Chapter 1: You ready?
Notes:
Please note - I will not answer offers of art and/or discord invites in comments. This fic is for human consumption, not AI consumption. Thanks all :)
Chapter Text
Hi all. This is my second Winter Soldier fic and while this one does refer to some events in The Death of the Winter Soldier, it's not necessary to have read it. But of course, I recommend doing so ;) Hope you enjoy, and thanks for reading! I'm intending to update this every other day, to give me time to finish it on the other end! The fic gets silly in spots, but also explores some hefty trauma responses. Hurt/comfort abounds, but at its heart this is about love and healing and the making of a whole from parts who have been terribly broken. Sam Wilson is a goddamn superstar (he did not make me say that). And Red Wing and the Winter Soldier continue to resolve their relationship difficulties with excessive violence.
"This is not ideal," Sam murmured under his breath, attempting to wiggle free of the ropes pulled tight around his arms and legs, tethering him to an annoyingly sturdy wooden chair. He glanced up at his friend bound to another chair ten feet away, whose head hung low against a chest torn and bleeding. "Bucky, you stay awake now."
The man across from him groaned, before Bucky's battered face rose slowly through bright bands of daylight streaming in from a small window high above the concrete wall beside them.
"Yeah, you stay awake now, okay?" Sam whispered, gaze darting to the wound in Bucky's head as the man turned slightly toward the barred door of the weird basement space, blinking groggily, as if seeing the room for the first time.
It was a bullet wound that had bled too much, sliced across the temple. Joined by a swollen lip and eye, and cuts across Bucky's chest from whatever they'd slashed him with when they'd dragged him away last.
There were burn marks against his temples as well, which added another layer of oh fuck to Sam's day.
"They use a Hydra chair, Buck?" he said, trying to catch the man's eye. "Hey, Bucky, focus here."
With another soft gasp, Bucky's head dipped again before rising to meet Sam's gaze.
"Sam?" Bucky whispered, his eyes rolling, sweeping the space, returning. The man's brows dipped down over his glazed eyes as his entire face pinched in question. "What?"
"They use a chair," Sam repeated, trying to hold his friend's gaze, the only contact and comfort he could manage. "You've got burn marks…"
Stupidly, he tried to gesture to his head, jerking his arm against the fucking effective restraints.
Bucky stared a moment longer.
And then he laughed, before dipping his head with a hiss. "Oh, laughing hurts."
"Then don't do it," Sam snapped, feeling frantically worried about the man. His mind kept trying to send the old reassurance - he's a super soldier, he's healing, he's a super soldier, he's healing - but Bucky's body wasn't doing it right in front of him… he couldn't see anything getting fixed. The man was just bleeding, and passing out, and dammit-
"Bucky! Stay awake!" Sam yelled, trying to stomp his feet down against the dusty floor. The effect was muted by the bindings and his lack of any momentum at all. "Goddammit!"
With a sharp scrape of metal on metal, the door to the right opened slowly.
Two men stepped in, almost nervously, wearing green masks over their mouths with dumbass fangs printed on them and outfits with a mix of the same garish green and black in stupid triangular patterns. Their eyes were golden and slitted, something Sam had finally worked out were contacts.
Sam knew who they were.
They were fucking ridiculous.
Lower tier members of an organized group of bad guys for hire who had a thing for snakes.
Bucky had almost torn the arm off of one of them the first time they'd come to collect him, even with the head wound, so their hesitancy was understandable.
"You leave him be," Sam growled, struggling uselessly against the ropes again.
Not having super strength was becoming a real pain in the ass.
When the two saw Bucky's head down, they straightened, and moved further in, their manner growing cocky.
"Shut up, fool," the taller of the two snapped at Sam, before his companion jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow.
The tall man looked down. "What?"
"You're supposed to hiss," the companion whispered back, as under his breath as he could manage.
"No."
"C'mon!"
"I'm not hissing."
"But that's what we do, we're the Serpent Solution. We hiss. Like this."
And he turned to Sam and did so.
Sam's mouth wrinkled.
He held what he wanted to do in, for Bucky's sake, worried about what they might do if he did the thing he was fighting so hard not to do.
But when the kid did it again, and his tall companion rolled his eyes, Sam couldn't help it.
The laughter spat from him violently.
"That's why we don't hiss, Alex!" the tall man said, stomping forward to punch Sam in the face.
The blow wasn't that bad, considering - Sam took it in stride and kept laughing. Anything to keep them from focusing on Bucky.
"You're not supposed to use our real names, Pete!"
"WELL, SHIT, DUMBASS, now he knows BOTH our names!"
"Hey," came a whisper behind them.
Alex actually shrieked, jerking away from where Bucky sat, smirking up at them.
"Oh, shit," Pete whispered, stepping back.
"Bucky," Sam said, not sure what else to say. He had to do something to stop them from taking his friend again.
Time to bluff. "You ready?"
Pete looked back at Sam in alarm. "Ready for what?!"
Bucky took the cue and grinned with bloodied teeth. "Oh, yeah."
"Fuck!" Alex yelled, and grabbing Pete's arm, they hauled ass to the door.
It slammed behind them, the lock quickly thunking in place.
With a heavy breath, Sam shook his head. "What'll that give us, five minutes?"
"Maybe," Bucky whispered, before his head sank to his chest again.
"Goddammit," Sam murmured, watching him in a panic. "Bucky, what did they do to you?"
"Sorry," Bucky whispered, lifting his head again, blinking his eyes wide. "Sorry…"
And then he gave Sam another bloody smile, something oddly bright in this awful situation they found themselves in.
"It didn't work," he mumbled.
"What didn't?"
"The Hydra cradle," Bucky whispered. "The chair didn't work." He laughed, his eyes slowly closing again. "Shuri fixed it."
"That's great!" Sam said, smiling just a little bit back, because even in the midst of this crap he could see how good that made Bucky feel. "But… something's really wrong. Are you healing right?"
The man shook his head and gave him a pained smirk.
"What'd they do?" Sam snapped, glaring at the door and trying desperately to free himself again. He had to get Bucky out of here, get him help!
His friend's soft blue eyes rose to him, bloodshot and pained.
"Some kind of poison. Can't move right, feel like shit."
"Fuck," Sam whispered. "Bucky… we have to get out of here."
"Oh, really?" his friend snapped back.
Sam smirked. The snark was a good sign at least.
"You can't break free of the cuffs?"
"I can barely move, Sam," Bucky whispered, before making an effort. Sam could see the man's muscles shifting under his torn shirt, but… nothing budged.
He nodded, looking around the room again. "Okay, okay. You just sit tight. I'm going to figure this out. Going to get us out, get you an antidote…"
Frowning he stared at Bucky's hanging head again. "Buck."
The door lock disengaged, and men with rifles entered, all dressed in the same outfit as the two before.
And they all hissed.
Like idiots.
Green idiots with big guns, hissing in a doorway.
Oh for fuck's sake…
"Stop that idiotic shit!" Sam yelled. "Take me, you leave him alone!"
One of the men strode forward and slammed the butt of his rifle against Sam's skull, sending the room spinning with a burst of light.
"Fuuck," he groaned, struggling to keep his head up as they swarmed Bucky, unhooked the man from the chair, and dragged him from the room.
And as the edges of the room started drawing into darkness, Sam had a brief flicker of a thought.
Should have stayed in for their first date…
Chapter Text
Much earlier…
"Ready?" Sam asked, smiling broadly outside of Bucky's apartment door.
He'd knocked twice, heard the man swear, and tried to calm the hammering of his heart before the door opened.
Bucky had opened it frowning, dressed in a long sleeve black t-shirt and black jeans over heavy boots. His dog tags were tucked under the wrinkled fabric, and his hair, now growing out again, was combed out of his face.
Sam's smile softened, even faced with Bucky's metal and flesh arms crossed tightly, those lips pulled thin, a brow sharply low.
Clearly the most uncomfortable man on the planet.
"No."
Sam's smile refused to give. "Why not?"
"Because this is weird," Bucky answered, his arms somehow tightening. "And I don't know what to wear."
When Sam glanced over Bucky's shoulder, Bucky pulled the door closed. Didn't matter. Sam knew Bucky had like two pieces of furniture and zero comforts.
He'd seen the guy in, like, three different shirts. Maybe two jackets.
Time to tease. Might help.
Sam pointed. "Isn't that all you own?"
Bucky frowned more deeply back.
This was going great.
"No."
"I'm teasing man, I know you have more clothes. Like… four, right?"
Scowling now. The plan was not working.
"Just wear whatever you want - black is great!"
Bucky's frown softened a little. "Let me get a jacket."
He shut the door in Sam's face.
What the hell were they doing?
Why was he doing this?
Why did Bucky say yes?
"Fuck."
The same word echoed from inside the apartment, making Sam smile again.
When Bucky emerged, it was with a blue shirt, a casual light jacket, and the same black jeans and boots.
"Looking good," Sam said, with a quick nod. "You sure you're up for this?"
"No."
"You want to cancel?" Sam asked, allowing for it even as a knot settled in his chest.
Bucky released a deep breath. "No."
And he even managed the smallest smile.
To Sam it was fucking sunshine. Grinning, slapping the man on the back, he started towards the stairs. "Let's go on this date!" he yelled, the last word fierce.
Bucky made a small noise. "Can we call it something else?"
That stopped Sam up short. He turned to face this man he'd really come to like, despite their insane history together. Who apparently liked him back.
The man's face was stubbly, those blue eyes bright in the shadow of a bad few day's sleep. The nightmares were apparently coming and going. He'd get a night or two without them, then they'd wreck him again.
Sam wished he could just reach in there and pull everything bad out.
But, would Bucky even be Bucky anymore if he did?
Sam crossed his own arms now. "Did I ask you out?"
Bucky scratched the back of his head, dropping his gaze to look to the side. "Yeah. Not sure why, but yeah."
"And you said yes?"
The formidable brows of the man in front of him rippled. A little storm brewing right there in that brain pan.
"Yeah."
"Then this is a date. Promise I won't shout it at everyone we meet."
The man's generous lips tugged back in a smirk. "Okay. Fine."
Turning away from the guy, Sam rolled his eyes. "There's that 'fine' again."
A heavy breath was the only answer behind him.
The walk to the café wasn't as relaxed as he'd hoped it would be, what with the throngs of people who recognized the new Captain America and wanted a selfie.
Sam could tell the attention was bothering Bucky, and he couldn't help but notice a certain bulge at the man's side.
"Bucky, are you armed?" he asked, as they shed the last large group.
With a small smirk, Bucky waved his metal arm, the hand obscured in a black glove. "I'm always armed."
Sam laughed. "You know what I mean!"
Those blue eyes caught his with a small laugh, and Bucky nodded. "Finally cleared to carry, after what we did. Guess they trust me."
"So a handgun?"
"Two."
"Two?"
Bucky smirked. "Three."
"Where the hell are you keeping the other two?!"
"Sam," Bucky said, his eyes darting to every person on the street, including one guy running across the road towards them, "you've never been great at spotting concealed carry."
The guy - a heavy set man with a scraggly beard and kind eyes - got Sam's autograph and a selfie, gave Bucky a thumbs up, and ran back to his friends.
Bucky's shoulders relaxed a little, something Sam couldn't help but notice. Those instincts would be with the man for the rest of his life, no matter how much Sam might want him to feel the world without an edge.
"Just three guns then?"
His friend shook his head, as they stepped up to the new café - Bella's on Front Street. The interior looked dark from the outside, but Sam had checked it out a few days ago and liked the vibe. The lettering was modern and gilt against the glass.
"Seriously?" Sam whispered. "What else?"
Bucky looked back at him with a smirk before he went to push the door open. "Four knives and a taser."
Sam winced. "Jesus."
Shrugging, Bucky turned back to the door and stopped short. "They're closed for a private event," he said, pointing at the sign taped to the other side of the glass.
Sam grinned. "Yeah, that's us."
"Oh," Bucky said, frowning. "Okay."
Smirking, Sam pushed through and waved at the lady waiting.
"Anywhere you want," the lady said warmly, shifting to allow them through.
"I figured you'd appreciate the lack of a crowd," Sam said softly, gesturing for Bucky to pick a spot.
"Huh," was the only answer as the man chose a seat in the back, away from the windows, where he could put his back up against the wall.
Lots of dark wood paneling, lots of plants. The tables weren't too small, the lights above metal cylinders with holes poked throughout. A blackboard decorated in colorful chalk showed off the specials behind them.
Bucky had disappeared behind the menu as soon as they were seated.
Sam smirked. "So, you feel armed enough for a coffee?"
The man's blue eyes appeared as the menu sank slightly. Sam could tell he was smirking right back.
"I miss my grenade launcher."
Sam laughed.
The lady returned. A short-haired brunette with a wide smile and brown eyes. "What would you both like to drink?"
Pointing at Bucky's menu, Sam dived in. They'd eaten out enough for him to know the basics.
"He'll have a black coffee. I'll have a-"
The menu descended. "That's not what I want."
"It's not?"
Bucky shook his head and flashed a smile that was effortlessly charming at the waitress. "Hey."
The lady's smile grew substantially. Sam dropped his chin on his hand to watch.
"What's the most popular drink here?" Bucky asked, before his smile turned maddeningly sly. "Actually, what's your favorite? I'll try that."
Sam shook his head with a small smile as the woman laughed, before tapping the menu. "This one. It's a little sweet, but the caramel is delightful."
"Perfect," Bucky breathed, holding her eye as she walked away smiling.
Sam raised his arms. "Excuse me? Hello?"
"Oh, he'd like a double shot macchiato!" Bucky called after her, and looked back at Sam with a grin.
"Unbelievable."
"What?"
"You can't help yourself, can you."
Bucky smirked. "Not around a beautiful dame, no."
"Wow."
"What?!"
Sam put the menu down and crossed his arms as he leaned back in the chair.
"One, you just said 'dame', and two, this is our date!"
Bucky's eyes widened, and the menu flipped up again.
"Auugh," Sam groaned, letting his head sag back.
And they stayed like that for a few minutes until the waitress returned.
"Here you go, guys," the lady purred, sliding in to lay their drinks on the table.
Sam's was a very respectable macchiato with what looked like just the right touch of milk, with some fancy Captain America shield art on the top. He nodded approvingly, before his eyes rose to what Bucky was about to drink.
And he started cackling.
"I hope you like it," the lady said with a soft smile, before wandering away again.
"What the…" Bucky murmured, staring at the tower of latte, chocolate, caramel, foam and whipped cream before him. They'd even sprinkled the top with little caramel flakes, and a thick pink paper straw stuck out of the thing tantalizingly.
Sam was still giggling.
Bucky fixed him with an alarmed glare.
Sam gestured helpfully. "Go ahead. Let's see what her favorite tastes like."
The contrast was amazing. Back when Bucky had tried to kill him the first time as the Winter Soldier, those same eyes focused with murderous intent his way. The five times Bucky had tried since then had just cemented that particular look in his mind.
And there it was once more, fixed on a ridiculously fancy mocha.
'Straw," Sam added, pointing again.
The glare flicked his way. Sam just grinned back.
Bucky took an experimental sip and his whole face collapsed. "Oh shit…"
"Too sweet?"
Furious nodding followed.
"Here."
Sam shifted his macchiato to the man, and sacrificed himself on the altar of spiked blood sugar, drawing the fancy drink over and taking a sip.
The straw was a little wet and warm from Bucky's mouth. That made him thoughtful.
"Not bad," he said quietly, staring down into the lumpy mass of sweetness. "Didn't need the chocolate."
Bucky was watching him, his expression hard to read.
"Hmm?" Sam asked, taking another sip.
The man's gaze fell quickly to the macchiato. He brought the cup to his mouth and took a sip.
His brows rose and he took another.
The man's smile brightened the room. "This is good."
"Damn straight," Sam said, grinning back. "And that's my favorite, so you know what that means!"
Bucky's brow furrowed a little. "What?"
"Means I'm your favorite."
Bucky laughed.
"Sure."
It felt like a victory, until the man's gaze fell to the table and the smile slid away.
"Sam, what're we do-"
"How are the drinks?" the waitress said, returning with perfect timing. She noticed the drinks had switched and her face scrunched adorably. "Oh, it wasn't good?"
"It was great, just a little sweet," Bucky answered, smiling softly at her.
"We're good to order," Sam butted in, thrusting his menu in front of Bucky's face. "I'll have the wedding soup and the Italian on ciabatta. Buck?"
"Uh…" Bucky dragged his own menu up and stared over it again. He pointed, eventually. "This."
"Ah, prime rib with au jus… great choice. Fries okay with that?"
"Sure."
The menus were snatched away, which made Sam happy because Bucky had lost his only source of cover.
Bucky frowned, tilting his head to the ceiling before staring around the room. "What's playing?"
Sam looked out over the empty seats to his left as horns bounced from the speakers. He grinned.
"Is that Benny Goodman?"
Sam nodded.
Bucky smirked. "You ask for that?"
"Yep."
"Huh."
Bucky was staring at him again, tapping the tabletop in time with the music.
Another little win.
"You could take your jacket off, stay awhile," Sam murmured, sipping another mouthful of his pre-diabetes supplement.
Glancing back at the lady behind the counter, Bucky shook his head.
"They know," Sam said softly. "I told them about your arm."
"Oh."
"At least take the glove off."
Bucky released a heavy breath and stared down at his left hand.
"You don't have to. Just saying. You can relax. You know, like you did in Delacroix?"
The man's blue gaze rose to Sam's and he smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"New York's a different place, Sam."
"I know that," Sam sighed. "Doesn't mean you can't relax right now. At this moment. These next few moments, listening to Benny Goodman, drinking my coffee. Just these moments, with me."
Something shifted in the face he knew so well. A knife's edge softening in surprise. Bucky's brow rose, the man's lips parted.
Those blue eyes fell to Sam's hand, and slowly, Bucky's hand nestled around it.
Sam almost gasped, but decided to just stop breathing instead. Smiling, he twined his fingers with Bucky's.
"Just these moments," Bucky repeated softly, still staring at their hands.
"Here we go!" the lady said brightly, arriving with ill-timed plates of food.
Bucky's hand retreated like a wounded snake, leaving Sam glaring at the woman as two sandwiches descended.
"Here's your soup too. Brought two spoons just in case."
The lady dared to wink as she retreated.
Bucky stared down at Sam's Italian. "That looks good." Smiling then, he tilted his head for the latest song. "Always liked this one."
Sam was glowering at the sandwiches, still offended by their timing.
They did look good though. Finally he surfaced from his rageful stare.
"What's the song?"
"Sunny Side of the Street by Judy Garland," Bucky said quietly. "I used to sing harmony any time it came on the radio."
Sam lost control of his jaw.
Bucky hadn't noticed. He was taking the glove off his metal hand. "Used to pretend I was dancing with her too."
It was the first time in the history of Sam that he ever regretted not being Judy Garland.
"When I wasn't at Camp McCoy, anyway," Bucky said with a smirk, finally looking up.
The man frowned. "You okay?"
Sam gave a very brief, sharp nod. "Am. Yes," he fumbled. "I am, yes, I am."
"Okaay," Bucky said, his metal and flesh hand closing around the sub. He dipped the sandwich in the au jus and took a bite.
"Oh shit," he mumbled, his eyes closing.
"Good?"
"Yeah," Bucky said, going for another bite.
Grinning, Sam dived into his own sandwich. He made many appreciative noises, echoed by the man in front of him, and together they demolished their respective meals.
Which left the soup.
Grinning, Sam lifted some for Bucky to try.
"Nope," Bucky said, resolutely refusing to be involved.
Shrugging, Sam enjoyed it, and finally they sat across from each other as the plates were taken away.
"How long did you book this place for?" Bucky asked, finally having stripped the jacket, his metal arm now stretched out on the table.
The black plates shifted slightly against the gold whenever he moved. Almost as if the limb were breathing, which was fascinating.
Wasn't as if Sam hadn't seen it in action, he just hadn't spent much time in quiet moments staring at the thing.
"Another hour. Can I?"
"Can you what?"
"Can I hold it?"
Frowning, Bucky stared down at the limb. Then he shrugged and started the disconnect sequence against his shoulder.
"No! Buck, that's not-"
The limb dropped awkwardly, smacking against a glass and sending the little bit of water left in it spilling across the dark wood of the table.
"Shit, sorry," Bucky whispered, dabbing it up with a spare napkin with his remaining hand.
Sam started giggling again.
"It's okay. Buck, that's not what I meant."
The shadows had returned to his friend's eyes.
"You know, sometimes I feel like one of those toys," he said flatly, not looking at Sam. "Those action figures kids like to play with? Just pop off an arm, stick a different one on, make it fight again."
Sam frowned. "Bucky."
The man shrugged and smiled. "Least it's easy to clean. Dishwasher proof!"
Sam stared at the limb in horror. "You do not put that in the dishwasher."
"I do. Works great," Bucky said with a laugh, sliding the arm back into his shirt sleeve and reconnecting it.
Standing, he shifted out of the seat and hooked his real thumb over his shoulder. "Bathroom, be right back."
And the man swung his arm in a tight circle, the sound whirring hauntingly through the space, as he walked away.
Sam released a heavy sigh.
This was awkward as fuck.
Notes:
Going to play with proper notes this time, instead of doing them inline with the story. The reference to the soldier trying to kill Sam 'five times since then' is a reference to my previous story :) Sam's attempts to bring Bucky back from Russia were not appreciated by the Winter Soldier.
Thanks for reading, and thanks for the kudo! :D This has been a fun one to write so far. I love these two.
Chapter 3: This slight agony
Chapter Text
Bucky released a loud groan as he stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. The water ran over the river stones lining the sink as he paused washing his mismatched hands, masking the sound of this slight agony.
What the holy fuck were they doing?
What was he thinking?!
Why'd he say yes?
Why'd Sam ask??
The band music was louder, clearer in here, adding a bold soundtrack to memory.
"Go out with me," the man had asked him two days ago, over a text.
"Sure. Bar?" Bucky had texted back, up for it.
"No. Date."
And it'd taken a few minutes to respond. He'd stared at the words on his phone, his brow doing gymnastics.
"A double date?"
"No. A you and me date."
It'd taken ten minutes to respond to that. He kept putting the phone down and picking it up again.
"Funny," he'd finally said, knowing it wasn't.
"Go out on a date with me, Bucky Barnes"
And it'd taken 4 seconds to respond to that.
"Okay."
The sending had been a mistake, he saw that now.
Some weird glitch of the moment.
Probably the arm's fault.
Bucky sighed and glared at himself in the mirror as Louis Armstrong began to scat above him.
Just these moments, with me
The glare softened, and he found himself turning, wanting to go back to the man who'd said that.
To have those moments with someone he cared about.
Someone he felt safe with.
And instead, three men in hideous green outfits burst through the door to tackle him.
One sprayed a cloud of something near his face, made his throat close up, made a shout impossible.
But Bucky didn't need a voice to punch.
Baring his teeth, he swung out with his metal arm and shattered the nose of the tallest man rushing him.
And the man made the cry for him.
He grabbed the other man by the face and slammed the guy's skull back against the wall.
