Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The collar wasn’t big. Ten millimeters wide, at most.

They had him sign papers for it. He pressed metal fingers down to gently pin each page to the flimsy fold out table they’d brought in for the occasion, along with extra guards that positioned themselves equidistantly around him. He didn’t look up as he used his right hand to sign his name, the date. His initials, JBB. Over and over. The scratch of the pen was loud even compared to the hum of the energy field outside his cell.

Secretary Ross watched him fill the contract with his arms folded. “You’ll want to steer clear of handling the device with your vibranium limb,” he said, as if Bucky hadn’t already read that in the papers outlining the specifics. “If the calibration sessions show promise, we can release you to the general public. After that, you’ll have relative freedom unless your attendance is required for a mission.”

He initialed the final lines, which outlined his own handful of demands in accepting the collar - a fraction of a page compared to the dozens upon dozens of demands made against him. His included no killing or any orders that would lead to the death of another person, theft of his vibranium arm, or experimentation of any kind in the attempt to develop more supersoldiers. Ross’s signature was already on the line beneath them.

He knew better than to expect someone wouldn’t at least try to break those rules eventually. He’d refuse, no matter what they did to him.

He stood placidly as a guard brought the collar over, pulling back his hair when ordered so it could be firmly placed against his neck; when the metal pinched sharply at his skin as it locked shut, he didn’t react. It pressed harder into his throat when he swallowed. He only let his hair fall back down when they gave him the go ahead.

Ross watched him carefully, his phone in his hand. He gazed down at the screen and then back to the collar a few times, then nodded in satisfaction as he slid his phone back into his pocket. “The tests should take about two weeks. Assuming everything goes well.”

Translation: if everything didn’t go well, he wasn’t getting out of here. Here being some black site they’d taken him to after Steve had left.

He’d thought he was going to spend the rest of his life in a windowless room beneath the ground, if he didn’t just end up quietly executed. He’d later learned that he hadn’t been in custody for more than half an hour before a detailed deprogramming and rehabilitation report from the Wakandan Design Group and cosigned by Princess Shuri and King T’Challa had made its way to Ross’s desk.

So he’d been given this shot. With conditions. The biggest one being the piece of metal sitting snugly around his neck.

The guards moved back from him. He kept his hands at his sides, unmoving as he watched them gather up the collar’s case and the paperwork, and the table that had come with them.

Ross nodded in approval. “We’ll start tomorrow,” he said. “You can relax, Barnes. Try and get some rest before breakfast. Remember that if there are any adverse effects, anything that seems out of the ordinary, you’ll want to let either a technician or myself know as soon as possible so we can adjust the device.”

And each report would require more of a delay in his release as they tried to figure out how to fix the collar so it would work. That specific detail had also been in the papers he’d signed. Along with the fact that if he could get out and wait out five years without anything significant added to his record, he would be granted a full pardon, and full freedom.

But besides that… if he was let out, even with the collar and its limitations, and whatever else the government was going to order him to do against his will, there would be times when his leash was long enough that he could begin to try and right some of the wrongs he’d made.

They left him alone. He sat on the floor next to his cot, bright cell lights beaming down on his head and shoulders, ignoring the grip around his throat and staring at the locked door for the remainder of the evening.

He should have tried to sleep, like Ross had suggested. It would have only made the time go faster. Once he was let out they were going to let him pick his city of residence, and pretty much whatever housing - within reason. Which meant by the end of this week, he was going to be looking at available options in Brooklyn.

But there was a swelling burning feeling, somewhere behind his ribcage, that let him know trying to get some actual rest was pointless. They kept the cell too bright, anyway.

He didn’t touch the collar. The minutes continued to pass while he sat. At some point he let his head fall forward. He might have even closed his eyes, tired of the nonstop light burning into them. But he was only waiting.

It was then that he heard the buzzing for what would be the first time; quiet enough that maybe he wouldn’t have if he didn’t have supersoldier enhancements, or if the source of the sound had been located farther than a few inches beneath his ears. Around his neck. He pinched his brow, ready to pry open his eyes.

The shock that followed came so sudden and violent his entire body was seizing before his brain had even a chance to catch up with the pain. When it did, he felt everything - muscles spasming and cramping, his vibranium arm stiffening and going dead as the current interfered with its workings. He made a sound, a strangled noise that refused to be a scream, falling onto his side and then his back.

The current left him. He gasped in the aftermath, wide eyes seeing only the painfully bright white of the relentless bulbs above, a vicious tremble wracking his body as his heart pounded.

The shock hadn’t been pressed against his head. He still had his memories. But that particular pain was rooted into the fiber of his being; it took him a few seconds of feverish running through the last few days before he could shakily assume he remembered everything he was supposed to.

The collar was still buzzing. He reached up, touched it firmly with the fingers of his right hand. The skin beneath it burned.

“What the fuck?” he said, voice hoarse.

He moved to sit back up. The second his back lifted from the ground his body exploded in fire, hot coals searing into his throat as he collapsed back down, shuddering through the punishment, nerves screeching and muscles locked up.

The nightmare ended, the collar’s fury once again reduced to a low buzz. Bucky panted and shook, copper sliding thick over his tongue and pooling into the back of his throat. His adrenaline was rushing through his veins at full strength.

The vibranium arm whirred as it reactivated, and he jerked his shoulder without bringing it off the ground, the slight movement too insufficient to reset it properly.

He carefully stayed where he was, swallowing roughly. The collar didn’t shock him again, just stayed a thin strip of metal, buzzing against his stinging throat. His heart was still pounding in a frantic rhythm, half his instincts viciously telling him he had to get the device off, while the other half reminded him why he was here and what would happen if he did try. They’d probably take any excuse to put him away for good.

He heard the buzzing for what it was, now. A warning. To do what? Was this one of the named adverse effects he was meant to report? Was it intentional? Were they just fucking with him?

He took a breath, then two, face setting in concentration, panic coiling like ice in his gut. Then he tried to get up a third time.

The collar took him back down, and this time, it didn’t stop for a while.

“You look like shit, Barnes,” Secretary Ross told him the next morning. “Didn’t take my advice?”

Bucky was sitting on the cell’s cot, staring at the spot on the floor where he’d spent the majority of the night. The collar had finally stopped buzzing, just hours earlier. Enough time that the sweat on his skin had dried and the burns on his neck had started to fade, and his mind’s wild tumble through all the recent times he’d been shocked as the Winter Soldier had stopped replaying themselves in graphic detail.

The sour swirl in his stomach had stayed with him.

He raised his eyes to Ross. Didn’t bother answering. He had a suspicion he knew what this was, now.

The word stuck out to him - advice. To get rest before breakfast. And when he hadn’t… the collar had responded. Brutally.

He’d read all of the paperwork. What was around his neck was a state of the art and intuitive inhibitory device. He’d known better than to think it would be anything but bad. He hadn’t figured on something with that level of attention to detail.

Maybe that made him a gullible idiot. How much of one, exactly, he knew he was going to get a better picture of in the days to come.

His fingers twitched, the feeling in his stomach expanding.

“I’ve been told you didn’t touch any of your breakfast.” Ross looked him up and down, brow furrowed in concern. “Anything to report?”

Bucky swallowed, throat less raw than it had been three hours prior. “No.”

“No?” Spoken again, intently. Knowingly.

Bucky was all too familiar with that kind of inspection. The way it felt to have someone looking at him, judging him. Waiting to see if he would break.

He wanted to break. Wanted to reach his vibranium hand up and rip the strip of metal off his throat, go down fighting. Screaming. He didn’t want even another single shock to remind him of HYDRA’s chairs and how possible it was for someone to turn him into a killing machine.

But he wouldn’t do any of those things. He only had one chance. If he let that slip from his hands, he’d have nothing. No one. Not even a legacy as anything more than a traitor and a mass murderer who’d been given a second chance to do some good that he’d thrown away.

“No,” he repeated, face flat.

Ross stared at him, impressed, then jerked his head in indication for Bucky to follow. “Then we’ll start the tests.”

He got his release.

He got his apartment.

It was even the same one he’d picked.

Been allowed to pick.

He stood outside of it long after the car that had dropped him off drove away, no belongings except a single key and the clothes on his back, and the collar hugging his throat.

The door was painted white, a window spanning its length. He could see the hardwood floor on the other side, distorted by the reflected image of himself, a hunched shadow in the late morning brightness.

The minutes stretched on. Eventually, he started to think there might not be a trick.

He stared numbly at the key clutched in his hand. Cautiously, he used it to unlock the door, freezing after he heard the click. Nothing happened. He opened the door, slowly, and froze again - waiting for approaching footsteps, or a commanding voice, or the familiar sound of hornets at his throat. Still nothing.

Finally, he took his first step inside.

His body was tense, wary. The apartment smelled like polished wood and the stuffiness that came with a place long unoccupied. He stopped moving for another minute, swallowing as he stretched every sense, just to make sure he was really alone.

He shut the door. Locked it behind him. It was all clear.

They might have bugged the apartment. He’d be surprised if they hadn’t. And the window in the door meant he had next to no defenses for a break in. Anyone happening by would be able to see him in the living room.

But for the moment, there was no one to give him orders, and the collar was quiet.

He was in his new residence. It was clean, and totally empty.

He exhaled shakily, and heard the clink as the key slipped from his fingers and slammed into the floor. His body ached, legs barely supporting him. His eyes burned; he could barely keep the left one open. His head was pounding. His throat…

There was a window in the door. He could see the sunlight streaming through it with his good eye.

He moved again, stiffly, to put his back against the wall opposite. He slid down, carefully positioning himself on the floor so he would have a clear view. For vigilance, in case what he was waiting for would still come for him. But also… because he wanted to see the sunlight. The sky.

He’d missed the sky. Natural light. Always missed it, whenever someone buried him.

The last time he’d lived in a place that had a glass window, back in Bucharest, he’d covered it with newspaper to keep himself from being discovered. Now, it didn’t matter, even if he’d wanted to do that.

They knew exactly where he was. They owned him for the next five years.

He sat and stared out the window until dark.

When the collar began to buzz against his throat, he flinched and moved fluidly to the floor and shut his eyes, waiting until he could sit up again.

Chapter Text

Her new client looked a little like he was about to become a corpse.

That was a little surprising, seeing as Doctor Christina Raynor’s considerable files on James Buchanan Barnes had outlined his enhanced biology in detail, including an intensified cellular regeneration, a very limited need for rest, and a baseline of considerable muscle mass even if he happened to skip the gym for several dozen weeks. Those facts had given her an expectation that, frankly, was not entirely met by the man that stood outside the door to her office with eyes like craters against his sickly pale skin. If she had to guess, besides the haircut, he looked to have dropped at least a dozen pounds compared to the images she’d seen of him. To be fair, she was judging that from the angle of his cheekbones - it was hard to tell about the rest of him with the three layers of clothing he’d decided on.

Gloves and a turtleneck beneath a hoodie beneath a jacket in a concrete jungle that was starting to get its first hints of summer heat - she felt like she was sweating just looking at him.

We’ll, he’d arrived - if sixteen minutes passed his designated appointment time. She’d been starting to wonder if he was going to show at all.

She kept her voice polite, even though she was nursing a profound headache and had been cycling towards the idea that it would be a relief for him to dig his own grave before she had to have a single session. “Hello, Mr. Barnes. I’m glad to finally meet you.”

He gave her the briefest of glances, a sideways dart of his eyes that barely landed on her cheek for a second before it was gone. “Hi,” he responded softly, and continued to stand where he was, lips a thin, tight line.

She’d bet good money he’d rather throw himself out one of the windows than come in for a talk. He certainly had seemed willing to glance at them for a lot longer than he had her.

She opened the door wider in invitation. “Settle in and we’ll get started,” she said.

He stepped inside, eyes shooting from the table beside her chair to the wide windows to the wallpaper, then back to the windows. When he reached the middle of the room he came to a stop, then turned so he was half facing her, his back to the couch, chin dipped downwards. Around the other side of his body she could see the gloved fingers of his left hand - which would be the metal one - moved very slowly against one another.

She made her way to her chair, shoes rubbing softly against the grey rug that spanned the center of the room. He didn’t move from his spot as she lowered herself down, and after a moment she realized he didn’t intend to.

“Uh, feel free to use the furniture,” she prompted after a moment of awkward silence.

He looked at the couch with something like chagrin, then stepped back towards it and lowered himself without a word, lacing his gloved hands together in his lap. He somehow both managed to continue to completely avoid eye contact and give the impression of an intense scrutiny she wouldn’t have expected from someone so clearly deprived of sleep.

Expectant. That was how he looked, how he had looked since he’d refused to come in or move without prompting. Like he was a soldier on his last legs, just waiting for another order to keep him going.

As a former soldier herself, she could understand that. But it wasn’t what she was there to do, and considering James Barnes had been acting with a distinct and severe lack of will every time he’d been given instructions for the better part of a century, was definitely not going to be the focus.

As much as possible, in any case. There was a lot riding on these sessions for James - the United States government had granted some pretty intense concessions to a man who many still considered a war criminal first and foremost. His alternatives, if he didn’t play nice, were all pretty damn bleak.

It was her job to help him play nice. He needed to show he could follow the rules, integrate into society without issue, or he was going to end up buried deep.

After everything he’d been through and the agreements he’d made, she didn’t think he wanted that. He’d shown up, after all. That was a good sign.

She pulled her notebook into her lap and grabbed a pen, trying to push her headache into the background. “Now, while these sessions are a condition of your pardon, I hope you’ll find benefit in them.”

His left eye twitched. The hands in his lap tightened against each other. He didn’t give a verbal response, but she saw the fabric around his throat move as he swallowed.

She kept her voice mild. “You were late today. Any particular reason why?”

That twitch came again, an increase in tightness around his eyes before his face fell back into its perfect stillness. He still wasn’t making eye contact with anything but a spot on the wall across the room. “No.”

There was something to his tone, buried beneath all that flat exhaustion - anger, or frustration. Whether it was directed inwards, at her, or some other source, she had no idea.

“No reason at all?” She tilted her head. “Feeling under the weather? Missed your alarm?”

His eyebrows pulled together. The rest of him stayed stone still.

She sat back, impatience seeping into her voice. “Late train? Couldn’t pinpoint the GPS location?”

He said nothing.

“You could have called ahead to let me know.”

He swallowed again, and finally answered, voice low and gravelly. “I don’t have a phone.”

She let her pen fall in surprise. “What?”

“I don’t have a phone,” he repeated.

She knew despite only being a few years into having escaped decades of mind control, he was no slouch in his proficiency with modern technology, or adaptability in learning the mechanisms of anything introduced to him. That had been in his files, too.

