggy’s not a woman who appreciates being on the receiving end of barked orders. She’s slogged her way through the ranks and doesn’t have to take shit from anyone who isn’t a direct funder for SHIELD.

She can take Dugan’s shit.

“Agent Dug-“

“Please, Peggy,” he begs.

That’s all it takes. She looks at him, searching for answers he won’t give her until it’s safe, then nods. He’s earned her trust if nothing else.

“Out,” she barks, immediately emptying the room of everyone but her and the boys.

The last guard files out, the door closing behind him with a heavy thud. For a moment, there's nothing but silence broken only by the still-wailing alarm.

"For God's sake, turn that thing off," Monty mutters, wincing at the noise.

Morita moves to the control panel and silences the siren, leaving them in an unsettling quiet.

Carter steps forward, her eyes never leaving Dugan's face. "What's happened? Where's Zola?"

"Dead," Dugan says flatly. There's no point sugar-coating it. "Downstairs. What's left of him, anyway."

Gabe's eyebrows shoot up. "You killed Zola?"

"No." Dugan shakes his head. "I didn't."

He moves toward the storage closet, aware of the five pairs of eyes tracking his every move. His hand pauses on the door handle, suddenly hesitant. He looks back at the others, his expression grim.

"I need you to prepare yourselves," he says, his voice rough. "It's... it's bad."

Carter frowns. "Tim, what—"

But Dugan is already opening the door, stepping aside to reveal what's inside.

The reaction is immediate. Gabe lets out a strangled sound. Dernier curses in rapid French. Monty goes absolutely still, the blood draining from his face.

"Jesus Christ," Morita whispers.

In the cramped confines of the closet, Bucky has wedged himself into the farthest corner. He's huddled into a tight ball, knees drawn up to his chest, his right arm wrapped around them while the metal arm hangs uselessly at his side. His entire body shakes with violent tremors as he rocks back and forth, back and forth. His eyes - wide and unseeing - stare through them rather than at them, and the whistling of his breathing has taken on a keening quality that makes the hair on the back of Dugan's neck stand up.

Carter doesn't say anything. She doesn't move. Her face is completely blank, a mask has dropped into place to hide whatever storm is raging behind it.

"That's-" Morita starts, then stops, unable to complete the thought.

"Bucky," Gabe finishes for him, voice cracking on the name.

Dugan moves cautiously toward the closet. "He's in bad shape," he warns unnecessarily. "I found him downstairs. In a hidden lab beneath this one. Zola's been... experimenting on him."

Dernier says something in French that doesn't need translation, his expression murderous.

"He’s not said a word," Dugan continues, crouching at the entrance to the closet. "Doesn't seem to recognize me most of the time. And that arm..." He gestures helplessly.

"How long?" Monty asks, his voice tight with controlled fury. "How long has he been here?"

"I don't know. But they’ve got a whole fucking lab set up down there, holding cell, the whole fucking horror show." Dugan reaches a hand slowly into the closet. "Jimmy? It's okay. Remember the fellas? Nobody’s gonna hurt you."

At the sound of Dugan's voice, Bucky's rocking intensifies. His right hand moves from his knees to his head, fingers tangling in his matted hair, pulling so hard that Dugan winces in sympathy.

"He was better before," Dugan says, worried. "The noise must have set him off."

Morita steps forward, professional instincts kicking in. "He needs medical attention. Now. I can see signs of infection, possible pneumonia, malnutrition—"

"No medics," Dugan cuts him off firmly. "No one outside this room. We don't know who's involved."

“How the fuck did they get him here?” Gabe demands. “How the fuck did we not know?”

One by one, they look to Peggy. The horror behind the mask cracks through. She raises her hand to her mouth and looks like she’s about to be sick. “I swear to god…” she chokes, “I would never…”

Monty is the first to jump to her defense. “If you didn’t know, then you’re not in control of what’s happening here. We need to lock this down now.”

Still looking nauseous, Peggy nods. “Agreed. Monty, you, Gabe, and Jacques find Karpov. Put him in the cells. If he’s involved or not… we can’t risk it.”

“Done,” Gabe nods. The three of them cast a desperate look at Bucky, clearly reluctant to leave him, but duty wins out. They depart from the lab, leaving Morita, Dugan, and Peggy behind. Morita is already crouching down, cautiously approaching Bucky from as least threatening position as he can.

“Hey, Sarge,” he says softly. “Can you hear me?”

“Zola is downstairs, you said?” Peggy asks. Dugan points at the hidden entrance. “I don’t know if anyone else is down there. I had to get him out and-“

Peggy pulls out her gun. “You did the right thing. Leave it to me.” For a moment, the sound of her heels clicking against the tiles drowns out the ragged breathing coming from inside the closet, but it soon fades away.

Dugan slumps against the wall.

"Hey, Sarge," he says again. "It's Jim. Jim Morita. Remember me? Mouthy medic who patched you up after all the crazy?"

Bucky's rocking slows fractionally, his hand pausing in its grip on his hair.

"That's it," Morita encourages. "You know me. I need to check you over, okay? I'm not gonna hurt you."

Bucky makes a small, broken sound in the back of his throat. It's not quite a word, but it's the first vocalization Dugan's heard from him since the scream when he killed Zola.

"Take it slow, Jim," he advises, hovering anxiously nearby. "He's not tracking well."

"I'm not rushing anything," Morita assures him, still inching forward. "Bucky? I'm gonna touch your wrist now. Just checking your pulse, that's all."

Bucky's eyes dart wildly, lingering briefly on Dugan before moving on, never quite focusing. His breathing accelerates, the whistling taking on an alarming rattle.

Morita reaches out, his fingers barely brushing Bucky's right wrist before Bucky jerks away violently, slamming into the wall behind him with enough force to dent the plaster. The metal arm whirs to life, plates shifting and recalibrating as it lifts defensively.

"Whoa, whoa!" Dugan intercedes, moving between Morita and Bucky. "It's okay, Jimmy. It's okay."

Bucky's eyes lock onto Dugan's face, recognition flickering there for just a moment before being swallowed again by blind panic. The metal arm remains raised, but it doesn't strike.

“It’s okay, kid, you’re okay.”

Bucky doesn't respond, but the metal arm lowers slightly.

"That's good," Dugan encourages. "That's real good, kid."

"I need to see what I’m doing. How… how bad it is," Morita insists. For a second, the professionalism he’s hiding behind slips, and the grief slips through.

Dugan inches closer, keeping his movements telegraphed and non-threatening. "We're gonna get you out of here, kid. Take you somewhere quiet. But I need you to help me a little, okay? Can you do that?"

Bucky stares at him, something almost like comprehension flickering in his eyes.

"All you gotta do is let me help you stand. That's it. Just stand up, and then I'll do the rest."

Bucky's right hand unclenches his hair, dropping shakily to his side. It's a small movement, but in the context of his fear, it feels monumental.

"There you go," Dugan encourages. "Just like that. Now, I'm gonna put my hand out. You take it when you're ready."

He extends his hand, palm up, and waits. Behind him, he can hear Morita breathing heavily.

For a long moment, nothing happens. Bucky continues to stare at Dugan's outstretched hand, his own trembling at his side. Then, with agonizing slowness, his right hand lifts. It hovers in the air, uncertain, before finally coming to rest in Dugan's palm.

His skin is burning hot and clammy with sweat, but his grip is surprisingly strong as his fingers close around Dugan's hand.

"That's it," Dugan breathes, careful not to let his relief show too plainly. "That's real good, Jimmy. Now, we're gonna stand up, nice and slow."

He rises gradually, gently pulling Bucky with him. Bucky follows, unfolding from his hunched position with visible difficulty. Once upright, he sways dangerously, and Dugan moves quickly to support him, an arm around his waist.

"I've got you," he assures Bucky, bearing most of his weight. "I've got you."

Bucky's head drops forward, hair obscuring his face, but he doesn't pull away. His breathing is still labored, but the panicked keening has subsided. He seems content enough to let himself rest against Dugan while all three of their heart rates settle down.

Morita moves around behind him before appearing with one of the long lab coats that hang on the back of the door. Dugan’s jacket does very little to protect him. This, at least, will hang down to his knees.

“Okay, Bucky, let’s swap this over, yeah? Gonna be more comfortable.” Morita’s voice is as gentle as Dugan’s ever heard it, but the second he puts his hand on the fabric of Dugan’s jacket, Bucky drops to the ground with a bone-shuddering thud. He all but rips the jacket off, struggling with the metal arm, and is damn near hyperventilating when he holds it up to them like it’s some kind of offering.

Mottled skin is stretched so thinly over muscle and bone that Dugan can see the rivets and joints of the metal arm beneath the surface.

Fuck it, he’s gonna be sick.

Bucky was bad after Bavaria. Fuck, he was bad after Azzano. But this… this cowering, submissive huddle, that’s not their Sarge. It’s…

Dugan suddenly hates that Zola is dead.

He shares a panicked look with Morita, who seems as lost as he is.

"It's okay," Dugan says quickly, crouching back down to Bucky's level. "The jacket's yours, kid. Nobody's taking it from you."

Bucky clutches the jacket to his chest with his right hand, knuckles white from the grip. His eyes dart between Dugan and Morita, wild with panic. The metal arm clicks and whirs, recalibrating in response to his distress.

"Jesus Christ," Morita breathes. "What the hell did they do to him?"

Dugan doesn't answer. He can't. The rage building inside him is too vast, too consuming for words. Instead, he focuses on keeping his voice steady, his movements slow and deliberate.

"Jimmy, it's okay," he repeats, not reaching for him this time. "You're safe now. Nobody's gonna hurt you or take anything from you."

Bucky's eyes settle on him, still wary but less frantic. The tremors running through his body intensify, and his teeth chatter from either fear or fever, Dugan can't tell.

"He's burning up," Morita says quietly, his medic's eye assessing from a safe distance. "We need to get him someplace I can treat him properly."

Dugan nods, never taking his eyes off Bucky. "You hear that, kid? We're gonna get you out of here. Take you somewhere safe. But you gotta keep that jacket for now, okay? It's cold outside." He lets Bucky clutch the fabric tightly in his hands and gestures to Morita, who drapes the lab coat around him. Bucky’s stunned expression is practically adoring.

A faint noise comes from somewhere in the lab - a door opening, footsteps. Bucky's head snaps up, eyes wide with renewed terror. The metal arm lifts slightly, plates shifting in preparation for... what? Defense? Attack?

Peggy appears in the doorway, her face grim, her hands bloody. She stops when she sees Bucky's reaction to her presence, taking a step back.

"It's okay," Dugan tells him quickly. "She's a friend. Remember Peggy?"

Bucky doesn't look convinced, but the arm lowers fractionally. His gaze remains fixed on Peggy, tracking her every movement with predatory intensity.

"How bad?" Dugan asks her quietly.

"Bad," she confirms, her voice tight. "There's... evidence. Records. Years of them." She swallows hard, her eyes wet. "I'll secure the area. No one goes down there until we've documented everything."

"Karpov?" Morita asks.

"Oh… he’s definitely involved," Peggy says grimly. "From the looks of it, they smuggled Sargeant Barnes in with the supplies he brought." The cold fury in her eyes is matched only by her guilt as she ducks outside the lab to address the guards on duty.

"Fuck," Dugan mutters, then catches himself, glancing at Bucky. "Sorry, kid."

But Bucky doesn't react to the profanity. At the mention of Karpov's name, however, something changes in his posture - a subtle stiffening, his gaze sharpening with something that might be fear or desperation.

“Karpov did this? He hurt you?” It feels particularly sick to be asking the question, given what they know of the bastard.

Bucky stares at Dugan, his breathing growing increasingly erratic. The metal arm whirs loudly, plates shifting and recalibrating as if preparing for a threat. His right hand clutches Dugan's jacket so tightly his knuckles turn white.

"Easy, easy," Dugan soothes, immediately regretting the question. "You don't have to answer that. You don't have to say anything."

But something has changed in Bucky's demeanor. His vacant gaze has sharpened, focusing with an intensity that wasn't there before. His eyes dart frantically between Dugan, Morita, and Peggy, as if searching for something—or someone.

“He’s not here,” Dugan promises him. “He’s never coming near you again.”

Bucky flinches at the contact but doesn't pull away. His eyes find Dugan's face, desperate for something to anchor him against the flood of panic threatening to drag him under.

"That's it," Dugan encourages. "Just look at me. You're safe now."

Gradually, Bucky's breathing slows, the wild terror in his eyes receding to a more manageable fear. His flesh hand reaches up to grip Dugan's wrist, holding on like it's a lifeline.

"We need to get him out of here," Morita says quietly. "This place is..." he trails off, his gaze lingering on the various tools scattered around the lab, no doubt wondering if – how – they’ve been used to hurt their brother.

Peggy nods. "My car is outside. We can take him to Howard’s."

“Can we trust him?” Morita asks bluntly, saving Dugan the need to bristle with rage. “He’s supposed to oversee everything Zola does.”

Bucky starts to tremble again.

Peggy is already shaking her head. “He’s got state-of-the-art security, a building we can control, and all the supplies we need. As for if we can trust him… I’ll call him back from the expedition and question him myself.” Cold anger settles her jaw. “If he’s involved with this, I will kill him myself.”

It takes Dugan a second to understand why the word ‘expedition’ makes him feel so uneasy.

Howard’s looking for Steve. Because Steve is fucking dead, and Bucky… how the fuck is Dugan supposed to tell him that? How is he supposed to break the kid’s heart when it’s so painfully obvious that everything else Bucky has has already been broken?

Peggy seems to understand just as he does. She turns away, hiding her expression.  

"Can you stand, Jimmy?" Dugan asks gently. "We're gonna go someplace quieter. Someplace safe."

Bucky doesn't respond verbally, but he shifts his weight, preparing to rise. Dugan helps him up, supporting most of his weight as Bucky sways unsteadily on his feet.

They move carefully through the lab toward the exit, Peggy leading the way, Morita bringing up the rear, and Dugan supporting Bucky's unsteady steps between them. Bucky's eyes dart constantly, scanning for threats.

As they reach the door, Bucky hesitates, swaying slightly. His face is ashen beneath the fever flush, sweat beading along his hairline despite his continued shivering.

"Take a second," Dugan encourages. "No rush."

Bucky shakes his head stubbornly, forcing himself to continue forward. But after three more steps, his knees buckle, and only Dugan's quick reflexes prevent him from collapsing entirely.

"I got you," Dugan assures him, adjusting his grip to support Bucky's weight better. "Lean on me all you need."

Bucky doesn't protest, which is concerning in itself. His breathing has taken on that alarming rattle again, and heat radiates from his skin like a furnace.

"He's getting worse," Morita says quietly. "We need to move faster."

Dugan nods, making a quick decision. "Sorry about this, Jimmy," he murmurs, then carefully scoops Bucky into his arms.

Bucky makes a startled sound, his body going rigid with fear or surprise. The metal arm whirs loudly, plates shifting aggressively, but he doesn't struggle or lash out.

"It's just me," Dugan soothes. "Just getting you to the car quicker. That okay?"

After a tense moment, Bucky relaxes fractionally, his head dropping against Dugan's shoulder in what seems like exhausted acceptance. His weight is substantial, especially with the metal arm, but Dugan has carried heavier burdens through worse conditions.

After locking down the lab and using her Director's code to restrict entry, Peggy leads them through the quiet corridors of the base, choosing a route that minimizes their chances of encountering others. The few personnel they do pass give them curious looks but don't question Director Carter's authority.

They will need to get word to the others and let them know where they’re headed, but for now, it makes the most sense to let them handle Karpov and ensure no one else gets to him before they can beat some answers loose.

Outside, the night air is cool and damp, a light drizzle falling. Bucky tenses at the first touch of rain on his face, a small, distressed sound escaping him.

"Just rain, kid," Dugan assures him. "Nothing to worry about."

Peggy's car is parked nearby, engine already running. She opens the rear door, allowing Dugan to carefully maneuver Bucky onto the back seat. Bucky goes without resistance, his movements sluggish, eyelids drooping with exhaustion.

Dugan slides in beside him, and Morita takes the front passenger seat. As Peggy pulls away from the curb, Bucky lists sideways, his head coming to rest against Dugan's shoulder once more.

"That's it," Dugan encourages quietly. "You can rest now. We've got you."

Bucky's eyes drift shut; his breathing still labored but slightly less frantic. After a moment, his right hand fumbles across the seat, finding Dugan's and gripping it weakly.

"I'm right here," Dugan promises, squeezing gently. "Not going anywhere."

As the car carries them away from Camp Leigh, Dugan looks down at the broken man beside him - at the metal arm gleaming dully in the passing streetlights, at the paper-thin skin, at the surgical scars visible through matted hair.

He thinks about the kid from Brooklyn who used to drag Steve Rogers out of back-alley fights. About the sergeant who led them through the worst of the war with steady hands and a crooked smile. About the friend who stood beside them all, loyal to the end.

"We're gonna fix this, Jimmy," he vows quietly. "Whatever it takes. We're gonna make this right."

It does not know where it is being transported.

The containment parameters have changed. This is not the usual transport protocol.

This vehicle is different. Smaller. Not secured properly. It is placed on a cushioned surface. Beside it sits one of the males from earlier. Large. Facial hair. Hat. Different uniform than the handlers. The one who placed his outer garment on it.

It should be secured for transport. It is dangerous if not properly restrained. The handlers know this. These people do not appear to understand proper containment procedures.

The vehicle moves, causing mild inertial shifts. The movements make the body's malfunctions more apparent. Temperature regulation systems are compromised.

"You doing okay, Jimmy?" The large male speaks. The designation is incorrect. It is not "Jimmy." Yet when the sound enters its auditory processing, it produces unusual feedback loops in the neural pathways. Almost like recognition, but fragmented, corrupted.

It does not respond. It is not permitted. ‘Okay’ is not a concept that holds any relevance to it.

"That's okay, you don't have to talk. Just rest. We'll be at Howard’s place soon. Get you properly taken care of."

The concept of "care" does not align with its operational parameters. It receives maintenance, not care. Maintenance is necessary for continued function. Care implies something it cannot process correctly.

Another male sits in the front section of the vehicle. Smaller. Different facial features. This one also produces neural feedback loops that do not align with standard threat assessment protocols. The feedback suggests familiarity, but this cannot be correct. It doesn’t know this man, and yet… yet there is something.

"Fever's still pretty high," this male says, turning to look at it. "We should try to get some fluids in him.”

"Yeah, agreed." The larger male shifts, adjusting position to better observe it. "You think you can drink something when we stop, kid? You're burning up."

It understands "drink." Hydration is permitted only during maintenance. Drinking is not allowed. It doesn’t drink, it…

It is thirsty. So thirsty.

It… it will be punished for that.

It does not respond verbally to the question. The large male – Dugan, he is Dugan - seems to accept this, not administering immediate correction for non-compliance.

That is wrong. It is already in so much trouble. The doctor…

There’s blood caked in the grooves of its new arm. It stares, fascinated. It can’t recall ever seeing blood that isn’t its own.

The vehicle turns, causing it to slide slightly on the cushioned surface. The non-functional left arm compromises its balance, and the weight distribution is incorrect. It attempts to compensate but lacks sufficient strength in the right arm to stabilize fully.

Dugan’s extends, not striking as expected, but stabilizing. Supporting. The contact does not register as threatening, which is another  malfunction in threat assessment protocols.

"I got you, kid. Just lean this way a bit."

It complies, allowing its body to adjust position as directed. The contact continues. Dugan’s arm remains, providing support against the vehicle's movements. This is not standard protocol. Handlers do not maintain unnecessary physical contact. Contact is for restraint, correction, or maintenance only.

Oh, but he’s so warm. It… it is already going to be punished. Perhaps… perhaps if it is cautious, it can steal this little thing for itself? Dugan doesn’t seem to know the correct protocol. Perhaps he doesn’t know?

It clutches the fabric in its fist tightly.

The female in the front of the vehicle - the one designated "Peggy" or "Director Carter" according to earlier audio input - speaks without turning.

"There's a blanket under the seat. He's shivering."

Dugan reaches down and retrieves a folded fabric item. He shakes it open with one motion.

"Here we go. This'll help with the cold."

The blanket settles over it. The weight is slight, the warmth immediate. It does not understand why this action is being performed. It is equipment. Equipment does not require comfort considerations.

Yet the blanket produces a physiological response. The tremors reduce in intensity by approximately 17%. This is… unexpected. The recognition that the tremors are unpleasant is unexpected. Equipment does not experience "pleasant" or "unpleasant." Equipment functions or malfunctions.

"Better?" Dugan asks.

It does not respond verbally. After 3.2 seconds, it produces a small downward movement of the head. A nod. This is dangerous. This is non-verbal communication without explicit permission. This will require correction.

Dugan's face changes shape. The corners of the mouth turn upward. "Good. That's good, Jimmy."

No correction follows. It does not understand. It’s not good. It knows it’s not good. It killed the… but good means something it does understand. Good is optimal.

The vehicle continues moving. Beyond the transparent barriers, darkness has fallen. Occasional lights pass by, too brief to properly analyze. It does not know this location. It does not know the destination. It does not need to know. It never knows.

So why does the lack of information produce elevated stress responses? The arm activates partially, plates shifting and recalibrating. This is dangerous. Unauthorized activation can damage operators. Damage to operators results in severe correction. It’s already… they might… they might put it back in the box.

"Whoa there," Dugan says, noticing the arm's movement. "It's okay. Just the car. We're taking you somewhere safe."

The arm does not deactivate fully, but the plate movement ceases. It cannot control the arm properly. The neural interfaces are compromised. This is yet another significant malfunction that requires immediate maintenance. They might decide it isn’t worth the effort and put it away and forget about it.

"S'that arm bothering you?" Dugan asks.

It does not understand this concern. Pain is irrelevant. Function is relevant. The arm is malfunctioning but still operational at 62% capacity. This is sufficient until scheduled maintenance.

The vehicle slows, turns again. The motion causes the skull housing pain to intensify. It does not externalize the pain response, but something must change in its physical presentation because Dugan leans closer, brow furrowed.

"Head hurting? Jim's got something for that too."

It does not confirm or deny. Reporting pain is only required during evaluation sequences. This does not appear to be an evaluation sequence.

The smaller male - Jim - speaks again. "We're almost there. Five minutes tops. Then we can get him comfortable, get some medicine in him."

“Jarvis will have what we need,” Carter says confidently.

"Hear that, Jimmy? Almost there. You're doing great."

It is not doing anything. It is being transported. It is not performing any function that could be evaluated as "great" or otherwise. Dugan's statements do not align with operational reality.

The vehicle slows further, then stops. It tenses, anticipating removal protocols. Removal typically involves handlers grasping the body, sometimes with excessive force if efficiency is prioritized over asset integrity. It braces for contact.

"Easy," Dugan says, noticing the tension. "We're just gonna take this nice and slow. No rushing."

The door beside it opens. Cold air enters the contained space. The cold produces an involuntary physiological response - increased heart rate, respiratory acceleration, pupil dilation. Fear. No, not fear. Equipment does not fear. This is a conditioned response to environmental stimuli based on previous negative reinforcement.

The cold means the chamber. The cold means pain, then nothing.

The cold means sleep. It… it would like to sleep.

It settles.

Dugan exits the vehicle first, then turns back, extending a hand. It stares back, not comprehending the expected response. Wait. No. Dugan did this before.

"Need help getting out?" Dugan asks. "You can take my hand if you want."

It does not respond. It did as it was told last time, and there were no negative consequences. It should be able to repeat the process.

After 4.7 seconds of non-response, Dugan modifies his approach. "Okay, how about I just help you out? That arm's throwing off your balance pretty bad."

Dugan's hands reach in, positioning carefully under its right arm and around its back. The contact is firm but not painful. It allows itself to be guided from the vehicle interior to a standing position outside. Dugan makes sure to keep the blanket tucked around its shoulders.

Its eyes burn. Another malfunction.

The ground is uneven. Its balance is compromised by the malfunctioning arm and new, untested musculature. It sways, unable to maintain proper stability. Falling would indicate severe functional impairment. Last time that happened they… it can’t remember, but its body trembles.

Before it can fall, Dugan's support increases, taking more of its weight. "I got you. Lean on me if you need to."

It does not want to comply. Compliance would indicate weakness. Weakness leads to correction. But the alternative is falling, which guarantees correction. It allows some of its weight to shift onto Dugan's supportive frame.

"There you go," Dugan says, adjusting his stance to distribute the weight better. "Just like old times, huh? Remember that time in Africa when you twisted your ankle and wouldn't admit it? Walked on it for three days before I finally carried your stubborn ass back to camp."

The words produce severe neural disruption. Images flash—heat, trees, pain, laughter. The skull housing pain spikes sharply. It almost vocalizes the discomfort but manages to maintain protocol.

Jim and the female – Peggy, Carter, Director - exit the vehicle as well. She leads the way toward a structure. A building. Not a facility, not a base. Different architecture. Large and sprawling. Glossy. Clean. Not like the labs. There’s water running down the walls on either side of the door. It looks like someone put it there on purpose. The tinkling sound is… nice.

"Let's get you inside," Peggy says. "You’re doing wonderfully, Sergeant."

It is led toward the structure, Dugan supporting much of its weight. Each step requires concentration. The body is severely compromised.

As they reach the structure's entrance point, it looks back at the vehicle. The vehicle is not standard military transport. It is smaller, civilian design. Black exterior. Four wheels. It catalogs these details without understanding their significance.

The entrance opens. Warm air flows outward. The contrast with the external cold produces another physiological response—relief. No, not relief. Equipment does not experience relief. This is simply decreased stress on compromised biological systems.

"Home sweet home," Dugan says as they cross the threshold. "Well, Stark’s home. But sweet enough for now."

A new man appears, tall and well-dressed. He looks first at Peggy, then holds open the door. “I have sent word to Mr Stark,” he says, his voice sounding different from the others.

“Thank you, Jarvis,” Peggy says breathlessly. “We need… well, probably everything you’ve got.”

“Certainly. I will escort you to the guest wing.”

“We might have been followed.”

“Security protocols have already been engaged, Miss Carter.” Carter and the man named Jarvis lead the way.

It enters the unknown structure, still supported by Dugan. It does not know what awaits inside. It does not know the protocols for this environment. It does not know if correction is imminent or delayed.

It clutches the jacket - Dugan's jacket - tighter in its right hand. The jacket was given, not taken. This is important, though it cannot articulate why. The jacket represents a parameter shift it cannot fully process but instinctively recognizes as significant. It tried to return it, knowing it is not allowed clothing, but they said it could keep it and… and it wants to.

As the entrance closes behind them, sealing out the cold, it experiences a neural response that has no designation within approved parameters.

But for now, as Dugan guides it deeper into the unknown structure, it holds the thought carefully, like the jacket. A thing it was given, not taken.

A dangerous thing. A precious thing. It will let it go when they order it to, but for now… now he would like to hold on a little longer.

Chapter Text

Location: Camp Leigh, New Jersey

Date: September 28^th 1949

Vasily Karpov is awake when they come for him.

He’s been expecting them from the moment since the first alarm echoed through the compound. Not a drill or security test, not at this time of night. Something happened. Something significant enough to trigger the facility's highest alert protocols.

They have found him.

Karpov sits at the small desk in his quarters. Even now, facing what may well be his execution, he maintains the discipline that has defined his life.

He’s planned for this; of course, he has. You don’t take the kind of risk he has without preparing for possible discovery.

The footsteps in the corridor outside are not attempting stealth. Heavy, purposeful strides. Multiple sets. Three, perhaps four individuals. Armed, certainly.

The door doesn't open -  it explodes inward -  wood splintering around the lock. Excessive force, American predictability. Karpov doesn't flinch. The Howling Commandos. Rogers' attack dogs, still loyal even without their master.

Falsworth enters first, service weapon drawn and aimed steadily at Karpov's chest. His face might as well be carved from stone for all the emotion it betrays, but his eyes… those tell a different story. Cold fury burns there, controlled but unmistakable.

Jones and Dernier follow, flanking out to secure the small room. Professional, efficient. Their weapons are also drawn, their expressions mirrors of Falsworth's controlled rage.

"Colonel Karpov," Falsworth says, his crisp British accent turning his name into something like a curse. "You are being detained by order of Director Carter."

Karpov inclines his head slightly, acknowledging the statement without speaking. His gaze sweeps over the three men, noting their tension, their barely suppressed violence. They know. Perhaps not everything, but enough. Enough to want his blood.

Jones steps forward, holstering his weapon to produce a pair of handcuffs. "Stand up. Hands where I can see them."

Karpov complies smoothly, rising to his feet with deliberate slowness. No sudden movements. He expects their violence and is surprised he’s not already bleeding. Shock, perhaps. They don’t know as much as they maybe should. He extends his wrists without being told, eyes never leaving Falsworth's face.

"What did you do?” Falsworth demands as Jones secures the handcuffs with unnecessary tightness. He thinks of the way Bucky no longer winces when he fastens his own cuffs too tight. "What did you do to Barnes?"

He says nothing. His face remains impassive, revealing nothing of the calculations running through his head. Time is what he needs now. Time to assess, to adapt. Every second of silence is a second gained.

"He asked you a question," Jones growls, a sharp backhand the first of the expected violence.

Karpov absorbs the pain without reaction. Pain is a tool, nothing more. Something to be used or endured as circumstances demand. These men cannot hurt him in any way that matters. It’s a lesson he spent years trying to teach Barnes.

Dernier says something in rapid French that doesn't need translation, the venom in his tone conveys his meaning perfectly. He moves to the desk, rifling through the papers with quick.. Finding nothing of immediate interest, he turns to the footlocker at the end of the bed, kicking it open with enough force to crack the lid.

"We found him," Falsworth continues, his voice deadly quiet. "We know what's been happening beneath this facility. What Zola's been doing. What you've been helping him do."

That explains the alarm, the disorganized response. Not just the discovery of the Soldier, but something more catastrophic from SHIELD's perspective.

Interesting.

"Nothing to say for yourself?" Falsworth steps closer, the barrel of his gun now inches from Karpov's face. "No denials? No excuses?”

Karpov meets his gaze steadily. Silence remains his best strategy. Let them rage, let them threaten. Every word they speak reveals more than they intend.

Jones finishes a pat-down, removing Karpov's sidearm, knife, and the small capsule of cyanide concealed in his belt buckle. Standard precautions for a deep-cover operative. The American's thoroughness is commendable if anticipated.

"Found something," Dernier calls. He holds up a small red book, its cover unmarked save for a black star. "Looks important, oui?"

Karpov's pulse quickens slightly, the only outward sign of his concern a slight tightening around his eyes. The book is a secondary trigger manual, not the primary codebook, but a supplementary protocol guide for anyone who might be forced to take over his responsibilities. Useful, but not catastrophic in their hands. The primary manual is elsewhere, secured against precisely this eventuality.

"What is this?" Falsworth demands, taking the book from Dernier. "Some kind of logbook? Instructions?"

Karpov remains silent. Let them puzzle over it. Without the primary codebook, without understanding of the trigger sequences and protocols, it will mean little to them.

Jones grabs Karpov by the collar, shoving him back against the wall with enough force to drive the breath from his lungs. "You think this is a game? He’s our friend. Our brother. And you-"

"Enough," Falsworth cuts in, his voice cold. "He won't talk. Not yet." A thin, humorless smile crosses his face. "Don’t worry. I am certain we can find more… persuasive means."

It’s a bluff. The self-righteous Americans and their British allies don't employ the interrogation techniques that would actually compel him to speak. Their moral qualms are their greatest weakness, one he and Zola have exploited repeatedly.

"Move," Jones orders, shoving Karpov toward the door. "Please… try running. It’d make my day.”

He doesn’t of course. There’s neither point nor need. Not yet. He’s not been immediately executed, which means they want answers. That’s fine. He will happily oblige for as long as necessary.

As they march him out into the corridor, he allows himself a moment to consider his options.

He will be detained indefinitely, interrogated with certainty. Time will pass, and with it something they have no capacity to understand. Barnes has been out of cryo for almost a week now. The procedures will have an impact on his capacity to heal from the damage of the last lobotomy as quickly as he has in the past, but he will heal. Right now, he is docile, helpless really, and wholly dependent on others. It will only get worse as the memories start to return. Deactivated and without a handler, any hope he has of survival will rest with men who love him far too much to maintain him the way he requires.

He will deteriorate quickly, and the Howling Commandos will become desperate. He doesn’t need to keep Barnes locked in a cell to use him as leverage.

They lead him through the facility, past curious and alarmed faces. Word is spreading. The carefully constructed facade is crumbling. They’ll soon see SHIELD as the same corrupt, self-serving institute they so passionately claim to be fighting against.

As they approach the secure detention area, Falsworth steps closer, his voice pitched for Karpov's ears alone.

"I want you to know something," he says, each word precise and icy. "Whatever happens next, however this plays out… you’re never seeing daylight again. If you’re lucky, we will kill you."

Karpov turns his head slightly, meeting Falsworth's gaze directly for the first time. He says nothing but allows a slight smile to touch his lips: not mocking, but knowing. The smile of a man who understands something his captors do not.

The smile infuriates Falsworth; Karpov can see it in the tightening of his jaw, the flash of raw hatred in his eyes. Good. Anger makes men careless. Hatred blinds them to subtleties they might otherwise perceive. Falsworth is less predictable than Dugan. Any edge Karpov can gain is one to take advantage of. It's worth the blow to the jaw, and the sucker punch to the gut that follows.

They reach the detention block. The guard on duty looks startled to see a handcuffed officer being escorted by the Howling Commandos, but one curt word from Jones has him unlocking the heavy security door without question.

The cell they select is bare - a cot, a toilet, nothing more. Standard SHIELD containment for high-value prisoners. Not uncomfortable, but secure. Jones removes the handcuffs only after Karpov is inside and the reinforced door is closed.

There’s a thin mattress on the cot. No cuffs. It’s more than he’s ever allowed Barnes.

"Director Carter will speak with you soon," Falsworth informs him coldly. "I suggest you use this time to consider your position very carefully."

As they turn to leave, Dernier spits on the floor outside the cell, a final expression of contempt. Then they are gone, footsteps fading down the corridor, leaving Karpov alone with his thoughts.

He moves to the cot and sits, back straight, hands resting on his knees. They have the Soldier. They have discovered the laboratory. Zola is compromised, perhaps dead. These are significant setbacks.

But not terminal ones.

The Americans and their allies understand so little of what they have stumbled upon. They see the Soldier as their lost comrade, as Barnes. They cannot comprehend the weapon they have recovered, the asset whose potential they cannot begin to fathom.

Karpov closes his eyes, beginning the mental exercises that will prepare him for what comes next. The interrogation will be unpleasant but survivable. Carter is not a fool: she will employ psychological tactics, perhaps even limited physical duress. But she will stop short of what would actually break him.

Americans always do.

And in that restraint lies his advantage. Because while they question him about Barnes, about the laboratory, about the obvious horrors they have discovered, they won't think to ask about the deeper program. About Department X. About the Red Room and its true purpose.

They won't ask about the Winter Soldier Program because they don't know it exists.

So he will wait. He will endure. And when the moment is right, he will escape or be extracted. The game is not over; the board has merely been rearranged.

And Barnes - the Soldier - is still the most valuable piece in play.

Location: Howard Stark’s Residence, New York

Date: September 30^th 1949

Peggy has drunk enough whiskey that her hands are no longer shaking by the time Howard storms through the front door. He is still wearing half of his arctic expedition gear, the thick and heavy coat hanging open, and the high-necked wool sweater far too warm for the mild September weather.

“The hell, Peggy?” he demands, bypassing a greeting as he deposits his coat over the back of one of the armchairs in the large entrance. Jarvis is immediately on hand to pick it up.

She’s been sat waiting patiently for him since getting word of his arrival in New York. There are better places to wait – the study, where the tables are littered with charts and maps tracking possible locations for the Valkyrie, or the lab, where Jim is pouring over the blood samples they’ve liberated from Zola’s collection. There’s a room that is as good as hers, the floor piled high with files all describing the kinds of horrors that will haunt her sleep for the rest of time.

There’s the guest room where Tim, Jacques, and Gabe keep up a constant cycle of companionship for a man who has been so horrifically tortured by a scientist on Peggy’s payroll.

It’s been forty-eight hours since Dugan found James Barnes locked in a cell practically beneath her office. Karpov is in custody, along with every scientist, researcher and doctor on SHIELD’s books. Any guard who has served a post outside the labs, any administrative agent who has filed paperwork even remotely associated… she’s gutted two-thirds of the staff, recalled over a dozen agents, and put Monty in charge in her absence.

She should be there. He should be here. They’re showing each other a mercy she knows for certain she doesn’t deserve. Eventually, once they've had time to stew in their own fear, she will question all of them.

“Howard.” Her voice doesn’t shake.

His annoyance hits an abrupt wall as he stops to look at her. “Are… have you been crying?”

“Yes,” she admits. “I suppose I have.”

“The hell happened? What’s so damn urgent you had to call me back two weeks early?”

Peggy takes a deliberate sip of her whiskey, buying herself a moment to gather her thoughts. How to tell a man the ghost he's been chasing for four years isn't the one they all expected to find?

"We found him," she says finally, her voice carefully neutral. "Not Steve. Barnes."

Howard freezes, his expression cycling through confusion, disbelief, and shock in rapid succession. "Barnes? As in—"

"Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, 107th Infantry, Howling Commandos. Yes."

Howard sinks into the chair opposite her, his legs seemingly giving out beneath him. "That's... that's impossible. He fell. No one could survive that."

"Apparently," Peggy says, unable to keep a bitter edge from her voice, "someone could."

“The factory,” Howard says slowly. “Christ….”

“It’s likely the serum he was originally given had some effect after all,” she agrees. She wonders how much Bucky understood at the time. How much he hid from them. How scared he must have been to lie and lie and lie for so long.

"Where is he? How did you find him?"

"Here. In New York. At Camp Leigh." She watches his face carefully, tracking his reaction. "In a secret laboratory Zola established beneath the main facilities.” It sounds so absurd when she says it that a part of her prays this is all just some cruel joke.

Howard's face drains of color so rapidly that she momentarily fears he might faint. "Zola? Our Zola? The one we…"

"The very same," she confirms. "It seems he's been continuing his experiments all this time. With approval, and resources, and personnel that we approved."

"Fuck," Howard breathes. He stands abruptly, moving to the bar cart to pour himself a generous measure of whiskey, which he downs in one swallow before immediately pouring another. "How bad?"

Peggy takes a deep breath. This is the part she's dreaded, the part she's rehearsed in her mind a dozen times since making the call to bring Howard home. "Pretty fucking bad,” she says bluntly. “Zola’s dead. Barnes killed him when Dugan found him and attempted a rescue."

"Good," Howard says fiercely. "Saved us the trouble."

"There's more." She hesitates, uncertain how to broach the subject of the arm. "They... the experiments... I’ve never seen anything like it, Howard. The things they’ve done to him, the way they’ve changed him…"

Howard's eyes narrow. "Changed him?"

"He has a prosthetic limb. Metal. Advanced technology, unlike anything I've seen before. I’d admire the ingenuity if it weren’t so horrifically barbaric."

"A metal arm?" Howard's scientific curiosity visibly wars with his horror. "How is that even possible? The nerve connections alone would be…"

"I don't understand the details," Peggy cuts him off. "But it's... integrated somehow. Directly into his shoulder, into his nervous system. He seems to have fairly admirable control of it. It's infected. Among other issues."

Howard runs a hand through his hair, leaving it standing on end. "Where is he now? A hospital?"

"No. We couldn't risk it." She finishes her whiskey, then sets the glass aside carefully. "He's here, Howard. Upstairs."

"Here? In my house?"

"In the east wing guest suite. Dugan, Jones, and Dernier have been taking shifts staying with him. Morita's been treating him as best he can with limited resources." If, by treated, she means that they’re at a complete loss for how to do anything to help without retraumatizing him. They’ve put in an IV, and by some miracle, Bucky’s not tried to tear it out.

Howard stares at her, clearly struggling to process this information. "Why wasn't I told immediately? I could have been sooner!"

"This wasn’t exactly a conversation I wanted to have over the radio," she reminds him with a waspish snap. "And... there's another complication."

"Another—Peggy, what the hell could be more complicated than finding Barnes alive after four years?"

“Well there’s a significant probability of us both being shot. They don’t trust that we weren’t involved. That we didn’t know.”

That’s not the only thing contributing to her tears, but it’s a significant factor. How far has she fallen that people she considers family – people who are family – can think her capable of such wickedness?

Howard stares at her, clearly at a loss for words. As always, that loss doesn’t last long. “They, or you? What are you really asking me here?”

“Did you know?” She isn’t tiptoeing around the subject, and she owes him the honesty of a direct accusation if nothing else.

He locks eye contact. “I didn’t know,” he promises her. “Barnes and I had our issues, but Christ, Peg… no,” he shakes his head and drags a hand through his hair. “Fuck, you know why we had our issues?”

“I imagine Steve was part of it?”

“No. No, it wasn’t that. You remember Paris? What we found there? What Barnes said to me after?”

Of course she remembers. Howard’s stance on the research they recovered from HYDRA is half the reason for her doubt in him. “I remember.”

“He was right, you know,” Howard says bitterly. “That’s why I didn’t fucking like him. Sanctimonious fuck goes and upsends a lifetime of scientific theory and still gets to keep the moral high ground? Bastard.”

“He won’t eat,” Peggy tells him. “He won’t drink. Won’t sleep. He’s been here two days, and I am terrified of what’s going to happen if we can’t find a way to reach him.” They’ve found enough in Karpov’s hastily translated notes and Zola’s recordings to explain why they’re struggling to get through to him.

He’s been programmed – tortured – to the point of total reliance. The tube they left inside him makes it clear he’s been kept on a liquid diet. Tim’s spent hours pleading with him to drink and achieved nothing but a near fracture of the tentative trust he has in them. He’s not allowed to drink like a person might. He’s not allowed to eat like a person might. Attempts to convince him otherwise are seen as an effort to punish or deceive him.

They’ve even tried to make both an order, but while he’s not resisting them, he’s clearly not viewing them as an authority to be obeyed either.

Food, water… they can work around both, as abhorrent as they might find it, but is he doesn’t sleep… there are drugs they can try, but chemicals are a crutch that will only take them so far.

“It’s grim,” Peggy says wearily. "There are files, recordings, detailing experiments, procedures... most in Russian. We're translating them as quickly as we can."

"Russian?" Howard stops pacing. "What do the Russians have to do with this?"

"Karpov," she says, watching his reaction carefully. "We think he’s actually behind most of the conditioning, and he smuggled Barnes into the country when we- you – approved his collaboration with Zola."

Howard's expression darkens with fury. "That son of a bitch… I swear to god. I didn’t… Fuck, I wouldn’t, I… I just… I just signed the papers.” He cuts himself off, a new realization dawning. “I signed the papers. I wanted to get back to work…”

Her sympathy for him is as limited as the sympathy she allows herself. “Well, that’s another problem. He’s not said a word since we found him, but sooner or later, he’s going to ask for Steve.”

“Fuck.”

Howard drains his second whiskey and sets the glass down with a sharp click. "I want to see the files. All of them. And I want to know exactly what that bastard did in my labs while I was gone."

While he wasn’t doing what he promised he would and supervised it all. The knowledge of how easily both their grief and distraction have been manipulated is a harrowing, humbling thing to face.

"Already being compiled," she assures him. “You’ll need to convince them. We need to convince them that we’re not a part of this.”

They wait in silence for a long time, each lost in their own thoughts, their own guilt.

"I want to see him," Howard says finally.

"Howard…"

"Not to examine him, not to go near the arm. Just to see him. I didn’t like the man, Peggy, but I sure as shit respected him, I want…."

Peggy hesitates. "I don't think that's wise. Not yet. He barely trusts us. His fever's only just under control, and any upset could…"

"Peggy." Howard's voice is uncharacteristically gentle. "I've spent four years searching for Steve. I've mapped every current, every ice floe, every possible trajectory of that damn plane. I've pushed technology to its limits, trying to find him. And now you're telling me that Bucky  - Steve's Bucky - is alive? If I can’t bring Steve home, I can sure as shit protect the one thing in the world he loved the most.”

She studies him for a moment, weighing his need against Barnes' fragile stability. "All right," she concedes finally. "But only from the doorway. And if he shows any sign of distress, any at all, you leave immediately. Understood? I don’t care whose house this is."

Howard nods solemnly. "Understood."

They rise together, and Peggy leads him through the mansion toward the east wing. As they walk, she fills him in on Barnes' condition: the infection, the fever, the apparent malnutrition and dehydration, the difficulty getting him to eat or drink.

"He's not entirely... present," she warns as they approach the guest suite. "He drifts in and out of awareness. Sometimes he seems lucid, recognizes us. Other times..." She trails off, unable to describe the vacant stare, the way he sometimes responds to commands as if they were programmable into his very being. “According to Karpov’s notes they administered a frontal lobotomy once every five days to…. to….” she can’t finish speaking without feeling violently ill.

Nausea is her constant companion.

"I understand," Howard says, though they both know he can't possibly.

Outside the door to Barnes' room, Peggy pauses. "Dugan should be with him now. Let me go in first, prepare them both."

Howard nods, and she slips into the room, closing the door behind her.

The scene inside is achingly familiar now: Barnes propped up against pillows, his complexion still feverish but less alarmingly so, Dugan seated beside the bed reading aloud from a dog-eared paperback. The metal arm is secured in the medical brace they've been using to help support the new limb, and someone - Dugan, probably - has managed to get him into a clean set of pajamas.

Another point of horror unearthed from Karpov’s notes.

They both look up at her entrance, Dugan with a questioning glance, Barnes with that now-familiar wariness.

"Howard's here," she says without preamble. "He'd like to see you. From the doorway," she adds, seeing Barnes tense. "He won't come in. He won't approach you. He just wants to... to see you."

Barnes' gaze flicks to Dugan, seeking reassurance or perhaps permission.

"Your call, kid," Dugan says gently. "You say no, he stays out."

Barnes looks back at Peggy, the internal struggle visible in his wide eyes. Finally, he gives a small, jerky nod. It’s immediately followed by a confused drop of the chin, the concept of having an opinion, let alone a say, in anything more than he knows what to do with.

"Thank you," she says simply. Then she moves to the door and opens it, gesturing Howard inside.

Howard steps into the doorway and stops, as agreed. His sharp intake of breath is audible in the quiet room.

"Barnes," he says softly, disbelief and wonder mingling. "It's really you."

Barnes stares at him, his expression difficult to read. His right hand grips the bedsheet tightly, his knuckles white with nerves.

"I won't come any closer," Howard assures him quickly. "I just... I needed to… It’s… it’s good to see you.”

Barnes continues to stare, saying nothing, but a tremor runs through him, visible even from across the room.

"I'm sorry," Howard says suddenly, his voice rough with emotion. "For whatever they did to you. For not finding you sooner. For... for all of it."

Something shifts in Barnes' expression. It’s not quite recognition but a softening of the wariness, a flicker of something almost like confusion.

The silence stretches between them, heavy with unspoken horror and grief. Howard's eyes keep flicking to the metal arm in its brace, then quickly away, as if afraid his scientific curiosity might show on his face. But it's not curiosity that predominates his expression, it's rage, carefully controlled but visible in the tightness around his eyes, the subtle clench of his jaw.

Barnes watches him with that same unreadable gaze, neither welcoming nor rejecting his presence. Just... observing. Assessing. The fingers of his right hand continue to grip the sheet, a white-knuckled anchor to reality.

"They'll pay for this," Howard says finally, his voice low and carefully measured. "Everyone involved. I promise you that."

Barnes doesn't respond, doesn't so much as blink at the vow. His breathing has accelerated slightly, the only indication that Howard's presence is affecting him at all.

"I should go," Howard says, glancing at Peggy. "Let you rest."

As he starts to turn away, Barnes makes a small, almost imperceptible movement: his right hand releasing the sheet, lifting slightly before dropping back, as if he'd started to reach out and then thought better of it.

Howard freezes, catching the gesture. "Do you... want me to stay?"

Barnes doesn't answer, his face betraying nothing of his thoughts. But his eyes remain fixed on Howard, alert in a way they haven't been since Peggy entered the room.

"I could come back," Howard offers hesitantly. "Sit with you for a while?"

Barnes' gaze shifts to Dugan, that now-familiar seeking of permission or guidance.

"Your call, kid," Dugan says, though Peggy can hear the reluctance in his voice. "Stark's not so bad once you get past the ego."

Barnes looks back at Howard, then gives a slight dip of his chin. Not quite a nod, but an acknowledgment.

"I'd like that," Howard says quietly. "Maybe tomorrow? When you've had more rest?"

He backs out of the doorway, and Peggy follows, pulling the door closed behind them. In the hallway, Howard leans heavily against the wall, his face ashen.

"My God," he whispers, the carefully controlled rage now giving way to naked horror. "Peggy, what did they do to him?"

"I told you, we're still translating the files," she says, though she suspects Howard's scientific mind has already cataloged the physical evidence and drawn its own conclusions.

"The arm," Howard says, a tremor in his voice. "It's not just attached, it's… it's integrated. The way the metal plates move, they look like they connect directly to..." He shakes his head. "That kind of technology, that kind of surgical procedure... it would have been excruciating."

"I know," Peggy says quietly. She’s not been able to bring herself to listen to more than the first ten minutes of Zola’s recording. She will, eventually, force herself to.

"He used to have the sharpest eyes. Swear he could see a pin drop across a room. Now it's like… like there's nobody home."

"He's in there," Peggy insists. "Somewhere. He’s not lost."

Howard straightens, visibly pulling himself together. "I want to see every file, every note, every scrap of information about what was done to him. And I want to be the one to question Karpov."

Oh, he can get in line. Karpov is hers.

"Howard…"

"No," he cuts her off, his tone hardening. "I've spent too long chasing ghosts. I've been so focused on finding Steve that I missed…" He gestures helplessly toward the closed door.

"None of us knew," Peggy reminds him, though the words ring hollow even to her own ears. "Zola fooled all of us."

"That's no excuse," Howard says bitterly. "I'm supposed to be a genius, remember? The great Howard Stark, always ten steps ahead. And I didn't see what was happening in my own backyard."

Peggy has no response to that. The same guilt eats at her constantly, the knowledge that while she was directing SHIELD, building what was supposed to be a force for good in the world, men like Zola and Karpov were perpetrating horrors in her name. The compromises she’s made, the desperate, foolish….

"I'll sit with him tomorrow," Howard says after a moment, his voice steadier. "Like I promised. Dugan should stay, until... until we know it's safe."

"Safe for whom?" Peggy asks, raising an eyebrow.

Howard's expression is grim. "For Barnes, from me. If he thinks I knew..."

It's a surprising moment of insight from a man not known for his empathy.

"That's... very thoughtful," she acknowledges.

"Don't sound so surprised," he says with a ghost of his usual sardonic humor. "I'm capable of not being a complete ass. Occasionally."

They walk back toward her room in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. As they reach the door, Howard pauses, his hand on the knob.

"We should tell his family," he says suddenly. "They deserve to know he's alive."

Peggy hesitates. "Eventually. But not yet. Not until he's more stable, more... himself.”

Howard considers this, then nods reluctantly. "I suppose you're right. But soon. They've mourned him for years."

"I know," she says softly. "Believe me, I know."

Inside her room, the files await. Hundreds of pages of meticulously documented torture, experimentation, and systematic dehumanization. Peggy has read enough to know the broad strokes, but the details, the scientific, inhuman precision with which Barnes was broken down and rebuilt according to his captors' specifications, are almost too much to bear.

Howard approaches the task with the focused intensity he brings to all his work, sorting the files into categories, making notes, occasionally swearing under his breath as he encounters something particularly heinous.

"They were keeping records from the beginning," he says after an hour of silent reading. "From Austria. Zola's initial experiments with the serum."

"Yes," Peggy confirms. "It seems he always intended to continue his work, even after he was captured."

"And we gave him the opportunity," Howard says bitterly. "Handed it to him on a silver platter. Operation Paperclip. What a joke."

Peggy doesn't respond. The decision to bring Zola into the fold had been made at levels above even her newly established authority at the time. She'd voiced her objections, but in the end she’d seen the value. Now, the consequences of that decision are written on Barnes' body, in his vacant stare, in the metal monstrosity attached to his left shoulder.

They work through the night, piecing together the horrific puzzle of Barnes' captivity. By dawn, Howard's face is gray with exhaustion and barely suppressed fury, but he insists on continuing.

"Go get some rest," Peggy tells him. "I'll wake you when it's time to sit with Barnes."

Howard hesitates, clearly reluctant to step away from the work. "Fine," he says finally. "But only for a few hours. And I want to be there when Morita checks his arm. I might be able to help."

"If he agrees," Peggy stipulates firmly. "This is about what he needs, Howard, not what you need."

Howard looks like he wants to argue, but something in her expression must dissuade him. "Sure," he concedes.

As he leaves, Peggy turns back to the files, her eyes burning with fatigue.