Fracture, concussion, alive
An arm snaked around his throat, attempting to pull him back. He stopped reaching for the blade on his side because these guys were hopeless, broke the man's hand with his metal one, then shrugged, twisting, sending the idiot flying into that beautiful sink.
More men pushed into the small room as Bucky drew the Beretta from under his arm.
"Bucky?!"
A fist caught him across the jaw with the distraction.
Enhanced. Strong enough to put up a fight.
Other blows came as he realized Sam was trying to fight his way through from the other side.
Sam wasn't enhanced - Sam was vulnerable!
Bucky tried to shout for his friend to stay away and couldn't, and someone screamed from somewhere - the waitress - as he broke another man's jaw, and lifted his weapon against the enhanced guy.
Off center-mass, non-lethal
But the man moved quicker than Bucky tracked, deflecting his arm in a blocking strike just as he was pulling the trigger.
The gun swung back to Bucky's head sharply, fired, and everything exploded, dropping him to the ground.
Deep into the dark.
It took a long time to surface again. Like clawing his way up from a well with no bottom.
Voices surrounded him, hands grabbed him, pulled at him.
It felt familiar.
Hydra.
Of course. Of course they had him again. It didn't matter how far he got, it didn't matter what leaked in from memory, drawing him off-task, off-protocol.
They always found him. Felt like he was just out of the cryochamber. The cradle would be next.
NononoNO
"Leave him be!"
With a soft moan, he shook his head. The world filled with agony at the motion - a pulsing chasm of hurt through his temple.
Not Hydra.
Hydra was gone.
Sam?
He fought then, without truly seeing where he was, or who was there - grabbing one of the arms latched around him, he twisted and heard a satisfying crack, followed by a very rewarding scream as he pulled, happy with his prize.
And he would not let it go until the enhanced grunt pounded a fist repeatedly against his face and temple.
Sam was roaring something, but words and meaning slid from him as they dragged him somewhere else. Somewhere cool, where something was dripping.
Hissing?
Who the hell was hissing?
"Is it ready?" someone said to his right.
"Of course. Please, secure him."
And he'd been wrong. It was Hydra, because the cradle embraced him, held him as it always did, as men fussed around him, securing the wrist and ankle locks, pushing his head back.
He couldn't fight, and let them, his mind still swimming in odd directions, scattered, distant.
The current would come and it would hurt.
But the world was slippery, fading in and out too much for him to care.
"Who shot him?!" someone snapped above as a finger dragged along his temple.
"He shot himself," a deeper voice answered. "An accident, but helpful."
"You are all idiots."
"Ready?"
Bucky gasped, his eyes snapping open, his body rigid, as the electrodes pressed against his wound and the current assailed his broken skull.
But something odd happened. A thrumming emanating from…
His arm… what was …
The pulses were countered. Diminished. Made impotent. It still hurt, and as the system upped the current looking for something he wasn't giving it, he could smell something burning.
But his mind stayed his, and finally something flashed brightly somewhere nearby, there was a loud pop, and everything went dead.
Bucky swallowed, feeling a little fried. Sinking again to somewhere dark.
But oddly… joyful.
Shuri, you did it
"Why didn't that work!" someone cried distantly. "Complete failure, incompatible?! What does that even mean?!"
Hands grasped his face, squeezing his jaw.
"Where is my soldier!"
"He's going to heal quickly," the deep voice said, in warning. "Won't contain him then."
The hands shoved Bucky back against the cradle.
"Another approach, perhaps. Something chemical. I will ask Viper. As for now, to keep him docile…"
A sound sliced the air, metal descending. Fire spread against his chest again and again as it cut.
"Won't heal from that venom, super soldier or no. Take him back. If we can't control him, if I can't have my soldier, they can both die."
Hissing.
Again with the fucking hissing.
The fire consumed him, stealing the life from his limbs, making it impossible to keep his head up as they dragged him back.
Sam's voice kept puncturing the dark, kept pulling him up into a small room, where the light burned his eyes.
Sam looked so worried.
What were they going to do to Sam?
Bucky tried to free himself, pull himself from the chair, but the fire was still there. Still in him. Sweat dripped from his brow. He felt feverish, for the first time since the earliest moments with Hydra.
He had to do something.
He had to save Sam.
A knife in his boot. They hadn't found that.
As they dragged him from the room again, he lifted one boot with gargantuan effort, dragging it up to free the knife from the other, and kicked it backwards as they pulled him through the door.
Hopefully Sam would save himself.
Hopefully.
Everything lost meaning again as the dark swallowed him whole.
Going back to inline notes - don't like how AO3 adds a top one saying look at the bottom. That's silly. XD
Thanks for the kudos and comments! Means a lot to me. :D
This chapter references something from my previous 'The Death of the Winter Soldier' fanfic. I won't explain too much, just in case folks want to read it, but the arm interferes with the cradle's programming now, leaving Bucky scorched, but mentally himself.
At least... for now.
Chapter 4: Okay, you maniac
Chapter Text
Time was lost, then returned, and, as Sam's eyes opened slowly, he found himself looking down at a knife on the rough concrete floor.
A small fat thing, more blade than handle, that Bucky must have somehow materialized for him.
Okay, you maniac
This was the first step in a plan.
What was the rest of the plan?
He didn't know, but this was the first step.
Fall next to knife.
Grab knife.
Cut ropes.
Save Bucky.
Finish date.
Everything lurched, giving Sam the impression that perhaps he wasn't thinking straight.
"Ughh…"
He really had to stop getting hit on the head with things.
Okay… first step. Fall on knife.
Sam negotiated the movements he'd need to make. Bounce bounce, then fall.
The room swam again - a slight hiccup in the scheme of things.
Releasing a slow breath, he tried the first bounce.
He barely moved.
Dammit.
This was bad. Bucky was counting on him. Bucky needed him and he was failing.
Shaking his head, glaring at the knife, he tried again.
He could do this. He was goddamn Captain America.
With an audible grunt, he shifted the chair an inch towards the knife.
Two more brought him where he wanted to be as his head grew clearer.
This was going to work.
He was moments from toppling when voices and approaching footsteps reached him through the door.
Shit!
Bouncing painfully forward again, he covered the knife with a shoe, just as the door slammed inwards and Bucky was pulled through again.
"Leave him alone!" Sam roared, hating every one of the assholes pulling the beaten man to the chair in front of him.
But they didn't even bother securing him. Kicking the chair out of the way, they dropped Bucky to the floor, turned, and left.
And the idiot he now knew was Alex, ducked his head back in to hiss like an asthmatic vampire before slamming the door closed.
"Oh, fuck, Bucky," Sam moaned down at his friend.
Bucky never opened his eyes. His skin was ashen, the wounds on his chest black.
With a desperate growl, Sam pushed back until the knife was where he needed it, then twisting, he toppled, crashing to the ground right on target.
The concrete was cold, rough, the fall painful, but none of it mattered. His gaze didn't leave Bucky's face as he snatched the blade up and started slicing at the thick ropes.
"Bucky," he whispered, cutting furiously. "Hey. Buck. Wake up."
Bucky didn't.
The knife cut quickly - his arms snapped free. Every instinct wanted him to pull the man up, but he knew he needed his legs free too, just in case those assholes returned.
He needed to be able to fight.
"Bucky!" he hissed, working at the ropes. One leg came free.
The man lying in front of him swallowed and stirred before settling again, his mouth falling open.
"Goddammit!" Sam growled, finally freeing the other leg and scrambling to Bucky's side.
Scooping the man up, he pulled Bucky into his lap, his gaze snapping to the wound at the man's temple.
Ugly, deep, jagged bone.
"Fuck, Bucky… hey, hey," Sam murmured, squeezing Bucky's shoulder, taking in the cuts seeping black again. That had to be the poison… fuck!
The touch seemed to help. As Sam held Bucky's face, drew the hair back from his temple, Bucky's eyes slowly opened.
"Hey," Sam whispered, smilng. "I've got you."
Bucky frowned up at him, swallowing again.
"What are they doing in there, Buck?" Sam mumbled in a rush. "Where's the antidote for this poison? Help me. I got the knife. Tell me where to go when they open the door again."
"Sam?" Bucky whispered.
"Yeah?"
"I've… I've had better dates."
Sam laughed abruptly, and just as abruptly he leaned down and kissed Bucky on the forehead.
The skin there was hot and damp. Feverish.
When he drew back, Bucky was frowning up at him. "You just…"
"I did. Tell me where they're taking you. Who poisoned you. How do I fix this."
Swallowing, Bucky closed his eyes again. When he spoke his voice was barely audible.
"Passage straight, right, right, big room. Man with knives. Don't take him on."
Sam glared down at the man in his lap. "Don't take him on?! Why the fuck not? If he did this to you I'm shoving those knives up his ass."
Bucky's lips curled. A big grin spread on his battered face as air left him in a strangled rush.
"You laughing at me? That what that you're doing right now?"
Bucky nodded, the smile fading away. "Enhanced guy with him. Hits hard. Knife man's trying to bring out the soldier. Trying some drug next."
Sam's desperate smile dropped.
"What?"
The room felt colder.
Bucky's blue eyes opened and fixed on Sam. "If he comes… if they bring the soldier up… you run."
Frowning, Sam stared back. "Where the fuck am I running to, Bucky? I'm not leaving you here. I don't care if you're you, or the soldier. I'm taking you both home with me, you got that?"
The words seemed to hit Bucky physically.
"W-what?"
Sam held him close, needing him to hear this, because this man would never be abandoned again.
"I don't care if I have to tear through this entire place," he growled, meaning every word, "I promise you're both coming home with me. I don't care who you are. You don't get left behind."
The man flinched in his arms, his eyes widening.
Frowning, Sam stared down at him, worried he'd hurt something. "Bucky?"
"… p-protocol override…" Bucky whispered.
The man looked panicked.
Sam's mouth went dry. "What?"
"…protocol… overridden..."
His friend's voice sounded different. It felt like an answer, not a statement.
"Bucky, you're not a fucking robot. What are you doing?"
The frown eased from his friend's brow, as the man's gaze scanned Sam's face.
"New protocol… accepted."
What the hell's happening?
Those blue eyes turned to ice, the features around them sharpening.
"Защищать."
Sam's heart stuttered in his chest.
He grew absolutely still.
That was Russian.
Protect.
oh shit
"Bucky?" Sam whispered, through the driest throat in the world.
The man in his lap scowled, before shifting to look around the room.
Frowning, he reached up to touch his temple, and studied the blood on his fingertips.
"Поврежденный."
Then he reached for Sam's cheek.
Sam felt a flutter in his chest, before his face was pushed backwards violently.
"Отвали от меня."
"Yep, yep, got it," Sam said quickly, shifting back and holding his hands up before apologizing in Russian.
The man's brows rippled in surprise, before he slowly shifted, wincing.
And sat up.
Sam's breath caught. Bucky had been incapacitated. Now he was acting like the wounds were papercuts.
"Damaged," the man said again, in Russian, as he stared down at his chest and the black lines there. "Poisoned."
"I didn't do that," Sam answered quickly in Russian, keeping his hands up. "Assholes grabbed us, hurt you, shoved us in here."
"Antidote?"
"They have to have it."
Nodding, Bucky started patting himself down. "Civilian clothing. No armor. No weapons."
Those eyes of ice latched onto Sam. "Weapons?"
Sam hesitated. Was giving a mentally unstable and wounded Bucky a knife right now a good idea?
He shrugged at his friend helplessly.
"They were thorough," the man said almost appreciatively, looking away from him again.
"Mmm," Sam answered, noncommitally, as he quietly tucked the knife into his back pocket.
"I remember this arm," Bucky said, flexing the fingers, the wrist, the forearm. The plates shifted precisely with each movement. "A worthy upgrade."
"Mmm," Sam added once more, wondering how the hell he was going to keep Bucky safe. Stop him from being recklessly violent and getting hurt even more.
Bucky shifted, frowning.
"Damaged," he whispered down at himself, and shifted again, drawing his feet to the side. "Adapting."
"Bucky, stop talking like that," Sam said quietly, concerned. "You're not a robot."
The man glared at him.
Sam put his hands back up.
"I'm not a dog either, Sam, like I said before. Stop calling me that name."
His own name falling from the man's mouth, in the midst of a sea of Russian did something odd. A shiver through his chest. It felt good.
Sam grinned.
"Stop baring your teeth at me."
"Right," Sam answered, smirking happily.
Slowly, unbelievably, the man stood.
Wavering.
Sam quickly followed, and reached out to hold the man's arm. To steady him.
The guy knocked it away.
"Don't touch me."
Frowning, Sam stepped back.
"Here." He pulled the chair over for Bucky to sit. It was ignored.
With a sigh, he pushed it away. "What do I call you?"
"I am the Winter Soldier."
A cold claw dragged down Sam's spine. He shook his head, his throat dry again. "No."
The man who shouldn't be able to stand turned towards him, his cold eyes irritated.
"That's not a name," Sam said softly in English.
"The Asset," the man said with a sharp exhale as he took a step forward, his eyes refocusing on the door.
"Also not a name."
"Asshole."
"I'm not calling you that!" Sam sputtered.
"No, I'm calling you that," the man said, flipping his middle finger back at Sam, his gaze still locked forward.
Sam sighed.
The soldier exhaled slowly, straightening as he studied the door. "How many?"
"I don't know," Sam said softly. "I've been stuck in here. Seen maybe ten men? You mentioned an enhanced guy and someone with knives? Everyone had guns - rifles, mostly."
Frowning, the soldier turned to him.
"I don't remember any of that."
Sam frowned back, unsure how to negotiate this situation. Honesty seemed important.
"You've been dragged out twice."
And we were on a date
don'tsaythatyouidiot
The soldier nodded slowly, and gestured towards his head. "Damaged. Memory compromised. I understand."
"For fuck's sake," Sam snapped, "you're not 'damaged', Bucky, you're hurt. Damage happens to things, and you're not a thing!"
A rapid strike. Pain exploded in his chest. His backside slid along the concrete.
The soldier stood, hand outstretched.
He looked at it in concern.
"Strength at 38%," he whispered. "I am severely compromised."
"Owww," Sam groaned, coughing as he clutched his chest. "Why the hell did you do that?!"
"My name is not Bucky."
"Alright!" Sam shouted, struggling to his feet. "I get it!"
"No. You don't," the man said coldly, frowning down at him. "I am a weapon. That's all. Weapons get damaged, not hurt. And they don't have names."
Sam's heart sank.
"That's a fucking miserable point of view."
"My point of view doesn't matter. I exist to remove obstacles. I am pointed at people to make them go away. That's my purpose. I was made to do this. I will do this until I break, or I am broken, like any weapon."
"Oh, fuck that," Sam mumbled. Not really thinking, and certainly not picking up on some blatant social cues dropped by a seriously scrambled super soldier, he rushed forward to give this wounded man he loved a hug.
"That was a mistake," he gurgled three seconds later, with Bucky's metal arm around his throat and the blade from his own pocket pressing against his jugular.
"Yes," the man growled behind him. "And you lied about weapons, why?"
"Does that thing really count?" Sam squeaked, tapping Bucky's arm furiously.
"Want to find out?"
"No no, I'm good. Keep it!"
"Thank you."
Footsteps reached them from beyond the door.
"Fuck, let me go, they're coming."
"Yes, they are."
The pressure increased.
The soldier pushed his head forward.
"Wha-gk," Sam managed, before his breath was cut off completely. Eyes wide, he groped at the metal arm, but his fingers slid off the metal plates.
"Alternative plan, Sam," the man breathed into his ear, as the lock disengaged in front of them. "Probablilty of mission success was too low."
The door opened as Sam fought the man holding him in earnest, his body doing the panicking for him, kicking out, punching, his fingers scrabbling sloppily against the metal, against the man's face.
The audience of green idiots entering the room stared at them both as Sam's body began to sag.
"I am the Winter Soldier," the soldier said above him, the words barely registering in Sam's sinking mind.
"You have my attention."
Everything stopped.
Welp that ain't good. XD
Btw, there's another small reference to my previous fic in this chapter. The Winter Soldier does not like being called Bucky.
Chapter 5: Can you not kill people
Notes:
Minor description of gore. The Winter Soldier seems to have a rather detrimental effect on people's health.
Chapter Text
Sam coughed abruptly, snapping to wakefulness, cold concrete scraping his cheek. Sucking in a sudden, panicked breath, he swung out, still fighting the feel of Bucky's metal arm around his throat.
But nobody was there.
Gasping, shifting against the concrete, he stared at the open door in front of him.
Where was Bucky?
Screw that… Bucky hadn't choked him out… where the fuck was the Winter Soldier?
Rubbing his throat with another soft cough, he pushed himself up. His limbs were rubbery, his chest still tight from panic and the lack of air. It took a while but he finally stood, and glared down the dark passage.
A fluorescent light flickered down an empty hall. The light was green, and the effect like something out of a horror movie.
"Snakes aren't all green you dumb motherfuckers," he whispered, his throat still raw.
What was going on?
He'd woken up where he'd been dropped.
Did the soldier turn on him, join these guys?
If he had, where were they? And why was he still alive?
Everything felt way too quiet.
Reaching for the knife he'd tucked away, he scowled.
The soldier had taken it AND threatened him with it.
soldier's an asshole
worst date ever
What he wouldn't do for Red Wing's eyes right now. At the moment he was armed with exactly two arms and a killer sense of humor, and none of these was going to get him far.
But he was going to do this. He was going to succeed. He was going to save his friend.
As silently and quickly as he could, he moved down the corridor. It was utterly featureless and ended in a T-junction, with both options a repeat of the same green liminal space.
passage, right, right, big room
Sam stepped cautiously right, scanning in front of him and behind. Still not a soul, still unnaturally quiet. No voices, no yelling.
The corridor curved to the left, then continued for another twenty feet before another hall spawned to the right.
Maybe he hadn't woken up? Maybe this was a nightmare? Maybe he'd just keep walking these vacant halls getting nowhere, forever?
Maybe he'd died?!
Shaking off the heebie jeebies, he stared down the new branch.
It ended in a barred door, which was cracked open.
And a hand was sticking out of the crack, lying in a pool of blood on the floor.
At least, he thought it was blood. Was hard to tell because everything was still lit in that hideous damn green.
please don't be him
Approaching the hand, he understood in moments that it wasn't Bucky's. He knew Bucky's hands. Knew every curve and callus. The nails on the hand on the floor were bitten to nubs, something Bucky never did.
Sam hesitated at the door.
He did not want to look through that crack.
With a soft exhale, he did anyway. He needed to find his friend.
"Oh shit," he whispered, quickly realising that it didn't matter how loud he was.
There was nobody left alive to hear him.
The room itself was remarkable - a large cavern so oddly organic compared to the square walls he'd been walking through. At the far end was an enormous statue.
A statue of a fucking snake. A cobra's head, flattened and poised to strike.
He'd be laughing if it wasn't for all of the bodies on the floor in front of it.
Where the fuck was his friend?
"Bucky?!" he yelled, pushing through the door.
Snake idiot, snake idiot, more idiots… all dead. Stab wounds, bullet wounds, broken necks and limbs.
The bulk were headshots, right in the center. Eyes stared sightlessly from every angle.
Sam picked up a discarded Colt, just in case, and held it ready as he stepped through the wasteland of corpses.
Eighteen. More closer to the statue. And a seat under it held…
"No," Sam whispered, rushing forward.
He jumped over someone in a more elaborate costume on the way, someone with a long knife thrust through their chest.
Bucky had one sticking out of his shoulder. Smaller, serrated. His metal hand was twined around it, as if he'd tried to pull it out. Black dripped from the wound. He was slumped in the seat, his head hanging to the side, the hair obscuring his face.
Blood everywhere.
oh god
"Bucky, I'm here!" Sam cried, finally reaching him. Grasping the man's cheek - the skin was rough and too cool against his hand - he lifted Bucky's face, smoothing the man's hair back.
The man's skin was grey. A small line of black had spilled from the corner of his mouth.
"No," Sam whispered. "Bucky… wake up!"
Was he still poisoned?!
"Wake up soldier!" Sam snapped, scanning Bucky frantically for other wounds.
Looked like a bullet had scraped him on the side, but one was right through the shoulder, just above the knife…
Sam grasped the handle, and hesitated. Pulling it out would worsen the bleeding.
And the wound was black… just like the cuts from before.
Antidote... there had to be one… where the fuck was the antidote?!
Sam scanned the room and the corpses arrayed around this throne the soldier had set himself on.
The one with the blade through it's chest in the fancy costume caught his eye again. The belt they wore…
Jerking away from Bucky, he dived to his knees beside the corpse.
Bottles of dark green hung from the belt, the same fluid he could see on the blade through the man's chest.
But there was a smaller pouch of stiff leather. Lifting the flap, he found thin tubes of something clear.
"Is this it?!" he yelled down at the corpse, not expecting an answer but desperately needing to yell at somebody.
Scrambling, he almost tripped over another guy on his way back - a heavy set man he recognized from the café. The man's one remaining eye stared up at nothing. His throat was sliced open from ear to ear.
Trying not to focus on the carnage and what that meant for Bucky once he came back to himself, Sam rushed to his friend's side.
"Bucky, hey, wake up," Sam mumbled, lifting the man's head again.
But his friend wasn't cooperating.
"SOLDIER!" he roared, inches from the man's face.
The effect was immediate.
Bucky's eyes snapped open. Sucking in a loud breath, he stiffened against the stone seat.
"R-ready… ready… c-comply," he mumbled in mangled Russian, his eyes glazed and searching.
"Drink!" Sam snapped, holding the little vial to the man's lips.
Those dulled blue eyes found Sam's and something uncertain fluttered there, before the soldier did as he was ordered.
Sam had no idea how much he needed, or even if this was the right thing, but he gave Bucky another.
"M-mission," the man mumbled as he sank back against the seat, his eyes sharply fixed on Sam's. "Mission…"
"Mission's not done yet, soldier," Sam murmured back, glaring at the knife in the man's shoulder.
It had to come out, but he couldn't do that here. Opening another vial, he poured a little over the wound, just in case.
"Soldier, you need to go to the hospital. Can you not kill people for the time it takes them to patch you up?"
The soldier stared at him.
"No."
"No, as in you don't want to go to the hospital, or no, you can't not kill people?"
Those eyes sank for a moment then returned as the smallest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Yes."
Bucky's face didn't look so grey anymore.
"I think that antidote is working," Sam murmured, resting his palm against Bucky's cheek to see if he felt warmer. "You're being an ass again."
The man's expression shifted as Sam's hand cupped his cheek. Uncertain, confused.
Before the ice returned in force and a metal hand rose to grasp Sam's jaw and shove him away.
"Get off me."
"No," Sam snapped back, trying to get his arms under the man to pick him up.
But the soldier fought him, pushing him away. "I can walk!"
"No, you can't."
To his utter astonishment, the soldier slowly stood, glaring at him the entire time.
Frowning, the man turned to look at the blade sticking out of his shoulder.
"No, don't-" Sam started, jerking forward.
With a see-saw action to loosen it from the bone, the man yanked it free.
"Goddammit!" Sam yelled, rushing to put pressure on the wound that spurted with fresh blood.