“It’s a convenient device to own,” she said.

He glanced at her cheek again, then down. Back to the silence.

“Do you mind if I put that on our post-session to-do list? I can put a word in for you to get one provided if you don’t have the funding.”

He shook his head, throat bobbing on another swallow. He seemed to do that a lot. “That’s not necessary.”

She tapped her pen against the notebook. This time his entire face twitched, but so subtle and brief she almost wondered if she had imagined it. “Meaning?”

His eyes slid shut for a long blink. “I’ll pick one up today.”

“Good,” she said. The polite agreeableness in his words was at odds with the blankness that had settled into his expression. “I’ve given you options, Mr. Barnes. If the reason you were late was ‘it’s personal and I’d rather not tell you,’ I’d like to know that, too.”

His exhale was not quite a sigh. He blinked again, repeatedly, and at least seemed to shake some of that distracted look. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“So?” She prompted, while she had the crumbs of his focus.

He’d turned to look out the window again, letting the light fall over his face and the sharp angle of his jaw. With the extra brightness she could see the white of one of his eyes was saturated with a small blush of red. “I didn’t know what time it was.”

She frowned. “You didn’t remember what time our session was?”

He gave a single shake of his head. “I didn’t know what the time was, period.”

“You didn’t check the clock?”

His eyes turned to her face, again just that flash of contact - at the parts of her face not directly around her eyes - before they redirected into his lap. “I don’t have a clock,” he said.

Jesus. “We’ll add that to the list alongside a phone. And maybe think about a watch, for good measure.” She scribbled her notes and then looked up at him again. He’d gone back to being perfectly still, like he was waiting for something. “I’m going to let it slide this time, but in the future I will expect you to be punctual and take advantage of the full hour of our meetings. Any egregious slacking, and I’ll have to report it as a violation of the terms of your release.”

He licked his lips. “I’ll be on time. I promise.”

Was it her imagination, or had he gotten even paler? She sat back and really looked at him. The eye discoloration, while noticeable now that she had realized it, didn’t seem to be bothering him enough to be a problem. His files said he could bounce back from injuries that would be dire for a normal human, and had an immune system that could shrug off pretty much every disease and toxin known to man. Psychological distress combined with lack of sleep could lead to plenty of severe physical symptoms and a tumultuous bilateral cascade of the worsening of both, but somehow she got the feeling that wasn’t all that this was.

“That being said, I’m open to rescheduling in a few days if you’re feeling under the weather.” He’d already shaken his head before she’d finished.

“No. I’m fine.”

Well, now she knew what he sounded like when he was lying. “Come on. You look like you haven’t slept in a week, James.”

His eye twitched again, and this time it was coupled with a muscle jumping in his stubbled cheek. He all but glared at his own knees.

She gauged his reaction - he’d apparently decided to return to the silent treatment. “Are you irritated that I pointed that out?”

“No,” James said hurriedly. “I…it’s just a new place.” He paused, and his voice came back softer. “Takes an adjustment.”

It was a very new place, if he didn’t so much as own a bedside clock. Hell, most household electronics had the means to program a visible hour. Either he was also lying about not knowing the time, or he didn’t have any of those, either.

The problem was that she wasn’t one hundred percent sure he was lying about that particular thing.

“You had your choice of available places of residence,” Raynor said. “You chose Brooklyn.”

Another shrug.

“But you’re calling it a new place. Have the changes made it seem alien to you?”

He huffed out a breath, expression flat. “Eighty years will do that.”

Sarcasm. So he did have a personality, if a somewhat combative one, and one he looked like he immediately regretted if the way he cautiously side-eyed her cheek after speaking was any indication. She was going to reserve judgment until she decided whether that was better than the consistent hunched misery he’d been showing since he walked in. “Have you explored the neighborhood much?”

He lowered his eyes, a clear “no” despite his insistence on only verbally answering every other question.

“Are you nervous about leaving the apartment?”

He pushed his tongue against his lips and didn’t answer.

“We can start small,” she said, picking her pen back up. “At least one trip outside each day. It can be as simple as a walk around the block, but I want you to try going into a store, or going out to eat. On the days you come here, that can count as your outing.”

“I’m not scared of going outside,” he said, sounding mildly offended, then there it was again - that increase of tension in his body, as if he couldn’t help his words but expected some kind of consequence for mouthing off.

She tapped her pen against the notebook again. “You just decided to isolate yourself without any electronics or means of social communication for fun?”

He held his tension for a moment longer, then eventually sighed, dipping his head down, his shoulders slumping. “So you want me to go out and buy stuff for the apartment.”

“If that’s where you want to stay, yes,” she said. “Not if you’re unhappy there and planning on moving in the next few weeks.”

It would take more than a few weeks. There was extensive paperwork involved and his place of residence had to be disclosed and vetted before he was able to take it. This early into his pardon, going off the radar too long would send some intensive sirens into overdrive.

“I’d like to stay there,” he said to the floor, voice faint. His eyes looked hollow.

“When was the last time you ate?”

He swallowed, again. She wondered if he had a sore throat. As soon as she got home she was going to proactively take some NAC and zinc; if whatever was bothering James was contagious, she knew it would be no joke for her typical mortal immune system to try and fend off.

“I’m assuming your apartment at least came with a stove,” she prompted after another minute.

“You want me to make a grocery list.”

“James, for the love of God, I hope you haven’t been waiting around for someone to give you permission to pick up basic necessities.”

He blinked, his eyes directing upwards. She watched him breathe slowly through his nostrils as the seconds ticked by.

“You’re not in prison,” Raynor eventually said. “You’ve received a pardon. That means you’re allowed to make your own choices.”

“Does it?” He sounded very tired, his voice barely a whisper. He wouldn’t look at her.

“As long as it’s nothing illegal and you don’t hurt anyone.” She paused. “I can make it into a list, if you’d like. The only major rules from your evaluating therapist that you’d have to follow.”

He smiled, then - but smile wasn’t quite the right word. His lips stretched out almost the right way, but the rest of his expression seemed to sag beneath eyes that had all but become cavernously bleak. His face looked like it had given up any attempt to hold onto meaningful blood flow. “Yeah,” he said, again with that subtle bite in his tone. “Sure. Why not.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I’ll take that as a ringing endorsement,” she said. She wrote down the two major rules, numbering and underlining them. Then she ripped the page out of her notebook, set the rest of it aside, and got to her feet.

The sarcastic smile was completely gone from James’s face as she approached. Instead there was a quiet apprehension, a return of the dip to his shoulders. He silently watched her move towards him without looking at her directly, his eyes very round, the blue of them dulled by the shadows around them.

She held out the paper.

He swallowed hard, looked at it like it might as well have been a gun aimed at his face, then slowly and cautiously reached out to pluck it from her hand. He stared at the words written on it, though she knew the two sentences didn’t take him long to read.

1. Don’t do anything illegal.

2. Don’t hurt anyone.

He was already frowning as she stepped back to her chair, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening.

He looked back up - actually almost at her, this time. “This is all you want me to do?”

She leaned back. “Those are my only hard and fast rules that will get your ass thrown back in jail, yes.”

“And what about being on time,” he asked, and his voice was low but the challenge was back in his eyes.

“You said it wouldn’t happen again,” she reminded. “But… if you have adequate reasons, and it’s not a consistent thing, there’s room for lenience. Also? Phone appointments? Those are a thing.”

He set the paper aside very slowly, staring off to the side. A spark of something new formed behind his shuttered expression. He clenched his jaw before he lowered his eyes again.

“Okay,” he said.

She oddly got the feeling that she’d passed some kind of test. “I can arrange a schedule for you as soon as you get a phone.”

“No,” he said.

“No?”

He turned his head towards the windows. “I’ll be here. On time.”

He seemed like he was telling the truth. She nodded. “Okay.”

Later, after they’d ended his session and she was typing up the report for it, she realized he’d all but stopped the swallowing behavior after being given the rules.

Maybe it had just been a nervous tic after all.

The pressure from the cuff and metal belt were painful. The edges bit sharply into his skin, stopping his diaphragm from expanding all the way. It wasn’t enough of a distraction from the grip of the collar.

“What’s rule number one?”

He swallowed through his dry, stinging throat. “I follow orders.”

“Correct. Rule number two?”

He stared at the wall. The concrete floor was hard beneath his knees. “No eye contact with superiors.”

“Fantastic. Rule number three?”

He couldn’t say it. But he needed to say it so he could get out of there. Find Sam and the shield. Do something that made this nightmare worth anything.

“Rule number three,” repeated, warningly.

The collar began to ramp up, like a growing swarm of hornets gathered on flesh and doing their best to sting and bite their way through his trachea. He sucked in air as deeply as he could against the belt, bracing for it.

“All right, Barnes. Just remember: you asked for it.”

He hadn’t asked for any of it. He never did, until someone found the right way to make him ask for them.

But that didn’t mean it wasn’t his fault.

Chapter Text

When opportunities that were worth looking into came up, Contessa Valentina Allegra de Fontaine wasn’t very far behind. Especially when those opportunities involved an enhanced individual. Even especially when that enhanced individual had a criminal record.

Moving a piece across the board was so much easier when it was still packed in a box.

She knew Thaddeus Ross was working at said box. He probably thought he was keeping it under the radar. She could have paid him a visit at the place specifically, but sometimes she preferred a little more of an element of surprise to start her engagements.

So she dropped on him when he was out getting his morning coffee, 7 AM sharp in a shop located in a dreary little mountain town.

“Secretary Thaddeus Ross,” she greeted warmly - a lot warmer than the chilled air outside. “Boy, you sure know how to get up and going with the sun, don’t you?”

Her ex-husband had done that, too. She wanted to quip that maybe it had something to do with the name, but also she didn’t want to do that. Reminding him she’d been married to a man who they were all pretty sure had some pretty strong and questionable ties to Wakanda would put his mind in regions she wanted to stake the first and only claim on.

But, they were on the same side, heading in the same direction. It just happened to be that he was a gentleman stuck on the freeway cursing in bumper to bumper traffic while she careened down the backroads 40 MPH over the speed limit. Sure she might risk taking out a bicyclist, but that was what happened when people didn’t stay in their lanes.

The look Ross gave her definitely brought to mind someone who’d just seen a pedestrian careen into the asphalt. The woman behind the counter, blonde in her 50s with a kind voice, called to Val that she’d be right with her as she filled Ross’s cup.

“Director Fontaine,” he said, sighing through his nose and disturbing the hairs of his mustache. He was wearing a long jacket over his suit. “What are you doing here?”

She shrugged, gloved hands in her coat pockets. “Could be to get some small town coffee; could be you had a little side project I heard you need some help with.”

“That would be an absurd assumption,” he said, dropping a dollar into the tip bucket as the barista handed him his drink. Latte was scribbled in elegant cursive on the cup, and a heart beneath it.

Val almost laughed. The sweet woman behind the counter had no idea. She turned to the register, taking his place in line and not even looking at him now that she knew she had his full attention. She took her time looking at the menu, more to feel his tension grow than because she was having trouble deciding. She already knew what she wanted.

“Red Eye,” she said.

The woman nodded and grabbed a paper cup, indicating the selection of labeled brews on the counter. “And which coffee would you like with that?”

Val eyed names, smiling to herself as she spotted the one on the end. “Heart of Darkness sounds tasty.” She ended the sentence by turning back to Ross with a wide smile. His expression had only grown more withering the longer he’d waited.

“Should we get a table outside?” she asked.

Her cup when the barista handed it to her had an even bigger heart.

“I know you don’t want a repeat of Vienna,” Val said, risking her coat against the questionably clean wooden bench that made up the shop’s scant outdoor seating. Across the street from them was a small supermarket, the doors not yet open for the day. Outside of that a group of ravens was raiding the trash can and filling the street with refuse. “Let’s be honest with ourselves - this is a security issue.”

Ross braced his hands around his coffee, the steam rising white in the cool morning air. “Barnes is cooperating,” he said, turning his eyes to the side in a way that meant he didn’t expect that to happen for long. “And several contracts have already been signed. We can’t hold him indefinitely without cause.”

Val shook her head pityingly. “Wakanda’s sticking their nose into things that are ultimately not their business. He’s not going to spend the rest of his life in their country. There’s no stakes for them when he decides to snap and lose a few more dozen people their family members.”

“Wakanda isn’t the concern here,” Ross said, and oh, how the flare in his eyes told her he was lying through his teeth. “The President gave the order. He gets a pardon.”

“An experimental pardon,” Val corrected. “And the President needs to look just as good as the rest of us. He’ll lean into that war hero image until the first disaster and poof! Tune changed. But guess who will get all of that blame?”

“We have very advanced technology to ensure that won’t happen,” Ross said.

“Thaddeus, Thaddeus,” she tutted. “That soldier has withstood every single torture method known to man. Chemicals, deprivation, solitary confinement. Literal brain injury! And he was barely kept in check. What do you think’s going to happen when he’s let loose? We can take bets on the number of casualties.”

Maybe she’d said that last part a little too gleefully. In any case, Ross narrowed his eyes. “Do you have a suggestion?”

Instead of answering Val took a drink of her Red Eye. “Wow, that’s frustratingly good,” she said, then looked at Ross’s latte, tapping the table next to it. “Aren’t you supposed to be laying off the caffeine for the old ticker?”

“Director,” Ross demanded. “Your proposed method.”

She knew he’d be needy about this; the man had spent too many years losing to enhanced individuals.

“You let him go,” Val said. “You let him think he has more freedom than he actually has. You let the entire world think he has more freedom than he actually has. Put him to work for as long as you can. It’s only going to be a matter of time before he shows his true colors. And once he does, you swoop in and save the day.”

Ross sat back. “If he’s such a loose cannon then how are we going to convince him to do any of that work in the first place?”

“That’s simple,” she said. “You make sure he knows just how screwed he is if he doesn’t.” She crinkled her nose. “A little torture beforehand wouldn’t hurt, either.” She stood up from the table as Ross stared at her in shock, patting her coat down to make sure there wasn’t any debris on it. “I know a guy. Well, I trained a guy. Ostensibly. I might have been more of an inspiration to him than a direct influence. Until I wasn’t.” She took another drink, looking at that thunderous frown. “Thaddeus, you look really confused right now.”

“I told you that Barnes was being cooperative,” Ross said. “And if you’ll recall, you just told me torture wouldn’t work.”

“No, I didn’t,” Val said bluntly. She took another drink of her coffee, staring around at the unappetizing greenery. “God, I need to get out of this fresh air. Could really use a place that just barely scrapes the lines of human decency. Subterranean. Hazy on the legal authority. Know anywhere like that?”