Twenty minutes later, a soft knock at the door interrupts her thoughts. Dugan enters, looking as exhausted as she feels.

"Any change?" she asks immediately.

"Nope," Dugan shakes his head. "Morita's with him now, checking the IV, the infection. Said the arm looks better this morning. Less inflammation."

"Good. That's good." She hesitates, then asks, "Do you think it's wise, letting Howard sit with him?"

Dugan sighs heavily. "I don't know, Peg. The kid's not exactly telling us what he wants. But he didn't react badly to Stark, and that's something. And I'll be there the whole time."

Peggy nods her understanding. "Just... be careful. All of you."

"Always am," Dugan says with a tired smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "You should get some rest too, you know. You look like hell."

"Thank you for that assessment, Agent Dugan," she says dryly. "I'll take it under advisement."

He chuckles softly, then sobers. "I mean it, Peg. We need you sharp."

He's right, of course. She's been operating on caffeine and adrenaline for days now, her mind clouded with guilt and grief and the horror of what they've discovered. But there's still so much to do, so much to understand, and the specter of Zola's betrayal hangs over everything, making her question every decision, every assumption.

"A few more hours," she promises. "Just to finish going through these files."

Dugan looks skeptical but doesn't press the issue. "I'll send Jarvis in with some breakfast," he says instead. "You need fuel as much as sleep."

As he leaves, Peggy turns back to the files, determined to extract every scrap of information that might help Barnes. The guilt remains, a constant companion, but it's joined now by something else.

They failed him once. They will not fail him again.

Location: Howard Stark’s Residence, New York

Date: October 1^st  1949

Howard settles into the plush armchair beside Barnes' bed, careful not to make too much noise. The room is dimly lit, just enough to see by without disturbing its occupants. Barnes is finally, mercifully unconscious - the first substantial rest he's managed since they brought him here, according to Dugan. His face appears almost peaceful in sleep, the perpetual wariness momentarily banished, though occasional tremors still run through his frame.

Across the bed, Dugan maintains his vigil, stubborn as ever, despite his obvious exhaustion. Dark circles shadow his eyes, his normally immaculate mustache drooping slightly with fatigue.

It takes less than ten minutes for Dugan's breathing to deepen, his head nodding forward as sleep claims him. Howard isn't surprised: the man has been running on fumes for days, held upright by nothing but sheer determination and loyalty to Barnes.

Alone now, at least in terms of conscious company, Howard allows himself to study Barnes more carefully. The changes are devastating. The vibrant, sharp-eyed sergeant who'd watched Howard's back during demonstrations of particularly volatile tech is barely recognizable in this hollow-cheeked ghost. The thick, dark hair that Barnes had been so vain about - he remembers him combing it obsessively before missions, to Steve's endless amusement - now hangs limp and dull around his cheeks.

And the arm. Dear God, the arm.

Whatever they did to attach that monstrosity must have been excruciating. And they'd done it without anesthesia if Zola’s meticulous records are to be believed.

Howard swallows hard against the bile rising in his throat. He's helped create weapons of terrible destruction, witnessed the aftermath of bombs that bore his name, but this calculated torture of a single human being over years, the systematic dismantling of a man's very identity... it's a unique kind of horror.

To distract himself from these grim thoughts, he opens the briefcase he brought with him, extracting the latest reports from his Arctic expedition. It feels particularly grotesque to read about Barnes’s torture while he sleeps beside him.

Might as well make use of the quiet time to review the data. The search for Steve continues, even as they deal with the miracle and tragedy of finding Barnes.

He spreads the papers across his lap, trying to be quiet despite the rustle of paper. Maps and charts detailing ocean currents, weather patterns, projected flight paths. Four years of meticulous calculations, educated guesses, and increasingly desperate hope.

Somewhere out there, Steve Rogers is entombed in ice. Howard is certain of it. The Valkyrie couldn't have disintegrated on impact - it was too well-built, too sturdy. And if Barnes could survive a fall from a moving train into a ravine...

He glances up at the sleeping man, then back at his papers. The thought that has been haunting him since Peggy first told him about Barnes resurfaces: if Barnes survived his "fatal" fall, could Steve have survived the crash?

The serum in Barnes is a diluted version, an imperfect copy of what Erskine gave Steve. If it was enough to keep Barnes alive through a fall that should have killed him instantly, then Steve, with the full-strength serum...

Howard shakes his head sharply, trying to dislodge the dangerous hope taking root. He can't afford to get distracted by wishful thinking. The facts remain the same: the Valkyrie went down somewhere in the Arctic. The waters are vast, the ice constantly shifting. Finding one plane, even one as distinctive as the Valkyrie, is a needle-in-a-haystack proposition.

But he can't quite silence the voice whispering that if they found Barnes alive after four years, perhaps Steve...

A small sound draws his attention back to the bed. Barnes is still asleep, but his face has lost its peaceful cast. His brow is furrowed, head turning slightly from side to side, lips moving in silent distress. A nightmare, perhaps, or some echo of the horrors he endured.

Without thinking, Howard reaches out, his hand hovering uncertainly above Barnes' right arm. Physical contact might make things worse, but leaving him trapped in whatever dark place his mind has wandered to seems equally cruel.

Before he can decide, Barnes' eyes fly open, wide and disoriented. He jerks upright, right hand instinctively moving to protect his face, the metal arm shifting within its brace.

"Hey, easy," Howard says softly, keeping his hands visible and non-threatening. "You're safe. Just a dream."

Barnes stares at him wildly, recognition slow to dawn in his fever-bright eyes. His breathing is too fast, too shallow.

"It's Howard," he says carefully, "Howard Stark. You're in my home in New York. You're safe."

Barnes continues to stare, but his breathing slowly evens out, the panic in his eyes receding to the usual wary alertness. His gaze darts to Dugan, then back to Howard.

"He's just sleeping," Howard assures him. "Stubborn bastard wouldn't leave your side."

Something flickers across Barnes' face- not a smile, but a softening, perhaps, of the blank mask he usually wears. It's gone in an instant, but Howard marks it as progress.

"I was just going over some notes," Howard continues, gesturing to the papers spread across his lap. Some have slipped to the floor in his hurry to respond to Barnes' distress. "Arctic expedition stuff."

As far as they know, Bucky knows nothing about Steve’s fate. There’s every possibility Karpov’s told him, not about to waste any tool in his arsenal of torture, but until they know for sure, Howard is saying nothing.

There’s no mention of Steve in the papers he’s brought with him.

Barnes' attention sharpens perceptibly. His gaze drops to the papers, focusing with an intensity Howard hasn't seen from him before. He looks curious.

"You want to see?" Howard asks, surprised by the interest.

Barnes doesn't nod - he still seems reluctant or unable to communicate directly - but his eyes remain fixed on the papers, something almost like hunger in his expression.

Howard’s suddenly struck by the insane idea that Barnes might be bored.

Cautiously, he gathers a few of the less technical documents and places them on the edge of the bed within Barnes' reach. "These are the search grids we've been using," he explains. "We’re looking for a plane that went down a couple of years back. Had a bunch of bombs on it so, you know, be good to find it before someone else does. This is all based on the last known coordinates and the prevailing currents in the area."

Barnes doesn't touch the papers, but his gaze moves over them with a focus that seems almost... coherent. It's as if he's actually processing the information rather than just staring blankly.

Encouraged, Howard continues, "We've covered about sixty percent of the most likely area, but the ice is always shifting, and the water's deep in some places. It's slow going."

Barnes' eyes flick up to Howard's face, then back to the papers. There's something in his expression now: a question, perhaps, or confusion.

"Go ahead," Howard encourages. "Look all you want."

Slowly, hesitantly, Barnes' fingers make contact with the edge of the nearest map. He draws it closer, studying it with that same intense focus. His finger traces the marked search grids, following the projected path of the Valkyrie's final flight.

Howard watches, fascinated by this display of purposeful interaction. It's the most engagement Barnes has shown with anything since they found him.

"We're going back out in a few weeks," Howard says. "New equipment, more sensitive sonar. If it’s out there, I’ll find it."

Barnes ignores him, preoccupied with reading the information he’s been given. He looks hungry.

Yeah, poor bastard is bored. Howard can’t imagine they gave him much in the way of reading material between fucking lobotomies. The Barnes he knew always had his nose in a book, a report, something. ‘Buck’s real fucking smart,’ he remembers Steve saying proudly.

Howard’s idea of ‘smart’ is maybe not the same as Steve’s, but he’s happy to let Barnes entertain himself while he works.

Still… There's something almost... professional about his scrutiny.

He suddenly remembers that Barnes had been their sharpshooter, one with the uncanny ability to calculate distance and trajectory on the fly and to account for wind and weather in ways that seemed almost supernatural. Steve once joked that Barnes could 'see' bullet paths before he ever pulled a trigger. He’s made shots in the field that analysts practically pissed themselves in glee over.

The man liked his math. 

"You know," Howard says thoughtfully, "if you're interested, I could bring more of the research up here. The complete maps, the calculations. Might give you something to focus on besides..." He gestures vaguely at the room, at Barnes' condition, at everything that's happened.

Barnes doesn't respond immediately, but his fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the map, a gesture Howard chooses to interpret as interest.

"I'll take that as a yes," he says. "Later, I'll bring everything. We can look it over together."

Something shifts in Barnes' expression - not quite hope, but perhaps the ghost of purpose. He looks at Howard directly now, his gaze clearer than it's been since they found him.

Howard’s hit by an unexpected surge of emotion: gratitude, determination, and a fierce protectiveness that surprises him with its intensity. He's never been particularly close to Barnes - their relationship had been more defined by their mutual dislike and a connection to Steve than by any direct bond. But seeing him now, broken but still fighting in his own way, still clinging to whatever fragments of himself he can salvage...

It's a small thing. A tiny spark in the darkness. Howard intends to nurture it with everything he has. Not just for Barnes' sake, or even for Steve's, but for all of them - the scattered remnants of a team, a family, that war, HYDRA, and time itself have tried to destroy.

Some things are worth fighting for, worth rebuilding, no matter how broken they seem. Barnes is one of those things. And if finding the Valkyrie helps Barnes find his way back to himself, then Howard will map every inch of the Arctic, regardless of what that means for Steve.

It's the least he can do for the man who stood between Captain America and death more times than anyone could count. For the man who, even now, might be the only one who truly understands what it means to lose Steve Rogers and keep on living anyway.

Across the room, Dugan sleeps on, unaware of their quiet breakthrough. Howard makes a mental note to tell him when he wakes: to share this small victory, this first real sign that somewhere beneath the trauma and terror, James Barnes still exists.

Chapter Text

Location: Howard Stark's Residence, New York

Date: October 2nd 1949

Dugan watches from the doorway, arms crossed, jaw clenched so tight his teeth might crack. Inside the guestroom, Howard is spreading maps and charts across Bucky's bed, talking animatedly about search grids and ocean currents and a bunch of other scientific bullshit that shouldn't matter to a man who can’t even remember his own name.

Yet Bucky is watching. Actually watching. His eyes tracking the movements of Stark's hands, focusing on the papers with an intensity Dugan hasn't seen since they found him.

Three days of Dugan begging him to drink water, to eat something, to just fucking look at him sometimes, and nothing. Three days of sitting beside him, reading aloud until his voice gave out, telling stories about their missions, about Brooklyn from Becca's descriptions, about anything and everything he could think of to spark some recognition.

And Howard goddamn Stark strolls in with his fancy maps and gets more response than Dugan's managed in days.

It shouldn't sting like it does. It shouldn't matter who reaches him as long as someone does. But Christ, it hurts.

"Thought you might like to see the aerial photographs," Howard is saying, unfolding a large glossy print. "This is the region where we calculated the plane would have gone down."

Bucky's right hand reaches out slowly, hovering above the photograph without quite touching it. His face remains largely impassive, but there's something in his eyes - a spark of what Dugan can only describe as awareness, as if he's actually processing the information rather than just reacting to stimuli.

"Tim," Morita's voice pulls Dugan from his thoughts. The medic is approaching with the now-familiar IV bag and nutrient slop. It's time for Bucky's "meal," such as it is.

The godawful tube that had been forced down Bucky’s throat when Dugan found him has been removed. Morita doesn’t trust anything HYDRA have done to him as part of his so-called ‘maintenance’ and after reading the entry that’s made it clear prolonged intubation is used to reinforce a constant state of helplessness, none of them have had the heart to leave it in.

Bucky seems to be more comfortable once it’s removed, but the flip side is that they have to reintubate.

"That time already?" Dugan asks, though he knows damn well it is. They've settled into a grim routine: hydration and nutrients delivered via IV and nasogastric tube every six hours. Morita checking the infection at the arm's attachment points, changing bandages, administering antibiotics. All while Bucky sits silently, enduring with a passive acceptance that makes Dugan want to put his fist through a wall.

"He's looking better today," Morita says, nodding toward Bucky. "Fever's down. Infection's responding to the antibiotics."

"Yeah," Dugan grunts. "Real picture of health."

Morita gives him a sharp look but doesn't comment further. He's used to Dugan's moods by now, knows when to push and when to back off.

Together, they enter the room. Howard glances up, clearly annoyed at the interruption. "We're in the middle of something here," he says.

"Medical needs trump geography lesson," Dugan retorts, more sharply than he intends.

Bucky's eyes flick up at Dugan's tone, something like wariness creeping back into his expression. Immediately, Dugan regrets his harshness. The last thing Bucky needs is tension between the people trying to help him.

"Sorry," Dugan forces himself to say. "Just time for your meds and... stuff."

Howard eyes the IV bag and feeding tube with distaste. "Can't it wait? He's actually engaged for once."

"It's fine," Morita interjects diplomatically. "I can work around you."

Howard reluctantly shifts his position, gathering some of the maps to make space. Bucky watches the proceedings with that same unsettling passivity, though his eyes keep drifting back to the maps, drawn to the colors and shapes.

Morita approaches Bucky, his movements slow and telegraphed. "I'm going to change your IV now, Sarge," he explains, as he always does. "Just a quick needle stick, then the fluids to keep you hydrated."

Bucky doesn't acknowledge him verbally, he still hasn't spoken a word, but he extends his right arm slightly, offering his vein. It's the one part of this awful routine he seems to accept without resistance.

Dugan watches as Morita swabs the inside of Bucky's elbow with alcohol, then slides the needle in cleanly. Bucky doesn't even flinch, his eyes fixed on the maps Howard has spread out.

It's the feeding tube that's the real problem. Bucky won't eat - or can't, they're still not sure which. Attempts to get him to take food or water by mouth are met with that same blank stare, or worse, a trembling that escalates toward panic. The first time they tried, he'd gotten so worked up he'd vomited afterward, then curled into himself like he expected to be punished for it.

The notes they've translated from Karpov's files explain why: unlike sleep, which seems to have been wielded as both a weapon and a reward, the ability to eat and drink are basic human functions Karpov has found fit to remove from the equation entirely. All part of his sick and twisted work to strip Bucky of every aspect of his humanity.

And now here they are, forcing nutrients into him through a tube, participating in a kinder version of the same violation.

Dugan wants to burn the world down for what's been done to his friend. Instead, he stands by and watches, useless and impotent in the face of damage so extensive he can barely comprehend it.

"Alright, Bucky," Morita says, preparing the feeding tube. "I need to insert this now. Same as before, just through your nose and down to your stomach. You know the drill."

Bucky's attention shifts reluctantly from the maps to Morita, resignation settling over his features. He tilts his head back slightly, an automatic response born of repetition rather than true cooperation.

They’ve considered leaving him intubated. Of sparing him the discomfort and indignity of repeating the procedure every time. On another patient, Morita says he wouldn’t hesitate. On Bucky, who’s silently endured prolonged intubation not as a kindness but as a tool used to reinforce his dependence, they’re playing a balancing act between physical discomfort and psychological distress. The serum heals his body quickly. His mind… not so much.

"Christ," Howard mutters, looking away. "There has to be a better way."

"You think we haven't tried?" Dugan snaps. "You think we enjoy this?"

"I didn't mean—"

"He won't eat," Dugan cuts him off. "Won't drink. This is what we've got. This or watch him starve."

He regrets speaking the second the words leave his lips. They shouldn’t be talking over Bucky like he’s not there. Like his opinion doesn’t count.

Howard falls silent, properly chastised for once. In the strained quiet, Morita works quickly, inserting the thin tube through Bucky's nostril with as much gentleness as the procedure allows. Bucky's right hand grips the bedsheet tightly, knuckles white, the only outward sign of his discomfort.

Dugan forces himself to watch. He owes Bucky that much, to bear witness to his suffering, to not look away from the uncomfortable reality of what's being done to him, even in the name of keeping him alive.

In his darker moments, which are increasingly frequent, Dugan wonders if they're doing the right thing at all. If Bucky wouldn't be better off…

No. He can't go down that road. Won't let himself. Bucky's alive, and where there's life, there's hope, no matter how faint.

Morita finishes connecting the feeding tube to the nutrient solution, checking the flow rate before stepping back. "All set," he says. "This should run for about thirty minutes. Try not to move around too much until it's finished."

Bucky gives the smallest of nods, his eyes already drifting back to the maps Howard had been showing him. That spark of interest hasn't been extinguished, even by the indignity of the feeding tube. Dugan isn't sure whether to be grateful or resentful.

"I'll stay with him," Howard says, settling back into his chair. "Make sure he doesn't disturb the tube."

"I've got it," Dugan counters automatically. It's his job to watch over Bucky, has been since they found him in that cell.

"Tim," Morita says gently. "You've been here for three days straight. Take a break. Get some fresh air, maybe grab a shower." He wrinkles his nose pointedly. "No offense, but you could use one."

It’s not just him who could do with a shower. They’ve mostly been using warm water and sponges to keep Bucky clean, too lost in speculation and fear to even risk manhandling him into either a shower or a bath. Another bridge they’re going to have to cross sooner rather than later.

"I'm fine," Dugan insists, though he knows he's not. Exhaustion weighs on him as a physical burden, his eyes gritty from lack of sleep, his muscles aching from too many hours in uncomfortable chairs. He’s officially too told for any of this shit, but what choice do they have?

"I promise I won't do anything without Morita's supervision," Howard says, surprisingly sincere. "You’re interested in the maps, that’s all, right Sarge?” There’s a note of pride in his voice that makes Dugan want to slug him. “Anything’s better than staring at a wall all day.”

Dugan wants to argue, wants to insist that he knows Bucky better than anyone left alive save his family. But the evidence is right in front of him: Bucky, actually engaged with something, showing the first glimmers of his former self.

"Fine," he says finally. "One hour. Then I'm back."

"Two hours minimum," Morita counters. "Shower, food, maybe even a nap. Doctor's orders."

Dugan scowls but doesn't argue further. "You," he says, pointing at Bucky, "behave yourself. No wild parties while I'm gone."

It's a stupid joke, the kind of thing he'd have said to the old Bucky, who'd have fired back some smartass remark about Dugan being no fun. This Bucky just stares at him, expressionless. Fuck, if anything, the joke makes him look apprehensive.

He turns away before anyone can see the moisture gathering in his eyes, striding from the room with more purpose than he feels. The hallway stretches before him, long and empty, the massive house suddenly oppressive in its grandeur.

Dugan makes it as far as the guest bathroom before his control slips. He grips the edge of the sink, knuckles white, shoulders heaving with the effort of containing the sob that wants to tear its way out of his chest.

Damn Stark and his maps. Damn Zola and Karpov and everything that took Steve and left Bucky broken beyond recognition. And damn himself most of all for failing both of them when it mattered most.

The face in the mirror is a stranger's: haggard, hollow-eyed, beard growing in patchy around his usually meticulous mustache. Three days of minimal sleep and maximum stress have taken their toll. Morita was right; he needs a break before he collapses.

But the thought of leaving Bucky, even for a couple of hours, sends something like panic clawing up his throat. What if something happens? What if Bucky needs him? What if he finally speaks again and Dugan isn't there to hear it?

"Get a grip," he mutters to his reflection.

The words sound hollow even to his own ears. Because the truth is, Bucky is alone, trapped in whatever hell Zola and Karpov constructed for him, surrounded by the fragments of his former life but unable to reach them.

And there isn't a damn thing Dugan can do about it except sit there and watch, offering a steadiness he increasingly doesn't feel, a hope he can't fully embrace.

With a ragged sigh, he turns on the shower, cranking it as hot as it will go. Maybe the scalding water will wash away some of the helplessness, the guilt, the bone-deep fear that Bucky is already lost to them, that the man they knew died in that ravine four years ago, and what returned is merely his ghost, animated by HYDRA's obscene science.

As he steps under the spray, he lets the water mask the tears he's been holding back for days. Just for a minute, just this once, he allows himself to grieve: for Steve, lost in the Arctic; for Bucky, found but perhaps beyond saving; for himself, caught between loyalty to the dead and duty to the living, failing at both.

Tomorrow, he'll be stronger. Tomorrow, he'll find a way to reach Bucky that doesn't involve Stark's maps or Morita's tubes. Tomorrow, he'll be the rock that the kid needs him to be.

But for now, just for these few stolen minutes, Timothy Aloysius Cadwallader Dugan – ‘I’m sorry, how the fuck is Buchanan worse than Cadwallader?’ - allows himself to be simply a man. Tired, afraid, and mourning for a friend who's both gone and terrifyingly present.

When he finally emerges, skin pink from the heat, the mirror shows a face still haggard but perhaps marginally more composed. He dresses in fresh clothes that Jarvis has somehow magically provided (the man is uncanny in his efficiency), combs his mustache back into its proper shape, and sets his hat at its usual jaunty angle.

Armor, all of it. Preparation for battle, though the enemy is less tangible than any he faced during the war.

By the time he returns to Bucky's room - ninety-seven minutes later, not that he's counting - he's pulled himself together enough to face whatever waits. The feeding tube will be gone by now, the maps probably still spread across the bed, Howard still coaxing that spark of interest from the ashes of Bucky's former self.

He pauses outside the door, squaring his shoulders, pushing down the jealousy and inadequacy that threaten to surface. It doesn't matter who reaches Bucky, he reminds himself. It only matters that someone does. That the kid finds his way back, by whatever path works.

Even if that path runs through Howard Stark instead of through him.

Location: Howard Stark's Residence, New York

Date: October 2nd 1949

Howard takes it back. Barnes is a fucking genius.

Oh, he doesn’t seem to know it, and when Howard stares at him and all but demands an answer to why he is tapping the map nearly a hundred miles northwest of anywhere Howard’s been looking, he just blinks slowly. Then he cowers back against the pillows in abject terror, and Howard has to remember that the man who nearly broke his jaw and then practically slit his own wrist to win a fucking argument is long, long gone. He likely won’t appreciate Howard smacking him on the back in that passive-aggressive, begrudging, respectful way they once did things.

Still. Genius.

“Show me again,” he encourages, pressing a pencil into Bucky’s right hand. They lose about five minutes with Barnes staring at the damn thing like he has no idea what it is, but then he seems to drag himself out of whatever internal spiral he’s in and very slowly, very deliberately starts to sketch little crosses on Howard’s map.

From what Howard can tell, Barnes never had a formal education over the age of fourteen, so he might not even know how to explain his thought process without adding well over two hundred acts of deliberate brain damage. It doesn’t really matter. Howard doesn’t have to justify the cost of his work to anyone and he’s nothing to lose by indulging Barnes’s theory.  

Howard studies the newly marked chart. The crosses create a pattern following ocean currents he hadn't properly factored in before - pathways where the downed aircraft might have drifted before the ice fully enclosed it. Howard isn’t sure how he’s reached a completely different conclusion, but hell, if it works then he’ll take a lifetime of not knowing something as payment.

"Son of a bitch," Howard mutters, tracing the drift patterns with his finger. "We've been looking in the wrong place this whole time."

Barnes looks at a spot behind Howard’s shoulder, twitching as the last of the nutrient mush they’re feeding him winds down the tube in his nose.

Morita, who has, up until this point, been silently monitoring him, gently puts a hand on Bucky’s right shoulder. “Good job, Sarge,” he praises, his usual acerbic wit replaced with the kind of softly softly approach you might show a particularly confused child.

Barnes was a soldier so highly decorated that they had to create a new medal in his honor. He was the man who quite literally dragged Captain America and his serum-powered body halfway through the War Office by his ear in order to get him in front of a doctor who could dig three bullets out of his leg. Howard’s not naïve enough to think that a man who has spent the last four years as a prisoner of war is going to come out of the whole thing unscathed, but this… this is so extreme, so inhumanely barbaric, that he’s struggling to comprehend what it means.

That it’s happened to the man who had fought Howard so ferociously to avoid him setting foot on the thin end of that wedge… well, it seems particularly cruel.

He’s not a man who knows well how to comfort people. He isn’t good at making real friends and wouldn’t know how to keep them even if he could. Barnes needs far more care than he suspects even the indomitable force of the Howling Commandos is able to provide. He can cut the checks but that’s about it.

Well, he can cut the check and maybe, just maybe, give the man some kind of closure on Steve. A body for him to bury and a grave for him to mourn at or, perhaps by some miracle, something more.

“This is good,” he says, eager to start and even more keen to be out of the room while Morita removes the feeding tube. “I’ll report back.” He stands and tosses them both a lazy salute. “Gentlemen.”

It’s not until he’s halfway towards the garage that he pauses to consider the other side of the equation, the one that says if they do find Steve and if they are able to bring him back the way they’ve been able to with Barnes… well who the fuck is going to be the one to tell him what Howard and Peggy have allowed to happen to the love of his goddamn life?

Zola’s lucky he’s fucking dead already.

Location: Howard Stark's Residence, New York

Date: October 2nd 1949

It sleeps. It doesn’t mean to. There’s no intention to be bad, to break the rules, but intention doesn’t negate consequence, and his tally of malfunctions is growing alarmingly long. It doesn’t think it has ever been so negligent before, but it wonders if, perhaps, what happened to it in the lab was punishment for doing exactly what it is doing now.

It tries to imagine Dugan strapping it down and drilling into its bones, or Morita swapping the kind, comfortable tube for the metal contraption that wrenches open its jaw and allows them to pour water straight down its throat until its abdomen swells and its insides turn to rocks.

It tries to imagine Gabe and Jacques tying its limbs tight until its small enough to wedge back into the box… its bigger now, after the lab. Broader shoulders, muscles in thighs and arms that don’t really work so well, but that make it bulkier than before. It’ll take up more space inside. It’ll…

It cries. That’s what the malfunction that burns its eyes is called. Crying. Tears. Dugan clucks and fusses and piles on more blankets and its so, so warm. Nothing hurts, and that’s terrifying because it means it might forget and if it forgets then how will it know if its being good?

It understands why it’s not allowed blankets and soft things. Why pillows are banned and why it must restrain itself when it is allowed the privilege of rest.

When those rules aren’t followed, it can’t fight the sway. It can’t resist. It will sit patiently through its maintenance, close its eyes and find it has slept without permission. It earned concession with Stark by proving useful, but it’s provided no value or service to the others, so when it wakes, it cries. One of them will tuck him under more soft things, run fingers through its hair, and it will sleep again.

Part of it hates them, knowing they’re keeping score.

But sleep… oh, sleep is special. When it sleeps… when it sleeps, he is there.

It’s not the Colonel. It thinks he is at first. He’s big and blonde and has eyes the colour of the sky it can see through the window. He smiles and smells like clean things, and… oh, and he wraps strong arms around it and holds it close.

“Stop,” he whispers to it in its sleep. “You’re thinking too much.”

And when it sleeps, it speaks without fear. “One of us gotta,” it says, and squirms just for the purpose of feeling big arms curl tighter around it.

“I told you,” he says, lips against its ear, breath warm on its throat, lines of muscle and strength as heavy as any of the bands they use to tie it down, but safe, safe, safe. “You only gotta follow the one order,” he says. “You sleep in my arms, and you stay by my side. Everything else I take care of.”

That’s why it thinks he might be the Colonel at first. The Colonel takes care of everything it needs, and sometimes the Colonel is so gentle with it that it cries. It makes the Colonel happy, and the Colonel pets its hair, lets it lean into his warmth, lets it go whole days without the gag.

But the man who visits it in its sleep isn’t the Colonel. The Colonel doesn’t tuck it safe in his arms, doesn’t rest a large hand warm over its heart, doesn’t make it feel like it can only ever be good, never bad.

The dream shifts, and it's in a place that makes its chest hurt. Small and cramped, with thin walls and a leaking ceiling. There are blankets here too, piled high on a narrow bed, and it's shivering despite them. The big man - not the Colonel, never the Colonel - is there, thin and fragile now, all bones and sharp angles, but his arms are just as safe when they fold around it.

"Buck," he whispers, and the sound makes it flinch, though it doesn't know why. "You're burning up. You should’a stayed off work like I told you, jerk."

It doesn't respond. But the small man runs cool fingers across its forehead, down its cheek, and it leans into the touch without meaning to.

"I'm gonna get you some water," the small man says. "Don't move."

It obeys, staying perfectly still even when its lungs ache and its throat burns. It won't be bad. Not here, not with him.

When the small man returns, he helps it sit up, holds a cup to its lips. "Drink," he says, and it does, greedily, desperately, until the cup is empty and water drips down its chin. The water is cool and crisp. It cries again, wasting the precious gift it’s been given.

"Sorry," it whispers, because it's allowed to speak here. "Making a mess."

"Don't be stupid," the small man says, but his voice is kind. He wipes the water away with gentle fingers. "You're sick. You're allowed to make a mess. Figures I owe you at least three blanket changes after last month."

That’s a lie, it's never allowed to make a mess, but it feels good to hear. The small man settles beside it again, arms around its shoulders, and it leans into his side despite how hot it feels, how much its head pounds.

"I've got you," the small man promises. "Just sleep."

"Don't wanna," it confesses. "If I sleep here, I'll wake up there."

The small man's arms tighten. "I'll find you," he says fiercely. "I promise, Buck. I'll always find you."

The dream fractures, and now the small man is big again, dragging it from a table, through fire and chaos. It should be scared, but it isn't. The big man's hand is warm in its own, pulling it along, and it follows without hesitation. It will follow this man anywhere.

"Steve," it whispers, the name coming from nowhere, feeling right in its mouth. "Steve."

The big man turns, his face so bright it hurts to look at. "That's right, Buck. I'm here. I've got you."

It reaches for him, desperate to hold on, but the dream is dissolving, fading at the edges. The big man - Steve -is reaching back, saying something it can't quite hear, and then—

It jerks awake, a small, muffled sound escaping before it can catch it. The room is dim, quiet except for the soft breathing of someone nearby. Dugan, slumped in the chair beside the bed, hat tipped low over his eyes. It freezes, waiting for punishment, but Dugan doesn't stir.

Its face is wet. Another malfunction. It reaches up with its right hand, the only one that works properly, and touches its cheek, feels the wetness there. It shouldn't touch its face without permission. It shouldn't move without orders. But Dugan is asleep, and it feels bold in the aftermath of the dream.

The dream. Steve. The name sits in its mind like a splinter, painful and intrusive. It knows that name. It knows the face that belongs to it. But it doesn't know why it makes its chest ache, why it makes its eyes burn with more tears.

It looks around the room, seeking something, though it doesn't know what. Its gaze lands on the papers spread across the foot of the bed. Stark had been excited, had said they were looking in the wrong place. Looking for what?

For who?

The splinter digs deeper. Steve. They're looking for Steve. Steve, who should be here. Who’d never leave it alone, who’d maybe be kind enough to hold it even outside of its dreams.

It doesn't know how it knows this, but the certainty settles into its bones. The big man from its dreams is lost, and they're trying to find him. It helped. It did something good.

The thought brings warmth that has nothing to do with the blankets piled over its body. It did something good, and no one hurt it. No one strapped it down, put the gag in its mouth, or locked it in the box. Instead, they gave it more blankets, more soft things. They let it sleep.

And when it sleeps, Steve is there.

It's a trick. It has to be. A test. They're seeing how many rules it will break before they punish it. How many times it will malfunction before they decide it's not worth fixing, not worth keeping. It's a bad asset. Defective. It knows this.

But it wants to sleep again. Wants to see Steve. Wants those arms around it, that voice in its ear, telling it that it's good, that it's safe, that it just has to stay by his side.

It thinks it can do that. If all it has to do is follow that order, it can’t possibly be bad.

It settles back against the pillows, careful not to disturb Dugan. It shouldn't sleep without permission. But the dream is waiting, and Steve is there, and for the first time since it can remember, it wants something for itself.

So it closes its eyes, and it sleeps, and it dreams of blue eyes and strong arms and a voice that calls it by a name it almost remembers.

"Bucky," the dream-Steve whispers. "Come back to me."

And in the dream, it - he - whispers back, "I'm trying."

Chapter Text

Location: Camp Leigh, New Jersey

Date: October 5^th 1949

Monty checks his watch for the third time in half an hour. Peggy is late. Again.

Not that he blames her. Were it up to him, he wouldn't leave Barnes's side either. Not with the way things have been going. Bucky’s taken a turn for the worse, a brief moment of startling clarity hitting that morning only to spiral into increasingly anxious hostility by nightfall. Morita's carefully neutral expressions have grown increasingly grim. None of them have any desire to either sedate or restrain the poor bastard, but unless they find some way of reaching him, they’re running distressingly short of options.

They're running out of time, and Peggy knows it as well as he does.

"Sir?" The young corporal stationed outside the detention block salutes as Monty approaches. "Director Carter called. She's been delayed at least another hour."

Monty nods, unsurprised. "Thank you, Corporal. I'll handle things until she arrives."

The detention block is a relic from Camp Leigh's early days - concrete floors, metal doors, harsh lighting designed to disorient and unsettle. It's perfect for their current guest, though Monty doubts Karpov is susceptible to such elementary techniques. Not after what he's proven himself capable of.

He stops outside the cell. Through the observation window, he can see Karpov sitting on the edge of his cot, back straight, expression serene. The man looks like he's waiting for tea rather than interrogation. It makes Monty's blood boil.

Over a week they've had him here, and not so much as a flicker of concern has crossed that smug face. The other scientists they’ve taken into custody have shown varying degrees of anxiety - one is nearly catatonic with fear - but not Karpov. No, the good Colonel maintains the bearing of a man merely inconvenienced by circumstance.

Monty signals to the guard. "I'll see Karpov now."

The interrogation room is small, windowless, with a metal table bolted to the floor and two uncomfortable chairs. Monty sets up the recording equipment, then lays out his notes and the latest translations they've received from linguistics. Most of Karpov's reports are disturbing. The man has employed a specialized scientific terminology that's proving difficult to comprehend, but they've gleaned enough to know the barbarity of what was done.

When the door opens, Karpov enters with his hands cuffed before him, escorted by two guards who position him in the chair across from Monty before retreating to stand by the door.

"Colonel," Monty says, keeping his voice pleasant, neutral. "I trust you're finding your accommodations satisfactory?"

Karpov inclines his head slightly. "Lieutenant Falsworth. A pleasure, as always."

The man's English is impeccable, another irritant. There's something deeply unsettling about the polished veneer of civility covering such profound depravity.

"I was rather hoping to speak with Director Carter today," Karpov continues. "I have information that might be of interest to her specifically."

"The Director has more pressing matters to attend to," Monty replies.

He watches carefully for any reaction, but Karpov merely nods, as though this development is both expected and unremarkable.

"I see. The asset’s condition has worsened. The rejection phase is proceeding on schedule, then," Karpov says. "I did warn your medical officer that removing the asset from its maintenance protocols would have consequences."

"His name," Monty says coldly, "is Sergeant James Barnes. You will refer to him as such."

Karpov's smile is thin. "As you wish. Though I assure you, after four years, very little of Sergeant Barnes remains. It would be kinder for all of you not to think of him in such a way."

Monty forces his expression to remain neutral, though his hand tightens around his pen. "That's why we're here today, Colonel. I'd like to discuss the specific procedures you employed to create this... erasure."

"Ah." Karpov leans back in his chair, as relaxed as if they were discussing the weather. "You've received my notes, then. I must warn you, the technical aspects require a certain specialized knowledge to fully comprehend-"

"We're managing," Monty interrupts. "Though I must say, your methodical documentation of torture is rather disturbing. One might almost mistake you for a scientist rather than a sadist."

The first flicker of annoyance crosses Karpov's face. "He asked me that, once. What I am. If I am a soldier, a scientist or a spy. I told him I did not know. I still do not have an answer. I am what I am. He is what he is. The work I've done I could only have done with him, but the data it yields? The applications extend far beyond military use."

"Is that how you justify it?" Monty asks, genuinely curious and bitterly resentful of it.

"I don't need to justify it." Karpov's voice cools. "History will vindicate my methods when the results are fully realized."

“And you consider the cost worth it? You deplored HYDRA once. Or was that just an act?”

Karpov’s lip curls. “I deplored Nazis. The Red Skull’s ideologies were too closely aligned.”

“Ah, but Zola’s were not?”

“The Doctor had a… unique appreciation for science. For him, eugenics was a means, not the end.”

By far the worst part of Monty’s job is this. Listening to the twisted, wicked justifications people spin in an attempt to justify their actions.

“Was that why you targeted Sergeant Barnes in London?”

“There was no targeting,” Karpov shakes his head. “I was to feed information back to my superiors, yes, but information on Captain Rogers. You have read his letters. You know I did not force myself on him.”

“You manipulated him,” Monty accuses, remembering a time when Bucky was so ashamed of his pain that he could find no comfort or comradery with his men, no matter how desperately they tried to provide it. “You exploited a traumatized man and began a sexual relationship with him, do you deny it?”

“Most stringently,” Karpov frowns. “I offered comfort and companionship, nothing more.”

Monty taps one of the reports on the table. “And did you offer ‘comfort and companionship’ to Sergeant Barnes before or after you had him strapped down and lobotomized?”

“I resent your accusations.”

“You resent them,” Monty nods. “That’s where you draw the line, is it? You didn’t fuck him, so everything else is what… tolerable?”

Karpov's eyes narrow dangerously. "I did what was necessary. The process was never meant to be cruel."

"No?" Monty slides a photograph across the table - Barnes bound in a brutal stress position, blood streaming from his eyes and nose. "This looks remarkably cruel to me."

Karpov doesn't even glance at the image. "Pain is an unfortunate side effect of progress. The asset - Sergeant Barnes," he corrects himself with exaggerated care, "possesses extraordinary physical resilience. The procedures had to be... robust."

"Robust," Monty repeats, the word bitter on his tongue. "Is that what you call forcibly removing a man's memories? His identity? His very humanity?"

"What I call it is irrelevant. What matters is what we've achieved." Karpov leans forward, a gleam of genuine passion in his eyes. "Do you understand what we've created? A perfect soldier. One who follows orders without question, who feels no fear, no hesitation. One who cannot be broken by conventional means."

"And yet he is most certainly broken," Monty snaps.

"No, Lieutenant. He has been unmade and reformed. There is a difference."

Monty struggles to maintain his composure. The clinical detachment with which Karpov discusses Barnes's torture is perhaps more infuriating than any justification could be.

"Let's discuss the arm," he says, changing tack. "I’m struggling to understand the purpose. The prosthetic is causing him considerable pain."

"Of course it is," Karpov nods as if this is perfectly reasonable. "Without the proper maintenance protocols, the neural connectors will begin to misfire. The pain is... significant."

"And these protocols are?"

"Complex," Karpov replies with the hint of a smile. "And not something I'm inclined to share without certain assurances."

Monty has been expecting this. "What sort of assurances might interest you, Colonel?"

"Immunity. Guaranteed safe passage to a country of my choosing. And all my research returned to me."

"That's quite a list of demands from a man in your position."

"My position is stronger than you might think, Lieutenant." Karpov's confidence is maddening. "You need me. Without my expertise, Sergeant Barnes will deteriorate rapidly. If not properly calibrated, the arm will need to be removed, which, given its integration with his nervous system, will likely kill him. Even if he survives, by now I am sure you have noticed the adverse effects of withdrawal from the drugs he’s been kept on.”

"And you're willing to let him suffer? A man you claim to have cared for?"

Karpov's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes. "My feelings are immaterial. I am a practical man, Lieutenant. I have leverage. I intend to use it."

"And if I told you that Sergeant Barnes recognized your handwriting on one of the reports?" Monty watches carefully for any reaction. "That he actually spoke - for the first time since we found him - to tell us exactly what you did to him?"

It's a bluff, but a calculated one. Barnes hasn't spoken at all, but with each day, his passivity is dissolving more and more into terror. Peggy mentioned Karpov once, thinking Bucky asleep, and it took poor Dugan over an hour to calm him back down.

Karpov's composure slips, just briefly. "The conditioning-"

"Is failing," Monty interrupts smoothly. "As is the arm. As is your bargaining position, Colonel."

Karpov falls silent, recalculating. When he speaks again, his voice has a new edge to it. "What exactly has he told you?"

"Everything," Monty lies, leaning forward. "About London. About the early days of his captivity. About how you personally administered so many of the ‘procedures’ because you couldn't trust anyone else to do it properly."

"I did what was necessary," Karpov repeats, but there's defensiveness in his tone now. "If I hadn't overseen them myself, others would have been far less... careful."

"Careful?" Monty can't keep the incredulity from his voice. "You call what you did to him careful?"

"Yes." Karpov's gaze is steady. "The work we were doing was delicate. Even Zola could be overzealous at times. With me, he suffered only when essential."

"Essential for what?"

"For the mission."

"And what mission would that be?"

Karpov smiles thinly. "That depends entirely on who is giving the orders, doesn't it?"

The implication hangs in the air between them. Barnes is programmed to obey whoever holds his leash. There must be certain commands, certain phrases to ensure his compliance. Ones they’ve not yet found in any of the reports. Bucky will follow basic commands, standing, sitting and laying down as instructed, but more complex are often met with complete confusion.

"And who gives the orders now, Colonel?" Monty asks quietly. "With you in custody?"

"No one," Karpov says simply. "That's why he's deteriorating. He requires structure. Direction. Without it, his mind begins to fragment. The memories return, but as disconnected pieces. Nightmare glimpses of a life he can no longer fully recall. You consider me cruel to have resorted to lobotomizing him, but imagine, if you can, how very frightened he would be when he had context for his suffering? When his brain was allowed to heal, it brought with it the trauma of understanding. Should I tell you how often he cried for Captain Rogers in those early days? Should I tell you how often he screamed for you, Lieutenant?"

No. No, he doesn’t need to hear it.

"So what you're saying," he clarifies, his voice dangerously calm, "is that you've broken him so thoroughly that he can no longer function without someone controlling him?"

Karpov shrugs. "I prefer to think of it as specialization. He was made for a purpose. Without that purpose, he is... adrift."

The casual cruelty of it all threatens to overwhelm Monty's professional detachment. There’s a reason he’s here with Karpov and not with the others. He can’t go back and erase what has been done to Bucky, can’t offer anything in the way of comfort, can’t do much at all. all he really can do is this. Reduced to this.

"Let me be absolutely clear, Colonel," Monty says, setting aside his notes. "We will get what we need from you. The only question is how much you'll suffer in the process."

Karpov raises an eyebrow. "Are you threatening me with torture, Lieutenant? How very uncivilized."

“Civility is not my calling, I’m afraid. Nor yours. We are, perhaps, alike in that way. You believe me incapable of inflicting on you the kind of pain you subject my Sergeant to. You are, of course, correct. I have no desire to unmake you, Colonel. Nor will I derive any kind of sexual gratification from your suffering-“

“I told you I never-“

“What I am going to do is this-“ he stands and raps on the desk. Immediately, four guards file in. “You will be stripped and sedated with the paralytics your notes have so kindly provided us with the formula for. You will be fed via a tube and hydrated via a drip. You will be blindfolded and gagged at all time, and your brainwaves will be monitored. When you start to fall asleep, you will receive an electric shock and be subject to a sound so loud and intensely pitched I’m told it can make a subject’s ears bleed. We will not torture you, Colonel. We will maintain you. Indefinitely. Perhaps, in six months’ time, Director Carter might wish to speak with you. Perhaps not.”

“You believe I cannot endure?” Karpov scoffs. “You think this is new to me? You and the Americans, you have your super-soldiers, your secret weapons... but we Russians, we have nothing but our Winter. Let’s see which of us lasts until Spring, eh?”

Monty’s done. “Take him away,” he orders.

Time they put all that extra space beneath their feet to good use.

Location: Howard Stark’s Residence, New York

Date: October 5^th 1949

Dugan doesn't flinch when the mirror shatters. Not his first broken glass of the day, won't be the last. He just steps carefully around the glittering shards and continues his approach, hands open, visible.

"Easy, kid," he says, keeping his voice steady. "Nobody's gonna hurt you."

Bucky stands backed against the wall, chest heaving, eyes wild with terror. His right hand is bleeding—he must have punched the mirror—but he doesn't seem to notice the pain. The metal arm whirs and recalibrates, plates shifting with a mechanical precision that makes Dugan's skin crawl.

Behind him, Gabe speaks in low, soothing, very shitty Russian. They've discovered it sometimes helps, though not always in the way always want. Sometimes, it calms him; other times it sends him spiraling deeper into whatever hell he's trapped in.

Today, it's the latter. Bucky flinches at the sound, sliding down the wall until he's crouched, making himself smaller. At least today he’s not tearing his clothes off. His right hand moves to his left arm, fingernails digging into the scarred flesh where metal meets skin.

"Jim," Dugan says without turning, "he's doing it again."

Morita steps up beside him, medical kit in hand. "Bucky," he says firmly, "stop that. You're hurting yourself."

Bucky doesn't respond, just digs deeper, drawing blood. It's become a pattern over the past few days - moments of eerie calm shattered by frantic episodes of self-harm. Pulling at the arm, scratching at the scars, once even slamming the metal limb repeatedly into a wall until the drywall crumbled.

"We can’t keep this up," Morita mutters, already preparing a sedative. None of them want to fucking use it, but they're running out of alternatives. Bucky, despite being in the shittiest fucking health Dugan has ever seen another human being, seems to be able to tap into a reserve of adrenaline field stamina that means he can keep this shit up a hell of a lot fucking longer than they can.

Dugan, feeling every one of his years in his knees alone, nods reluctantly. "Gabe, you got the left?"

Jones moves toward Bucky's left side, ready to restrain the metal arm. It's a dangerous position - they learned that the hard way when Morita ended up with three cracked ribs two days ago - but Gabe's the quickest of them, and right now speed matters more than strength.

“You gonna settle, Jimmy?” He tries one last desperate attempt to calm him down, his voice as soft and gentle as before. The things that got results the first few days are now practically damn near useless when Bucky’s in a state.

The question gets him a bloody snarl. So… that’s a no then.

Honestly, if it weren’t for the frequent attempts to hurt himself, Dugan’d be all for just letting him rampage around Stark’s stupid mansion, property damage be fucked.

"Okay. Okay, we’re gonna be as gentle as we can, okay? On three," Dugan says. "One, two-"

Before he can finish, Bucky's head snaps up, eyes focusing on something past Dugan's shoulder. A heart-stopping moment of clarity crosses his face, followed immediately by blind panic.

"Jimmy, don’t you-" Dugan warns, lunging forward.

Too late. Bucky darts sideways with inhuman speed, evading Gabe's grasp and shoving past Morita with enough force to send the medic sprawling. The syringe clatters across the floor as Bucky sprints for the door.

"Sonova - Cut him off at the stairs!" Dugan shouts, already in pursuit.

The kid is fast - faster than should be possible for someone who's barely eaten in a week - but he's disoriented, taking a wrong turn into Howard's study instead of toward the exit. By the time Dugan catches up, Bucky is frantically searching the room, pulling books from shelves, upending furniture.

"What's he looking for?" Gabe asks, breathless, appearing at Dugan's side.

"Damned if I know," Dugan replies. "Hey, Sarge," he calls, more gently. "Whatever you need, we'll help you find it.”

Bucky freezes, head tilted as if listening to something only he can hear. Then, achingly slow, he turns to face them. The vacant expression is gone, replaced by something worse: recognition. Not of them, Dugan realizes with a sinking feeling, but of something in his own fractured memories.

Bucky's gaze falls on a photograph on Howard's desk - Steve, in his Captain America uniform, smiling awkwardly at the camera. With trembling fingers, Bucky picks it up, staring at it with such intensity that Dugan feels like an intruder witnessing something deeply private.

He reaches out with trembling fingers and presses them against the glass.

"That's right," Dugan says softly. "That's Steve. You remember him, don't you?"

A mistake. The name acts like a trigger. Bucky's expression contorts in anguish, and he hurls the photograph across the room. The frame shatters against the wall, glass joining the wreckage already littering the floor.

"Christ," Morita mutters from the doorway, clutching his side where Bucky had shoved him. "This is getting worse."

He's right. Three days ago, Bucky would have just stared blankly at the photo. Two days ago, he might have hidden it, like he did with the maps. Yesterday, he'd started searching for... something. Now this… violent rejection of the very thing he seems desperate to find.

Bucky has backed himself into a corner again, but this time he's armed - a jagged piece of glass from the broken frame clutched in his right hand.

"Kid," Dugan says carefully, "put that down before you hurt yourself."

Bucky's gaze flickers between the three of them, assessing, calculating. It's not the look of a confused victim; it's the cold analysis of a cornered predator. The shift is so abrupt it takes Dugan's breath away.

"Careful," he warns the others. "Something's different."

Bucky's eyes settle on him, and for one heart-stopping moment, Dugan thinks he sees recognition there - real recognition, not the fractured awareness they've glimpsed before. That’s exactly the look he used to wear when narrowing in on a target. It’s sure as shit not a look Dugan’s ever been on the receiving end of. Then Bucky's expression shutters, and his grip on the glass tightens.

"Hey," Dugan tries again, "it's me. It's Dum Dum. You know me."

The glass shard wavers slightly.

"That's right," Dugan continues, taking a cautious step forward. "We've known each other a long time. And Jim… Gabe… remember how you saved our asses?"

Bucky's forehead creases, confusion warring with something that might be memory. His lips part slightly, and for one breathless moment, Dugan thinks he might actually speak.

Instead, Bucky drives the glass shard into his own thigh.

"Fuck!" Dugan lunges forward as Bucky yanks the makeshift weapon free, blood immediately soaking through his pajama pants. "Jim, get in there!"

Morita rushes forward with the medical kit as Dugan and Gabe struggle to restrain Bucky, who fights them both with a desperate, feral strength. The metal arm whirs ominously, and Dugan barely dodges a blow that would have shattered his jaw.

"Hold him!" Morita shouts, trying to apply pressure to the wound. “Easy, Sarge! Easy!”

"What the hell do you think we're trying to do?" Dugan grunts, narrowly avoiding an elbow to the throat. "Jimmy, stop! We're trying to help you!"

Bucky goes eerily still, his head turning toward Dugan with mechanical precision. Then, with horrifying deliberation, he brings the bloodied glass to his own throat.

"NO!" Dugan roars, grabbing for Bucky's wrist. He catches it just as the shard's edge touches skin, a thin red line appearing beneath the pressure.

For several heartbeats, they're locked in a deadly standoff - Dugan's meaty hand wrapped around Bucky's wrist, neither giving ground. Bucky's eyes bore into his, empty of anything resembling the man Dugan once knew.

Then, without warning, Bucky's entire body goes rigid. A strangled sound escapes his throat - not quite a word, but too deliberate for a mere noise. His eyes roll back, and he slumps forward, the glass falling from suddenly slack fingers.

"Seizure?" Gabe asks urgently, helping Dugan lower Bucky to the floor.

“Looks like… fuck, fuck.”

Bucky's body convulses violently, back arching off the floor. Foam flecks at the corner of his mouth, tinged pink with blood—he must have bitten his tongue.

"Roll him on his side!" Morita barks, professional training overriding panic. "Gabe, help me hold his head—careful of the arm!"

The metal appendage spasms with the rest of him, plates shifting and whirring in chaotic patterns. Sparks actually fly from the elbow joint, and the acrid smell of burning electronics fills the air.

"Christ on a goddamn cracker," Dugan mutters, struggling to keep Bucky's right side stable without restraining him too severely. "What the hell is happening to him?"

"Pick a fucking option," Morita snaps, keeping Bucky's airway clear as tremors rack his frame. "They used his brain as a fucking pin-cushion for four years."

Seconds stretch into agonizing minutes. Dugan's seen seizures before - on the battlefield, in the trenches, in Azzano - but never like this. Never so violent, so unrelenting. Never from someone who's already been through so much.

"How long is it gonna last?" he demands, when Bucky shows no signs of stopping. "Shouldn't we be doing something?"

"Like what?" Morita snaps, his own fear evident beneath the professional facade. "We just have to wait it out."

But God, the waiting is unbearable. Each convulsion seems to tear something loose inside Dugan's chest, a primal protectiveness he's been trying and failing to both practice and deny for over half a fucking decade.

Finally, mercifully, the seizure begins to ebb. Bucky's rigid muscles go slack by increments, the violent spasms fading to small tremors, then to an occasional twitch. The metal arm gives one final, alarming spark, then goes completely inert.