Which was at least no longer black.
The Winter Soldier gave Sam a cocky smirk as he took one wavering step forward.
And collapsed on his face.
Sam sighed down at the man on the floor.
"Asshole."
Chapter 6: The protocol amendment
Chapter Text
The Winter Soldier snapped awake, the transition from darkness to light instantaneous.
Information flooded in.
Not the cryochamber. Bedroom. Walls light green. Photos around a mirror over a table. Window on the right, open. City, traffic, birds, children, outside.
Dark-skinned male on the left, asleep.
Sam.
Too close.
He went to push the man away, expecting the arm to comply.
But… his arm was gone?
"What?" he murmured, his voice a whisper.
His other arm was wrapped up in a sling.
Turning the full force of his glare to the face of the man sleeping a foot away, he pushed out with a leg he knew was attached, and sent Sam flying off the bed.
The man crashed satisfyingly into the wardrobe beyond with a loud startled cry, leaving the soldier staring at the ceiling as he negotiated the large network of pain signals his body was sending his way.
Assessing the strength of each signal and the origin, he determined each had been stitched and bandaged, and dismissed them in turn, as the man scrambled up from the floor beside him.
"What the HELL, Bucky?!" Sam yelled, before rubbing his thigh through the tracksuit pants he wore. "OW!"
"Strength at 78%" the soldier noted, before glaring at the man again. "Arm."
Sam's face fell.
"Where's Bucky?"
The soldier released a sharp breath. "Wherever you left him last. Arm."
Sam crossed his own up tight. "Dammit."
"Arm!"
The man walked over to lean against the doorjamb. "That a question or a statement?"
"Give me my arm."
"Say please."
"Fuck you, I'll find it myself."
The soldier rolled to the right, preparing to do so.
"You'll stay right where you are," Sam said in a low voice.
The Winter Soldier sat up.
Ignoring his wounded body, he began to assess and poke at the edges of his most recent protocol.
Sam Wilson, aka the American 'Falcon', had been the secondary target of a previous protocol. The source of a compromise that had required the elimination of a Hydra cell in Russia. Sam was to be eliminated as well, having been determined to be the source.
Sam shifted nearer.
"What are you doing?"
The Winter Soldier had attempted to carry out that protocol and failed three times.
"I said you weren't getting up."
Reason for failure: the Falcon's protective gear and advanced tech, and the efforts of a little shit of a man who claimed to be the soldier's contact at the time.
That protocol had been overwritten recently.
"Lie back down."
Protect Sam Wilson.
The Winter Soldier poked at the protocol with urgency.
"Listen, soldier, you're wounded and you need rest. Get back into bed right now."
Could protect also mean strangling the man until he stopped moving?
"Hello?"
And talking?
A hand waved near his face.
Because an unconscious Sam Wilson could also mean a protected Sam Wilson?
An unconscious Sam Wilson would be unable to walk into traffic. Or fall off a building.
Or stab himself repeatedly with a kitchen knife.
Yes.
Protocol amended
Nodding to himself, the Winter Soldier's arm snaked out of the sling and clamped onto Sam's throat.
"Oh f-gh" the man said in front of him, struggling to back up out of the soldier's grasp.
The blows to his face meant very little. He was carrying out protocol.
The impact with the wall was a slight interruption.
Why was this protocol taking so long.
The soldier frowned.
An unconscious Sam Wilson could not eat or drink and would die without either.
An unconscious Sam Wilson could not tell him where his arm was.
Protocol amendment cancelled.
Releasing the man and dropping him to the floor, the soldier stepped back.
The man flopped and gasped on the floor like a fish.
"Arm."
The soldier frowned, feeling a sudden urgency.
"Also, toilet."
Short one today, folks. Happens to be one of my favorite chapters from the whole story so far XD
The 'previous protocol' is a reference to my first fic, btw.
Thank you for all of the comments and kudos - they mean so much to me! :D
Chapter 7: Protect
Chapter Text
Here's a long chapter to make up for the mini one yesterday. I told myself I was going to post every other day. SO MUCH FOR THAT. XD
Btw, this chapter includes a traumatic flashback seen from the outside. No traumatic details are given.
Sam sat at his kitchen table, holding a mug of coffee with hands that were trembling ever so slightly. He was facing the hallway that led to the bedroom where the asshat who had tried to strangle him - again - had dutifully lied back down after receiving his arm.
From the dishwasher.
It had been very hot at the time, and Sam hoped the soldier had felt it.
Releasing a soft breath through a sore throat warmed by a decent coffee, Sam struggled with the fact that the soldier was still in control.
Why wasn't he Bucky now?
They weren't in danger anymore? The soldier's wounds were healing?
Bucky hadn't turned into the soldier with trigger words, or with a goddamn Hydra cradle. He'd turned into the soldier in Sam's lap.
Why?
Protect.
The first word the soldier had said.
That just made Sam angry.
"How is choking me protecting me, you shit!" he yelled down the hall, before taking an aggressive sip of coffee.
The bed rustled, spiking Sam's blood pressure.
The soldier's legs swung into view, wearing Sam's spare blue sweatpants.
"I said stay in bed!" Sam yelled, hoping to see those legs disappear again.
They didn't. The man stood up and turned to look at him.
And the fear that Sam felt made him really sad. He didn't want to feel fear looking into that face.
"Go back to bed," Sam said, pointing.
"No," the soldier answered, walking through the bedroom, his gaze caught by everything, before entering the hall.
The man's head, chest and side were peppered with bandages. The wound where the knife had been was seeping into the covering and would need to be replaced soon.
"Do I need to arm myself?" Sam asked, starting to stand up.
The soldier looked at him as if he were stupid.
"You're not?"
"This is my home, Bucky," Sam said, sweeping his hand out, "why would I need to be armed?!"
The soldier stopped, his gaze drawn to the large window to Sam's left.
Frowning, the man stepped forward, lifting the kitchen table up with his metal hand before pushing it, and Sam, back until they were against the wall.
"What the hell are you doing," Sam murmured under his breath into another desperate gulp of coffee.
And the soldier did something incredibly haunting, that Sam didn't think he'd ever forget.
The man raised his arms and tilted his head, as if he were holding something.
A sniper rifle?
And he mimicked firing, with the suggested target being Sam's head.
Then he dropped his hands and pointed to the window.
The icy gaze slipped away, and Sam remembered to breathe again.
He sat down where he'd been put and watched the soldier explore, as his heart sank in his chest.
This man was so incredibly wounded.
How does somebody undo almost 70 years of inhumane conditioning to be a living weapon?
"What are you doing?" he finally asked, as the man he knew as Bucky picked things up, turned them over, and with the latest item - an iphone speaker - started taking it apart.
"Hey! Stop that!"
The soldier pulled something free and dropped the speaker on the counter again. He continued, holding his metal hand out over things, drawing it back and forth, and picking the item up to pull something free.
And it finally dawned on Sam.
"Wait," he whispered, before getting up to stand beside the soldier.
The man turned to him, metal palm outstretched.
Little black dots.
Bugs?
The metal hand closed, turning them to dust.
"Ross… goddammit man," Sam muttered. "When were they even in here?!"
The soldier shrugged and headed to a bookcase lined with photos in frames.
Sam watched him carefully.
There was a photo of them both on the shelf the man was looking at.
Maybe that would bring Bucky back?
But the soldier's gaze slid to it and away, with no change or recognition.
"You see that photo?" Sam asked.
The man returned to the frame and picked it up.
"This one? I do see it, yes."
It was returned to the shelf.
"Who's in it?"
The soldier didn't return. He was looking at the awards and trophies on the shelf over the small electric fireplace.
"You."
Sam went to the frame and brought it to the soldier who was studying Sam's Air Force medals.
"And?"
"Impressive," the soldier said, analyzing the shadowbox he'd pulled from the shelf. "Air Force Cross, Bronze and Silver Stars." He pointed then, to the award at the top. "What was this for?"
"That's the Medal of Honor."
"Yes. What was it for?"
"Saving the world," Sam said, before holding up the frame. "Who's in this picture with me?"
The Winter Soldier grinned, and for a moment, Sam had this bloom of hope in his chest, that maybe… maybe Bucky was back?
"Is the world saved, Sam?" the soldier said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, before restoring the box to the shelf and turning away with a dry laugh.
"Oh, you piece of…" Sam growled, the hope shriveling in his chest. Shocked and angry, he lashed out at the face of the man who'd crushed his hope. Who'd said something so fucking cynical when he'd expected words from a returned friend.
The man shifted. The punch didn't land.
"Where is he!" Sam roared, as the soldier merely kept walking, gaze flitting around the room.
The man dodged and blocked every other strike, his gaze cold when it returned to Sam.
"Where's BUCKY!" Sam cried, horrified by all of this. The fact he couldn't find his friend in the midst of this man so tortured and twisted that everything awful was a joke? This assassin who didn't care about anything, or anyone, not even himself?! "WHERE IS HE?!"
The soldier's right arm blocked his last sweeping punch, the fingers wrapping around his wrist and locking tight.
And when the soldier spoke, it was with a thin mouth curled in a nasty smirk.
"If I help you find your dog, will you stop wasting your time trying to hit me?"
Sam sucked in a shocked, mangled breath, his body spent with the effort of trying to land a single blow, and stared at the Winter Soldier, lost and despairing.
The man's brow rippled slightly, and he looked down at the bandage on his shoulder.
"Damage," he whispered, his voice hesitant. "I opened stitches."
Red bloomed through the material.
"Oh, shit," Sam whispered, the sight stripping all of his anger away in an instant. "I'm sorry, goddammit… I'm sorry. Sit here."
The soldier sat and stared forward, his body rigid.
His face was…
Sam stared at him. Where there'd been a cocky cruelty a moment ago, was now raw worry. The man's brows were steepled.
Afraid?
"You're going to be okay… just let me get my gear," Sam whispered, guiding Bucky's metal arm to hold against the torn wound.
The man would not meet his gaze.
"I'm sorry," the soldier said.
Sam almost fell over.
"Why the hell are you sorry? That was my fault. I overreacted. You were being an asshole and I let it get to me… I should know better."
"I'm sorry," the soldier whispered, his eyes growing wider.
"What's going on here?" Sam asked, scanning Bucky's face. The man was trembling.
"You're okay, soldier, calm down. Let me get my gear."
Sam ran, without understanding the urgency he felt. Something was very wrong. Snatching the bag from his room, he returned to an empty couch.
"What the… Bucky?"
Where the hell did he go?!
Then he saw the slight motion, between the bookcase and the wall.
"Oh shit," he whispered.
Bucky was crammed into the corner of the room, low and out of sight, his head pressed back against the wall, his eyes fixed and massive.
"I'm sorry I did not mean," the man was whispering, over and over. "Don't… don't…"
"Soldier," Sam said, as gently as he could.
The bandage was soaked red. He needed to get to it without the man lashing out and killing him.
Sedative? Would that work?
The last time he'd put the soldier out, it had required a double dose of horse tranquilizer. Not something he carried in his medic bag.
Distraction. Grounding. Needed badly, right now.
"Soldier," he said gently, again.
"please don't please don't I'm sorry I didn't mean to"
The man was in a full on flashback. How the hell was he supposed to reach him?
Sam put the bag down and thought furiously.
Protect.
Alright. Time to need some protecting. Maybe that would pull him out of it.
He walked to the door.
"I'll go get help, down a dark alley somewhere," he said, for his first attempt.
He winced.
What the shit, Wilson
"don'tdon'tdon't"
Goddamn, Bucky, I can't even imagine.
"Um, I'll be right back!" he said loudly, before turning, starting to run towards the kitchen, and falling dramatically within view of the man crammed against the wall.
Moaning, he flopped dramatically, pretending to pass out.
Bucky stopped speaking and for a moment, Sam thought he'd made it through.
But then the man's breaths turned to frantic gasps.
"Dammit," Sam muttered from the floor.
Frowning, he stared at the man who clearly wasn't seeing anything but the past.
The soldier had been triggered by something very specific.
I opened stitches
A torn stitch meant something.
Weapons get damaged
And Sam had done… a repair.
"Oh shit," he whispered.
The repair had been undone. The weapon had damaged itself.
And something told Sam that bad things followed. Terrible things. Punishing things.
"Oh god, Bucky," Sam said, turning to his friend. "It was my fault, not yours. Everything is okay. You are not with them anymore! They can't hurt you!"
The soldier was pale, shaking, pressed as far into the wall as he could go. The man's chest was rising and falling dramatically with hoarse gasps that were getting louder.
It was escalating, a reaction against something that wasn't there.
Bucky didn't need to protect someone.
He needed saving.
"I'm coming," Sam whispered, and ran to his bedroom, and the case by his chest of drawers.
In moments he was ready, the fastest change he'd ever done, into the red white and blue.
"I'm coming soldier, I'll stop them!" he cried, feeling a little ridiculous.
But seeing Bucky crumpled into a little pale ball in the corner of his living room made everything sharper.
"I'm here to protect you, soldier," he said, as firmly as he could without shouting.
And, not sure if it would work, he stepped in front of the soldier's trembling form, and turned to face the man's memory of what he'd had endured all those years ago.
For decades.
"They can't hurt you anymore, soldier," he said, in the best Captain America voice he could manage.
"Not anymore," he said, feeling something shifting in the room.
His imagination was working hard to put himself between those who'd done these terrible things, and this man that…
…that…
…that he loved.
"You can't hurt him ANYMORE!" he roared, and having now fully convinced himself he could stop what had already happened, he went in full tilt.
The wings burst from his back as he crouched protectively in front of the soldier. Bringing the shield up, he braced it against an attack he knew wasn't really coming.
But that didn't matter.
Neither did the rather impressive amount of property damage he'd just inflicted on his apartment with the wings spearing through both walls.
whoops
A touch made him freeze.
A hand. An arm, snaking around his waist.
Sam froze completely as the metal arm wrapped around his chest as well.
And both held him tight.
Shaking.
"I have you," Sam whispered, understanding.
The man was crying.
"I have you," he whispered again, folding his own hand over Bucky's real one.
Sam released a heavy breath.
"I'll protect you."
After moments, after minutes - he didn't really track - the arm slid down to his waist and lay there as the weight increased at his back.
"Buck?" Sam murmured, turning as much as his wings would allow.
The man was lying against him, eyes closed, his breath even and deep.
Did he fall asleep?
Frowning, Sam lowered his shield and set it aside. He pulled his goggles off and very slowly pulled the wings in, one at a time, careful not to jar the man behind him.
The drywall that came with them would be dealt with, later.
Dropping the harness, he turned and finally pulled the heavy ass man up into his arms.
Why was he so fucking heavy? Vibranium was supposed to be light!
"Goddammit," Sam whispered as he walked, staring at the bandage over the man's shoulder. It was absolutely soaked.
Laying the man back on the bed, he set to work, not even bothering to change back.
The wound was healing, just needed a few more stitches.
Why did I fight with him
Because this man knew how to push his buttons.
Cynicism was one of those buttons. Everything was worth fighting for. Cynicism was spitting in the face of that.
Is the world saved, Sam?
Sam stared at the man's pale features, locked away in sleep.
"Maybe not, but I'll always do my best to save it, every single time" he whispered, before laying his head down for just a moment to recover from the absolute insanity of the morning.
Chapter 8: Where's my coffee table?
Chapter Text
Bucky's lips tasted like coffee and licorice. It was driving him insane. How did this man taste so good? How did those hands feel so perfect against his skin? A soft sound left him as those delicious lips travelled along his jawline to playfully nip at his earlobe, before the man pulled away with a laugh, his blue eyes warm and bright.
Sam stared up at Bucky, his fingers drawing through the man's hair, as his friend and lover breathed three beautiful words.
"Are you malfunctioning?"
With a sharp breath, Sam woke up.
The room was dim. Oddly so. Bucky was standing at the other side of the bed, wearing one of Sam's university t-shirts, his right arm back in the sling, holding a licorice Twizzler in his metal hand.
He took a bite, watching Sam.
"I made coffee," he said, before wandering away.
"Oh whattheshit," Sam blurted out while scrambling from the bed.
As he watched the man walk away, that taste still a phantom in his mind, it became very apparent why the room was so dim.
One of his spare blankets was thrown over the window.
Sam frowned, looking from the window to the armor he was still wearing. It didn't feel like he'd just put his head down.
The alarm clock said 8:15am.
But it'd been 11am?!
"Damn," he murmured, scratching the back of his head before shifting to peek down the hall to the kitchen where the soldier now stood, sipping from a cup of coffee.
In a room just as dark.
"What the hell? Bucky, what'd you do to my apartment?"
The soldier put the cup down, glared his way, and stepped out of view.
Leaving the armor on felt smart, and trying not to be too spooked, Sam crept down the hall.
His jaw fell as he entered the living room.
"Oh my god, my SOFA!"
The thing was on its end, propped up against the door, along with the two side tables and a short bookcase.
"Strength at 92%" the soldier said rather proudly, standing in the space he'd cleared of furniture.
Which was now filled with photos.
All of them, arranged in circles around the soldier's feet, on the carpeted floor. From every frame from every shelf, and photos Sam knew used to be on his mirror in his bedroom, and in a photo album he kept under the coffee table.
He frowned, looking around the rearranged space. "Wait, where's my coffee table?"
The soldier looked up from the photos. "In the hall."
Sam leaned back to look down the hallway. "Not it's not?"
"Not that hall," the soldier added, before pointing at the sofa and the door it now barricaded.
"You put my coffee table OUTSIDE?!" Sam snapped. "Why?!"
"Not enough room," the man answered, before lowering himself in the middle of the circles of happy moments and smiling faces.
"Oh my god," Sam whispered, turning on his heel and marching to the coffee machine. "Okay. Okay. Sure."
The window was covered in one of his expensive deep blue silk sheets. A fork had been speared through each corner into the drywall.
"Fuuuuck," Sam whispered into a mug of coffee he'd just poured.
The first sip ended up back in the sink, with violence.
"Glkk," Sam gurgled, wiping his mouth furiously before slurping up water from the sink to rinse the coffee grounds out of his mouth.
"No!" he yelled, holding the edge of the counter with an iron grip. "Nope!"
The soldier rose to his feet behind him. "What?"
"Put everything back."
"Unwise."
"Everything. Goes. Back. Where. It. Was."
The soldier took another bite of the Twizzler. "Un. Wise."
"The sheets, the blankets on the windows can stay, but I have to have my home back, you get that?"
Frowning, the soldier studied him. "Why? Your home is not secure."
Sam released a heavy breath. "It's for my emotional security, right here."
And he put his hand on his chest, over his heart.
Bucky's blue eyes rose from the spot. "Emotional security won't stop a bullet there," he said, looking terribly confused.
"No," Sam agreed, holding the man's gaze. "But it will stop me from wasting my time living in fear until that happens."
Bucky blinked.
Frowned.
"I'm not afraid," he said, the ice in his gaze again, his voice sharp.
"I didn't say you were," Sam said softly, before pointing at the door. "But I am, when you do this."
The soldier looked at him a moment longer, and Sam looked back, wanting to say the name he knew this side of his friend hated.
But he didn't, and was more than a little surprised when Bucky handed him the half-eaten Twizzler.
"Fine," the man said, mouth twisting.
"I'll pick up the photos," Sam said, putting the Twizzler on a shelf before bending down.
But the man's metal hand clamped on his wrist, stopping him.
"No. They're in order. I will."
Confused, Sam could only say okay, before looking down and truly understanding what Bucky had done.
Starting with a torn black and white photo of his great grandparents, the photos were arranged in chronological order, through his parents wedding and pictures of their boat, through his baby photos, school and college shots, parties, his deployments, shots with Sarah and the kids, shots with the Avengers, with Steve and Bucky, spread out in a massive spiral, ending in one photo taken a couple of weeks ago of Sam and Joaquim at a bar.
"Uh," he said, intelligently, his eyes very wide.
The order was insanely accurate.
He looked up at the soldier, his eyes still wide.
"I will put them back when I'm done," the man said, before descending to pick them up, starting with the black and white photo.
"Why…" Sam whispered, before clearing his throat, "why are you doing this?"
"Research," the soldier said simply, not bothering to look up.
Sam let him continue, before noticing a separate pile. Pulling them up, he held them out.
"What about these?"
The soldier rose with the stack from the spiral and walked to the kitchen table to place them down carefully.
"Not important."
Sam flipped through the discarded pile. They were photos of family friends, his squad - including Riley - and some of the Avengers - including Steve and Bucky together.
Sam wasn't in any of them.
Something shivered in his chest.
"What kind of research?" he asked, watching Bucky shift one of the end tables back to the exact spot it had been before.
"Wait, you're not doing that by yourself," Sam said, moving to assist with the bookcase Bucky picked up next.
"I did it by myself," the soldier snapped, pulling the bookcase away from Sam with his metal arm. "Therefore I am doing it by myself."
He put it back to within a millimeter of where it had last been.
Sam sighed, and ignored him, grappling with The Case of the Vertical Sofa.
"No, you're not."
The soldier, glaring now, grabbed the corner of the sofa with his metal hand and lifted it as if it were one giant cushion of air.
"I am."
Sam glared right back, struggling to maintain dominance on the end he'd claimed.
"No, you're not. I don't want a repeat of yesterday."
Bucky dropped the sofa.
The sound was the second loudest the apartment had ever experienced, outside of the wings recently slicing through two sets of drywall. Sam had a moment to register the immensity of that sound, and feel shock over the possible damage to his sofa, before he found himself on the floor next to the end he'd been attempting to carry.
"Ow."
Nursing a bruised elbow, he glared at Bucky, who was standing in the kitchen looking at the floor.
"You are a giant pain in the ass."
"I will not repeat yesterday," the soldier said, not looking at him, his stance rigid.
Sam rose to his feet, his gaze softening. "That's not… that's not how I meant that. You scared the hell out of me."
Those blue eyes flicked to Sam's own.
But the man said nothing more.
Sam eventually reset the now slightly wonky sofa, and dragged the coffee table back into the apartment before the old lady down the hall decided it was free.
And finally, he plonked himself down in the dim dark cave that was apparently his home now.
The soldier was still standing in the kitchen, watching him.
Sam couldn't quite work out what was going on in that mangled brain. But he felt badly. Standing, he pulled the Twizzler from the shelf and joined the soldier in the kitchen.
"Here," he said, handing it over. "Can't believe you like that stuff. It's for Sarah when she visits. She loves licorice."
The soldier lifted it dutifully and took a bite.
"I don't like it."
Frowning, Sam took it back and threw it in the trash. "Then why the hell are you eating it?"
"It looked like what I was fed," the soldier said slowly, staring down at where it landed in the trash.
"Shit," Sam whispered, feeling a little horrified. "What you were 'fed'?!"
The man nodded. "Except it was cubed."
Sam couldn't speak for a moment. The urge came to hug the man in front of him, but he realized that might end in a forceful relocation to the other side of the room. Or being choked out again.
He wisely fought the urge and tapped at his phone instead.
"Screw it, I'm ordering pizza."
The soldier nodded, and reached back to pick up his now cold mug.
Sam took the mug from him as well.
"Are you drinking this because they made you drink dirt?" he snapped angrily, dumping the ground coffee soup into the sink.