Ross’s sigh couldn’t hide the fact that he was curious for more of her opinion - she could see the give in his eyes. “I’d be willing to bet that you know about a lot more of those places than I do.”

“Oh, globally,” she confirmed with a smile. “We’ll take your car.”

At the very bottom level of Ross’ little not-so-secret-to-her maximum security facility, comfortably situated in an observation room behind a rectangular one-way mirror, Val got her first in-person look at the specimen that used to be HYDRA’s infamous Winter Soldier.

“The collar only hit yellow this morning, sir,” a bespectacled lab tech in a white coat with a clipboard announced to Ross as they watched the supersoldier sprint on a treadmill set to inhuman speeds. “And he ate all of his breakfast.”

“Thank you, Emerson,” Ross said, then watched through the glass.

Even with his limbs moving so fast they were practically a blur, Val could tell the overlarge blue prison uniform did the Soldier’s impressive figure no favors. She noticed something else, surprising, too. “You let him keep the vibranium arm?”

“He uh, he gets a correction if he touches the inhibitory collar with it,” the tech explained. “But he hasn’t. Touched it. A-at least as far as the data shows.”

“Prohibiting the theft of the prosthesis was one of the demands he made in signing the contract,” Ross said.

“You let him legally keep the arm,” Val repeated incredulously, shaking her head. “Oh boy, oh boy, we have some things to work on.”

“He’s been very cooperative,” the tech offered. Val frowned at him, wondering how anyone managed to get ahold of glasses that were so perfectly beady. “He stares pretty intensely during the tests. Especially at me…for some reason. But he’s been completely nonviolent.”

“How long have these types of tests been going on?” Val asked.

“Five days,” Ross said. “He’s been passing every session with flying colors. If that keeps up, he’ll be gone by the end of next week.”

Val laughed, high and sharp. “No, he won’t.”

The tech faltered, clutching his clipboard tight against his chest. Val wondered if he was really that spineless or just smart enough to know when he was in more upstanding company than he’d ever been in his life.

Behind the observation window, the other techs had started powering down the treadmill. The Soldier became less of a motion blur and more of a well-muscled humanoid shape as he slowed down, his long locks plastered with sweat, swinging across his face as he was allowed to come to a full stop.

She could see the silver at the base of his throat, just above his heaving chest. The majority of it was covered by his hair, little strands of which blew outward with his heavy breaths. He dismounted the treadmill without superfluous movement and then stood perfectly still for the techs as they approached.

Jesus Christ on a bicycle, half of the techs were smiling at him as they scanned the collar, like he was a fucking puppy instead of a legendary war machine. One of them asked a question and he turned his eyes over to them, responded quietly, then watched openly and unblinkingly as they wrote something down in a notebook. They didn’t even bother to try and cover the page.

“Okay, first step,” she said, pointing at the window. “That hair has got to go. You can barely see the collar.”

“Any perceived tampering with the inhibitory device sends out an alarm signal to law enforcement and military channels,” Ross said.

“I’m going to have to answer that with a big fat and?”

“And I don’t see what cutting his hair has to do with increasing the safety parameters of the equipment,” Ross said, irritably.

“It doesn’t,” Val said slowly. “It sends a message. And so does letting your dangerous experiment make contractual demands.”

“We didn’t have a choice in that,” Ross said.

She threw her hands up. “So make new choices, now! What is this, gym class? You,” she said to the tech, who tightened up. “Go find a pair of scissors.”

“Uh, yes, Director,” the tech answered, rushing off.

“A haircut is your strategy,” Ross said, dubious.

For someone in his line of work, the man was really clueless. “Secretary Ross,” she said slowly, just to make sure he was paying attention. “We have HYDRA files dating back to World War II. We have instructions on the exact cocktail everyone ever used to keep the Winter Soldier down. What parts of his brain and body to stress and how much, how often. You can make him so, so grateful that you give him even a centimeter of loosened pressure on his choke chain. But first, you have to tighten that choke chain the right way.” She gestured at the observation window, where it all but looked like the techs were engaging in casual conversation with their experiment. “And it’s not friendly field trips to the science lab.”

The door opened and closed, the tech coming up to her, holding out a pair of scissors. They even looked like they were meant for hair. “One of the guys in the break room had these,” he said.

Val folded her arms, quirking her brow. “And what am I supposed to do with those?”

“Uh,” the tech said, eyes helplessly going to Ross.

“Go give that Soldier a haircut,” Val ordered.

The tech lowered the scissors to his side, gripping them tightly. “I uh…I don’t know how to…cut hair.”

Val pinched her nose, tilting her head with a pitying look before she turned her eyes back to Ross. “I guess graduating at the bottom of the class is still technically graduating.”

“Emerson,” Ross said, his gaze going to the shrinking tech. “Please give Mr. Barnes a haircut.”

“Uh, yes, sir,” he said, and awkwardly headed for the door.

“And make him get on his knees for it,” Val added before he could leave.

The tech went pale, but nodded effusively as he exited.

Val sighed. “That is why we need to get my guy in A.S.A.P.,” she said, clapping with each letter.

The Winter Soldier so far had spent the entire time in the lab mostly monosyllabic, reserved in the face of the fawning techs, standing with his back straight and his expression - what little Val could see of it - flat. When the door opened and the scissors-holding tech stepped in, looking nervous, he immediately noticed, zeroing in on the sight. His eyes dropped to the scissors in the tech’s hand, then back up, looking over the clearly stressed posture of the intruder, then settled on the wide eyes set behind those round glasses. He didn’t otherwise move.

“Um, Secretary wants to test some new collar parameters,” the tech announced when the others looked at him. “Mr. Barnes. I have to cut your hair.”

Finally, Val saw a change in expression - he was still hiding behind that curtain of hair but enough of his brow was showing that she could see the lines as it furrowed.

“It’s a new protocol,” the tech said, going shakier the longer he was stared down. “You need to get on your knees.”

Boy, Val had thought the Soldier was reserved before. Now his body had turned to absolute stone, his eyes refusing to leave the hapless tech’s face. He didn’t move, except for a swallowing motion in his throat.

All of the techs were beginning to give each other looks of worry. Ross was checking his phone.

“Some advanced technology,” Val said, watching the Soldier stubbornly refuse his orders.

“He’s getting a low-level correction already,” Ross said, showing her the readings on his phone. “It’ll escalate if he doesn’t appease the AI.”

“Barnes,” the tech said. “On your knees. Now, please.”

The Soldier waited a second longer before he obeyed, all but crashing straight down onto the floor. His back was stiff and straight, and his throat worked on another swallow. He stared up at the tech, who moved over to him slowly. Some of the hair had finally fallen far back enough that Val could see the look in his eyes as the scissors passed in front of them.

He really didn’t like what was happening.

Good.

The tech reached for Barnes’ head, pulling the hair so a small section was outstretched from his skull. Then he started to hesitantly snip into it.

Barnes let it happen, his hands tightly fisted at his sides. The tech, who had absolutely not been lying about his lack of experience, was practically sweating more than Barnes had on the treadmill as the minutes went on and he kept grabbing each new section and cut into it with the scissors practically pressed to the Soldier’s skull, leaving giant patches of long hair that he had to go back over again and again to try and even out. Severed chunks formed a growing pile on the ground around them. As the hair was cut away from it more of the collar was fully revealed, as was the fact that about every tendon was standing out on the Winter Soldier’s neck.

When the tech finally rounded behind Barnes’ head, his next cut was a little too careless - suddenly, the kid was jerking back like he’d been bit.

“Shit, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

The Winter Soldier didn’t give the tech a verbal response; he stayed rigid, eyes directed forward. One of the other lab assistants rushed away and come back with some gauze that they pressed over the section the tech had freaked out over. It came away bright red.

“Ooh,” Val said with a wince of mock sympathy. “Head wounds bleed like a bitch.”

When the techs had fussed over the cut for way too long after the bleeding slowed, Ross leaned forward and pushed the button so his voice would carry into the room. “Finish, please.”

The tech moved on again, now trying to avoid cutting into Barnes’ scalp by pinching the hair between his fingers. The sensation of that pull just seemed to make Barnes coil tighter, swallow more convulsively. But the tactic did keep more blood from spilling as the tech finished off the rest of his scalp and then even went back over the particularly patchy job he’d done on the first pass.

Val kind of wished she’d packed a snack for this show. She was working up an appetite. “This kid deserves a raise,” she proclaimed.

When the tech was finally done, he moved back, looking towards the observation window in desperate hope, his round glasses reflecting the light. Ross pushed a button in front of a microphone that carried his voice loudly into the next room. “Well done, Emerson. You can go.”

The tech eagerly hurried out. Barnes stayed staring forward, the sweaty caveman hair clipped to nothing.

“The rest of you, please continue the session.”

Barnes finally moved again, and it was to turn his head and look directly at Ross, and then Val. Without the hair to hide them his eyes were breathtaking, every hard line of fear and anger painted exquisitely over his expression, his jaw so tight he probably could have chewed through concrete.

Exactly the kind of thing Val had been going for.

Ross straightened in shock at the appraisal. “He shouldn’t be able to see us.”

Val stared back at the Winter Soldier, already tasting victory. “Oh yeah,” she said, pointing a gloved finger. “That right there look like a man who’s ready to cooperate?” She winked at Ross, turning to leave the observation room, pulling her phone out of her coat. “I’ll call up my guy.”

Ross followed her. “You said it yourself that he’s a liability in the field.”

She turned sideways, eyes still on her screen. “Yes, but the foremost reason for that disappeared off the face of the Earth recently.”

“Steve Rogers,” Ross realized.

“He’s out of the picture,” Val said, holding the phone up as her call began to go through. “Thaddeus, remember, I’m not saying you shouldn’t send him out there. Even with all the risks. You’ve never been in a better position to employ a super soldier effectively. And the moment he steps out of line, you just bring him back here for a refresher.” She grinned as the line picked up. “No one else would ever bother sticking their neck on the line for the Winter Soldier.”

Chapter Text

There was a man standing in the alley next to Yori Nakajima's garbage can.

He felt the bubbling of something sharp and hot in his chest. He already had to deal with Unique refusing to pay more for the proper volume for his curbside service and all those ridiculous parties he threw that lasted too far into the night for a respectful neighbor. If someone else had moved in that was going to be taking advantage of Yori, they were going to be very sorry.

"Hey," he snapped as he closed the door behind him, stalking forward.

The man’s head jerked up with wide blue eyes, dark circles set beneath them telling a tale of too-little sleep. When he saw Yori coming he backed up onto the sidewalk, moving so fast he almost stepped out into traffic.

"Keep out of my trash," Yori demanded, stopping beside his receptacle and raising a finger. "If you do not have enough room in yours you should pay for a larger one instead of stealing from me. I am not afraid of fighting a bigger man."

Mouth open, the man looked at Yori's trash can, then blinked several times. "Uh, I'm sorry," he said, his mouth refusing to close even when he was not speaking. "I wasn't trying to put anything in your trash."

Yori looked at him suspiciously. "Then what are you doing out here? Selling drugs?" He had a thick leather jacket with enough pockets that could hide them.

"No, I'm...I was actually about to go buy a phone," the man said, looking down at the ground. “I got a little sidetracked.”

Yori looked at where the man had been staring, and wondered how he had gotten sidetracked by a wall of bricks. "Stay away from smartphones," Yori said. "They rot your brain. And you do not look like you have enough brain already."

The man's face changed at the insult; the wideness to his eyes went away, just a little. "Yeah," he said, bringing a gloved hand up to rub the back of his head, the hair there not too much longer than Yori’s. "I've actually never owned one. Tried social media once on a computer. Was kind of a nightmare."

Yori grunted in agreement. “Too much violence for the boys to find, too much jealousy for the girls. No one needs the entire world to be able to contact them.”

“Tell me about it,” the man muttered. His gloved hand rubbed at the side of his neck, where the shirt he wore beneath another shirt stretched up until it covered most of his throat. “Just seems like it’s a lot more stress than it’s worth.”

Yori nodded in approval at the response, satisfied the man was not about to throw anything into his bin and he could continue with his day. But, just as a final warning, he said, "I will be checking my trash when I get back."

Yori had only taken half a dozen steps when he heard the man call out softly. “Hey.” He paused, looking back as the man rushed up. "Do you know any place around here that’s good for lunch?" The man reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. "I’m kind of new around here, and it's on my to-do list."

Yori frowned in confusion. "You need a to-do list for your lunch?"

The man swallowed, his hand with the paper dropping to his side. In the bright sun the tone of his skin made him look ill. Yori looked him over and decided he did look small for someone so big. Not eating enough in addition to not sleeping, and his face sometimes did an odd twitch when he was not speaking. It could have been drugs, but…

"I'm going to Izzy," Yori said, and then kept walking down the street.

The man did not follow him. Yori stopped at the crosswalk and looked back - the man was just standing there with the list in his hand, his eyes on the ground, people stepping around him and giving him irritated looks for blocking the sidewalk.

He definitely had a rotted brain. But at least he showed respect. "Come on," Yori called, gesturing with his hand when the man glanced up. "Fish is good for you."

The man started walking fast enough to catch up with him. He looked nervous again, his eyes back to being too wide. It reminded Yori of his son before he had started his work - always hesitating, always worried, before he started to believe that he was a man who could do good things. Before his first overseas job he had been so scared of getting on the plane that Yori had gone with him to the airport.

This man had that same look, watching Yori like he expected a slap. He was scared of something, like RJ with the plane.

"I go there every Wednesday," Yori said as the man kept pace beside him. "They have very good service."

They walked another half of a block in silence. "I'm Bucky," the man said then, his voice quiet.

"I am Mr. Nakajima," Yori said.

The scared look was still there. "Mr. Nakajima," Bucky repeated, his eyes going sideways to Yori and then back down to his paper. He cleared his throat loudly. "Uh, do you know somewhere close that I can get a phone?"

"Lunch first," Yori said, neither his brain nor his stomach interested in being distracted from his own schedule.

"Okay," Bucky said, finally putting the paper back into his jacket. "I uh, need to stop by the bank for some money."

"No," Yori said with a sharp shake of his head. "I will buy. You will eat."

"Okay," Bucky said again, not bothering to argue. "Thank you.”

His voice was soft, but there was a sincerity there that Yori appreciated. This man could certainly teach Unique a thing or two.

Izzy was busy, as it always was during lunchtime. Bucky followed Yori through the throng of patrons and over to the bar, looking over at every person in the crowded room as he sat down on his chair so slowly it was like he expected spikes to erupt from it at any moment. His eyes did not stop moving until they rested on Leah, who was gathering an order of sizzling tempura from the kitchen staff to deliver to customers.