"Is it over?" Gabe asks, voice uncharacteristically shaky.

"For now," Morita says, already checking Bucky's vitals with clinical precision. "Pulse is rapid but steady. Breathing's shallow but regular. The arm..."

He trails off, staring at the prosthetic with professional unease. It lies completely lifeless at Bucky's side, no longer the menacing weapon it was moments ago.

"Shorted out?" Dugan suggests.

Morita shakes his head. "I don't understand half of what's in those notes from Karpov. Howard might know when he gets back."

That’s another thing. Stark should be here, helping, being useful, not fucking back off to the Arctic on another wild goose chase. Steve’s dead and gone and Dugan is apparently alone in thinking that having a body to bury is going to make the slightest fucking difference to Bucky in the long run.

He examines the kid’s unconscious face, noting with concern the gray pallor beneath his usual complexion. He looks... spent.

"Let's get him back to bed," Dugan decides. "Clean him up, check that leg wound."

Together, they carry Bucky's limp form back to the bedroom he's been occupying since his rescue. It's the most peaceful Bucky's been in days, Dugan thinks grimly, and it took a goddamn seizure to get him there.

Working with the efficient partnership born from countless battlefield triage situations, they strip off Bucky's blood-soaked pajama pants, clean and suture the glass wound on his thigh, check his other injuries. Through it all, Bucky remains completely unresponsive, though occasionally his eyelids flutter, suggesting he's not deeply unconscious.

"Do… do we need to restrain him?” Gabe asks reluctantly, when they've finished. "Just in case he tries to hurt himself again?”

"No," Dugan says firmly. "No restraints. Not after what they did to him. We'll take shifts."

Neither Morita nor Gabe argues. They understand, all of them, what restraints would mean to someone who's spent years being strapped down and violated. Some lines they won't cross, no matter how practical it might seem.

"I'll take first watch," Dugan orders more than volunteers, settling into the armchair beside the bed. "You two get some rest. It's been a long day."

"Wake me in four hours," Morita says, packing away his medical supplies. "That wound needs checking, and he might spike a fever from the trauma."

Gabe lingers a moment after Morita leaves. "Tim," he says quietly, using Dugan's first name, a rarity. "We need to consider... alternatives. If he doesn't stabilize..."

"He will," Dugan says flatly, brooking no argument. "He's the strongest son of a bitch I've ever known. He'll pull through."

Gabe looks like he wants to say more, but thinks better of it. With a nod, he leaves Dugan alone with the unconscious form of their friend.

The room falls quiet, the only sounds Bucky's shallow breathing and the distant ticking of a clock somewhere in the hallway. Dugan watches Bucky's chest rise and fall, counting the seconds between each breath like a prayer.

"C'mon, kid," he murmurs, too low for anyone else to hear. "You've made it this far. Don't let those fucks win."

Whether it's the sound of his voice or just coincidence, Bucky stirs slightly. His eyelids flutter again, then crack open, pained and disorientated.

"Hey there," Dugan says, keeping his voice deliberately gentle. "Welcome back."

Bucky blinks slowly, his gaze roaming the ceiling before finally focusing on Dugan's face. There's no recognition there, which isn't surprising, but there's also none of the feral panic from before. Instead, his expression is... empty. Docile.

The shift is so abrupt, so complete, that Dugan feels a chill run down his spine. This isn't their Bucky either.

"You with me, kid?" Dugan tries, leaning forward slightly.

Bucky's gaze tracks the movement, but he doesn't respond. No tension, no fear, no... anything. Just vacant compliance.

"Let's sit you up a bit, okay?" Dugan reaches for him, moving slow and telegraphing his intentions.

No resistance. Bucky allows himself to be maneuvered like a ragdoll, offering neither help nor hindrance. When Dugan props him against the pillows, he stays exactly as positioned, not even adjusting for comfort.

Jesus. This is somehow worse than the violence.

"Jimmy… Bucky," he tries again, "it's me. It's Dugan. Dum Dum. Do you know where you are?"

Nothing.

"You're at Howard Stark's place in New York. You're safe. No one's gonna hurt you."

Still nothing, though Bucky's gaze has drifted to fix somewhere over Dugan's left shoulder, looking at something only he can see.

And then, so softly Dugan almost misses it, Bucky speaks.

"Steve?"

The word is barely audible, more breath than voice, but it hits Dugan like a physical blow. It's the first time Bucky has spoken since they found him. The first goddamn word.

"No, kid," Dugan says, his own voice suddenly rough. "It's Dugan. Steve's not... he's not here."

Bucky's eyes fill with tears, though his expression remains unnervingly blank. "Steve," he says again, a little louder.

"I'm sorry," Dugan says, utterly helpless. "I'm so sorry, Jimmy."

The tears spill over, tracking silently down Bucky's hollow cheeks. "Steve," he says, a note of desperation entering his voice now. "Steve," he whispers again, the word catching on a sob.

Christ. What is Dugan supposed to do with this? How is he supposed to tell Bucky that Steve is gone? That Steve has been gone for years, that the world kept spinning, that they all kept living while Bucky was being unmade piece by piece in a HYDRA lab?

"Steve's not here right now," he says instead, the coward's way out. "But I'm here. Gabe's here. Jim's here. You're not alone, kid."

Bucky's gaze drifts back to Dugan, but there's no indication he's understood or even heard. A fresh tear tracks down his cheek. "Steve," he says again, this time with a broken finality that suggests he knows, on some level, that Steve is never coming.

"Oh, kid," Dugan murmurs, his own eyes stinging. "I know. I know."

He reaches out, telegraphing the movement clearly, and takes Bucky's right hand in his own. Bucky allows it, neither gripping back nor pulling away. His skin is cool and dry, his pulse fluttering too rapidly beneath Dugan's fingers.

"Steve," Bucky says once more, barely audible now, as his eyelids begin to droop. Whatever energy the seizure left him with is ebbing rapidly.

"Rest now," Dugan tells him, still holding his hand. "Just rest."

Bucky's eyes close, tears still leaking from beneath the lids. His breathing evens out gradually, deepening into what seems like genuine sleep rather than unconsciousness. Still, his lips move occasionally, forming the same silent word over and over.

Steve. Steve. Steve.

Dugan sits there long after Bucky has fallen asleep, still holding his hand, unable to let go. He thinks about the kid Bucky was before the war - the stories he'd tell about growing up in Brooklyn, about looking after a scrawny, sickly Steve Rogers, about the trouble they'd get into together. He thinks about how fiercely Bucky had protected Steve, even after the serum, even when Steve no longer needed it.

And he wonders if maybe that's what's happening now. Maybe some part of Bucky, some deeply buried fragment of the man he used to be, is still trying to find Steve. Still trying to protect him. Still trying to get back to him.

"He's gone, Jimmy," Dugan whispers, though he knows Bucky can't hear him. "Steve's gone, and it's gonna break your heart all over again when you finally understand that. But the rest of us? We're still here. And we're not going anywhere. Not this time."

Location: Valkyrie Crash Site, Arctic Circle

Date: October 5^th 1949

Steve Rogers is fucking alive.

Okay, not technically. Technically he's a block of fucking ice, but... but Howard's found him.

Howard stares at the readings again, not trusting his own eyes. The equipment isn't designed for this kind of detection - it's cobbled together from submarine sonar, medical imaging tech, and a few innovations of his own that aren't even patented yet. It shouldn't be this accurate. It can't be.

But the signal is unmistakable. A human heartbeat. One beat every 37.4 minutes. Impossibly slow, but there. Persistent. Stubborn. Just like Rogers himself.

"Sir?" Davies, the expedition lead, approaches cautiously. The man's been wary since Howard's outburst half an hour ago, when the first readings came through. "The drilling team is ready. We can start extracting ice cores within the hour."

"No," Howard says sharply. "No drilling. We need to melt our way in. Carefully. The heat gradient needs to be precise."

Davies looks skeptical. "With all due respect, Mr. Stark, we're talking about recovering a body. Standard procedure—"

"There's nothing standard about this," Howard cuts him off. "And we're not recovering a body. We're rescuing a man."

The declaration hangs in the frigid air between them. Davies shifts uncomfortably, exchanging glances with the medical officer standing nearby. They think he's delusional. Hell, maybe he is. But the data doesn't lie.

"Look," Howard says, dragging a hand through his hair, ice crystals breaking loose from where his breath has frozen it. "I know how it sounds. But the serum—it's not just enhanced strength and speed. It alters cellular metabolism at the most fundamental level.”

"Mr. Stark," the medical officer says gently, "even if the serum could-"

"I'm aware of the probability, doctor," Howard snaps. "I'm also aware that I'm looking at vital signs. Faint, slowed to a crawl, but present. Now, are you going to help me get him out, or do I need to do it myself?"

That gets them moving, though Howard can still see the doubt in their eyes as they relay his orders to the rest of the team. No one believes Captain America is alive in there. They've come to recover a hero's remains, not perform a miraculous rescue.

Howard doesn't care what they believe. He knows what his instruments are telling him, and more importantly, he knows what Barnes' instincts told him. The locations Barnes marked on that map were uncannily precise, factoring in ocean currents, seasonal ice shifts, and aviation trajectories in a way that should have been impossible for someone without advanced training in those fields.

Yet Barnes had known. Somehow, whether through some fragment of memory or some deeper connection Howard can't begin to understand, Barnes had known exactly where to look.

And now here they are. The Valkyrie, or what's left of it, entombed in ice nearly two hundred feet below the surface. And inside, impossibly, Steve Rogers. Alive.

Howard checks his watch, an automatic gesture, meaningless up here where the sun barely sets and time feels elastic. It's been days since he left New York. Days since he saw Barnes, hollow-eyed and silent, staring at the maps spread across his bed.

He should radio Peggy. Let her know they've found Rogers. But something holds him back. What if he's wrong? What if the signal is a malfunction, a false hope? What if they extract Rogers only to find him truly dead, his body preserved but lifeless?

Or worse, what if Rogers is alive but damaged beyond recovery? Four years in ice, brain activity slowed to near-nothing... even with the serum, there could be consequences Howard can't predict.

No. Better to wait until they have Rogers out, until Howard can assess his condition properly. No point getting everyone's hopes up - especially Barnes's - if this turns out to be another dead end.

"Mr. Stark," Davies calls, pulling him from his thoughts. "The thermal array is ready."

Howard nods, focusing on the immediate task. The extraction will be delicate, requiring precise temperature control to melt the ice around Rogers without subjecting him to thermal shock. Too fast, and the sudden temperature change could kill him. Too slow, and they risk running out of fuel before they reach him.

"Start the sequence," he orders, moving to the control panel. "And get the medical team ready. I want a hypothermia protocol and resuscitation equipment standing by. The second we can cut him out of the ice, I want him onboard and the plane in the air. We keep him under until we can get him into a properly controlled environment, you hear?"

The next twelve hours pass in a blur of technical adjustments, tense monitoring, and increasingly frayed nerves. Howard doesn't sleep, doesn't eat beyond the coffee and protein bars someone periodically shoves into his hands. His attention is fixed on the thermal array's progress and the faint, stubborn heartbeat that continues its glacial rhythm.

Rogers is there. Just beyond their reach. Fighting, as always, against impossible odds.

"Hold on, Cap," Howard mutters as he fine-tunes the heating elements. "Just a little longer."

Chapter Text

Location: Howard Stark's Residence, New York

Date: October 9th 1949

It waits.

Patience is a skill the asset possesses in abundance. The ability to remain motionless for hours, days if necessary. To observe. To calculate. To identify the optimal moment for action.

Dugan dozes in the chair beside the bed, head tipped forward onto his chest, breaths deep and even. Exhaustion has finally claimed him after three days of near-constant vigilance. In the hallway, Morita and Jones speak in hushed tones, their voices a distant murmur.

It catalogs all of this with detached precision while something else, something deeper, pulses with urgent need.

Find Steve. Find Steve. Find Steve.

The command - not from a handler, but from somewhere inside itself - grows louder with each passing hour. It doesn't understand the source of this directive, but the imperative is clear. Undeniable. More compelling than any order the Colonel ever gave.

It assesses the obstacles. The weakness in its limbs from disuse. The metal arm, still inert after the seizure. Dugan, asleep but likely to wake at sudden movement.

Tactical analysis indicates a low probability of success. The mission parameters are unclear. The target location unknown.

Steve. Find Steve.

The imperative overrides logic. Overrides caution. Overrides years of conditioning to await orders, to never act independently.

Dugan still sleeps. It moves carefully, sliding its legs over the edge of the bed. The floor is cold beneath its bare feet. It stands, knees threatening to buckle, and braces against the bedside table until the dizziness passes. The metal arm hangs uselessly at its side, an unbalancing weight.

It is dressed in loose cotton pants and a buttoned shirt, clothing it doesn't recognize but that allows for ease of movement. It upsets them when it tries to explain that it has not earned the right to clothes. Agitation is contrary to satisfaction, so in this instance, it accepts the adjustment of its standard operating procedures.

The door to the room is partially open. It slips through the gap silently, pressing its back against the wall in the hallway, listening. Jones and Morita have moved to another room; their voices are more distant now. The corridor is clear.

It moves with a silent precision it doesn’t understand, keeping to the shadows, testing each floorboard before committing its weight. The house is large, unfamiliar, full of potential hiding places and ambush points. It navigates by instinct, drawn downward, toward the exit. Toward Steve.

Steve. Find Steve.

It doesn't know how it knows, but it is certain Steve is not in this house. Steve is elsewhere. The need to find him is a physical ache, sharp and insistent.

A staircase appears ahead, curving gracefully downward. It descends slowly, keeping its weight on the outer edge of each step to minimize creaking. At the bottom, it pauses, orienting itself. Multiple doorways. A large foyer. What appears to be a main entrance ahead.

Too exposed. Too obvious. It needs an alternative exit.

A sound to its right - voices. It freezes, then melts back into the shadows beneath the staircase. Two people approaching. It holds its breath, body completely still, as the voices grow clearer.

" - don't care about the risk, Howard. He needs to know."

A woman's voice. British accent. Authoritative. Familiar in a way that makes something twist in its chest.

"And what if it makes him worse?" A man's voice. American. Sharp, agitated. "We only just got him stabilized. If we tell him and he reacts badly - "

"And if we don't tell him, and he finds out another way?" The woman again. "He's already asking for Steve. His first word, Howard. His only word. Doesn't that tell you something?"

The voices are close now, the speakers moving through a doorway just beyond its hiding place. It presses deeper into the shadows, but something about the conversation holds it in place. They're talking about Steve. About it. Information. Tactical advantage.

"I know, Peg." The man - Howard - sounds tired, defeated. "But you haven't seen Rogers yet. He's still unconscious. The thawing process is delicate. If we rush it, we could lose him again."

Thawing. The word sends a jolt of fear through its system. Thawing means the cryochamber. Means Steve was frozen. Means Steve is like it - an asset, a weapon, something preserved and revived as needed.

No. That can't be right. Steve is not an asset. Steve is... is...

The memory fragment hits with stunning force - Steve, taller, broader than in its other memories, leaning over the bar in a crowded pub, looking up with a smile that was both familiar and strange on his new face. "Ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?" Then its own voice, responding with absolute certainty: "Hell no. That little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb not to run away from a fight - I'm following him."

The asset staggers under the force of the memory, one hand reaching out to steady itself against the wall. The slight sound is enough. The voices stop abruptly.

"Did you hear that?" The woman - Peggy. It knows her name now. Peggy Carter. Director. Steve's... something important.

It should retreat. Evade. Complete the mission to find Steve. But its limbs won't cooperate, frozen in place as shadows coalesce into figures at the edge of its vision.

"Oh my God." Peggy's voice, barely above a whisper. "Bucky?"

It turns slowly, evaluating threats, escape routes, tactical options. Peggy stands in the doorway, Howard slightly behind her. Both appear unarmed, though the asset knows better than to trust appearances.

"Steve," it says, the only word it can reliably produce. "Steve."

Peggy's face softens, a complexity of emotions the asset can't fully parse. "Bucky," she says again, taking a cautious step forward. "You shouldn't be out of bed. How’s your leg?"

It frowns. Its leg? It looks down. There’s a thick bandage wrapped around its thigh. Oh. Perhaps that explains why it is so unsteady.

It doesn't retreat, though instinct screams to do so. These people know where Steve is. They were just discussing him.

"Steve," it says again, with greater urgency. It gestures vaguely with its functioning hand, trying to communicate the need, the imperative. "Steve."

Peggy and Howard exchange a look the asset can't interpret. Some silent communication passing between them.

"Sergeant Barnes," Peggy says formally, so commanding in presence and tone that its spine aches. "I need you to return to your room. You're not well enough to be moving around yet."

The asset shakes its head. Defiance. Disobedience. It will be punished, but the mission imperative overrides fear of consequence.

"Steve," it insists, voice rough from disuse and the absence of the feeding tube. It takes an unsteady step toward them, then another. "Steve." This isn’t adequate. They do not understand. It… it is allowed some leeway. To communicate with the Colonel if necessary. The punishment for using it outside of acceptable situations is a week in the box. It…

For Steve, it will risk it.

It speaks.

They both frown. “I’m sorry, James, we don’t speak Russian.”

No… they don’t. They never address him in his own language. They use something else. English. It understands them, which means it can speak it, too.

“Please,” it makes a second attempt. “Please Steve.”

The naked desperation in its voice seems to affect them. Howard looks away, running a hand through his hair. Peggy's expression wavers between resolve and compassion.

"Bucky," she says more gently. "Steve isn't here right now. He's... he's being treated. At a medical facility."

Medical facility. Treatment. It understands these terms. They mean pain. Steve is being hurt. The thought ignites something primal, something that transcends the asset's conditioning.

"No," it says, the new word still unfamiliar on its tongue. "No. Steve."

It tries to move past them, toward what it assumes is the exit, but its weakened body betrays it. Knees buckle, vision swimming with black spots. It would have fallen if not for Howard suddenly stepping forward, catching it awkwardly around the waist.

"Whoa, easy there," Howard says, staggering slightly under the asset's weight. "Peggy, a little help?"

Together, they support it, one on each side. The asset should fight, should complete the mission, but its body refuses to cooperate. The brief exertion has depleted what little strength it had recovered.

"Steve," it says again, the word breaking on something like a sob. "Please."

Peggy's face is very close to its own, her eyes dark with what might be tears. "Listen to me, Bucky," she says firmly. "Steve is alive. We found him. But he's unconscious, and his condition is delicate. He needs specialized care right now, care we can't provide here."

Alive. The word penetrates the asset's fog. Steve is alive. Not dead. Not gone. Alive. It new it. Steve promised.

He… ‘I’ll come for you, Buck. I will always find you.’

"Take..." it struggles with the words, forcing them past the barrier in its mind. "Take it. To Steve."

Peggy looks at Howard over the asset's head. "We can't," Howard says, sounding genuinely regretful. "Barnes, you're in no condition to be moved."

There’s a particular sensation it feels when looking at Howard. One it only feels with him. Annoyance, it thinks. It is annoyed.

It doesn’t know what that means, only that it is.

Annoyed. And… and frustrated?

The mission is clear - find Steve - but it lacks the resources, the strength, the information to complete it. Failure. Failure means punishment.

But more than fear of punishment is the crushing weight of knowing Steve is somewhere it can't reach. Steve, who is somehow vital, essential, necessary in a way it doesn't understand but feels with absolute certainty.

"Please," it says again, the word unfamiliar but desperately meant. "Please."

Peggy studies its face intently. "Bucky," she says carefully, "I understand wanting to see Steve. But you need to understand - he's in a medically induced coma. And the facility where he's being kept is the same place where you were being held. It could be... traumatic for you."

The asset processes this. Weighs the mission against the risk. Weighs seeing Steve against going back there. No contest. If Steve is there, it needs to find him.

"Please," it says, a word it rarely had occasion to use, but that feels right now. "Please. Take it. Steve."

“Perhaps,” Peggy starts slowly, her small hands cool and gentle against its skin. “Perhaps if we…”

Howard throws up his hands in frustration. "This is insane. He can barely stand, Peggy. And you're considering taking him back there?"

"I'm not considering it," Peggy says after a long moment, her eyes never leaving its face. "I'm going to do it."

"What?" Howard stares at her in disbelief. "You can't be serious."

"I am." Her voice is firm, decided. "Look at him, Howard. Really look."

Howard turns, grudgingly, to assess it. It stands as straight as its weakened body allows, right hand gripping the stair rail for support, left arm hanging uselessly. It needs to show that it is functioning well enough to be allowed the privilege.

"He needs this," Peggy continues quietly. "He needs to see Steve. Wouldn't you, in his position?"

Howard's resistance visibly wavers. "Dammit, Peg," he mutters. "Fine. But not tonight. He needs medical preparation, and we need to inform security at Leigh. And Falsworth needs to be told - he's overseeing Karpov's interrogation."

Peggy nods, then turns back to the asset. "I have no intention of returning without the fury of the Howling Commandos at our backs," she says firmly. "Tomorrow. We'll take you to Steve tomorrow, I swear. After the doctors have cleared you for travel. But you have to go back to bed now.”

The asset considers these terms. Delay is suboptimal but acceptable given the certainty of eventual mission achievement. It nods once, agreement.

"Good," Peggy says, moving to its side. "Let me help you back upstairs."

It allows her to take its right arm, supporting it as they turn toward the stairs. The journey back up is arduous, each step requiring concentrated effort. Its body is weak, uncooperative, but the mission imperative provides necessary motivation. Tomorrow. Steve.

By the time they reach the top of the stairs, the commotion has awakened Dugan. He appears in the doorway of the bedroom, expression shifting rapidly from alarm to confusion.

"What the hell - Bucky? Peggy? What's going on?"

"Our patient decided to go for a walk," Peggy explains, helping it toward the bed. "And overheard some sensitive information in the process."

Dugan moves quickly to assist, supporting its other side. "What kind of sensitive information?"

"Steve," it says before Peggy can answer. Just in case she is lying. "Tomorrow.”

Dugan's eyes widen, darting to Peggy's face. "You found Rogers?”

It doesn’t understand the looks on either of their faces when she swallows, and her voice wobbles. “Yes. He’s…” she looks at it and shakes her head.

"Jesus Christ," Dugan breathes, looking stunned as he slumps down on the mattress next to it once it has settled. "Jesus Christ. Who’s with him?”

“Howard has a team on it,” Peggy says.

Dugan bristles. “Abso-fucking-lutely not. You either bring him here –“

“We don’t have the facilities. Trust me, I am well aware of the implications should we not handle this correctly. Jacques is en route. He and Monty will oversee Steve’s security. The entire base is on lockdown. Essential personnel only. The minute we can transfer, we will.”

“Steve,” it says firmly, fulling intending to be there.

"Tomorrow," Peggy says firmly. "If Jim clears you for travel."

It nods vigorously. It will be good.

Morita arrives five minutes later, medical kit in hand. "Heard you tried to walk on that leg,” he says dryly, moving to the bedside. "And that we're planning a field trip."

"Tomorrow," Peggy confirms. "If he's stable enough."

Morita examines it, checking vital signs, and assessing with quick, competent hands. "You up for some grub?”

The asset submits to the examination without resistance. The discomfort is acceptable within mission parameters. Worth enduring for what comes after.

"I can’t believe Stark did it," Morita continues, preparing a new IV line. "I’d like it on record that I hate everything about bringing Bucky back to Leigh.”

Dugan grunts.

“Noted,” Peggy nods. "Phillips is handling the arrangements," Peggy says.

“You brought that crotchety old bastard out of retirement?”

“It’s Steve,” Peggy says softly.

“Steve,” it echoes.

She reaches up and cups its cheek. Her hands are soft and cool.

Morita nods, finding a vein in the asset's right arm and inserting the IV needle with practiced precision. The asset doesn't flinch; the pain is minimal, familiar.

"Steve," it says again, fixing its gaze on Peggy. Needing confirmation. Needing certainty.

"Yes," she says, and there's something in her eyes that wasn't there before - a softness, an understanding. “I’ll bring you to him, I promise.”

Howard, watching from the doorway, still looks unconvinced. "I’ll make sure everything is ready for you. That he’s taken care of," he mutters, loud enough for everyone to hear.

The asset doesn't care what anyone thinks. Doesn't care about the risks. All that matters is the mission. Find Steve.

For the first time since it can remember, the asset has chosen its own mission. Not received orders, not responded to conditioning, but chosen. The realization is both terrifying and exhilarating, a tiny crack in the edifice of its programming.

“Just to help you sleep,” Morita tells it. “You need to be in top form to see Cap, right?”

Right. Yes. It thinks Steve is going to be displeased with it.

Morita injects something into the IV line - a sedative, the asset recognizes from the cool sensation spreading up its arm.

"Rest now," Peggy says, stepping back as the medication begins to take effect. "Tomorrow will be challenging enough."

The asset feels the heaviness spreading through its limbs, the familiar pull toward unconsciousness. But this time, it doesn't fight. The mission has parameters, a timeline, a clear objective. Find Steve. See Steve.

As darkness claims it, one thought remains clear, burning like a beacon in the receding tide of awareness:

Hold on, Steve. I'm coming.

Location: Camp Leigh, New Jersey

Date: October 10th 1949

Monty checks his watch for the third time in thirty minutes. Phillips is late, which is uncharacteristic for a man who considers punctuality next to godliness. Then again, considering the circumstances, allowances must be made. Even for a hard-ass like Chester Phillips.

The camp buzzes with unusual activity - guards performing additional security sweeps, technicians checking surveillance equipment, medical personnel rushing between buildings with urgency that seems both focused and barely contained. Word has spread, despite their best efforts to keep it quiet. Stark found something in the Arctic.

God help them all.

A sleek black government-issue car finally pulls through the gates. It barely comes to a stop before the rear door swings open, and Phillips emerges, still in the process of putting on his hat. The man moves with the same no-nonsense efficiency Monty remembers from the war, though the years since have etched deeper lines around his eyes and mouth.

"Lieutenant Falsworth," Phillips says by way of greeting, extending a hand that Monty shakes firmly. "Still carrying the weight of the world, I see."

"Colonel," Monty returns with a slight smile. "Retirement doesn't seem to be slowing you down either."

Phillips snorts. "Retirement. Is that what they're calling it? Feels more like an extended leave until the next crisis." He glances around, taking in the heightened security with a critical eye. "And here we are. Another crisis."

"Rather a good one this time, sir," Monty points out as they begin walking toward the main building. "Rogers being alive is hardly a crisis."

"Rogers being alive is a miracle," Phillips corrects, his voice gruff but carrying an undercurrent of what might, in another man, be called emotion. "But bringing Barnes here while we're still sorting through the HYDRA infestation? That's the crisis part."

Jacques Dernier meets them at the entrance, offering a crisp salute that Phillips returns with military precision.

"Le Colonel," Jacques says with a nod. "Good to see you again."

"Dernier," Phillips acknowledges. "Got in early, I see."

"Arrived last night. Have been surveying the perimeter and identifying security vulnerabilities." Jacques falls into step beside them, switching smoothly into his native French as he delivers a rapid-fire report that Monty follows with ease, though Phillips clearly struggles to keep up.

"English, Dernier," Phillips growls. "I'm too old to translate in my head."

Jacques grins, unrepentant. "I was merely saying that we have a significant problem with potential infiltration. We’ve been working through personnel records but it is a big operation."

Phillips' expression darkens. "HYDRA?"

"We’re still not certain Karpov is HYDRA. The Red Room is proving a difficult adversary to track, and we don’t understand their motivations," Monty replies as they enter the main building, lowering his voice as they pass several staff members. "But given what happened to Barnes, it's clear one or both have had operatives within our ranks for some time."

They reach Phillips' old office, which has been hastily prepared for his return. Peggy’s office is closer to ops. Phillips was only ever involved with SHIELD as an advisor.

The Colonel shuts the door firmly behind them. "I want every non-essential employee off this base within the hour," Phillips states, removing his hat and coat with sharp, angry movements. "And I mean everyone. If they're not directly involved in Rogers' care or base security, they're gone."

"That's nearly two hundred people, sir," Monty points out.

"I don't care if it's two thousand," Phillips snaps. "How many people knew about Barnes? How many looked the other way? Signed off on paperwork? Followed orders without question?"

The question hangs in the air, heavy with implication. They don’t yet know, and that’s the problem.

"I'll oversee the evacuation," Jacques volunteers. "We can cite a containment protocol. Chemical leak, perhaps."

Phillips nods. "Do it. And I want a complete roster of who stays. S8 and above only."

"Even Howard's medical team?" Monty asks.

"Especially Howard's team," Phillips emphasizes. "Stark's a genius, but his vetting process leaves something to be desired."

As Jacques departs to begin the evacuation, Monty unfolds a map of the facility on Phillips' desk. "We'll need to establish secure zones. Medical for Rogers, separate accommodations for Barnes, and complete isolation for the prisoners."

Phillips studies the map, fingers tracing the outline of the underground levels. "The detention block is here?"

"Yes, sir. Currently housing Karpov and the other HYDRA scientists brought in under Operation Paperclip. They're separated but within the same facility."

"Not good enough," Phillips declares. "I want them moved to the isolation cells in Block D. No contact with each other, no contact with regular staff. Sedated if necessary."

"Already planned, sir," Monty confirms. "I was going to oversee that personally after our meeting."

Phillips looks up, a grim satisfaction in his eyes. "Good man." He pauses, seeming to struggle with his next words. "How bad is it? Barnes, I mean. Carter's report was... clinical. And Stark's was barely coherent."

Monty weighs his response carefully. "It's bad, sir. I… we… we all know the kind of horrors that were committed during the war. What’s been done to him is… beyond comprehension."

"And now we're bringing him back to the place where it happened," Phillips says heavily. "Because Rogers is here. Christ."

"It wasn't my recommendation," Monty admits. "But Director Carter believes seeing Rogers might help stabilize him. And Barnes was... insistent, from what I understand."

"Insistent? The Barnes I remember could be stubborn as a mule when he set his mind to something, especially if that something was Rogers," Phillips says, a hint of something almost like fondness creeping into his voice. "Good to know some things survived that bastard's handiwork."

Monty doesn't share the Colonel's optimism. He's read Karpov's notes, seen the photographs documenting the "asset's" creation. What survived in Barnes isn't stubbornness - it's something deeper, more primitive. A connection to Steve that transcends even the most barbaric conditioning techniques HYDRA could devise.

A knock at the door interrupts them. Jacques enters without waiting for a response, his expression tense.

"The evacuation order has been issued," he reports. "But we have a complication. Stark is requesting Colonel Phillips' presence in the medical bay immediately. He says Rogers is showing signs of increased brain activity."

Phillips is on his feet in an instant. "Is he waking up?"

"Stark wasn't clear, sir," Jacques replies. "But he seemed... agitated."

"When isn't he?" Phillips mutters, already moving toward the door. "Falsworth, get those prisoners secured. Dernier, continue with the evacuation. I want this base locked down tight before Barnes arrives. No surprises."

"Yes, sir," they respond in unison.

As Phillips strides out, Monty exchanges a look with Jacques. "This is going to be a bloody mess, isn't it?"

"Oui," Jacques agrees with a grim smile. "But when is it not, with those two? I’ll take mess any day if it means we get them back."

Monty can't argue with that assessment. Where Rogers and Barnes are concerned, chaos seems to be the natural order of things. Has been since 1943.

And there’s not a single part of him that’s not elated to be back in the thick of it.

He heads toward the detention block, mentally rehearsing the security protocols they'll need to implement. The underground level is already heavily guarded, but Monty isn't taking any chances. Not with Karpov. Not after what he's seen in those files.

The guard at the entrance salutes as Monty approaches. "Lieutenant. We weren't expecting you until this afternoon."

"Change of plans, Corporal," Monty replies crisply. "I need all prisoners prepared for immediate transfer to Block D. Full restraints, security protocols alpha-three."

The guard's eyes widen slightly. "Alpha-three, sir? That's - "

"I'm well aware of what it entails, Corporal," Monty cuts him off. "Those are Colonel Phillips' direct orders. The prisoners are to be sedated before transfer and kept under until further notice."

"Yes, sir," the guard nods, reaching for the phone to relay the orders. "Should I inform Dr. Kellerman? He's scheduled to interview Prisoner Two this morning."

"Dr. Kellerman's interview is canceled," Monty states flatly. "In fact, Dr. Kellerman's security clearance is temporarily suspended, effective immediately."

The guard hesitates, clearly uncomfortable. "Sir, Dr. Kellerman is our lead psychiatric consultant.. He has Director Carter's authorization - "

"And now he has Colonel Phillips' counter-authorization," Monty interrupts, steel entering his voice. "This facility is under his jurisdiction, Corporal. Colonel Phillips has assumed command by order of the Joint Chiefs. Is that clear?"

It's a slight exaggeration - Phillips' post to command isn't quite that official - but the invocation of the Joint Chiefs has the desired effect. The guard straightens, all hesitation vanishing.

"Crystal clear, sir. I'll see to the transfers personally."

"Good man," Monty nods. "I want to see the prisoners before sedation. Each one, individually."

He doesn't elaborate on why, and the guard knows better than to ask. The truth is, he wants to look each of them in the eye. Wants them to know what's coming. Wants Karpov, especially, to understand that his game of leverage and negotiation is over.

Steve Rogers is alive. This means… well, it means the people involved in Barnes’s captivity won’t be for much longer.

Location: Camp Leigh, New Jersey

Date: October 10th 1949

Awareness comes in fragments.

The absence of cold is the first thing Steve registers. For so long - how long? - there has been nothing but the ice. The numbing, all-consuming cold that had slowly claimed every part of him until even thought itself began to crystallize and still.

He had welcomed it, in the end. Had stopped fighting. Had let the cold take him, piece by piece, knowing what waited on the other side.

Bucky.

The thought warms him from within, spreading outward like ripples on water. He's finally dead. The ice has finally claimed the last of him, which means he'll see Bucky again. It was the only comfort as consciousness had slipped away - that death would reunite them where life had torn them apart.

Sounds filter in next. A steady, rhythmic beeping. Hushed voices, too indistinct to make out words but carrying tones of urgency, of excitement, of caution. Movement around him, the subtle shift of air currents against his skin.

Heaven is surprisingly clinical. But what did he expect? Angels with harps? Pearly gates? Steve had never been particularly religious, despite his mother's best efforts. He just knows, with bone-deep certainty, that wherever Bucky is, that's where he belongs.

"His vitals are stabilizing," someone murmurs nearby. "I think he's coming around."

"Should we call the Colonel?" Another voice, tense with anticipation.

"No," a woman's voice cuts in, crisp and authoritative. "Give them a moment."

That voice. Steve knows that voice. Peggy? Is Peggy dead too? The thought brings a pang of regret. She had so much life ahead of her.

"Sergeant Barnes, you should sit down," the first voice says gently. "You've been standing there for hours."

Barnes.

Bucky.

Bucky is here. The certainty of it fills Steve with desperate, aching hope. This is death, then. It must be. Because Bucky is here, and Bucky died. Steve lost him.

"Steve." A different voice entirely - ragged, barely above a whisper, but achingly familiar. The voice Steve has been straining to hear again since that terrible moment on the train. "Steve. Wake up."

The need to see Bucky overwhelms everything else. Steve struggles against the leaden weight of his eyelids. They feel fused shut, as if the ice has sealed them permanently. But the warmth continues to spread through his body, and gradually, incrementally, he manages to force his eyes open.

Light. Blinding, painful light. He squeezes his eyes shut again immediately, a small sound of protest escaping his throat. Do the dead feel pain? Apparently so.

"Dim the lights," Peggy's voice instructs, and the red glow behind his eyelids fades to something more tolerable.

He tries again, more cautiously this time. The world comes into focus slowly, blurred shapes resolving into a face bent close to his own. Dark hair falling forward. Pale skin. Eyes - those eyes - watching him with an intensity that pierces straight through to his soul.

Bucky.

It’s worth it. Worth every agonizing hour spent waiting for the ice to claim him. Worth the pain, worth the fear.

Worth everything.

Bucky’s here.

It’s… it’s later.

He gives no conscious thought to anything beyond the bone-deep need to hold him and dives forward, curling his hand carefully around the back of Bucky’s neck and dragging him into that kiss they were both denied on the mountain.

It’s everything – and nothing – like he imagined. Bucky makes a soft, surprised sound against him, dry lips parting, and he clings to Steve so fiercely it hurts.

In that one moment, Steve is unmade and made anew. The man that went into the ice died desperately wishing for this one moment. He’s happier, more grateful, in the first minute of his death than he’s ever been in life.

When they finally part, Steve keeps his hand cupped around Bucky's neck, unwilling to let go, terrified that if he does, Bucky might vanish like smoke. Bucky's eyes are wide, filled with a riot of emotions - shock, disbelief, something desperate and raw that mirrors what Steve feels pounding in his own chest.

"Buck," Steve whispers, the name like a prayer on his lips. "You're really here."

Bucky's breathing is shallow, uneven. His right hand is fisted in Steve's hospital gown so tightly the fabric threatens to tear. But most devastating is the look in his eyes - a dawning recognition, as if pieces long scattered are suddenly, painfully snapping back into place.

"Steve," Bucky says again, the word a lifeline in a storm. His voice is rough, uncertain, but the way he says Steve's name is achingly familiar. "Steve."

There's commotion around them that Steve barely registers - someone gasping, a clipboard clattering to the floor, Peggy's soft "Oh my" fading into the background. All he can see, all that matters, is Bucky's face inches from his own, real and here.

"Hey Barnes," a man's voice breaks through the bubble of their reunion, more amused than concerned. "I know you’re pleased to see him, but you’re gonna have to let me take a look at Rogers and make sure he’s not half popsicle.”

"No," Steve says sharply, his grip on Bucky tightening reflexively. "Don't take him away."

He's vaguely aware he sounds desperate, irrational even, but the thought of separating from Bucky now, after everything, is unbearable.

Still with one hand curled around Bucky’s nape, he reaches up and strokes the other across his cheek. The circles under his eyes are like bruises, hollow spaces sunk in deep. The dark hair Steve noted before hangs heavy, long, and tangled around his face, and Steve knows something is wrong.

It’s not the hair, not the bruises, not even the broken, shattered look that turns his eyes wide and guileless.

Bucky’s been overwhelmed before when he’s thought them separated by death.

This, their reunion after… well it’s entirely too quiet.

If Steve’s idea of heaven is the Bucky he loves with every exhausted inch of his mind and soul, then it’s a heaven that should be blue with Bucky’s ranting.

Steve’s dead. There’s no reality in which Bucky won’t give him shit for that.

Only he doesn’t. he simply stares at Steve as if he is the start and end of the universe.

The other details start to trickle in slowly.

Peggy, standing behind Bucky, her hair different. Dugan, swaying on the spot beside her, clutching his hat.

Howard, with a full beard and a splitting grin.

Steve loves all of them, but they sure as shit have no place in his afterlife with Bucky, which means…

It means the Bucky he’s looking at now is not an amalgamation of Steve’s memories, he’s not the Bucky of Azzano or Bavaria, he’s…

This is the Bucky of now. And he’s…

“Steve,” Bucky whispers, the word more of a sob than anything.

With growing horror, Steve gives into the one instinct he will always surrender to and tugs Bucky close.

And Bucky… Bucky practically crawls into him with a desperation he’s never once shown in life. He keens, high and desperate, and something in Steve’s soul shatters.

Steve's arms tighten around him instinctively, protective, trying to somehow shield him from whatever has already happened. Bucky trembles against him, his body fitting oddly beneath Steve's hands. His right arm wraps around Steve with desperate strength, but his left, which is fucking metal hangs limp and unresponsive at his side.

This isn't death. This is something far more terrifying. This is life - messy, painful, complicated life - and something terrible has happened to Bucky in the time Steve's been gone.

"Buck," Steve whispers, pressing his face into Bucky's hair, breathing him in despite the clinical smell of antiseptic that clings to him. "What happened to you?"

Bucky doesn't answer, just burrows closer, his breathing ragged and uneven against Steve's neck. The room has gone deathly quiet around them, the medical staff and even Peggy and Dugan seemingly frozen, witnessing something too intimate, too raw to interrupt.

"Captain Rogers," someone - a doctor, Steve assumes - ventures cautiously. "I understand this is an emotional moment, but we really should examine you. And Sergeant Barnes needs to be back in bed. He's not medically cleared to be up for this long."

Steve opens his eyes, not loosening his hold on Bucky, to find the room watching them with expressions ranging from clinical concern to Dugan's undisguised emotion. Peggy stands slightly apart, her posture rigid but her eyes suspiciously bright.

"What happened to him?" Steve asks, his voice harder than he intended. He strokes his hand through Bucky’s tangled hair and keeps him tucked safely against his neck. "Peggy, what happened?"

The man Steve has known most of his life would never behave like Bucky is now. He’d be mortified. Whatever has left him like this…

The world is going to wish Steve stayed dead.

Peggy steps forward, her professional composure slipping. "It's... complicated, Steve. And not something to discuss here." Her eyes flick meaningfully to the medical staff. "Let the doctors check you over. Then we'll talk. I promise. It’s… it’s so good to see you."

Steve wants to refuse, wants to demand answers now, but Bucky shudders against him, suddenly heavier in his arms. "Steve," he murmurs, the word slurring slightly. "Steve."

"He's crashing," Dugan says, moving forward quickly. His voice breaks, and he clears his throat roughly. "Let's get him in the other bed before he collapses."

Steve instinctively tightens his hold, irrationally afraid that if he lets go, Bucky might disappear. "No. He stays with me."

"Steve," Peggy says, her voice gentle. "Your bed isn't big enough for both of you, and he's in no condition - "

"We’ll make it work," Steve interrupts, surprising even himself with the authority in his tone. He softens it slightly, looking down at Bucky's dark head pressed against his chest. "I'm not letting him go, Peggy. Not again."

He dares them to say something. To find fucking fault.

Something in Peggy's expression shifts, understanding replacing professional distance. "Of course," she says after a moment.

"Director, protocol states - " one of the doctors begins.

"Hang protocol," Dugan growls. "You want to be the one to separate them? Because I sure as hell don't."

The medical staff exchange glances but move to comply. Peggy approaches, her steps measured, her face composed once more.

"Steve," she says quietly. "He needs to lie down. He's been through... a great deal. He pushed himself beyond his limits to be here when you woke up. You both need rest. You’ve been gone for a long time."

“How long?”

“Four years.”

Steve lived in a world without Bucky for three days. He can’t fathom surviving it for four years.

He looks down at Bucky, whose eyes have drifted half-closed, exhaustion finally claiming him despite his obvious determination to stay conscious. The sight of him - so vulnerable, so unlike the vibrant, defiant man Steve remembers - twists something painfully in his chest.

"Okay," he concedes softly. "Help me get him settled."

With gentle care, Steve shifts Bucky carefully, arranging him so his head rests on the pillow. Bucky resists briefly, his right hand clutching desperately at Steve's hospital gown.

"It's okay, Buck," Steve soothes, catching his hand and holding it firmly. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

Bucky's eyes, glazed with exhaustion, search Steve's face intently. "Steve," he whispers, the word so faint Steve barely catches it.

"I promise," Steve says, his voice breaking slightly. "Rest now. I'll be here when you wake up."

Something in Bucky's expression eases, the desperate tension releasing by increments. His eyes drift closed, but his hand maintains its grip on Steve's, as if even in sleep, he can't bear to let go.

Steve settles beside him, arranging himself carefully to avoid disturbing Bucky while still keeping physical contact. Only then does he look up at the others, his face set in lines that brook no argument.

"Now," he says quietly, mindful of Bucky's finally sleeping form. "Someone tell me what the fuck happened."

Chapter Text

Location: Camp Leigh, New Jersey

Date: October 11th 1949

It wakes gradually, transitioning from unconsciousness to awareness smoother than it can remember experiencing before. No jolting alertness, no immediate assessment of threats and exits. Just a slow, gentle drift toward consciousness, like floating to the surface of a still pond.

The first sensation it registers is warmth. Not the burning agony of lab, not the bone-deep cold of cryostasis, but a simple, uncomplicated warmth radiating from somewhere to its right.

The second is pressure - a weight across its right hand. Something holding it. Someone.

Steve.

The name forms in its mind with perfect clarity, accompanied by a surge of... something. Something it doesn't have words for, doesn't have permission to feel. Something that makes its chest expand and contract in a way that has nothing to do with respiratory function.

It opens its eyes carefully, prepared to squint against harsh lights, but the room is dim, peaceful. Morning sun filters through partially drawn blinds, casting soft golden stripes across the hospital bed.

And there is Steve. Asleep next to him in the bed, his head tipped forward at an awkward angle that will surely pain him when he wakes. His large hand envelops its own completely, maintaining contact even in sleep.

Steve is alive. Steve is here. Steve is real.

The truth of this - the impossible, miraculous reality of it - causes a strange pressure behind its eyes, a tightness in its throat. Malfunctions. Emotional responses it has been trained to suppress. But now, watching Steve's chest rise and fall with each steady breath, it can't bring itself to care about protocols or punishments.

Because Steve is alive. Steve is here. And everything else - the confusion, the fractured memories, the constant, gnawing terror - fades in importance beside this single, overwhelming fact.

It studies Steve's face, committing every detail to memory - the sweep of his eyelashes against his cheeks, the slight furrow between his brows even in sleep, the way his hair falls across his forehead. It knows this face. Has always known this face, even when it knew nothing else, not even its own name or purpose.

No, that's not right. Steve is its purpose. Has always been its purpose, long before the Colonel and the pain. Protecting Steve. Following Steve. Being with Steve. These imperatives run deeper than any conditioning, any programming HYDRA ever tried to impose.

A memory surfaces - fragmented, incomplete, but vivid. Steve, smaller, frailer, burning with fever in a narrow bed. Its own hand, cooling Steve's forehead with a damp cloth. Fear twisting in its gut at each labored breath. The desperate, all-consuming need to keep him safe, keep him alive, no matter the cost.

Another memory follows - Steve again, but different. Larger, stronger, striding through a flaming hallway, a shield on his arm. Relief and confusion warring within its chest. I thought you were smaller.

It's not an asset in these memories. It's not an it. It's... someone. Someone with a name. Someone who belongs with Steve.

Bucky.

The name echoes like a distant bell, familiar yet strange. Is that who it is? Who it was? The concept is simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating - to have an identity, to be someone rather than something. They call it lots of things: Jimmy, Sarge, kid... Bucky is the one that feels like it fits best.

Steve stirs, his breathing pattern changing as he approaches wakefulness. It - Bucky? - should look away, should pretend to be asleep. That would be the safest option, the protocol-compliant response to avoid potential punishment.

But it doesn't want to look away. For the first time it can remember, it wants something for itself, beyond compliance or pain avoidance. It wants to see Steve's eyes open, wants to be the first thing Steve sees. Wants to exist in Steve's awareness as more than a malfunctioning weapon, a broken tool.

Wants to be Bucky for him, even if it doesn't fully understand what that means.

Steve's eyelids flutter, then open. For a moment, he looks disoriented, blinking against the morning light. Then his gaze lands on it - on Bucky? - and his entire face transforms, exhaustion giving way to joy so pure and unguarded it's almost painful to witness.

"Buck," Steve says, voice rough with sleep. "You're awake."

It should respond. Should acknowledge the statement, confirm or deny as appropriate. But its voice doesn't work, trapped beneath the sudden expansion in its chest, the unfamiliar pressure building behind its eyes.

Steve's hand tightens around its own. "It's okay," he says, gentler now. "You don't have to talk. I'm just glad you're awake."

His thumb traces small circles on the back of it's hand, a simple touch that somehow anchors it to the moment, to the reality of Steve beside it, alive and solid and real.

"Steve," it manages finally, the name carrying more meaning, more emotion than any word it has ever spoken.

Steve's smile widens, his eyes suspiciously bright. "Yeah, Buck. It's me."

The pressure behind its eyes spills over, moisture tracking down its cheeks. A malfunction. A serious deviation from acceptable parameters. It should be punished for this display of weakness, this emotional compromise.

But Steve doesn't look disgusted. Doesn't reach for correction implements or restraints. Instead, his own eyes fill with tears, and he reaches out slowly, telegraphing his movement, to brush the wetness from its face.

"It's okay," he says again, his voice thick. "It's okay, Buck. I get it."

The permission - the acceptance - triggers something deep inside, a dam breaking. More tears fall, accompanied by strange, hiccupping sounds that it realizes are coming from its own throat. Not screams, not the agonized noises it's accustomed to making when pain overwhelms control. Something softer, more vulnerable.

Sobs. It's sobbing.

Steve shifts, careful not to jostle or startle. His hand moves to its shoulder, a gentle, grounding weight.

"I'm here," he says, the simple declaration carrying a world of meaning. "I'm right here, Buck. I'm not going anywhere."

It wants... it wants...

The wanting itself is confusing, frightening. Assets don't want. Tools don't have desires beyond efficient functioning. But the need rises anyway, undeniable, overwhelming.

It wants to be closer to Steve. Wants the security and comfort of contact. Wants to be held, contained, shielded from the fractured chaos of its own mind.

But it doesn't know how to ask. Doesn't have the words, doesn't understand the protocols for such a request. Would Steve even allow it? Would he be disgusted by such weakness, such neediness?

"What is it, sweetheart?" Steve asks, seemingly reading its distress. "What do you need?"

It searches for words, for any way to communicate the overwhelming longing. But language fails, conditioning and confusion tangling its thoughts.

Instead, its body moves on some deeper instinct, some muscle memory from before, before the ice. Its right hand lifts, reaching for Steve with hesitant, trembling fingers.

Steve understands immediately. Without hesitation, he moves closer, gathering it into his arms with infinite gentleness, as if it's something precious rather than a weapon, something to be cherished rather than maintained.

"I've got you," Steve murmurs, one hand cradling the back of its head, the other wrapped securely around its shoulders. "I've got you. I'm never letting go. I'll kill anyone who tries to make me."

The embrace should trigger combat responses. Close proximity to another body has always meant pain, restraint, correction. But this - this feels like the opposite of all those things. This feels like safety, like shelter from a storm that has been raging for as long as it can remember.

This feels like coming home.

It allows itself to sink into the embrace, its functioning arm cautiously lifting to return the hold. Steve is solid and warm, his heartbeat steady against its ear, his breathing deep and even. There is strength in his body, power that could easily be used to hurt, to subdue. But Steve's touch remains gentle, his hold secure without being restrictive.

For the first time since it can remember, it feels... safe. Protected. Not just physically, but in some deeper, more fundamental way that it doesn't have words for.

"Steve," it says again, the only word that seems to matter, the only name it knows with absolute certainty.

"Right here," Steve answers, his voice a rumble felt as much as heard. "I'm sorry I left you. I'm so fucking sorry."

Time passes - it doesn't know how much, doesn't care to track the minutes or hours. It simply exists in the circle of Steve's arms, breathing in his scent, listening to his heartbeat, anchored to the present moment in a way it hasn't been since... since before.

Gradually, the tears stop. The sobs quiet. Its breathing synchronizes with Steve's, slow and steady. But neither of them moves to break the embrace. It should be uncomfortable, this prolonged contact. Should trigger anxiety, the need for strategic positioning, clear sightlines. Instead, it feels only a profound, bone-deep relief, as if a burden it didn't know it carried has been temporarily lifted.

"I missed you so much, Buck," Steve says eventually, his voice soft, private. "From the moment you fell, there wasn't a single second I didn't miss you."

The words stir something - a memory, an emotion, it doesn't know which. It remembers falling. Remembers the icy wind, the look on Steve's face growing smaller, more distant, the knowledge of its own death approaching. Then pain, snow, blood. Hands dragging it through drifts. Russian voices. A saw. Screaming.

"It would've been easier for the both of us if you'd died, sweet one. This... it will hurt. Scream if you need to. I will hold you."

It shudders involuntarily, the memory threatening to pull it back into that place of pain and terror.

"Hey," Steve says immediately, his hand moving in soothing circles on its back. "Stay with me, Buck. Stay here, with me. You're safe now."

It forces itself back to the present, focusing on the solid reality of Steve, on the warmth and security of his arms. Not there. Here. Not then. Now.

"That's it," Steve encourages, feeling the tension gradually leave its body. "You're doing so good, Buck. So good."

The praise washes over it like a physical caress. Good. It's being good. This unfamiliar warmth spreading through its chest, this safety, this comfort - these are rewards for good behavior, for compliance. It understands rewards, understands the relief of having pleased a handler.

Except... Steve isn't a handler? Steve is... Steve is...

The concept doesn't fit any of its established frameworks. Steve is neither target nor handler, neither ally nor mission. Steve is something else entirely, something for which it has no classification, no protocol.

Steve is... everything.

Steve is the reason it held onto fragments of itself through everything they did to it, through the ice, through the endless cycle of pain and erasure. Steve is the one fixed point in a universe of shifting, unreliable memories.

Steve is why it's still here at all, why some spark of Bucky survived beneath layers of conditioning and control.

"Steve," it says a third time, still the only word it can reliably access, but now imbued with new meaning. Not just identification, but recognition. Acknowledgment of what Steve is to it - to him. To Bucky.