The idea made him sick.
The man shook his head, looking a little upset.
"No, I actually like that."
"Oh."
They both looked at the thick grainy mass slowly disappearing down the drain.
Sam winced.
"Sorry."
Thanks for reading, everyone :) Thanks for the kudos! Let me know what you think is going on in the soldier's noggin' with those photos XD
Expect the next update in a couple of days!
Chapter 9: The issue of the seating
Chapter Text
I finally cracked a bear of a chapter up ahead, so here's the next short one a little early. :)
The Winter Soldier stared over the photos taking up every spare molecule of space on the coffee table, regretting once more the loss of his previous arrangement.
There was also the issue of the seating.
"My back is to the door," he said, looking over his shoulder for the fifty-eighth time.
"Yes," the idiot named Sam sitting next to him confirmed, without rectifying the issue at all.
"We have to move the sofa."
"No. We don't," Sam breathed. "Let's just focus on the photos."
The soldier did so, for five seconds, before looking over his shoulder again.
"We can move the sofa there," he suggested diplomatically, pointing to the bookcases along the wall to their right. "That way I can see the door, and you can stare at this thing."
He pointed at the flickering device in front of them.
"That's a fireplace, and no."
"The fire isn't real."
"It's for effect."
"That's irrational."
"Not if you're enjoying a nice night in with someone you care about," Sam said in a very strained voice.
"You'd compromise your response time to sit in front of a fake fire?"
"Yes," Sam said with a weird look on his face. "I realize what I'm doing right now is extremely dangerous, soldier, but this is a risk I think I have the courage and will to take."
The soldier began to reevaluate the protocol amendment.
Perhaps the cancellation had been premature?
Perhaps with a slight revision - to the length of time Sam Wilson spent unconscious - the amendment could still be implemented?
Sam's eyes narrowed.
"You're thinking about strangling me again, aren't you."
"Yes."
Six minutes later the couch was reoriented against the bookshelves, the coffee table faced them covered in photos, and Sam's fake fire was still visible.
"Are you emotionally secure," the soldier asked.
"I hate you," Sam sighed into a new cup of coffee.
Chapter 10: Inefficiently side-basking
Chapter Text
Clearly, I was not made for posting every other day. Le sigh. Thanks for reading all, and to a certain someone for commenting so much :D Makes my day when people do.
Sam was about to eat this fucking cup of coffee.
The whole thing, handle and all.
Now that everything was rearranged to the soldier's exact specifications and they were inefficiently side-basking in the warm glow of the fireplace he bought last spring and loved so much to sit in front of, not beside, he focused on the new arrangement of photos placed before them.
No longer in a spiral, but one long closely packed snake going from the top left of the coffee table to the right, then back in another row, and back again… for six more rows.
Thank god he had a big coffee table.
It was… odd though, staring at them like this. The whole thing still raised hairs on the back of his neck.
Because…
…what research was Bucky doing here, exactly, as the soldier?
Because…
…as a previously brainwashed deadly assassin who'd very recently spontaneously regressed, that could mean some very bad things.
Sam studied Bucky's profile, lit by the faint flicking flames of his underappreciated electric fireplace, from behind the cover of his coffee mug, as the man's blue eyes swept the rows over and over, brow furrowing in concentration. The man's hair hung forward in loose wavy strands, and the stubble on his jawline was growing dense and dark.
The head wound looked better, remarkably so, though it was a punk accent on an otherwise stunning head of hair.
He could sit and stare at this man all day.
But he needed to understand this.
"What are you looking for, man?" Sam asked, his voice distorted from inside the cup. "Maybe I can help?"
"I am looking for you."
Sam waved helpfully. "Right here."
The man shook his head and spoke Russian then, as if English hadn't been his first language.
"Я ищу мотивы твоего сердца."
Sam had been in the midst of drinking when the words were dutifully translated by his brain.
He choked, then coughed into his cup for half a minute as the soldier turned to him, frowning.
"You 'seek the motives of my heart'?!" Sam finally sputtered, before setting the mug aside. "Where the hell did that come from?!"
"I need to understand."
"My motives?"
"I need to understand why you'd claim to protect me."
Sam watched the man's expression carefully.
"So you do remember that."
The man nodded.
Well, this was going to be some odd territory.
"You were in bad shape, man. I had to do something."
"I need to understand why you'd claim to protect me" the soldier said again, before fixing Sam with a look somewhere between a question and a challenge, "when you're so much weaker than I am."
Ah.
Sam sighed. A very long sigh that ended with him retrieving his mug and staring longingly into it wishing it was scotch.
There is not enough alcohol in this house…
"It's true," he murmured finally, glancing over the photos, his gaze drawn to the first one he'd taken with Steve. "I'm not a super soldier."
The man beside him nodded, shifting to face him.
"Exactly."
"And I don't have a fancy fucking metal arm."
"Yes," the soldier agreed, flexing the metal fingers. "My arm is superior to you on its own."
Sam bobbed his head with the soldier's every word, trying desperately to keep his cool.
"But I wasn't the guy on the floor," he said bluntly, catching Bucky's eye.
"You were."
The man's gaze turned to ice. The mouth Sam loved so much twisted.
"I'm not weak," the soldier growled.
"And I'm stronger than you think," Sam shot back, before standing to his feet.
"I need air. I'm going to meet the pizza guy downstairs."
The Winter Soldier stood immediately.
Sam pointed to where he'd been sitting. "Uh uh. You're staying here."
"I'm coming."
"Stay here and work out my weak ass motives," Sam muttered, walking to the door.
Snatching his keys from the hook beside it, he opened the door a little harder than he meant to.
"I'm sorry I called you weak."
Sam froze facing the hall, his hand still on the doorknob.
Slowly, he turned back.
"What?"
Bucky was standing in the light from the fireplace, arms crossed, looking right at him.
But he didn't repeat himself.
Sam frowned.
"Look, I shouldn't have mentioned you lying on the floor, that was inappropriate."
Vaguely, he heard footsteps approaching. The delivery guy, coming with their pizza.
"I just… I spend a lot of my time trying to prove to people that I can hold the shield," he said, looking down at the floor briefly, feeling nakedly honest, "that I'm worthy, that I'm as good a man as Ste-"
Something flew by an inch from his ear and thunked into the hallway wall behind him.
Something hit the floor.
A man ran off screaming.
Sam turned slowly.
When the soldier drew up behind him, ready to pursue, Sam put his hand against the man's chest to hold him back.
Two pizza boxes lay in a neat pile beneath a baseball cap impaled five feet up the wall.
Sam crossed his arms and pointed with a finger.
"That my kitchen knife?"
"Yes."
"And where did you have that hidden?"
"Sling."
"And how many more do you have on you that I can't see?"
The soldier looked thoughtful. "Just the knives?"
"Oh my god. We are staying in," he pressed his hand against the man's firm chest and pushed. "Back in, get back in there, right now, goddammit."
Pulling some large bills from his wallet by the door, he yanked the knife free, tucked some bills under the cap and collected the pizza.
"Beer. I need beer," he said quickly, walking past the soldier into the kitchen.
Slapping the boxes open on the table, he dived into the fridge and pulled out a Corona.
He drank the entire thing as the soldier stared into the box.
"Sausage or plain cheese," he said, pointing.
"Smells good."
"Plates in the cupboard. Put my knives back."
"I will put three knives back."
"Put all of the knives back."
"I will put two knives back," the soldier amended, glaring.
Leaving his now empty bottle on the counter, Sam went for another.
And another.
Chapter 11: Recognize this guy?
Chapter Text
Pizza, the soldier decided, was a stupid food that tasted amazing.
He made it less stupid by taking his next two slices and putting one face down on the other so that the substance on top of both was mostly contained.
Then he rolled that up until he had an enormous pizza cigar.
He'd had a cigar once. One of his handlers had shared one with him after a successful mission. The man had died on the next and he hadn't had one since.
He stared at the rolled up thing in his hand.
Could he smoke this?
"You ruined it," Sam breathed nearby, pulling another beer from the fridge before wandering creatively to the sofa.
"You're inebriated," the soldier said, following him.
"Yes," Sam agreed, nodding firmly as he sat heavily. "Yes, I am."
The soldier sat and ate, watching Sam sit and eat.
And chuckle looking over the photos.
"How'd you do it, man?" Sam said after his fourth slice.
The soldier stared at the half-eaten pizza cigar.
"I adhered them to each oth-"
Sam snorted. "No, how'd you get these in order? How'd your cyborg brain know this one," he picked up a photo of his dad and himself standing with a bucket of fish in front of a boat, "was before this?"
And he tapped at a picture of himself and his sister on the same boat, grinning over a net.
"Mmm," Sam hummed, staring down at the scene with a strange expression. Something sad and warm and wistful.
"I miss my dad," he said quietly, before placing the photo back sloppily. "Miss fishing with him on that boat."
The soldier reached down to straighten the row before lifting the one of Sam and his dad.
Sam frowned, looking at the back of it.
Then he laughed. "You read my mom's notes on the back!"
The soldier nodded slightly, his attention resting on the father and the boat.
Two things Sam missed.
"Here I was thinking you had some super soldier sense, tell you how old people were." Sam flopped back, resting his head on the back of the sofa. He giggled at the ceiling. "M'n idiot."
The Winter Soldier nodded again, his gaze locked on the scene.
It was poorly shot, with a six-year-old Sam Wilson and his father, Paul, almost reduced to simple silhouettes in the foreground, with a boat tied to a jetty in full sun twenty feet behind. Sam stood beside his father with a big grin and a bucket of silvery fish.
The boat kept drawing his eye.
Frowning, he looked at the spread of photos and reclaimed the one Sam had put back down of his sister on the same boat. Then another, both of them closer to their ages now. And another, standing at the bow proudly with Sarah's children and someone else.
He stared at the boat.
The deck.
The metal railing on the deck.
The dent on the metal railing on the deck.
Something stirred inside. Echoes of moments.
Sam's laughter. Rushing steam.
The metal railing came up easily.
Laughter.
Laughter.
Sam snorted awake beside him, rubbed his eyes and leaned over towards him.
The soldier pressed him back via his face.
"Fftt," Sam snorted, sitting back with his arms crossed before blinking furiously at what the soldier was holding.
Sam leaned in again to tap the photo with a knowing smirk. "Recognize this guy?"
The soldier turned the photo to Sam. "I know this boat. How?"
Sam's fingernail, ridged with a slight vitamin deficiency, tapped furiously to the right of Sarah, Sam, and the two boys.
"Yes, this boat," the soldier said more slowly, glaring at him. "How do I know it."
Sam's smile slowly flattened.
"Wait," he said, before pulling another photo up. Sam on the boat with someone, a closer shot this time.
Sam looked happy.
Laughter.
"There," Sam said, sitting back again. "See?"
"You're very happy," the soldier said, studying the man's face. "You have a bruise that's almost healed. This doesn't answer my question."
"What the…"
Another photo was put in front of him. One he recognized from the shelf.
Sam seemed angry, pointing to someone he had his arm over in the photo.
"This face! You recognize that face?!"
The soldier put the photo back into the visual stream of Sam's life.
"No."
The man beside him seemed to sober very quickly, his face falling in disbelief.
"Describe this man," he said, bringing the photo back.
"You look happy."
"Not me. Describe this face."
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Over someone.
Who wasn't important.
"No."
"What's… what's going on here. Hold up."
New photos were placed on the table. Some with Sam, some with other friends. Some with a man the soldier knew.
"I know him," the soldier said, pointing at the large blonde man in the photo. "I was activated to eliminate him. Level 6 target. You were there the first time and stopped me." He snorted at Sam. "You're very disruptive."
"What about the second time," Sam said in a small voice.
The soldier shook his head. "You weren't there."
"Okaaay… " Sam breathed, his eyes wide. "I'm not even going to poke at that."
The man tapped the photo with the soldier's old target. "Can you describe everybody in this?"
Nodding, he picked it up and spoke immediately.
"You're wearing a red t-shirt, black jeans, and a thin gold chain. You've been drinking. The Level 6 target is wearing a white t-shirt and blue jeans. He's sober. You both look happy and very fit."
Sam waited, gaze fixed on him in disbelief.
When he went to put the photo down, Sam stopped him.
"There are three people in this photo. Describe the guy in the middle."
"Nobody," he said immediately, putting the photo back.
Sam's expression grew haggard.
Every photo on the table was removed, even as he tried to restore his previous arrangement. Sam undid everything.
Very disruptive
Three photos were placed in front of him. The only ones on the coffee table now.
City, bar, park.
"Describe this man."
The soldier frowned down at them.
City in summer. Bar with an Irish theme. Park in the fall.
"He's the most important man in the world to me," Sam said from somewhere.
The most important man?
That was information he needed.
The motives of the heart.
He looked again.
The man…
No
But it was the most important man to Sam. He needed to understand Sam, this weaker man who would stand in front of him and guard him from memory.
Shoes, brown.
Jeans, dark blue.
Shirt, grey.
stop
But to understand Sam's motives… he needed to see the most important man in Sam's world.
Jacket, black…
Hair.
Stop!
Hair.
Hair, bro-
STOP
The soldier shifted suddenly, wincing.
"Not important. Nobody," he whispered, looking at the fireplace.
The fake flames danced and wriggled with fabricated warmth.
Heat.
They'd used heat.
"Oh my god," Sam whispered, from somewhere. "What the fuck did they do."
"I…"
"Oh shit."
They'd used heat.
Against flesh.
He needed to say it.
He needed to say it quickly.
"Oh fuck… no, no, hey."
"I…" he whispered, knowing what they needed to hear. "I don't know. I don't know who that is. I don't know. They aren't important. That's nobody. They aren't… I'm not… I can't see their face. There's no face. They have no face. They're nothing."
They would melt his own face until he understood.
"Please, I don't see anybody I don't seeanythingnobodytherenodon'tdon't"
"LEAVE HIM ALONE!"
Pressure, pressure, the heat would be next. His eyes… he couldn't free his hands to protect his eyes…
Someone was crying.
"Leave him the fuck alone you bastards… you hurt him… you hurt him so much…"
Crying.
Not him.
But his throat hurt.
Someone was holding him.
When he opened his eyes, it made no sense.
Where?
Not on the couch.
On the floor?
Holding someone…
…and they were stroking his hair.
His head was nestled in the hollow between their neck and shoulder. They were warm.
And smelled good.
And felt… safe.
"You okay?"
no
emotional distress
Contact was not allowed.
Comfort was not allowed.
Contact was not allowed.
emotional distress
help
Functioning impaired.
RESET REQUIRED
Unfolding, standing abruptly, surfacing from behind the couch where he had somehow moved, the Winter Soldier grasped Sam's wrist with his metal arm and pushed him away.
"Ow," Sam hissed, rubbing his wrist, before trying to catch the soldier's eye. "Hey. Are you okay?"
"Reset required," the soldier said flatly, looking around the apartment.
No cradle. No cryochamber.
"Whoa," Sam snapped, grasping his shoulder, tugging at him to turn back. "No! No 'reset is required' you dumbass, that's fucking Hydra talking and they are not worth listening to any-mhp!"
The soldier grabbed Sam's face and threw him against the wall.
The disruptive man crumpled into a pile, taking a shelf with him, and lay still.
Protocol amendment restored: Sam Wilson unconscious.
Frowning, the soldier moved to the kitchen.
"Reset required," he said to no one.
Why was his face wet?
How was he to be reset? There was no cradle. No cryochamber.
emotional distress
help
RESET REQUIRED
Face expressionless, eyes empty and cold, the Winter Soldier began to improvise.
Chapter 12: Reset required
Chapter Text
With a soft groan, Sam stirred.
Oh god, my head…
Clutching at it, he sank again.
something is wrong
Blinking slowly, Sam struggled to focus on anything that would anchor him, give him something to resolve more of where he was.
something is wrong
Wincing, reaching for the back of his head, Sam finally woke.
Surrounded by books and scattered trinkets, he was lying against the wall behind the couch, next to the bookcase, with a fallen shelf partially resting on his shoulder.
"Owww," he sighed, attempting to pull himself up, while struggling not to throw up over the awful headache pounding between his ears.
"Oh god," he mumbled, looking around with a pinched face and slits for eyes as he held onto the couch for support.
Where'd the soldier go?
something wrong
Not liking that feeling, he rose to his feet in stages, and struggled again not to puke.
He should have drunk more water.
He shouldn't have brought a traumatized assassin home.
… he needed help.
The agony and terror on that man's face… those fuckers tortured him to make him disavow who he'd been. Made him afraid to see his own image.
Sam couldn't do this on his own anymore. This was too much.
something
wrong
now
Rising to his feet, wavering for a moment where he'd stood, Sam stared around the living room.
Bucky wasn't here.
He didn't want to call for him, just in case the man came around the damn corner swinging.
But… what the fuck happened in the kitchen?
Why was all of the shit from his freezer on the damn floor?!
Why were the freezer shelves on the floor?
… wait.
Reset required?
"No," Sam whispered, his body moving forward so quickly his brain couldn't quite catch up.
"You're not in the freezer, you goddamn idiot!"
He'd bought this fridge because it had a huge freezer drawer. He loved cooking and always had a lot of leftovers, stored a lot of meat, frozen pizza, frozen vegetables, and ice-cream and oh god, Bucky was in the freezer.
"Fuck!" Sam yelled, staring down at the body of his friend, curled up in the excavated hollow of the drawer.
Bucky head was buried between his arms, his bare feet pressed against the side of the drawer. His hands were relaxed, his skin on his right had pale, the fingers blue.
Sam's mind snapped into medic mode as he reached down to Bucky's throat for a pulse.
The soldier's skin was painfully cold. More resistant to pressure than it should be. Didn't react to touch, or his voice.
The man's eyes were closed, his lips dark.
Cyanotic, hypothermic, unresponsive.
Not breathing. Faint pulse.
"Fuck," Sam growled, struggling to pull the man free, and to not to lose it completely. "Bucky, you can't do stupid shit like this in my home!"
please don't die
Heat! Even heat, quickly!
No bathtub, which meant shower or waiting for his stupid fake fireplace to get warm enough. That wasn't happening, so shower it was.
God… Bucky was so fucking cold!
Racing to the stall with what felt like a sledgehammer rattling around in his skull, he put it on as full and as hot as he could stand it. Pulling Bucky in, he wrapped himself around his friend, shielding the man's face from the stream.
"Come back to me," he whispered over and over, holding onto Bucky like a man drowning.
The man's body was easing out of its stiff, curled pose under the steaming water, sagging fully in Sam's arms as Sam continued to check his pulse.
Thready. Not breathing.
"Shit," Sam whispered, before frantically shifting to lay the man down under the thundering water.
"Please don't kill me when you wake up," he whispered, before bending to tilt the man's head back and breathing for him.
"Please wake up," he mumbled, his voice starting to break, as he breathed for Bucky again and again.
And finally the man arched against the tile, dragging a shuddering breath through his pale lips.
Sam pulled him up desperately, engulfing Bucky in his arms as the man shivered violently against him, gasping over his shoulder, the water cascading over them both.
Sam couldn't speak. He could only stare ahead, his eyes wide with shock, the water streaming over his skin.
Slowly, Bucky stopped shivering. The man's head sank against Sam's shoulder and stayed there. His arms lay limply against the tile.
He didn't speak.
When the water began to cool, Sam reached out and pushed the faucet in.
Bucky moved with him, a silent rag doll.
"Need to get you into dry clothes," Sam whispered. "Okay?"
The man said nothing, but let himself be lifted when Sam rose, his head hanging, his hair dripping, and followed Sam out of the shower.
"Drop the wet clothes, dry off with this," he said, pointing to a towel on the rack. "I'm going to set up the fireplace and some clothes. Okay?"
The man stared at the floor silently.
Sam wanted to yell at him. Scream at him for doing something so stupid.
It'd fix absolutely nothing.
With a sharp, stressed sigh, Sam left the bathroom and stumbled, almost falling.
I need help
Shaking it off, he rushed to the living room, pushed the coffee table aside and shoved the sofa back where it had been - facing the fireplace.
He cranked the thing up and raced back to the bathroom.
Where Bucky was still standing, dripping, in his wet clothes, staring at the floor.
"Soldier!" Sam snapped, needing movement, needing something from the man in front of him he was starting to forget he knew. "Out of the wet clothes NOW!"
The soldier stiffened, but started pulling off the t-shirt.
Nodding, Sam ran to the bedroom, plucked some clothes from the wardrobe, yanked the comforter off the bed and ran back to the living room to dump the comforter.
When he returned to the bathroom, the soldier was completely naked, his hair hanging in dripping clumps around his face.
"Goddammit, Bucky," Sam muttered. "Towel! Dry yourself off!"
The soldier managed a glare, which gave Sam some hope, before slowly reaching for the towel.
When the soldier touched it, his brow rippled. Drawing it to himself, he pressed his hands into it, over it, before slowly unfolding it and drawing it around himself.
Sam watched the reaction - of someone not used to comfort - before shaking his head and grabbing the spare towel and doing his best to assist quickly.
He wanted to hold this man.
But now was not the time.
The soldier took the pants offered, took the sweater, and dutifully wore them, before he pulled the towel around himself again.
"Hair," Sam said, pointing.
The soldier's cold blue eyes frowned his way.
"I'll do it," Sam sighed, before using his towel and rubbing the soldier's head with it quickly.
The metal arm shot up and grabbed his wrist.
Sam stopped, his heart thudding in his chest. "I'm just drying your hair."
Slowly, the metal fingers opened, releasing him, before pulling the towel from his head and dropping it on the floor.
Sam stared, his lips pursed, dwelling on the delight that was the immense floofy, shaggy mess atop Bucky's head.
"Mm," he murmured, struggling to control his mouth and keep from laughing in the soldier's face.
That would not go well.
But the soldier was looking past him.
Sam turned.
"Oh."
The mirror was fogged up, but Bucky was clearly looking at himself.
Was this safe? Could he look at his reflection? Was that the same as photos?
God, he couldn't take Bucky losing it again.
His hands were trembling.
"No, nope," Sam said quickly, attempting to stear the man away from the mirror.
But the soldier just nudged him aside, stepped to the mirror and used the towel to wipe the surface clear.
Sam steeled himself, watching Bucky's expression carefully.
"You're safe," he whispered suddenly, needing to do something, feeling the certainty of an approaching storm. "They can't hurt you anymore."
But the soldier wasn't looking at his face.
He was looking at his hair.
And Sam watched, in stunned silence, as the man's mouth tugged back in a smirk.
And he laughed.
A soft, dry thing that didn't last long.
Relief rushed through Sam almost violently, leaving him dizzy.
The soldier's gaze shifted over his own features with little care and settled on the scar on the side of his head. One that already looked better since earlier in the day.
His attention dropped to the knife wound, the bullet wound almost healed.
Nodding once, the soldier looked away from the mirror.
At Sam.
Frowning, the man stepped forward quickly, metal arm outstretched.
And that… that was too much.
Sam backed up, his heart thudding again, the panic he'd just started to come down from overwhelming him again. The headache that had been throbbing at his temples since being slammed against the wall grew, doubling, tripling in pressure against the bounds of his skull.