“Hi Yori,” Leah greeted, looking to the side just long enough to see him as she organized the plates on a tray. “Morning paper will be up in just a minute. The usual?”

“Double the usual,” Yori said, folding his hands on the counter and relaxing as he anticipated this part of his Wednesday ritual. He looked at Bucky, who was staring very hard at the tempura. “And one extra maki roll.”

Leah turned around with some side plates to accompany the order, noticing Bucky for the first time. “You brought a friend,” she said in some surprise as Bucky drew his eyes away from the plates and looked up at her. “Nice to meet you. I’m Leah. Never seen Yori with a guest before.”

“Bucky,” Bucky said with a nod. He began to smile - a very small one, but it somehow made the rest of his face not look so sick.

“He doesn’t know how to get lunch without help,” Yori explained.

The smile disappeared as Bucky gave Yori a look with his eyebrows pinching the skin of his forehead. “That’s not what happened,” he said in annoyance, voice hushed like he did not want Leah to hear.

“It is exactly what happened,” Yori countered, not bothering to keep his own voice low. He gestured towards Leah, who was reaching for a stack of newspapers. “You can show her your list.”

“List?” Leah asked, head tilting in curiosity as she handed Yori that day’s news.

“It’s just a to-do list,” Bucky said, bringing it out to demonstrate.

Leah raised her eyebrows. “Oh wow, written on paper.” She turned to the shelving on the wall and grabbed a pair of wooden bowls. “Usually I just jot stuff down in an app on my phone.”

“Getting a phone is on his to-do list,” Yori said, opening the newspaper and perusing the headlines.

“Kind of just moved into town,” Bucky said, leaning over the counter to make himself comfortable. “I don’t have a whole lot in my apartment yet.”

“What do you need?” Leah asked, using tongs to fill the bowls with edamame.

Bucky hesitated, long enough that Yori looked over at him. His eyes were staring at nothing. “Everything,” he said, like it was shameful.

Leah placed one bowl of edamame in front of Yori, and the other in front of Bucky. “One of the dusted, huh?” Leah said, her eyes creasing at the edges. “I think the Best Buy down the street is still having a sale on televisions. Just don’t go looking for anyone there to set anything up for you.” She went back to the tray of food she had been preparing when they had come in, picking it up and carrying it off.

Yori grunted in agreement, taking a piece of edamame. “That Best Buy has very poor customer service.”

“Noted,” Bucky said, eyeing his own bowl without reaching for it.

As they waited for the rest of their food Yori finished his appetizer and became engrossed in his first article, which concerned the GRC’s fledgling proposal to relocate the refugees that they had promised to assist to help. He knew there would soon be protests in the streets about that.

When he turned the page, he noticed that Bucky was staring at his newspaper. Yori moved the paper and saw the article posted on the outside was for an upcoming ceremony to honor Captain America, to be televised across the country later that week. “Would you like to read it?”

“No,” Bucky said quickly, drawing back in his seat. He still had not touched his edamame. “Sorry. Don’t let me distract you.”

“Okay,” Yori said, not believing in his disinterest. He folded the paper and turned it over to the article in question. He did not pay much attention to anything to do with the Avengers unless their affairs were directly on his doorstep, but Bucky wanted to know what it said. “Then I will read it out loud.”

Bucky listened quietly while Yori read about how among all of the Avengers, living or deceased, the one that no one knew exactly the fate of was Steve Rogers. Any inquiries towards his teammates were met with answers of secrecy, confusion and loss. He was assumed to be gone forever, so they were organizing an event to honor him.

“They are still saying it is not a funeral,” Yori said, finding himself glad that for once he had someone he could speak his complaints to. “The Black Widow had no body to find but they announced her death anyway. This is a funeral for Captain America. Why can’t they say it?” He tapped the newspaper with the back of his hand. “There’s no closure here.”

Bucky licked his lips, his forehead wrinkled, his eyes upon his gloved hands. He did not give his opinion, or any other words.

Yori slowly set the paper aside, seeing how the news had upset Bucky and deciding to save reading the other articles for later.

“Do you like sake?” Yori asked, disliking the somber mood his company had taken, and not wanting to order it unless it would be well received.

Bucky turned his eyes to Yori - they were so blue and shining with great emotion, but there were no tears. “Uh,” Bucky said, then exhaled a quick breath, his gaze moving away again. “Yeah. Yeah, I like sake.”

Leah had grabbed the first pair of rolls to bring to their spot, placing one in front of Yori and one in front of Bucky. She was smiling widely. “We actually have your favorite in stock,” she said, moving towards the bottles without needing to be asked.

“Another reason to like this place,” Yori said to Bucky. “They do not mark up their drinks to absurd prices.”

“We try,” Leah said as she poured a couple of servings. “Sometimes the shipping makes it hard. But Yori doesn’t like any of the US-made brands.” She beamed at Bucky as she gave them their glasses. “He must really like you. Only ever drinks when he’s in a good mood.”

“Huh,” Bucky said, consideringly, then blinked as if he was coming awake from sleep. He glanced at Yori out of the corner of his eye, hesitant. At least it no longer seemed like his voice had been stolen.

Yori shrugged, reaching for his first helping of sushi with his chopsticks. “Don’t let it go to your head.” He neatly inserted the piece into his mouth and began chewing.

Bucky did not remove his gloves or reach for his chopsticks. He stayed with his spine curved, staring at his roll instead of eating it, just as he had done with the edamame.

Yori did not understand. Why ask about a good place for lunch if he had no plans to eat? If he did not like sushi, they were going to have a problem.

“I hope you are not going to let my money go to waste,” Yori commented, picking up his second piece.

He waited for an announcement of rejection for the food, but that did not happen. Instead Bucky took a deep breath and finally picked up his chopsticks, slowly, as if they were great tree trunks instead of tiny utensils. He reached for his first roll, carefully raising the end piece, his shoulders relaxing more and more the closer it came up to his face. He popped it quickly into his mouth, eyes closed as he began chewing gratefully before swallowing it down.

So he did, in fact, enjoy sushi.

“Actually,” Bucky said, already reaching eagerly for his second helping, “I was waiting for you to start back up with that paper.”

Yori gladly reached for the newspaper. It was nice to have someone to speak with who so clearly knew how to listen.

Bucky not only enjoyed the sushi, but he went back for the bowl of edamame and ate every single one of Yori’s other choices for their order, including the extra roll Yori had purchased for him. He enjoyed sipping his sake and hearing Yori read the rest of the news articles in the day’s paper, genuinely agreeing whenever Yori mentioned the sad state of the world.

He also very, very much enjoyed looking at Leah when she was not looking at him.

“Walking after your meal is good,” Yori said as they exited Izzy together. After the large amount of food Bucky had consumed, he would probably need it to help his stomach settle. “You will find the phone store four blocks down that way.”

“Thanks, Mr. Nakajima,” Bucky said. He was smiling, his hand in the pocket with his list. “I promise I’ll keep my distance from your can.”

“You had better,” Yori said. After a moment of deliberation, he said, “Call me Yori.”

Bucky licked his lips, his neck bending as he looked down. There was a flash on his face of something that reminded Yori of how he had looked after hearing the Captain America newspaper article.

“Yori,” he repeated, then stiffened his shoulders, backing away. “I’ll get you back for the sushi the next time I see you.”

“Fine,” Yori said, waving him off. “I will never complain about extra money.”

They parted to go about their separate days.

Despite his response, Yori was not sure if he would ever hear from or see Bucky again, even though he was fairly certain they lived in the same building. He had not given him the meal with the expectation of receiving anything in return, but he found he had enjoyed his lunch much more when taking it with someone. Leah often spoke with him when she had time, but as Izzy was her place of business she had many other customers to spread her attention between.

But then he found a sealed envelope on the floor just inside the door to his apartment later that evening as he was about to leave to head out to the market for groceries. There was cash inside of it, and a note. Thanks again for lunch.

Yori pocketed the money, confused. He had not even heard anyone come to the door.

At the market, he ran into Leah as he was coming in, finding her with her cart full of supplies for her restaurant.

"Hi Yori," she said. "That guy you were with earlier? He came back before we closed and gave me a little bit of an extra tip.”

“Did he stay?” Yori asked. He found he did not mind the thought of Bucky trying to court Leah, especially now that he knew he was a man of his word.

“No,” Leah said. “He actually left fast. Like, really fast. Said he was late for something? I don’t know, he kind of ran out, literally, before I could ask him about it. Where'd you find him?"

"By my trash," Yori answered, pushing his cart down the aisle.

Leah’s laugh followed him as he moved away. "Well, bring him back around sometime if you find him there again. He was cute."

Yori grunted in response. Bucky liked Leah, and he was as respectful of her as he was of Yori. Maybe his brain was not so rotted after all.

They stopped letting him eat solid food six days in.

He didn’t know what had prompted it; didn’t even remember the order being given. All he knew was that one morning they’d given him his tray of breakfast and he’d stood from his cot and moved towards it, ready for one of the only moments of peace he would get in his day.

The collar had started up. He’d frozen immediately, fully accustomed to the noise preceding a punishment, and the behavior he needed to enact to stall it. He’d looked towards the tray of food, simple eggs and toast with a side of fruit, sitting just out of reach, while his stomach growled and ached. He'd been in a calorie deficit since his incarceration, a fact not helped by the few times he'd been stressed into hunger strikes.

He waited, wondering if it was a timing thing, but the collar didn't let up its warning. When he’d taken a step back, testing, it had fully stopped.

The tray was taken from the cell after that, the tech photographing the untouched food before it was removed.

Later, when they let him break from the calibration sessions for lunch, it was the same thing; a warning when he went for the food, this time some kind of sandwich, and a correction that heralded worse when he tried a little harder.

He didn’t even look towards the tray at dinner.

They didn’t have plans to let him starve, but he hadn’t known that yet. Instead, there would be a table with straps, and a jug of viscous white fluid. Weigh-ins and jotted down notes, his hunger rising exponentially as more and more time passed.

And every day, three times a day, he was exposed to a tray laden with increasingly appetizing food: the bland breakfasts turned to sugar-dusted pastries or large bowls of oatmeal with heapings of sliced fruit and pats of butter, while the lunch sandwiches became more elaborate, with sides of pasta or food fried in crispy batter, and the dinners became steaming vegetables and seasoned potatoes and large cuts of juicy, glazed meat.

He sat on his cot, and salivated, staring at the wall until each one was taken away.

Chapter Text

A small jar of artisan peanut butter sweetened with honey and a nondescript black flip phone rested just inches apart on the counter in Bucky’s apartment. It was hard to tell exactly which of those items was more of a joke.

He stood in the kitchen, staring at both for a long time, before his stomach gave an answer for him in a miserable, gurgling rumble. He’d had all of one meal since his release, and that was his lunch with Yori Nakajima the previous day.

Yori Nakajima. A man whose son had died, begging and afraid, by the Winter Soldier’s ruthless and obedient efficiency.

RJ Nakajima’s identification had been presented to HYDRA in the wake of his death. They had double-checked for relatives, finding the only living next of kin his father, the widower Yori Nakajima, whose residence was in Brooklyn, New York. He and his son had both been dismissed as inconsequential, and the Winter Soldier’s memory of both of them would afterwards be obliterated in a surge of lancing electricity.

Now that those pathways in his brain had healed, Bucky remembered Yori’s existence and the significance of it just as he remembered the sound of RJ’s trembling hands as they’d scrabbled at the hotel door. He’d picked his own apartment’s location as a symbol to himself.

The guilt from their meeting had nearly swallowed him whole. In retrospect he was definitely crazy, thinking there was anything he could offer a man whose son he’d murdered. He hadn’t exactly planned on the encounter, but he hadn’t tried to stop it.

It had just…caught him off guard, having an interaction with someone who had neither ulterior motives nor invasive control over the path his life would take. He’d been operating that way every waking moment for a long time. More of his living years than not, at that point.

The longer they’d talked at Izzy, the more he’d felt the harsh grip of anxiety on his shoulders stop raking through his skin, leaving behind a cloud of relief. He convinced himself that giving Yori some friendly company was better than having ignored him altogether.

The experience of his body finally receding from its starvation state for a few hours wasn’t any less comforting. The brain fog that had followed him for weeks had almost immediately dispersed, giving him more of the strength he’d needed to finish his errands. He’d picked up the phone, a TV, a router and modem, and a sofa chair so he could put one of its cushions on the floor with a blanket - like he and Steve had done when they were kids. He’d even made sure to give back to Yori and Leah before the collar’s curfew activated at the end of the day.

Now, he was back to being hungry in addition to being alone and underslept. He kept wondering what the hell he was doing while stalling in doing anything at all. It felt like something as simple as even a single additional scrape against his skin would be the thing that finally broke him. Again.

It was like he’d never left.

The collar hadn’t given him a warning when he’d taken the jar out of his sparse bag of groceries. He was still heavily uneasy. Being underfed didn’t help his fight or flight instincts, but he also just wanted to do everything he physically could to avoid a correction.

It was fine. Probably. The collar had been dormant the entire time at Izzy. There was no reason to think it was going to drop him now. If they’d wanted him to starve to death they would have kept him at the black site.

He reached for his neck with his right hand. He didn't want to risk it yet. He had too many things he wanted to do, and getting possibly debilitated by an electric shock would postpone all of them.

He left the kitchen, deciding to set up the TV., first. Then the internet. He tinkered with a few more electronics he’d purchased to modify for future use. Kept glancing at the abandoned jar as the morning stretched on and promising his raging stomach he’d try the food eventually.

Sometime after noon, footsteps approached his apartment. He froze, looking at the handful of items strewn about the floor, before telling himself his government-appointed therapist had been the one to suggest he pick up supplies for himself. He didn’t have anything worth hiding quite yet, and if the person coming to the door had authority over the collar, they could expect him to answer within a certain timeframe.

He gulped, the metal pressing harder into his throat, and warily dragged himself up, frowning when he realized the sound of footsteps was already moving away. When he unlocked and opened it, no one was outside - but there was a package on the floor, addressed to him. He recognized the handwriting on the outside of the box almost immediately.

He looked around in confusion before he reached down for it, grasping it and pulling the door shut as he retreated back inside, firmly turning the lock. Then he ripped off the tape, pulling the top of the cardboard open.

There was a notebook inside, sitting next to a velvet pouch. And on top of both, a note written in the same familiar handwriting.