"Yeah, Buck," Steve responds, seeming to understand the depth beneath the simple word. "It's me. And it's you. We're both here. We both made it."

The idea is so vast, so improbable that it struggles to comprehend it. They both survived. Both endured the impossible. Both found their way back to each other across time and space and death itself.

A wave of exhaustion sweeps over it suddenly, the emotional intensity of the past minutes catching up to its weakened body. It sags slightly in Steve's arms, eyelids growing heavy.

"Tired?" Steve asks, noticing immediately. "That's okay. You should rest."

But the thought of closing its eyes, of surrendering consciousness, sends a spike of fear through its chest. What if this isn't real? What if it wakes to find Steve gone, to find itself back in the lab, back in the cryochamber? What if this is just another cruel experiment, another test of its compliance?

"I'll be right here," Steve promises, as if reading its thoughts. "I'm not going anywhere, Buck. I'll be right here when you wake up. I swear."

It wants to believe him. Wants so desperately to trust in this, in him. But trust is a concept so foreign to its experience that it doesn't know how to begin.

"Stay," it manages to say, the word rough and unpracticed, but clear. "Please... stay."

"Always," Steve says, the simple word carrying the weight of an oath. "I'm with you till the end of the line, remember?"

Another memory surfaces - Steve, small and heartbroken, and Bucky, wanting so desperately to take care of him. The end of the line. A promise made and kept.

"End... of line," it echoes, the phrase feeling right in its mouth, familiar on its tongue.

Steve's arms tighten around it, a small sound escaping him - half laugh, half sob. "That's right, Buck. Till the end of the line."

The exhaustion is overwhelming now, impossible to fight. Its eyes close despite its efforts to keep them open, its body growing heavier against Steve's. All it ever seems to want to do is sleep. 

"Rest," Steve urges gently. "I've got you. You're safe."

And for the first time since it can remember, it believes those words. Believes in safety, in protection, in the possibility of rest without nightmares, without pain waiting on the other side of consciousness.

Because Steve is here. Steve is alive. Steve is holding it - holding him - as if he's something precious, something worth protecting. And if Steve believes that, then maybe - just maybe - it's true.

Maybe Bucky Barnes still exists beneath Its programming. Maybe he can find his way back, one memory, one moment, one word at a time.

Maybe, with Steve beside him, anything is possible.

As sleep claims it, one last thought forms, clear and certain amid the confusion and fragmentation of its mind:

For Steve, it will try. For Steve, it will fight to remember, to reclaim whatever remains of Bucky. For Steve, it will endure whatever pain, whatever struggle lies ahead.

Steve is worth it. Steve has always been worth it. That, more than anything else, it knows with bone-deep certainty.

That, more than anything else, makes it - makes him - Bucky.

It does not understand the purpose of this mission.

Steve leads it down a corridor it hasn't seen before, his hand gentle but firm around its functioning wrist. Officers step aside as they pass, eyes averted or lingering too long, both reactions making its skin prickle with wariness. There aren't nearly as many people around as it thinks there should be.

"Almost there, Buck," Steve says, his voice pitched low and reassuring. "Just through here."

They stop at a door marked "Officers' Quarters - Washroom." Steve opens it, gesturing for it to enter first. It hesitates, trained instincts screaming caution at unknown spaces, potential ambush points.

"It's okay," Steve says, seeming to understand its reluctance. "Jim's checked it already. It's just us."

It trusts Steve. This is a new certainty, one that exists outside operational parameters and handler instructions. It trusts Steve in a way it has never trusted anyone or anything else.

It steps inside.

The room is bigger than expected, containing a large porcelain tub on raised feet, a sink, and several wooden benches. Steam rises from the tub, clouding the mirror above the sink.

Steve closes the door behind them. "I thought you might like a proper bath," he explains. "The sponge baths can't be very comfortable, and your hair could use a good wash."

It reaches up instinctively to touch its hair, finding it matted and greasy against its fingers. Unacceptable condition. Poor operational hygiene. It should have maintained better standards.

"Don't worry about it," Steve says quickly, misreading its concern. "It's not your fault. You haven't exactly had the chance to take care of yourself."

Care. The concept is foreign, almost nonsensical. It doesn't care for itself. It is maintained by technicians, by handlers. Optimized for function, not comfort.

"The water's hot but not too hot," Steve continues, moving to test it with his hand. "Just how you like it."

It doesn't know how it likes water. It knows only that water means punishment, and that the hose was always cold, cutting into its skin with bruising force during decontamination procedures. It hurt when it was outside it, and it hurt even more when it was inside it.

"Buck?" Steve prompts gently. "You okay with this?"

It should respond. Should acknowledge the query, provide status update. But its voice feels trapped, words inaccessible beneath a sudden wave of apprehension.

"We don't have to do this if you don't want to," Steve assures it, his expression softening. "We can go back."

No. Returning to the room means failure. Means disappointment. Steve wants it to bathe, so it will bathe. It takes a step toward the tub, then another.

"That's it," Steve encourages. "Let me help you with your clothes." Steve approaches slowly, telegraphing each movement with careful precision. "I'm going to unbutton your shirt now, okay?"

It nods, the motion small but definite.

Steve's fingers work methodically down the buttons of the hospital shirt, his touch clinical, impersonal. The fabric parts, exposing its chest and torso to the warm, humid air. Without prompting, it shrugs its right shoulder, allowing the shirt to slide down its arm. The left sleeve requires more assistance, the metal arm still largely non-functional.

"Good," Steve murmurs, helping ease the fabric free. "Now the pants?"

Another nod.

Steve helps it sit on one of the benches, then kneels to remove its pants and undergarments with the same careful efficiency. It does not understand why Steve's hands tremble slightly, why his eyes avoid looking directly at its body.

Shame, perhaps. Disgust at Its scars, its mechanical components, its damaged form.

"Ready for the water?" Steve asks, offering his hand once it is fully unclothed.

It takes Steve's hand, allowing him to guide it to the tub. The steam intensifies as it approaches, curling around its face, warming its skin. It places one foot cautiously in the water, then the other, lowering itself with Steve's support until it is fully seated in the bath.

The sensation is... unexpected. The water envelops it in gentle heat, unlike anything in its remembering. Not the icy shock of the cryotank, not the sterile chill of decontamination procedures. This is warmth that seeps into muscles, that softens the perpetual tension in its body.

"Good?" Steve asks, watching its face closely.

It doesn't have words for this sensation. Doesn't know how to classify the unfamiliar feeling spreading through its limbs, loosening its joints, easing the constant, vigilant readiness that has defined its existence.

Instead, it closes its eyes, allowing itself to simply experience the moment without assessment, without analysis.

"I'll take that as a yes," Steve says, and there's a smile in his voice. "Let's get your hair washed."

Steve moves behind it, his hands gentle as they guide its head back toward the water. "Eyes closed," he instructs softly. "I don't want soap to get in them."

It complies, surrendering to Steve's care with a trust that would have earned severe correction from its handlers. It does not surrender control. It does not submit except to its handler. But with Steve, the surrender feels natural, even necessary.

Water cascades over its scalp, warm rivulets running down its neck and shoulders. Then Steve's fingers are in its hair, working something that smells sharp and clean into the strands. The sensation of those fingers massaging its scalp sends unexpected shivers down its spine.

"Too hard?" Steve asks, noticing the shiver.

It shakes its head slightly, not wanting the feeling to stop. It has been touched in many ways - clinical assessments, medical procedures, corrections, punishments. But this - this gentle, careful touch with no purpose beyond care - this is new. This is...

It doesn't have the word. Doesn't know how to categorize the warm expansion in its chest, the strange prickling behind its eyes.

"You always loved having your hair washed," Steve says conversationally, continuing to work the soap through its tangled strands. "Even when we were kids. You'd practically purr like a cat whenever your ma washed it."

A fragment surfaces - gentle hands, a woman's soft voice humming, the scent of laundry soap and cooking. Gone before it can grasp it fully, but leaving an echo of... something. Something it doesn't have a name for.

"Your hair got so long," Steve continues, his voice pitched low and soothing. "But we can cut it if you want, once it's clean. However you'd like it."

However it would like it. The concept is alien, incomprehensible. It does not have preferences. It does not want. It functions according to parameters set by others.

But Steve keeps offering choices, keeps suggesting that it - that he - might have desires, opinions, preferences of his own.

Bucky. Steve calls it Bucky. Says that's who it is, who it was before, before the ice, before the arm. 

"Lean back a bit more," Steve instructs, guiding its head with gentle pressure. "I'm going to rinse the soap out."

It complies, tilting its head back until it's looking up at Steve's face, inverted from this angle but no less familiar, no less essential. Steve's eyes meet its own, and something in his expression shifts - a softening, a vulnerability that it doesn't understand.

"Buck," he says, voice catching slightly. "I - "

But he doesn't continue, just swallows hard and returns to the task of rinsing its hair, fingers careful to keep soap from its eyes.

Water streams over its scalp, carrying away suds and grime. It keeps its eyes open, watching Steve's face above it. There's a tension in his jaw, a brightness in his eyes that suggests imminent tears.

It doesn't understand why Steve would cry. Crying indicates pain, distress, or tactical manipulation. None of these conditions apply to the current situation. Yet Steve's eyes grow increasingly bright, his throat working convulsively as he continues rinsing its hair.

When its hair is clean, Steve helps it sit upright again. "Let me get a washcloth for your back," he says, rising from where he's been kneeling beside the tub.

But as he stands, a tear escapes, tracking down his cheek before he can wipe it away.

It registers the tear with immediate concern. Steve is in distress. Steve is experiencing pain or emotional compromise. This is unacceptable. Its primary directive, deeper than any HYDRA conditioning, is to protect Steve.

"Steve," it says, the name emerging without conscious decision. "Steve... hurt?"

Steve freezes, surprise visible on his face. "No, Buck. I'm not hurt."

But another tear follows the first, contradicting his words. It reaches out with its functioning hand, capturing the tear on its fingertip with surprising dexterity.

"Crying," it states, showing him the evidence on its finger. The word feels strange in its mouth, rarely accessed but somehow known.

Steve's face crumples slightly, more tears welling. "Yeah," he admits, voice rough. "I guess I am."

It doesn't understand. It searches for a reason, for a threat to neutralize, a problem to solve. Finding none, it resorts to direct query. "Why?"

Steve sinks back to his knees beside the tub, bringing his face level with its own. "Because..." He stops, seeming to struggle for words. "Because I missed you so much, Buck. Because I thought I'd lost you forever. Because seeing you like this... it breaks my heart."

It processes this information with increasing distress. Steve is in emotional pain because of it. Because of what it is, what it became. This is unacceptable. It must correct this situation, must alleviate Steve's suffering.

But it doesn't know how. Doesn't have protocols for this type of directive. In desperation, it reaches out again, touching Steve's wet cheek with hesitant fingers.

"No cry," it says, the words halting, uncertain. 

Steve catches its hand, pressing it more firmly against his cheek. "I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to upset you. It's just... I guess all this reminds me of the times you did this for me, when I was sick. All the ways you took care of me. And now..."

More tears fall, wetting both their hands where they're pressed to his face.

"I should be stronger for you," Steve says, voice breaking. "I should be able to do this without falling apart."

It doesn't like seeing Steve cry. The sight triggers a deep, visceral response, an almost physical pain in its chest. Without conscious thought, it tugs at Steve's hand, pulling him closer to the tub.

"Here," it says, not sure what it's asking for, only knowing that proximity to Steve feels right, feels necessary.

Steve misunderstands, thinking it wants him to continue with the bath. "Let me get that washcloth," he says, moving to stand again.

But it doesn't release his hand. Tugs again, more insistently. "Here," it repeats, with greater urgency. "Steve... here."

Understanding dawns in Steve's eyes. "You want me... with you? In the tub?"

It nods, relieved to be understood despite its limited vocabulary.

"I don't know if that's a good idea," Steve says gently. "And you need to get clean. I'm okay, really. Just got a little emotional for a minute there. You know what I'm like."

But it can see the tears still gathering, can feel the slight tremor in Steve's hand. Steve needs comfort, needs closeness. This, somehow, it knows with absolute certainty.

"Please," it says, the word unfamiliar but effective, judging by the softening in Steve's expression. "Steve... here."

Steve hesitates, then nods. "Okay, Buck. If that's what you want."

He stands, releasing its hand, and begins removing his own clothes with efficient movements. It watches, noting the changes in his body from its fragmented memories - broader shoulders, narrower waist, muscles defined beneath smooth skin. But still Steve, still the one fixed point in its unreliable universe.

When Steve is unclothed, he approaches the tub again. "Scoot forward a bit," he instructs gently. "Let me get in behind you."

It complies, moving awkwardly in the water, its metal arm a deadweight at its side. Steve steps into the tub carefully, settling himself behind it, his long legs extending alongside its own, his chest a warm presence against its back.

"Is this okay?" Steve asks, his breath stirring the hair at the nape of its neck.

It nods, gradually allowing itself to lean back against Steve's solid warmth. The contact should trigger combat protocols, evasion sequences. But instead, it feels a profound relaxation spreading through its body, tension draining from muscles it hadn't realized were taut with constant vigilance.

Steve's arms come around it, careful and hesitant. "This okay too?"

Another nod, more emphatic this time.

For several minutes, they simply sit like that, Steve's chest rising and falling steadily against its back, the water cooling slightly around them. It doesn't understand why this arrangement feels so right, so necessary, but it knows that Steve's tears have stopped, that the tremor in his hands has subsided.

Mission successful. Steve's distress has been alleviated.

"I was thinking," Steve says eventually, his voice a low rumble felt as much as heard, "once you're a bit stronger, maybe we could get out of here. Find a place of our own for a while. Somewhere quiet, away from all this. Like I promised you in Paris."

A place of their own. The concept is both foreign and distantly familiar, like a dream half-remembered upon waking. It doesn't respond, doesn't know how to express the strange longing that rises at the thought.

"Would you like that?" Steve prompts gently. "Just you and me, somewhere with some trees maybe, some open space?"

It tries to imagine such a scenario - freedom from medical facilities, from surveillance, from handlers and technicians. Just Steve. Just itself - just Bucky. The image is both tempting and terrifying.

"Safe?" it asks, the question encompassing more than it has words to express.

Steve's arms tighten slightly around it. "Yes," he says with fierce certainty. "I'd keep you safe, Buck. No one would find us, no one would hurt you. Not ever again."

It considers this promise, weighing it against its understanding of the world, of its place within it. It is not meant for safety, for freedom, for a life beyond conditioning and maintenance. It is a weapon, a tool, existing only to serve its purpose.

But what if it isn't just It anymore? What if it's also Bucky, or some fractured, partial version of him? What if it can be both, or neither, or something entirely new?

"Steve and... Bucky," it says slowly, testing the names, the concept they represent together.

"That's right," Steve confirms, his voice thick with emotion again, but different this time - warmth instead of sorrow. "Steve and Bucky. Just like always."

Always. The word echoes strangely, triggering fragments of memory - a small, stuffy apartment; bloody knuckles and exasperated sighs; shoulders pressed together on a narrow mattress; a campfire somewhere cold, Steve's new, larger body still somehow fitting perfectly against its side.

Always. Steve and Bucky. A constant, a certainty in a world of shifting, unreliable memories.

"Yes," it says finally, the single word carrying the weight of a choice, a desire, a preference of its own. "Steve and... Bucky."

Steve's breath catches audibly, his arms tightening fractionally around it. "Yeah, Buck," he says, voice unsteady with what sounds like joy. 

The water has cooled significantly, but it feels no urgency to move, to end this moment of connection, of peace. Steve seems equally content to remain, his breathing deep and even, his body a solid, reassuring presence.

"Should probably finish getting you cleaned up," Steve says eventually, though he makes no move to disengage. "Water's getting cold."

It nods, but also doesn't move, reluctant to break contact, to return to the state of separation that has defined its existence for as long as it can remember. It doesn't understand why this feels so natural, so necessary, but it knows with bone-deep certainty that this is right, this is where it belongs.

Not as an asset. Not as a weapon or a tool or a thing. But as Bucky, or whatever remains of him. As Steve's... it doesn't have the word. Doesn't know what they were to each other, what they are now.

But for the first time since it can remember, the not-knowing doesn't feel like a failure, like a malfunction. It feels like a possibility, an open door rather than a locked one.

Whatever they were, whatever they are or will be - it knows this much with absolute certainty: Steve is essential. Steve is home. Steve is the reason it survived, the reason some fragment of Bucky persisted beneath layers of conditioning and control.

For now, that knowledge is enough. The rest can wait, can be discovered slowly, one memory, one moment, one word at a time.

With Steve's arms around it, with Steve's heart beating steady against its back, anything seems possible. Even becoming Bucky again, or some new version of him. Even finding its way home.

Even happiness, though it barely remembers what that word means.

Chapter Text

Location: Camp Leigh, New Jersey

Date: October 12th 1949

Dugan snags the half-empty bottle of wine from in front of Dernier and takes a long drag from the neck. “Not half bad,” he grumbles, scowling when Jacques snatches it back and hands it over to Gabe.

The second reunion of the Howling Commandos is as unsettling and surreal as the first. In place of bitterness and guilt, they find themselves circling a stunned, hollow kind of joy.

Cap’s back. He’s alive.

Bucky’s back. Also alive.

Two things they’d all give their left nut for if you asked them a week ago, but that they have no fucking clue how to handle now they’re faced with the reality.

"To miracles," Dugan declares, raising his own bottle before taking a long pull, whiskey burning down his throat like liquid courage. "May we never see another one in our goddamn lives."

The laughter that follows holds equal parts relief and disbelief, echoing off the walls of the quarters they've commandeered for their impromptu reunion. Four years since they last sat like this, drinking and swapping stories in hushed voices. Four years since the Valkyrie went down. Four years of moving forward while looking back.

And now, impossibly, time has folded in on itself.

"You always did have a way with toasts, Dum Dum," Gabe says, snatching the bottle from Dugan's grasp. "Though personally, I could use a few more miracles. The profitable kind, preferably."

"Greedy bastard," Monty chides, but there's no heat in it. His eyes hold the same stunned wonder they've all been wrestling with since word came down. "Though I must admit, I never thought I'd see the day where Captain America himself would rise from the dead."

"Not dead," Morita corrects, methodically cleaning under his fingernails with his pocketknife. "Just... preserved. Like my grandmother's plums."

Dernier lets out an explosive laugh, then launches into rapid-fire French that has Gabe smirking and Monty rolling his eyes.

"In English, you dramatic bastard," Dugan growls, though he's missed the Frenchman's incomprehensible tirades like a phantom limb.

"He says," Gabe translates with theatrical gravity, "that we should be careful not to squeeze our Captain too hard, lest he burst like overripe fruit."

“You know,” Dugan says slowly. “This means I’ve won our bet.”

“Which bet?” Monty asks. They have several. Many of which will never actually come to any kind of conclusion.

“Only one that matters. They kissed. There were witnesses. None of this ‘it doesn’t count’ bullshit you pulled on me back in forty-five. A kiss is a kiss, now get your wallets out, you stingy bastards.”

He waits for the protest. The arguments. And is honestly a little disappointed when they all drop dollar bills in front of him.

“I’d hate to be Cap,” Gabe says, his soft heart bleeding. “Waking up after four years to all…” he waves an absent arm in the air. “This.”

“Fuck that,” Dugan scoffs. “I’d hate to be fucking Karpov. Rogers is gonna rip his goddamn spine out and beat him with it.”

“I don’t envy Peggy having to relay everything he’s missed,” Monty agrees. “It must be very… disconcerting.”

“Crazy,” Dugan corrects. “Batshit crazy. Sorry bastard crashes a plane into the Arctic and wakes up four years later to find we’re about to start a whole new war, this time with our allies, oh, and the evil fuckers we were sent to kill are now on the payroll.”

"The world's gone mad," Monty agrees, reaching for the bottle. "But at least we got them back."

There's a moment of silence as they contemplate the one small mercy in a world increasingly defined by moral compromises and shifting allegiances.

"When do you think Cap’ll figure it out?" Gabe asks quietly. "About Karpov and Zola and…?"

"Two days," Dernier says suddenly in his heavily accented English, holding up two fingers for emphasis. "He is distracted with Bucky. Two days before our Captain discovers this... comment dit-on... betrayal."

"Betrayal's a strong word," Monty says diplomatically. "Paperclip was about national security. About ensuring those scientists worked for us instead of the Soviets. And not a chance. Two hours, maybe."

"Tell that to the Sarge," Dugan mutters darkly. "Tell that to the kid who can't even feed himself anymore because some HYDRA butcher decided it was more efficient to tube-feed their asset."

The mood sours at this, reality intruding on their brief moment of celebration. They've all seen Barnes in various states since his rescue – vacant-eyed, trembling, flinching at shadows. Only Rogers seems able to draw him out of that state, only Rogers can coax something resembling the old Bucky to the surface. Nothing new there, really.

"You think he'll get better?" Gabe asks, the question directed at no one in particular. "Bucky, I mean. You think he'll ever be... himself again?"

"Define 'better,'" Morita challenges. "Define 'himself.' The kind of hell that rewires you from the inside out. There's no going back from that, only forward."

"And with Steve to guide him..." Monty begins.

"Cap can't fix this," Morita interrupts bluntly. "Love's powerful and all, but it can't undo what those bastards did."

"Mon Dieu," Dernier exclaims. "So cheerful tonight!"

"Just being realistic," Morita defends, reaching for the bottle.

"But he still knows Steve, right," Gabe points out. "That's something, isn't it? Something to build on?"

Dugan thinks about the scene he glimpsed earlier – the simple, desperate way Bucky had turned to Steve and the immediate understanding from Steve that something was wrong.

"Yeah," Dugan concedes. "That's something. Maybe even everything."

"They'll figure it out," Monty says, with surprising optimism from a man usually defined by his pragmatism. "They always do."

"And if they don't?" Morita challenges. "If Barnes never fully recovers? If Cap can't accept what's been done to him?"

"Then we'll be there," Dugan says firmly, the decision made almost without conscious thought. "We pick up the pieces. We watch their backs. Just like always."

"Just like always," Gabe echoes, raising his glass. "To Captain America and Sergeant Barnes. May they finally get what they deserve."

"A long, peaceful retirement somewhere far from all this shit?" Morita suggests dryly.

"Exactly," Gabe nods. "Though I can't quite picture it."

"I can," Dugan says quietly, the image surfacing with surprising clarity. "Cap needs the fight, sure. It's in his blood. But Bucky... kid has had enough fighting for ten lifetimes. And Rogers would give it all up for him in a heartbeat."

"You really think so?" Monty asks, skepticism evident. "Captain America, hanging up the shield to play house?"

"For the Sarge?" Dugan fixes him with a steady gaze. "In a goddamn second."

There's a weight to his certainty that silences any further arguments. They all know it's true and have seen the evidence with their own eyes. Rogers' priorities have always been crystal clear, from the moment he stormed a HYDRA base alone on the slim chance Bucky was still alive.

Hell, it’s the underlying, unaddressed truth at the heart of his absence these past four years.

There is no world for Steve Rogers if Bucky Barnes isn’t in it.

"So… what do we do now?" Gabe asks, bringing them back to the practical. "Just... wait for Steve to figure things out? For Bucky to start remembering more?"

"We keep them safe," Dugan says simply. "From HYDRA. From the brass who might want to use them. You know the government’s gonna shit a brick if they think they can throw Captain America at their problems. We make sure that doesn’t happen. We protect them."

"Grom themselves," Morita adds softly. "If necessary."

The implication hangs heavy in the air. They all know Rogers' tendency toward self-sacrifice and his willingness to throw himself on the grenade. And none of them has any doubt that if Steve believed it would help Bucky heal, he'd walk into fire without hesitation.

"I miss the war," Dugan says suddenly, surprising even himself with the admission. "Not the dying or the blood or any of that shit. But the simplicity of it. Us against them. Good versus evil. Now it's all..." He waves a hand, struggling for words. "Gray. Messy. Can't tell the good guys from the bad half the time."

"The line was never as clear as we pretended," Monty says quietly. "But I know what you mean. At least now we have our Captain back. Our true north."

"To true north," Gabe proposes, raising his glass again. "May it guide us through whatever comes next."

"To Steve Rogers," Dugan adds, lifting his bottle. "The only man I'd follow into hell without asking why."

"To Bucky Barnes," Morita contributes. "The toughest son of a bitch any of us will ever know."

"To the Howling Commandos," Monty concludes. "Reformed and ready for whatever hellish mission awaits."

They drink to that, a sense of purpose crystallizing among them. Whatever comes next – Rogers discovering the truth about Operation Paperclip, Barnes recovering more of his memories, HYDRA inevitably trying to fuck them over once more – they'll face it together. As a unit. As a family.

Some bonds transcend time, transcend death itself. The bond between Rogers and Barnes. The bond between a captain and his men. The bond forged in fire and blood and shared sacrifice.

"Back in the day," Dugan says, memories loosened by alcohol and camaraderie, "I used to watch them, you know? Rogers and Barnes. The way they moved around each other, like they were tethered by some invisible string. Always knowing where the other was, what the other needed. Never seen anything like it, before or since."

"They still have it," Morita observes. "Whatever HYDRA did to Barnes, they couldn't touch that."

"That's what's gonna save him," Gabe says with quiet conviction. "That connection. That... foundation. Whatever else they took, they couldn't take that."

"And Rogers?" Monty asks. "Who saves him when he learns what they did to the man he loves? When he realizes HYDRA's still out there, that some of them are working for us now?"

Dugan looks around at his comrades, at the men who've become his brothers through shared hardship and mutual trust. "We do," he says simply. "Same as always."

Beyond the window, dawn is breaking, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. A new day, in a world fundamentally altered by the resurrection of a man none of them ever expected to see again.

Captain America lives. Bucky Barnes survives. And the Howling Commandos stand ready, as they always have, to follow their captain into whatever battle comes next.

Location: Camp Leigh, New Jersey

Date: October 12th 1949

Steve wakes with a jolt, disoriented in the dim light of pre-dawn. For a moment, he can't place where he is - not the ice, not Brooklyn, not a field tent in war-torn Europe. Then his eyes find Bucky in the bed beside him, and reality rushes back like a physical blow.

Camp Leigh. 1949. Four years gone in the blink of an eye.

Bucky sleeps fitfully, his right arm curled protectively against his chest, his left - the metal one - lying inert and alien at his side. Even in sleep, his face isn't peaceful; a furrow remains between his brows, his lips occasionally moving in silent distress.

Steve watches him, cataloging the changes that go beyond the obvious metal arm, beyond the too-long hair and strange, ill-fitting frame shape of him. There's something fundamentally altered in Bucky's very bearing, in the way he holds himself even in unconsciousness - a wariness, a vigilance that never fully dissipates.

He remembers Bucky after Azzano, pretending to be fine while something haunted lingered behind his eyes. Steve hadn't pushed, respecting Bucky's need to process whatever horrors he'd endured at Zola's hands in his own way, at his own pace.

What a fool he'd been. What a blind, selfish fool. Bavaria taught him that.

And this? This isn't just trauma, isn't just the psychological aftermath of torture or captivity. This is something else entirely - something deeper, more fundamental. They've hollowed Bucky out and rebuilt him from the inside, piece by broken piece.

The realization comes in waves, each one hitting Steve with cruel accuracy. Yesterday in the washroom, helping Bucky bathe, he'd seen it in the mechanical way Bucky moved, in the vacant stare that would suddenly sharpen with terror at some invisible trigger. In the way Bucky had reached for him with desperate need but couldn't find the words to express it.

In the way he says "Steve" like it is the only word he remembers how to form.

Steve slips quietly from the bed, moving to the window. The sky is just beginning to lighten, the compound still mostly silent. His reflection stares back at him, unchanged despite the years that have passed. The same face, the same body, while the world moved on without him.

While Bucky suffered without him.

Steve presses his forehead to the cool glass, trying to steady his breathing against the rising tide of grief and guilt threatening to overwhelm him.

He gave up. That's the truth of it, stark and undeniable. When the Valkyrie went down, when the ice closed over him, he'd surrendered to it. Had welcomed the cold, the darkness, the end. Had thought, in those final moments, that at least he'd see Bucky again, in whatever came after.

But Bucky wasn't dead. Bucky was alive, suffering unimaginable horrors while Steve slept dreamlessly in the ice. While Steve took the easy way out.

"I should have looked for you," he whispers, the words fogging the glass. "I should have jumped after you. I should have done something, anything..."

A soft sound from the bed interrupts his spiral of self-recrimination. Steve turns to find Bucky watching him, eyes reflecting the dim light like a wounded animal's.

"Steve," Bucky says, the word barely audible.

Steve crosses the room in three quick strides, sinking down beside the bed. "I'm here, Buck," he says softly. "Just couldn't sleep. Didn't mean to wake you."

Bucky's right hand moves toward him, hesitant, uncertain. Steve takes it immediately, wrapping both of his own around it. Bucky's skin is cool to the touch, his pulse rabbit-quick beneath Steve's fingers.

"Bad... dream?" Bucky asks, the words halting, as if each one requires immense effort to produce. He can talk, it’s not that he’s forgotten how. Maybe that’s worse. It means someone has done something to him so barbaric, so utterly horrific, that he thinks it is safer to keep his words to himself.

The question catches Steve off guard - partly because it's the first time Bucky has formed a complete question since he woke, and partly because of the concern evident in those two simple words. Even now, even after everything he's been through, his first instinct is still to check on Steve, to make sure he's okay.

It makes Steve's chest ache, a complicated mixture of love and guilt that threatens to eat him alive.

"Just thinking," Steve says, trying to keep his voice steady. "That's all."

Bucky's eyes search his face, surprisingly lucid in the pre-dawn light. "Sad," he observes. Not a question this time.

Steve can't deny it, doesn't try to. "Yeah, Buck. I'm sad. I'm sad about what happened to you. About not being there when you needed me."

Bucky's brow furrows, confusion evident. "You... fell," he says slowly. "Like me."

"That's right," Steve confirms, surprised at Bucky's comprehension. "I crashed the Valkyrie into the ice. But Buck, that was after... after I thought you were dead. After I saw you fall from the train."

Understanding dawns in Bucky's eyes, followed by something that looks terrifyingly like acceptance. Like he doesn't blame Steve for giving up, for failing him.

"I should have looked for you," Steve continues, unable to stop the words now that they've started. "I should have gone back, searched the ravine. I should have found you before they did."

Bucky shakes his head slightly, the movement small but definite. "No," he says with unexpected firmness. "No, Steve."

"Buck - "

"No," Bucky repeats, his grip tightening on Steve's hand. "Not... your fault."

The words are simple, the delivery halting, but the meaning is crystal clear. Bucky doesn't blame him. Despite everything - the fall, the capture, the years of horror - Bucky doesn't hold Steve responsible.

But that doesn't absolve Steve in his own eyes. Doesn't erase the fact that while he slept in the ice, Bucky endured hell on earth.

"What did they do to you, Buck?" he asks softly, unable to stop himself. "What did they do that's made it so hard for you to talk? To be..."

To be yourself, he doesn't say. To be the Bucky I remember.

Bucky's eyes cloud, fear flickering across his features. His breathing quickens, his hand going rigid in Steve's grasp.

"It's okay," Steve says quickly, cursing himself for pushing too hard, too fast. "You don't have to talk about it. Not until you're ready. Sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean to push."

But Bucky seems determined now, fighting through whatever blocks his speech. "Hurt," he manages, the word sounding torn from him. "Here. Cold." He taps his forehead. "They...unmade me," Bucky continues, each word a visible struggle. "Made me...forget."

"But you didn't forget everything," Steve says, fighting to keep his voice steady despite the rage building inside him. "You remembered me. You asked for me, even before you knew I was alive."

Something shifts in Bucky's expression - a softening, a glimpse of the man beneath the trauma and conditioning. "Always...remember Steve," he says, with a certainty that pierces straight through Steve's heart.

The simple statement contains multitudes - the depth of their connection, the resilience of Bucky's spirit, the one thread of identity they couldn't strip from him no matter how hard they tried.

"I'm so sorry, Buck," Steve says, the words wholly inadequate but all he has to offer. "I'm so damn sorry they hurt you. That I wasn't there to stop it."

Bucky's expression shifts again, a flicker of the old protectiveness surfacing. "No," he says firmly. "Not your...fault. You...here now."

The absolution is freely given, but Steve can't accept it. Not yet. Not while Bucky struggles to string three words together, not while nightmares haunt his sleep and panic overtakes him at the slightest trigger.

Not while the people responsible still draw breath.

"I'm going to make this right," Steve promises, the words emerging with the weight of an oath. "I'm going to help you get better, and I'm going to make sure the people who did this to you pay for it. Every last one of them."

Bucky watches him with those too-perceptive eyes, something like concern flickering across his features. "Steve," he says, just his name, but somehow laden with warning.

"Don't worry," Steve assures him, trying to smile. "I'm not going to do anything rash. You need me here, and that's where I'll stay."

For now, he doesn't add. Until Bucky's stronger. Until Bucky doesn't need him quite so desperately. Then there will be a reckoning.

Bucky seems to read the unspoken thought in his face. His hand tightens around Steve's, surprisingly strong. "Stay," he says, the word both plea and command. "Promise."

"I promise," Steve says immediately. "I'm not going anywhere, Buck. Not without you. Never again."

This, at least, is a promise he can keep without reservation. Whatever comes next - Bucky's long road to recovery, the inevitable confrontation with those responsible, the uncertain future stretching before them - they'll face it together.

Because the alternative is unthinkable. Because Steve has already lost Bucky once through his own failure to search, to find, to protect. He won't make the same mistake twice.

Dawn breaks fully outside the window, painting the room in soft golden light. It catches on Bucky's metal arm, reflecting in cold gleams that remind Steve of all that's been taken, all that's been irrevocably changed.

But it also illuminates Bucky's face, his eyes - still the same storm-gray they've always been, still holding the essence of the man Steve has loved his entire life. Different now, altered by trauma and time, but fundamentally, miraculously still Bucky.

Bucky, who looks at him in wonder, his eyes dropping to Steve’s mouth. He reaches up with hesitant fingers, touches his own lips, then touches Steve’s. “Nice,” he says thoughtfully.

The kiss, he means. Steve blushes furiously, horrified at his own hastiness and how close he might have come to frightening Bucky the same moment he woke up.

“Nice?” Steve echoes. “When we…” christ, Rogers, if you can’t even say it… “Kissed?”

“Kissed,” Bucky repeats, looking thoughtful.

Steve wonders if he has any memory of being kissed before and hates himself more than a little for the conflicting burst of emotions that follow.

Relief that Bucky doesn't seem upset by what happened. Guilt that his first instinct upon waking had been to grab Bucky and kiss him without any thought to his state of mind. And beneath it all, a selfish, terrible hope that maybe, just maybe, this is something new between them - that the horror Bucky endured might have at least wiped away the barriers that had kept them apart before.

"I shouldn't have done that," Steve says softly. "When I first woke up. I wasn't thinking clearly."

Bucky's brow furrows slightly. "Why... not?"

The simple question catches Steve off guard. "Well, I... I didn't ask you if it was okay. I just... acted on impulse."

It’s a strange statement to make, having to put the concept into words in a way they would never have needed to before. They’ve never asked permission to do anything, knowing each other blood and bone and moving forward with the confidence of certainty because of it.

And, somehow, both of them missing the one thing that makes them who they are.

Bucky considers this, his eyes never leaving Steve's face. "Nice," he says finally, the word deliberate, carefully chosen.

Something shifts in Steve's chest, a cautious warmth spreading through him despite the circumstances. "Yeah?"

Bucky nods, then with visible concentration adds, "Before?”

The question hangs incomplete between them, but Steve understands. "No," he admits, his throat suddenly tight. "No, Buck. We never did. Not before."

"Why?" Bucky asks, genuine confusion in his expression.

The question is so innocent, so stripped of the societal context that would have made it unthinkable before, that Steve can't help a sad smile. "It wasn't... it wasn't done, Buck. Two fellas together. It was illegal. Dangerous."

And Karpov…

Bucky processes this, his brow furrowed in concentration. After a moment, he points to himself, then to Steve. "Wanted?"

The directness of the question makes Steve's heart stutter in his chest. All those years of careful distance, of longing hidden behind the mask of friendship, of telling himself that what they had was enough - and now Bucky just cuts straight to the heart of it with a simple word.

"Yeah, Buck," he admits, voice rough with emotion. "I wanted to. For a long time."

Something like satisfaction flickers across Bucky's face. "Me too," he says, with unexpected certainty.

"Buck," Steve says, not sure what else to say, overwhelmed by the revelation.

Bucky's right hand lifts to Steve's face, fingers tracing the line of his jaw with hesitant reverence. "Now?"

The question is so hopeful, so vulnerably direct, that Steve feels his eyes burn with unshed tears. Even now, even after everything he's been through, Bucky's focusing on this one good thing - this possibility that hadn't existed for them before.

"Yeah," Steve says, his voice breaking slightly. "Yeah, Buck. If you want to. When you're ready."

Bucky nods, accepting this condition. His hand moves from Steve's jaw to the back of his neck, pulling him gently forward. The kiss that follows is nothing like their first - no desperation, no shock, just a careful exploration, tentative and sweet.

They shouldn’t… not when Bucky is so vulnerable, but the idea of denying him anything right now is more than he can stand.

When they part, Bucky's eyes are clearer than Steve has seen them since waking, a flash of the old Bucky shining through. "Worth... waiting for," he says, the ghost of his former smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

The glimpse of Bucky - his Bucky - beneath the trauma and conditioning makes Steve's chest ache with equal parts joy and sorrow. He's still in there. Changed, damaged, but still fundamentally Bucky.

"We've got time now," Steve assures him, trying to keep his voice steady despite the emotion threatening to overwhelm him. "All the time we need."

It - no, he. He is Bucky. Steve calls him Bucky, so that must be who he is.

Bucky follows silently, bare feet making no sound on the polished floor. The doctors would be displeased if they knew he had left his room without permission, without supervision. But Bucky needs to stay close to Steve. This imperative overrides all others, deeper than any conditioning, more fundamental than even his fear of punishment.

Steve's steps are purposeful, determined. Angry. Bucky recognizes the tension in his shoulders, the set of his jaw. Steve is on a mission, and Bucky knows, somehow, that it concerns him.

He should announce his presence. Should let Steve know he's following. But something - instinct, training, self-preservation - keeps him in the shadows, several paces behind. Close enough to hear, far enough to remain undetected. Steve thinks he is sleeping. That he has permission.

Steve stops at a door marked "Director Carter." Knocks firmly. Waits, shoulders stiff with barely contained emotion.

The door opens, revealing Peggy - Director Carter, Bucky reminds himself. Handler? No, not handler. Ally. Friend of Steve's. Friend of... his? She’s gentle with him. She’s not hurt him.

‘Honestly, Barnes, you fuss more than I do!’

‘Someone’s gotta. Crazy dame, you really gonna make me tell Steve you bleed to death in some shitty German alley?’

"Steve," she says, surprise evident in her voice. "I wasn't expecting you. Silly of me, really. Is everything alright with - "

"I need answers, Peg," Steve interrupts, voice low but intense. "Real answers. About Bucky. About what happened to him."

Peggy's expression shifts, concern replacing surprise. "Come in," she says after a moment, stepping back to allow Steve entry. “Are you sure you’re ready to hear this?”

Bucky moves closer as the door begins to close, positioning himself in the blind spot just outside. The door doesn't latch completely - Steve's agitation making him careless - and Bucky can hear their voices clearly through the narrow gap.

"I know you're trying to protect me," Steve is saying, "and I appreciate it. But I need to know what they did to him. All of it."

"I understand," Peggy's voice is gentle but firm. "Some of it is... difficult to hear. Hell, all of it. I can’t… there are no words for the worst of it.” Peggy continues. "What was done to him... it was systematic, thorough. The kind of torture that reshapes the very foundation of a person."

"I know that," Steve says, frustration evident. "I can see it. What I don't know is the details. Who did this to him? How? And why are they not all dead already?"

“Zola is,” she assures him.

“Zola?” Steve explodes. “What the fuck is Zola doing here?”

Peggy winces at the volume but doesn't back down. "Operation Paperclip. The government decided his scientific knowledge was too valuable to lose. They offered him immunity in exchange for his research."

"His research?" Steve's voice is dangerously quiet now. "You mean his experiments? The same ones he used on Bucky at Azzano? The same ones that - " His voice breaks, and he takes a moment to compose himself. "Tell me you fought this."

"With everything I had," Peggy says, and there's genuine regret in her tone. "I was overruled. They said it was a matter of national security."

“That’s bullshit.”

“Quite. I own my responsibility in what happened,” Carter continues, her tone deadly serious. “Howard and I were given a directive, Zola was an asset and we thought we were in control. We were mistaken. He’s dead. Bucky saw to that himself when Dugan discovered him being kept in a facility hidden in Zola’s lab.”

“Good,” Steve snaps. “Fucking Christ, Peg… I can’t… he was HYDRA. He was a fucking Nazi. What the hell were any of us fighting for?”

“I am sorry. More sorry than you can possibly know.”

“Yeah? Tell that to Bucky.”

She takes a short, sharp breath. “There’s also the matter of Karpov.”

Bucky can hear Steve’s confusion. “What’s that bastard got to do with anything?”

“He… well, he’s the one who found Bucky after he fell. He is the one who… who…”

Steve paces the small office, his hands clenched into fists. "And Karpov? Is he part of your precious Operation Paperclip too?"

Outside the door, Bucky freezes at the name. Karpov. The name hits him like a physical blow, something cold and heavy settling in his gut.

"Soldat."

A hand on his face, almost gentle.

"You belong to me now."

"No," Peggy says firmly. "We have Karpov in custody."

Steve stops pacing. "Where?"

"Steve - "

"Where is he, Peggy?"

"That's not important right now," she says, her voice taking on a steely edge. "He was the primary... handler," Peggy confirms, choosing her words carefully. "The one who oversaw the..." she hesitates, "reconditioning process."

"You mean torture," Steve corrects, his voice hard. "Don't clean it up, Peg. Not for me. That piece of shit tortured him."

Outside the door, Bucky's breathing quickens, fragments of memory surfacing unbidden.

Hands adjusting straps around his arms, his legs, his chest.

"This will hurt. But it is necessary."

A mouth pressed against his ear as pain courses through his skull.

“Be brave, now.”

“You know what he did. In London. You know what he did.”

“Steve…”

London. Bucky tries to think. London…. London.

There’s an arm around him, warm breath against his neck, desire and pleasure and…

“You know what he’s capable of,” Steve chokes in fury. “And you’re telling me he’s the one to reduce Bucky to… to…” there’s a muffled sound from inside the room that Bucky doesn’t understand.

"He's in our custody," Peggy confirms again. "Under heavy guard. He's been... cooperative. To an extent.”

"He - " Steve's voice breaks, and when he continues, there's murder in every syllable. "I should have fucking killed him when I had the chance."

In the hallway, Bucky slides down the wall until he's sitting on the floor, his mind fragmenting with unbidden memories.

He presses his metal fist against his mouth to stifle the sound threatening to escape. The memories feel wrong - distorted, corrupted. There had been moments of... not kindness, exactly, but absence of pain. Moments when Karpov's touch hadn't hurt, when his words hadn't cut.

"I want to see him," Steve says suddenly. "Karpov. I want to look him in the eye."

"Steve, I don't think - "

"I need to understand, Peg. I need to know what Bucky went through."

"And what will you do when you're face to face with the man who hurt him? Who... violated him in every possible way?"

Steve's silence is answer enough.

"That's what I thought," Peggy sighs. "I can't allow that. Not yet."

"Allow?" Steve's voice has a dangerous edge. "You don't 'allow' me anything. Not when it comes to Bucky."

"Steve," Peggy's voice softens. "Listen to yourself. This rage... this isn't going to help Barnes. He needs stability now, not vengeance."

"What he needs," Steve says, voice breaking, "is for me to have been there. To have protected him."

"You couldn't have known," Peggy says gently. "None of us could have. You need time to process-"

"Process what?" Steve's voice rises again. "That the man I - " He stops, takes a breath. "That my best friend was tortured, brainwashed, and... and… for years while I was sleeping? While you were all making deals with the people who did this to him?"

"That's not fair," Peggy begins.

"None of this is fair," Steve cuts her off. "None of this is right. And Karpov is still breathing while Bucky can't even - " His voice breaks completely.

Outside, Bucky struggles to his feet, his head swimming with fragmented memories and emotions he can't name. He needs to get away, needs to process what he's heard. Needs to understand why Karpov's name makes him feel terror and shame and something else, something he doesn't want to identify.

He moves silently back down the hallway, disappearing around the corner just as the office door opens fully.

"Just think about what I've said," Peggy's voice follows him. "Barnes needs you whole and present, not consumed by vengeance."

"What he needs," Steve responds quietly, "is to be free. From all of it. From everything they did to him."

"Yes," Peggy agrees. "And that freedom starts with his ability to choose for himself. Even the hard things. Even the painful ones."

Bucky slips back into his room, his heart racing, his mind a storm of half-formed memories and realizations. He lies down on the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the chaos in his head.

Karpov. Handler. Captor.

Lover?

No. That can't be right. But the memories are there, tangled and confusing. Gentle touches amid terrible pain. Kind words following brutal punishments. The sickening dichotomy of it makes his stomach churn.

And Steve... Steve is angry. Vengeful. Ready to kill for him.

"I'm with you till the end of the line."

The memory surfaces with unexpected clarity. Steve's voice, younger, smaller. A promise made long ago, before the ice, before the chair, before Karpov.

Bucky clutches that memory like a lifeline, letting it anchor him amid the storm of confusion and pain. Whatever Karpov was to him - handler, captor, abuser - it wasn't real. It wasn't choice. Was it?

Steve is real. Steve is choice. Steve is the only certainty in a world of shifting shadows and fractured memories.

Bucky closes his eyes, forcing his breathing to steady, his body to relax into the appearance of sleep. When Steve returns, he will pretend he hasn't heard, hasn't remembered. Not yet. Not until he understands more, remembers more.

Not until he can be sure which memories are real and which were planted by Karpov's soft words and cruel hands.

Outside, footsteps approach. Steve, returning as promised. Bucky keeps his eyes closed, his breathing even, but reaches out with his right hand as the door opens, an unconscious seeking of comfort.

"I'm here, Buck," Steve's voice is gentle again, all traces of anger carefully hidden. "I'm right here. Just stepped out for a minute."

Bucky lets himself be gathered close, lets Steve's solid warmth chase away the cold memories trying to consume him. This is real, he tells himself. This is true. Whatever came before, whatever was done to him, this is where he belongs now.

With Steve. By choice, not command.

Chapter Text

Location: Camp Leigh, New Jersey

Date: October 12th 1949

Steve sits beside Bucky's bed, watching him drift in and out of a restless sleep. He sleeps a little and often, comfortable and relaxed when he’s with Steve and safe enough to close his eyes.

Steve, who has been sleeping for the past four fucking years… he’s not sure he’s ever going to sleep through the night ever again.

A knock at the door draws his attention. He rises quietly and opens it to find Morita standing there with a tray.

"Morning, Cap," Morita says, voice low. "Time for Bucky’s nutrition."

Steve frowns, glancing at the tray. "They brought us breakfast an hour ago. He wouldn't touch it."

"Yeah," Morita says, stepping into the room. "That's why I'm here."

Steve watches as Morita sets the tray down, revealing medical equipment he hadn't noticed at first glance—tubes, IV bags, sterile packaging.

"What's all this?" Steve asks, a knot forming in his stomach.

Morita gives him a surprised look. "Feeding time. You haven't seen this yet?"

Steve shakes his head slowly. "I've been trying to get him to eat when I do but he’s skittish about it. The doctors said—"

"The doctors say a lot of things," Morita interrupts, his voice softening. "But this is how it's been since we got him back. He doesn't eat, Cap. Not voluntarily, anyway."

On the bed, Bucky's eyes flutter open, immediately locking onto the medical tray. His body goes rigid, a barely perceptible tremor running through him.

"Hey, Sarge," Morita says gently. "Just the usual. Won't take long."

Steve watches in growing horror as Morita methodically unwraps a nasogastric tube and begins preparing an IV line.

"What the hell is this?" Steve demands, his voice sharper than intended. He understands, logically, what it is that he’s looking at, but there is a gaping void between that and Bucky.

Morita doesn't look up from his work. "How do you think he's been keeping alive? He's been tube-fed for years, Cap. HYDRA didn't exactly care about the dignified approach. Sorry, Sarge."

"Years?" Steve echoes, struggling to process the implication. He looks at Bucky, who won’t meet his gaze, and then over to Morita, who is clearly fucking mistaken. "But why would they—"

"Control," Morita says, shrugging in a way that says he’s trying really hard not to be as pissed about it as Steve is. Always pratical, their Jim. Even when… especially when… the situation was about as shitty as it could get. "Total dependency. It's efficient—no need to waste time on meals, no risk of him refusing food as resistance. Just pump in the nutrients."

The clinical description hits Steve like a physical blow. "Jesus Christ."

"We've been trying to transition you back to normal food, haven’t we Sarge?" Morita continues, preparing the IV line. "But it's slow going. His system is used to this, and psychologically..." He trails off, glancing at Bucky, who's now watching them with wide, terrified eyes.

"No," Bucky says, the word barely audible. His flesh hand clutches at the sheets. “Go.”

Steve moves to Bucky's side immediately. "It's okay, Buck. It's just to help you—"

"He knows," Morita interrupts gently. "Pretty sure the aversion is part psychological, part physical. His digestive system was essentially bypassed for long periods. It's going to take time to readjust, if it ever does. We’re working on it, aren’t we?"

Bucky says nothing.

Steve feels sick. Another violation, another way they stripped Bucky of his humanity, reduced him to a machine to be maintained rather than a person to be cared for.

He’s going to throw up.

"Buck," Steve says, taking his hand carefully. "I'm right here. I won't leave."

Bucky's eyes find his, desperate and pleading. "No," he repeats, more forcefully now. "Go."

"I'm sorry, Bucky," Morita says, approaching the bed. "We need to keep your strength up."

Steve watches as Morita expertly inserts the IV line into Bucky's arm. Bucky doesn't resist, but his breathing becomes more rapid, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, dissociating from what's happening to his body.

"Now for the feeding tube," Morita says, picking up the nasogastric tube. "Cap, you might want to hold his hand. This part's... unpleasant."

Steve feels a surge of anger, of helplessness. "Stop," he says suddenly.

Morita pauses. "What?"

"I said stop. There has to be another way."

"There isn't," Morita says with surprising gentleness. "We've tried, Cap. This is the only way we can get enough nutrition into him to keep him alive."

"Then set up another one," Steve says, the words coming out before he can think them through.

Morita stares at him. "What are you talking about?"

"Another tube. Another IV. For me," Steve says, his voice hardening. "If this is how Bucky has to eat, then that's how I'll eat too."

A look of alarm crosses Morita's face. "Cap, that's not—"

"I'm serious," Steve interrupts. "Either you set up a second line, or neither of us gets one."

"Steve, you can't—"

"We're the same," Steve insists, his voice rising with emotion. "We've always been the same. And I'm not letting him go through this alone. So either you hook me up too, or we find another way to feed him."

He and Bucky are two parts of a whole and always have been. That they both have the serum is just one final part of a complex system of dependencies. There’s no world in which Steve is capable of just sitting here and letting him go through this alone.

Bucky makes a soft sound of distress. "No," he gasps, the word sharp with panic. "No. Steve. No."

Morita looks between them, clearly at a loss. "This isn't a game, Cap. He literally cannot process enough nutrition without this. And there's absolutely no medical reason to subject yourself to—"

"I don't care," Steve cuts him off. "If this is what he has to endure, I'll endure it with him. That's final."

"Steve," Bucky's voice is strangled, his breathing rapid and shallow. "No. Don't... hurt... Steve."

Steve turns to him, heart breaking at the distress on Bucky's face. "Hey, it's okay. I just want to—"

But Bucky spirals into panic, his body rigid, eyes wide and unfocused. He's gasping for air now, metal arm whirring as it clenches and unclenches.

"Shit," Morita mutters, immediately setting down the feeding tube and reaching for something else in his bag. "Talk to him, keep him calm."

Steve grabs Bucky's hand, his own panic rising at the sight of Bucky's distress. "Bucky, breathe. I'm here. I'm right here. You're safe."

"No hurt Steve," Bucky repeats between gasps, his eyes wild. "No hurt... please... no hurt..."

With dawning horror, Steve realizes Bucky isn't afraid for himself—he's afraid for Steve. The thought of Steve being subjected to the same treatment is triggering a full-blown panic attack.

"Okay, Buck, okay," Steve says quickly. "No tubes for me. I promise. I was wrong. I'm sorry."

Morita prepares a syringe, his movements swift and practiced. "Hold him steady, Cap. This will help calm him down."

"What is it?" Steve asks, maintaining his grip on Bucky's trembling hand.