His hands shook as he raised them to push the man away.
"Don't," he whispered, once, feeling that metal arm circling his head.
Before everything shut down.
And his legs gave way beneath him.
Hey everyone. Thanks for reading, for the kudos n' subs, n' all! Thank you to those who comment as well :)
No post tomorrow because of the maintenance, which hopefully will go smoothly!
Chapter 13: Emotional security
Chapter Text
There are some lovely chapters coming up soon, and peril too, because I can't seem to do one without the other. Thanks for reading! Thanks for the kudos and all! :D
The soldier caught Sam as soon as he dropped, the metal arm looping swiftly under the man's back, his right scooping up the man's legs.
The towel fell from his shoulders. He felt its absence keenly as he carried the man who'd saved him to the bedroom.
Where he stood, staring down at Sam, in his arms.
The freezer was not a cryochamber. He had suffocated. This man had saved him.
Again.
Cared for him.
Again.
Even after the soldier had amended the protocol. With violence.
Again.
Why?
Why did Sam do this?
Questions, unrelated to the mission objectives, were not allowed.
But… this was research. The motives of this man's heart. To understand why.
most important man in the world to me
He needed to know who that was.
But first.
Protect.
Laying Sam on the edge of the bed, he removed the man's wet clothes completely.
Turning Sam's head left a spot of red on the pillow. Frowning, he found a cut on the man's scalp. Not deep, but near a swollen area of inflammation where the man had hit the wall. The soldier had been reaching to check the spot when Sam collapsed.
my fault
"Sorry," he said.
The sound of his voice surprised him.
Protocol amendment cancelled.
Permanently.
Patching the wound up with a small bandage from Sam's extensive kit - which he nodded at in approval - the soldier moved Sam to the dry side of the bed and covered him with the sheet.
That didn't seem adequate. Where was the heavier cover?
Walking to the living room, he briefly stopped in the kitchen to stare down at the open freezer.
At first it had felt right. Almost comforting. He'd been pleased with his cleverness.
But it was too slow.
He'd started gasping. Grew so disoriented he couldn't work out how to leave.
And then it was too late to do anything about it.
"Fucking stupid."
Nodding in the affirmative, he put everything back into the freezer, shut it, kicked it, and wandered into the blazing heart of the sun that was the living room.
The fireplace was roaring, fakely. An impressive approximation of fire.
It was deliciously warm.
Sam needed this.
The soldier would allow for the incorrect sofa placement, for now. The comforter was here. Sam should be here and enjoy emotional security.
Moving to the bathroom, he picked up the towel that felt like Sam's pillow, wrapped it around himself, and went to get Sam.
The man was frowning in his sleep.
The soldier watched, frowning back.
"s-stop," Sam whispered.
"Sorry," the soldier whispered in answer, before gathering the man up in the sheet, carrying him to the sofa, and laying him down in front of his sad, stupidly effective fireplace.
The comforter went over him next.
The soldier nodded, satisfied. The man was very emotionally secure now.
Weak.
Wrapping his adopted soft-pillow-towel more closely around his neck, the soldier sat on the floor with his back to the sofa and stared at the flames flickering with lies, before his gaze fell to the three photos that had fallen off the coffee table shoved to the side.
the most important man in the world to me
Could he look at them without screaming?
Perhaps he needed emotional security.
…perhaps Sam was his emotional security.
The Winter Soldier frowned, turning his head to stare at the man, whose brow was still rippling in some kind of bad dream.
He shook his head.
"I'm not weak," he whispered. "I can't be."
Immense pain followed weakness.
With it, Hydra had forged him into a flawless weapon…
…and weapons didn't need emotional security.
The soldier nodded, but even as he did, Sam's voice rose in his mind.
that's fucking Hydra talking and they are not worth listening to
The frown deepened.
This was an odd mission, protecting someone who hated Hydra. Someone who claimed to have destroyed them. Why would Hydra task him with this?
What was Sam going to give them?
Government secrets? Technology? Insider knowledge of the Avengers?
…faker fireplaces?
Smirking, the soldier plucked the three photos from the floor, and crossing his legs, placed them down.
He was not weak. He was strong.
And…
and… Sam was here.
City, bar, park.
Staring over a city skyline hazy in summer. Enjoying a Guinness in an Irish bar. Walking in the park surrounded by fall leaves.
The same faceless man in each one.
The most important man in Sam's world.
He would find out.
Because…
…because Sam was here.
And Hydra wasn't.
Chapter 14: Intruding for the U.S. Government
Chapter Text
Augh. This weekend has been taken up with work and I haven't had the time to write like I usually do... hate that! Anyway, we have a new POV here. An increasingly terrified one. Enjoy and thanks for reading, and for your kudos, and comments :D
A man in a utilities uniform walked quietly down the hall towards the apartment of Sam Wilson, pausing outside for a moment to take in both the perforated hat covering $100 in cash on the floor, and a slit in the wall above it.
"At the door," the man whispered, apparently to no-one, as he turned away from the odd sight. "Going silent."
The man drew a long wire from his jacket terminating in a small display, and threaded it under the door, keeping an eye on the grainy black and white image of carpet pile opening up to an apartment lit by a two sources of light. The fireplace in the living room, based on the flickering nature of the light, and the bathroom light.
Listening in via his earpiece, he nodded.
Deep, even breathing. Likely Mr. Wilson, asleep on the sofa he could see facing the fireplace.
A further examination of the space revealed little else.
With Mr. Wilson located, it was safe to enter discreetly and restore listening devices.
The man drew a rectangular box from his pocket. Inserting the long metal prong on the end into the keyhole, he engaged the device and waited for the slight click.
Pocketing it and pulling out a flat round object, the man held it against the door's surface where the deadbolt sat nestled and firmly locked in the doorframe.
With a slow, sliding motion, the man disengaged the lock.
No movement on the display, no change in the breathing.
Retracting the wire, he packed everything away and very slowly opened the door.
No movement. Breathing deep and even.
This was going very well.
Crossing the living room, he looked for the prior installations, while glancing back at the figure sleeping on the couch.
The room was really hot.
A search showed that all of the prior devices were missing.
Frowning, he looked back at the man on the couch.
Had Mr. Wilson found them? That was concerning.
When he turned back to the iphone speaker, something hard and cold wrapped around his jaw, muffling his startled cry. Instantly understanding what it was - metal hand belonging to metal arm belonging to James Buchanan Barnes previously the Winter Soldier - the man attempted to draw his sidearm, only to have it snatched away and pressed against his head.
He stilled, wisely, also understanding that James Buchanan Barnes was no longer a Hydra assassin and abided by three rules required for his pardon.
The man likely thought he was an intruder.
… of course he was an intruder, but he was intruding for the U.S. Government, which meant he wasn't a burgular.
Raising his hands, he waited for the man to let him go and push him away.
But the man didn't.
Eyes widening, he found himself lifted bodily and dragged down the hall to the bathroom, a space brightly lit with a towel on the floor and water spattered from the shower on the far side.
Photos were taped to the mirror.
All of James Buchanan Barnes.
What?
He was lowered, and as his feet hit the tile, he kicked out, hoping to subdue Mr. Barnes and gain control of the situation.
But the man seemed to disappear.
Something hit him in the temple hard and the world fell away.
When it swam back in, he groaned, his temple throbbing. The sound was muffled against a cloth pushed into his mouth, secured with duct tape. The same tape was wrapped around his arms behind his back, and his legs.
"I'm with the government!" was what he tried to yell, looking up at Mr. Barnes, who had his back to him and was staring into the mirror, surrounded by those photos.
But the sound fell flat against the towel, and faltered as something felt very wrong with the way the man was staring at himself.
And the way Mr. Barnes was holding the gun he'd taken from him.
There was a hole in the wall. Big enough for a fist.
Under the mirror. Above the sink.
Recent.
Something was weird here.
If he didn't report back within two hours, they would send someone in to find out why.
How long had he been out?
"Doesn't make sense," Mr. Barnes said, tapping one of the photos with the barrel of the gun.
Was the earpiece still in his ear? Could they hear this?
A small pile of broken plastic and wiring caught his eye near the shower.
Shit
How long had he been out?! He needed assistance, right now!
Shifting, he tried to free his arms, his legs, and only succeeded in drawing Mr. Barnes' attention away from the mirror.
The man gazed at him coldly through the surface.
The gaze flicked to the photo and the man pulled it off the mirror.
Walking to him, gun still in hand, Mr. Barnes crouched in front of him.
"This looks like me, doesn't it," the man said, tapping the photo with the barrel of the gun.
Eyes widenening, the man stared at the guy with the photo in shock.
Why is he asking
What's going on
The gun was pressed against his forehead.
oh shit
"Does. This. Look. Like. Me," the man said in front of him, pressing the barrel more firmly with each word.
OH MY GOD
ohfuckohfuck
Not Barnes
Winter Soldier
Someone had triggered the Winter Soldier. Dear god, he was going to die.
"Nod or shake your head, right now."
Furious nodding ensued.
The gun slid away, hanging with the man's hand now drapped over his knee.
"I mean… I can see it now," Mr. Barnes whispered, before staring at the photo again. "Wasn't able to before. They made it so I couldn't. But Sam helped me."
Had it been two hours?! He needed help. They needed to come in NOW!
Those chilling blue eyes flicked to him again.
"This is Bucky, right? Sam said the name was 'James Buchanan Barnes'? Bucky?"
Jesus Chris, I'm in trouble
Nodding quickly, he watched the man frown with an anger that felt very hazardous to his health.
"Fuck." The man pressed the side of the gun against his forehead and rested against it as he stared at the photo. "That's why they keep saying it. I don't… I don't understand."
When the gaze flicked to him again, he flinched.
It would be very calming if he were ignored completely.
"Bucky is a dog's name," the man snapped. "It's dumb. Right?"
Squeezing his eyes closed, the man shook his head.
It was Mr. Barnes' name. He couldn't say it was dumb. Saying it was dumb might make the man shoot him.
"You don't think it's dumb?!" the man growled. "What's your name?! Rufus?!"
fucking fuck fuck how did he know that
Before he could nod, the man gave a dry laugh and sat down in front of him.
"I can tell you're afraid of me. I'm not going to kill you. I know you know that's what I do. But I won't, because you have information I need."
Nodnodnod.
"I know you're with the secret service. I removed the bugs. You're not putting them back."
Shaking his head firmly to echo what was said, he winced as his temple pounded.
"We're going to have a quick talk before your friends get here. A very quiet one so Sam doesn't wake up. Correct?"
Rufus nodded again, feeling a wave of nausea.
"You're going to tell me everything the government knows about this man," Mr. Barnes said, pointing at his photo with the gun again. "Once we've talked, I'm going to walk you out into the hall, and I'm going to let you go."
Swallowing against the gag, he tried not to hold the man's eye.
Rufus didn't believe Mr. Barnes at all.
Mr. Barnes smirked, watching him.
His gut twisted in fear.
"I'm about to kill so many people," the man said in an low, angry growl. "I don't have time to waste killing you."
Something warm flooded Rufus' pants.
They both looked down.
With a short sigh, the soldier slapped him on the arm.
"Happens a lot."
Chapter 15: Cause for alarm
Chapter Text
Sam knew he was dreaming because it felt too lovely to be real. Bucky was sitting with him as he lay on the couch, in front of the fireplace. The light flickered against Bucky's profile, dancing in those gorgeous eyes as the man smiled down at him.
"Sam," the man whispered. "I think I get it now."
"Mmm?" Sam murmured up at him, feeling warm, comfortable, content. Reaching for Bucky's hand, he twined his fingers with his friend's, before trying to pull him down so they could lay together.
Resisting, Bucky gave a dry laugh that sounded a little sad. "You like him, not me."
"Nu-uh," Sam mumbled, smiling back. Jealousy? Definitely a dream. Bucky knew who Sam loved.
No question.
"I've got to take care of some loose ends, Sam," the man who had his heart said with a sigh above him. "Pay back some people in kind. A brand new protocol I made for myself this time."
Bucky's blue eyes grew very sharp above him. Sam shifted, wondering if this dream was going to turn into a nightmare.
"But I promise I'll do my best to bring the most important man in your world back to you," the man whispered, before leaning down until their faces were only an inch apart. "In case I can't… this is for you both."
And the man's lips caught his own in a soft, unsure kiss.
Sam answered it, wanting more, threading his fingers across the man's scalp, but the man above him pulled away, eyes wide and wondering.
"That was… uh…" he whispered, before standing suddenly, leaving the space cold. "Goodbye, Sam. Sleep. Enjoy your dumb fake fire."
Sam frowned, confused, eyes closing with the command regardless, as the warmth and comfort drew his mind back down for a little while.
Until his room exploded into chaos as someone kicked his door in.
Jerking up in shock, straight out of another dream involving fish, Sam rolled backwards off the sofa, groping for the gun taped underneath the end table.
Which wasn't there.
"Goddammit, Bucky," he hissed, slowly standing to his feet, his head pounding, as the men swarmed the room, guns out and pointed at him.
Secret Service with some SWAT, armed and armored to the teeth. A couple of familiar faces among the group, all focused down the hall, guns raised.
"Bucky!" he yelled, terrified for his friend. "I know these people! Don't hurt them!"
"Please don't hurt him," he said to the group, as they moved down the hall. "He's just a little confused!"
Why were these guys here?! The bugs were gone - how would they have known Bucky wasn't himself?
The free passage of air around his body highlighted an important fact.
I am completely naked
"Uh," he murmured, lowering his hands to cover himself, as the sound of banging and crashing came from down the hall.
"I said don't hurt them, soldier!"
The group returned, their manner much more relaxed, their guns lowered.
"He's not here," one said behind a mask.
"What?" Sam whispered, feeling a sudden crawling sensation down his spine.
Where'd Bucky go?
A man in a utility uniform walked warily through his front door.
The man was pale, had a telling stain at his groin, and torn duct tape on his arms and legs.
Ah.
Sam stared at the man with a swell of worry. "Did you try to bug my house again?! Is that what this is about? No need to go ham on Bucky's ass for that - you invaded my home!"
"That wasn't 'Bucky', Mr. Wilson, that was the Winter Soldier," the man said coldly. "Mr. Barnes has been triggered by someone. He's a danger to everyone and we're here to bring him in. Where is he?"
"Uh, no," Sam said, doing his best impression of knowing fuck all. "You know he's got PTSD, with good reason. What did you expect, breaking in in the middle of the night?!"
"He was pointing at a photo of himself and asking me if it looked like him, Mr. Wilson!" the man yelled back, his hands starting to tremble. "He wanted to know everything about James Buchanan Barnes and how he was involved with Hydra and the Winter Soldier program. I think that's as clear cut as it could be! Now, where'd he go?"
"Fuck," Sam whispered.
The dream wasn't a dream.
"What'd you tell him?" Sam asked, furiously trying to remember everything Bucky had said when he was half asleep.
"Everything! He was pointing a gun at my head! Now, tell us where he went!"
"I have no fucking idea," Sam whispered.
Pushing his way through the group, he raced to the bedroom to suit up. They'd shoved his drawers over, emptied his wardrobe. Assholes.
"Are you sure about that?" Utility man said, storming in after him. "He said he was going to kill 'so many people', Captain! You don't think that's cause for alarm?!"
"Do I look calm, dumbass?!" Sam shot back. "I'll find him and I'll fix this. He's not going to do anything that's not part of a protocol…"
And the words popped back into his head, perfectly.
I've got to take care of some loose ends, Sam. Pay back some people in kind. A brand new protocol I made for myself this time.
"He's going after Hydra," he whispered, frantically resuming his search for clothes, his gear, his harness.
"Hydra?!" the man spat. "They don't exist anymore, Captain! What if he decides a busload of kids is Hydra?!"
"That's a fucking stupid thing to say," Sam snapped, pulling the harness up from the case buried under clothes from his wardrobe. "If there's any Hydra left he'll know where to find them."
"We're handling this, Mr. Wilson," the agent said, gesturing for the men down the hall. "You can stand down."
Sam pulled on his armor and harness, activating it. "Red Wing, escort these men out of my fucking home."
With a bright chirp, the drone dropped from his harness, rose to his shoulder, and snapped out its artillery.
"You work for the government, Captain," the man said, looking nervously at the drone. "You will stand down."
"When did you see him?" Sam asked, ignoring the threat. "What time?"
"Uh… he released me at four, but that's not something you have to-"
Sam tore the blanket off the window. "Red Wing, feel free to use your tasers if these men raise their weapons. Follow me in five."
Red Wing gave an affirmative blip. Artillery immediately switched to a stacked array of metal darts as Sam opened the window and squeezed out onto the ledge.
"Let me handle this," he said back at the man, before jumping off the building in a graceful leap.
The bright metallic wings extended, thrusters fired, and he was drawn up into the air again, over a New York skyline just starting to feel the sun's dawn.
Soaring to a taller skyscraper nearby through the crisp morning air, with the sounds of a waking city rising up to meet him, Sam landed and brought up his wrist display as he waited for Red Wing.
"Red Wing, I need every scrap of surveillance you can find with Bucky routed to me and encrypted anywhere else, got it? No eyes on this but mine."
The drone swept to his side and chirped brightly.
And a stream of images began to feed to the display - everything Red Wing was finding in its search.
For some reason Sam had thought he'd be chasing Bucky to Russia again.
But no. The man had an hour on him. He'd stolen a car, had skipped the airports, including Newark, on his way south.
Look like he'd switched cars twice so far, and was avoiding major roads. Guy knew there were eyes everywhere.
Red Wing could grab anything though - cell phone photos and videos, audio, satellite, dashboard cams, highway surveillance. Social media. Store security systems. Wifi density maps. The intelligence system left publicly available AIs in the dirt.
"You going to Philadelphia?" Sam whispered at the feed. "Washington? Is Hydra embedded in Florida? Because that shit would make sense!"
Releasing a heavy breath, he stared over the silvery waters of the Lower Bay as the sun's light warmed his cheek.
The Winter Soldier part of Bucky knew everything now, which had apparently turned him against Hydra. While that seemed good… what happens to a man who's just found out he's only part of a man? What happens to a man who finds out that everything they are is the result of abuse?
How was this fair, to that man? To either of them?
"Let's catch him, Red Wing. Keep tracking him, let me know if he switches cars again."
Taking a running leap off the building, Sam spread his wings wide and flew.
Yay! Sam's coming to the rescue! ... again! XD
Thanks for reading everyone. :) Thank you for your kudos and comments! They make my day!
I am 19 chapters ahead of you atm. I get a chapter done over a couple of days during the week and over a day on the weekend, so you might catch up to me, but that's a ways down the road. Lovely moments coming soon :D
Chapter 16: Stop shooting Red Wing
Chapter Text
The Winter Soldier was having trouble focusing.
Which was odd for him.
He had always been, by definition, focused.
Focused on the mission briefing. Focused on tracking his targets. Focused on eliminating his targets. Focused on eliminating witnesses. Focused on extraction. Focused on debriefing. Focused on correctional actions. Focused on repair following correctional actions. Focused on the cryochamber.
That's a tree
He swerved quickly, returning to the actual bounds of the two lane back road he was taking through Pennsylvania.
This car was terrible. He preferred the Niva. The latter didn't feel like you were trying to steer a pillow down the fucking road.
Refocus.
Assess
Emotional distress
Reset requir-
"No," he snapped in the confines of the Malibu. "No more freezers or fucking Hydra cradles. Shut up."
Refocus.
Proposition: James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes is a clone.
Related proposition: The Winter Soldier is a clone of James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes.
No. He shared the man's memories of the boat.
And… other things.
Sam.
Sam on the boat.
Laughter.
Laughter.
"Not a clone," he whispered, squeezing the wheel with his metal hand so hard it crimped between his fingers. "But I already knew that. Stop revisiting it."
Refocus.
Four hours to Washington D.C.
Target: Vice President Robert Kelly.
Protocol: Information extraction and elimination.
Nodding, he drove.
The focus lasted 1.2 minutes.
Alternative proposition: James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes is a twin of the Winter Soldier.
Reasoning: twins are known to share feelings?
Counter: Stupid. Where did I grow up? Who was my mother? How did I get to Sam's lap three days ago from a lake in Russia?
What had Sam said back then?
Get on the ground now, Bucky! I am so done with your shit!
"No…" the soldier moaned in irritation at the memory. "before that."
It's short for James Buchanan Barnes, dumbass, and that's absolutely your name. You've just so scrambled up here you don't remember
The soldier released a long, slow breath as his metal hand crimped the steering wheel in another spot.
And his mind returned to what the agent told him. The original conclusion he kept trying to renegotiate. Reassess. Reframe.
Reject.
Conclusion: the Winter Soldier IS James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes.
Conclusion: the Winter Soldier is the result of Hydra correctional actions on James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes.
emotional distress
that's a tree
don't care
Something hit the roof of the car. With the roar of jet engines overhead, the vehicle shifted, the front tires losing contact with the road entirely before he was back between the lanes again.
Sam's head popped into view, upside down, yelling.
"Stop the car!"
Scowling, the Winter Soldier slammed on the brakes, sending Sam flying.
Literally flying, as the man shot forward, swept up in a graceful arc, then returned, landing right in front of the car.
Sam rested a hand on the hood. "Get out of the car."
The soldier glared at him.
"No."
"Move over."
"No."
"Red Wing, EMP wave. Fry it."
When the drone detached with a helpful blip, the soldier swung the secret service agent's Glock out the window and shot the thing over Sam's shoulder.
The drone had flipped evasively but the shot still clipped its wing, sending it crashing to the ground with a mangled trill.
"Goddammit," Sam yelled, lowering his shield, "stop shooting Red Wing!"
"No."
Sam tucked the shield on his back and released a heavy sigh.
"What are you doing here, soldier?"
"It's Bucky."
The man's expression widened in shock and relief. "Really?!"
"No."
Shifting into reverse, he hit the accelerator. Tires squealing, he shot back, twisted the steering wheel then sped forward again.
But the drone wobbled up from the road one second later, pulsed vibrantly…
… and suddenly the car, and his arm, were dead.
The Winter Soldier rolled to a slow stop on the shoulder of the road, negotiating a sudden, lancing headache.
Glaring at the windshield, he put it in park.
"Get out of the car, soldier, c'mon," Sam said, catching up and knocking on the window.
The soldier did, grabbing the map from the passenger seat, slamming the door shut, then pulling the duffle from the trunk and slamming that too.
His left arm was hanging uselessly. Scowling, he threw the duffle over his shoulder and started walking, right past Sam.
"Soldier."
The sky was blue, still early morning. Trees, their green darkened by a long summer, whispered around him with a cool breeze.
Walk to the next town: 2 hours.
Locate and steal car: 3 minutes.
Drive to Washington: 3 hours.
Isolate and interrogate Vice President: 2 hours.
Kill Vice President: 10 seconds.
Destroy Hydra: time estimate dependent on information extracted from Vice President.
Sam caught up to him, wings retracted. Red Wing wobbled through the air, occassionally making a low warning sound.
The man walked with him and didn't speak for a while. Their boots scraped along the loose gravel. Birds gave warning trills, intermingled with whatever the stupid drone was doing.