I should have given you these in person, but I didn’t trust the government to let you keep them once your trial was over. So I had them scheduled to be delivered when you finally settled somewhere.

I put the notebook together after I got out of the ice. Thought you could use a rundown of history’s greatest hits. I know things will probably be confusing for a while. This might be a good place to start. It was for me, at least.

Take care of yourself, Buck. The world needs people like you.

Bucky swallowed roughly and read the note over again. Then he slowly set it aside and reached for the pouch, hearing a gentle metallic clink from the contents as it was raised. He pulled at the drawstring on one end, loosening it, and reached inside to pull out a pair of dog tags. He stared at them, overcome as he realized they were his.

Where the hell had Steve even picked them up? They couldn’t have been the ones he’d lost. They were some kind of replica, maybe, that Steve had either had made or - probably more likely - had stolen at some point. Bucky hadn’t seen any hint of tags on the mannequin wearing his costume in the Smithsonian exhibit.

He pulled the chain with both of his hands, stretching it so it would slide over his head, pulling it down beneath the fabric around his throat. The chain chimed against the collar, and he carefully adjusted it with his right hand so it was sitting below the other piece of metal around his neck. The details of the person he’d been, resting close to his heart.

He picked up the notebook next, gently thumbing it open through his increasingly blurry vision. Saw more of Steve’s handwriting inside, the long list of items he’d crossed off on page after page. Bucky blinked repeatedly, looking through each subject and committing them to memory. Sniffed, then got to his feet. He had his own list he wanted to add to the pages.

It wasn’t until evening when he pulled himself back up, eyes burning and head aching as he crossed the short distance to the kitchen. He set the notebook down and drank some water straight out of the tap, cupping it in his hand and slurping it down before he splashed more on his face. Then he stepped back to the counter with the bag of groceries and the single jar of peanut butter still sitting out.

He clenched his left hand against the counter, the right reaching up to gently press at the fabric around his neck. No vibrations.

If he was just being an idiot about this…

He reached forward and gently grasped the jar. Unscrewed the lid. Ripped off the protective plastic sealing the rim. Stared into it and took in the aroma, the hint of honey, his mouth watering as his stomach felt like it was trying to gnaw its way through his abdomen.

The collar began to buzz.

Jolted, he nearly dropped the jar onto the counter and rapidly backed away, swallowing hard, his right hand going clammy. The collar didn’t quiet.

“I’m not going to eat it,” he said in a frustrated panic, then in the next instant was seizing with a punishment shock, collapsing down hard to the floor.

He went limp when it was over, throat on fire and limbs shaking. His nausea bubbled up as he tried to recount the events of the day all the way back to that morning, hurt of a different kind reawakening as he remembered the package and note from Steve.

All memories were intact, as far as he could tell. He shut his stinging eyes, grimacing as he rolled painfully over onto his side. Belatedly, he realized that the collar probably hadn’t been reacting to the food, but the scheduled evening curfew.

He didn’t dare to double check if he was right. Instead he curled up on the floor of his kitchen, cheek against the tile, catching his breath through his sore throat as the sweat cooled on his skin.

Looked like he was down for another night. At least the door was locked, for all the flimsy protection that offered.

God-fucking-dammit. So much for the cushion he’d bought.

He ate the entire jar of peanut butter the next morning.

Steve had told him to take care of himself - well, apparently taking care of himself involved desperately consuming calories to feed his starving body after accidentally enforcing another several hours of fasting. He went through nearly an entire bag of apples next, until his body had finally stopped screaming from at least one source of his distress.

He could eat. He could eat.

He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, and went back to the sink for more water. His heart was pounding, his mind not able to give up on the wariness trained into him at the black site.

He could eat. Whenever he wanted. Maybe even after curfew, if he kept snacks within reach.

The thought almost made him laugh. There was nothing funny about it. He'd spent the majority of the night awake, hypervigilant, wondering if someone would come for him. If they had, they would have seen Steve's letter and the notebook. He wouldn't have been able to stop them from taking either.

The notebook was now firmly in his pocket. The letter was still in the box, sitting on the floor where Bucky had left it. He walked into the living room and reached down, gingerly picking up the paper just so he could read Steve's message. His eyes got caught on the last line.

The world needs people like you.

He looked towards his front door, and took a deep breath.

Steve Rogers, motivating as ever. Even after he was gone.

Bucky spent the week slowly reacclimating to the city of Brooklyn. He kept his list in his pocket at all times, along with Steve’s note and notebook. Made sure that he kept his hands and neck hidden from the public eye, moved quietly, and avoided unnecessary attention. Started to look into the most conveniently positioned targets who’d had direct offers from HYDRA and were still underhandedly operating off of the success of those deals.

Through it all, he watched as the cracked memories of his past were overlaid with the current version of the streets and buildings and people.

He wasn’t being watched or followed during that time. That didn’t mean that wouldn’t change at a moment’s notice.

But they’d released him, contractually. He was allowed to be outside. Allowed to wander the city and beyond, within reason. Allowed to feed himself. Allowed to stand in the sun and breathe in the smog and avoid wandering too close to any law enforcement.

He gathered more supplies. A laptop. Toiletries so he could shower. More clothes, including those that would cover up the metal on his neck. And then, fresh food - fruit, protein, snacks. Densely caloric items to make up for his previous deprivation. Nothing he needed to cook.

Even after that, he kept wondering if the collar was suddenly going to remember the other rules it had been taught at the black site and spontaneously reimplement them. He didn’t know why things had gotten more lenient for his food intake - if it was because of what the Doc had said during his first therapy appointment, or if during his discharge from the facility the command to keep him from eating had been dropped.

Maybe they just knew he’d operate the best if he had adequate nutrition. Even his enhanced body couldn’t keep the physical weakness from slowing it down when the starvation state was prolonged enough.

Every meal still felt like he was playing a game of roulette where it was just a matter of time before he eventually landed on the space that put his body through agonizing damage. But he managed. He had to move forward. Because if he didn't, they might as well have kept him buried.

At the end of the week, he finally got the answer to his question as to what purpose the phone could be used for when a bus passed him, bearing a banner reminding him of the Captain America special that would be airing that afternoon. The edge of the advertisement held an image of the shield.

He stared at it as it drove away, a deep pang in his chest.

He stood in the kitchen for a long time when he got back to his apartment, staring at the phone on the counter. He hadn’t even bothered to take it with him on any of his outings, though he knew the Doc would probably want proof of it during his upcoming appointment.

He knew Sam Wilson’s personal number; it had been rattled off to him in a hurry before their parting, Sam having an idea about Bucky’s superhuman working memory from all his time spent with Steve.

He’d kept it in his mind. But the situation with the phone had been too much of an unknown for him to risk making any kind of a concrete plan for contact before then. He was navigating behaviors that might or might not bring suspicion down on him. He’d picked up a burner phone, knowing that even with any subsequent home checks he could effectively hide it. They couldn’t make the goddamn collar read his mind, at least; it heard orders, but if there weren’t specifics attached to them, his own choices and interpretations were fair game.

Besides, burner phones were perfectly legal, and getting one hadn’t hurt anyone. That counted to the two new rules set by his therapist.

And those had been written down instead of spoken out loud. He was fairly sure the collar couldn’t read. But he’d never asked.

He ground his teeth, frustration and fear a hot core inside of him. Sometimes he thought he had a handle on the piece of hardware around his neck; other times, he wondered if he knew the game at all.

He still had to admit that things were a hell of a lot easier, despite his paper thin veneer of calm over the possibilities of how shit could go south. Other than his blunder after getting Steve’s package, he hadn’t experienced any of the more severe corrections the collar could implement since his release.

But he knew better to expect that his new handlers were done making their point. Or to think he didn’t deserve any of it, after everything.

He felt his face spasm and viciously turned his thoughts away from that path. Even if he was damned and nothing would change the things he’d done for HYDRA, he didn’t just want to sit back. Especially now that Sam was out there, somewhere, holding the shield. All that was left of Steve’s legacy.

Bucky had to do something with his time to prove Steve right.

He inputted Sam’s number into the phone. Started to send a text to it. Stopped before he’d typed more than two letters.

What the fuck was he going to say? Hey, the President gave me a pardon, but if you’re still worried about me snapping and killing anyone, don’t, because on top of the Wakandans fixing the triggers, the government put an inhibitory collar around my neck that can send enough volts through my body to stop my-

He closed his eyes, setting the phone back down.

Who was he kidding? Sam probably had his own missions to worry about. Carrying Steve’s mantle was a heavy responsibility. He didn’t need what Bucky was carrying along with it.

But the shield… the shield was a target that Bucky had put everything on the line for, again and again. He didn’t want to stop now; but more than that, he didn’t have the right.

He swallowed, metal pressing into his bobbing throat as he opened his eyes. The pang in his chest had come back, stronger than ever.

He picked up the phone decisively. Slammed it down again. Picked it back up. Just sent - It’s Bucky before he could change his mind

He immediately got an alert back. I’m busy at the moment. I’ll text or call you back later.

(I’m not receiving notifications. If this is urgent, reply “urgent” to send a notification through with your original message.)

Bucky put the phone down, sighing through his nostrils. He could wait. Sam would text him back or call him, just as the automated message said. It would be awkward if it was after curfew, but he could keep the phone close enough to make it work. Sam didn’t even need to know about all of the conditions surrounding Bucky’s pardon. And whatever his handlers had planned, Bucky didn’t see how offering to help out the new Cap put the world at ease would set any fresh marks against him.

He could do this. He was going to do this.

It wouldn’t be so bad.

Three hours later, sitting on the floor in front of his television, mouth agape as he watched Sam verbally and publicly reject the shield before handing it over to the government, Bucky realized he was completely, utterly wrong.

Chapter Text

As he’d promised, James Barnes showed up for his second therapy appointment on time.

Physically, at least. There was an argument to be made for mentally, especially when he didn’t bother to look at or so much as acknowledge Christina at the door, instead heading right for the couch when he was invited in. And once he reached that he sank down onto the cushions, staring straight ahead, gloved hands resting on his thighs. She took her own seat, noting that his gaze didn’t shift even infinitesimally as she crossed his vision.

She took a moment to look him over before starting. He was wearing a different turtleneck, a new pair of jeans. Another jacket. All black, except for the grey shirt he wore between layers. Above the outfit, his face was practically just as grey, the marks under his eyes even more sunken than last time, the hollowness of his cheeks more pronounced. His hair also looked markedly longer even though it had just been a week, sitting on his head in unkempt spikes. She wondered if he had a supersoldier growth rate to that on top of everything.

“Mr. Barnes, I appreciate that you’ve made the effort to adhere to our schedule,” she said, because she had to give credit where credit was due if the headspace he was in was anything like the way it looked.

He kept his eyes on the wall.

“I take it that by your timely arrival you managed to pick up some of the items we discussed last time?”

No answer. No part of him moved, except his chest as he took in slow, regular breaths.

“Mr. Barnes?” she tried. He kept staring. She let her voice sharpen. “James? James!”

His eyes twitched. The leather of his gloves creaked as his hands curled into fists. “Yeah,” he said, like the word was dragged from him. His voice was quiet and gravelly. His eyes kept their position.

“Phone?” she asked. He didn’t answer. She spoke more sternly. “I’d like to see it, if you don’t mind.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a flip phone without hesitation or comment. She held her hand out, wanting a better look.

“Toss it to me,” she said.

He did, judging the distance so perfectly without looking that it would have landed squarely in her lap even if she hadn’t been able to make a simple catch.

The phone was completely devoid of bells and whistles that most people preferred with that aspect of their lives. She was a little impressed with his choice; God knew she got distracted by her own device’s apps way more than she’d like. The model he’d chosen looked especially durable - though probably not when compared to the man with an arm made of the strongest metal on Earth. She figured it was reasonably cheap, too.

She was surprised to find a text history. He’d not only bought the phone, but he’d used it. “You reached out to someone,” she said.

He didn’t speak to confirm or deny it. When she opened the messaging menu and looked deeper into the exchange, she was less surprised; it consisted of one terrible attempt at a greeting followed by complete silence as the other party responded in increasingly worried messages.

It’s Bucky

Hey man, glad to hear from you. I heard about the pardon. Congratulations.

You doing all right?

Please don’t tell me you texted me and then blew up or something.

There were missed calls on the phone, and a voicemail - all from the same number. With her normal clients she wouldn’t normally be this invasive, but with his unique history, the comprehensiveness of her evaluatory methods for James almost mandatorily involved overreaching.

“You didn’t listen to the message he left,” she noted. “Do you mind if I play it?”

James did the swallowing behavior he’d frequently presented at their last appointment. He didn’t give a yes or no.

“James?”

Nope. Nada.

She didn’t technically need his permission, which she’d warned him about during their previous appointment before he’d headed out. Was he sulking over that?

She hit play, and held the phone to her ear. A man’s voice came out of the small speakers. “Hey, it’s Sam. Do you need help? You know the staring and nodding thing doesn’t really work over the phone without facetime, right? You have to use words.”

She looked up pointedly at James after that statement - he apparently had at least one other person in his life that was willing to call him out. His expression stayed closed-off, though she knew he had sensitive enough hearing that he was perfectly capable of understanding every word that came out.

“Look, I’m gonna need some kind of hint that you’re still alive and not about to go on a murder spree. Sketchy behavior like this is exactly the kind of thing that would make a guy nervous. Just, call me back, or text me something, okay? Anything.”

The message ended. Christina looked at James. “I take it you didn’t want to call him back,” she said.

There might have been a change in the tightness around his eyes. Maybe. He’d given her the phone when she’d asked, so she knew he was still taking in information at least somewhat.

She sighed, reaching for her notebook. “Okay, while blowing off whoever Sam is doesn’t count as a violation of your pardon, trying to ignore your therapist for ninety five percent of our session does. James, you have to participate in these appointments, or I have to take notes on just how badly you’re messing up.”

He swallowed convulsively and shut his eyes, looking like he wanted to sink into the couch and disappear. Not quite the verbal response she needed.

Well, she had her orders.

Almost as soon as she unclicked her pen and started writing, James popped his eyes back open. “Stop,” he said, his voice so faint she could barely hear it. “Stop.” She thought she saw a tremor run through his right hand.

He really hadn’t liked that. She stopped, sighing, but kept her pen hovered over the page. The thing that would help him and the thing he needed to do for the terms of his pardon were the same in this instance - unfortunately, he hadn’t exactly volunteered for the condition. She could bend the rules here and there for him, but she herself could end up in deep shit if anyone found out, and completely fabricating an entire session was out of the question.

He’d signed the pardon. He knew what he had to do.