"Mild sedative," Morita answers, finding a vein in Bucky's flesh arm and administering the injection with gentle efficiency. "Just enough to take the edge off. We try not to use it, but..."

Bucky's eyes find Steve's, full of terror and confusion and something worse—resignation. As if he expects Steve to leave now, to abandon him in disgust at the reality of what he's become.

"I’ve got you," Steve says fiercely, gripping his hand tighter. "I'm right here. I'm staying right here."

The sedative works quickly, Bucky's breathing gradually slowing, his rigid muscles relaxing by degrees. His eyelids grow heavy, but he fights to keep them open, to keep Steve in his sight.

"That's it," Morita says softly. "Just breathe. Nice and easy."

As Bucky calms, Morita gives Steve a pointed look. "I need to get the feeding tube in, Cap. It's not negotiable."

Steve nods, defeat burning in his throat. "I know. Just... be gentle."

"Always am," Morita assures him. He turns to Bucky, whose eyes are now half-lidded but still aware. "Ready, Sarge? You know the drill."

Bucky gives a small, resigned nod, then turns his face toward Steve, as if seeking strength or comfort or both.

"I'm right here, Buck," Steve repeats, brushing damp hair from Bucky's forehead. "I've got you."

Steve watches, heart in his throat, as Morita carefully inserts the nasogastric tube. Bucky doesn't resist, but tears leak silently from the corners of his eyes, tracking down his temples into his hair. Steve wipes them away with his thumb, murmuring reassurances that feel hollow in the face of such profound violation.

When it's done, Morita hooks up the feeding solution, adjusts the IV drip, and begins packing up his equipment.

"It'll run for about an hour," he explains to Steve. "Then I'll be back to remove it. We don’t leave it in for longer than it needs to be."

Steve nods numbly, still holding Bucky's hand.

"And Cap?" Morita adds, pausing at the door. "I get what you were trying to do. But he doesn't need you suffering alongside him. He needs you strong. For both of you."

After Morita leaves, Steve sits in silence, watching the liquid nutrients flow through the clear tube into Bucky's body. Bucky's eyes have closed, not in sleep but in a deliberate shutting out of reality.

"I'm sorry, Buck," Steve whispers, thumb stroking the back of Bucky's hand. "I didn't understand. But I do now. And I'm going to find a way to fix this. I swear to you."

Bucky doesn't respond, but his fingers tighten slightly around Steve's, the barest acknowledgment of his presence.

It's enough, for now. It has to be.

Steve settles in to wait, to be the witness Bucky needs, the anchor in a storm of indignities that never seems to end. And beneath his grief, beneath his horror, a cold fury begins to build. A promise to himself, to Bucky.

Those responsible will pay. Every last one of them. Starting with Karpov.

But that's for later. Right now, Bucky needs him here, present and whole. So Steve pushes the rage down, focuses on the warm hand in his, and waits for the hour to pass.

Steve waits until Morita returns to remove the feeding tube. He stays at Bucky's side through the whole process, their hands curled together, offering what little comfort he can while trying to mask his own horror and rage.

When it's finally over, Bucky turns his face toward the wall, eyes vacant, retreating to whatever inner sanctuary he's managed to create for himself. It's a place Steve can't follow, can't even comprehend.

"Try to rest," Steve says softly, brushing a strand of hair from Bucky's forehead. "I'll be back soon."

Bucky doesn't respond, doesn't acknowledge him at all. Steve isn't even sure Bucky hears him anymore, lost as he seems in the aftermath.

In the corridor, Steve leans against the wall, fighting the nausea rising in his throat. The image of the tube snaking into Bucky's nose, the silent tears tracking down his temples, the utter resignation in his eyes—it's all burned into Steve's mind now, another horror to add to the growing catalog of what's been done to the man he loves.

"He'll sleep for a while," Morita says, appearing beside him with the empty tray. "The whole thing takes a lot out of him."

Steve nods, not trusting himself to speak.

"Look, Cap," Morita continues, his voice low and serious. "I know that was rough to see. But he's actually doing better than when we first got him back."

Steve closes his eyes, trying not to picture it. "How long?" he asks. "How long has he been like this?"

Morita hesitates. "From what we can piece together from the files we recovered? Years. The tube feeding was standard procedure."

Steve's hands curl into fists at his sides. "And it was Karpov? Karpov who ordered this?"

"Yeah," Morita confirms. "Not entirely sure how it all started after they found the Sarge, but whatever it became… Karpov took sole control of the program."

Steve straightens, a cold resolve settling over him. "Where is he?"

"Cap—"

"Where is he being held, Jim?"

Morita studies him, concern evident in his expression. "You really want to know?"

"I'm not going to kill him," Steve says, the words coming out clipped and precise. "I just need to see him. To understand."

"There's nothing to understand," Morita says bluntly. "The guy's a sadistic butcher who spent years torturing Barnes. End of story."

"It's not that simple," Steve says, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "We saw him in London. The way he was with Bucky. I thought… I thought I was just jealous but…”

Understanding dawns in Morita's eyes. "Ah. That. We all hated the bastard if that helps?"

"Yeah. Not as much as it should." Steve's jaw tightens. "I need to know why. If it was all a lie and I pushed Bucky into his path or if..." He trails off, unable to articulate the fear that's been haunting him since hearing that Karpov was involved.

Morita sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I get it. I do. But what good will it do Barnes, you confronting him?"

They stand in silence for a moment, the sterile corridor seeming to close in around them.

"Secure containment level," Morita says finally. "Cell 4. Dugan's on duty until 1600 hours. But I never told you that."

"Thank you," Steve says quietly.

"Don't make me regret it," Morita warns. "And Cap? Remember who you are. What you stand for."

Steve nods but makes no promises. He's not entirely sure who he is anymore—not after the ice, not after finding Bucky like this, not after learning the full horror of what happened in his absence.

Bucky has always been his moral compass. His true north. Oh, he’ll say it’s the other way around. He’ll say he’s the one following Steve, and maybe that’s true for the most part.

Or maybe it was.

The man he was before he went into the ice… that man let Zola live. Let Karpov live. That man did the right thing no matter what it cost him.

And Bucky’s paid the price.

It’s not a mistake Steve is making again.

Zola’s dead. That’s one name off the list.

But Karpov? The people who helped him?

He’s going to kill every last one of them.

The walk to the secure containment level feels both eternal and too brief. Each step carries him further from Bucky, from the man who needs him, toward the architect of his suffering. Each step feels like a betrayal of his promise to stay, and yet also like a fulfillment of his oath to protect.

He arrives at the security checkpoint, finding Dugan seated behind a desk, boots propped up, hat tipped forward over his eyes in a convincing pantomime of relaxation. But Steve knows Dugan too well to be fooled—the man is alert, observing everything from beneath the brim of his hat.

"Cap," Dugan acknowledges without moving. "Took you long enough."

"You were expecting me?"

Dugan tips his hat back, fixing Steve with a knowing look. "Figured you'd make your way down here eventually. After you saw what they did to the kid."

There's no judgment in Dugan's tone, just understanding. The kind that comes from shared battles, shared nightmares, shared devotion.

"I need to see him," Steve says simply.

Dugan nods, swinging his feet off the desk and standing. "Just so we're clear," he says, his voice taking on an edge Steve rarely hears from him, "if you happen to kill the son of a bitch in there, I didn't see a thing. Wasn't at my post. Taking a leak. Got it?"

“You not going to tell me that ‘Captain America isn’t a murderer’?” Steve asks bitterly.

Dugan snorts. “Fuck no. I’ve seen your sorry ass in action. It’s your call," he shrugs. "Though can't say I wouldn't have done it myself if Carter hadn't put a round-the-clock guard on the bastard. After what he did..." He trails off, jaw tightening. "Anyway. Cell 4. Down the hall, last door on the right."

"What should I expect?" Steve asks, steeling himself.

"A sorry excuse for a human being," Dugan says bluntly. "They've got him strapped down. Sedated. Not enough to knock him out completely—Carter wants him coherent for questioning—but enough to keep him manageable."

Steve nods, absorbing the information with clinical detachment. "Anything else I should know?"

Dugan hesitates. "He talks about the Sarge. A lot. Like he's... proud of what he did to him." His face twists with disgust. "Just... be prepared for that."

"Thanks for the warning."

"And Cap?" Dugan adds as Steve turns to go. "Whatever he says in there, whatever sick shit he tries to get in your head... remember that Bucky remembered you. Even after everything they did to him, everything they took from him... he remembered you. Called your name. That's gotta count for something."

The words hit Steve like a physical blow, the simple truth of them cutting through the fog of rage and grief. "Yeah," he says, voice rough. "It counts for everything."

Dugan nods, satisfied, and buzzes him through the secure door.

The containment level is eerily quiet, the lighting dim and institutional. Steve moves down the corridor slowly, reading the numbers on each door. 1. 2. 3. And finally, 4.

A small observation window allows him to look inside before entering.

Two days of learning the extent of what's been done to the man he loves.

Two days of fury crystallizing into something cold and implacable.

He looks through the observation window. What he sees is a stark departure from the composed, clinical scientist described in the reports.

Karpov is strapped to a medical gurney, arms and legs secured with heavy restraints, head immobilized by a padded brace. An IV line runs into his arm, presumably delivering the sedatives the guard mentioned. Besides the cot sit the other tools of isolation that have been removed prior to his visit. Steve doesn’t want his mindless terror. He wants Karpov to know exactly what’s coming for him,

Steve opens the door without knocking.

The sound draws Karpov's attention, his eyes struggling to focus as they turn toward the doorway. When they settle on Steve, a visible shock runs through his body, muscles tensing against the restraints.

"No," Karpov says, his accented voice slurred from the sedation but unmistakably horrified. "Not possible. You are dead."

Steve steps into the cell, closing the door behind him.

"Reports of my death," Steve says, coldly echoing an old joke that feels like it belonged to another lifetime, "have been greatly exaggerated."

Something is wrong. The room feels different.

Bucky sits on the edge of the bed, rocking slightly, metal fingers tapping an irregular rhythm against his thigh. Steve left seventeen minutes ago. Said he would be back soon. Bucky doesn't like it when Steve leaves. The world feels unstable without him, walking on ice that might crack at any moment.

He is Bucky. Not It. Not Soldat. Bucky Barnes. Steve calls him Bucky, so that's who he is.

Sometimes it—no, he—forgets.

"Hello, soldier."

The voice comes from the doorway. Soft. Female. American accent, but something beneath it, something that makes his shoulders tense. English. She’s not speaking English. Her words are his. His language. Russian. Bucky looks up.

A nurse stands in the doorway. Blonde. Petite. White uniform crisp and perfect. Clipboard held against her chest. She smiles, but it doesn't reach her pretty eyes.

"Time for your medication."

Bucky shakes his head. "No..." The word feels thick in his mouth, harder to form without Steve nearby. "Not... scheduled."

The nurse's smile widens, becoming something predatory. "Oh, you remember schedules now? That’s adorable."

Something is wrong. This nurse isn't familiar. And Steve said he would be present for all medical procedures. Steve promised. Steve keeps his promise, always.

Only… only he doesn’t, does he? He promised he’d come for Bucky. Save Bucky. He didn’t and…

No. Not Steve’s fault.

Bucky presses himself against the wall, legs drawn up defensively. "Steve," he manages. "Wait for Steve."

"Captain America is currently occupied," the nurse says, closing the door behind her and turning the lock. She drops the clipboard on the small table. Removes the small white cap from her head. "We have some time just for us."

She's not a nurse. That much is clear even to his fragmented mind. There's something familiar about her—the way she holds herself, the calculating look in her eyes.

"You don't remember me?" she asks, tilting her head. "We trained together. Well, not exactly together. I watched sometimes. While the Colonel took you to pieces and put you back together again. You made the prettiest sounds when you cried."

Training room. Young women. The only people he ever saw who weren’t doctors or scientists. A treat for good behaviour. They’d thought him funny when he’d cringed from their attention. The blonde one, always watching, always smiling when pain was inflicted. Hers and his.

"Ag… Agata," Bucky says, the name struggling to the surface.

"Very good," she says, clapping her hands softly like he's a child who's performed a trick. "It’s Dottie now. You're doing better than they said you would. The Colonel will be pleased."

The Colonel. Karpov. Memories flash—hands on his skin, voice in his ear, pain and not-pain so tangled together he can't separate them anymore.

"Colonel isn't..." Bucky struggles for the words, frustration mounting. "He's not..."

"Not what? Not coming for you?" Dottie laughs, the sound like breaking glass. "Oh, soldier. He’s only here because of you. His pain, his suffering, the things the Americans are doing to him… it’s all because of you. Because he loves you so."

Bucky shakes his head violently. "Not. I'm not—"

"You are whatever he says you are," Dottie cuts him off, her voice suddenly hard. "And right now, you're a mission objective that I need to secure."

She moves closer, and Bucky feels himself shrinking back instinctively. Not fear, exactly. Something worse. Something conditioned. The body remembering what the mind has been forced to forget. Maybe it’s the words.

"Steve," he says, the word meant to be a warning but coming out as a plea.

"Captain America is having a very informative conversation with Director Carter," Dottie says, moving further into the room with casual grace. "Learning all about what the Colonel did to you. How he shaped you. How he owned you. Is he a jealous man? He looks like he is. I bet he doesn’t share his toys."

Bucky's breathing quickens. No. Steve can't know that. Not that. Shame burns through him, though he doesn't fully understand why.

"I'm not..." he starts again, then loses the thread. What was he trying to say? That he's not owned? That he's not the thing Karpov made him? But if he's not that, then what is it? He. He.

Dottie watches him struggle with a clinical sort of interest. "They've really damaged you, haven't they? All this time away from proper care. Poor little soldier."

She's close now, too close. Bucky could lash out, could stop her. He’s stronger, he thinks. But the impulse feels distant, muffled. Fighting back was punished. Always punished.

"But don't worry," Dottie continues, her voice taking on a singsong quality. "I'm going to help you remember exactly who and what you are."

Something in her tone makes Bucky's blood run cold.

"Longing," she says, the Russian word sliding from her tongue with gleeful anticipation.

Bucky freezes, ice spreading through his veins. No. No… no, this isn’t right. He can’t...

"Rusted," she continues, watching him with wide-eyed fascination. "Seventeen."

"No," Bucky gasps, hands flying to his ears. But it's useless. The words are already seeping into his brain, unlocking doors he's been desperately trying to keep closed.

"Daybreak. Furnace. Nine."

His body begins to shake, a violent tremor that starts in his core and radiates outward. He slides down the wall, curling in on himself as if he can physically block the words from reaching something vital inside him.

"Benign. Homecoming. One."

"Please," he begs, the word barely audible. Not to her—he knows she won't stop, knows what's coming—but to himself. To whatever part of him might be strong enough to resist.

It… they’ve done this before, it thinks. Whispered the words in it… his… ears while he’s choked and thrashed, eyes and nose bleeding, mind shredded, hands around his throat. Trial and error. Mostly error. Mostly pain. He’d screamed and screamed until they put him in the box. Over and over until he stopped screaming and just cried at the Colonel’s feet.

After, when his mind was quiet, strong fingers would comb through his hair, would hold him, rock him, tell him how brave he was.

He wonders if she’ll do the same. Hopes she will. Hopes she’ll let him sit quiet and calm and not flay him open just for fun, that she’ll soothe and comfort and tell him he’s good and…

And it’s not her he wants that from. It’s Steve. It’s Steve and…

He chokes out Steve’s name in a broken, desperate plea.

Dottie leans before him, taking his face in her hands with mock tenderness. "Your precious Captain can't help you now, soldier. He left you. Again."

No. No, he’s coming back. He’s coming back for Bucky and…

"Freight car," she whispers, the final word sealing his fate.

The world goes silent. The pain stops. Everything stops. Bucky—no, not Bucky anymore—stares straight ahead, waiting. Ready.

"Soldat?" Dottie asks, her voice lilting with satisfaction.

"Ready to comply," he answers, voice flat, empty of all the progress he's made these past weeks.

Dottie laughs, her voice girlish and delighted. "Oh! Oh, but look at you! I've always wanted my own doll to play with," she says, running her fingers through his hair. And we're going to have so much fun, you and me—once we rescue the Colonel, of course."

The soldier doesn't respond, simply watches her with vacant eyes.

"Your friends have been quite horrible to poor Colonel Karpov," Dottie continues, walking around him in a slow circle. "Demanding his execution, threatening all sorts of unpleasantness. After everything he did for you." She sighs dramatically. "Such ingratitude."

Something flickers behind the soldier's eyes—a momentary resistance, quickly suppressed.

"Oh!" Dottie's eyebrows rise in surprise. "Was that a reaction? How interesting. They said you might be compromised, but I didn't believe it." She leans in close, her breath warm against his ear. "No matter. Once we're away from here, the Colonel will fix whatever damage they've done to you.” She taps him lightly between the eyes.

Another flicker, stronger this time. A memory of pain. Of begging.

"I bet he has missed you terribly," Dottie continues, tapping his metal arm with curious fingers. "You’re his favorite, you know. It’s why he never lets anyone else play with you."

Deep inside the emptiness where Bucky has been forced to retreat, something stirs. Not rage, not yet. Just awareness. Recognition of wrongness.

"Up you get," Dottie commands, straightening her nurse's uniform. "We need to be ready when the extraction team arrives."

The soldier rises smoothly to his feet, face expressionless. Waits for further instructions.

"Good boy," Dottie purrs, patting his cheek. "So obedient. The Colonel will be pleased."

Not boy. Not soldier.

"You know what the best part is?" Dottie asks, checking the hallway through a crack in the door. "He’ll have to share now."  She turns back to him, eyes glittering with cruel anticipation. "I've always wondered what makes you so special. I mean sure, you’re handsome and all, but pretty boys are a dime a dozen back home." Her smile sharpens. "Ooh, this’ll be fun!"

No. Not again.

But the protest remains trapped inside, unable to breach the wall of conditioning. The soldier stands motionless, an empty vessel waiting to be directed.

"You're supposed to be so dangerous," Dottie muses, circling him again. "The Americans have been keeping you like a broken thing that needs fixing." She laughs softly. "If only they knew what you really are. What you're capable of."

She steps closer, pressing herself against him, looking up into his blank eyes. "They think they're rehabilitating you. Making you human again." Her smile is vicious. "But we both know the truth, don't we, soldier? We know what you really are beneath all this... pretending."

Deep in the recesses of his mind, Bucky struggles against the programming. Against the compliance that feels like drowning.

Steve. Steve would know. Steve would see.

Something fractures in the emptiness—a hairline crack in the perfect compliance. A single word forming in the void.

Steve.

Dottie doesn't notice the minute change in the soldier's eyes, too caught up in her own cruel fantasies. "We’ll let you do it. Kill Captain America. A treat, though you don’t deserve it. You’ve been such a bad boy, letting the Americans take you away from us."

Never hurt Steve. Never.

"It will destroy him first, of course," she continues with relish. "Seeing you like this. Realizing that everything he's been doing—all the gentle words, all the careful handling—means nothing. That in the end, you belong to us. You always will."

Belong to no one. Steve said... Steve promised...

"Now," Dottie says, checking her watch. "We need to get into position. The extraction team will breach the perimeter in exactly twelve minutes. You will assist me in neutralizing any resistance and securing the Colonel. Is that understood, soldier?"

"Understood," the soldier confirms, voice mechanical.

Dottie smiles, patting his cheek again. "Perfect. Just perfect."

Chapter Text

Steve sits himself down on the chair next to Karpov’s bunk and tries to remember a time when something like this would have been utterly abhorrent to him.

Not long. At least not to him. Years, in reality, but when he closes his eyes, it’s only a little over a week since he stood back and let Bucky torture a man for information. The dizzy switch between resignation, horror, and sadness doesn’t hit him, only the memory of Bucky standing before him in the snow, shadows around his eyes, and a grim fatality in the set of his jaw.

‘It’s not like I enjoy it,’ he’d defended himself to Steve, back when he was still so new to all this, and the line between right and wrong was so much clearer.

No, Bucky did it so Steve wouldn’t have to. He didn’t enjoy it.

Steve… Steve thinks that’s where they’re different.

“Are you going to kill me, Captain Rogers?” Karpov slurs.

In a fair world, in a kind and honorable world, Steve would unbind him. Give him a fighting chance.

In a fair, kind, and honorable world, he’d not spend an hour watching Bucky struggle between shame and oblivion because a man he trusted, a man he cared for, brutalized him to the point where he could no longer feed himself.

Steve wants Karpov to feel every second of the helplessness he forced on Bucky. Every moment of terror.

“Yes,” he says honestly. He can be that still, at least.

Karpov seems to mull this over before asking. “Are you going to torture me?”

“I think we have very different ideas of what we’d consider torture,” he answers grimly.

“Perhaps. You think me monstrous, but I did it to protect him.”

He waits for the explosion of rage, of the need to lash out and make the evil sonovabitch bleed, but parts of Steve have clearly still not thawed out from the ice.

“I don’t care. I don’t want your excuses. I don’t want your explanations. I just want you dead.”

Before Karpov can respond, Steve wraps a hand around his throat.

He barely squeezes. A feather-light touch is more than enough for someone of his strength to cut off the flow of oxygen. Karpov chokes and gasps, thrashing in his bonds as he struggles to breathe. All his calm, cold collectiveness means nothing when stacked up against the primal urge of survival. His body needs air, and so it fights.

Steve waits until his eyes start to roll. Until his face turns mottled and swollen from lack of air.

He eases his grip. Sits back and listens to him suck in lungfuls of oxygen. He waits just long enough for the frantic pound of Karpov’s heart to stabilize, then tightens his grip once more.

Four years. Karpov tortured Bucky for four years.

Steve doesn’t have that much time.

He’ll make do with what he’s got.

Later, he might tell himself that what he’s doing is right. That HYDRA has proven itself incapable of remorse, its agents given the mercy, the dignity, of a clean capture and not a kill. That by doing this now he is sparing countless others pain in the future.

He might. He doubts he’ll care any more for the excuse then than he does now.

He takes his time. He makes it slow.

And his face is the last thing Vasily Karpov sees before Steve sends him to hell where he belongs.

Monty straightens his tie for the third time, a nervous habit he'd thought long abandoned after the war. But then, this isn't exactly a standard meeting. Nothing has been standard since James Barnes came back from the dead, bringing Captain bloody America with him.

The corridor leading to Colonel Phillips' office is quiet, most of the few skeleton personnel occupied with the afternoon shift change. Good. The fewer ears to overhear this conversation, the better.

Monty has rehearsed his arguments carefully. The press will be ravenous once word gets out of Steve’s miraculous return from the dead. And that’ll be the very least of their worries. The government will want to parade Captain America around like a circus attraction. They desperately miss their hero, and after relying on Steve so heavily during the war, there’s no doubt in Monty’s mind they’ll be quick to do so again, given half the chance.

And Barnes - good God, what they will make of their Sergeant. The metal arm alone will cause a sensation, never mind his fractured mental state and the political complications of his time with the Soviets. They’re not officially at war with the Russians, but people start throwing around accusations that they kidnapped and tortured a famous war hero and that might not last.

No, he is certain: if Rogers and Barnes are to have any chance of recovery, of normalcy, their return must remain classified at the highest level. Phillips needs to understand the importance, needs to help them create new identities, perhaps, a quiet place to recover away from prying eyes and opportunistic officials.

He reaches Phillips' office door, knocks sharply. Standard protocol: three raps, pause, wait for acknowledgment.

No response.

Curious. Phillips is almost religious about his schedule, and his calendar had shown him in-office all afternoon. Monty checks his watch - 11:37. Perhaps he stepped out? He likes to pretend he’s free from vice, but Monty’s caught the old bastard sneaking out to smoke his cigars, to hell with the stern warnings from his doctors.

He knocks again, louder this time. Still nothing.

A sense of unease prickles at the back of his neck. Years of war have honed his paranoia, and right now, his instincts are clamoring for attention.

"Colonel Phillips?" he calls, pressing his ear to the door. "It's Lieutenant Falsworth."

The silence that follows feels wrong somehow. Weighted. Monty tries the handle - locked. But there's a small master key all the boys carry, a silent indication of trust from Peggy that none of them are quick to overlook.

He hesitates only briefly before inserting the key. If Phillips is simply out, he can wait inside. Better than loitering in the corridor where anyone might start asking questions.

The lock clicks open. Monty pushes the door inward, already preparing an apology for the intrusion.

The words die in his throat.

Phillips is sprawled on the floor behind his desk, one arm outstretched toward the telephone, which has been ripped from the wall. Blood pools beneath his head, bright crimson against the dull linoleum.

"Colonel!" Monty rushes forward, dropping to his knees beside the fallen man. Phillips' pulse is present but weak, his breathing shallow. A deep gash across his temple explains the blood - blunt force trauma, likely from the heavy brass paperweight lying nearby.

Monty's training kicks in automatically. Assess. Respond. Alert.

Phillips needs immediate medical attention, but he can't leave him to find help - not if his attacker might return. And if Phillips has been attacked, this isn't just an assault. It's a security breach of the highest order.

Karpov.

Every second of every day, he’s regretting not killing that bastard.

The base alarm is mounted on the wall by the door - a red box with a glass panel protecting the switch. It's meant for the most severe security threats: unauthorized entry, enemy infiltration… finding their fucking Sergeant locked up in a secret subterranean bunker…

He doesn't hesitate. Rising swiftly on knees that ache more than he wants to admit, he crosses to the alarm, smashes the glass with his elbow, and pulls the switch downward.

The effect is immediate. A piercing wail tears through the building, accompanied by flashing red lights in the corridor. Within seconds, the sound of running boots and shouted orders fills the previously quiet hallway.

Monty returns to Phillips, removing his own jacket to press against the wound. "Hold on, Colonel," he murmurs, though he's not certain Phillips can hear him. "Help is coming."

The door bursts open behind him. Two MPs rush in, weapons drawn.

"Lieutenant?"

"Colonel Phillips has been attacked," Monty says crisply. "Head trauma, unconscious but alive. Check the containment level," Monty orders, his mind racing with grim possibilities. "Karpov and the HYDRA scientists may be attempting to escape - or someone may be helping them."

"Sir?" the MP questions. Christ almighty, but they’re all so bloody young these days.

"Now, Corporal!" Monty barks.

Understanding dawns on the MP's faces as they snap to attention. "I'll alert containment level security immediately," one says, reaching for his radio.

“Stay with him,” he orders, heading for the door. He doesn’t wait for confirmation. He needs to get to Barnes.

If Karpov escapes - if he somehow gets to Bucky again - the consequences would be catastrophic. Not just strategically, but for Bucky himself. The man has suffered enough at Karpov's hands.

He follows the blonde woman through the corridor, movements uncoordinated and halting. The programming sits uncomfortably in his mind, like ill-fitting clothes - too new, too raw. He isn't the Soldier, not fully. Not yet. But he isn't quite Bucky either.

He's something in between. Confused. Fractured.

"Keep up," Dottie hisses over her shoulder, irritation clear in her voice.

He tries to quicken his pace, but his limbs feel wrong. Heavy. The metal arm hangs at his side, periodically twitching and whirring but not responding properly to his commands. It’s getting worse. Less responsive.

Inside his fragmented mind, thoughts collide and overlap.

Mission. Objective. Colonel.

Steve. Where is Steve?

Follow orders. Comply.

Something's wrong. This isn't right.

The alarms blaring through the facility make it harder to focus, the noise drilling into his skull like a physical pain. Dottie seems unfazed, moving with confidence, checking her watch every few seconds.

"You're not performing optimally," she says, glancing back at him with clinical assessment.

He doesn't respond. Speaking requires more concentration than he can muster. The corridor tilts and straightens in his vision, reality flickering like a faulty film reel.

"No matter," Dottie continues. "You only need to be functional enough to get us to the Colonel. He'll know how to restore you properly."

The Colonel. Karpov. The name sends a jolt of something - not quite fear, not quite memory - through his system. An impression of hands. Of pain. Of praise that felt like another form of violation.

His metal arm spasms suddenly, plates shifting and recalibrating with a mechanical whine. Dottie gives it a concerned look.

"Maintain control," she orders. "Focus on the mission parameters."

The mission. Yes. That's simpler than trying to untangle the knot of half-formed thoughts in his head. Follow Dottie. Find the Colonel. Eliminate obstacles.

They approach an intersection in the corridor. Dottie peers carefully around the corner, then gestures for him to follow. "Security checkpoint ahead. Two guards. You'll need to neutralize them."

Neutralize. The order filters through his programming, activating combat protocols that haven't fully settled. His body tenses, preparing for action, but the movements feel unpracticed, unpredictable. He is not the efficient weapon Karpov has been crafting. He is a prototype, incomplete and unstable.

"Remember your training," Dottie urges, her voice low and insistent. "Quick and silent."

But he doesn't remember, not clearly. Fragments of instruction flash through his mind - pressure points, disabling strikes, lethal techniques - but they're jumbled, overlapping with older memories of very different kinds of fighting. Back-alley brawls in Brooklyn. Being a Commando in war-torn Europe. His body doesn't know which muscle memory to access.

Before Dottie can issue further commands, voices echo from around the corner - approaching footsteps, multiple sets.

"Damn it," Dottie mutters. "Change of plan. We'll have to go through them."

She draws her pistol, checking the chamber. "You take point. I'll cover you."

He steps forward automatically, responding to the command in her voice. But as he rounds the corner, his vision focuses on three familiar figures striding toward the checkpoint. His steps falter.

Dugan. Morita. Jones.

The Howling Commandos.

Something inside him rebels against the programming, a flicker of recognition strong enough to momentarily override Dottie's control.

"Engage," Dottie orders sharply, noticing his hesitation.

His body lurches forward, the metal arm lifting jerkily. But it isn't working right - the plates shift and grind, the fingers curling then straightening at random. The arm isn't fully calibrated to his current mental state, and the incomplete programming creates conflicting signals.

"Bucky?" Dugan's voice carries down the corridor, a mixture of concern and wariness. The three Howlies halt, hands moving instinctively toward their weapons.

"Soldier, attack!" Dottie commands, her façade of control slipping as she steps out from behind him, pistol raised.

His body tries to obey. One step forward. Another. But his mind is a battlefield of competing directives. The metal arm raises halfway, then locks in position, servos whining in protest.

Can't hurt them. Won't hurt them. My friends.

Mission parameters. Eliminate obstacles. Comply.

"Sarge," Gabe calls, his voice calm and steady despite the tension evident in his stance. "You know us. We're your friends."

The words penetrate the fog in his mind, anchoring him briefly to reality. Friends. Yes. He knows them. Fought beside them. Trusted them.

"Take them out now," Dottie hisses, digging the barrel of her pistol into his back. "Or I'll finish the job myself."

The threat pushes him forward another step. His metal arm twitches violently. Combat programming tries to engage, to override his resistance. But the arm isn't responding properly. The plates lock and release, fingers curling into a fist, then splaying wide, the entire limb shuddering with mechanical distress.

"Last chance," Dottie says, her voice cold with fury. "Kill them, or I'll activate your punishment protocols."

The threat triggers another fragment of memory - searing pain, screams he later realized were his own, the taste of rubber and blood. He doesn't want that. Can't bear it again.

But he can't hurt his friends either.

In the chaos of his fractured mind, a third option presents itself.

With a strangled cry - the first sound he's made since Dottie activated him - he turns away from both Dottie and the Howlies. Before anyone can react, he slams his head against the concrete wall of the corridor.

The impact sends shockwaves of pain through his skull, momentarily clearing the fog of programming. Blood trickles from a gash on his forehead as he pulls back and drives forward again, harder this time.

"What the fuck! Bucky! Stop!" Dugan shouts, lunging forward.

Dottie's pistol swings toward the advancing Howlies. "Stay back!"

But Bucky isn't stopping. The physical pain is a lifeline, cutting through the haze of programming, giving him something to focus on beyond the conflicting commands in his head. He slams his forehead against the wall a third time, vision blurring, blood streaming into his eyes.

Better this than hurting them. Better this than obedience.

Dottie grabs his shoulder, trying to pull him back. "What the hell are you doing?"

With a surge of desperate strength, Bucky shakes her off. His metal arm whirs angrily but remains largely unresponsive, the limb's weight dragging at his shoulder.

Dottie's focus splits between controlling Bucky and keeping the Howlies at bay. It's the opening Morita needs. He drops low, aiming not for Dottie but for Bucky's legs, tackling him away from the wall before he can inflict more damage on himself.

They hit the floor hard, Bucky's metal arm trapped beneath him. Morita locks his arms around Bucky's torso, pinning his flesh arm to his side.

"Easy, Sarge," Morita says, his voice strained with effort. "We got you."

Dottie backs away, pistol sweeping between the remaining Howlies, her composure fracturing. "This isn't over," she spits. "He belongs to us. He'll always belong to us."

Dugan advances on her, shotgun leveled at her chest. "Lady, you picked the wrong unit to mess with."

Bucky struggles against Morita's grip, not to escape but to finish what he started. The programming is still there, buzzing in his skull like angry hornets. If they release him, he doesn't know which command his body will obey.

Then, from the darkness lurking at the end of the corridor, a voice cuts through the chaos. “Bucky!”

His body goes limp with relief. Steve. Steve is here. Steve’s come for him, just like he promised.

Dugan isn’t the one to shoot the HYDRA bitch trying to take Bucky.

Oh, he comes fucking close, finger curling around the trigger of his shotgun a split second after another shot pings from the opposite end of the corridor.

It’s Peggy, her pistol raised and steady, her expression as close to murderous as he’s ever seen it.

Three things then happen at once:

The woman goes down with a silent thud, her brains splattering the wall.

Steve appears like a wrathful god, damn near bowling the rest of them over in order to skid to his knees at Bucky’s side.

And the wall to the detention center explodes into fucking smithereens.

They’re knocked off their feet, each of them doing their best to cover Steve, who despite not having his shield is doing a damn fine job of sheltering Bucky from the flaming mortar raining down on them.

By some miracle they escape with nothing more notable than a few cuts and bruises.

Which is right when shit hits the fan.

Clearly the woman wasn’t working alone. And it’s not just the Sarge she’s here for.

It’s a prison break, one made with insider knowledge. A dozen fully armored HYDRA agents pour through the breach. Half of them move to engage the dazed SHIELD agents, the other half begin work on the cells.

It’s sheer fucking luck that Steve was here already. If they’d caught him off guard in the infirmary with Bucky… Steve’s a super soldier, sure, but a bullet to the head is a bullet to the head, and he’s never focused on his own safety when Bucky’s at his side. Now, more than ever.

But luck is, for once, on their side.

They’re dazed, yes.

They’re also fucking pissed.

Dugan gets his shotgun under the chin of the closest HYDRA goon and paints the walls with the fucker’s brains.

There’s no cover in the corridor. Dugan takes a bullet to the shoulder and another to his calf and responds with a roar. Jones practically tackles him into a wall then hauls him around the corner before he gets another to the face. He’s immediately got Morita fussing like an old woman.

“Fuck off, I’m fine!”

“You’re bleeding, jackass!”

“Let me fucking kill them!”

Instead, Steve appears, a strange, almost detached coldness to his expression that Dugan is very keen to see directed at the enemy and not himself. He gently puts Bucky between the three Howlies, fixes Dugan with a stern glare that makes it perfectly clear what will happen if Bucky’s not in exactly the same condition when he gets back, and propels himself back around the corner into action.

Which is all well and fucking good, but Bucky immediately tries to follow him.

“Ah, no, kid, stay here,” Dugan tries to be gentle and fails. It’s impossible to tell what the hell is going on in the kid’s head, his wide eyes flicking back and forth, one second completely vacant, the other anxious. In a careful attempt to stop him stumbling unarmed into a fucking firefight, Dugan wraps an arm around his waist.

He gets an elbow to the head for his trouble, which… he probably should have seen coming.

“Steve!” Peggy barks, shooting around the corner whenever she gets a second’s cover. “The prisoners! Don’t let the tall one speak!”

“Fucking Fenhoff!” Morita grumbles.

Because that’s all they need. The evil Nazi hypnotist.

“Remind me again why we didn’t fucking kill these assholes the last time?” He roars, mostly at Peggy, partly at himself.

“By all means, feel free to rectify that!” She snaps back.

"Gladly," Dugan growls, turning to Morita. "Patch me up quick. I'm not sitting this one out."

Morita gives him a look that says he'd like to argue but knows better. With practiced efficiency, he tears strips from his own undershirt, quickly binding Dugan's wounds tight enough to slow the bleeding.

"That'll hold for now, you stubborn bastard," he mutters. "Try not to get yourself killed."

Peggy reloads, her movements precise despite the chaos around them. "Jones, stay with Barnes. Dugan and Morita, with me. We need to secure the other prisoners before HYDRA reaches them."

"What about Cap?" Morita asks, nodding toward the corridor where Steve has disappeared into the fray.

"Captain Rogers," Peggy says grimly, "is rather preoccupied demonstrating why HYDRA should have left Sergeant Barnes alone."

From around the corner comes the distinctive sound of Steve's fist connecting with body armor, followed by a crash and a scream cut suddenly short. Dugan grins through blood-stained teeth.

"That's our boy," he says proudly.

Bucky struggles against Jones' hold, his eyes fixed on the corner where Steve vanished. "Steve," he manages, the word rasping from his throat. "Help Steve."

"Steve's doing just fine, Sarge," Jones assures him, tightening his grip. "But he needs you safe. You understand that, right?"

Something flickers in Bucky's gaze - comprehension, perhaps, or resignation. His body goes slack in Jones' arms, though his eyes remain locked on the corridor, alert and wary.

"Alright," Peggy says. "Let's - "

A burst of gunfire interrupts her, followed by the distinctive sound of a shield ricocheting off walls. Wait. Shield?

"Did Rogers find his - " Dugan starts, but Peggy is already moving.

"Cover me," she orders, then darts around the corner.

Dugan and Morita exchange glances, then follow, weapons at the ready. What they see stops them both in their tracks.

The corridor is littered with bodies - HYDRA agents slumped against walls, sprawled on the floor, some still moving weakly, others ominously still. In the center of it all stands Steve, his chest heaving, hands empty.

No shield. Of course there's no shield. The shield is still locked away in storage, where it's been since they found it with Steve in the ice.

"Carter!" Steve calls, spotting Peggy. "Three more headed for the cells. We need to cut them off."

Peggy nods, all business. "This way," she says, indicating a side passage. "It's faster."

They move together, a well-oiled unit despite the years since they last fought side by side. Steve takes point, with Peggy and Morita flanking, Dugan covering their rear despite his injuries.

They navigate the maze of corridors, following the sounds of combat. The containment wing is in chaos - alarms still blaring, smoke billowing from ruptured walls, shell casings crunching underfoot.

They round a corner to find two HYDRA agents working to open a cell door. Inside, a tall man with a trim beard watches with calm anticipation.

Fenhoff. He's not wearing the metal muzzle they keep him in to stop the evil bastard from brainwashing the lot of them. 

Steve doesn't hesitate. He charges forward, slamming into the first agent with enough force to drive them both into the wall. The concrete cracks with the impact.

Peggy and Morita engage the second agent, who turns with surprising speed, opening fire. Peggy dives left, Morita right, both returning fire simultaneously. The HYDRA agent jerks as bullets hit from both directions, then crumples.

"Secure Fenhoff," Peggy orders, already moving to the next cell. "Tape his mouth if you have to. He cannot speak."

“I’ve got a better idea,” Steve says grimly, and with a twist of his wrist, snaps Fennhoff’s neck.

“Yes, well… that’ll do it, I suppose,” she doesn’t sound particularly troubled. “We need to get to Karpov before-“

“Karpov’s dead,” Steve cuts her off.

The three Howlies share a look and try to calculate which of them has won the bet.

Beside them, Bucky goes painfully still.

“You hear that?” Dugan says fiercely. “Bastard’s never gonna hurt you again.”

"Karpov's dead?" Peggy asks, her tone sharp with surprise. "When?"

"About ten minutes ago," Steve says, wiping blood from his knuckles onto his pants. "Wasn't pretty."

There's a moment of tense silence. No one asks for details. No one needs them.

Morita checks the corridor. "We've got more incoming. Three hostiles, moving fast."

"Let them come," Dugan growls, working the action on his shotgun despite the pain radiating from his wounds. "Plenty more where that came from."

But Bucky's gone rigid, his eyes fixed on Steve with an intensity that's almost frightening. It's the most lucid he's looked since they found him.

"You... killed him?" Bucky asks, the words coming slow but clearer than they've heard from him yet.

Steve moves toward him, hands open, palms out. "Yeah, Buck. I did. He can't hurt you anymore. None of them can."

A shudder passes through Bucky's frame. The Howlies brace themselves, not sure what to expect – a breakdown, maybe, or the vacant stare they've grown too familiar with.

“Dead…”

The sound of boots on concrete interrupts whatever Steve might have said in response. All heads turn toward the corridor, weapons ready.

"Three of them," Jones mutters, peering around the corner. "Moving in formation. Armed to the teeth."

"Last of this unit, probably," Peggy says, checking her ammunition.

Steve's jaw tightens. "Let's finish this."

He glances at Bucky, at Dugan bleeding against the wall. A quick calculation runs behind his eyes – tactical assessment, weighing options.

"Jones, stay with Bucky and Dugan," he orders. "Peggy, Morita, flank with me. Standard formation."

The Howlies nod. They've done this a hundred times before, in villages across Europe, in HYDRA bases, in snowy forests and bombed-out cities. Some rhythms you never forget.

"On my mark," Steve says, positioning himself at the corner.

The HYDRA agents approach, their footsteps measured, disciplined. They know they're entering hostile territory.

"Three," Steve counts down silently with his fingers. "Two. One. Go!"

They move as a single unit, fluid and deadly. Steve charges straight into the center, a human battering ram targeting the middle agent. Peggy breaks right, already firing as she moves. Morita slides left, coming up low with his rifle at the ready.

The HYDRA agents barely have time to register the ambush. The one on the right manages to get off a single wild shot before Peggy puts two bullets in his chest, precise and merciless. The one on the left brings his weapon to bear on Morita, but he's a fraction too slow. Morita's rifle cracks once, the sound echoing down the corridor as the agent crumples.

The center agent, facing Steve, doesn't even get a chance to raise his weapon. Steve's fist connects with his solar plexus, doubling him over, followed by a knee to the face that sends him sprawling.

It's over in seconds. Textbook. Perfectly executed.

"Clear!" Peggy calls, checking the downed agents to ensure they're no longer threats.

Steve stands over the agent he took down, the man still conscious but clearly incapacitated. With cold efficiency, Steve drags him up by his uniform collar.

"How many more?" he demands. "Where are they regrouping?"

The agent spits blood onto the floor, a defiant sneer on his broken face. "Hail HY - "

Steve's fist cuts off the familiar salute, connecting with the agent's jaw with just enough force to knock him unconscious, not enough to kill.

"Typical," Morita mutters. "All fanaticism, no self-preservation."

"Did we get all of them?" Jones calls from where he's guarding Bucky and Dugan.

"Yeah," Steve says grimly, his eyes on Bucky. He returns to Bucky's side, his eyes doing a quick assessment for new injuries. "You okay?"

Bucky nods, his gaze fixed on the fallen HYDRA agents. There's something distant in his expression, like he's seeing something else, something far away.

"Buck?" Steve prompts gently.

"There'll be more," Bucky says, the words coming with surprising clarity. "Coming for me."

A heavy silence follows his words. None of them can deny the truth of it. HYDRA wants their asset back. They won't stop trying.

"Let them come," Steve says finally, his voice low and dangerous. "They'll have to go through me.”

“Through all of us," Morita says firmly.

"And we're really fucking hard to get through," Dugan adds, grinning despite the pain.

The distant sound of boots and shouted orders filters down the corridor – American voices, authoritative. Reinforcements, finally.

"That'll be Phillips' security protocols kicking in," Peggy says, relief evident in her voice. "About bloody time."

As agents in SSR uniforms flood the corridor, securing the area and checking the downed HYDRA operatives, the Howlies allow themselves to relax slightly. The immediate danger has passed.

“Pongo and Frenchie are gonna be pissed they missed all the fun,” Dugan says. Now he’s not actively shooting at things, he’s in… well, a fuck ton of pain.

It takes the medics ten minutes to finally convince Dugan that yes, he does need attention, and no, whiskey is not an acceptable alternative to anesthetic. By the time they're done scolding him, the corridor has transformed into a controlled chaos of SSR agents documenting the scene, removing bodies, and securing the perimeter.

Dugan shrugs off the blanket someone draped over his shoulders - he's not in shock, for Christ's sake - and scans the area for his teammates. Morita is helping Jones document which HYDRA agents are dead versus merely wishing they were. Peggy is deep in conversation with Monty, likely discussing how they managed to end up with zero living prisoners.

But Rogers and Barnes are nowhere to be seen.

"Hey," Dugan calls to Morita, who's currently holding a clipboard and looking far too comfortable with it. "Where'd the wonder twins go?"

Morita glances up, brow furrowing as he surveys the corridor. "They were just here."

"Well, they ain't here now."

Something uneasy settles in Dugan's gut. It's not that he doesn't trust Rogers - the man had proven himself a hundred times over during the war. But there's been something different about him since they pulled him from the ice. Something colder, more calculating. Especially when it comes to Barnes.

And Barnes... Christ, the kid's a mess. Half the time he doesn't seem to know his own name, let alone where he is. The other half, he's got the thousand-yard stare of a man who's seen hell and set up permanent residence there.

"Jones," Dugan barks, ignoring the sharp pain in his shoulder as he stands. "You seen Rogers and Barnes?"

Jones shakes his head, now looking concerned as well. "Not since the reinforcements arrived. Figured they were with you."

"Shit." Dugan reaches for his shotgun, finds it gone - probably confiscated by one of the ever-helpful SSR agents swarming the scene. "We need to find them. Now."

Peggy breaks off her conversation with Monty, her keen eyes catching their sudden agitation. "What's happened?"

"Rogers and Barnes are gone," Dugan says, not bothering to sugarcoat it. "No one's seen them since you boys showed up."

Peggy's expression doesn't change, but something in her eyes does. "When exactly?"

"Ten minutes, maybe fifteen," Morita offers, already setting aside his clipboard. "Cap was tending to Barnes' head wound over by that wall. Neither of them looked in any shape to be moving far."

"Unless that was the point," Jones says quietly.

They all look at him, the implication hanging heavy in the air.

"You think Rogers took him?" Peggy asks, her voice carefully neutral.

"Wouldn't you?" Dugan challenges. "After everything that's happened? Hiring fucking Zola? HYDRA breaching a secure SSR facility, nearly getting to Barnes again? The kid being forced-fed through tubes because he can't even eat on his own? I’d sure as shit not trust us to keep anyone safe."

Peggy's lips press into a thin line. "Lieutenant," she says, turning to Monty, "we have a situation. Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes appear to be missing."

Monty’s face darkens. "Missing or absent without leave?"

"At this point, I'm not prepared to make that distinction," Peggy says diplomatically. "What I do know is that both men have been through significant trauma and may not be thinking clearly. I want search parties organized immediately."

"With all due respect, Director, we're in the middle of securing a compromised facility. If Rogers doesn’t want to be found - "

"And I'm telling you to find them," Peggy cuts him off, her tone brooking no argument. "Now."

Monty’s jaw tightens, but he nods, moving to relay the orders.

"You really think they ran?" Morita asks once he's out of earshot.

"I think Steve Rogers has spent the last few days watching the person he cares about most in the world suffer unimaginable trauma," Peggy answers carefully. "And I think he just murdered a man with his bare hands. So yes, it's a possibility we need to consider."

"Shit," Jones mutters. "Where would they even go?"

Dugan's already moving, limping down the corridor toward the nearest exit. "I have no fucking clue. But I know who to ask."

Chapter Text

Steve knows the moment he needs to move. It's when the medic approaches, eyes clinical and assessing as they land on Bucky. When the man reaches for a syringe, murmuring something about "sedation for the patient's safety," something cold and certain crystallizes in Steve's chest.

No more.

He waits for the perfect moment - when Peggy is deep in conversation with Monty, when Dugan is cursing through his stitches, when the chaos of securing the facility has everyone's attention divided.

"Come on, Buck," he whispers, helping Bucky to his feet. "We're getting out of here."

Bucky doesn't respond verbally, but he follows Steve's lead, his movements mechanical and compliant. His eyes are distant, unfocused. The momentary clarity he'd shown after learning about Karpov's death has faded, replaced by a vacancy that terrifies Steve more than anything.

They slip down a side corridor, Steve's enhanced hearing alert for any pursuit. His mind races through the facility's layout, calculating the quickest route to the motor pool. They need transportation, supplies, a head start before anyone realizes they're gone.

At the medical supply room, Steve pauses just long enough to fill a duffel bag with essentials: bandages, antibiotics, painkillers, sedatives (just in case), IV fluids, and - after a moment's hesitation - the nutrient solution they've been giving Bucky. He hates it, hates what it represents, but he can't risk Bucky's health. Not until he finds another way.

"Almost there, Buck," he says, guiding Bucky with a gentle hand at the small of his back. "Stay with me."

Bucky follows silently, his metal arm hanging uselessly at his side, his gaze fixed on some middle distance. The only indication he's present at all is the way he occasionally shifts closer to Steve, as if drawn by some unconscious gravity.

The mess hall is their next stop. Steve moves efficiently, grabbing non-perishables, anything high in calories and easy to eat. He remembers too well the hunger of his pre-serum days, the way illness could strip away appetite. Whatever's happening with Bucky, proper nutrition will only help.

No one stops them. Why would they? He's Captain America, and this is Sergeant Barnes - heroes, not fugitives. Not yet. The truth of their miraculous resurrection is, in theory, confined to the base. There’s no hiding someone as conspicuous as Steve, and no one can have missed the fallout of Bucky’s return. The best Steve can hope for is that Peggy can keep a lid on the story before it reaches the general public, but these things have a way of getting out despite everyone’s best efforts.

The motor pool is quiet, just a bored-looking corporal manning the desk. Steve approaches confidently, shoulders squared, every inch the commanding officer.

"Need to transport Sergeant Barnes to a secure medical facility," he says, the lie coming easier than it should. "Doctor's orders."

The corporal straightens immediately. "Yes, sir. Which vehicle would you like?"

Steve points to the old Packard in the corner - civilian, inconspicuous, less likely to be immediately missed. "That one will do."

If the corporal thinks it's an odd choice, he doesn't show it. He simply hands over the keys with a respectful nod. "Anything else, Captain?"

Steve scribbles a hasty note - an explanation, an apology, a plea for understanding - and folds it carefully. "Give this to whoever comes looking for us. Not before."

Then they're in the car, Bucky slumped in the passenger seat, the duffel of supplies secured in the back. Steve's hands don't shake as he starts the engine, as he nods to the gate guard, as he drives casually off the base and onto the main road.

Only when Camp Leigh disappears from the rearview mirror does Steve allow himself a shaky exhale. The tension in his shoulders doesn't ease, but it shifts slightly - from immediate escape to longer-term survival.

"We're out, Buck," he says, glancing at the silent figure beside him. "We're free."

Bucky doesn't respond. His head lolls against the window, eyes half-lidded, breathing shallow but regular. Not asleep, not awake. Somewhere in between.

Fear coils in Steve's stomach, but he pushes it down. Bucky needs him steady, focused. There'll be time for panic later, when they're safe, when they're settled.

He drives cautiously at first, not wanting to attract attention. But as night falls and the roads empty, he presses the accelerator, eating up miles between them and Camp Leigh, between Bucky and anyone who might try to use him again.

After an hour, Steve pulls over at a deserted gas station, one with a pay phone. He makes a quick call, speaking in hushed tones, then returns to the car where Bucky hasn't moved an inch.

"Just a little longer," Steve tells him, though he's not sure Bucky can hear him. “We’re going home.”

As the Brooklyn Bridge looms ahead, something tightens in Steve's chest - nostalgia, grief, hope, all tangled together. The skyline isn't quite the same as he remembers, new buildings rising where there were none before, but it's still home. Still theirs.

"Almost there, Buck," he says softly. "We're almost home."

Bucky remains silent, but his eyes track lazily to the window, something in his posture shifting subtly as they cross into Brooklyn. Recognition, perhaps, or muscle memory. Steve clings to the small sign like a lifeline.

He abandons the Packard three blocks from their old building, wiping down the surfaces for fingerprints out of habit. The less evidence they leave, the better. Bucky follows when Steve opens the passenger door, but his movements are sluggish, automated. Steve shoulders their supplies and wraps his free arm around Bucky's waist, supporting him as they walk.

The streets are quiet at this hour, just a few late-night stragglers and the occasional passing car. Steve keeps his head down, cap pulled low over his face. Captain America isn't supposed to be in Brooklyn. Captain America isn't supposed to be alive.

Their building appears unchanged - same weathered brick, same narrow stoop, same fire escape zigzagging up the side. Steve feels a rush of something like vertigo as he guides Bucky into the alley beside it. How many times had they climbed that fire escape as kids?