Chorp.
It felt good to walk. The sun was warm against his skin.
"Where are you going?" Sam finally asked.
The Winter Soldier pointed forward.
"What's in the bag?"
"Candy."
Sam blinked furiously. "Really?"
"No."
Chorp.
Sam snorted and looked down at his wrist, before his head bobbed up again. "Damn, that's a lot of guns."
"Yes."
"You steal them, like the car?"
Information began to stream in from his arm again. Temperature, air pressure, orientation. An odd misalignment of one of the plates.
Swinging his arm, he recalibrated it. The sound echoed oddly off the trees around them and the asphalt at their feet.
CHORP.
"Red Wing, calm down."
Chorp.
"Yes, I stole them," the soldier muttered. "One of them is yours."
Sam released a heavy, sharp breath.
"So, what's your plan?"
"Destroy Hydra."
Sam nodded, his mouth twisting in a thin line.
"I'll help."
The soldier laughed.
Chorp.
"I can help!" Sam said, indignantly.
"You know where I'm going?" the soldier asked, smirking.
Sam paused for a moment.
"D.C.?"
When the soldier nodded, Sam continued, incredulous. "Hydra's there? Where? Who?"
A car passed them, honking exuberantly.
Sam waved brightly, smiling.
The soldier shook his head. This was not going to work.
"Sam. You can't help. Go home."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because the guy you made pee his pants - no, don't laugh at that - brought a whole team into my house looking for you."
The smirk fell.
"Sorry."
"You didn't kill him. That's something."
He shrugged. "I got what I needed."
Sam looked at him for a while as they walked. "I heard. Talk to me about that."
With a heavy sigh, the soldier looked off into the trees again.
emotional distress
"No."
"Before you left, and… you know," Sam said, bobbing his head oddly, "you said 'I get it now'. Do you?"
The soldier's face fell.
emotional distress
Sam's hand closed over his metal hand, the fingers lacing through his.
Scowling, the soldier shook the hand away. "Don't."
The drone swept in front of them, apparently interpreting the action as a threat.
CHORP.
"Tell your red thing to piss off," he snapped, pointing at it.
CHOORRRP.
"Red Wing, ca-"
"Or I'll shoot it out of the sky again," the soldier growled, reaching for the gun he'd tucked into the holster at his back.
"Calm down, both of you!"
CHIRP.
The fucking thing returned to Sam's side, whirring, its stupid camera eye still focused on him.
The soldier glared at it, his fingers brushing the grip of the Glock.
"You said you got it," Sam said quietly, lifting the goggles and interrupting the glare to hold his gaze with a gentleness that hurt. "You said you'd try to bring him back. So you know what's really going on here, right?"
The soldier couldn't hold that gaze. He focused on the road. The blacktop under his feet.
emotional distress
"I… I can't," he whispered, before shaking his head.
emotional distress
Why did his throat hurt?
"It's okay, let's just walk."
emotional distress
help
distress
RESET REQUI-
"SHUT UP!" he roared, squeezing his eyes closed.
Water on my face
DISTRESS
"Sorry," Sam said with a sigh.
"No," he shot back angrily, looking up, struggling to stop the wave of whatever this was, closing his throat tight. "That's not-"
Something red and flashing shot into view on his right.
WHIRRT.
"Shit," he yelped, jerking away from it, eyes wide, his hand automatically seeking the gun as the duffle fell from his shoulder.
"Uh, Red Wi-"
In the space of half a second, the drone popped out all of its tasers and fired every single one right at him.
They stung, peppering his arm, neck, chest, face, before an electric arc - that felt so damn familiar - shot through his entire body.
Rigid, jerking, he fell to the ground, the current still tearing through him, his mind stuttering.
RESET?
reset
thank fuck
"STOP THAT!"
The current stopped.
And the soldier passed out completely, his mind shutting down in relief.
As the drone gave a small, contented chirp.
Chapter 17: James
Chapter Text
Soft breathing, somewhere near.
Eyes closed, he listened to the sound, finding it calming. Restful.
Sam's breathing.
Where was he?
Lying on something soft. Covered with something soft. Everything was soft.
No. The metal arm was still hard.
Mouth curling, he laughed softly.
My laugh is soft now.
Weak.
Maybe.
Maybe that was okay.
A hand was circled around his right hand. The fingers shifted as the breathing changed into something on the edge of waking.
He opened his eyes.
A room. Mostly white. High ceiling. Dark brown rafters against white. Dark furniture. Older. Light was streaming in from a glass door on the right. Man on the right.
Sam. Sleeping. The man's dark skin was in stunning contrast with the white comforter. Out of the armor, in a blue-grey t-shirt, jeans. Mouth softly open and drooling.
A laugh left him at the sight, softer even, as he tried not to wake the man up.
Where the hell was he?
Where was that fucking drone?!
Damn drone.
Reset?
It felt like a reset, but… he was still… himself.
Still James.
"What?" he whispered, blinking up at the ceiling.
What did he just call himself?
James.
That… that was his name.
His name was James.
Frowning, he stared across the room.
When did that happen?
"Hey," he whispered, looking at Sam's drooling face.
He liked that face.
James frowned.
Where'd that come from?!
His gaze drifted that way again.
I do though.
"Sam," he said, a little more loudly. "Hey."
Smiling, he looked down at the hand resting in his.
It shifted, as the man beside him turned, closing his mouth and making a blubbery noise that might have been a word.
James laughed.
"Wake up."
Sam's eyes shot open. Twisting to face him, the man shifted away quickly.
And gave him an odd smile.
"You're… smiling?" the man said, his brow wrinkling, before he pulled his hand away. "Sorry, I got comfortable. You feel okay? Red Wing really fried you."
James nodded, his gaze seeking out Sam's hand again, before he reclaimed it.
"Uh," Sam said, looking down at their hands, and back again. "I'm really sorry that…"
The hand felt good in his own. Smiling still, he drew his thumb over the back of it.
The skin was oddly soft. Beautifully warm.
"Bucky?" Sam asked, looking hopeful.
"Thhpt," James said, tossing Sam's hand away as his gaze flicked to the other side of the room. "Ruined it."
"What…" Sam sputtered, standing up and away from the bed. "You're… you're not acting like…"
"How the fuck did I ever get that nickname," James sighed, sitting up in the bed. The comforter fell away, leaving his chest bare, his hair drooping in front of his face. "Where are we?"
He could tell he was wearing underwear, but nothing else. The clothes he'd had on were draped over the sofa chair on the other side of the room.
"Whoa!" Sam yelled. "Hold UP!"
"Yeah," James said, nodding with a smirk. "Something weird happened."
Sam was pointing at him. "You said 'I'! You said 'how did I get that nickname!"
"I know!" James grinned. "It's a dog's name!"
Sam shook his head quickly. "What the hell is happening."
A laugh burst from James again, one that ended in a giggle that he'd never heard himself make before.
It stopped abruptly as he looked at Sam, a little spooked.
"Soldier," Sam whispered. "That… I've never heard you do that."
"You can call me James," he said, flopping back onto the bed. "I don't know why, but… I know that's my name now." He stared at the darkly stained wood above. "James."
He smiled.
Because that still felt good. And right.
Weird.
"Holy shit," Sam said softly, approaching the bed again. "James."
The sound of the name from that man's mouth - in Sam's warm voice - was wonderful.
The smile softened. His gaze lingered over this man who'd been so incredibly determined to be there for him through so much.
To save him.
"Yeah," he said, reaching out for Sam's hand.
"What about the rest?" Sam asked, sitting on the edge, facing him. Smiling back, he let James take his hand.
With a grin, James yanked him into the bed, wrapping arms around him. The man's back was deliciously warm against his chest.
Sam glanced back, almost nervously. "You're… this is…"
"I am," he sighed. "I feel weird. But good. You feel good."
The man's neck was right there, peeking out of that shirt.
Maybe this was a dream?
He didn't have dreams, usually, but maybe this was one? Would explain why he was so weird.
If it was, he was going to make the most of it.
Sam had relaxed his head against the pillow and folded his hands over James'.
"Maybe we shou-"
James kissed the spot he'd been staring at, let his warm lips linger there, before he shifted them a little higher.
Sam sucked in a quick breath.
"Whoa," he whispered. "Hey, I… oooh man."
"Mmm," James agreed, drawing in the soft skin of the man's throat and sucking hard at the spot. The man pressed back into him with a moan.
This felt so good. It had been so long.
A woman, last time, with wild red hair. It'd been desperate and numb. Before that, the girl in England from the bar in 43'. She'd had beautiful scarlet lips and knew exactly how to use them.
James' eyes shot wide open.
"WHAT!" he yelled, jerking back from Sam and flying off the bed onto his butt. "WAIT!"
Sam sat up slowly, looking a little embarrassed."Yeah, I was about to say the same, because…" he waved at James, "this isn't normal for you."
"Cassie," James whispered.
Sam looked at him cockeyed. "Huh?"
"That was her name."
"Whose name?"
"That girl…" he whispered, his mind spinning over a rush of sensations and images, spilling in from that time. "Holy shit, what's happening… 1943… we went dancing…"
"You're remembering?!" Sam said with a hopeful smile, stepping off the bed and coming to sit nearby.
"Yeah, I… That dame was wild," he whispered, grinning. The things they did that night were…
His fingers shot to his lips. "What did I just say? What is happening to my brain…"
Sam was grinning. "You said something a guy from the forties might say."
"I'm malfunctioning," he whispered, frowning.
"Hey," Sam said, reaching out to hold his hand. "Don't go all robot on me now. I just met James. Not the asset, not the Winter Soldier. James. That's who you are."
The soldier held his gaze and nodded.
"Yeah. James," he said softly, the warm feeling of those intimate moments shifting to something much colder. "They did terrible things to James."
Sam's smile grew sad. "Yeah, they did terrible things to you. Because you are James."
Frowning, nodding, he winced with a sudden sharp pain at his temple. "Yeah. And… I… I did terrible things for them."
He grunted as the headache intensified, feeling like an opening of the matter within his skull.
And every assassination, every kill, suddenly flicked through his mind in a cascade of scenes that had merely been information before. The expressions on his victims' faces understandable but unimportant. The cessation of life, the emptying of their eyes, the wounds he inflicted… just information he would record and provide in the debrief.
But it wasn't like that this time. This time it hurt. Every face flashed in their last moments, drawing his hands out to stop it from happening, to close those yawning mouths, to comfort them, to stop the ones who saw him or his work from screaming.
Even when he took his shot from a window, a rooftop, from a tree or a blind, someone always started screaming.
The woman over her husband in the back of the car, his head shattered and spilling over her hands, the boy grabbing his father's newly made corpse and shaking it to make him wake up, even a swarm of cartel loyalists wailing over their fallen leader.
Screaming.
Screaming.
Something pounded nearby.
It was dark.
Held.
He gasped at the end of a sound he'd been making as the emotions and horror that had fueled it were whisked away.
What was that sound?
Screaming.
"I've got you. Jesus Christ. I have you."
A hand shifted through his hair.
He could breathe now, at least.
But his face was wet.
A few more long, slow breaths brought him to where he truly was.
Against Sam's chest. The pounding was this man's heart.
Separation followed - Sam pulling away slightly to look at him.
That felt bad.
Blinking through the blurry mess of his eyes, he stared up at Sam.
"Sorry," he whispered. "That was…"
"Awful?"
"Horrifying."
Sam nodded. "Could tell. Were you seeing what they did to you?"
James shook his head. "No. I know what they did to me. They broke me. This was… what I did to everyone else."
"Fuck," Sam whispered.
Nodding, shifting forward, needing what he'd had a moment ago, he rested against Sam's chest again.
Needing to hear that pounding heart again.
Sam gave a flat breath above him as those fingers threaded through his hair once more.
It felt wonderful.
"I'm sorry. I don't think I could ever say enough to take that pain away."
James couldn't think of what to say to that, not when he couldn't even define the bounds of his own pain. Not when his mind was so strange, offering up old memories that weren't his a few hours ago.
But… this.
Sam here. This felt right.
He wanted more.
Seeking Sam's waist, his hands slid under the man's t-shirt, encircling that warm skin, as he rose to his knees and met Sam's lips with his own.
"Whhhmm," Sam murmured there, the feel of his breath making James smile as he rippled the skin of the man's back and tasted that mouth over and over. Until his tongue teased through to the man's own.
Their breaths were mingling, his growing hoarse as Sam at first pressed in, hands lacing through his hair, squeezing his shoulder, pulling him in.
But then Sam stopped abruptly, turning his head away, lowering it against James' chest as he tried to hold James at arm's length.
"Wait…" he whispered, his breaths quick and soft. "Wait… just wait."
James retreated, withdrawing from the landscape of Sam's back, sitting down against his feet. Letting one hand linger on Sam's wrist, as his metal arm sank to rest on the floor.
He was completely erect.
This was awkward.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I… I'm very interested in having sex with you."
Sam's head shot up.
And the man laughed.
James smirked, lowering his other hand to rest beside him.
"I'm extremely aroused," he continued. "I… I don't know what's happening."
"Oh god, I shouldn't laugh," Sam said, still doing so. "That was so matter-of-fact."
The smirk fell from James' face.
"Robotic," he said, looking past the man out the door where sheer white curtains blurred a bright outside world.
Sam hugged him.
Smiling again, James let himself be hugged. Closing his eyes, he rested his head against Sam's.
Listening to the man breathe.
"I didn't mean to push," he said quietly.
With a bright grin, Sam cradled his face with both hands and kissed him.
Just the once.
Sam's smile turned a little sad.
"I want this. But… a minute ago you were screaming… and I think…"
And he seemed to take a moment to actually think, his beautiful brown eyes darting away for a moment and back.
"I think we need a little more time before we do this thing. You're dealing with a lot. You're not sure what's going on up here," he gently tapped James' temple. "And… it's a lot for me too. Please give me some time."
James nodded immediately, while immediately wanting to kiss Sam again.
But he didn't.
"Where are we?" he finally asked, looking around the room. 'This doesn't look like a hotel. Are we in someone's house?"
Sam smiled. "Nope. This is a cottage I've rented for a couple of nights. A B & B outside of New Hope."
James frowned. "B & B?"
Nodding, Sam slowly rose to his feet. "Bed & Breakfast. Figure it's a little more private. Couldn't take you to a hospital, couldn't take you home, and you were already recovering. This was the closest town, so… we're here."
"Huh," James said, taking the hand Sam offered to rise to his feet. "Feels expensive."
"It ain't cheap!" Sam said with a laugh. "But… not a lot of cameras in the woods outside. Red Wing won't have to work so hard to hide us."
James frowned. "The drone is hiding us?"
He looked around for it, finally spying Sam's armor poking out of the wardrobe across the room.
"Yeah," Sam said with a smirk. "Red Wing's an advanced piece of tech. You've never appreciated it." He stretched then, scratching his head with a yawn before pointing at James again. "Well, Bucky hasn't. You just keep shooting it."
"Not like it hasn't shot me back," James said, distracted by Sam's stretch.
He looked down at his tented underwear.
"If you need to, uh, handle that, go for it," Sam said gently, pointing to the bathroom.
James shook his head.
"Touching myself is not allowed," he said flatly.
Then he frowned thoughtfully.
"Oh… fuck," Sam said, his face falling in something close to horror. "Wait, at all?"
With a sharp breath, James shook his head again and spoke in the same flat voice. "Self-repair only and only when on missions." He waved at his groin. "This never happened there. Nothing aroused me in that place. Didn't matter what they did."
"What they did," Sam whispered. "God. Damn."
James closed his eyes. "I couldn't wash myself. Couldn't touch a wound. I had to wait. I learned to wait. I expected to wait."
When he opened his eyes and looked down again, he was flaccid.
Sam was suddenly near, the man's arms wrapping around him tight.
"Jesus Chris," Sam murmured over his shoulder.
James let himself be held, and nodded.
"That's what it feels like to be a weapon. Not a person." He shifted against Sam's shoulder. "But now… I have a name. I think… I'm a person."
"Yeah, you fucking are," Sam said fiercely.
It made James laugh.
And that giggle happened again, making him pull away with a confused look on his face.
Sam grinned, watching him closely.
"What would you, as a person, like to do right now?"
Smiling, James looked towards the door, and the sunny day it promised.
"I'd like to walk."
Sam glanced over and back.
"That's it? Just walk?"
James nodded and released a heavy breath. "I've spent a long time running. Running to mission targets, running to secondary targets, running to extraction… always running."
He turned a brilliant smile to Sam.
"I think I'd just like to walk. Like before, on the road, before your drone dropped me with 452,790 volts. If you're up for it?"
Sam gave him a soft look. "I am." Then he shook his head quickly. "Wait, that's a really specific number, where'd you get that?"
Smirking, James tapped his metal arm. "I get information from this all the time. It's wired into my nervous system like the old one. There's a little interface in my skull too, right back here."
He tapped a spot just behind his ear. There wasn't anything to see of course, but Hydra had plugged in a few things to make him tick.
The man next to him made a small noise. Something pained and symphathetic.
And soft lips kissed the spot.
James smiled and glanced back.
"Do that again and we'll never leave."
Sam laughed, put his hands up, and walked back to the door, smiling.
James moved to the clothes thrown over the chair and pulled them free, staring down at them for a moment. Sam's clothes. A blue long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans. Sneakers.
Where were his clothes?
Frowning, he looked at nothing in particular.
He didn't have any. Some that he'd stolen, sure. Some he'd woken up with. But… Hydra had always dressed him.
James' gaze rose to Sam, waiting for him by the door.
He wanted to look good for this guy.
For himself too. Maybe a nice shirt? Slacks? A jacket?
Where could he get that?
Smirking, he slowly dressed. He was still weird.
Still James.
How long would this last?
"Ready?" Sam asked, his hand on the doorknob. The display from his uniform was on his wrist again. When James raised an eyebrow, he just shrugged. "In case we go into town, I want to monitor chatter."
"We're not going into town," James snorted. "I don't want to be near people."
They stepped out into the bright sunshine.
And exactly 28 minutes later they were walking across New Hope-Lambertville Bridge over the Delaware River, to the busy center of New Hope, Pennsylvania.
Chapter 18: Smitten, actually
Chapter Text
It was dizzying, how incredibly strange this all was.
This man standing by his side, pointing out fish he could see in the wide dark river under the steel bridge they were on, had tried to kill him twelve years ago.
The same man had tried to kill him five more times since then, and most recently choked him out - almost twice! - and slammed him unconscious against a wall.
And now they were gazing at fish.
And the man hadn't let go of his hand since they left the inn.
Sam stared down at that hand. Lifting it, he turned it, then opened his own hand and bobbed it once. The man's hand stayed locked to him, even as James pointed at a fish that had just snatched something on the surface of the water.
"What's that?"
Smirking, Sam looked away from the hand to the where the fish had been. The water was dark and turbid.
"Don't see him."
"There," James said, pointing.
Sam stared at the spot he thought James had meant and finally spotted the fish popping up for another bug.
"Brown trout. I think they stock them here. He'd be tasty." He smiled at James. "You've got good eyes tracking him like that."
James stayed focused on the water. "I'm very sensitive to movement. What about that one?" he asked, pointing at a big silvery shape moving swiftly near the bridge pylon they were over.
"Mmm. Think it's some kind of bass. Striped bass? He's big. Been around a while. They're okay eating."
James grinned and straightened, looking back at him. "We should catch something. I love cooking fish."
Sam blinked. "Yeah?"
James nodded, looking down at the river below again. "Used to fish off the docks all the time."
He paused then, frowning.
"Huh."
"Remembering?" Sam asked.
James nodded, his hair bobbing around his face as he stared into the water. "Yeah. Not sure when or where, but… no, wait. Brooklyn."
Smiling, watching him, Sam leaned against the guard rail, relaxing his head against his hand. "Tell me about Brooklyn."
The bridge thrummed with the passage of a few cars as James raised his head to the bright horizon and closed his eyes. "Um. Dirty. Busy. Fished off the south pier. Lots of mob guys on the docks, taking the best jobs." When he opened his eyes, he frowned. "That was… a very long time ago."
"Sounds it," Sam said on the cusp of a loud breath. "Do you remember the year?"
"Hmm."
"It's okay if you don't. I don't mean to pry."
"1937," James said abruptly, then gave a quick nod, straightening against the guard rail. "Yeah. May. 1937."
"That's great!" Sam said, grinning at him. "That's cool you remember that."
The man's smile was soft. "Yeah."
You know what?" Sam asked, grinning.
The man looked at him. "What?"
"I know what else you were doing in 1937!"
James cocked an eyebrow. "What else was I doing in 1937?"
"You were reading 'The Hobbit'!" Sam snorted. "When it first came out!"
"Oh."
James looked more confused that ever.
"What the hell's a Hobbit?"
"Short dudes with hairy feet," Sam said with a laugh. "C'mon."
James' laugh and giggle followed him as they continued off the bridge to the intersection with Main Street.
To the right, a brick building sported a familiar logo.
Sam tugged at the hand locked around his own, aware of the growing crowd of people, and the second glances they were getting.
James seemed unaffected. The man was taking in everything, his head turning to every colorful store front around, every person walking by, cars on the street, pets trailing their owners.
It had to be overwhelming, so a stop was probably a good idea.
"Here," he said, pulling him across the street and up the brick stairs. A few couples were seated outside. The inside was a little crowded, but at least there wasn't a line.
"Coffee?" James asked, walking to the counter with him.
"Yep. What would you like?" Sam asked, before tugging at his hand. "Going to need this free."
Dropping Sam's hand, James stared up at the menu. "What the fuck is all that?"
Sam laughed. "I'll order you something. No more ground coffee soup for you!"
With a snort, James started pawing through the packaged vegan protein bars on the counter. "What's this shit?"
"Dirt bars. You'd probably like them."
"Har har."
A thought occurred then. An experiment he could try. Smiling mischievously, he order the coffees, added two chocolate croissants to the mix, then snatched up James' hand and pulled him to the only spare seat.
People were staring. Some smiling, some whispering, some with ugly expressions he couldn't be bothered to interpret.
He'd worn sunglasses, but since becoming Captain America he'd also had a lot of press.
It might be harder to have a quiet walk through town than he thought.
Sitting down, freeing his hand again, he tapped in some new instructions to Red Wing, still in a wardrobe in a B & B on the New Jersey side of the bridge, still busy filtering camera feeds from their walk.
[delete any social media mentions of me and Bucky from twenty minutes ago onward, thanks]
[AFFIRMATIVE]
When he looked up, James was smiling at him.
Sam's heart thudded loudly in his chest.
That damn smile.
Those stunning blue eyes. Incredibly warm now, when he'd seen them so sharply cold before.
Smiling back, he just stared, and they stayed like that, staring into each other's eyes like a couple of idiots, until everything was brought to their table, breaking the contact.
"Figured I'd just bring it to you, sir," the lady in the green apron said, smiling. "I'm a big fan."
"Oh, thank you!" he said, giving her a bright smile in return. "I appreciate that."
Nodding, the lady departed, leaving Sam to turn back to something that made him laugh out loud.