She gave him another chance, her tone letting him know this was his last chance to stop the bullshit. “Do you want to reach out to Sam?”

The flat dullness to his expression was still cemented in place, and his eyes didn’t change position. “Why?”

“Because he seems like a person who wants to be friends with you despite knowing your history. Or is at least still willing to do half the work.”

“He’s not my friend,” James said to the wall.

“Believe it or not, I kind of guessed that based on the fact that you didn’t even give a sliver of effort in responding to him,” she said. “You contacted him first. I don’t think that was an accident.”

“It was a mistake,” James insisted.

“Look, what you do with your specific personal relationships is only something I can make suggestions on. But if you’re looking for somewhere to start? This Sam seems like a good place.” James didn’t overtly react, but there was a flare of something freshly angry in the blue of his eyes - it slipped away almost as soon as she saw it. She frowned, closing up the phone. “By the way, don’t think I haven’t noticed you haven’t programmed my number in here, yet.”

She threw it back. He caught it without even looking, slowly lowering it into his lap.

“Well, if you’re that unwilling to discuss Sam, let’s talk about something else. How have you been sleeping?”

“Fine.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Do you want to try that again?”

“Why are you even bothering to ask if you already know?” he demanded, then clenched his eyes shut, his shoulders drooping. “Sorry,” he said, almost sounding defeated. His right hand sought out his left, the fingers threading together. “I’m…I’m working on it.”

“Good,” she said, not commenting on either his outburst or his reflexive backtrack. “As much as I’d like you to boost your social life, sleep should be at least minimally on even standing in importance. The psychological improvements you’d get from that alone can’t be understated.”

He clenched his jaw, blinking his eyes back open; his gaze sought that same spot on the wall. “I’ll do better,” he said.

“I can give you some tips for sleep hygiene if you’d like to try any of those,” she offered. “Do you usually try to keep to a schedule?”

“I don’t have any other option,” he muttered.

“Well, good,” she said, a little surprised he was taking any approach at all. “It’s better to keep doing that, in the longer run.” His face twitched. “What about sleep disturbances? Nightmares?”

He didn’t respond. Bingo. “We work through a lot of the emotions that come about from our day when we sleep,” she said. “Having that disrupted is major.”

“I don’t need that much of it,” he said with a shrug.

“You definitely need more than you’re getting,” she said, not impressed by the tough guy routine. “Unfortunately, I don’t think the pharmaceutical industry has any viable options for a supersoldier metabolism. But there’ve been some promising behavioral therapies for veterans. I’ll look into them for you.”

“Thank you,” he said, not sounding thankful at all.

She shook her head, tapping her pen against the notebook page. “James,” she said, exasperated.

He licked his lips, and spoke with an undercurrent of strain. “Just tell me what you want me to do.” The way he talked, she realized he wasn’t just being belligerent or dense - he sounded practically desperate.

“I don’t think I’ve been unclear so far,” she said. “We’re trying to get you into a place where you eventually don’t have to be constantly monitored. To do that, you have to build trust and keep it.” She set her pen down, crossing one leg over the other. “But here’s the brutal truth: all of that? Is more for the people that want to put you away forever. Even if it sucks, it’s going to be the easiest part of your job. It might not even count for jack shit for you as James Barnes the person.”

Finally his eyes moved in her direction, ever so slightly. They didn’t quite land anywhere on her body.

She went on. “What you do around that in your day by day? That’s going to be what really keeps you going. But you have to put effort into it. You have to talk to your therapist. And, I know, that’s way more difficult than following a couple of simple rules. But the truth is, the government doesn’t give a single solitary fuck whether you stick around or send yourself to an early grave, as long as you don’t do the same to anyone else. They don’t care if you live a fulfilling life.”

He huffed, throat bobbing. His hands clenched harder together. “Yeah, I got that message.”

“Which means it’s all on you,” she said, refusing to sugarcoat it. “Are you willing to put in that work? Or should I just be making sure you’re not going to fire a bullet into anyone else’s chest?”

“Wow,” James said, visibly wincing. “You’re…” He didn’t finish, shaking his head.

“Go ahead,” she prompted encouragingly. “Say what’s on your mind. I guarantee it’s going to get you less written up than any of your selective mutism behavior.”

He stayed quiet for another beat. “Pretty fucking awful, is what I was going to say,” he admitted, then turned his eyes farther away from her, a little like he was cringing back into the couch.

“So you are capable of genuine emotion,” Christina said, demonstratively setting her notebook aside so he could register the brief truce even despite his insult. She’d heard a lot worse in her career. “How about it, Mr. Barnes? Ready to slog your way to attempt even a marginally better mental state?”

Slowly, like he was still waiting for the firing squad to take aim, he looked down at his phone where it was sitting in his lap. The silence stretched, but unlike before, his expression didn’t stagnate in that numbness. His forehead creased, his eyes going rounder, the change bleeding more and more into his expression until she found herself surprised there weren’t tears falling down his face. When he answered her, his voice was soft and small, beaten down by that emotion as much as his expression.

“What happens if I say no?”

Chapter Text

Nine days into the calibration sessions, they took the vibranium arm.

There was no announcement. No warning. He’d been doing everything they’d ordered him to do, even if sometimes he hadn’t understood it. Even if sometimes he’d understood it all too perfectly well.

After his breakfast had been removed uneaten, Secretary Ross had entered his cell with a full dozen guards and the shorter laboratory technician with the small round glasses that made Bucky feel like there was a livewire in his chest every time he was nearby.

The technician was carrying a large silver case. Bucky watched as it was placed on the ground in front of him, while in his periphery the guards took up spots against the cell walls, the visors on their protective helmets aimed in his direction.

The latches of the case were undone, and it was opened, revealing that it was empty except for a foam interior, indented in a familiar size and shape.

Ross didn’t bother with any niceties. “We’re going to need you to surrender the arm.”

Bucky stayed seated on his cot, clothed in nothing but prison scrubs and a collar, unwilling to move. His head was aching from lack of food and too-little fluids, but it would take a lot longer before his mental capacity diminished enough to not know the significance of what was happening.

“You signed the paperwork, Barnes,” Ross said after another minute had passed without a response. “Don’t tell me you’re trying to back out, now.”

He could feel the tension rising in the guards around him. He didn’t move; didn’t give them a reason to attack. But he didn’t give in. He’d made demands in that contract, too.

“It’s not yours,” was all he said, voice husky from disuse and dehydration. He kept his hands limp in his lap.

Ross smiled tightly, taking a step towards Bucky, meeting him stare for stare. “We’ll honor your wishes that the arm remain untampered with. Right now its temporary removal is required for staff protection during the next stage of calibrations. It’ll be returned to you once we have sufficient proof that you’re reasonably contained when wearing the collar.”

Bucky kept himself stone still, part of his attention on Ross and the guards, the other on the tech waiting for the case to be filled. “And if I’m not?”

A frown crossed Ross’s face, as if he was offended that Bucky even had the capacity to know that was a possibility. “Then we’ll return it to its original owners.”

Those words were probably true, if only because the last thing Ross needed was to get into hot water with a severely technologically advanced power like Wakanda. Bucky was still heavily reluctant. He knew how easy it was for people to mean things in the moment, then change their minds. Vibranium was too tempting and incredible a resource to give up without a fight.

Ross’s expression hardened at the continued silence. “Barnes,” he said warningly, “I’m not asking.”

The collar began to buzz, that now familiar sting digging into his throat. Bucky’s nostrils flared in instinctive response as his heart rate jumped, his hands clenching as he tried to ride out the feeling.

One shock would drop him, physically and mentally. He was already well beyond ‘reasonably contained.’ Aside from that, if he did manage to harm any of them, he would be legally signing his freedom away. They didn’t need to take the arm.

The guards around him had raised their guns. Even if he was incapacitated - or dead - they wouldn’t be able to get the arm off of him themselves, unless they carved it from his body.

The silence stretched as they waited to see what he would do.

He knew he didn’t have any real choice. That didn’t mean that this wasn’t a failure, another mark of his ineptitude to keep himself from being manipulated. The arm had been a gift from the Wakandans, and here he was, not strong enough or smart enough or brave enough to hold onto it. Just like he hadn’t been strong enough or smart enough or brave enough to keep his brain from getting turned inside out for 70 years.

He shut his eyes and reached up, tapping at the smooth vibranium surface, hard. The cell cameras would be on him to view his method of removal, but that didn’t matter; it only worked with his personal biometrics for authentication. He felt the arm shut down as he prodded the right spots, wincing at the discomfort and the jolt of his own stomach sinking as he lost all sensation and it fell limp at his side.

He hesitated for a moment, unbalanced by the feeling of the dead arm, all too aware of the eyes on him even though his own were closed.

He took a deep breath, and then resolutely pushed the final plate up that would trigger its complete release from his shoulder. The weight disconnected from his body, and he carefully cupped it in the aftermath so it wouldn’t fall to the floor.

Only then did he open his eyes, returning himself to the filled cell, the guns aimed at his head and body, and the tech who looked too much like the person who’d made him what he was.

Ross nodded downwards, towards the case. The collar was still sending warning, stinging vibrations against Bucky’s skin.

Slowly, he rose to his feet and stepped forward, staring at the lines of gold in the arm as he placed it delicately against the cushions, fitting it snugly into place.

“It’s the strongest metal known to man, not a piece of porcelain,” Ross dryly remarked.

Bucky took the hint. He released the arm and straightened back up, staring as the case was closed and locked by the tech, the bright lights of his cell reflecting off the circular glasses as it was lifted and carried away.

The air at Bucky’s left side felt empty, light. Defenseless. His heart was pounding in his ears. Ross had signed the contract, but he’d have lawyers, people that could find loopholes in any demand Bucky had made. He might never get the arm back.

It didn’t change the fact that Bucky’s only option was to either do what they wanted or stay locked up forever when they proved that he couldn’t.

The collar finally quieted, without any visible orders from Ross or the guards around him. Bucky stayed in position, waiting for whatever was next.

“All right, Barnes,” Ross said, nodding to the guards as he turned back to the cell door. “These men are escorting you to the final steps in the calibrations. I’ll check in on your progress in a few days.”

What was next turned out to be a long walk down hall after hall and into a large elevator. They weren’t going to the usual lab.

Where they stopped was at a room with an unlabeled door of thick, reinforced metal. The guard at the front pressed a key card against it, and the sound of a large lock being undone clacked roughly before it was pushed open.

Inside, the room was all grey solid walls against a cement floor, the color only broken by the white lights in the ceiling.

It was large enough to house a metal table, a metal bench, a metal chair, a large metal box with holes all along its sides, and still leave plenty of open room for the guards that were with him and more.

Most of the equipment was covered in metal clamps and thick leather straps.

Bucky stopped, his body tightening up; the collar began immediately buzzing, demanding his submission. The guards did the same, grabbing at his shoulders and marching him into the room, forcing him to keep his obedient pace.

There was a man inside already, dressed in black tactical pants and a black t-shirt, rummaging through some devices laid out on a table. He was well built, as tall as Bucky, with a strong jaw, beard and brown hair - and if he hadn’t had access to a supersoldier serum there was definitely some kind of drug use occurring to facilitate at least some of that muscle growth. Bucky doubted it was for medical purposes. He looked up with a grin as Bucky was pushed to the middle of the room, where a thick metal pole rose from the floor, and shoved down hard enough that the impact reverberated through his knees.

“Good morning, Barnes,” the man said with barely restrained eagerness. “Welcome to your first day of class.”

Bucky’s eyes roved over each piece of equipment, a sick resignation folding over him. He didn’t fight as his remaining arm was pulled behind him, a wide metal belt locked to the pole before it was clamped around his stomach, pushed tighter and tighter by the guards until he let out a low grunt of discomfort as it was locked into place. His wrist was cuffed to the back of it, his escalating breaths struggling against the pressure.

“My name’s Agent Goddard,” the man said once they were done, “and I’ll be in charge of making sure you’re not gonna take the government’s generosity for granted and take the first chance you can to go psycho on any more innocent people.”

He wasn’t. He wouldn’t. That was why he was letting this happen, even if the pressure of the cuff and belt were already starting to hurt, his fight or flight instincts blaring unanswered.

He’d been in rooms like this before. He’d met the people that worked in them. Most of them hadn’t had even half the record he did; sometimes, their waking moments had been spent enjoying life, having meals, engaging in recreational activities, being with their families. They had childhoods. They died young, or they retired.

For 70 years, the Winter Soldier had only existed when he was needed to kill or think of killing.

“Got a few simple rules we’re gonna want you to follow for this first day,” Goddard said, his voice coming out a few volumes too loudly. “Don’t want to overdo it on that pan-fried brain of yours.”

Bucky looked up. He felt the surge of too many unhelpful emotions: fear, anger, despair, all rushing to the forefront. They’d let their cruelty go casually unspoken before now, but it sounded like the asshole in front of him wasn’t interested in being polite about the legalities or Bucky’s role in them.

Goddard held up a finger, still speaking so his voice would boom off the walls. “Rule number one: you listen to any and all things I say, and you follow them to the letter, without hesitation. I tell you to quack like a duck, that means I want you to quack like a duck.”

“Quack,” Bucky said flatly, because he could be an asshole, too.

Goddard dropped his hand, snickering. “That’s good! You’re already getting it.” He reached over to the table beside him and pulled up a ring of black leather with a large u-shaped protrusion at the front of it. “You’re going to wear this today anyway, just to make sure you don’t bite through your tongue when you make too many mistakes.”

Bucky felt rage push hard enough that some of his resignation sank away. And maybe that was because there was a lot of fear buried even beneath that, because what Goddard was holding in his hands was a bite guard. Even the thought of rubber filling his mouth had Bucky nauseous, his body urging him harder to take an escape, climb the walls if he had to to avoid it.

But he was wearing the collar, and he’d surrendered the arm. He wasn’t going anywhere.

“I don’t need that,” he still tried, kneeling stiffly as Goddard strolled across the room towards him. He’d already experienced what the collar could do without any interventions for his safety; it was laughable to force the bite guard now.

Goddard came to a stop in front of him. “You didn’t say anything about not utilizing devices like this on your side of demands,” he noted, tapping the rubber against his black-clad thigh.

Bucky didn’t bother to hide his glare. “I didn’t think self-harm would be that high on the list of concerns involving an electroshock punishment collar.”

“Are you saying it should be?” Goddard asked with a keen interest Bucky hadn’t been intending on bringing out. “I’ll take that into account. You’re officially on contract, after all. No checking out early! Now, you gonna take this like a good boy?”

Bucky didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

“Come on, Barnes,” Goddard urged, but there was still a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “It hasn’t even been ten minutes.”