"We're going up the back way," Steve explains, though he's not sure Bucky understands. "Don't want to wake the neighbors."

The fire escape is sturdy enough for their combined weight, though it creaks ominously as Steve helps Bucky onto the first landing. They move slowly, Steve constantly checking that Bucky is stable, that he's not going to slip or fall. Third floor. Fourth. Fifth. Their old apartment window, dark and shuttered.

Steve peers through the glass. The apartment appears empty, preserved like a time capsule. Their furniture is still there, draped with dust cloths. The walls are the same faded yellow, the floorboards the same scarred pine.

He tests the window. Locked, of course. After a moment's hesitation, he applies gentle pressure to the frame, gradually increasing until the lock breaks with a soft snap. He slides the window up, the wood groaning in protest after years of disuse.

"Here we go, Buck. Careful now."

He climbs in first, then turns to help Bucky through the window. Bucky moves with unexpected grace despite his current state, muscle memory guiding him through the familiar motion of ducking under the frame and stepping over the sill.

Inside, the apartment smells of dust and disuse, but beneath that, there's the faint ghost of something familiar - their soap, maybe, or the cheap aftershave Bucky used to splash on before dates. Steve's throat tightens.

The floor creaks beneath their weight as Steve guides Bucky to the center of the main room. Moonlight filters through the window, illuminating dust motes swirling in their wake. Steve reaches for the light switch, then thinks better of it. Better to avoid drawing attention.

"Let me check the place," he murmurs, settling Bucky into their old armchair. "Don't move."

As if Bucky could go anywhere in his current state. Steve moves through the apartment methodically, checking each room, assessing what's changed and what remains. Someone - the landlord, maybe, or Peggy - has secured the place properly. The utilities are off. The furniture has been covered, the more valuable items locked away. Their personal effects are mostly gone, probably in storage somewhere.

But it's still their apartment. Still home.

Steve returns to find Bucky exactly as he left him, staring vacantly at nothing. The worry that's been simmering in his gut flares higher. This unresponsive state isn't like the confusion or fear Bucky's shown since they found him. This is... absence. Bucky has retreated so far inside himself that he's barely present at all.

"Let's get you comfortable," Steve says, keeping his voice steady despite the fear.

He pulls the dust cloth from the sofa, sending a cloud of particles into the air. The familiar green upholstery beneath is faded but intact. He helps Bucky to it, easing him down gently.

"I'm going to get some water running, maybe find some blankets. Will you be okay here for a minute?"

No response, not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Steve squeezes Bucky's shoulder and forces himself to move, to be practical.

When everything is as secure and comfortable as Steve can make it, he returns to Bucky's side. "Think you can sleep in a real bed tonight? Might help."

He doesn't wait for a response, just gently helps Bucky to his feet and guides him to the bedroom - their bedroom, shared through years of poverty and illness, the space where they'd huddled for warmth in winters when Steve would sweat and shiver through another round of fever.

Bucky allows himself to be settled onto the bed, his eyes tracking Steve's movements but showing no real comprehension. Steve removes Bucky's boots, his torn and bloodied shirt, leaving him in his undershirt and pants. The metal arm gleams dully in the faint light, a stark reminder of everything that's changed.

"There," Steve says softly. "That's better."

He hesitates, then sits on the edge of the bed beside Bucky. The silence between them is heavy with all that's been lost, all that's been endured.

"I don't know if you can hear me," Steve says finally. "I don't know what's happening in your head right now. But we're home, Buck. We made it home."

Something flickers in Bucky's eyes - not recognition, exactly, but a momentary clearing, like sunlight breaking briefly through heavy cloud cover.

"Steve," he says, the word barely audible.

Steve's heart leaps. "Yeah. It's me. I'm right here."

Bucky's flesh hand moves, fumbling weakly until it finds Steve's. His fingers curl around Steve's wrist, grip surprisingly strong despite his current state.

"Safe?" Bucky asks, the single word clearly taking enormous effort.

"Yeah," Steve confirms, covering Bucky's hand with his own. "We're safe. We're home."

He’s not foolish enough to think that no one will look for them here eventually, but Bucky needs stability, needs familiarity, and Steve will give it to him.

The tension in Bucky's body eases fractionally, his eyes drifting closed. His grip on Steve's wrist doesn't loosen, though, holding on as if Steve might disappear if he lets go.

Steve reaches over and brushes Bucky’s hair back behind his ear. “I know it’s been a lot today,” he says carefully. “So we’re gonna keep this simple.” He waits until Bucky finally makes eye contact. “Karpov was your handler, yes? He was in charge?”

Bucky blinks slowly, tension strung tight in his shoulders. After a long moment, he nods his head minutely.

“He set the rules? About drinking? Eating?”

Another nod. Bucky drops his gaze. Gently, Steve tucks a finger under his chin and raises it back up. “What other rules did he have?”

Bucky’s throat bobs nervously. “Steve…”

“I know it’s hard, but I need you to work with me, okay? Nothing’s gonna happen to you. Nobody’s gonna hurt you.”

“Safe…”

“Yeah, sweetheart, you’re safe.”

Bucky's breathing quickens slightly, his eyes darting around the room before settling back on Steve's face. His mouth works silently for a moment, forming words that don't quite make it past his lips.

"Take your time," Steve encourages, though patience is a battle right now. "Just a few words at a time."

Bucky swallows hard. "No... food. Water."

The words come out disjointed, each one requiring visible effort. Steve nods encouragingly, though his jaw clenches tight.

"That's why the tube?" he asks.

Bucky nods, a small tremor running through him. "No waste." His flesh hand drifts unconsciously to his throat, fingers tracing where the feeding tube would go. "No choices."

Steve takes a slow, measured breath, fighting to keep his expression neutral. The rage building inside him has nowhere to go - Karpov is already dead, and showing anger now would only frighten Bucky.

"What else?" he prompts gently.

Bucky's brow furrows with concentration. "No... speaking. Unless questioned."

"Is that why it's hard to talk now?" Steve asks.

Another nod, more hesitant this time. "Punished. For words."

Something twists painfully in Steve's chest. He remembers Bucky before - quick-witted, silver-tongued, never at a loss for words. The man who talked them out of trouble as often as Steve's fists got them into it.

"What about sleeping?" Steve asks.

"Only when... permitted," Bucky manages. "Alert. Always alert."

"And the arm?" Steve nods toward the metal appendage lying inert at Bucky's side.

Bucky looks down at it as if just remembering its existence. "Not mine. Theirs."

"Yours now," Steve says firmly. "Everything is yours now, Buck. Your body, your choices."

Bucky shakes his head frantically. “The Colonel…”

“Karpov’s dead,” Steve says fiercely, then, taking a risk that might ruin everything, he squeezes Bucky’s hand and takes them back into the familiarity of old patterns. Back then, Bucky fought him until he couldn’t. Now… now he’s praying they can rewrite the pattern. “But even if he wasn’t, you’re not his asset.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Made me… am…”

“No. No, you’re my Sergeant. You follow my orders, not his. You remember my orders? From Paris?”

Bucky looks away into the distance, silent for several minutes. Steve doesn’t rush him.

Then, finally, “Sleep in Steve’s arms. Stay with Steve.”

The relief that rushes from his lungs is breathtaking. “Yeah. That’s right. You sleep in my arms, you stay by my side, and I’ll take care of everything else.”

Bucky looks away, his gaze distant again. "Other handlers... will come."

"They'll have to go through me," Steve says, the words more growl than speech.

"Not safe," Bucky insists, a tremor running through him.

Steve shifts closer, careful to telegraph his movements. "I know it's hard to believe right now, but you are safe here. With me. No more handlers, no more rules, no more pain. Just us."

Bucky's eyes find his again, desperate and searching. "Promise?"

"I promise." Steve reaches out slowly, giving Bucky plenty of time to pull away, and brushes the hair back from his forehead.

Bucky nods, clearly comforted by the structure.

"You eat when you're hungry. You sleep when you're tired. You speak whenever you want, whatever you want to say. Your body is yours. Your choices are yours." Steve pauses, making sure Bucky is following. “And until you’re ready to make those choices, I’m gonna look after you.”

The bed is soft. Too soft. Nothing like the hard cot in his cell or the cold metal of the examination table. Wrongness prickles at his skin, but Steve's weight beside him anchors him to the present moment.

Steve. Captain. Handler? No... not handler. Something else. Something... more.

His mind is a fractured mirror, each shard reflecting a different truth. In one, the Colonel - Karpov - stands over him, face impassive as electricity courses through his skull. In another, that same man wipes sweat from his brow with a cool cloth, murmuring praise in Russian when the fever finally breaks.

"You are my finest creation," Karpov had said once, fingers gentle against his cheek. "My greatest achievement."

The same hands that broke his fingers to teach compliance. The same voice that ordered his skull shattered and his brain scrambled when he began to remember his name.

The Colonel is dead. Steve killed him. The knowledge sits uneasily in his chest, relief tangled with something that feels unacceptably like grief.

"Buck? You still with me?"

Steve's voice pulls him back from the swirling confusion of his thoughts. The apartment - their apartment - wavers around him, past and present overlapping in disorienting flashes.

The chair by the window where Steve used to draw.

(The chair where they strapped him down the first time, hands in his hair, holding him in place for the feeding tube.)

The kitchen where he'd cook breakfast before work.

(The lab where they cut and sawed and drilled and peeled and hurt and hurt and...)

The bed where they huddled for warmth in winter.

(The cryo chamber where they promised him peace, a chance to rest, the ice creeping through his veins.)

"Steve," he manages, his voice scraping his throat. He needs to hold onto something real, something unchanged. His flesh hand finds Steve's shirt, fingers clutching desperately at the fabric.

"I'm here," Steve says, his own hand covering Bucky's, warm and solid. "I've got you."

The possessive phrasing should trigger alarm - owned, controlled, asset - but instead, it brings comfort. Steve has him. Steve killed for him. Steve brought him home.

Home. Brooklyn.

A memory surfaces suddenly, crystal clear amid the fog:

Steve, thin and pale, hunched over the kitchen table, shoulders shaking with suppressed coughs. Bucky sliding a bowl of soup in front of him, worry gnawing at his gut.

"You gotta eat, punk. Doctor's orders."

Steve glaring up at him, stubborn as ever. "You ain't a doctor, Buck."

"No, but I play one when my best friend's being an idiot."

The memory fades as quickly as it appeared, leaving him disoriented, uncertain what's real and what's fabricated. Did that happen? He thinks it did. He’s starting to think it all happened.

"Up for trying some water?" Steve asks, holding a glass to his lips. "Just a small sip?"

There's no command in Steve's voice, just a gentle question. He can refuse. He's allowed to refuse now. The thought is simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating.

After a moment's hesitation, he parts his lips. Steve tips the glass carefully, allowing a small amount of water to trickle into his mouth.

He doesn’t wrench Bucky’s head back and pour the water over his face until he chokes.

The sensation is overwhelming. Cool, clean water sliding down his parched throat. When was the last time he drank normally? Not through a tube, not measured nutrients precisely calibrated for optimal performance, but simple water.

He swallows, and suddenly his body recognizes a need he hadn't consciously acknowledged. He's thirsty. Desperately, painfully thirsty.

"More," he whispers, the word coming easier than any he's spoken yet.

Steve's face breaks into a smile, relief evident in every line. "Of course. Small sips, okay? Don't want you getting sick."

He drinks, each swallow both agony and bliss. His body remembering what it is to want, to need, to be satisfied. Halfway through the glass, his vision blurs, something hot and wet spilling down his cheeks.

Tears. He's crying.

Panic follows immediately - weakness, punishment, recalibration - but Steve's thumb gently wipes the moisture away, no anger or disappointment in his expression.

"It's okay," Steve murmurs. "It's okay, Buck."

Another memory surfaces:

Huddled in this same bed, Steve's fever finally breaking after three terrifying days. Bucky's head bowed over their clasped hands, tears of relief falling unchecked.

"Don't you dare scare me like that again, Rogers."

Steve's weak smile, his thumb brushing away Bucky's tears. "Thought you were made of sterner stuff, Barnes."

"Shut up and go back to sleep, punk."

"Jerk."

It’s washed away by the memory of strong hands rubbing soothingly over muscles and skin that both feel shredded raw.

“You did well,” the Colonel tells him. “You suffer it well.”

Bucky curls in closer, wraps a trembling hand around the Colonel’s ankle, and holds onto him with a desperation that borders on manic.

The contradictions overwhelm him. How can he miss Karpov, the man who tortured him, who unmade him piece by piece? The man who… who he thinks held him once, who kissed… How can these memories of Brooklyn, of Steve, feel so real when he was told repeatedly they were delusions, fabrications of a damaged mind?

"I don't... understand," he chokes out, more tears following the first. "Colonel is... dead.”

Steve's expression tightens, but his touch remains gentle. "It's complicated, Buck. What they did to you, what he did to you...nothing you’re feeling right now is wrong, okay?"

"He was... kind. Sometimes." The admission feels like betrayal, but the words spill out anyway. "When I was good. Held me."

Steve's jaw works silently for a moment, and Bucky tenses, waiting for anger, for rejection. Instead, Steve exhales slowly and nods.

"I know," he says carefully. "Not your fault that you're confused about him."

"Was he... right? About me?" The question that's been haunting him since he first began to remember another life, another self.

"About what, Buck?"

"Being... Not... person."

Steve's face crumples, raw pain flashing across his features before he masters it. "No," he says fiercely. "He was wrong. About everything. You're a person, Buck. He was fucking evil. I’m sorry… I’m so sorry I didn’t kill him before."

“Before?”

“After… after London.”

The word hangs in the air between them. London. Something about it snags in his fractured memory, but refuses to take shape.

"London?" Bucky repeats, testing the word, searching for the connection Steve seems to see so clearly.

Steve's expression shifts, first surprise, then understanding, then a carefully controlled neutrality that doesn't quite mask the rage beneath. "You don't remember London?"

Bucky's breathing quickens, anxiety rising. He's failing some test he didn't know he was taking. "Sorry," he whispers, instinctively bracing for punishment. "Don't remember."

"Hey, no, it's okay," Steve says immediately, his hand gentle on Bucky's shoulder. "It's not your fault. Nothing to be sorry for."

But there's something in Steve's face - a darkness, a fury - that makes Bucky shrink back despite the reassurance.

"What happened?" he asks, voice barely audible. "In London?"

Steve hesitates, conflict evident in his expression. "I'm not sure we should get into that right now. You've been through enough today."

Steve hesitates, conflict evident in his expression. Then his features soften, and he shakes his head. "Nothing you need to worry about right now, Buck. It's not important."

But the evasion only intensifies Bucky's anxiety. In the vacuum of memory, his imagination populates the darkness with horrors. "Bad?" he manages to ask.

"It's in the past," Steve says firmly, but gently. "And Karpov can't hurt you anymore. That's all that matters."

The look in Steve's eyes tells Bucky that whatever happened in London was worse than bad. Something terrible. Something Steve doesn't want to burden him with.

A cold feeling spreads through Bucky's chest. Part of him wants to push, to demand answers, to fill in the blank spaces in his memory. But a larger part - the part that remembers what it feels like when memories come flooding back, the disorientation, the pain, the horror of realizing what he's done, what's been done to him - that part recoils from knowing.

"Okay," Bucky whispers, a deliberate choice to retreat from the edge of that darkness.

Relief flickers across Steve's face. "We don't have to talk about it. Not now."

"Too much," Bucky admits, his flesh hand tightening its grip on Steve's. "Too many... bad things."

"Yeah, Buck," Steve agrees softly. "There've been too many bad things. But they're over now. We're here. We're together."

Together. The word resonates, offering something to cling to amid the confusion and fear. Whatever happened in London, whatever Karpov did to him there - it can stay buried, at least for now. He has enough fragments to piece together without adding more.

"But how do I know?" Bucky insists, desperation creeping into his voice. "What's real? What's not?"

Steve reaches for Bucky's flesh hand, guiding it to press against his own chest. "This is real. I'm real. Feel that? My heartbeat." He places his other hand over Bucky's heart.

The sensation of Steve's heartbeat beneath his palm is solid, undeniable. A fixed point in the chaos of his mind.

"Don't have to remember everything," Steve says, his voice gentle but firm. "At least for now."

"Just want to remember us," he admits, the words coming more easily now. "The good parts."

A soft smile touches Steve's lips. "There were a lot of good parts, Buck. And there will be again."

"Tell me?" Bucky asks, suddenly desperate to fill the gaps with something other than horror and pain. "Something good?"

Steve's expression softens, a distant look coming into his eyes as he searches his own memories. "Remember the summer of '36? That heat wave in July? It was so hot in the apartment we could barely breathe. You came home with a block of ice you'd sweet-talked off the delivery guy."

Bucky frowns, concentrating, searching for the memory. A flicker - the slick feel of ice melting against skin, Steve's laughter, the brief respite from oppressive heat.

"We sat in front of it with a fan," Steve continues, his smile growing. "Reading comics and drinking lemonade. You said it was better than going to Coney Island because there were no crowds and I wouldn't throw up on your shoes."

The memory surfaces more clearly now, vivid and warm. "You read the funny pages," Bucky says slowly. "Out loud. Different voices."

Steve's face lights up. "You remember that?"

Bucky nods, clinging to the memory, letting it anchor him. "You were... terrible at it. But made me laugh."

"I was trying to cheer you up," Steve says. "You'd just lost out on that dock job to the foreman's nephew."

Another piece clicks into place. "Needed the money. For your medicine."

"Yeah, Buck," Steve says softly. "You were always looking out for me."

"My job," Bucky replies, the words coming automatically, worn and familiar.

Steve shakes his head gently. "No, Buck. It was never your job. It was your choice." His hand moves to cup Bucky's cheek. "That's what they couldn't understand, what they tried to erase. Everything you did, you chose to do."

Choice. The concept feels alien and terrifying and exhilarating all at once. To choose rather than comply. To want rather than obey.

"Like the water," Bucky says, connecting the ideas.

"That's right," Steve confirms, his smile warm with pride. "And you can choose what to remember, too. What to think about. What to talk about."

The permission - the freedom - is almost too much to comprehend. Bucky feels overwhelmed, his eyes growing heavy with exhaustion. His body seemingly unable to process any more, to feel any more.

"Tired," he admits, the word slurring slightly.

"Sleep, Buck," Steve murmurs, shifting to lie beside him, close but not crowding. "I'll be right here when you wake up."

As consciousness begins to fade, Bucky feels a strange sense of peace. London remains a void, a missing piece. But maybe not all pieces need to be recovered at once. Maybe some are better left in darkness.

For now, he has this: Steve's steady presence beside him, the familiar smell of their apartment, the permission to choose what he remembers, what he knows, what he becomes.

Chapter Text

Location: Brooklyn, New York

Date: October 13th 1949

Steve wakes to the sound of retching.

He's on his feet before he's fully conscious, stumbling toward the bathroom where Bucky is hunched over the toilet, his entire body convulsing with the force of his sickness.

"Hey," Steve says, dropping to his knees beside him. "It's okay. I'm here."

Bucky flinches at the contact when Steve places a gentle hand on his back, but doesn't pull away. His flesh arm trembles where it grips the porcelain, knuckles white with strain. The metal arm hangs uselessly at his side, plates occasionally shifting with soft mechanical whirs that somehow sound distressed.

"Get it all out," Steve encourages, keeping his voice steady despite the worry churning in his gut. "You're doing fine."

It had seemed like such a good idea last night. After Bucky drank the water without issue, Steve had been hopeful. When Steve had asked if he’d wanted to try food, he’d agreed - a whispered confirmation that had his heart soaring with optimism. Progress, he'd thought. A small victory.

He'd prepared some plain oatmeal, nothing fancy, just something gentle on an empty stomach. Bucky had managed three spoonfuls before his expression changed, panic flooding his eyes seconds before he bolted for the bathroom.

He’s been throwing up every couple of hours since. There’s nothing physically left for him to expel, leaving him wrenching miserably as his abused stomach tries to understand why its being put to use after four years of dormancy.

Watching Bucky's body reject even that modest meal, Steve feels the weight of his miscalculation. Should have started smaller. Should have been more careful. Should have known better.

When the heaving finally subsides, Bucky slumps against the bathtub, his face ashen, a sheen of sweat covering his skin. His eyes, when they finally lift to meet Steve's, are filled with such naked shame that it physically hurts to see.

"Sorry," Bucky whispers, the word barely audible. "Sorry."

"No, Buck," Steve says immediately, sitting beside him on the cold tile floor. "This is normal. Your body just needs time to adjust."

Bucky looks away, unconvinced. His flesh hand scrubs weakly at his mouth, trying to erase the evidence of his sickness.

"Disgusting," he mutters. "Weak."

"Hey, no," Steve says, reaching for a washcloth and wetting it in the sink. "Being sick doesn't make you weak or disgusting. It makes you human."

He hands the damp cloth to Bucky, who takes it with trembling fingers and presses it to his face. A soft, wounded sound escapes him, something between a whimper and a sigh.

"Failed," Bucky insists, his voice muffled by the cloth. "Basic. Eating."

Steve's heart breaks a little more, and understanding dawns. Bucky sees this as a mission failure - as if his body's inability to tolerate solid food is a personal shortcoming, a defect to be punished.

"Hey, look at me," Steve says gently. He waits until Bucky lowers the cloth, though his eyes remain fixed on the floor. "This isn't a mission. There's no success or failure here. Just you and me, figuring things out together."

Bucky's shoulders hunch further, his body language radiating misery and shame. "Can't even eat," he whispers. "Useless."

"You know who else couldn't eat?" Steve asks, an idea forming. "Me. Plenty of times."

Bucky's eyes flick up briefly, confusion replacing some of the shame. "You?"

"Yeah. Before the serum, I was sick all the time. Remember? Especially in winter."

Something flickers in Bucky's expression - recognition, perhaps, or the shadow of a memory. "Pneumonia," he says hesitantly. "You got... pneumonia. Every year."

"That's right," Steve confirms, encouraged by the spark of recollection. "And when it was bad, I couldn't keep anything down. Not even water sometimes."

Bucky's brow furrows as he concentrates, piecing together fragments of memory. "Had to... hold a bucket."

"You sure did," Steve says, allowing a small smile. "You'd sit beside my bed for hours, holding that rusty metal bucket for me to be sick in because I was too weak to make it to the bathroom."

The memory surfaces more clearly now, detailed and vivid - Bucky's worried face in the dim light of their apartment, his hand cool against Steve's burning forehead. The sour smell of sickness. The constant, bone-deep exhaustion.

"Remember that winter of '38?" Steve continues, watching Bucky closely for signs of recognition. "I had pneumonia so bad the doctor said I wouldn't make it to Christmas."

Bucky's eyes widen slightly. "Told him... to go to hell," he says, the words coming more easily now. "Said you were... too stubborn to die."

Steve laughs softly, relief flooding through him at this evidence that Bucky's memories of their shared past aren't completely lost. "That's exactly what you said. Nearly gave poor Dr. Abernathy a heart attack."

A ghost of a smile touches Bucky's lips, so brief Steve almost misses it. "You were... heavy. For someone so small."

"Dead weight," Steve agrees. "You had to half-carry me to the bathroom when I was too weak to walk. Remember?"

Bucky nods slowly, the memory visibly taking shape behind his eyes. "Held you up. While you... used the toilet."

"Not your most glamorous job," Steve acknowledges. "But you never complained. Not once."

"Your ribs," Bucky continues, his voice gaining strength as the memory solidifies. "Could feel every one. Like... bird bones."

"Yeah, Buck. I was skin and bones back then. But you still never made me feel weak. You let me fuck up when I needed to, then waded in to save my dumb ass.”

Bucky looks down at his own body - still stretched too thin, still bearing the marks of captivity and abuse - then back at Steve. "You're... bigger now?"

Steve smiles at the understatement. "Yeah. Bit of a role reversal, huh? But that's okay. That's what we do. We take care of each other."

"Used to clean up," Bucky says, the words halting but clearer. "When you were sick. On the floor. On your clothes."

"All the time," Steve confirms. "Never made me feel bad about it either. Not even when I ruined your best shirt right before you had a date with Dot Williams."

Bucky's brow furrows. "Don't remember her."

"That's okay," Steve assures him. "She wasn't that special. Point is, you took care of me. For years. Through every illness, every fever, every time my body betrayed me." He reaches out, slow and telegraphed, to rest his hand on Bucky's knee. "Now it's my turn. No matter how long it takes."

Bucky swallows hard, his eyes suspiciously bright. "What if... never get better? What if... always like this?"

The raw vulnerability in the question hits Steve like a physical blow. "Then we adapt," he says with quiet certainty. "We figure it out. Together. You're not alone in this, Buck."

A single tear escapes, tracking down Bucky's pale cheek. "Embarrassing," he whispers. "Being sick. Being... broken."

"You remember how I used to get when I was sick?" Steve asks. "All prickly and stubborn and mad at the world?"

A slight nod.

"Did you ever think less of me for it? For needing help? For being sick?"

Bucky shakes his head immediately, emphatically. "No. Never."

"Then why would I think any less of you?" Steve asks softly.

Bucky has no answer for that, his gaze dropping back to the floor. But some of the tension has eased from his shoulders, his posture less hunched with shame.

"Think you can make it back to bed?" Steve asks after a moment. "You should rest."

Bucky nods, though uncertainty flickers across his face. "Try again? Eating?"

The hope in his voice, the determination despite what just happened - it makes Steve's chest ache with pride and grief and love all tangled together.

"We'll try again," Steve promises. "But differently. Maybe some broth first, instead of solid food. We'll take it slow. No rush."

He helps Bucky to his feet, steadying him when he sways slightly. They make their way slowly back to the bedroom, Steve's arm around Bucky's waist, supporting but not carrying.

Once Bucky is settled back in bed, Steve brings him a glass of water with a bent straw - easier to sip from a reclined position.

"Small sips," he reminds gently. "Just like last night."

Bucky complies, his movements cautious but determined. When he's had enough, he turns his face away, and Steve immediately removes the glass. No pushing, no pressure. Just acceptance.

"Rest now," Steve says, smoothing the blanket over Bucky's chest. "I'll be right here if you need anything."

Bucky's flesh hand catches his wrist as he starts to move away. "Steve?"

"Yeah, Buck?"

"Thank you." The words are quiet but clear, unbroken by hesitation. "For... for..."

Steve feels his own eyes grow damp. "No need to thank me, Buck. Remember what you used to tell me when I'd try to thank you for taking care of me?"

Bucky's brow furrows as he searches for the memory. "It's what... we do?"

"That's right," Steve confirms, his voice rough with emotion. "It's what we do. It's who we are." He leans in and presses a kiss to Bucky’s feverish brow. For all the role reversal, the strange familiarity of doing this here makes it feel, at least to Steve, like something far more manageable. These walls have seen the worst of both of Steve and the best of Bucky and if somehow they can become a shelter and shield, better this place of knowing. He hopes it feels the same for Bucky.

“Didn’t want to leave you,” Bucky whispers, leaning his head on Steve’s shoulder. “Wanted to stay. Look after you.”

As far as they’ve come, as much as they’ve seen, it’s impossible not to remember that beautiful, bright-eyed boy who’d smiled so easily, who’d spun Steve stories of adventure and excitement, stories Steve had clung to in his weakest moments. It’s hard not to wonder just how many of those stories Bucky embellished for Steve’s sake. How hard he had to fight to pretend everything was fine, that he wasn’t terrified out of his mind.

“I know,” Steve assures him. He drapes his arm over Bucky’s shoulders and rubs his thumb soothingly across the curve of his neck. “I know, sweetheart.”

Location: Brooklyn, New York

Date: October 13th 1949

"If one more elbow jabs my ribs, I swear to Christ I'll walk the rest of the way," Morita grumbles from the middle of the backseat, compressed between Jones and Dernier like a sardine in a particularly uncomfortable tin.

"Oh, quit your bitching," Dugan barks from behind the wheel, though there's no real heat in it. "We're almost there."

"You said that twenty minutes ago," Jones points out.

"Well, this time I mean it."

"Remind me again why the guy with a bullet hole in his shoulder and another in his leg is driving?" Morita asks, leaning forward to glare at the back of Dugan's head.

"Because it's my damn jeep," Dugan retorts, wincing as he shifts his wounded shoulder to make a turn.

"It's the Army's jeep," Jones corrects.

"Which I requisitioned with my charming personality and superior rank."

"You mean you stole it," Monty says from the passenger seat, which he'd claimed by virtue of his longer legs and general Britishness (which somehow always translates to preferential treatment, a fact Dugan will never acknowledge out loud).

"Borrowed," Dugan insists. "With every intention of returning it. Eventually."

Monty consults the scribbled address in his hand. "Take a right at the next corner. Should be halfway down the block."

The jeep lurches as Dugan makes the turn, eliciting another round of complaints from the backseat. He ignores them, scanning the row of modest brownstones until he spots the number they're looking for.

"This is it," he announces, pulling up to the curb with more force than necessary. "Barnes residence."

"You sure she'll be willing to see us?" Jones asks, peering out the window at the neat brownstone. "After we ignored all her letters?"

"She'll see me," Dugan says with more confidence than he feels. "We've kept in touch."

"You what?" Morita asks incredulously.

Dugan shifts uncomfortably. "I answered her letters. Because I’m not a complete ass. And I've seen her a few times when I've been in New York."

The others stare at him in surprise.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Monty asks.

Dugan shrugs, the movement making him wince. "Didn't seem relevant. And it's not like any of you showed much interest in anything to do with Barnes or Rogers."

The uncomfortable truth of the statement hangs in the air. Dugan gets it, he does. Hard as hell to move on from anything when you’re haunted by failures of the past, but still. Becca deserves better from the lot of them, and Dugan is a poor substitution for her brother.

"Well, that makes this slightly less awkward for you," Morita says finally. "The rest of us are still screwed."

"She's a good kid," Dugan says, opening his door. "And she deserves to know her brother's alive. After that, you can all grovel appropriately for ignoring her."

With that, he hauls himself out of the jeep, not bothering to hide his grimace of pain as his injured leg takes his weight. The others follow, Morita muttering something under his breath about "stubborn jackasses" and "should be in the hospital."

The brownstone is well-maintained, window boxes full of autumn chrysanthemums, the steps swept clean. Dugan adjusts his civilian clothes - still an odd sensation after years in uniform - and rings the bell.

Footsteps approach quickly from inside, and the door swings open with Becca on the other side. Her expression shifts from curiosity to recognition to concern in the span of a heartbeat.

"Timothy?" she says, her eyes immediately going to the bloodstain visible on his shoulder despite his efforts to hide it. "What happened? Are you all right?"

‘Timothy?’ Morita mouths to Jones, who shrugs. Dugan is, on occasion, known to answer to Tim, but Timothy is his grown up name and none of the boys are ever going to consider him that.

"Just a scratch, Becca," he assures her. "Nothing to worry about. Your mom in?"

“She’s visiting Uncle Jack,” her gaze moves past him to the others, recognition dawning. "The Howling Commandos," she says, not quite a question. "All of you. Here." There's a hint of steel beneath the surprise.

"Becca," Dugan says, "you remember Monty, Jim, Gabe, and Jacques. Fellas, Rebecca Barnes."

"I remember who they are," Becca says coolly. "I wrote to each of them. Multiple times."

The men have the grace to look ashamed, shifting uncomfortably under her direct gaze.

Dugan clears his throat. "Mind if we come in? It's important."

Something in his tone must convey the gravity of the situation, because Becca's expression softens slightly. "Of course," she says, stepping back. "Though I should warn you, if you've come to weasel out of walking me down the aisle next month, I'm going to be very disappointed."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Dugan says, forcing a smile as they file past her into the house. He'd completely forgotten about the wedding with everything that had happened.

The interior of the house is neat and modest - a living room with well-worn but clean furniture, family photographs on the walls, the subtle scent of baking in the air. In one corner, a white dress hangs from a hook on the closet door, half-finished, waiting for final alterations.

"Sit," Becca commands, gesturing to the sofa and chairs. "I'll get coffee. You all look like you could use it."

As she disappears into the kitchen, Morita leans over to Dugan. "She asked you to walk her down the aisle?" he asks in a hushed voice.

Dugan nods. "Her father died two years ago. She asked me to stand in for the Sarge."

"And you didn't think to mention it?" Jones asks incredulously.

"Like I said, didn't seem relevant," Dugan mutters, but the truth is more complicated. His relationship with Becca Barnes exists in a separate compartment of his life, one untouched by the war, by the Commandos, by the shared grief that still hangs over them all. It's something personal, something he's kept to himself. Its on them if they want to cut her out of their lives.

Becca returns with a tray of coffee cups and a plate of oatmeal cookies. She sets them on the coffee table and takes a seat in the armchair facing them.

"So," she says, her expression serious. "This doesn't feel like a social call. What's happened?"

Dugan takes a deep breath. No point in beating around the bush with Becca; she's too much like her brother for that approach to work. Besides, there’s no gentle way to tell her what she needs to know.

"It's about Bucky," he says, throwing caution to the wind, "He's alive, Becca."

The color drains from her face. For a moment, she doesn't move, doesn't blink, barely seems to breathe. Then, with deliberate control, she sets her coffee cup down.

"That's not funny," she says, her voice dangerously quiet.

"It's not meant to be," he assures her. "It's the truth. Your brother is alive. He was... captured. Held prisoner. We only found him recently."

"That's impossible," Becca says flatly. "He died. We got… we got the letter. We…” She can't quite finish, even after all these years.

"We thought so too," Monty interjects gently. "But it appears Sergeant Barnes was... altered during his previous captivity at Azzano. Enhanced, in a way similar to Captain Rogers, though less successfully. It allowed him to survive the fall, though with significant injuries."

Becca's gaze snaps to Monty, sharp and assessing. "Enhanced? What are you talking about? What happened to my brother?"

Dugan exchanges glances with the others. None of them had known the full story until after they found Barnes. It had been classified, compartmentalized. Even Rogers hadn't known the extent of what Zola had done.

"We can't get into all of it right now," Dugan says carefully. "But your brother was experimented on by HYDRA. It changed him physically. Made him more resilient."

"And you didn't think this was something I should know?" Becca demands, anger flashing in her eyes as she turns back to Dugan. "In all those letters, you never thought to mention that my brother was experimented on?"

"I didn't know myself," Dugan admits. "None of us did. Not until recently." It’s a white lie: they all knew Bucky’d been tortured. She doesn’t need to know the details.

Becca stands abruptly, pacing to the window and back, her movements tightly controlled. "So you're telling me my brother, who I've mourned for five years, who I thought died alone in some godforsaken war zone, is actually alive? That he's been a prisoner all this time?"

"Yes," Dugan says simply. "That's exactly what I'm telling you."

"Why now?" Becca asks, turning to face him. "Why are you telling me this now?"

"Because he needs our help," Dugan says. "All of our help."

"Where is he?" Becca demands. "I want to see him."

Dugan rubs the back of his neck, wincing at the pull on his injured shoulder. "That's actually why we're here. We're not exactly sure where he is at the moment."

"What do you mean, you're not sure? You said you found him! You’ve lost him already?"

"We did find him," Monty clarifies. "But then... circumstances arose that made the situation more complicated."

"What circumstances?" Becca asks, suspicion narrowing her eyes. "What aren't you telling me?"

Dugan braces himself for her reaction. "Steve is alive too. And he's taken Bucky somewhere... somewhere safe, we think, but we don't know where."

Becca stares at him, her expression flickering through shock, disbelief, anger, and finally settling on something like resignation. "Of course," she says, almost to herself. "Of course they'd come back together. Steve fucking Rogers, my god."

"You don't seem as surprised as I expected," Dugan observes, ignoring the cursing.

Becca gives him a look that's pure Barnes – exasperated, fond, and slightly condescending all at once. "Steve Rogers following my brother into the afterlife and somehow finding a way to bring them both back? That's the least surprising thing you've told me today. Those two idiots have been joined at the hip since they were knee-high to a grasshopper."

Despite the situation, Dugan finds himself smiling. "That's one way of putting it."

Becca shakes her head, sitting back down heavily. "So both Steve and Bucky are alive, and now they're missing. Again. And you want my help to find them."

"Yes," Dugan confirms.

Becca's expression shifts, something vulnerable breaking through her composed facade. "How is he? Bucky? You said he was a prisoner. What did they do to him?"

The question lands heavily in the room. Dugan looks to the others for help, but they remain silent, leaving him to navigate this particular minefield.

"He's been through hell, Becca," Dugan says finally, deciding honesty is the only approach that will work with her. He can walk that line without traumatizing her… he hopes. "He's not the same man you knew. He's been... damaged. By what they did to him."

"Damaged how?" she presses.

"They tortured him," Jones says, his voice gentle. "For years. Tried to break him."

"Did they succeed?" Becca asks, her knuckles white where she grips the arms of her chair.

"No," Dugan says firmly. "They didn't break him. Not completely. But he's struggling. And Cap is... well, he’s is not exactly thinking clearly. He's running on instinct, on the need to protect Bucky."

"That sounds exactly like Steve thinking clearly," Becca says with a hint of her brother's wry humor. "Only time those idiots ever fell out was when they fought over who was looking out for who."

"Maybe," Dugan concedes. "But Barnes needs more than just protection right now. He needs help. The kind Steve might not be able to provide, no matter how much he wants to."

Becca is quiet for a long moment, absorbing this. Finally, she nods, decision made. "Their old apartment," she says. "If Steve was looking for somewhere familiar, somewhere safe for Bucky, that's where he'd take him."

"You're sure?" Monty asks.

"As sure as I can be," Becca says. "That place was... special to them. It was theirs in a way nothing else was. It was like... their own little world."

Dugan nods, a surge of hope rising in his chest. It makes sense. The apartment had been maintained, the rent paid anonymously through some arrangement with Stark that Dugan had never fully understood. If Rogers was looking for a sanctuary, a place to help Barnes heal...

"Thank you, Becca," he says, already pushing himself to his feet. "We'll head there now."

"Not without me, you won't," Becca says, standing as well. Her tone makes it clear this isn't a request.

"Becca," Dugan begins, "I don't think - "

"He's my brother," she cuts him off fiercely. "And after four years of thinking he was dead, I'm not waiting another second to see him. So either I'm coming with you, or I'm going there myself." She crosses her arms, a gesture so reminiscent of Barnes that it makes Dugan's chest ache. "Your choice, Dum Dum."

Dugan looks at the others, seeing his own resignation mirrored on their faces. None of them are going to argue with her, not when she has that look in her eyes - the same stubborn determination that had gotten her brother through a war and Steve Rogers through a lifetime of being too fragile for his own ambitions.

"Alright," Dugan concedes. "But you should know, he might not... he might not recognize you. Or he might not be ready to see you. This has to be on his terms, Becca. You understand that?"

Something flickers in her eyes - pain, acceptance, resolve. "I understand," she says quietly. "I just need to see him. The rest... we'll figure out as we go."

Dugan nods, understanding all too well. "Then let's go find them."

Rules. There are always rules.

Bucky sits on the edge of the bed, trying to organize them in his mind. The new ones, Steve's rules, are strange. Contradictory to everything he's learned.

Eat when you're hungry. But what if he doesn't know when that is? What if he's wrong?

Sleep when you're tired. But without a handler's permission, sleep feels wrong. Dangerous.

Speak whenever you want. The most confusing rule of all. Words still stick in his throat, require effort to form. And what if he says the wrong thing?

Steve hasn't explained the punishments yet. This is what troubles Bucky most. The Colonel - Karpov - was always explicit. Disobedience meant pain. Failure meant the box. Regression meant the ice.

But Steve just smiles, touches him gently, says, "It's okay, Buck. You're doing fine."

Sleep in my arms, and stay by my side. I’ll take care of everything else.

It would be so easy…

But… but everyone has limits. Everyone breaks eventually.

Especially now, after this morning's disaster. Bucky's stomach clenches at the memory - the humiliation of being sick, of failing at the simple task of eating. Steve had cleaned up the mess without complaint, had held him, told him stories of the times he'd done the same for Steve.

But there must be consequences. There are always consequences.

The floor creaks as Steve enters the bedroom, a glass of water in one hand, a book in the other. "Hey," he says, his smile warm. "Feeling any better?"

Bucky nods automatically. It's not entirely true - his stomach still feels uneasy, his head slightly muzzy - but admitting weakness has never ended well.

Steve studies him for a moment, his gaze too perceptive. "It's okay if you're not," he says gently.

The words are so close to Bucky's own thoughts that for a disorienting moment, he wonders if Steve can read his mind. But no - it's just that Steve knows him. Knew him. The person he was before.

"Trying..." Bucky struggles for the words. "Trying to be good."

Something flickers in Steve's eyes - pain, maybe, or anger quickly suppressed. "You don't have to try to be 'good' for me, Buck. That's not how this works."

But that's exactly how it works. How it's always worked. Be good, comply, and maybe the pain stops. Maybe you get a moment's peace, a kind word, a gentle touch.

"Don't understand," Bucky admits, the confession difficult. "The rules."

Steve sets the water and book on the nightstand, then sits beside him on the bed, careful to leave space between them. "They're not really rules, Buck. They're... permissions. Things you're allowed to do without asking. Without fearing punishment."

Punishment. There it is, the word Bucky's been waiting for. His shoulders tense involuntarily.

"There is no punishment," Steve says, as if reading his thoughts again. "Not ever. No matter what happens, no matter what you do or don't do. I will never hurt you."

Bucky searches Steve's face, looking for the lie, the hidden agenda. But there's only open sincerity, the same look Steve has always had when he's declaring something he believes with absolute conviction.

"What if..." Bucky hesitates, fear making his voice smaller. "What if I hurt you?"

"You won't," Steve says with such certainty that for a moment, Bucky almost believes him.

"I could," Bucky insists. "I get..." Confused. Scared. What if he forgets again?

"If you hurt me by accident, we'll deal with it," Steve says calmly. "And if something happens that makes you feel like you might hurt me on purpose, we'll deal with that too. Together. No punishment. Just... solutions."

It sounds too simple. Too good to be true. Nothing in Bucky's recent experience has prepared him for this approach - this absence of threat, of fear, of consequences.

"Why?" he asks finally, the question encompassing everything he can't articulate.

Steve seems to understand the broader question. "Because that's not what people who care about each other do, Buck. They don't punish each other for being human."

People who care about each other. The phrase stirs something deep in Bucky's fractured memory. A different life, a different world, where he and Steve were... what? Friends?

"You and me," Bucky says hesitantly. "Before. We were..."

"Best friends," Steve says, something soft and almost wistful in his voice. "We grew up together. You were always there for me, always had my back."

The words feel right, matching the fragments of memory that sometimes surface - watching Steve's back in a Brooklyn alley, nursing him through fevers, following him into war. But there's something else, something in the way Steve looks at him now that suggests more than just friendship.

"Only friends?" Bucky asks, the question emerging before he can reconsider.

A flush creeps up Steve's neck. "Yeah," he says, then hesitates. "I mean... that's all we ever were. But maybe not all I wanted us to be."

The admission hangs in the air between them, new and fragile and uncertain.

"What did you want?" Bucky asks, curiosity overriding his usual caution.

Steve looks down at his hands, a gesture that seems strangely vulnerable coming from someone so physically powerful. "More," he admits quietly. "I wanted more. But it wasn't something we could have back then. It wasn't safe. It wasn't allowed."

More. The word echoes in Bucky's mind, bringing with it flashes of feelings rather than memories - longing, warmth, a deep ache of something unfulfilled. Did he want more too? He thinks maybe he did, though he can't quite grasp the memory of it.

He does remember kissing Steve. Of how nice it felt. How right. Of Steve kissing him. Wanting him.

"And now?" Bucky asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

Steve looks up, meeting his eyes. "Now I... I still want. I’ll always want. What you want. Whatever you want, Buck.."

Want. Such a simple word for such a complex concept. Bucky has spent years having his wants systematically erased, replaced with the need to comply.

But sitting here, looking at Steve's face - open and honest and a little afraid - Bucky realizes that he does want. He wants to be closer to Steve. Wants to understand this strange new tension between them. Wants to explore this "more" that neither of them had dared reach for before.

Without conscious thought, Bucky shifts closer on the bed, eliminating the space between them. His body seems to know what to do, even when his mind is uncertain - drawn to Steve like a compass needle to north.

"I want," he says simply, the words coming easier than he expected. "More. With you."

Relief and joy flash across Steve's face, quickly tempered by caution. "You're sure? We don't have to rush anything, Buck. We can take all the time you need."

But Bucky is tired of waiting. He's lost years - to war, to HYDRA, to the ice. He doesn't want to waste more time on caution when his instincts are screaming that this is right, this is good, this is what he needs.

"Show me," he says, echoing his earlier request, but with new intent behind it.

Understanding dawns in Steve's eyes. Slowly, telegraphing every movement, he raises his hand to Bucky's face, fingers brushing his cheek with exquisite gentleness.

"Like this," Steve murmurs, leaning in until their foreheads touch. "Just being close."

The contact is simple but overwhelming. Bucky closes his eyes, focusing on the sensation - Steve's warm breath against his face, the solid presence of him, the absence of demand or expectation. This is nothing like Karpov's touch, which always carried threat beneath the gentleness. This is pure, uncomplicated care.

"More?" Bucky whispers, surprising himself with his boldness.

Steve pulls back slightly, searching Bucky's face. "You sure?"

Bucky nods. This feels right. Feels like his choice, not something commanded or coerced.

With infinite care, Steve brings their lips together. The kiss is feather-light, brief, a question more than a demand. It's nothing like anything Bucky can remember - not the mechanical compliance he'd given Karpov, not the practiced charm he vaguely recalls from dancing with girls before the war. This is new. Uncharted.

When Steve starts to pull away, Bucky follows instinctively, his flesh hand reaching up to cup the back of Steve's neck, keeping him close. He doesn't want this to end, doesn't want to lose this warm, expanding feeling in his chest.

The second kiss is firmer, more certain. Bucky lets instinct guide him, tilting his head to find a better angle, letting his lips part slightly against Steve's. It's clumsy, unpracticed - they're both figuring this out as they go - but that makes it all the more precious. This isn't muscle memory; it's discovery.

When they part, Steve's eyes are bright with wonder and a hint of disbelief, as if he can't quite believe this is happening. "Okay?" he asks softly.

"Yes," Bucky says without hesitation. For the first time in longer than he can remember, there's no confusion, no doubt, no fear clouding his certainty. This is right. This is good. This is... home.

Emboldened, he leans in again, initiating the kiss this time. Steve responds in kind, his hand moving to Bucky's waist, steadying but not constraining. The metal arm whirs to life, plates shifting as Bucky tentatively brings it up to rest on Steve's shoulder, testing whether Steve will flinch from the contact. He doesn't.

The kiss deepens slightly, Steve's lips parting against his. Bucky follows his lead, finding comfort in the gentle guidance. There's no conquest here, no dominance, just an offering that Bucky is free to accept or decline.

He accepts, exploring this new territory with careful attention. Steve smells like the bitter coffee he's been drinking all day, like something new yet somehow familiar. Bucky's flesh hand tightens on the back of Steve's neck, pulling him closer, needing more of this feeling - this rightness, this belonging.

Steve makes a soft sound, something between a sigh and a moan, and the vibration of it against Bucky's lips sends a pleasant shiver down his spine. This is good. This is right. This is -

A sharp knock at the door shatters the moment.

Bucky jerks back, instantly alert, instantly afraid. The metal arm whirs loudly, plates locking and unlocking as his fight-or-flight response activates.

"It's okay," Steve says immediately, his voice steady despite the flush on his cheeks, the slight dazedness in his eyes. "It's okay, Buck. Just someone at the door. Nothing to worry about."

But Bucky is already on his feet, body tense, positioning himself between Steve and the potential threat. Old instincts, ingrained patterns. Protect Steve. Always protect Steve.

"Buck," Steve says gently, standing as well. "It's all right. Let me check who it is."

Another knock, more insistent this time. "Cap?" a familiar voice calls through the door. "Sarge? It's Dugan. Open up."

Not a threat. Bucky tries to hold onto that assessment as Steve moves past him toward the door. But something still feels wrong, feels dangerous. They were hidden here. Safe. How did Dugan find them?

"So much for peace and quiet. Stay here," Steve says, pausing at the bedroom door. "I'll go talk to him."

Bucky nods, but as soon as Steve disappears down the hallway, he follows silently, keeping to the shadows, unwilling to let Steve face potential danger alone.

From his position just inside the bedroom doorway, Bucky can see the apartment's front door, can see Steve approaching it cautiously.

"What are you doing here, Corporal," Steve calls, not yet unlocking the door.

"Dropping by with fucking milk, what the shit do you think we’re doing here?"

There’s a scuffle outside the door, followed by a low curse. Then, a new voice.

“Steve? Steve, it’s Becca.”

Becca. The name hits Bucky like a physical blow.

A little girl with braided pigtails, crying over a scraped knee. His hands - both flesh, both gentle - cleaning the wound, bandaging it, drying her tears.

A teenager in a new dress, twirling for his approval before her first dance. "You look beautiful, Becs. That O'Malley kid won't know what hit him."

A teenager hugging him fiercely the night before he shipped out, whispering against his uniform, "You come back, Bucky Barnes. You hear me? You come back."

"Becca," Bucky whispers, the name feeling right on his tongue.

Steve unlocks the door and takes a cautious step to one side.

A young woman who steps through the doorway, flanked by the silent, serious figures of the Howling Commandos.

She’s not the little girl that flashes before his eyes. Not the teenager who held him so fiercely.

She’s all grown up. And so, so beautiful.

Her pale eyes swim with tears as she lifts her hand to her mouth and holds back a sob. “Bucky?”

Chapter Text

Location: SHIELD Headquarters, Camp Leigh

Date: October 13th 1949

Peggy stares at the liquid in her glass, watching it catch the dim light of her office lamp. Third drink of the evening. No, fourth. Fifth? Not that she's counting.

The personnel files spread across her desk swim slightly when she looks at them. Names, dates, security clearances. People she trusted. People she vouched for. People who had betrayed everything SHIELD stands for.

With a grimace, she downs the remainder of her whiskey, welcoming the burn. The bottle - Howard's special reserve, kept for celebrations and catastrophes - sits within easy reach. Tonight certainly qualifies as the latter.

Twelve SHIELD agents were compromised. Twelve traitors, once trusted personnel, helped orchestrate the breach, nearly succeeded in recapturing Barnes, and orchestrated the prisoners’ escape. And those are just the ones they've confirmed so far.

Her eyes drift to the small metal trash bin beside her desk. It would be so easy. So simple. Just strike a match, drop it in, and watch it all burn. The evidence, the files, the whole damned compromised operation.

Peggy reaches for the bottle, pouring another finger of whiskey with a hand that isn't quite steady. She's earned this indulgence, this moment of weakness. Tomorrow, she'll be Director Carter again - composed, decisive, infallible. Tonight, she allows herself to be simply Peggy, betrayed and furious and deeply, profoundly tired.

A soft knock at the door interrupts her thoughts. "Come in," she calls, not bothering to hide the bottle or glass. At this point, appearances seem rather trivial.

Colonel Phillips enters, looking remarkably upright for a man who suffered a concussion less than 48 hours ago. His head is bandaged, and he moves with the careful movement of someone trying to hide their pain, but his eyes are as clear and sharp as ever.

"You should be in the infirmary," Peggy says, not unkindly.

"So should you, by the looks of it," Phillips returns, eyeing the bottle on her desk. "Mind if I join you? Doctor's orders - for the pain."

Peggy's lips quirk in a ghost of a smile as she reaches for another glass. "Since when do you follow doctors' orders?"

"Since never," Phillips admits, lowering himself carefully into the chair across from her desk. "But I've found they make convenient excuses."

She pours him a measure of whiskey, sliding it across the desk. "How's the head?"

"Been better," he admits, taking a careful sip. "Been worse too. How's the investigation?"

Peggy gestures to the files strewn across her desk. "Twelve confirmed. Probably more we haven't identified yet. The breach was...extensive."

"Never thought I'd see the day," Phillips says, his voice heavy with disappointment. "Our own people."

"That's the problem, isn't it?" Peggy says, bitterness seeping into her tone. "They were our people. People I personally vetted, in some cases. People I trusted." She reaches into her desk drawer, retrieving a small wooden box of matches. She strikes one to watch it burn. Absently, she set the box on the desk beside the files.

Phillips' eyes track the movement. He says nothing, just takes another sip of his whiskey.

"How did we miss it?" she asks, the question that's been haunting her since the breach. "How did we not see this coming?"

"Because we were looking in the wrong direction," Phillips says grimly. "We were so focused on external threats that we missed the enemy within. Classic tactical error."

Peggy nods, idly sliding open the matchbox with her thumb. "Paperclip," she says, naming the rot at the core of it all.

Phillips' expression darkens. "Seemed like a good idea at the time. Secure those scientists, those resources, before the Soviets could get them."

"And instead we invited the fox into the henhouse," Peggy finishes. "Gave them access, clearance, resources. We paid for them to drill into Barnes’s arm while he was awake." She shakes her head and laughs bitterly. "We believed we were in control. We should have known better."