He'd ordered a mocha that almost matched the monstrosity Bucky had gotten back in the café in Brooklyn. Caramel drizzle, crunchy pieces, and all.
James had taken to it immediately, not bothering with Sam's small, boring macchiato, and he'd chomped off the top layer of whipped cream.
"Oh shit," he whispered. "Sugar air."
And he dived in for another bite.
Sam pointed at the spoon helpfully, but the man just kept slurping the stuff off the top.
Taking his macchiato as is, Sam just watched.
"Not too sweet?" he asked, when James had finally used a straw and had chugged half the glass.
The man's pupils looked huge as he grinned back and shook his head.
Sam laughed softly and pointed to the corner of his mouth. "You have some… here."
James darted out a tongue and completely missed it, so Sam reached over to get it.
And the man caught his finger with those lips and sucked the whipped cream right off.
The look that man gave him was… something else.
With a wicked grin, James shifted to the straw again, never breaking eye contact.
Sam froze, hearing an assortment of gasps, squeals, giggles, and much whispering from everyone around.
When he turned, four phones were up, the people behind them giggling before putting them away.
Well, this was bad.
Red Wing was going to melt.
Clearing his throat, he took a polite sip of his macchiato, as James loudly slurped up the remainder of his caramel mocha latte and sat back with a satisfied sigh.
"That was… amazing," he breathed, before his gaze fell to the croissants. "Oooh."
He dived right in.
"Wow," Sam said with a laugh. "You have an insane sweet tooth."
"I've never had anything like this stuff before," James said softly, his bottom lip smudged with a bit of chocolate.
Must resist… urge
Must save Red Wing
"Oh.. wait," James murmured, licking up the chocolate as he looked down at the table. "I have."
Sam stared at him, wondering if he was remembered what he'd had as Bucky.
The man suddenly looked up with a grin. "Root beer float at Coney Island. 1935."
"Oh, wow," Sam said, feeling oddly disappointed.
Where was Bucky?
Sam missed his friend.
Because James wasn't Bucky. At least… not yet.
And not that he wasn't enjoying James' company. He was.
He was… smitten, actually.
He just missed his best friend.
"I was with my best friend," James said, oddly echoing Sam's thought, looking a little surprised, and sad.
"Oh?" Sam took a sip of his coffee, knowing exactly who that was.
Might not be a good idea to poke at it too much though.
James started stabbing at the bottom of his glass with his straw.
"Yeah. We were really close."
"Mmhmm," Sam offered neutrally, as he stirred his macchiato that didn't need stirring.
James frowned then, clearly chewing over new information.
"Really, really close. Huh."
"Uh," Sam said, smartly, before abandoning neutrality completely. "How close?"
Because yes, he knew they'd been the best of friends best friends could be, but…
He took another sip to restore an aura of idle curiosity. Not a burning need to know.
James smirked. "We'd just had sex for the first time."
The coffee Sam had been drinking ended up spraying all over the table in a fine mist.
James jerked back, then reached for a napkin to help clean up.
"You okay?"
Sam nodded furiously, coughing, struggling to maintain a sense of calm. "Oh, I'm great, sorry. I uh… that close, huh?"
More giggles followed. More phones.
Maybe the café hadn't been the best idea.
Sorry, Red Wing
"This is so weird. These memories. They come in with something specific, but something is always missing. I don't remember his name."
"Steve," Sam said, without thinking. He froze for a moment, staring down at his coffee, before quickly taking another sip.
James tilted his head, before a soft smile spread on his face.
"Yeah, that was it," he whispered. "Turns out he didn't care for it much. Had an eye for the dames, though they always looked him over."
He looked at Sam earnestly. "He was really small. Really slight. Got sick easy. But he was so funny, had a big heart. Wow. This is all coming in a rush." The man's blue eyed gaze slid away, then bounced back wide. "Art! He was a really good artist!"
Sam nodded, and couldn't quite keep the sadness from reaching his own eyes.
James plonked his chin on his hand, his expression a little wistful. "I loved him. He knew that. He tried to enjoy what we did, but… he wasn't like me. I didn't care, I think. Guy, gal, didn't matter. Wow. This is a lot of data."
Before Sam could say anything, he shook his head. "Sorry. Robotic. I…"
His face crumpled.
"Emotional distress," he whispered, his gaze falling to nothing.
Tears welled in his eyes.
Shit.
"Hey," Sam said softly, shifting his seat until they were together. He pulled James closer, and the man allowed himself to be held, resting his head against Sam's shoulder as the tears continued to fall, silently.
"I'm sorry," Sam whispered.
"Nothing's posting," someone said at another table. "Keep trying, nothing stays up."
"Me too! That's so weird," someone else hissed.
Thank you, Red Wing!
James pulled away and wiped at his face, before fixing Sam with an odd look.
"How'd you know his name was Steve?"
"Uhhh," Sam offered, flailing for words.
James' eyes grew huge.
"Wait…"
Oh no.
Should they leave? Was this going to be a big thing, here in this café?
"Maybe we should head back," he said, standing.
"No, wait," James said, grabbing his arm. "Sam… that kid!"
Sam frowned as he lowered back to his seat, the sinking feeling growing in his chest.
"What kid?"
James' hand was holding onto his arm with a vice-like grip. "The kid who stopped me from killing you! He looked like Steve!"
"Okay, we should probably leave now," Sam said, standing again and pulling James along.
The man came reluctantly, a deep furrow in his brow. "And you said… that's Steve! And… and I…"
Waving at the crew behind the counter, he negotiated James out of the café and back onto the street.
Where were his wings when he needed them?
"I…" James whispered behind him.
"Let's head back," Sam muttered, holding James' hand and waiting for the light to change. People paused around them both. Cameras popped up. Whispers, laughter, smiling, scowls.
They needed to leave, now.
"Captain America!" a young boy squealed from the other side of the road.
And pulling from his mother's distracted grasp, the kid ran towards Sam.
Right into the stream of traffic.
Hey folks! James' reactions at the end here, especially 'the kid who stopped me from killing you' is a reference to my other fic The Death of the Winter Soldier. It makes a lot more sense if you've read it. What's about to happen also makes a little more sense if you've read it. But it's not essential. Thank you for the comments on the last chapter :D Thanks for reading, and the kudos and subs :D This James part is much more 'unburdened' than Bucky, and you find out why later.
PS: Kid will be fine.
PPS: Oh, and don't mind me dropping a little stucky in there XD
Chapter 19: Missing the lie
Chapter Text
Sam's immediate reaction was to extend a hand towards the kid as his mouth opened to shout.
no wings no armor no nothing to stop this oh my god no
The hand he'd been holding was suddenly gone.
The car that was coming off the bridge towards the kid was suddenly up in the air.
Not all of it.
James was holding up the front of the small sedan, as the tires spun uselessly at the air, the driver stuck, his eyes bulging, his foot clamped on the wrong pedal.
All traffic stopped. The oblivious kid made it to Sam's side with a big grin, reaching to hold his hand.
And the mother ran over with a cry, belatedly terrified.
"Brake, idiot!" James yelled at the driver, before finally letting the car drop when the guy did.
A sea of cameras surrounded them. Sam stared at the little kid in shock, and glanced at the display on his wrist when it gave a small beep.
[ALERT: SYSTEM REACHING CAPACITY 2% REMAINING]
Sam needed to rescue this situation immediately. He crouched down beside the kid, smiling.
"Hey there. What's your name?"
The kid, blonde hair, blue eyes, curly hair, was just one big grin. "I'm Dean!"
"Dean, that's a great name. It's good to meet you!"
James had started walking away, glaring at everyone with a camera.
Good idea.
The boy gave him a hug, and Sam happily hugged him back, standing with him in front of the crowd.
"Can you do me a favor, Dean?"
When the boy nodded, Sam smiled. "Can you wait for your mom next time you want to cross the street?"
A chorus of soft awws and giggles filled the space around them.
"Yeah, I can do that," Dean snorted, before Sam handed the boy back to his mother.
"Thank you," the woman whispered, her face still holding some of that fear. "Please thank your friend too."
The driver had stopped and come up to meet them. "God, I'm so sorry, I didn't see him!"
"It's okay," the mother said. "Everything's okay now."
"I wanted to thank your superpowered friend," the driver added, "but… I don't know where he went."
"I'll thank him for you," Sam said with another smile. "Just glad everyone is okay."
James was nowhere to be seen.
People flocked to him for autographs and selfies, and he gave them as much of his time as he could, still looking around for James, before the crowd finally thinned and he was able to move on.
Where the hell did the guy go?
He started walking in the direction he'd seen James go, his mind roiling over the terrible thing that had almost happened.
If James hadn't been here, that kid would have been hit.
Sam's reflexes were good, but he was a normal human being.
In the air, with his wings, he was so much more. But on the ground, without his wings, without his shield?
He was just a regular guy.
Frowning, lost in thoughts that didn't help anything, he walked past the side of a building and was suddenly yanked sideways.
"Whoa!" he yelped, ready to put up a fight, before realizing who it was.
"Jesus, James!" Sam grabbed the man in a hug. "Thank you for saving that kid!"
The man he was holding wasn't hugging him back, and slowly moved to pull him away.
They were behind one of the buildings lining the waterfront near the bridge. Next to a narrow screen door used by staff sat a couple of seats, surrounded by scattered cigarette butts. Cars rumbled over the bridge, the sound reaching them as an ascending thrum, as Sam stared at the guy pushing him away.
James looked incredibly confused, and angry about that fact. The man's eyes searched Sam's face, then darted to people just starting their walk across the bridge, to the door where kitchen staff were talking somewhere, and back.
Sam's mouth fell open.
This… wasn't James.
"Bucky?" Sam asked, feeling all of the adrenaline that had swamped him moments ago drain from his skin.
"What the hell is happening, Sam," the man asked. "Where the hell am I?!"
"Bucky…" Sam whispered, before storming forward and engulfing the man in a desperate hug.
Bucky tried to pull him away, but Sam was not in the mood, and finally the man gave up, even resting his head against Sam's shoulder.
Finally Bucky pulled away, and grabbing one of the chairs, pressed it up against the wall before sitting heavily.
"What happened?" he asked, as Sam claimed the other chair. "I was lying in your lap, and then we're outside a Starbucks and a kid's about to be run over… what the actual fuck?!"
Sam sank back in the chair, feeling utterly drained. "Oh my god, Bucky, you would not believe…"
Bucky's head was swiveling back and forth. "Where are we?!"
"New Hope, Pennsylvania," Sam breathed, suddenly wanting a beer. Could he pop into the kitchen and ask for one?
Bucky had stilled, squeezing his eyes closed. "Why are we in New Hope, Sam."
"So," Sam started, holding up a finger before shaking his head with a snort. "I don't even know how to start."
"I went soldier?"
"You went soldier, all over the place," Sam snapped, his eyes wide.
"Killed people?" Bucky asked, his voice growing quiet.
Sam winced. He knew the fallout was going to be hard for his friend.
"Wait… some of it's coming back. Fucking hell… I did. Sam… goddamn it, I am so sorry. You were terrified. I didn't mean to do that."
Sam looked at him. "Oh, the choking thing? Yeah! What the hell, man."
Bucky looked absolutely flattened, his gaze down, his shoulders slumped. The furrow in his brow was immense and rising.
This would not do.
"Stay here for a minute. I'll be right back."
"Huh?"
"Do not move from this spot," Sam said to him in a low voice. "I don't care if Thanos comes back from the dead and walks by. You stay here. Please."
The smallest of smirks tugged at the man's mouth.
A good sign.
Sam took off around the other side of the building, and popped into the restaurant, his hand up to shield his face as he pretended to adjust his sunglasses.
The bar inside was thankfully mostly empty, and he quickly secured two local IPAs.
When he returned, Bucky was leaning back against the wall, staring out over the water, his gaze a little haunted.
The man smiled though when Sam lowered the bottle in view. Taking it, he nodded.
"Thanks, Sam."
Sam flopped again, twisted the top off, and drank.
Cold and crisp, it was perfect, and just what he needed. The river and bridge in front of them, bathed in sunlight, the sound of the water lapping the shore, the distant chatter of people, and the cry of a seagull or two flying overhead, made the moment a much needed respite from the accident with the kid.
"Sam," Bucky said in a low tone that suggested concern. "I really hurt you."
Releasing a sharp breath, Sam stared out over the water, forcing the peaceful scene into his brain, to counter the revisiting Bucky was determined to do.
"You were being so fucking kind," Bucky whispered. "Can't believe you did that in the suit and wings… that… that really meant something. And oh shit!"
Sam groaned, sinking deeper into his seat and taking another sip of beer.
"What the fuck was I thinking?! I put myself in the fucking FREEZER?!"
"You did," Sam tsked, tipping the bottle top at his friend, before closing his eyes and listening to the water.
"Oh."
Sam cracked an eye open.
Bucky was staring at him.
"What?" Sam asked.
"The soldier… something weird happened. I've never felt this from that side before."
"Just wait till you get to the B & B," Sam said under his breath.
"Holy shit, I kissed you."
"You did!" Sam said, holding his beer up triumphantly.
"And then… driving? I was… upset? That part isn't clear… and… what the fuck, Red Wing!"
"Yeah… I think you managed to piss my AI off," Sam said with a smirk. "I'm just glad you were okay."
Bucky grew silent.
Sam watched him. His friend was staring down, almost glaring at the ground.
What would Bucky do when he remembered what they did?
How would that affect what they were?
"How did I get here, though?" Bucky asked finally.
"How did you get here," Sam repeated flatly.
Bucky nodded, looking at him for answers. "Yeah. You fried my car. Red Wing fried me. How'd we get here?"
"Keep remembering," Sam said, waving his hand helpfully. "You've got a bit to go. An important bit. A really, really important bit."
Sam watched him carefully, waiting for that dawning understanding of those moments they'd had together.
Because it might just change everything.
His best friend stared at the ground again, his gaze darting around as if looking for answers in the dirt.
Finally he looked up and shrugged. "Did we walk? Did you fly me here? I don't… wait, you said B & B?"
"Yes!" Sam said, sloshing his beer a little. "Yes, the B & B!"
"A bed & breakfast?" Bucky asked.
"THE bed & breakfast," Sam answered, nodding. "Where we… you know."
"I know, what?! I don't remember a B & B, Sam, just spit it out!"
Sam stared back. Bucky looked panicked.
"You woke me up, you said your name was James, and-"
"What?"
"You said your name was James, and then you gave me a hickie."
Sam pointed at the darker spot under his chin.
Bucky shrank back like a vampire from a cross. "Whatthefuck."
"You gave me a hickie, then you started screaming, then you kissed me, and clearly you wanted to do a lot more than that, but-"
"What?!"
Sam kept talking, feeling a rising concern for his friend. "But I said we needed to wait, because… you… you really don't remember any of this?"
"Oh my god, no, Sam," Bucky said, trying to hide behind the beer bottle, "that…"
"You don't remember sitting in Starbucks, devouring an entire caramel mocha, and telling me about sleeping with Steve in 1935?!"
Bucky dropped the bottle to his lap abruptly, the confused, embarrassed gaze from a moment ago growing dangerously dark.
Uh...
"Shut up."
Sam blinked. "Um, what?"
"Fuck this," Bucky growled.
And getting to his feet, the man spun, throwing his beer bottle against the wall, sending a spray of glass over the gravel.
Sam jumped to his feet. "What the fuck… Bucky?!"
"Leave me alone," the man spat, before turning and walking away.
What just happened?
"Bucky, wait!" he cried, wanting to catch his friend and understand where the reaction had come from.
But he couldn't leave all this damn glass on the ground… shit!
Eight minutes later he was running where Bucky had gone and finally found him, walking down Main street. He almost didn't recognize his friend, because the guy had donned a baseball cap and a jacket out of nowhere.
That stride though. He knew how those hips moved from any angle.
"Hey," he said, finally catching up to Bucky.
Bucky frowned. "Hey."
"Can we talk about what just happened?"
"No," the man said, sounding just like his Winter Soldier self. Then his shoulders lost their stiffness and he sighed. "I'm sorry. You've been trying to help this whole time. I didn't mean to do that."
"I cleaned it up. Gotta ask though - where'd the clothes come from?"
Bucky smirked. "I plead the fifth."
"Augh… where'd you steal them from."
"I needed cover and I don't know where my wallet or my phone are, I'm sorry."
"Where from?"
Another sigh left the man and he hooked his thumb over his shoulder. "Three doors back. Rack out the front."
Sam jogged back to the place, where the elderly couple inside seemed confused. As if they'd noticed something had happened, but weren't sure what.
Finding something similar, he got a price, and snatched a cap for himself.
"I'm so sorry," he said at the counter. "My friend thought I'd already paid. Grabbing a hat too."
All smiles, the folks threw in a pair of cheap sunglasses. He chose the most obnoxious, colorful ones he could find and ran back out to Bucky, who hadn't bothered to stop.
"Here."
Bucky took the yellow and lime green pineapple sunglasses, his face scrunching in confusion. "What's this?"
"A condition of my handing over a hundred bucks for a jacket and cap that you stole."
The man made an annoyed noise, but shoved the glasses on his face as Sam donned his own cap.
"I stick out like a dumbass."
"It's fantastic."
They walked in silence for a little while.
"Where are we going?" Sam asked.
Bucky shrugged. "Out of town. Back home. I don't know."
"You can't go back home just yet."
"Why? Because of Rufus?"
Sam frowned. "Who the hell is Rufus?"
"The guy who broke in to plant bugs."
"Rufus?!"
"Yeah. I made him pee his pants. I feel bad about that."
Sam stared at him, the tiniest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Do you?"
Bucky let out a loud breath and shook his head. "No."
Sam snorted. "You were also headed to D.C. Said there was Hydra there. You were going to take them out. What happened to that? James didn't bring it up once."
The man beside him scowled. "There's no 'James', Sam. It's just the remnants of the soldier Hydra made, pretending to be me. I don't know why I don't remember that part, but… anything he said was bullshit."
Sam looked away.
That hurt.
Because James… James had held his hand the whole time they'd been together. James had wanted to be with him. Had held him and kissed him with a desire he hadn't felt from someone in a long time. Talked about his love for another man with an ease that didn't feel like a lie.
This hurt.
"Bucky," he breathed, coming to a stop.
Bucky walked on a little further before finally turning around, those beautiful lips twisted in a frown under those ridiculous pineapple glasses.
"What?"
"I'm at the Chimney Hill Estate Inn. The Barn. Gotta check on Red Wing. Here."
He pulled some bills from his wallet, stepped up to Bucky and slapped them and his phone into the man's palm.
"Sam, I'm sorry, I-"
"I've got it for two more nights. There's a spare sofa bed. Do what you want. I'll grab the phone whenever."
And he turned and walked away.
Missing the lie that was James.
Chapter 20: The echoes of James
Chapter Text
Short one today. Things get a little bonkers then some lovely moments ahead, intermingled with more bonkers. XD
Thanks for reading and commenting and kudoing. This ends up in a good spot, I promise. :D I actually think it's going to end up post Thunderbolts, but we'll see.
The long walk back to the inn had been filled with the echoes of James, asking about everything they passed, everything they'd seen.
He missed the man's hand in his own.
Why was he doing this?
Bucky was a truly scrambled man. James was a fragment of the guy. And obviously a fragment Bucky didn't think had any right to be there.
What was he supposed to do about that?
And what the hell happened behind the restaurant?
He'd mentioned what James had said about Steve. Bucky had absolutely flipped out.
Angrily.
Why?
Embarrassed?
Had it actually been a lie, though?
Was that all James was?
A lie?
Sam shook his head as he took the left onto Swan Street. The trees were thick to his right, the houses close together on his left looked inviting with colorful siding and potted flowers.
No way.
There was something there. Some key that might make everything make sense, if he could only get Bucky to talk about what happened.
Something about Steve. About that time back in 1935.
Maybe.
"Augh," Sam groaned, throwing his head back.
Maybe he should back off and let Bucky be. Write this one off completely. Go back to being best friends and nothing else.
Bucky had said yes to that date, but… he'd been uncomfortable, flirting with the waitress, questioning what they were doing.
James had just sat and stared into his eyes.
And the feeling came back. That feeling of staring into those eyes, being drawn into them completely. Losing time in that space.
Falling.
In love.
"Oh my god," Sam said, staring up at the sky. "This is insane."
He'd fallen in love with James.
"Shit!"
What was he supposed to do now?
And why the hell had he let Bucky just walk off?
"Because I'm not his goddamn keeper," he spat out to nobody but himself.
Damn straight.
Maybe he'd done enough.
Maybe it was time to just let the man be.
Sam was so deeply involved in his own thoughts, he didn't register the sound of the van until it was right on top of him.
The white side of the vehicle caught his eye, and he turned, just in time to catch a dart in his chest.
oh fuck
Men spilled out in a wave of obnoxious green as a heaviness spread from the spot, making it hard to breathe.
His brain sent the signal to run.
His body decided to drop instead.
And the sky turned into a little dot of blue as the men surrounded him, grinning.
Chapter 21: Chasing a broken idiot
Chapter Text
Bucky was still walking, and hating himself for it.
He should turn around. Go back to Sam.
"No."
Sam was upset. Go back to Sam.
"No."
There was a stretch then, of just the rhythm of his feet on the road. Calm. Peaceful. Steady.
Sam needed his phone back. Go back to Sam.
"No!" he snapped at himself, stopping in place, next to a busted fence leading to an old mill waterway, now stagnant and covered in duckweed and algae.
He took in a deep breath, and let it out slow.
Sam doesn't need me.
He doesn't need this.
The thoughts hurt, but they were true. Sam didn't need this shit anymore. Sam didn't need to be chasing a broken idiot around trying to pick up the pieces he kept leaving behind. That wasn't Sam's job. It wasn't fair to him.
And he'd hurt Sam. Shot him back in Russia. Fucking strangled him here!
"Why does he keep coming back to me?" he whispered at the broken fence, the water beyond, the trees still bent by a flood decades ago.
The air shifted, a breeze coming in from the east. It felt damp and a little cold.
Maybe rain in an hour or so?
Walking in the rain would suit his mood.
But it was dumb.
There weren't any trains from New Hope. Hadn't seen a bus. He sure as hell wasn't walking to Brooklyn.
Technically he could run to Brooklyn, thanks to the whole super soldier thing, but that would attract way too much attention.
Maybe an Uber to Trenton?
Hell no.
Ubers made his skin crawl. Why would anyone get into an unmarked car with a complete stranger?
Go back to town. Go back to Sam. Work out a ride there.
"Ugh," he groaned. "Fine."
Turning, he started back the way he'd come.
He'd go back, apologize, but let Sam know that there weren't going to be any more dates. That it was bizarre he'd said yes in the first place. That he didn't feel that way about Sam, he wasn't into that, and it was okay if the guy didn't want to hang out anymore.
That that would be okay.
Healthier for the guy, really.
Moments from their time in Delacroix swamped him suddenly, bringing with it a sweeping sense of loss.
They'd felt like family. He'd felt truly happy, for the first time in… in ever.
But, maybe, to protect Sam, he had to let that go.
Gaze locked to the bike path, he nodded, his mouth twisting.
Sam didn't need him.