Bucky swallowed, licked his lips. Tried again, one more time, his voice quiet, filled with as little challenge as he could manage. “I said I would comply without it.”

Goddard was unmoved. “Then why aren’t you, exactly?”

He stood there for a few seconds, waiting for an answer that Bucky wasn’t going to give him.

Goddard shrugged, then barked out, “Level seven, twenty seconds.”

The collar ripped through him, dissolving every thought and sensation except burrowing fire.

Bucky could barely breathe when it stopped. Couldn’t think, beyond knowing that he hurt, that this was bad, that he had to know if he remembered anything but he couldn’t focus long enough to check. The metal against his neck was searing like a brand, his body aching from where he’d uncontrollably thrashed against the restraints.

Hands grabbed at his face, prying his jaw open and shoving the bite guard in far enough that Bucky convulsed and choked as it hit the back of his throat, crushing his tongue down and spreading his jaw. The bands at either end were drawn behind his head and pulled tight against his shorn scalp.

Goddard lightly slapped his cheek, then slapped it harder, the stimulus bringing his awareness further back to the fore and his gaze up.

“Since you’re apparently a dumb shit, just like I thought, I’ll say it again. Rule number one is that you listen to any and all things I say, and you follow them to the letter, without hesitation. I tell you to quack like a duck, that means I want you to quack like a duck. I tell you I want you to wear a fucking bite guard, you’re going to wear the fucking bite guard.”

Bucky breathed, swallowing with difficulty against the guard. It felt like shattered glass going down. He finally remembered getting up in the morning, not being allowed to eat, and giving up the arm.

“Rule number two, while we’re at it - you stop looking in the eyes of your superiors unless you’re ordered to do it.”

The collar’s buzzing returned. Bucky averted his eyes, half a second too late to prevent another sharp blast of a correction that had him tensed and groaning.

“Rule number three,” Goddard said, reaching out to grip his hand against Bucky’s jaw. “Rule number three,” he repeated, louder, following Bucky when he tried to flinch away, leaning down to get in his face, “you show some appreciation after every session that I’m even giving the time of day to a murderous sonofabitch like you. Sound good?”

Right. Because that was what he was. What he still might be. It was why they were doing this song and dance at all.

Bucky went still. Stopped trying to pull free.

“Hey, Barnes,” Goddard said, and Bucky’s eyes went to Goddard’s face and then quickly away as searing heat reignited his damaged throat. Goddard’s laugh was a series of run-on staccatos. “Wow, you’re fucking slow on the uptake, ain’t ya?”

Bucky stared at the wall with wide eyes, the bite guard coupled with the feeling of repeated shocks coursing through him making his current reality more and more hazy. He kept expecting the chair to materialize beneath him, and reveal that everything that had ever happened to him between escaping and now was just another layer of programming by HYDRA.

“This is your shot, Barnes,” Goddard said, rubbing his thumb over the outside of the mouth guard as Bucky began to shudder. “You came in here all cocksure. That two week timeline? Ultimately up to my assessment. If you’re still fucking around by the end of this, we’ll just go on longer! The government will extend the pay for my services, and I’ll have myself a real good time, for as long as you need it. You understand?”

Bucky stared at the wall, trying to avoid the guards’ visors in case that would be considered eye contact. His chest heaved as he sucked in air through his nose.

“Nod if you understand.”

The collar’s buzzing grew louder. A dead feeling had started writhing its way around Bucky’s core.

He nodded.

“Good,” Goddard said, patting the side of Bucky’s cheek. “We were gonna start easy, but you just had to be a jackass. Now I’m gonna push back learning the base commands until tomorrow. Those, by the way, are the things Ross wants you to be able to do for any and all law enforcement or other parties given control of the collar. Now you’re already behind on your training. But don’t worry! I’ll keep you occupied.”

Bucky didn’t respond. Any fight in him was a smolder, more than overcome by that writhing deadness. He hung his head and breathed, and tried to center himself, still coming back from that post-shock confusion.

He had been stupid. There was less than a week left. He’d been with HYDRA for seventy years.

The fact that he’d strongly consider a bullet to the head than risk being at the beck and call of anyone that way again didn’t matter. He wouldn’t be able to make a difference in the world if he was dead.

If he was stuck here.

They wanted him to give them a reason to do that. They’d hurt him to give them a reason. He just…had to suck it up and let them. It would happen either way.

He felt so goddamn tired.

“Here’s what I want you to do instead,” Goddard said in an eager tone, taking a step back from him, gesturing upwards with both of his hands. “Stand up.”

The collar started buzzing. Bucky blinked, startled, almost looking up at Goddard’s eyes before he redirected his gaze to the man’s cheek at the last second.

The collar activated, white hot heat sending starbursts through his eyes, trapping his scream in his throat. He sagged when it was over, dazed for long seconds, the edges of the restraints digging hard into his stomach and wrist.

Eventually, he tried remembering the morning, grasping at the concept of time with a feeble grip. No food. They’d taken his arm. That had been that morning. He was sure of it.

The collar was still buzzing, and now it felt like serrated knives sliding through his skin.

Goddard gave him another minute and then spoke again, imperious. “Stand up,” he repeated.

Bucky huffed out a breath and weakly strained upwards, feeling the skin of his neck flare sharply at the movement. The restraints didn’t even budge. He made a muffled noise against the bite guard before the collar punished him for his failure with ruthless, inescapable predictability.

There were noises. Shapes. Air was a faint thing, barely scraping down his throat no matter how hard he sought it.

A boot nudged at the empty metal socket to his shoulder; he felt the raw nerves of his neck and every cramped muscle in his body respond with new pain.

“Stand up.”

What? He tried to turn his head, froze when even that small movement was too much. He was…he was…

“Level eight, thirty seconds.”

Bucky shot his eyes open in panic and then the wave of agony consumed him.

Someone clapped their hands in front of his face. He felt the movement through the air more than he heard or saw it. He could barely breathe, his teeth digging harshly into rubber. Desperately, he tried to figure out what was happening. How to get it to stop. When he could focus his eyes, all he saw were guards around him with guns.

The clap came again, louder and more insistent. He flinched, then remembered he was supposed to remember.

Before he could, a hand struck him across the face. “See, the thing is, if you don’t even try, it gets worse!” Goddard explained, like he was giddily revealing the secret to a magic trick. “Now stand up.”

At the end of the session, he was taken back to the usual lab and sat on an examination table so the techs could look the collar over. They went over data about the number of times and the intensity in which the shocks had been activated. They were able to distinguish between the ordered punishments and the collar’s own perception of what required correcting.

As soon as they found out how many times he hadn’t followed through on an ordered task, they started watching Bucky nervously, moving carefully as they walked around him, like he’d lash out without warning any minute. They didn’t ask him why he’d required those punishments.

The entire time, Bucky stared at the far wall, wheezing through his swollen throat, his chest aching. He ignored their commentary on the perceived lack of obedience on his part considering the number of corrections that had occurred that day.

They noted the damage to his throat, and wondered amongst themselves how long it would take him to heal from it. They didn’t check for anything other than the superficial wounds most proximal to the collar.

Bucky just kept staring away from anyone, and let everything wash over him.

It seemed like every time, no matter what, he never appreciated just how fucked he was until it was too late.

He was eventually escorted back to his cell and left to stand weakly in the center of it. He didn't even have a moment after the energy field was reactivated before the collar started buzzing insistently.

He slumped straight down to the floor, his cheek pressed to the ground and his aching wrist stretched overhead.

Five more days.

Chapter Text

John Walker was having the best few weeks of his military career, if not his entire life.

He'd been pulled aside and shipped out for special training for a job that, at first, they hadn't given him the details about. Originally, he'd been offended, seeing as he kept himself in beyond mission-ready shape at all times and could pass most fitness tests that would have plenty of the toughest guys breaking down into tears or calling for an ambulance. The idea that he was somehow sliding when he'd only ever scored the highest marks in every category for years running was a little insulting.

But then he'd arrived at the training facility, which itself was huge, with green pastures, and clean spacious buildings. He was brought to an onsite lab where an array of government officials and sports scientists arranged around, all eagerly observing him like the physical marvel he tried to be.

Then they showed him the shield. The shield. The same one that had been surrendered to the government.

Captain America’s vibranium shield.

“We want you to wield it,” he was told. “There’s no better man for the job,” they said.

“It’s a symbol the American people need now more than ever.”

The world was still disjointed from the return of half its population, and tensions were only rising as the government worked to fix things. The GRC needed a frontman for its activities to help the remaining and returned Americans feel that they could remain in their country safe and secure.

They had a plan to do that. But there was a problem; an underground movement that wanted to destroy the work the GRC was setting out to do. They were escalating in their radical actions, turning the refugees that the GRC had been assisting in the first place into underground extremists.

But wherever Captain America went, most people knew they were looking at the good guy. The right guy. The best, most morally upstanding soldier who knew what sacrifices to make to ensure that the majority of the world could sleep safe and sound.

The world needed Captain America to get things back on track. It had once been Steve Rogers. Now, it would be John.

It was funny how something could go from insulting to a little intimidating in a matter of seconds. John was no stranger to tough missions - special forces, black ops, working with teams to uphold the security of his country. Saving lives. But to be the Captain America, and everything that represented… he got why they felt the need to throw him back into training.

So he gave it everything he had. He broke his own PRs on a weekly basis. He made new ones to break with shield-based combat practice. He let them do comprehensive sleep studies on him to ferret out any issues and maximize recovery. They measured his fluid and salt disposal every time he sweated, and checked his nutrition levels. Everywhere they could coach him to add that extra 3% in his performance, they did it.

He followed instructions. And he excelled.

Five days in, they asked if he would like to bring on a partner. His pick. There was only one man he wanted for that job.

Lemar had been humbled and excited by the offer, and when he arrived at the facility he diligently underwent the same testing John had. Even came up with his own name: Battlestar. Ready to have John’s back at any cost.

They were each made a suit out of the most state of the art protection available. John’s helmet alone could withstand the blast of a grenade. He liked the design of it, covered in the Stars and Stripes, but different. His. Lemar’s was built to match.

In the throes of John’s training, when his heart was pounding and his movements with the new equipment became second-nature, and Lemar was at his side, he felt unstoppable.

He didn’t have the serum. But between the shield and what he did have, there was no doubt he could bring about the change the world needed. Because he wanted it. He wanted it more than he’d wanted anything.

At the end of his training, they announced the ceremony for his official reveal to the public. And, as he’d find out soon after - something else he hadn’t been ready for.

He was just out of the shower after a long day of drills with Lemar when he got called to the main offices of the training facility. A man in a black suit that he recognized was standing at a large table waiting for him.

"Cole?" John asked incredulously as the man’s face lit up at the sight of him.

"John," Cole said in greeting, coming forward to emphatically shake his hand. “Looks like the last two years have treated you well.”

Back when half the population had disappeared from the face of the Earth, John had been leader of a six man team, with both Cole and Lamar stationed as specialist members. They’d ranked Best Squad in the Army two years running.

John smiled, grasping tightly at Cole’s forearm. "I could say the same,” John said. “You still all in on that CIA gig?"

Cole laughed his unique laugh, fast and loud as they broke apart. That was one of the things John remembered about him most: he kept himself cheery in the middle of the most brutal situations. "Yeah, yeah, still going strong on that.” He held his hands out. “And look at you, moving front and center. I always knew that babyface was meant for prime time."

John might have blushed. “Just for a few weeks,” he said, grimacing. “The speech thing isn’t my strong suit.”

“You’re gonna kill it, John,” Cole said with certainty, elbowing him gleefully. “Just put a tenth of the practice you put into everything else!”

“That’s what Lemar keeps telling me,” John said. “Kinda hard when I’d rather that one tenth did go into everything else.”

“And that’s why I’m where I’m at now,” Cole said. “Turns out I prefer everything I do being under wraps. I always did like sitting at the back of the class.”

“I’ve gotta be honest, I never thought a guy as loud as you would make it in that line of work,” John said.

“You shoot for the stars, baby,” Cole said with a huge grin. He stepped back to the table and snatched up a folder on top of it, handing it over with a flourish. “And this should help you reach yours.”

John took it, a sudden anticipation filling him. “Feels like I’ve had so much good news in the last month they couldn’t come up with anything else.”

Cole shrugged, his smile creasing his eyes. "Open it and be proved wrong.”

John did, his eyes searching over the papers inside. On the front was a picture of a very familiar face, with a very familiar metal arm.

He looked up in shock. "Is this serious?"

"Cap's gotta have his wingmen!" Cole crowed, clapping him on the shoulder. "The look on your face is exactly why I wanted to be the one to deliver the news. He’s on call for five years. Wants to make a difference. Court mandated psychological analysis is still ongoing but he's been cleared for any and all missions. And I know he'd be honored to work with that shield again. With you.”

"Bucky Barnes," John said, awed at the turn his life was still taking. The loyalty of Bucky Barnes was as much of a symbol of Cap as the shield.

Between John, Lemar, and Bucky, they were going to have the strength of an entire army.

"Transport's being arranged to get him on the tour with you," Cole explained. "He's wearing an inhibitory collar as a condition of his release. Don't worry!” Cole said when John frowned in confusion. “It’s all kosher, tests run through and through to ensure everyone's safety, including his. He’ll have standard ROE on missions. Got the operating instructions for everything in the back, but I really don't think you're going to have a problem - the system’s pretty intuitive. And between you and me? That man wants to earn his pardon with all of his heart. He hates what those HYDRA assholes did to him.”

John flipped to the back where there was a small booklet with details on the device Barnes was wearing for safety. John looked at it long enough to know that it wasn't going to be an impediment to his functionality as an ally - once he was on the team, John could literally turn off every restrictive mechanism that was in place with a sentence - and then ignored the rest.

"Bucky Barnes," he repeated, closing the folder.

Cole patted him on the shoulder again. "Bucky fucking Barnes," he said. "I gotta head back into obscurity. But congratulations. Enjoy your new gig, Cap. Tell Lemar I said hi.”

When Lemar found him later, he was still staring in stunned silence at the folder. "Did I just see Cole Goddard leaving the grounds?”

“Yeah,” John said, half distractedly, before his excitement rushed back over him. “He said hi. And he brought me something.”

Lemar came over and sat down beside him, leaning in eagerly. “Good news?"

"Best news," John said, sliding the folder over.

"No shit?" Lemar asked once he looked it over. "Damn. And I was just coming to tell you - we got the info from Sam Wilson's drone. He could be looking in the same directions we are."

"You don't think?" Walker asked, sure he was going to wake up at any minute.