"Yes," Phillips agrees, surprising her with his bluntness. "We should have."

The admission hangs between them, heavy with shared blame. They had compromised. They had looked the other way. They had told themselves it was for the greater good, for national security, for the future of SHIELD.

And Barnes had paid the price.

Peggy pulls out a match, turning it slowly between her fingers. "You know what I keep thinking, Chester?"

Phillips' gaze flicks between the match and her face. "What's that, Director?"

"I keep thinking about what we found when we liberated those HYDRA facilities during the war. All those records, those terrible, meticulous records of what they did to people." Her jaw tightens. "And how the first thing Barnes demanded we do was burn them. Burn everything. The labs, the equipment, the files. As if fire could somehow cleanse the horror of what happened there."

"I remember," Phillips says quietly.

"We should have been more thorough," Peggy says, striking the match against the box. The flame flares to life, bright and hungry in the dim office. "We should have burned it all down. Every last trace."

Phillips watches her, his expression unreadable. "And now?"

Peggy holds the match, watching the flame creep closer to her fingers. "Now I'm thinking perhaps we should finish the job."

"You're talking about destroying evidence," Phillips observes, though there's no judgment in his tone.

"I'm talking about destroying HYDRA," Peggy corrects, her voice hard. "Whatever form it takes, whatever disguise it wears. Even if that disguise happens to be SHIELD."

The match burns down, the flame nearly reaching her fingers. At the last moment, she drops it into the trash bin. The papers inside catch immediately, a small but determined fire blooming.

"You're serious about this," Phillips says, watching the flames grow.

"Completely," Peggy confirms, reaching for another file - this one detailing the security protocols that had so spectacularly failed. She drops it into the growing fire. "Camp Leigh is compromised, Chester. SHIELD is compromised. The whole bloody operation is rotten from the inside out."

Phillips doesn't try to stop her as she adds another file to the flames. "What's your endgame here, Carter? Burn the evidence and then what?"

"Burn it all," Peggy says simply. "The files. The labs. The entire facility. Salt the earth so nothing of HYDRA can ever grow here again." She meets his gaze steadily. "And then we start over. Somewhere new. With people we can trust."

Phillips is silent for a long moment, considering. Then, to her surprise, he reaches for one of the files on her desk - a dossier on a scientist brought in under Paperclip, one who had almost certainly known about Barnes' captivity. Without ceremony, he drops it into the fire.

"If we're doing this," he says, "we do it right. Controlled burn. We get the essential, uncorrupted files out first. We make sure the facility is clear of personnel. And we have a damn good cover story ready."

Peggy feels a tension she hadn't realized she was carrying ease slightly. "You're with me on this?"

"Would I be adding fuel to your little bonfire if I wasn't?" Phillips asks dryly. "But Carter, you need to be sure. This isn't something you can take back. You’re gonna have a Congressman or two on your ass

"I am sure," Peggy says, adding another file to the flames. "I've never been more sure of anything. SHIELD was supposed to protect people like Barnes, not facilitate their torture. If we can't trust our own organization, then it doesn't deserve to exist. Not in its current form."

The fire in the bin is growing, flames licking higher. Soon they'll set off the smoke detectors, but Peggy finds she doesn't care. Let them come. Let them see what she's doing. Let them try to stop her.

Phillips nods, decision made. "We'll need to move fast. Tonight, ideally. Before whoever's pulling the strings on our HYDRA agents realizes what we're planning."

"Monty and the others are out looking for Rogers and Barnes," Peggy says, mentally calculating. "That's good - keeps them clear of this. Howard's in Washington, but I can reach him by secure line. He'll help."

"What about the agents who aren't compromised?" Phillips asks. "The ones we can trust?"

"Minimal involvement," Peggy decides. "The fewer people who know, the better. We can frame it as a tragic accident. Electrical fire, perhaps, or a lab explosion." She reaches for the bottle again, refilling both their glasses. "The less they know, the less they're implicated."

Phillips raises his glass in a sardonic toast. "To plausible deniability."

Peggy clinks her glass against his. "To burning it all down," she corrects.

They drink in silence for a moment, watching the flames consume years of compromised work, corrupted ideals. It should feel destructive, Peggy thinks. It should feel like failure.

Instead, it feels like cleansing. Like catharsis. Like the first right thing she's done since learning the extent of the betrayal.

"We'll need to move quickly," Phillips says, already shifting into tactical planning. "Secure the truly essential files, create a diversion, set the charges..."

"I'll handle the diversion," Peggy says, her mind racing ahead. "You focus on getting the critical files out. We meet at rendezvous point Alpha in three hours."

Phillips nods, already standing. "And after? When Camp Leigh is nothing but ashes?"

"After," Peggy says, watching the flames consume another file, "we build something new. Something better. Something that truly stands against everything HYDRA represents."

"From the ashes," Phillips murmurs.

"From the ashes," Peggy agrees.

“Oh, and Carter?”

“Hmm?”

“Be a real shame if the security failsafe in the cells were to prove faulty.” He maintains eye contact, careful to convey the true meaning behind his words. Several of the prisoners – of the confirmed HYDRA agents – survived the failed escape attempt. They’re locked up, secure.

She swallows. The fire in the trash bin crackles, consuming the evidence of their failure, the proof of their compromise. But from these flames, Peggy vows, something purer will rise. A new SHIELD, uncorrupted by the evils it was created to fight.

And maybe, just maybe, when she next faces Steve Rogers and James Barnes, she can look them in the eye without shame.

Time to burn it all down. Literally.

“These things do happen,” she agrees.

Location: Brooklyn, New York

Date: October 13th 1949

“Bucky?”

Steve watches Bucky's eyes dart frantically between the faces crowded in their small living room. The blank stare, the rigid posture, the shallow breathing - all signs he has learned to recognize. Bucky is overwhelmed. Retreating, disappearing right before their eyes.

"Buck?" Steve kneels in front of him, keeping his voice soft. No response. Not even a flicker of recognition.

Becca sits beside her brother, gently holding his right hand. Without prompting, she slides a few inches away on the sofa, giving him space while maintaining the connection. Her eyes meet Steve's over Bucky's bowed head.

Monty steps forward, his expression grave. "Captain, a word?" It's phrased as a request, but his tone makes it clear it's not.

Steve hesitates, reluctant to leave Bucky's side even for a moment.

"Go," Becca says gently. "I'll stay with him. Just sit quietly, I promise."

Something in her calm assurance, so reminiscent of her brother's, makes Steve trust her. He rises, following Monty to the small kitchen, out of Bucky's direct line of sight but still within view.

The other Commandos join them, forming a tight circle. Monty doesn't waste time on pleasantries.

"What the hell were you thinking, Rogers?" he growls, keeping his voice low. "No security perimeter, no escape routes mapped, windows exposed to sniper lines from three buildings. It's like you're begging for HYDRA to find you."

The criticism stings, but Steve can't deny the truth of it. "I needed to get him somewhere familiar. Somewhere he might remember."

"And that's fine," Jones interjects. "But you still take basic precautions. At minimum."

"We're going to secure the building," Morita says, all business. "Set up a proper watch rotation. Dernier's already checking the roof access."

"And we'll need to move you both soon," Monty adds. "This location is too obvious, too exposed."

Steve glances toward the living room, where Becca sits calmly beside Bucky, still holding his hand. Her expression is patient and gentle as she waits, not talking, not pushing, just providing a steady, quiet presence.

"Give us a couple of days," Steve pleads. "He's just starting to settle in, to remember. Moving him too soon could set back his progress."

The Commandos exchange glances, a silent communication born of years fighting side by side.

"Okay," Monty allows finally. "But we're securing this place properly in the meantime. And you don't leave without a security detail."

"You're on HYDRA's most wanted list, Cap," Jones explains, his voice softening slightly. "Both of you. We just got you back. We're not losing you again."

"We'll clear out," Monty decides. "Too many of us in here. Dernier and I will secure the perimeter. Jones, take the street level. Morita, check the fire escapes and adjacent rooftops. Dugan - "

"I'll stay close," Dugan says. "Just outside the door. Close enough if you need backup, far enough not to crowd the kid."

Steve nods, grateful for their efficiency, their understanding. "What about Becca?"

"Let her stay," Dugan suggests. "She's good for him. And not the little kid you remember."

Ain’t that the truth? She’s grown so much it’s almost as painful as it is familiar.

"Alright. Just the three of us for now."

The Commandos each heading to their assigned position. Dugan pauses at the door, looking back at Steve.

"And Cap? Next time you decide to go AWOL with a traumatized POW, maybe consider bringing along the people who've spent the last four years keeping each other alive, huh? Let us help take care of you both."

There's gruff affection beneath the reprimand. Steve acknowledges it with a nod. "Understood."

Once the Commandos have filed out, leaving only Dugan posted outside the door, Steve returns to where Bucky and Becca sit. Bucky's posture remains rigid, his eyes vacant, but his breathing seems a bit steadier.

"Just us now, Buck," Steve says quietly, resuming his position kneeling before Bucky. "Well, us and Becca. Everyone else is gone."

They settle into a quiet vigil, Steve continuing to speak softly to Bucky, reminding him where he is, that he's safe. After several minutes of this, Becca's gaze shifts from her brother to Steve, studying him with the same careful attention.

"You know," she says softly, "in all the commotion, I never actually said how good it is to see you, Steve."

Steve looks up, caught off guard by the shift in focus. "Oh. Yeah. Good to see you too, Becca." He feels awkward with her in a way he never has. What must she think of him? The last time they saw each other, she was a giggling teen in yellow with ribbons in her hair. They were the same height.

"I mourned you both," she continues, her voice still quiet enough not to disturb Bucky. "When they told me Bucky was gone... and then you too. It felt like losing family twice over."

"I'm sorry," Steve says, not knowing what else to offer.

Becca shakes her head slightly. "Don't be. You're both here now. That's what matters." She pauses, then asks, "How are you doing, Steve? Really?"

The question takes him by surprise. Everyone's concern has been focused so intently on Bucky that if anyone has asked how Steve is coping with everything – the ice, the years lost, finding Bucky again in such a state, then he’s missed it entirely.

"I'm fine," he says automatically. "It's Bucky who - "

"Who would be the first to tell me to make sure you're taking care of yourself," Becca interrupts gently. "I know my brother, Steve. Even now, even like this. He'd want to know someone's looking out for you too."

Steve feels something in his chest tighten at her words. "I'm fine," he repeats, more firmly this time.

Becca gives him a look so reminiscent of her brother's skeptical gaze that it's almost physical pain. "You were frozen in ice for four years. You woke up to find your best friend had been tortured and brainwashed. You killed the man responsible. You're on the run from both HYDRA and hiding from your own government. And you haven't slept more than a few hours at a stretch since you got here, have you?"

Steve stares at her, wondering how she can read him so easily when they've barely spoken in years. No doubt the Howlies have filled her in on the details, but they sound utterly insane coming from a civilian. It reminds him just how crazy his entire life has become. "How did you - "

"The same way Bucky always knew when you were pushing yourself too hard," she says simply. "It's written all over your face. The exhaustion. The worry. You're running on fumes. It’s the same look Bucky wore every time you got sick."

He starts to protest, but Becca raises a hand to stop him.

"I'm not saying you need to leave his side. I'm not saying you need to stop taking care of him. I'm just asking if you're okay." Her eyes soften with genuine concern. "Bucky would want to know. And so do I."

The simple kindness of the question – of someone caring about his wellbeing, not just what he can do for others – catches Steve off guard. His throat tightens unexpectedly.

"I'm..." he begins, then stops, unable to maintain the lie under her steady gaze. "I don't know. I haven't really thought about it. There hasn't been time."

"There never is, with you two," Becca says, a hint of fond exasperation in her voice. "Always so busy looking out for each other and everyone else that you forget to take care of yourselves."

Steve manages a weak smile, acknowledging the truth in her words. "It's been... hard," he admits finally. "Finding him again, seeing what they did to him. Knowing I wasn't there to stop it."

"That wasn't your fault, Steve," Becca says firmly.

"Feels like it was," he counters quietly. "I should have looked for him. I should have gone back."

"You made the call you thought was right,” Becca shakes her head. "Even Bucky wouldn't have expected anything else."

What he thought was right…

He wasn’t thinking about anything.

"But I should have - "

"Done exactly what you did," she interrupts gently. "Finished the mission. Survived. That's what he would have wanted, and you know it."

Steve falls silent, unable to argue with her logic but still haunted by the what-ifs.

"You know what he would say if he could see you beating yourself up like this?" Becca asks, a hint of her brother's wry humor in her voice.

Despite everything, Steve finds himself smiling slightly. "Probably something about me being a dumb, self-sacrificing punk."

"Exactly," Becca agrees. "He'd tell you to get some sleep. To eat something that isn't cold beans from a can. To remember that you can't help him if you run yourself into the ground first."

Her words hit home with painful accuracy. Steve has been so focused on Bucky's recovery, on keeping him safe, that he's neglected his own basic needs. Not that he needs much, with the serum, but even he has limits.

"I'll try," he promises, knowing she deserves at least that much.

"Good," Becca says, satisfied. "Because when he comes back to us - and he will come back, Steve - he's going to need you at your best. I don’t want to listen to another of his ridiculous rants."

“I do,” Steve confesses, choking on the truth of it. “I’d give anything for that.”

Her expression softens.

As if on cue, a flicker of movement draws their attention back to Bucky. His blinks slowly, awareness gradually returning to his expression.

"That's it, Buck," Steve encourages softly. "Come back to us. You're safe."

Bucky's gaze focuses first on Steve, recognition dawning. Then his eyes drift to where Becca sits beside him, still holding his hand.

"Becs?" he manages, the question clear in his tone.

"Yeah," she confirms, her voice steady despite the tears welling in her eyes. "It's me. Just me and Steve now.”

Bucky nods, processing this. His metal arm whirs softly as the plates recalibrate, his body gradually relaxing from its rigid posture.

"Sorry," he whispers, the word directed at both of them, but his eyes linger on Becca. "Not... good at this."

"Hey, no apologies needed," Becca says firmly. "You've got nothing to be sorry for."

Bucky looks unconvinced, but doesn't argue. His gaze drifts around the apartment, as if confirming they're truly alone now.

"Others?" he asks, tension creeping back into his shoulders.

"Securing the building," Steve explains. "Making sure we're safe. They'll stay outside until you're ready to see them again."

Relief floods Bucky's expression. "Good," he breathes. Then, after a moment's hesitation, "Stay?"

"Of course I'm staying," Becca says immediately, squeezing his hand gently. "As long as you want me here."

Something shifts in Bucky's face at the familiar endearment – a shadow of his old self, a glimpse of the brother Becca remembers. Not quite a smile, but a softening. A recognition.

"Look good, kid,” he whispers.

Becca's face lights up. "Was gonna say the same thing to you. Both of you.”

Bucky nods, his movements less jerky now. "Steve…”

“Is tall now. That’s weird, right?” She winks at Steve, who rolls his eyes.

Bucky cocks his head to one side, clearly contemplating his understanding. “Still can’t dance.”

“That’s what you remember?” Steve huffs in playful exasperation. Becca pats him mockingly on the arm, blinks slowly when she meets muscle in his bicep and not just skin and bones, then shakes her head.

“Some things never change,” she says. She lifts her hand and gently brushes strands of his hair back behind his ear. “I missed you.”

Bucky’s eyes flutter shut at her touch. Not in retreat this time, but in something closer to comfort. His breathing slows, and when he speaks again, his voice is steadier - worn, but no longer brittle.

“Dreamed about you,” he murmurs. “Didn’t think it was real.”

Becca leans forward, her forehead brushing gently against his. “I’m real. I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Steve watches the exchange from his place on the floor beside them, something tight and aching settling in his chest. For a moment, it feels like they’ve stepped back in time - like they’re all just kids again, tucked into the warmth of a too-small Brooklyn apartment, trying to keep the world at bay with nothing but stubborn love and a couple of worn wool blankets.

“Not a dream,” Bucky adds, and though he doesn’t look at Steve, the words are clearly meant for him too. “You came for me.”

Steve reaches up, his hand settling over Bucky’s knee. “Always.”

They sit like that for several minutes, the silence filled only by the creak of the old building and the distant hum of city life outside. The shadows in the room have lengthened, streetlamps casting faint golden light through the blinds. The quiet is fragile, but it holds.

Eventually, Bucky shifts, his joints protesting the movement with soft clicks. 

“Thirsty?” Steve asks hopefully.

Slowly, Bucky nods. Steve almost trips over his feet, running to fetch him a glass of water.

Steve returns with the glass, the one with the bent straw he’s been using since Bucky’s first night back. It’s warm in his hand, more room temperature than cold - easier on Bucky’s stomach, easier for his body to accept.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he says gently, kneeling again so he’s level with him. “Just like before, yeah? Small sips.”

Bucky’s eyes track the straw, then shift to Steve’s face. There’s hesitation there, and shame, but also something more vulnerable - trust, maybe, tentative and bruised, but still present.

Steve brings the straw to Bucky’s lips, and when Bucky leans in slightly to drink, Steve praises him in a low, steady murmur. “That’s it. You’re doing great, Buck. Just like that.”

Becca sits quietly on the sofa beside him, hands folded in her lap. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t interrupt, and bless her, she doesn’t look away either. She gives Bucky the dignity of witness, and Steve is grateful.

Another sip. Then another. Steve watches his throat work with each swallow, the strain behind his eyes lessening ever so slightly.

“There you go,” Steve whispers, thumb brushing gently against the sharp angle of Bucky’s cheekbone.

Bucky finishes with a slow breath, withdrawing just slightly. He licks his lips - dry, cracked - and rests his head back against the couch. His eyes close for a moment, but it isn’t dissociation this time. It’s relief. Exhaustion.

Without thinking, Steve leans forward and presses a soft kiss to Bucky’s temple. His hand lingers at the side of his face, thumb ghosting across the faint scar just under his hairline he’s had since he was twelve.

“You did so good, Buck,” he murmurs against his skin. “I’m so proud of you.”

It’s instinctive. Familiar. Natural.

But the second his lips lift from Bucky’s skin, he remembers.

Becca.

Steve staightens too quickly, heart suddenly thudding in his chest. His hand drops to his knee, as though that might make it all seem more casual, more platonic, less like what it obviously is.

He dares a glance toward her.

She’s watching them both with a soft, unreadable expression. Her head is tilted slightly, brow furrowed just enough to suggest she’s thinking through something deeply. Not judging - at least not in the way Steve feared - but seeing. Seeing them.

Steve opens his mouth, unsure what he’s about to say - something to redirect, maybe, or explain what doesn’t need explaining.

But Becca speaks first. Her voice is quiet, even, entirely without malice.

“So,” she says, with the smallest tilt of her head, “you figured it out then?”

Steve freezes.

Beside him, Bucky’s eyes flutter open again. His gaze moves between Steve and Becca, confusion clouding his features. “What?”

Becca smiles, not unkindly. “That you’re in love with him.”

Steve’s mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “I - ”

“I’m not mad,” she interrupts gently, like she’s trying to ease the panic tightening across Steve’s shoulders. “You think I didn’t see it when I was fourteen? I just thought maybe you two would figure it out before the war was over.”

A beat.

Another.

And then Bucky lets out a soft, shocked sound. It’s not quite a laugh, but there’s something unburdened in it. “We were idiots,” he mutters.

“Still are,” Becca replies, and there’s warmth in her voice now. “But I’m glad you found each other again. Even if you’re both too stubborn to admit it out loud.”

Steve exhales, tension bleeding out of his spine. He glances at Bucky, whose eyes meet his, tired and open. Four years ago, he thinks Bucky’s reaction would be very different. In this, perhaps there is some small mercy.

“No hiding,” Bucky murmurs.

“No,” Steve agrees. “Not from anyone.”

Becca nods once, satisfied. “Good. Now give him back the water, Captain. He’s still thirsty, and you’re not done taking care of him yet.”

Steve huffs a breath of laughter, picking up the glass again.

He lifts the straw to Bucky’s lips once more. “Small sips, Sergeant.”

Bucky drinks.

Chapter Text

Location: Brooklyn, New York

Date: October 15th, 1949

“…so there’s Dugan. Shirtless. Soaked. Standing in his shorts and that goddamn bowler hat, trying to explain to this furious French farmer why there’s a goat in his bathtub,” Steve says, voice low and conspiratorial.

Across the table, Becca chokes on her coffee. She scrambles for a napkin, shoulders shaking with laughter as she tries not to spit it across the kitchen. The sound is a shot of sunlight - bright and sudden. And needed. God, he hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear it.

“And Bucky?” she manages, eyes flicking toward the bedroom, as if laughing too loud might wake whatever fragile peace is settled behind that door.

“Deadpan,” Steve says, lips tugging into something close to a smile. “Told the guy we were conducting ‘essential military research into portable milk production.’ Didn’t blink. Didn’t crack. Then bribed him with a carton of cigarettes and some chocolate.”

Becca leans back in her chair, grin blooming full. “That’s him. Always could talk folk into anything. He once convinced me to trade my Christmas candy for a paperclip and a button.”

Steve snorts. “What’d he say it was?”

“A key to a secret treasure,” she says, mouth curling into something warm. “Turns out it was just his collection of bottle caps.”

“Still sounds like treasure,” Steve murmurs.

They fall into a rhythm. Gentle banter, soft memories, building scaffolding around something fragile. Keeping it steady. Becca asks for more stories, and Steve obliges - carefully chosen ones, the ones untouched by blood or screaming. The ones that still smell like campfires and boot polish, not antiseptic and steel.

“…then there was this USO show in Italy,” he says. “The Andrews Sisters were doing a set - ”

“Oh no.” Becca groans, already catching where it’s going. “He loved them. Played ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’ until we begged for mercy.”

Steve laughs. “Didn’t change. They asked for volunteers mid-show, and before I could stop him, Buck was on stage doing his best Patty Andrews impression. He had the kicks and the hand gestures. Full choreography.”

“You’re lying.”

“Wish I was. Got a standing ovation and a bunch of signed pics. The girls wanted to bring him on tour. Called him ‘unreasonably rhythmic.’” Steve is convinced Bucky only did it to spare Steve unwanted attention. Only weeks after Austria and Steve was trying so hard to prove himself as Captain America, Soldier and not Captain America, stage star.

Becca leans over her mug. “He would’ve never let that go.”

“He didn’t. Carried that photo from them for months.”

And just like that, for a moment, they’ve conjured him. Not the haunted shell staring at them in terror from behind a curtain of long hair, but the real Bucky - the version HYDRA hadn’t scraped clean. That Karpov never destroyed. They sit with the memory of him, clinging to the familiar memory of his smile, his devastating charm.

God, Steve misses him. Has been missing him for years, it feels.

And he’s grateful, so insanely grateful, but he wants to sit selfishly in that bubble for just a second longer.

A crash shatters it like glass.

Steve’s chair is half-tossed aside in panic as he bolts from the table. He’s left Bucky alone. He swore, he promised, and every goddamn time…

He hears Becca behind him and prays to a god he isn’t sure he believes in that he can manage her fears and expectations without risking Bucky’s peace.

Unlikely.

He’s in the corner of the bedroom. Against the wall. Shattered lamp at his feet. Shoulders curled in expectation of a blow. His chest heaves like he’s running a sprint in place. His eyes, christ, his eyes... They’re locked on something else. Something long gone and terrible.

“Bucky,” Steve breathes, stepping carefully into the room, hands up. “It’s okay. You’re safe. It’s just me. It’s Steve.”

Bucky flinches. And then... he speaks.

But it’s not English.

It’s Russian.

Fast, harsh syllables spill out, desperate and slurred. “Gde ya? Oni idut za mnoy?”

Steve freezes. His stomach lurches.

All the times Bucky’s woken up blank or screaming, lost or gasping - they’ve never heard this. Not Russian. Not fluency. Not like this.

Steve knows, realistically, that Bucky speaks Russian. That he spoke Russian with Karpov. Somehow that’s not translated beyond some absent fact.

“Buck.” Steve edges closer, heartbeat kicking against his ribs. “You with us?”

“Net,” Bucky hisses, shaking his head so hard his hair flies into his face. “Pozhaluysta, pozhaluysta, izvini.”

His eyes flash to the window. Then the door. Calculating. Trapped. Caged. His fingers flex. The sound of the arm crunches, sharp. A warning.

“Bucky,” Becca says, voice like glass. She steps forward, pale but steady. “It’s me. It’s Becca. You’re home.”

His head jerks toward her. Something - recognition, maybe - tries to surface and then drowns. “Pozhaluysta…” His voice breaks on it. “Pozhaluysta…”

“He doesn’t understand us,” Becca whispers.

Steve nods, throat dry. “They fucked with his memory. Rewired it, I guess. Language center. Fuck, they rewired everything.”

“Chto vy govorite? Kto vy?” Bucky demands, breath spiking again. His fear sharpens into suspicion.

“What do we do?” Becca’s voice doesn’t shake. God, he’s never been so grateful for a Barnes.

“I have no fucking clue,” Steve admits. He doesn’t let it stop him. He can’t, not when Bucky so clearly needs him. And speaking in Russian is better than not speaking at all… right?

So he moves.

Slow. Measured. Palms out. No sudden movements. No pressure.

When he’s close enough, he stops. Doesn’t touch him. Just offers his hand.

Bucky stares at it. Then at him.

“You know me,” Steve whispers. “You know me.”

It takes long seconds. But Bucky’s his right hand trembles as it reaches forward. His fingers don’t grab. They don’t flinch. They just… touch. A brush. Then a hold. Testing if Steve is solid.

“Steve?” The name, rough in his throat, is a plea.

“Yeah. It’s me.”

The tension in Bucky’s neck and shoulders doesn’t vanish, but it shifts. Loosens just a little.

Bucky’s gaze scans the room again. “Gde my? Pochemu ya zdes’?”

“Wish I knew what you were asking,” Steve mutters. He wants to break something. He wants to fix this.

“I think,” Becca says behind him, “he’s asking where he is.”

Steve turns, stunned. “You understand him?”

“My Russian consists of the cuss words he taught me to get me in trouble with Ma,” she admits. “But he looks lost.”

Steve looks back at Bucky, then gestures to the room. “Brooklyn,” he says clearly. “Home. Safe.”

“Home?” Bucky echoes, slower.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Our home.”

Bucky’s shoulders hitch. Not quite a breath. Not quite a sob. But something releases.

“Steve,” he says, slowly now.  “Home.”

“I need to learn fucking Russian,” Steve grumbles. He can pick up languages far faster now than he did before. His French and German are fluent. His Polish is excellent. His Italian is… well, it’s getting there. Russian was never something he wanted to understand for fear of overhearing Bucky and Karpov and breaking his own damn heart. Once again, his cowardice is biting them both on the ass.

Bucky turns to Becca again. His brow furrows.

Steve nods her forward. She moves slowly. “Becca,” she says. “Your sister.”

Bucky stares. Hard. Like he’s trying to match her face to something buried.

“Becca?”

“Yes,” she whispers. “I’m here.”

Bucky’s grip on Steve tightens again.

“Steve?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Steve leads him to the bed. He wants so desperately to wrap Bucky up in his arms. To hold him. But if Bucky is speaking Russian, he’s probably thinking of Karpov. Dreaming of him.

Steve doesn’t sit. Not yet. He crouches beside the bed, keeping his eyes level with Bucky’s.

“I’m here,” he says again. “You’re safe. He’s not coming. No one’s coming. You’re home.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. His hand stays locked around Steve’s sleeve, tight and unmoving. His gaze stays on the door, tracking invisible threats, but he doesn’t pull away.

Becca stands near the dresser. Her hands are clasped, her knuckles tight, but she doesn’t move. She watches without speaking, her expression steady.

“I think he remembers,” Steve says quietly.

Becca doesn’t ask for clarification. 

Karpov. The years Hydra carved out of Bucky’s mind. The things they replaced all that history with.

Steve’s jaw clenches. The fury is there, sharp and cold, but useless now. Karpov is dead and it’s never going to be enough.

“I shouldn’t have left him alone,” Steve says, stroking his hand through Bucky’s long hair as he visibly sags in exhaustion. “Even for ten minutes.”

“You needed air,” Becca tells him. “You needed food. You’re not a machine.”

“I don’t matter.”

“God, you’re as bad as he was,” she grumbles. “You any idea how many times I had this exact conversation with him? He thought if he left you to go take a piss you’d keel over and die while he was in the bathroom.”

“Even I’m not that much of an asshole,” Steve protests. It’s… not humbling, being on the other side of things. Maybe harrowing. It’s hard not to sympathise with how very angry Bucky would get with him sometimes. Steve’s petty sure if Bucky decided to try get up and leave the house right now he’d have a heart-attack before they made it to the ground floor.

He turns back to Bucky.

“Can I sit with you?”

There’s no response, no movement, but Bucky doesn’t let go of his hand.

Steve eases himself onto the bed, careful not to jolt the frame or close the distance too quickly. The light from the hallway catches the edges of the room. The broken lamp stays where it fell.

“You remember the goat in France?” Steve says. “Dugan, the tub, the hat?”

No answer. Then, quietly, a single word.

“Koza.”

Steve exhales. “Yeah. Goat.”

Bucky’s breath slows. His shoulders drop a little. He lists sideways into Steve, head falling onto his shoulder. Steve’s whole fucking face aches as he tries to hold back the urge to cry.

“Hey Becs?” he asks, giving in to the urge to wrap both arms around Bucky and hold him closer. “Can you go see if the radio in the kitchen still works?” He doesn’t imagine them letting Bucky listen to music while he was a prisoner.

“Sure thing,” she whispers, slipping out of the room.

“Come on,” Steve encourages, easing Bucky down on the mattress until he can rest against Steve’s lap. It’s easier, then, to continue stroking his fingers through Bucky’s hair. “You’re home,” he whispers again. “You’re safe.”

He’ll whisper the same reassurances as many times as Bucky needs them. Forever, if he has to. It doesn’t feel like much, but as music drifts in from the next room and Bucky starts to relax by degrees, he lies to himself that this time it will be enough.

Something's wrong with the light.

It's too soft. Too yellow. The cell has only ever been lit by the harsh white of fluorescent bulbs that buzz around his skull. This light breathes. This light has texture.

Bucky blinks, and the room shifts again. A bedroom. Not a cell. But that’s not right…

There's music floating from somewhere distant. The notes twist in his head, familiar then foreign. He knows this song. He doesn't know this song. His mind tries to catch the melody and it slips away like water.

Steve.

The name anchors him for a moment. Steve was here. Steve's hand in his. Warm. Real. Not like the hallucinations they sometimes plant in his mind when they want to be cruel.

But he can't…

He doesn't know…

Where am I?

His thoughts slide between languages, Russian rising to the surface like oil on water. When he tries to grasp at English, the words scatter. He knows he spoke it once. Knows it belonged to him before... before...

The mattress beneath him is wrong. Too soft. His hands move automatically to his wrists, searching for the metal cuffs that should be there. A bed meant restraints. That was the rule. The only times they'd let him sleep on something other than concrete had been tests. Rewards for good behavior that would be revoked at the slightest infraction.

His tongue presses against the roof of his mouth, expecting the rubber wedge of the gag they'd force between his teeth. He'd learned to put it in himself eventually. Compliance means less pain.

Panic surges. He's breaking protocol. He's not secured. The Colonel will be furious.

His muscles coil tight with anticipation, but his body feels heavy. Weighted. There's an arm around him, and the fear intensifies. But it's not restraining him. It's just... there. Present. Holding.

"Ty v poryadke?" a voice murmurs. Are you alright?

No. That's wrong. The voice is English. Steve doesn't speak Russian. Steve is speaking English.

Isn’t he?

Bucky's throat works, trying to form words. Any words. The right words. But he can't remember which language is safe. Which one won't earn punishment. His fingers flex at his sides, seeking the familiar cold of shackles.

"Naruschniki," he whispers.

He looks up, eyes wide with dread. He's failed. He hasn't followed procedure. The punishment will be severe.

"Da," he manages hoarsely, answering the question belatedly. Then corrects: "Yes."

The effort makes his head pound. Two versions of the same thought. Two layers of the same reality, overlapping and contradicting. The cool air on his skin tells him he's not in Siberia, but his mind insists he must be. There is no other place. There has never been any other place.

A hand strokes his hair, and the sensation sends a jolt through him. It's both alien and achingly familiar. No one touches him now except to hurt. To restrain. To move. Not like this.

Steve.

The room comes into focus with painful clarity for just a moment. Brooklyn. Home. Steve underneath him, holding him. Becca in the next room. Safety. Warmth.

Then it fragments again, and he's reaching desperately for the pieces.

The person beside him shifts, and Bucky's head snaps up, bracing for Karpov's entrance. For the hard eyes and the clipboard and the single nod that means more pain is coming. His breath turns jagged in his lungs.

His hand flies to his mouth again, pressing against his lips. The memory surfaces sharp and clear: Karpov standing over him the one night they'd given him a cot instead of the floor. "If you scream, you lose this privilege." He'd woken thrashing from nightmares and bit through his own lip rather than make a sound. By morning, they'd praised his self-discipline and taught him to request the gag himself.

"Morda," he mutters, making the sign for it. "Ne khodit," he whispers, the words spilling out unbidden. Don't go. No. Wrong again. But the English won't come. "Oni idut?" he asks, voice cracking. English, he needs to speak in English. “Are they coming?”

The person - Steve, it's Steve - moves closer. Not leaving. Staying. There's a pressure against his head, and he realizes it's Steve's chin resting gently on his crown.

"Nobody's coming, Buck," Steve says softly. "Just us."

The English filters through slowly, like light through murky water. Bucky understands the shapes of the sounds but can't quite grasp their meaning all at once. He has to piece it together, word by word.

Nobody. Coming. Buck. Just. Us.

Just us.

His metal arm whirs as his fingers clench and unclench against the blanket. The sound makes him flinch. Reminds him of what they've done. What they've taken. What they've added.

"Izvinite," he mumbles.

His wrists ache with phantom pain from restraints that aren't there. The one time he'd managed to slip free of his shackles during the night, they'd kept him in the box for a week. He runs his metal hand along his skin, tracing the familiar path where the restraint would lock around his only wrist.

He should be shackled. He should be muzzled. These were the rules for sleeping on anything soft. For being allowed any comfort. Why isn't he following protocol?

The word feels wrong in his mouth. It's the wrong shape, the wrong weight. He knows there's another way to say it. A way that belonged to him first.

"S...sorry," he forces out, the English syllable rough and unpracticed.

Steve's hand stills in his hair, then resumes its gentle motion. "Nothing to be sorry for."

Bucky closes his eyes. The darkness behind his lids is safer than the room that keeps shifting between past and present. Between nightmare and... something else. Something he doesn't dare name yet.

The music from the other room changes. A woman's voice rises, strong and clear. Something inside him recognizes it, reaches for it. Andrews. Andrews Sisters. Patty, Maxene, LaVerne. Names he shouldn't remember but somehow does.

He'd danced to this song once. He'd...

The memory slips away before he can catch it, leaving only the ghost of a sensation. Movement. Laughter. Freedom.

"Oni zastavyat menya zabyt snova," he whispers against Steve's shirt. “They'll make me forget again.”

"No one's taking anything else from you," Steve answers, and though Bucky doesn't catch all the words, he feels the fierce protection in them. The promise.

He wants to believe it. But the Colonel always comes back. Always finds him. Always takes him apart again, piece by piece, until there's nothing left but compliance and pain.

The arm around him tightens slightly, as if Steve can hear his thoughts. As if he's trying to hold Bucky together physically when his mind threatens to splinter.

Bucky's jaw works, muscle memory seeking the pressure of the gag that should be there. Once, after he'd been good - so, so good - they'd given him a real bed for three nights. Each night, he'd knelt beside it, waiting for Karpov's inspection before being permitted to lie down. The ritual was clear: secure ankles to the frame, insert gag, fasten his wrist to the headboard, lie on back, eyes closed. Any deviation meant back to concrete.

His tongue probes at his cheek, remembering the taste of rubber. The way breathing became measured, deliberate through his nose and how much worse it was if they left in the tube. He careful he had to keep his breathing. They told him it was for his own protection. That his screams would bring unwanted attention.

His fingers - the real ones, the flesh ones - curl into Steve's shirt. Holding on. Anchoring himself. If he holds tight enough, maybe they can't pull him away again.

Something wet slides down his cheek. He reaches up with his metal hand, confused by the moisture he finds there. Tears. He's crying. They'd shock him when he cried. Said it was weakness. Things don’t get to cry.

"Home," he says, the English word fragile but determined. "Steve. Home."

He's not sure if it's a question or a statement. Not sure if it's real or just another cruel trick his mind is playing. But he clings to it anyway. To the possibility.

To Steve.

"That's right," Steve murmurs above him. "You're home."

Bucky exhales slowly, his body relaxing by degrees.

Bucky drifts in the strange comfort of Steve's arms, anchored by the weight and warmth that feels both foreign and achingly familiar. The music from the other room has changed again - something slow and sweet that tugs at memories just beyond his reach. For a moment, the present solidifies around him, the bedroom in Brooklyn becoming real.

But then the doubt returns. This is too good. Too easy. Nothing is ever this easy.

Karpov's voice echoes in his head: Comfort is earned.

His body tenses, the metal arm whirring softly with the sudden movement. Something is wrong. He's breaking protocol. The panic rises like floodwater, threatening to drown the moment of peace.

"Steve," he manages, the English name clumsy on his tongue. His flesh hand curls into the fabric of Steve's shirt. "Help."

Steve shifts beneath him, pulling back just enough to look at his face. "What do you need, Buck?"

Bucky's mouth works, searching for words in a language that feels just out of reach. "Need... be good," he finally whispers.

"Be good?" Steve repeats, brow furrowing. "You are good, Buck."

Bucky shakes his head sharply. No, Steve doesn't understand. He gestures at the bed, then at himself.

"Dolzhen byt' prikovan," he says urgently.

Steve's face clouds with confusion. "Buck, I don't... I don't understand what you're saying."

Frustration blooms in Bucky's chest. The words won't come - not in English, the language he knows Steve needs. He tries again, forcing his throat to shape sounds that feel distant and foreign.

"For bed," he manages. "Need... need..."

But the words slip away, and he makes a sound of frustration. His fingers twitch against Steve's shirt, and a desperate idea forms.

Slowly, carefully, Bucky reaches for Steve's right hand. Steve allows it, watching with wary confusion as Bucky takes his wrist. With deliberate movements, Bucky guides Steve's hand to his own left wrist, wrapping Steve's fingers around it tightly, then tugging both their hands toward the bed frame.

Steve's confusion shifts to something else - a dawning horror that he tries to mask, but Bucky catches it in the sudden hitch of his breath, the way his eyes widen.

"Buck," Steve says, his voice strained. "You don't…"

But Bucky isn't finished. He pulls Steve's hand away and brings it to his mouth, pressing Steve's fingers against his lips, then pushing gently, mimicking the insertion of a gag.

Steve's hand jerks back as if burned. His face goes pale, and something in his eyes cracks open, raw and wounded.

"Bucky, no," he says, the words rough. "You don't need that. Not here."

Bucky doesn't understand. He's breaking protocol. He's lying on a bed without proper restraints. Without the gag. This is wrong. This will be punished. He needs Steve to understand.

He takes Steve's hand again, more insistently this time, guiding it back to his wrist and squeezing, demonstrating the pressure of a cuff.

"Please," he whispers, the English feeling strange but necessary. "Help me be good."

Steve's other arm tightens around him, not restraining but protective. His fingers tremble slightly against Bucky's skin.

"You don't…" Steve starts, then stops, swallowing hard. When he continues, his voice is different, rougher. "You don't need restraints to be good. Not here."

Bucky stares at him, uncomprehending. The rules are being changed. Or there are new rules he doesn't know. Either way, the uncertainty is dangerous.

"Nakażut," he says, then realizes his mistake when Steve's brow furrows again. He makes a fist and strikes his own shoulder lightly, then points to the door. "They come. Punish."

Steve's face does something complicated then, something that makes Bucky's chest ache to watch. His eyes shine too brightly in the dim light, and his jaw works as if he's fighting to keep control of himself.

"No one," Steve says, and his voice is iron now beneath the gentleness, "is coming to punish you. I won't let them."

Bucky searches his face, looking for the lie. For the test. But all he sees is Steve - fierce and determined and hurting. Hurting because of him.

"Colonel..." he begins.

"Is never touching you again," Steve finishes, and there's something terrible in his voice now.

Bucky reaches for Steve's hand once more, this time guiding it to the side of his face. He presses Steve's palm against his cheek, then moves it to his throat, then down to his other wrist, demonstrating the sequence of checks that Karpov would perform. The inspection before he would be allowed to sleep.

Steve's hand trembles against his skin, but he doesn't pull away this time. He lets Bucky move him, watching with eyes that grow more pained with each gesture.

When Bucky finishes the demonstration, Steve's breathing is uneven. He keeps his hand where Bucky placed it last, around his right wrist, but the hold is gentle, a touch rather than a restraint.

"Buck," he says, and his voice cracks slightly on the name, "you don't need to be checked. Or restrained. Or - " he can't seem to bring himself to say the word 'gagged' " - or anything else. Not here. Not with me."

Bucky doesn't understand. It doesn't make sense. It goes against everything he's been conditioned to expect. To require.

"Can't..." he struggles, frustration mounting as the words slip away from him. "Can't sleep without..." He moves Steve's hand back to his wrist, squeezing again to demonstrate.

When Steve shakes his head again, something clicks in Bucky's mind. A different understanding. If Steve won't secure him properly, then he isn't allowed the bed. That makes sense. That follows protocol.

He pulls away from Steve's hold and slides off the bed in a single fluid motion. His knees hit the wooden floor. It’s not as painful as the concrete. He settles there, back straight, eyes down, waiting.

"Bucky!" Steve's voice rises in alarm. "What are you…"

Bucky gestures at the bed, then at himself on the floor. "Bad," he manages in halting English. "Understand now."

Steve is off the bed in an instant, crouching in front of him, eyes wide with horror. "No, Buck, that's not…" He stops, swallows hard. "That's not what I meant. The bed is yours. You don’t have to earn it."

Bucky shakes his head. Rules are rules. If he's not secured, he sleeps on the floor. It’s better than the box. He presses his palms flat against the wood, accepting.

"Please," Steve whispers, and there's something broken in his voice now. "Please come back to the bed."

Bucky raises his eyes, confused by the desperation in Steve's face. This doesn't match any protocol he knows. There's always a price for softness. Always a condition.

Steve extends his hand slowly, a silent offer. "I promise. The bed is yours. No conditions."

Bucky stares at the offered hand for a long moment. This is unfamiliar territory. Dangerous ground.

Steve takes a slow, deliberate breath. Bucky watches his throat work as he swallows. When he speaks, his voice is steady again, carefully controlled.

"How about this," Steve says softly. "I'll stay right here. I'll hold onto you. I won't let you go."

Bucky considers this. It's not protocol. Not what he's been trained to expect. But Steve is offering something else - an anchor. A tether. Different, but perhaps... perhaps enough?

"You stay?" he asks.

"I'll stay," Steve confirms. "I promise."

To demonstrate, Steve gently adjusts his position, keeping one arm firmly around Bucky's shoulders. His other hand, the one Bucky had been using to show what he needed, moves to take Bucky's right hand instead. He interlaces their fingers, a grip that's secure but not restraining.

"Like this," Steve says. "I'm holding you. But you're not trapped. You understand the difference?"

Bucky looks down at their joined hands, brow furrowed. The touch is foreign, warm where restraints were cold, gentle where they were unyielding. It doesn't fit with anything he's been taught. Anything he remembers.

"Try?" he says finally, the word half-question, half-agreement.

Relief floods Steve's face, though his eyes remain too bright, too wounded. "Yeah, Buck. We'll try."

Bucky lets his head rest against Steve's chest again, listening to the steady thump of his heart. It's familiar in a way that runs deeper than memory. Something his body remembers even if his mind doesn't.

He can feel the tension in Steve. The careful control, the way he's fighting to keep his breathing even. It puzzles him. Steve isn't the one breaking protocol. Steve isn't the one at risk of punishment.

With his free hand, Bucky reaches up tentatively, touching Steve's jaw where the muscles are clenched tight. Steve startles slightly at the touch, but doesn't pull away.

"Why..." Bucky starts, struggling to find the right English words. "Angry?"

Steve's eyes close briefly, his expression spasming before he gets it under control. "Not angry at you," he says quickly. "Never at you."

"Who?"

"At the people who hurt you," Steve says, the words careful, measured, as if each one costs him something. "At the ones who made you think you need to be... restrained... to sleep safe."

Bucky absorbs this, turning the words over in his mind. Angry not at him, but for him. The concept is strange, almost incomprehensible.

"Oh," he says finally, because he doesn't know what else to say.

Steve squeezes his hand gently. "Just rest, Buck," he murmurs. "I've got you. No one's going to hurt you. Not anymore."

Bucky closes his eyes, surrendering to the touch. Outside, the music plays on, soft and distant. Steve's heartbeat remains steady beneath his ear, a constant in the chaos.

Chapter Text

Location: Brooklyn, New York
Date: October 15th, 1949

Dugan adjusts the newspaper he's not really reading. His third hour standing across the street from the brownstone, and his feet are starting to complain. His bowler hat - his signature during the war - is conspicuously absent, replaced by a plain fedora that sits wrong on his head. Just another precaution, another layer of deception. It fits him about as well as this new, post-war skin does.

"You look like you're casing the joint," Morita had said that morning, eyeing Dugan's attempt at inconspicuous surveillance with open skepticism. Morita, Dugan would like to point out, has taken to lurking on the rooflike a particularly foul-tempered gargoyle, waiting to drop itself on the head of the first passerby he takes a disliking to.

"Better than looking like I'm guarding it," Dugan had retorted. Between them all, it’s Monty who stands out like a sore thumb. He only ever takes point when Jonsey is off making moon-eyes at Carter.

Now, he's not so sure any of them are really pulling this shit off. Standing around too long in one spot draws attention no matter what. He checks his watch, folds the newspaper, and strolls casually to the corner store. Might as well make another circuit of the block, buy another pack of cigarettes he doesn't need. Beats buying booze. He’s promised himself no drinking on the job, far more terrified of dropping the ball and leaving Steve and Bucky vulnerable than he is of facing the hours sober.

The storekeeper gives him a suspicious look - the fourth time Dugan's been in today - but takes his money without comment. Thank fuck for a standing government contract. He’s getting paid ten times what he was during the war, which is about the fucking course really. He lights a cigarette and forces himself to walk slowly past the brownstone, scanning the street and torn between a prayer that all is well and the growing itch under his skin that won’t settle unless he gets his knuckles bloody.

It's not that he doesn't understand the necessity of what they’re doing. Christ, he’s full on board with it. The kid is in no condition to defend himself if someone comes knocking, and Steve is too busy being fucking Steve to give a shit that the world will collectively piss itself in excitement the second someone catches a glimpse of his face. That leaves the rest of the them to run interference, to stand guard, to make sure the world keeps believing that both men are still dead heroes rather than... well, whatever the fuck they are now.

He is more than a little fucked off that Monty gets to set shit on fire with Carter and Phillips, but he’s equally as glad not to be involved in the shitshow that’s following. Leigh went up in flames less than two days ago. They’ve known exactly who – and what – has happened from the second news broke.

Carter might be slow to commit to things some times, but by fuck, when she does…

But Christ, he hates feeling useless. Hates standing outside while Bucky shakes in terror. Hates watching Cap emerge occasionally with haunted eyes and trembling hands, trying to hide how close he is to breaking. At least Becca is in there now, providing some relief – and fucking perspective - to Steve.

He's sat in the Barnes' modest living room, looking at photographs of a young Bucky, listening to stories of his childhood misadventures. All while carrying the burden of knowing their grief was something he should have protected them from. Could have protected them from. If he’d been smarter. If he’d looked out for his smart ass little shit of a Sargeant. If he’d kept the kid safe the way he swore he’d die trying.

He's due to be relieved by Jim in another hour. Maybe he'll finally get some sleep, though the nightmares make that prospect less appealing than it should be. Of all of them, he’d slept the best during the war. Only fair he’s a raging fucking insomniac now he’s back.

He's halfway back to his observation post when he spots her.

Winifred Barnes, standing at the corner with her hands clutched around a worn handbag. She's dressed in a simple blue dress, carefully pressed, and a cream knitted cardigan that's been carefully mended at the elbows. Her hair, more gray than brown, is pinned back in a simple knot. She’s a beautiful woman, Bucky’s mom. Both her children have inherited her features, though Bucky has his father’s height and strong jaw.

Dugan recognizes the look on her face immediately. It’s the same one she'd worn when asking questions about her son's death that the Army had been unwilling to answer. She glances up at the brownstone, then away, afraid to be caught looking. Then she does it again, a moth circling a flame she can't quite approach.

She hasn't noticed Dugan yet, too focused on the building where her supposedly dead son is currently recovering from four years of torture. Dugan hesitates, unsure of protocol in this situation. Rogers hadn't specified what to do if more family showed up, probably because Rebecca He’s not stupid enough to think that Becca hasn’t found some way of getting word back to her mother: she’s just as resourceful as her brother and the lot of them are fucking hopeless when it comes to remembering that.

Before he can decide on a course of action, be it panic or determination, Winifred seems to gather her courage. She straightens her shoulders in grim resolve, a gesture so reminiscent of her son that it makes Dugan's chest ache, and starts toward the building entrance.

"Mrs. Barnes," Dugan calls, crossing the street with long strides. "Mrs. Barnes, wait."

She startles, turning toward his voice. Recognition flashes across her face, followed immediately by suspicion. "Mr. Dugan? What are you doing here?"

Up close, he can see the toll the last four years have taken. She's older, frailer, than she was the last time he saw her, the lines around her eyes deeper.

"I could ask you the same thing, ma'am," Dugan says gently. "This isn't your usual neighborhood."

"No, it isn't," she agrees quietly. Her gaze flicks to the building, then back to Dugan. "Not yours either, Corporal." Winifred Barnes might be quiet, but she's far from unobservant. Her eyes bore into Dugan's. "Becca said… she said… I'm not a fool, Timothy." Her voice wobbles for just a second before her chin sets stubbornly, her grief so deeply entrenched that hope is an act of unfathomable courage.

Dugan remembers, suddenly and vividly, a night in France. The boys gathered around a meager fire, passing a bottle of questionable liquor, sharing stories to keep the cold at bay. Barnes, unusually talkative after a few swigs, talking about home.

"My ma," Barnes had said, voice soft with memory, "she's the gentlest soul you'll ever meet. Wouldn't raise her voice to save her life. My old man, he used to push her around something awful when he was in his cups. She'd just take it, quiet as a mouse."

"Sounds like a doormat," Morita had commented, too fucking drunk to use his brain and earning a dark look from Barnes.

"Nah, you don't understand," Barnes had continued. "She wasn't weak. She was... conserving her strength.”

Looking at the woman before him now, Dugan can see it. The quiet exterior hiding an unbreakable core of determination. A mother who's caught the scent of hope after years of grief and won't be deterred.

"Ma’am,” he says gently, "it's not safe to talk here. Would you walk with me?"

She hesitates, but there's no real fear in her eyes, just caution and a desperate need for answers.

For a split second, he thinks about lying to her. Thinks about trying to spare her the pain of knowing just what horrors have been inflicted on her only son. It doesn’t last. Bucky needs his ma, and she… well, having the kid back is worth any cost Dugan is willing to pay. It’s gonna be a hundred times more so for her, ain’t it?

Still, he can’t just take her in there blind. Not for her sake, but for Bucky’s. Christ knows how the kid will react.

She allows Dugan to guide her to a small café around the corner, quiet enough for private conversation but public enough to ease any lingering concerns she might have. They order coffee, and Dugan watches as she adds cream to hers with hands that tremble slightly - the only outward sign of her inner turmoil.

"Is my son alive?" she asks bluntly once the waitress has left them alone.

Dugan takes a deep breath. Looking at those familiar eyes, lined with years of grief and fragile, desperate hope, he can't bring himself to beat around the bush. Not to the woman who's been nothing but kind to him. Not to Bucky's mother.

"Yes, ma'am," he says quietly. "But it's complicated."

She closes her eyes briefly, one hand pressed to her heart. "Thank God," she whispers. "Thank God."

When she opens her eyes again, they're bright with unshed tears, but her gaze is steady, resolute. "He's in that building, isn't he? With Steve? That's why Rebecca's been there too."

"Ma’am…”

"I've mourned my son for four years," she interrupts, her soft voice gaining strength. "I've put flowers on an empty grave every Sunday. I've watched his father drink himself to death with grief and guilt.” She leans forward, every inch the force of nature Barnes had described. "If James is alive, if he's in that building, nothing on this earth will keep me from him."

Dugan believes her. Doesn't doubt for a second that this small, quiet woman would fight through HYDRA with her bare hands if necessary.