And…
And he didn't need Sam.
"I don't," he whispered, needing that to be true.
For Sam's sake.
I disagree.
Bucky stopped, his eyes growing wide.
Where the hell had that come from?
That… that didn't feel like… him.
I do need Sam.
"Oh shit," Bucky whispered.
Protocol amendment rejected.
"Fuck fuck fuck."
Oh God. The soldier was speaking in his head.
I have a name.
Therapist. He needed that therapist again. The really crappy one who told him wanting peace was bullshit.
"You have nothing," he whispered, spooked as all hell, still standing in place in the middle of a bike path next to the Delaware River. "You're not real."
I'm remembering who I was.
I know that's not true.
"Shut up!" he snapped, turning in place. As if he might see the person speaking. "Get the fuck out of my head!"
Turning back, Bucky started to run, his breaths growing panicked.
He couldn't go back to Sam, not like this!
This is what happened in that room - in Sam's lap! He'd felt the soldier coming up. He'd done the only thing he could.
Changed the protocol. And… it had worked!
"Protocol change!" he yelled, still running.
No.
A bicyclist rang a bell somewhere.
"Shitshitshit protocol update! Forget Sam!"
"On your left!" someone yelled behind him.
Protocol amendment rejected. New amendment: find Sam.
Bucky staggered, losing control of his body, as his eyes grew even wider.
"P-protocol," he whispered, his heart hammering in his chest, "accepted."
The panic and fear slipped away.
Shooting out his left arm, he clotheslined the passing bicyclist. With his right, he grabbed the now empty bike, turning it in one smooth motion back towards town.
He smiled down at the man in colorful garb struggling in the grass.
"Thanks."
Wasn't a car, but it'd do.
"Oh. Here."
Reaching into the pocket of his new jacket, he took out the money and the pineapple sunglasses Sam had given Bucky.
With a soft laugh he put the sunglasses back on.
Pushing the money into the man's hand, he got on the bike and stood up to pedal for speed.
And smiling, ringing the little bell, James rode away.
I have to say, the image of this last bit in my head is just sending me XD Thanks for reading and all of the comments, everyone! Lovely to hear from you! :)
Bit dire in the next chapter, but things brighten again with lovely moments between the two of them... er... three of them shortly after. XD
Chapter 22: On the clock
Chapter Text
Sam could not get enough air.
Gasping against the floor of the van, he tried one more time to move the hand in front of his face, but nothing happened.
poison
paralytic
Didn't matter what it was. If he didn't get more air soon he was going to pass out.
When the men had grabbed him, he hadn't been able to fight. They'd just dragged him in, threw him into the back, and then left him, barely looking back.
They'd huddled near the front, staring out the windscreen with the driver.
Searching.
for Bucky?
please let Bucky be far from here
"I think he's back in town," someone said in front of him.
He couldn't open his eyes enough to see who. He was frozen staring at the door.
Gasping.
"We tried that already."
"We can't go back empty handed."
"We've got him."
"No shield, no tech? What have we got?"
"Captain America, idjit."
"If you had waited to shoot him we'd know where his gear was. Now we're on the clock and he can't tell us shit."
On the clock?
Was that why it was getting harder to breathe?
Well, shit.
ding ding
"Look at that idiot."
"Isn't that him?"
Someone snorted.
"The Winter Soldier? Riding a bike in goofy sunglasses?"
"I guess. Just… looks like the right build. Hair."
ding ding
"Smiling like that? That guy is high."
The words finally filtered through to Sam's mind, wherever it was sinking, as the men continued to drive through town, the voices of people enjoying themselves, chatting, laughing, reaching him through the thin metal.
goofy sunglasses…
that Bucky?
smiling
that's nice
One more small breath.
Too small.
Everything went real still.
"Guys."
"Maybe south of town?"
"Guys!"
"What?"
"I think he's stopped breathing."
"This is what I meant! We should have saved it!"
Nothing had color anymore.
chest hurts
need breath
"We have the antidote?"
"That's for the soldier."
"Does he need all of it? This is making me uncomfortable."
"Alex, right?"
"Yeah. Where's the antidote?"
"Weren't you the only survivor of the fuck up back in New York?"
"Yeaaah. Is that the antidote?"
"You survived the Winter Soldier, and this guy dying in the back of our van is making you uncomfortable?"
Darkness ate at the edges of his vision as his thoughts began to loosen, drifting over recent moments in haphazard order.
Bucky's sudden anger, a spray of broken glass.
Sarah's beautiful smile.
James' delicious kiss.
"I was in the bathroom, okay?! I didn't know what was happening! I don't think I'm cut out for this!"
Riley's laugh.
Steve's… rejection?
Was… was that why?
ding ding ding
"Wait, the idiot's back?!"
"I'm giving him the antidote!"
DING DING DINGDINGDINGDING
"GIVE THAT BACK!"
"OH SHIT, THAT IS HIM!"
"What's that flying thing?! Oh n-"
Sam dissipated into the smothering dark, his last thoughts of Sarah, as the sound of bullets, screaming, crashing, and chirping filled the air.
Weaved through it all - a man roaring his name.
Chapter 23: Superpowered unrelatable dipshit
Chapter Text
Sam opened his eyes to a beautiful sunrise, mirrored brilliantly in the glassy surface of the great Gulf.
The Paul & Darlene was anchored, the nets were in the water, and he knew the fish were here.
He could feel them, swirling in their schools under the water. Just like he used to as a kid.
Sam smiled. Felt good to be back on the boat again. This would be a great catch. The money would go straight into Sarah's food business and that would make her so happy.
Shame the boys hadn't joined him, but they were probably at school.
"I could never handle water as a kid," a voice said behind him. "Didn't have the strength to keep swimming for long."
Sam turned, confused, sure he'd been the only one here.
Steve was leaning against the cabin, in a white t-shirt and jeans. Young and strong again. Those blue eyes of his warm and kind under neatly combed blond hair.
"Steve," Sam said, moving in for a big hug. "Man, it's good to see you!"
"Same, buddy," Steve murmured against Sam's shoulder, patting his back. "How're you doing?"
"I'm good!" Sam said, pulling back to smile at the sun rising on the horizon, the beautiful water, the nets taut to the surface. "It's nice out here."
Steve smiled back, the light from the rising sun turning his blue eyes golden. "Yeah. Feels peaceful. Is this what you used to do with your dad?"
Sam nodded. "All the time. I miss it."
Steve's smile softened. "You're doing great, by the way."
"Oh, yeah. Gunna be a great catch."
The man grinned. "Sure, that too, but I meant as Captain America."
The smile slid from Sam's face.
"Cool of you to say, Steve, but I don't know-"
"I do. Did you see that kid today? Did you see everyone around you when you were holding that kid, asking him to be careful in a way that was so kind? These people look up to you for a reason and it's not because you're holding a shield."
Sam smirked and bobbed a finger his way. "See, that's where I think you're wrong."
Steve laughed. "Oh, I know you do, but I'm not. They look up to you because of who you are, Sam, not because of the crap you hold. They can see you're a man who seeks to do what's right, who strives to be there for everyone."
Steve smiled, leaning against the cabin again.
"They see a hero, Sam."
"But, I'm just a guy, Steve," Sam said, his voice rising in frustration. "I didn't stop that car today - Bucky did. I was powerless. On the sidelines."
Steve just watched him, smiling gently.
Sam let out a heavy sigh. "I'm not like you. I'm just a regular guy."
"And thank God for that!" Steve said, grasping Sam's shoulder. "Because that's what everyone needs right now. People don't need another lofty God, a damn irradiated rage machine, or a super soldier, Sam. They need people like them to show that they can be better and bigger than they think they are. That they have the power to act and do the right thing and they don't need to wait for some superpowered unrelatable dipshit to save the day."
Steve squeezed his shoulder gently. "You're an inspiration, Sam. Stop doubting your validity as my successor. You are Captain America and I couldn't be more proud."
Sam gave a small nod, wiping at his eyes quickly.
That felt good to hear.
"Damn, Steve." He laughed then. "You're not a dipshit - you never were!"
"But people couldn't imagine being me, Sam," Steve said, still smiling that beautiful smile. "I was this impossible guy. You aren't. You're like them, and you reach people because of that in ways I never could. Okay?"
Sam's face broke into a big smile. "Okay," he said with a laugh. "Okay."
Steve hugged him again, patted him on the back, before guiding him to the bow of the ship.
They sat on either side, staring out over ribbons of brilliant color mirrored above and below.
"Did you have a question for me, Sam?" Steve said, softly. "Before you go back?"
Sam's smile faded a little. He looked towards the stern of the ship, his gaze seeking land and finding none.
"Before I go back?" he asked.
How long had he been running this boat out?
The man in front of him nodded, practically glowing in the light of the rising sun.
"Something about September, 1935, maybe?"
Focusing back on Steve, Sam's eyes widened. "Oh shit! Yeah! Why was…"
It hit him then, just how odd this all was.
Wasn't he just in New Hope?
"Wait…"
How the hell did he get to Delacroix? How'd he get this far out in this boat?
Like, way out?!
"Uh, Steve, what's going on?"
"Time's up!" his friend said, standing up with a big grin. "Take care, Sam. You're a good man."
"Uh," Sam said, staring up at Steve as the man walked right up to him and stared down at him intently.
He realized something really important.
Wasn't Steve dead?!
"Bucky's a lucky guy," Steve said, before suddenly slamming the palm of his hand against Sam's chest.
The air left him in a agonizing rush with the hit. Water enveloped him completely, and flailing, he sank far beneath the surface. Into the dark.
Above wavered the faintest dot of light.
Air… oh god, he needed air.
A mouth left his own.
Someone was screaming his name.
His chest… hurt.
"Sam… please…"
With a desperate sucking gasp, Sam drew in a lungful of wonderful air, coughing even as his ribs screamed at him to stop.
"Oh fuck, Sam… Sam… I've got you…"
Arms held him, pulled him up against the coarse fabric of a new jacket, the rough stubble of a man's cheek.
Soft lips pressed against his forehead.
And his ribs were still screaming.
"…oww," he whispered with the new air he'd just claimed.
"I've got you, Sam. I've got you," someone was whispering over and over against his cheek, the breath carrying each word warmly against his skin.
Sam opened his eyes, his gaze rolling to take in the person holding him.
Those beautiful blue eyes, so close, locked to his. They were damp, the lashes clumped by the passage of tears.
They lit up at the contact, and the man's mouth pulled back in a relieved smile, before those lips found his own, kissing him softly.
"Uh," someone said somewhere near.
"James?" Sam asked, his voice a hoarse whisper, as the man pulled away.
The smile grew into a brilliant grin before James drew in for another kiss.
"Uh," someone repeated.
Sam smiled against those lips before wincing with another breath.
"Ow…" he hissed, which just hurt again.
"Sorry," James said, shifting slightly to give him more space. "Think I broke some of your ribs doing CPR."
Sam frowned, taking in the space a little more, and what James' words meant.
"CPR?" he mumbled, his gaze wandering the van. He was looking up at the door. The side door was now the roof? And the back door was gone…
A glance left showed him a bunch of green guys in piles. One groaned, shifting slightly. The rest were still. Beyond them the windscreen was shattered. The van was clearly on its side.
"What happened?" he whispered, frowning back at James.
"Hospital first," James said, shifting to pull him up. "Storytime later."
"Owwww," Sam groaned, grasping James' shoulder in a vice grip as he was lifted from the floor of the van. "Hey, no, you don't have to carry me… oh god..."
"And yet," James murmured, smiling at him.
"You guys are together?" a voice, oddly familiar asked, from behind him. "Really?!"
"Who's that?" Sam asked, turning to see and hissing as the motion felt like a knife digging into his side.
"A smart kid," James said softly. "He had the antidote. Gave it to you just before your heart stopped. Don't forget what I said, Alex, or I will hunt you down."
"Yessir, staying here, not moving."
"The fuck you mean my heart stopped," Sam mumbled, as he was carried out into the daylight.
It was raining. Lights were flashing somewhere. Sirens nearing.
"Red thing!" James yelled. "C'mon!"
The drone zipped out from behind the van with an enthusiastic blorp.
"Red Wing," Sam murmured in correction before smirking at the drone. "You listening to him now?"
It chirped brightly.
"She's handy. Found me, brought me to you, shot the tires out. Tased everyone. I was too busy losing my shit over you. This is going to hurt, I'm sorry."
"Wha-ow! " Sam yelped, as James started running, leaving the van and the approaching police behind. "Aww fuck, ow ow ow!"
Everything became a blur as Bucky ran faster than Sam had known he could. Every step sent a shockwave through his ribs - clenching his jaw, squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to shut out the pain and failed utterly.
"Sorry," James whispered, and somehow, ran faster.
Sam held on for dear life until he couldn't take the pain anymore.
"Stop! Fuck, James, stop!"
Panting hoarsely, the man holding him did, staggering the last few steps before setting Sam on his feet on the shoulder of a two lane highway.
Hissing, Sam stood gingerly, still grasping James' shoulder as the man took great heaving breaths, his skin wet with rain and sweat.
"Damn, you run fast!" Sam said, regretting his own volume immediately.
Fucking ribs!
"You need… to go to… hospital," James breathed, pointing down the road.
Sam looked, absorbing the fact that they'd covered a ton of ground in a short period of time. Much closer to the outskirts of Trenton. People were walking by staring.
"Ambulance, man!" Sam cried, before hissing and curling against the pain. "Just call a fucking ambulance… oww."
"I'm faster," James said, going to pick him up again.
Sam slap his hand away, wincing. "Stop it. I will walk."
James stared at him thoughtfully.
"Don't you even think about knocking me out," Sam muttered, pointing at him. "I can see those gears turning."
The man grinned.
"You were thinking about knocking me out?!" Sam asked, his eyes tight with pain.
James nodded, the grin curling into a smirk.
With an irritated noise, Sam started walking, the motion short, his breaths little gasps to avoid the knives breathing deeply brought.
"How far, Red Wing," he asked after what felt like ten hours.
The display gave the route with the estimate of 15 minutes.
"Augh," Sam groaned, already sweating. "Going to take me forty… shit…"
A sharp horn behind him made him jump, gasping with the sudden movement.
Turning, he found a silver minivan at his rear, filled with a smiling James.
"Did you steal this?" Sam snapped, hobbling around to the passenger seat, greatly needing relief from movement.
James leaned over to open it for him, nodding.
"Yes."
"Dammit, James, you can't keep stealing shit," Sam hissed, climbing onto the seat and holding out the seatbelt so it wouldn't touch his chest.
'I can actually," James said happily. "I'm very good at it."
And hitting the gas way too hard, he tore off to the hospital.
Chapter 24: Sex is very strenuous
Chapter Text
"Mr. Wilson, it's an honor," a man with curly hair, glasses, and a white coat said, walking up to shake Sam's hand as he rested in the bed at the hospital James had rushed him to. "I'm Doctor Schaeffer, head of emergency medicine at Capitol."
Sam shook the man's hand, wincing as he did so. "Hey, good to… oww… meet you."
"Oh god, I apologize! Force of habit," Dr. Schaeffer said, quickly releasing Sam's hand. "I'm just thrilled to have Captain America visit our hospital. Even if the circumstances are less than stellar."
The man's gaze was drawn to James, who was lurking back in a corner behind the bed.
"Hello, mister…?"
When James didn't answer, the doctor looked back at Sam, frowning.
Sam smirked. "That's James. Don't mind his stare."
"He has an intense stare."
"It's true. He doesn't like hospitals."
Dr. Schaeffer's expression eased in understanding. "Ah, I get that. Well, good news is you don't have to stay overnight."
"Great," came James' voice behind Sam.
Next thing he knew, the man's arms were trying to scoop him up from the bed.
"Hold up!" Sam said, pressing against James' shirt as he grit his teeth. "Let the man finish, and I can walk!"
With an annoyed huff, James retreated into the corner.
"What's the damage?" Sam asked.
Looking back at Sam from James, the doctor pulled up a tablet. On it were x-rays of Sam's chest.
"You have four fractured ribs," the doctor said, pointing to the hazy shapes they'd captured. "I understand you didn't want to share the circumstances, but your friend broke them doing CPR."
"What's your point," James snapped.
The doctor's eyes grew wider. "Uh, my point is that you did everything right. Broken ribs means you got good depth, and it's why your friend is still here."
Sam breathed out slowly, leaning back and staring across the bland cream-colored room, the fluorescent lighting over him sharp and cold.
"Still hard to believe this."
Dr. Schaeffer smiled at him. "I'm sure. Don't feel obliged to answer this question, but did you see anything? Anything odd when you were out? Your answers are anonymized, and purely for a study the hospital is conducting."
Sam frowned, thinking back, before nodding slowly. "Yeah. I was on a boat with a friend."
"Interesting," the doctor said, making a quick note on the tablet.
"Who?" James asked from behind him.
"I'll tell you later," Sam breathed, before his breath hitched in a short cough.
"Oh fuck…" he groaned, with the stabbing pains that followed.
"I'm afraid that you're going to need to cough like that every once in a while and take deep breaths too. It'll keep your lungs clear."
"Ribs are, like, six weeks, right?" Sam said after a small, wee breath. He never wanted to cough again. Fuck that.
"Exactly. Nothing strenuous for six weeks, and-"
James stepped forward to the side of the bed, his expression one of urgency. "What about sex? Can we have sex?"
"Ohshit-" Sam blurted out, on the heels of an abrupt laugh that turned into another agonizing cough. "Owwowowow…"
The doctor looked between the two of them with a smile. "Well, sex is very strenuous, so no. At least, not for six weeks. Maybe five if Sam's a quick healer."
Sam couldn't look at James' face, because he knew if he did he was going to laugh again and that hurt like goddamn murder, no thank you, but now he was thinking of James' face anyway, and oh shit-
Another laugh burst from his mouth, ending in a pained cry.
"Six weeks?!" James said, his face falling. "There's nothing we can do? What if we have very slow sex?"
Tears slipped from Sam's eyes from the laughter and the pain. "James, please stop talking about sex."
Dr. Schaeffer's mouth was twisting, his eyes bright. "I don't think speed is the issue, it's the… uh… impact…"
"Everyone stop talking about sex!" Sam snapped, before hissing and pressing his head back into the bed. "Oww… "
Releasing a long slow breath, he steadied himself. "Is there anything else I need to do, or know about?"
"Sorry," the doctor murmured, smiling. "Take deep breaths regularly, cough every once in a while. Take it easy. Your oxygen sats are good, your heart is in excellent shape, cognitive function is great. Everything else is clear. I have a photographer here…"
And the man waved at the door then, gesturing for a lady with thick wavy hair and an expensive looking camera to enter.
"Do you mind? I'd love to include it in our newsletter to donors."
James stepped forward, scowling, but Sam grasped his arm, wincing with the effort of holding him in place. "It's okay."
And he smiled back at the doctor. "Sure."
After photographs, signatures, and selfies, the hospital finally let him go and he found himself sitting in a wheelchair at the curb, waiting for the Uber he'd called.
Red Wing was sitting inert in his lap, its power source spent, and James had driven off to return the van he'd stolen.
Weird day.
His thoughts kept returning to that moment, on the boat, with Steve.
Did he really die?
Could have been a dream.
Except Steve had given him another piece of the puzzle.
September 1935.
"So damn weird," he whispered, before smiling and waving at a family entering the hospital who recognized him.
Hopefully that date would mean something to James, if he could get up the nerve to ask about it.
And hopefully it'd explain something about Bucky's reaction.
Movement down the road caught his eye. James, running back after returning the van. Guy was insanely fast…
Could he bring these two parts of this man together?
Could he help make this man whole?
"Hey," James breathed, reaching him the next moment. The man's face had a fine sheen of sweat, his cheeks were ruddy, his blue eyes bright.
And when they met Sam's, they got brighter, as the guy's face split in a brilliant grin.
Sam smiled back softly, the man's grin making his heart dance in his chest.
There had to be a way.
He loved both sides of this man. There had to be some way to bring them together.
And he was determined to find it.
Thanks for reading all, and for the kudos and comments :) You're awesome! :D
James seems very singularly focused...
And what the heck happened in September 1935?!
Chapter 25: Mr. Zappy
Chapter Text
Rufus Pennington, GL-06 level special agent for the United States government, now equipped with a new utilities uniform and a large van with the logo 'Mr. Zappy' boldly painted on one side, sat at his monitoring station, headset firmly in place, waiting for Mr. Wilson to return to the Chimney Inn Bed & Breakfast.
They knew, of course, about the hospital visit, and the kid in New Hope. There were gaps, weird encrypted ones they still hadn't cracked, but they'd managed to work out where he was staying, and had their suspicions that he was sheltering James Buchanan Barnes, a.k.a. the Winter Soldier, here as well.
His task - confirm Mr. Wilson's occupancy at the Inn. Also, confirm the presence of - but do not engage with - Mr. Barnes, who had recently been triggered as the Winter Soldier, and who posed an immense threat to the safety of the region.
Once confirmation was received, his team would proceed with capture.
And there wouldn't be any messy interactions this time. He was to stay in the van. No engagement.
A car pulled up to the intersection in the growing twilight and turned right on the road leading up to the barn accommodations.
The place looked quite nice, honestly. He'd run through it and set up the usual devices.
Generous bathroom with a waterfall shower, comfortable bed. The darkly stained furnishings really held the place together.
Staring at the camera feed, he watched carefully as Mr. Wilson pulled himself from the car and walked very slowly to the door, stopping occasionally.
That looked like it hurt.
Mr. Wilson was confirmed.
The camera feed cut off abruptly.
Rufus frowned.
Odd. Did the battery die?
At least he still had the listening devices.
Mr. Wilson groaned loudly, and Rufus winced at the sound. That really seemed like it hurt.
Rustling followed. A lot of rustling. Very close rustling to the devices.
The frown deepened.
Another groan. Hoarser.
Footsteps.
A splash? Multiple splashes? Wait… what was happening?!
Rufus yanked the headphones off as the flushing of a toilet blasted through all of the little mics at once, followed by the sound of gurgling and eventually…
… silence.
"What the hell?" he whispered, staring at the headset.
How had Mr. Wilson found the bugs?! He'd been very careful!
Rufus grew very still.
"Oh no."
The camera going out after Mr. Wilson was in the building? The bugs removed at once?
"Shit shit," he whispered, flicking the switch on the line to the rest of the team.
"Hey, any of you see anything?"
Silence.
"Uh… Team 3, hello?"
No answer.
"Oh shit," Rufus mumbled, starting to sweat. "Fuck."
He needed to get out of here, really quickly.
Something snapped outside, at the back door.
"Shit!" Rufus cried, leaving his seat to head to the front.
The door pulled open - the door that had been locked! - and a man climbed in behind the wheel.
The man turned, smiling.
The Winter Soldier.
The Winter Soldier was in his van.
The Winter Soldier was pointing a gun at his face.
"Key."
It was Rufus' gun.
Something loosened down below. Warmth spread quickly at his crotch.
The man in front of him looked down.
"Again?" the soldier growled.
Rufus fainted.
Poor Rufus is having a bad week. Next few chapters will be with James and Sam and Bucky :) Thanks for reading, all!
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