"He's not well, ma'am," Dugan says gently. "What happened to him... it was bad. Real bad."

She absorbs this, her face paling. "But he’s safe now? Becca didn’t say. Her message just said to come and… he’s safe?”

Dugan chooses his words carefully. "I think she and Cap wanted to be sure he was... stable... before bringing in more people, even family. He's been through things that would've killed most men. Left him damaged in ways that are hard to explain."

"He's my son," she says simply, as if that answers everything. Fuck, maybe it does.

There's more to it than that, of course. Things she can’t possibly know. But those are conversations for another time, revelations that aren't Dugan's to share.

"I can take you to him," he offers. "But you need to be prepared. He might not recognize you. He might be... afraid. His memories come and go."

She reaches across the table and takes Dugan's large hand in her small one. Her grip is surprisingly strong. “Then I am going to sit by his side until he remembers me.”

"Alright then," he says, squeezing her hand gently before releasing it. "Let me, ah, break the news to Cap. He’s a bit… twitchy.”

“Nothing new there,” she says softly. “Seeing all the stories about him during the war… boy was barely my height. I’m glad…” he raises her fingers to her lips and holds back a sniffle. “I prayed for a miracle. Of course they came back together.”

“Yeah, that’s what Becca said.”

“She’s a smart kid.”

As they leave the café, Dugan finds himself smiling for the first time in days. Maybe he's not so useless after all. Maybe bringing a mother to her wounded son is exactly the kind of help the kid needs most.

"You know," he says as they walk, "your boy was the best sniper I ever saw. Steady hands."

"He gets that from me," Winifred says softly. "His father was all temper. James learned patience watching me wait out storms."

Dugan nods, understanding now where Barnes got his ability to endure. To survive what should have been unsurvivable.

"Mrs. Barnes," he says, "I think you might be exactly what the doctor ordered."

Steve hears the front door open, followed by Becca's voice, low and urgent. He tenses instantly, one arm still wrapped protectively around Bucky, who has finally fallen into a fitful sleep against his chest. The combination of exhaustion and panic has eventually pulled him back under, though Steve doesn't expect it to last. It never does.

"It's just Dugan," he whispers to Bucky, who stirs at the sudden tension in Steve's body. "Go back to sleep."

But then he hears another voice, this one softer, higher, achingly familiar even though it’s been years since he’s heard it. His stomach drops.

Mrs. Barnes.

"Becca, what's going on?" he calls, keeping his voice steady even as his mind races. Bucky is in no condition for this. Hell, Steve is in no condition for this, unshaven, exhausted, sitting in bed with his arms around Becca's brother in a way that leaves little room for misinterpretation.

Becca appears in the doorway, her expression a complicated mix of apology and defiance. "She needs to see him. He needs to see her."

Behind her stands Dugan, hat in hand, shoulders hunched, trying to make his large frame smaller. "Sorry, Cap," he says quietly. "She was heading in anyway. Thought it best to escort her properly."

And then Winifred Barnes steps into view, and everything else falls away.

She's smaller than Steve remembers from this childhood. Grief has whittled her down to something bird-like. But her eyes, Bucky's eyes, that same remarkable blue-gray, are anything but fragile as they scan the room, landing first on Steve, then shifting to the man cradled against his chest.

"James," she breathes, the single word carrying four years of grief and longing.

Against him, Bucky stirs at the sound of his name. His breathing changes, quickens. Steve tightens his hold instinctively, protective.

"Mrs. Barnes," he says, finding his voice through the sudden tightness in his throat. "This isn't - he's not - " He stops, unsure how to explain that the man in his arms both is and isn't her son. That Bucky is broken in ways that might not be fixable. That seeing his mother might shatter what fragile progress they've made.

But it's too late for warnings or preparations. Bucky's eyes flutter open, disoriented as always upon waking. He blinks at the ceiling, then at Steve, a moment of confusion, then recognition. Then his gaze drifts toward the doorway and freezes.

For a terrible moment, there's nothing. No recognition. No reaction at all. Just Bucky staring blankly at his mother as if she's a stranger.

Steve feels the familiar despair settling in his chest. "Buck," he says gently. "Buck, it's - "

"Ma?"

The word is barely a whisper, cracked and uncertain. His entire body goes rigid against Steve’s chest.

Winifred Barnes makes a small, wounded sound - part joy, part heartbreak. "Hello baby," she says, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Something breaks in Bucky at the sound of his mother’s voice. A dam holding back emotions too vast to contain. His breath catches on a sob, and his metal hand, the hand he's been so careful to hide, to keep from touching Steve except in moments of desperation, reaches out toward his mother.

"Ma," he says again, louder this time, disbelief and wonder and anguish all tangled together in that single syllable.

Steve loosens his hold, allowing Bucky to sit up. He's shaking so violently that Steve worries he might pass out, but he manages to swing his legs over the side of the bed, perched on the edge like he's afraid to move closer.

Winifred has no such hesitation. She crosses the room in quick, purposeful steps until she's standing before her son. She doesn't flinch at the metal arm still extended toward her, doesn't hesitate as she takes his face between her small hands.

"My boy," she whispers, thumbs brushing away tears that Bucky doesn't seem aware are falling. "My beautiful boy."

Bucky's mouth works, trying to form words, but nothing comes. His hands - flesh and metal - hover near her arms but don't quite make contact, as if he's afraid she'll dissolve at his touch. Steve recognizes the struggle on his face, that desperate need to speak warring with his mind's inability to form the words.

"I'm here, sweetheart," Winifred says firmly, seeming to understand his silent question. "Look at me. I'm right here."

Steve watches, heart in his throat, as Bucky searches his mother's face with desperate intensity. He's looking for the trick, Steve realizes. The trap. After all the times his mind has been manipulated, all the times HYDRA and Karpov ripped it away from him…

His right hand finally rises, trembling violently, to touch her cheek, a mirror of her gesture. His fingers brush her skin with such gentleness, such reverence, that Steve has to look away.

"Ma," Bucky says again, and this time it's a plea. For reassurance. For absolution. For something Steve can't quite name.

"Yes, baby," she says, and pulls him forward into her arms.

Bucky shatters. There's no other word for it. The man who'd endured torture, who'd fought his way back from the edge of oblivion, who'd faced his worst nightmares with gritted teeth and hollow eyes… he collapses against his mother with a cry that tears at something fundamental in Steve's chest.

"Ma," he sobs, the single word containing universes of pain and relief and longing. It's all he can say, all he seems able to articulate, but it's enough. "Ma."

Steve catches Dugan quickly wiping his face with the back of his hand. Becca stands frozen in the doorway, one hand pressed to her mouth, shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

When he forces himself to look back, Winifred has somehow maneuvered them both to sit on the edge of the bed. Bucky's head is buried in her lap, his entire body heaving with sobs that rattle around Steve’s broken heart. She holds him with a strength that belies her small frame, one hand cradling the back of his head exactly as she must have done when he was a child.

She's murmuring to him, words too quiet for even Steve's enhanced hearing to catch without effort. Private words. A mother's words. Her eyes, though still streaming with tears, meet Steve's over Bucky's head. The gratitude shining back at him is more than he can stand.

Steve nods once, throat too tight for words.

Bucky's sobs eventually quiet to shuddering breaths, but he doesn't pull away. If anything, he seems to curl further into his mother's embrace, like a wounded animal seeking shelter. He tries again to speak, his mouth moving against her shoulder, but all that emerges is a broken "Ma" that somehow conveys a universe of apology and shame.

"Hush," she says firmly, smoothing his long hair with gentle fingers. "I’m here, my love, I’ve got you."

Bucky shakes his head against her, a gesture of profound disagreement, but he doesn't try to speak again. His metal hand opens and closes reflexively at his side, a silent testament to all the things he can't put into words.

“What have they done to you?” She strokes her fingers through his hair, rocking them both gently as Bucky curls himself around her.

Steve doesn’t move. Not right away.

He stays rooted to the spot, watching the two of them, mother and son, curled together on the edge of the bed like time has folded in on itself. He barely breathes, afraid that any sound, any shift in the air might break whatever spell has brought Bucky this far back to himself.

Winifred murmurs something again, practically doubled over in an attempt to shield him from the world. Her fingers thread through his sweat damp hair, soothing, steady, grounding him only a mother can.

Stev’e’s hands are shaking. Not from fear. From the release of it. From the weight that’s been pressing down on him for weeks - months, maybe years - beginning to lift. Just a little. Just enough.

He takes a slow step away from the bed, giving them space, heart aching with love and grief.

Becca is still frozen in the doorway. Steve touches her shoulder gently, grounding her the same way Winifred is grounding Bucky. She startles slightly, then leans into him.

“I didn’t know if he’d remember her,” she whispers, voice raw. “I thought… maybe… maybe it - ”

“He remembers,” Steve says softly. “Maybe not everything. But enough.” Too much, perhaps.

She nods, eyes still locked on her mother and brother, tears streaking silently down her cheeks. “He was always a momma’s boy,” she says, her laugh closer to a sob than an expression of joy. “Losing him… god, Steve. You don’t know what it means to us, having him back. Having you both back.”

Steve tucks her under his arm, remembering a time when they were the same height, when he’d begrudged her attention as something pitying, an affection shown to him only because he was Bucky’s friend. It feels like a century ago.

Steve glances back at them. Winifred is humming now, something simple, familiar, low and soothing. Steve doesn’t recognize the tune, but Bucky clearly does. He’s gone pliant in her arms, head still tucked against her, every line of his body radiating exhaustion, but no longer the frantic, brittle kind that had marked every moment since Steve woke from the ice.

This is something new. Or maybe something old, something from before the war. Before HYDRA sunk their claws into him. Before everything.

“Do you want me to go?” Winifred asks softly, without looking up.

“No,” Steve says quickly, instinctively. “Please stay.”

She meets his eyes, and there’s no judgment in them. Only gratitude, and something harder to define. Trust, maybe. Or maybe understanding. Whatever it is, it feels like absolution.

“I didn’t protect him,” Steve says quietly, barely above a whisper.

Winifred lifts her hand without letting go of her son, and gestures him forward. “Sit with us, Steven.”

He hesitates for only a second, then crosses the room and lowers himself carefully to the bed beside her. Bucky doesn’t stir, still curled into her lap, his breathing rough but no longer ragged.

“He told me once,” Winifred says, eyes on Bucky’s face, “that you were the only thing that made him feel brave. That no matter what happened, if you were there, he could handle it.”

Steve swallows the lump in his throat. “That was him for me, too.”

“I know,” she says.

A silence falls over them, heavy but not uncomfortable. Steve watches her fingers comb gently through Bucky’s hair, the way she hums quietly into the crown of his head, the way Bucky clutches at her cardigan like a child.

“I’m staying,” she adds. “I’m not leaving him again.”

“You don’t have to,” Steve says. “You can take the bed, we’ll-“

“Don’t be ridiculous, Steven, you’re a smart boy.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, fighting the urge to smile. He’s always had a strange relationship with Bucky’s mom. As a child, he saw only her failures, the towering, intimidating figure of George Barnes always overshadowing his quiet, meek wife. Stacked against his own mother, whose spirit blazed with stubborn determination, he’d thought her rather weak. As an adult, well, his perspective is hardly what it used to be. The strengths he’s always admired in Bucky, he now knows are hers.

Becca moves into the room, quiet as a shadow, and sits on the floor beside her mother’s legs. She leans in, just to be close. Just to be there.

Steve finds himself mirroring her on the other side, hand brushing gently against Bucky’s arm, careful not to crowd him but unwilling to break contact.

They sit like that for what could be minutes or hours, in the fading hush of midmorning light and shared grief. In the warmth of a reunion that still feels too fragile to be real.

Eventually, Bucky shifts, lifting his head from his mother’s lap. His eyes are red-rimmed and wet, face blotchy and pale, but more aware than Steve’s seen in days. He glances at Steve first - of course he does - then Becca, then his mother.

“Sorry,” he rasps, voice barely audible.

Winifred presses her hand gently to his cheek. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

His eyes slide shut again, but he doesn’t fall back asleep. Just breathes. Just exists. Between them. Held.

Steve stands at the kitchen sink, methodically washing dishes that don't really need washing. It's something to do with his hands while his mind races. Bucky is asleep, his mother sitting vigil beside him. She’s been singing to him, drawing him down into a slumber that even his nightmares seem hesitant to disturb.

Becca had gone home for a change of clothes and some sleep in a real bed. Dugan is positioned outside, still on guard duty despite Steve's suggestion he get some rest too. The apartment is quiet except for the gentle scrape of porcelain and the soft splash of water.

"Stevie."

The childhood nickname catches him off guard. He turns to find Winifred standing in the kitchen doorway. She's the only person alive besides Bucky who still occasionally calls him that - a name from a time when he was just a scrawny kid trailing after her son with scraped knees and a perpetual wheeze.

"Mrs B," he acknowledges, the familiar address slipping out naturally. After decades of knowing each other, of Sunday dinners and childhood illnesses and worried vigils, they're well past formalities. "Is everything all right? Is he…"

"Still sleeping," she assures him, stepping fully into the kitchen. There's something different in her expression now - the gentle relief of their reunion replaced by a steely determination he's seen only a handful of times before. The look she'd worn when facing down George Barnes in one of his drunken rages, when her courage rose from behind her fear to protect her children in the only way she could.

"I need you to tell me what they did to my boy."

The directness of her demand catches Steve off-guard. He turns back to the sink, busying his hands with a plate that's already clean. "I don't think…"

"Don't," she interrupts, voice low. "Don't you dare try to protect me. I've known you since you were six years old. I bandaged your knees. I fed you soup when you were too sick to leave your bed. I held you when Sarah passed."

Steve swallows hard against the sudden tightness in his throat. She had held him after his mother's funeral, had pulled him into her kitchen when he'd stubbornly refused Bucky's offer to stay, had wrapped her arms around him and let him break down in a way he couldn't in front of anyone else, not even Buck.

"I know," he says quietly.

"Then you know I need the truth," she continues, moving closer. "All of it. No matter how ugly. He's my son."

Steve sets down the plate carefully, aware that his hands are shaking slightly. "It's not about need. It's about…" He stops, struggling to find the right words. "Some things are better not knowing."

"Better for whom?" she challenges. "For me? Or for you, because you don't want to say it out loud?"

That lands like a physical blow. Steve turns to face her fully, seeing the fierce determination in her eyes, so like Bucky's that it makes his chest ache.

"He wouldn't want you to know," Steve says finally. "I don’t even know all of it."

"Then tell me what you do know," she counters. "So I can understand. So I can help him heal."

“There’s no understanding this,” Steve tells her. “There’s no… no explanation. What was done to him was evil. Pure evil. You can’t… can’t understand that.”

She swallows and nods. And doesn’t waver.

"Sit down," he says finally, gesturing to the kitchen table. "Please."

She does, folding her hands in front of her with the same precise control she's always had. Steve pours them both coffee, then sits across from her, gathering his courage.

"They only let him sleep when he was in cryostasis. Frozen. Hypothermic, basically. On the edge of death. And when they didn’t, they kept him in a cell," he chokes, keeping his voice low and steady. "Concrete walls. Metal door. No windows. Sometimes they'd hose it down while he was still in it." He’s read that much. Pieced together the daily reality of conditioning and terror.

Winifred's face remains composed, only the slight whitening of her knuckles betraying her emotion.

"He wasn't allowed to speak unless spoken to. Wasn't allowed to look anyone in the eye. Wasn’t allowed to eat. Drink. If he broke the rules, they'd punish him."

"How?" The single word is barely audible.

Steve looks down at his coffee, unable to meet her eyes. "Electric shocks. Beatings. Isolation. Water torture. Whatever would break him fastest." He pauses. "They fed him through tubes most of the time. He's only just relearning how to eat and drink normally. Sometimes he  panics, waits for permission before swallowing."

Winifred makes a small, wounded sound but doesn't interrupt.

"He thinks…" Steve continues, forcing each word past the tightness in his throat, "that he deserved it. Still believes it. That basic human need had to be earned through absolute obedience."

A single tear tracks down Winifred's cheek, but she doesn't move to wipe it away. "Who…” she swallows painfully. “Who?"

"A Soviet named Vasily Karpov." Steve's jaw clenches involuntarily around the name. "And a HYDRA, Nazi, scientist named Zola. During the war, he was… well you heard about what happened to the 107^th. They, HYDRA I mean, gave him a version of the serum I took. Doesn’t quite work the same, but he heals almost as fast as I do. They hurt him. A lot. His head, so his memories were…” He stops, uncertain how much to reveal. How much he can stomach without breaking himself.

"And where are they now?" There's something dangerous in Winifred's quiet question. “The men who did that to him.”

"Dead," Steve says flatly. "I made sure of it."

A flash of something fierce, satisfaction, perhaps, crosses her face before it settles back into grim determination. "Good."

They sit in silence for a moment, the weight of what's been revealed hanging heavily between them. Winifred sips her coffee slowly, processing everything she's heard. When she speaks again, her tone has shifted subtly.

"When I arrived," she says carefully, "you were in bed with him. Holding him."

The abrupt change of subject catches Steve off-guard. "Yes," he admits, seeing no point in denying what she witnessed herself.

"I need to understand what that was, Steven," she continues, her voice gentle but firm. "What that is."

Steve feels a defensive tension creep into his shoulders. "Touch helps ground him. Comforts him. Keeps the nightmares at bay."

"Is that all it is?" Her eyes, so like Bucky's, hold his steadily. "Just comfort?"

Steve could lie. Could say yes, that's all, nothing more. But he's never been much good at lying, especially not to the woman who's been a second mother to him for most of his life.

"No," he says finally. "That's not all it is. Not for me."

Winifred absorbs this with a small nod, as if confirming something she already suspected. "I've known you a long time, Steven. I've seen the way you've always looked at my son. Even when you were boys."

Heat rises to Steve's face, but he doesn't deny it. Can't deny it, not anymore. Not after everything.

"I don’t-“

"I'm not judging you," she interrupts gently. "I don’t really understand it, but I don’t suppose I have to. I've lived long enough to understand that. But after what you've just told me..." She pauses, choosing her words carefully. "James is in no state to be making those kinds of decisions. To be in that kind of relationship. Any kind of relationship."

"I know that," Steve says, an edge creeping into his voice despite his efforts to remain calm. "I would never…"

"I know you wouldn't intentionally take advantage of him," Winifred says, raising a hand to stop him. "You're a good man. You always have been. But you just told me nazi scientists tortured my son.” Her voice catches. "How can he possibly understand what it means to be in a relationship with you?"

The question lands like a physical blow because it's the same one Steve has been torturing himself with. The same fear that keeps him awake at night, even with Bucky sleeping soundly against him.

"It's not like that," he says, but the words sound hollow even to his own ears. "I would never ask anything of him. Not now."

"But you're sleeping in the same bed," Winifred points out gently. "Holding him. Creating an intimacy that he might feel obligated to reciprocate, even if he's not ready."

"He needs me," Steve says, unable to keep the defensive note from his voice. "He reaches for me. He calls for me when he's lost in nightmares. I can't just…"

"I'm not saying you should abandon him," she clarifies. "I'm saying there need to be clear boundaries. For his sake. For his recovery."

Steve runs a hand through his hair, frustration and guilt warring inside him. "So what exactly are you asking me to do? Stop comforting him? Let him suffer because it might be misinterpreted?"

"I'm asking you to be careful," Winifred says. "To remember that he's extremely vulnerable right now. That after what you've just described to me, he's in no position to understand the difference between gratitude and love, between dependence and desire."

Steve stares down at his coffee, unable to meet her eyes. Because she's right, and he knows it. Has known it all along, even as he's let himself be drawn deeper into the complicated tangle of emotions between them.

"He needs you, Steven," Winifred continues, her voice gentler now. "But he needs you as his friend first. As the boy who stood by him all those years, who never gave up on him. The rest..." She pauses. "The rest can wait until he's stronger. Until he can truly choose."

"And if he never gets to that point?" Steve asks quietly. "If this is as good as it gets?"

"Then you'll both need to adjust to that reality," she says simply.

Steve wants to argue. Wants to tell her that what's between him and Bucky isn't a complication but a lifeline. That it's been there, unspoken but real, since long before HYDRA ever got their hands on him. But that means admitting to so much more. It means admitting he all but drive Bucky into Karpov’s arms. That he is the reason Bucky has suffered the way he has. That he shameless, selfishly, delights in the unashamed, sweet way Bucky kisses him. But he knows that would be selfish. Would be putting his own desires above what Bucky needs right now.

"I understand," he says finally, the words feeling like stones in his mouth. "I'll be more careful."

Winifred reaches across the table, taking his hand in her smaller one. "I know you love him, Steven. I've seen it all his life. And I believe, in his way, he loves you too." Her grip tightens. "But if you truly love him, you'll give him the space to find himself again before asking him to be anything more."

The gentleness in her voice nearly undoes him. It would be easier if she were angry, if she condemned him outright. This understanding, this compassion… it cuts deeper than any accusation could.

"I just want him back," Steve admits, voice barely above a whisper. "In whatever way I can have him."

"I know," Winifred says softly. "So do I. And we'll help him find his way back. But we do it right. Before your needs as..." She pauses. "As whatever you hope to be to him."

Steve nods, unable to find words through the tightness in his throat.

Winifred studies him for a moment longer, then seems satisfied with what she sees. She stands, smoothing her skirt with shaking hands. "I should check on him.”

"Call if you need anything," Steve says, rising as well. "If he wakes confused you need to remind him where he is."

She nods, and with that, she's gone, leaving Steve alone with his coffee and the weight of promises he's not sure he can keep. How do you keep your distance from someone who reaches for you in the night? How do you draw boundaries with a man who doesn't remember what boundaries are?

Steve turns back to the sink, staring down at his hands. They're shaking slightly, though whether from the strain of recounting Bucky's torture or from the promise he's just made, he can't be sure.

All he knows is that she’s is right, even if it breaks his heart to admit it. Bucky needs to heal before anything else can happen between them. Needs to reclaim himself before he can give any part of himself away.

Even if that means Steve has to step back, has to relearn what it means to be just a friend to the man he's loved for as long as he can remember.

Alone, and trusting that Bucky is safe with the one person in the world who loves him as much as Steve does, he folds his arms onto the table, lowers his forehead to rest on his wrists, and smothers his heartbroken tears from the world.

Chapter Text

Something changes.

It’s in the way Steve moves around Bucky now. Careful. Measured. Different from before. The space between them has grown overnight. Steve’s there when he looks for him, but he has to look.

When Bucky wakes, Steve isn’t beside him. The sheets are cold, the impression of his body long faded. Steve has been there every morning since they arrived, a constant presence anchoring Bucky. Keeping him safe. From himself. From his nightmares. From the figures that lurk in the shadows.

Sleep in my arms and stay by my side. I’ll take care of everything else.

Now Steve hovers at the edges of rooms. His hands twitch at his sides when Bucky hesitates, but he doesn't reach out. Doesn't steady him. Just watches with something painful in his eyes.

His ma sits with him instead, her small hands gentle as she combs tangles from his hair. She speaks softly in English that his mind grasps more easily one day than it does another. The fog lifts, slowly, in patches and fragments, then descends again.

The absence of Steve's warmth leaves him unmoored, drifting. Bucky accesses solutions in his mind, that empty space giving him a strange clarity he’s not known he’s been missing.

Steve doesn’t hold him when he sleeps.

His mind proposes two immediate solutions: one, he is to sleep on the floor. Two, he should explore efforts to bind himself as former protocol dictates.

Both options are cast aside. The panic and fear of breaking the rules is trumped by the memory of the abject horror on Steve’s face. With Karpov dead, there’s no reason at all to add to that pain purely for the purpose of pleasing his former handler.

Besides. He thinks the pain in his chest when he remembers Steve’s sadness might be a broken heart.

Most nights, he closes his eyes and just… pretends. His ma sleeps in the armchair Dugan has dragged in for her, and Steve paces, checking in on them every hour, every half an hour, every ten minutes, sometimes standing in the doorway, a shadow in the dark, unmoving as the clock counts down closer to dawn.

That was the state of things last night.

"More water?" his ma asks, and Bucky nods, accepting the glass. His fingers don't shake as badly today. Small victories.

His eyes track Steve as he moves through the apartment. Always watching. Always keeping the door in his line of sight. It's not a conscious choice. His body remembers what his mind tries to forget. Cataloging exits, monitoring threats, assessing risk.

But there are no threats here. Only Steve, keeping his distance.

Bucky searches his memory for infractions, for moments of failure. Did he speak without permission? Did he touch when he shouldn't have? Did they discover something new, something worse about what he's become?

Perhaps Steve has finally realized what Bucky has known all along: that the person he's trying to save no longer exists. That what remains is broken beyond repair. Too damaged for the effort.

Sleep in my arms and stay by my side. I’ll take care of everything else.

He said those words to a man who no longer exists.

When his ma leaves the room to help Becca with lunch, Steve stands at the window, back to Bucky, shoulders a solid line of tension. Bucky rises from the sofa, trying to remember how to move the way he once did, slow and smooth and silent.

"Steve." The name is as easy as it’s always been. His tongue, his heart, remembers the shape of it, even when other words still tangle and catch.

Steve turns, and the smile he offers doesn't reach his eyes. "Hey, Buck. You need something?"

Need. Yes. But not water or food or another blanket. He needs to understand why Steve won't look at him anymore. Why he sits across the room instead of beside him. Why he flinches when Bucky moves toward him.

"Wrong?" Bucky manages, the question incomplete but clearly understood.

"No," Steve says quickly. "Nothing's wrong. Everything's fine." There’s a twitch in Steve’s fingers. Bucky’s grown used to Steve reaching up and pushing his hair back behind his ear. He ducks his chin, lets the dark strands fall across his face, and aches with disappointment when Steve does nothing to fix it.

The lie is obvious. Bucky might not remember everything, but he remembers this: Steve Rogers is a terrible liar.

He takes another step forward. Steve takes one back.

The retreat hits Bucky like a physical blow. His breath catches, his heart rate accelerating. Rejection. Abandonment. He's being discarded. The way things are discarded when they malfunction beyond repair.

Steve must see the panic rising because he raises his hands, palms out. "I'm sorry. It's not you. I promise. I just... I need to give you some space."

Space. The word echoes hollowly. Bucky doesn't want space. Space is cold and empty and terrifying. Space is what he had for years, alone in that box with nothing but pain and loneliness to pass the time.

"No." The word emerges sharper than he intended. Almost an order.

“Buck…” The pain in Steve’s voice ricochets around Bucky’s chest.

The fear clawing its way up his throat freezes in place. He swallows, and something else rises.

“No,” he spits the word out in fury. There’s a heat rising in him that leaves him almost breathless.

He’s… oh, he’s angry.

“You promised.”

Steve flinches, a ripple of guilt crossing his face. "It's complicated."

"No." The anger sharpens, clarifies. Bucky can feel himself unfurling from the inside out, shedding layers of docility. "You promised. You said…you said stay by your side. You…"

His words falter, not from confusion but from fury. He clenches both his fists, the urge to lash out rising like a tide. Steve's eyes flick downward, then quickly back up as if the glance itself is something to be ashamed of.

"I'm trying to do what's best for you." Steve's voice drops, a whisper threaded with desperation. "I'm trying to make sure I'm not…"

"Not your choice."

The words break free, clean and clear. Bucky steps forward again, and this time Steve doesn't retreat. He holds his ground, though his shoulders hunch inward slightly, bracing for impact.

The anger burns hot and bright, then collapses in on itself like a dying star. In its wake, exhaustion floods Bucky's limbs. The metal arm grows heavy, dragging at his shoulder. Three steps to the couch feel like three miles.

He sinks down, eyes fixed on his mismatched hands. Once, those hands could field-strip a rifle in the dark. Once, they could dance across the keys of a piano, coaxing joy not misery. Now one is metal, and the other trembles when it isn't supported by Steve's strength.

"Bucky…"

He doesn't look up. Can't. If he sees the pain in Steve's eyes again, the anger might reignite, or worse, it might extinguish completely, leaving nothing but the hollow shell HYDRA crafted.

Hours pass. Bucky sits. His ma and Becca return, gently coaxing him into conversation with gentle memories he has to rifle through his fractured memories to recall. He answers when required. They bring food, and he eats mechanically. Night falls. The apartment grows quiet.

His ma insists on sleeping in the armchair again. Bucky wants to tell her to go home. That she shouldn't have to witness this slow disintegration. When she refuses, he tries to convince her to take the bed, and not just because he knows he won’t sleep. But words fail him once more, so he simply nods when she kisses his forehead and turns down the lamp.

He doesn't sleep. Can't sleep. The rules have changed again, and he doesn't understand the new parameters. How to be good. How to be enough for Steve to stay.

The shadows in the room are moving. If he looks too close, or for too long, he knows he’ll see the Colonel looking back at him.

He stares at the ceiling instead.

Then he hears something. Soft. Almost inaudible. A muffled sound from the bathroom.

Bucky rises silently, careful not to wake his ma. The sliver of light beneath the door draws him forward. There’s another sound, a ragged breath, hastily stifled.

He hesitates, hand hovering over the doorknob. Then he's turning it, pushing inward.

Steve is on the edge of the tub, face buried in his hands. His shoulders shaking with the effort of containing his grief, keeping it quiet, keeping it hidden from Bucky who should be the first to know about it, always.

Bucky's across the room before he can think, kneeling at Steve's feet. His right hand reaches out, hovering, uncertain, then settles on Steve's knee.

Steve's head snaps up. His eyes are red-rimmed, face wet with tears. For a moment, raw shock overtakes his expression.

"Buck…fuck, I’m sorry, did I wake you? Do you need something?”

"Steve," Bucky says, the word slicing through whatever protest he is about to make. His metal hand catches Steve's, unfamiliar courage filling him as he sees Steve so broken. "Steve. Please."

Misery collapses the lie on Steve’s face. His breath hitches, and suddenly he's folding forward, forehead pressing against Bucky's shoulder. His body trembling with suppressed sobs, each one cutting through the layers of behavior Bucky knows he’s supposed to follow. They all peel away, leaving behind only one simple function.

It’s the core of his being, the very foundation beneath his feet and the center of everything.

Protect Steve Rogers.

"I'm trying…" Steve chokes on the words. "I'm trying to do the right thing."

Bucky slides his hand to the back of Steve's neck, where the soft hair meets warm skin. The gesture feels ancient, rooted in muscle memory older than his terror.

"No right thing," Bucky manages. "Only us."

He holds Steve as he shakes apart, the way Steve has held him through countless nightmares. They breathe together, Steve's uneven gasps gradually slowing to match Bucky's steadier rhythm.

Bucky's thoughts sharpen in the face of Steve’s misery. They come easier, words forming with less effort.

Steve himself is the cure for the scrambled pieces of his mind. He’ll rebuild himself from the ground up if that’s what it takes.

"Don't leave me," Bucky whispers into Steve's hair. "Not again."

Steve pulls back just enough to look up at him, eyes searching Bucky's face. "I'm not leaving you. I'd never… I'm just trying to give you space to heal without me-"

"Don't need space," Bucky cuts him off, the sudden, shocking urge to shake some sense into Steve somehow the most familiar thing he has ever encountered. "Need you."

The simplicity silences whatever argument Steve is forming. His hands lift to frame Bucky's face, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones with a reverence that makes Bucky's heart stutter.

"I'm scared," Steve admits, barely audible. "I'm scared of hurting you. Of asking too much. Of being selfish."

Bucky leans forward until their foreheads touch. He closes his eyes, breathes in.

"You promised," he says again, but the accusation has drained from the words. Now it's just a reminder. A plea.

"I did," Steve acknowledges, his voice steadying. "I meant it."

"Then keep it."

Bucky shifts forward. His right hand rises to Steve's face, fingers brushing away the remnants of tears. The bathroom light casts shadows across Steve's features, highlighting the weariness etched there, the struggle of the past days… years wearing him down.

For once, Bucky's mind is clear. Certain. He leans in and presses his lips to Steve's. Not asking. Claiming.

Steve freezes for a heartbeat, then yields, his hands settling at Bucky's waist. When they break apart, his eyes are wide, conflicted. It strips away the years of responsibility Steve’s taken to hoarding. "I never want to hurt you."

"My choice," Bucky whispers against Steve's mouth. "Mine."

He stands, pulling Steve with him, metal hand clasped firmly around Steve's wrist. Not allowing retreat. Not accepting distance. He leads them from the bathroom, through the darkened apartment back toward the bedroom.

A floorboard creaks. The soft rustle of movement from the living room pulls Bucky's attention sideways. His ma sits up in the armchair, lamplight catching on her face as she switches it on.

"James," she starts, voice low. "You need rest. You both do."

Bucky halts, straightening his spine, shoulders squaring. The posture of a soldier, not a victim. His grip on Steve's wrist tightens fractionally.

"Mine," he says, the word emerging with startling clarity.

His ma's eyes widen slightly. She opens her mouth, but Bucky shakes his head once, sharply.

"He's mine," Bucky says, each word distinct and certain. "I'm his."

The emotions flicker across his ma's face. Surprise, concern, perhaps a flash of understanding. She rises slowly from the chair, smoothing down her skirt with trembling hands.

"Sweetheart…"

"No." The word comes out with quiet force. "You told him to stay away."

His ma's gaze shifts to Steve, who looks down, unable to meet her eyes. The confirmation of Bucky's suspicion sends a cold current through him.

"Don't need protection. Not from him." Bucky continues, his voice steadying with each word.

Steve's hand moves, turning in Bucky's grip until their fingers intertwine. Not the guidance of a handler or the caution of a caretaker.

Bucky steps forward, tugging Steve alongside him. "Going to bed," he says, not a request but a statement of fact. "With Steve."

His ma watches them for a long moment, her expression softening by degrees. She doesn't try to stop them, doesn't reach for more arguments. Instead, she nods once, something ever so close to a smile rising under the lamplight.

"Sleep well," she says quietly. “I’ll take the couch.”

The tension drains from Bucky's shoulders only when the door closes behind her.

Bucky reaches for him, right hand settling on Steve's chest. He can feel the rapid beat of Steve's heart beneath his palm, the warmth radiating through his thin shirt.

"Mine," Bucky repeats, softer now but no less certain.

Steve's breath catches. "Buck, are you sure? Your ma's right about-"

"No," Bucky cuts him off. "My choice. You promised."

He guides Steve to the bed, both of them sinking down onto the mattress. Bucky arranges them the way they've slept before, Steve's arms around him, their bodies aligned from chest to knees, his head tucked against Steve’s shoulder. The rightness of it settles into his bones, chasing away the cold fear that has plagued him all day.

Steve's arms tighten around him, tentative at first, then tighter as Bucky nestles closer. He fastens his hand over his opposite wrists and traps Bucky in a cage of unwavering strength.

"Yours," Steve whispers into Bucky's hair, the admission barely audible.

Bucky exhales, tension unspooling as Steve's warmth seeps into him. The words form more easily now, carried on the certainty that crystallizes in his chest.

"Always have been," he murmurs, eyes drifting closed.

As Bucky starts to drift off, the grip around his back loosens. Steve's hand strokes gently through his hair, tucking the strands behind his ear. The gesture that Bucky has been missing all day, now returned and a hundred times more precious.

As sleep starts to claim him, Steve presses a kiss to his temple, his silent promise reaffirmed.

“I’ve got you,” he promises. Whatever fears still lurk in the shadows, whatever demons still haunt Bucky’s fractured mind, he falls asleep with a single truth growing warm inside his chest:

Steve is his. He is Steve's.

After:

There’s no magic fix. No suddenly ‘better’. Some days, Bucky can do little more than eat and drink when encouraged. He sits in motionless silence, sometimes curled in Steve’s arm, sometimes sat on the floor with his head against his ma’s knee. They read to him, sing to him, sit with him in silence. A week, a month, a year, a decade, those days still come. He does nothing, and it exhausts him.

Some days, he joins in the conversations that happen around him. Adds his own memories to the stories shared. Some days he smiles. Some days he laughs.

Before Christmas hits in 1949, Howard knocks on the door, slightly drunk. He hands Steve an absurdly large bunch of keys and the directions to a house in upstate New York. Brooklyn, for all its familiarities, is not a safe or practical place for Captain America to live out the rest of his days. There are already rumors of his return, ones that are only nudged into the sphere of conspiracy and ridicule when Howard buys up a newspaper and wireless station and starts flooding the press with a new outlandish theory every other day. In the space of a week, Steve is officially spotted in Fresno, Tokyo, Odesa, Glasgow, and several islands in the Caribbean.  

The house sits on five hundred acres of land, which the US Army has conveniently listed as a no-fly area. It’s a huge, sprawling thing, with a dozen different spots Bucky likes to rotate throughout the day, chasing the sun as it moves through the sky.

Steve tries to turn it down, tries to refuse a gesture that’s overly generous, even for a man with pockets as deep as Howard’s. Howard shows him the paperwork authorising Bucky’s transfer to Camp Leigh, his own signature a smudge of ink at the bottom, and calls it less costly than his life.

The first Christmas Steve and Bucky have back on American soil is a mixed bag of success and failure. It’s impossible to get the Howling Commandos together in a room full of Jacques’s finest wine and not cause a little chaos. Something about the sound of their boisterous laughter and the smell of alcohol sets Bucky into a spiral of panic, but once Steve coaxes him out of hiding, their cowed, toe-scuffing handwringing manages to coax a wry little grin from behind the cloud of terror.

In February of 51, during a a month Bucky swears the sun doesn’t shine once, Becca marries Billy Proctor in church. Dugan walks her down the aisle in a suit starched within an inch of its life, the rest of the Howlies sharing the front aisle with Bucky’s ma, every last one of them on their best behavior. When the ceremony is done, when Becca and her new husband have smiled and danced and thanked their friends, they load in a convoy of cars and repeat the whole thing again under a grey sky in a blooming orchard. It rains the whole time, but it’s a day Bucky manages to cling to happiness, and he dances with his sister until the sun sets. Billy is a good man. He swears to keep their secret, a promise made easy by love for Becca and a no doubt terrifying conversation with Peggy.

In March of that year, Jacques returns to France. Every month, a new bottle of wine arrives on Becca’s doorstep, his way of apologizing for years of unanswered letters. He never marries, never has more children, but whenever he gets a visit from his American brothers, they leave with new stories of the prickly Parisian sommelier he most certainly isn’t sharing a bed with.

Jim visits him the most. Under the guise of ‘I was bored’ he collects his medical license, then the engineering degree he once whispered about on the side of a mountain in the Alps. When Howard is too busy being Howard to remember he has a dozen and change companies to run, it’s Jim who steps in and ensures Stark Industries puts its time, money, and effort in the right places. His bedside manner doesn’t improve in the slightest, but he goes from keeping his brothers in one piece to fixing the world’s problems, one grumbled, affectionate insult at a time.

SHIELD never emerges from the ashes of Peggy’s cleansing fire. The SSR, absorbed back into the US Navy, does what it always has and ticks away quietly in the background, it’s authority checked by politics, and its policies shaped massively by the leadership of the CIA. Gabe might be the youngest of the Howling Commandos, but he emerges as its most prominent member, taking all of their greatest successes and most devastating losses and forcibly steering a fledgling agency down a path where right continues to triumph over ease.

In the summer of 1950, a month into his position, he puts a team in place with one single goal: to hunt down and dismantle the Red Room. The joint operation with the newly restructured MI6 takes six months to deliver on its objective. It helps, the press are told, when the Directors of both agencies are friendly enough to insult each other to their faces when they disagree. Director Falsworth will swear up and down that he’s far too polite for such a thing; Director Jones knows better. Dugan, refusing the fifth promotion in as many years, points out that he’s the one actually doing all the work.

Dugan does, eventually, run out of HYDRA and Red Room agents to hunt. He lasts two days into retirement before a shadow league of assassins sends a literal zombie to kill him and gleefully checks himself back into work.

On paper, Peggy retires from military life with SHIELD. She and Gabe become the second couple to get married in Steve and Bucky’s orchard. She’s not a politician, and certainly not the official ambassador to the United States, but when it comes to matters of fringe science and global security, there’s not a decision made in either country that does not come across her desk in some form or other. It’s a joke in both Washington and Westminster that if Peggy Carter picks up the phone and tells you to launch a nuke into space, you press the button and only ask questions when the threat is neutralized.

Howard… well, Howard continues to be Howard, but just as he did during the war, when he starts to question how far to push, how close to the line to step, he turns to Steve Rogers for guidance. He turns to Bucky Barnes for perspective, and Bucky… well, Bucky quickly decides that wanting to punch Howard Stark in the face is a fairly consistent feeling. It’s oddly comforting for all three of them.

By mid-winter in 51, the orchard is heavy with snow, and the house smells of firewood and tea and Becca’s gingerbread.

Bucky still favors his right side. Always has. Even before the war. But Steve starts to notice the way his left hand trembles more in the mornings. The stiffness that clings through breakfast. The small, barely audible hitches in his breath when he pulls on his coat. He hides it well, has always known how to carry pain quietly, but Steve knows him too well. Notices the way he’ll angle his body to lean against the doorframe just so, how he’ll sleep with the arm tucked behind him, elbow locked and unmoving.

It takes Steve longer than he’d like to say anything.

Bucky refuses. At first.

Refuses the exam. Refuses the sedation. Refuses to even let Howard look at the scarred junction where skin meets steel. Steve doesn’t blame him. The idea of letting someone touch the thing HYDRA forced into him, of opening himself up to more needles, more pain, is more than he can bear. It’s there in the frightened way Bucky flinches at the word surgery, in the way his eyes go glassy and unfocused, lost in a memory he can’t explain and doesn’t want to. Howard’s the one who tells him about the initial surgery, and it’s just another time Steve regrets not having the chance to kill Arnim Zola himself.

The pain is constant now. And on a night when the snow is so thick against the windows it muffles every sound, Steve finds Bucky in the hall, cradling his left arm like it might fall off.

He doesn’t say anything. Just stands there, teeth gritted, breathing hard through his nose.

It’s not logic that convinces him. Not really. It’s Steve’s promise to hold him throughout. The same voice that used to drag him home from fights, the voice that talked him down from ledges, the voice that once asked him not to fall from a train and leave him alone.

“Okay,” Bucky says eventually. “Okay.”

He calls Howard that night.

The procedure is scheduled three weeks later.

Howard arrives with two trunks full of equipment, two flasks of something amber, and a promise that “this time, I’ve got it right.” He talks fast and hands Steve a manual written in what appears to be four different alphabets and a bit of sarcastic French. When he pulls out the sedatives, Bucky bursts into tears. Steve hates that he never stopped to consider promising him that he wouldn't have to be awake.

The procedure is simple. Relatively. Howard replaces the worst of the internal plating, rewires the neural interface to dull the excess feedback, reprograms the joint’s torque sensors so it stops clenching hard enough to fracture bone when Bucky gets startled.

They do it in the house. On the big wooden table in the sunroom with the blackout curtains drawn and Peggy standing guard. Winifred holds Bucky’s good hand, and Steve never once stops carding his fingers through Bucky’s hair.

Howard hums while he works. It’s a defense mechanism. A sound to keep the silence from tipping into something unbearable. The smell of solder and antiseptic fills the room. It takes nearly six hours. Steve doesn’t move for any of them.

Afterwards, Bucky sleeps for the better part of a day, drifting in and out of consciousness while his system recalibrates around the new mechanics.

Steve watches over him the entire time, face pale and drawn. He thinks about all the times Bucky reached for something with his left hand and didn’t complain. About the way he flinched when cold weather made the metal seize. About the bruises blooming on his side from spasms he didn’t talk about. About how he’d said nothing, and Steve hadn’t asked.

Later, in the days that follow, Bucky moves differently. Not better, not faster. Just… without flinching. Without bracing himself for pain. He stretches in the mornings. Reaches up to help Steve with the washing line. Plays the piano again, with both hands. Not every day. Not for long. But enough.

By the fall of 1955, they’ve found a rhythm.

It’s not peace. Not healing, not exactly. But it’s a life, shaped around Bucky’s needs and Steve’s unyielding patience. The house becomes less a safehouse and more a home. The creaking floors and sun-faded wallpaper carry their silences without comment. The kitchen clock ticks whether they’ve eaten or not. The orchard doesn’t care if Bucky spends whole days among the trees, only that he keeps coming back.

Steve still wakes with his fists clenched more often than not, heart jackhammering as if expecting sirens. But it’s different now. He’s not waiting for orders. He’s waiting for Bucky.

And Bucky… Bucky keeps showing up.

Some days he’s still silent, eyes shadowed and mouth drawn tight. But some mornings, he hums along to the radio while helping Steve wash dishes. Some evenings he curls up on the sofa beside him, shoulder pressed to shoulder, and watches whatever movie Howard sends them on a film reel. He doesn’t always understand the jokes, and sometimes the sound makes him flinch, but he never asks Steve to turn it off.

The orchard becomes his favorite place. When the noise in his head is too loud, when the house feels too full, when his body aches with memory, it’s the trees he trusts. The earth. The wind. The way it doesn’t ask anything of him. Doesn’t need him to be whole to be worthy of sunlight.

Sometimes, when the weight in Steve’s chest grows too heavy, he follows him out there. They don’t speak. Just walk in step. Bucky has learned to count breaths again. Steve has learned how to walk beside someone without reaching for what they can’t offer.

It’s not clean. Not linear.

There are days when Bucky won’t let Steve touch him. Days when he wakes speaking Russian, eyes wild with the panic of something half-remembered and ugly. There are weeks when Steve thinks they’ve gained ground, only to have it torn out from under them by a single sound, a smell, a shadow crossing the hallway too fast.

But the setbacks don’t break them the way they used to. Not completely.

Steve doesn’t push anymore. Doesn’t reach unless Bucky does first. And when he does, when his hand curls in Steve’s sleeve in the middle of the night, or he leans in until their foreheads brush and says nothing at all, Steve is there. Steady. Unmoving. A constant Bucky can cling to, or rage against, or ignore entirely.

He doesn’t always know what he needs. But Steve’s learned not to take it personally. Love, he’s come to understand, isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s just staying when it would be easier to leave.

Bucky starts sleeping more. Better. Not always through the night, but enough. Enough to make it through the mornings without shaking apart. Enough to start writing things down when the memories come, scraps of names, places, faces. Sometimes he brings them to Steve without a word. Sometimes he burns them in the fireplace.

Neither choice needs explanation.

Winifred stays with them through the first frost, then again when spring comes back. Her arthritis is getting worse, and the cold gnaws at her bones. But when she sits in the kitchen, tea steeping beside her, and watches her son sleep curled beneath the window like a boy again, she says she’s never felt warmer.

Becca and Billy bring the baby in early spring. A soft, gurgling thing named Rose with Becca’s mouth and her father’s ears and a laugh that sounds like windchimes on a porch. Bucky holds her once, just once, and stares at her like she might vanish if he blinks. She drools on his shirt, and he barely breathes until Steve reaches over and steadies his elbow with a hand.

He doesn’t hold her again. But the next day, Steve catches him knitting something in the corner of the porch, grumbling over dropped stitches with a kind of determined frustration that makes Steve quietly sit and watch until dusk.

It turns out to be a blanket. Crooked, uneven, with loops that snag and a line that dips like a fault line down one side. Becca cries when he hands it to her. Bucky doesn’t say anything. Just shuffles back inside before she can kiss his cheek.

Steve starts drawing again that summer.

Just rough sketches at first, loose, shaky outlines of trees, the orchard fence, Bucky’s boots by the door. Later, faces. Dugan’s laugh lines. Gabe’s sharp profile. Becca, arms folded, mid-lecture. Sometimes he draws Bucky from memory, sometimes from life. Once, Bucky finds a sketch left on the table, him and Steve, shoulder to shoulder on the front porch, the sun behind them. There’s a smudge where his thumb pressed into the page too hard.

Bucky doesn’t ask. He just carefully folds it and tucks it into the drawer beside his bed.

By the time the first snow falls in November, Bucky is still not well. Not really. Not whole. But he stands with Steve in the orchard anyway, both of them wrapped in old army coats, watching the sky go pale with frost. He still wakes from nightmares. Still loses whole days sometimes, lost in memories that don’t belong to him.

They age slowly.

Not just slower than others, but at a crawl. Imperceptible to anyone who doesn’t know them well. A faint smoothing of worry lines that never deepen. Cuts that vanish overnight. Hair that grays more slowly than it should.

By 1965, Winifred is entirely white. Steve and Bucky look almost exactly as they did the day she found them. Still young. Still strong. Still not quite of this world.

They don’t talk about it often. Not out loud. But Steve sees it in the set of Bucky’s jaw when a photograph from the wedding is pulled from an old album and the lines on Becca’s face are deeper than they should be. He sees it when Bucky excuses himself before guests arrive, uncomfortable around the nephews and nieces who call him Uncle like he’s a fixed star, rather than something trapped in orbit. Becca’s kids, Peggy and Gabe’s kids, Jim’s kids, Monty’s kids, fucking Howard’s kid, then Dugan finds a dame crazy enough to put up with him, and they’ve got enough little hands and feet for two soccer teams.

Steve keeps the orchard running when Bucky can’t. They grow vegetables. They plant trees. They host weddings and birthdays and wakes, and the years pass in quiet increments. Bucky finds peace in the slow rhythm of it. It gives him something to anchor to. And Steve… Steve doesn’t need the world to know who he is anymore. He’s content to be the man in the field, the quiet one fixing fences with calloused hands and a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.

But peace doesn’t last forever.

Sometimes it’s a newspaper article. A natural disaster. A new war, brewing halfway across the world. Sometimes it’s the sharp knock of Gabe's fist on the door, his coat dripping rain, and his expression already apologizing. Sometimes it’s a radio broadcast crackling through with a voice full of hatred, rallying fear like it’s gasoline, waiting to catch.

Steve listens. Tries to keep his hands still in his lap. Tries not to pace. Tries not to reach for the shield that’s wrapped in cloth under the bed upstairs.

“I keep hoping someone else will do something,” he says to Bucky one night, when the house is dark, the fire is dying, and Gabe has left again, the weight of another briefing in his bag. “That someone else will stop it before it gets worse.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything for a long time. Just stares into the flames.

“You could,” he says finally, not looking at him. “Stop it, I mean.”

Steve closes his eyes. “I’m not leaving you.”

“You don’t miss Captain America?”

“Fuck Captain America,” Steve swears, mostly to make Bucky snort in amusement. It’s true. He doesn’t miss Captain America. That’s not what it is.

“It’s not him I miss,” Steve says, voice low. “It’s doing something. Being able to look at a mess and know I can help clean it up.”

The fire crackles between them, throwing shadows across the walls. Outside, the orchard groans in the wind, branches brushing the windowpanes like a warning. Bucky’s head is heavy against Steve’s chest, his hair damp from the bath he’d reluctantly agreed to after dinner. Steve had towel-dried it gently, as he always does, more out of habit than necessity. Bucky still leans into the care, even when he doesn’t know how to ask for it.

“You’re not built to sit still,” Bucky says finally. “You never were.”

“That’s not what you need,” Steve murmurs.

“What I need,” Bucky replies, voice so quiet Steve barely catches it, “is for you to come home.”

That does something to Steve’s chest. A cracking sound, deep and familiar.

“I can’t look away, Buck,” he admits. “I wish I could. I wish I could just stay here with you and pretend none of it’s happening, but I see what’s coming and…” He exhales. “I’ve never been any good at standing down.”

Bucky doesn’t respond right away. He just shifts, lifting his chin to look up at Steve. His eyes are steady, clearer than they’ve been in days. Tomorrow, that might change, but it won’t be because of Steve.

“So don’t,” he says. “But don’t lie about it either.”

Steve’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t pretend you’re going for a walk when you’ve packed the shield." His fingers, cool and solid, tap once against Steve’s sternum. “Tell me the truth.”

Steve swallows around the knot in his throat. “You sure?”

“No,” Bucky admits, mouth pulling into something like a smile. “But I’ll be here when you get back.”

He doesn’t take the shield.  He doesn’t take the suit, either.

Just the boots he trusts and the leather jacket Bucky stitched back together after a fight with the barn floor in 1953. The same one that still smells like pine and oil. He leaves at dawn, after kissing Bucky once on the porch and not saying goodbye. They don’t do goodbyes anymore. Not after everything.

They call him Nomad.

He’s fast. Efficient. Ruthless when he has to be. There are no speeches. No flags. Just a man showing up in the middle of chaos and pushing it back long enough for others to find their footing.

He always comes home.

Sometimes limping. Sometimes hoarse from smoke and shouting. But he comes home, and Bucky is always there, waiting on the porch, wrapped in an old sweater, mug of tea in hand. He never asks for the stories. Just listens when Steve is ready to tell them.

“You don’t have to do this,” Steve says one night, after weeks away, his voice rough. “Wait for me, I mean.”

“I’m not waiting,” Bucky says. “I’m living. You just… happen to be the part I don’t want to live without.”

And that’s it.

That’s what it becomes.

Steve fights when the world needs him. Bucky heals when the world lets him. And in the in-between, they build something out of the wreckage that HYDRA left behind.