"Might be the dream team," Lemar said, smiling widely.

They clapped their hands together.

Life was good.

Life was a thing with no end. No way out.

When Sam had given up the shield, rejecting Steve and everything he had represented without so much as a single mission, the last connection Bucky had hoped to form to try and better himself had been crushed.

He’d wanted to disappear. Any way he could. Mentally, physically. But escape from himself was the least possible thing of all.

No checking out early.

He kept going, like he always did. He followed orders. Obeyed curfew. Engaged in therapy and tried to cooperate with his doc and PO because as hopeless as he felt he was still a fucking coward, and he didn’t want to go back. He didn’t want the pain, even if he deserved it. He just wanted to stop.

He stared at Steve’s letter some nights. Tried to recall the spark it had stirred in him the first time. Remembered Steve’s smile, his hand on Bucky’s shoulder, his encouraging stare, and the strength of certainty Steve had always had even before he’d been given the serum.

All that did was make him more aware of the fact that Steve was gone. Permanently.

The world didn’t need people like Bucky, who’d spent a lifetime causing brutal pain and then couldn’t even begin to make the right choices to fix it. Who even when he tried, just managed to leash himself to another entity that was probably going to come calling, and send him down the same route he’d been trying to avoid.

They’d already started. His therapist had suggested Bucky go through with his previous intentions to go after the people whose rises to power the Winter Soldier had facilitated. So the projects he’d started on his own got taken from his hands, made into a requirement. He organized their executions with all the passion of an automaton.

But he didn’t need passion where there was habit. And neither did he need inspiration or motivation when he could just stare at his list and instantly know where to hit them - where to hurt them, so they couldn’t hurt anyone else.

Then one day the government gave the shield to someone else, a soldier named John Walker, and Bucky suddenly remembered what it was like to be angry.

Maybe he wasn’t smart enough to stop messing things up, but it didn’t take a genius to know that the man they’d given a piece of vibranium technology to enact the government’s will was probably going to stir things up in a way that would have been against what Steve had wanted for it. The shield would be converted into a symbol to enforce whatever agenda the government wanted to enforce, for whatever hands were in power at whatever moment. Not just now, but going forward for years and years. Until it was something completely unrecognizable from what it once was.

Just like Bucky.

The fog that had been surrounding him fell away. In its place he felt incredible frustration, a rage so deep that he visualized some pretty ugly things, the least of which was his vibranium arm sailing through the television and completely destroying the wall behind it. That feeling bled through him, like his very own body had turned into a buzzing warning, just like the collar, ready to ignite and leave destruction in his wake.

He turned his eyes to his phone, which sat where it always did: unused on the kitchen counter. Then he looked at the TV, at Walker’s proud face, the shield, the suit. He looked back at the phone.

Steve had said…Sam was a good man. Bucky had believed him. Still wanted to believe him.

Needed to believe him.

Sam was only a text away. But that wouldn’t be enough.

Bucky’s throat felt tight. His heart beat rapidly, his thoughts whirling fast as his teeth ground together. On the television, they announced special after special with the shield’s new owner. The kind of showy tour that Steve had abandoned once to take himself behind enemy lines and rescue a group of captive soldiers.

The phone wouldn’t be enough. Bucky had to find Sam, and talk to him face to face. Make him understand the mistake he’d made. Get him to change his mind.

He had to change his mind.

But as angry as he was, Bucky couldn’t bring himself to stand up. Couldn’t stop thinking about the piece of metal around his throat and the eyes that were probably watching and waiting for him to fuck up. He thought of Sam laughing in his face when he met with him because he wasn’t Steve, either, just some unstable ex-assassin who didn’t even earn the benefit of the doubt right now. Pardoned by the government, but collared.

But this couldn’t be how Steve’s legacy ended.

He sat on the floor of his apartment fighting himself for so long that he almost missed curfew. The buzz of the collar sent his feverish instincts into overdrive and he managed to position himself before correction, staring at the ceiling while the television continued to play Captain America-related media well into the night - talk shows, interviews with people who were completely unrelated to the situation, documentaries on John Walker’s past achievements. Everyone had an opinion. None of them even mentioned the fact that Sam had been the one to surrender the shield in the first place - they acted like Steve had given it to them himself in a show of good faith. Like he’d chosen Walker personally. Like Walker was his best friend.

In the morning. In the morning after Bucky’s check-in with his PO he’d go to Sam, ask why this happened. See if he could convince him to take it back.

In the brief sleep he managed, he dreamed of fiery pain around his neck and a circular red glow. Screaming, with no one to help him.

Chapter Text

On the tenth day of the calibrations, Bucky spasmed and shook and grit out a roar against the cell floor before he was even fully conscious.

The collar was alive and vicious and increasing in intensity. He tried to lurch away in a mindless attempt to escape it, his limbs refusing to cooperate as electricity coursed through him and further stimulated his disoriented panic. Then he tried to bring his vibranium arm up but it wasn’t there - it wasn’t - where was his arm? He clutched up desperately towards his neck with his right hand, movement made clumsy from spasming muscles, pawing uselessly along the metal surface of the collar as it burned and burned and burned.

He couldn’t escape the thing around his neck and he couldn’t stop it and he didn’t know why it had been activated in the first place. He dropped his hand and tried to prostrate himself in case it was from a curfew violation but that didn’t solve it. Another ragged sound made it through his swelling throat as he managed to roll onto his side, and before he could try another method of frantic appeasement, the collar quieted.

Bucky gasped in air that ran a fiery line down his throat into his burning lungs. His hand curled against the floor as he waited tensely to see if the shock would trigger again. He couldn’t fucking remember what had happened just then, couldn’t sort all of the details through the lingering pain, but he knew in his gut… the previous day had been awful. The trainer…that trainer they’d assigned to teach Bucky the collar commands. He’d spent the entire session cracking open the deepest nightmares that haunted Bucky, gleefully showing him just how punishing the collar could become.

What he did remember clearly was the agony that had come with that. And the fact that today he would be back in that room for a second time.

He squeezed his eyes shut, shuddering against the floor, unable to do much else.

What the hell had happened to activate the collar this time? It seemed done with, now, at least. He waited on the floor until some of that pain in his chest went away, then cautiously tried lifting himself onto his arm. Halfway up he hunched over, eyes squeezed tight as he drew his legs unsteadily beneath him. He took in breath after breath but it was a struggle, and it didn’t feel like it was reaching his lungs.

When he opened his eyes, he saw a plate of eggs, bacon and a pastry sitting across the room next to a large cup of coffee.

He stared for a minute in incomprehension, before it clicked, and the rest of his brain slowly unscrambled. He’d collapsed the night before at curfew. Passed out from exhaustion after spending a miserable first half the night too pained to sleep. He hadn’t been awake when curfew had ended. So he’d been too close to the food when they’d delivered it.

He dragged himself back away from the food, towards the cot, laboriously leaning back so it would support him as he sat on the ground. He swallowed again, grimacing as it aggravated damaged tissues, air whistling through his throat.

So. There’d still been a reason. As long as there was a reason, an order and a consequence to follow, he could manage. He could manage.

That realization done with, he turned to his other memories, starting with the emptiness at his left side. The shoulder port was hidden by the sleeve of his thin prison uniform. Bucky reached over and pressed his hand against it.

He’d given them his vibranium arm. The previous day. They’d cited possible dangers of his usage of it, and promised him they’d give it back to Wakanda if they couldn’t trust in his release.

At the return of the memory he felt something in him loosen, even if trying to recount the rest of the day after that wasn’t something he was sure he even wanted.

He grimly went through it, anyway, needing a distraction from the food and the growing urge to double check if it was still off limits. He sorted through his memory of the training room, peeled back every period of red haze and locked-in screams - Goddard giving him order after unfollowable order, delighted every time he messed up. He’d said he was pushing back the base commands but the lesson he’d taught Bucky that first day was just as vital: the collar didn’t care if he wasn’t physically capable of following instructions. Just as it didn’t distinguish the fact that Bucky’s proximity to the food had been because he wasn’t even aware of it.

Bucky watched the wall with a burning gaze, forcing himself to stay sitting even though his body was reacting with far more discomfort than normal to every hard surface pressed against it, encouraging him to slump back down, close his eyes, and drift away.

By the time the food was taken, and the guards came for him, he managed to move to his feet with only a brief sway. He followed them down the hallways and into the large elevator, ending back at the training room. When he stepped inside, he saw that all of the equipment from the day before was still on display.

Bucky obediently walked forward, coming to a stop in the middle of the room, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. The guards didn’t force him against the pole this time, just left him where he was.

Goddard was to his left, on the unguarded side, dressed the same as the previous day, humming to himself as he rummaged through a few objects out of Bucky’s sight.

Bucky waited, closing himself off from the pain in his throat, sharp and insistent before they’d even started.

He could manage.

"Barnes,” Goddard greeted eventually, waving in Bucky’s periphery like he’d just noticed him. “Welcome back! Hope you enjoyed your break.” He stepped away from the table, coming closer, the shape of him sending Bucky’s instinctive alarms firing. “Hey. You want to act like someone who actually wants to get out of here today?"

Bucky didn't respond. He kept his expression docile, his mouth shut. Inwardly, he began to brace himself further, ruthlessly pushing down the voice inside that told him this was bad, very bad, and he should be pounding on the walls and begging for help rather than let it happen.

Only one choice was going to get him out and back into the world. Back to Sam and the shield.

And he knew what would happen if he tried to fight the breaking. He was already exhausted. Dehydrated. Hadn’t had so much as a bite of food in days, his stomach aching and gnawing itself with ravenous intensity. His lips were dry, cracked, his muscles aching; after all the stress his body had been put through, he wasn’t bouncing back as fast, mentally or physically. Even now that he was fully awake, his thoughts moved slowly through his pounding head.

"Hey!” Goddard’s voice seemed even louder than the previous day, driving that pounding deeper into Bucky’s skull. “What do you say, Barnes?"

Bucky didn't want to say anything, especially because he had a feeling he knew what kind of phrasing Goddard would be going for.

He swallowed, felt the tightness in his throat, the way it didn’t seem like his ability to breathe properly had come back. He tried to summon an answer that wouldn’t send him spiralling down the dark paths of his memories before they’d even started.

Goddard took another step, quick. Bucky tensed, inhaling sharply, and then a fist was crashing into his cheekbone, twisting his neck with the force and reigniting his throat.

"Answer," Goddard ordered, and the collar buzzed in agreement as Bucky stayed bent double, his head spinning. Goddard leaned down, and Bucky could see the white of his smile in his periphery. “Or we can try out level ten?”

Bucky felt some of the spark of defiance rekindle in him as he slowly straightened back up. It was all but buried beneath the anger, shame, and gut-twisting terror of what he knew he'd have to get through to see the other side.

At least there was the promise of some freedom, after all of this. He didn't know what the collar could do in its entirety, but he didn't think it could punish him for thinking.

"Tell me what you want me to do," he rasped to Goddard, eyes carefully lowered, nausea burning fresh, almost choking him the rest of the way.

He was going to do this. For Sam, for the shield, for every damn sacrifice Steve had ever made so Bucky could continue on. For the long, long list of bodies and destroyed lives the Winter Soldier had left in his wake. And would continue to leave in his wake, because there were people in power that HYDRA had helped facilitate the rises of that had never been taken down in the fallout. There was hurt happening outside of these walls, and hurt to come in the future, that he would know how to stop.

His answer seemed enough to satisfy Goddard. "You're learning the first set of collar commands today. You got a taste of what it can do in punishment, now you're gonna get what you need to do to avoid those types of punishment when around your handlers or any law enforcement.”

Bucky inhaled deeply, allowing his eyes to go back to the wall, where there was an expanse of grey to stare at that didn't leave any of the other equipment in the room in his line of sight.

"First word is 'Still.' When it gets spoken, it's like red light green light. You freeze completely unless you want a correction. Don’t even turn your head.” Goddard waited for a beat, then deliberately said, "Still.”

The collar began buzzing, apparently able to distinguish between when Goddard was using examples and when he was giving the actual order.

Bucky breathed and didn't otherwise move. Goddard moved away from him, out of his line of sight, the sound of objects moving making Bucky want to tense. When Goddard came back, it was to grip firmly at Bucky’s jaw.

Bucky let him, his face aching beneath that rough hold, trying to cling to purpose and reality as every other thought began to fray into run, fight - anything.

"If an order is given after the Still command, you are to follow it while obeying the Still command to the best of your ability."

Bucky stared at the wall and said nothing. His input was not needed. His opinions didn't matter. Even the growing swell of panic in his mind had to be ignored.

They just wanted him to follow orders. He could follow orders.

"Open up," came the command, along with a familiar flash of black rubber.

Bucky felt a muscle spasm in his cheek. The deadness in his chest returned so strongly he thought it might consume every part of him if he let this happen.

But he wanted out. He wanted to do more.

He opened his mouth. Even helped the bite guard on its way in, ignoring the way his stomach felt like it was dropping to his feet at the sensation as his teeth felt the give and rebound of the material filling his mouth. The collar didn't punish him for that additional movement, so either Goddard was wrong or lying about the nuances it could notice, or it approved of Bucky's decision. Goddard tied the straps behind Bucky's head, and let his thumb slide along the outside of the rubber while he stared at Bucky's face, leaning in far enough that Bucky was forced to angle his eyes further to the side to avoid their gazes meeting.

"The more restrictive version of the Still order can be activated at a distance with no voice command required,” Goddard said, his breath warm on Bucky’s face. “In that case the collar will buzz in three short bursts and you will have three seconds after that to stop moving. Like so.” Goddard pulled free a phone. He pushed his thumb over the screen and the collar buzzed three times. "Once that happens, any major movement, including speaking, will activate a punishment. Try to leave the spot you're in and the collar will just take you down and leave you there until someone arrives with the ability to override the punishment. That means you breathe, and you wait for containment, and abso-fucking-lutely nothing else. Is that clear?"

Bucky didn't move. Didn’t try to answer, not even a nod.

Goddard laughed, short and sharp and repeatedly, and patted at Bucky's cheek. "Look at you, Barnes, paying so much better attention today!” He gripped at Bucky’s arm, clenching down tight. “So let's step things up.”

Bucky was wide awake in the morning when curfew ended, and on his feet less than a second after that, not bothering to turn the TV off from its endless Captain Americathon as he walked himself straight to his bed-less bedroom. Most of his meager collection of clothes occupied a space on the ground inside; he reached down and swiped up a few articles on his way past, heading straight into the bathroom.

Check in with his PO would be in a few hours - he would be coming to Bucky’s apartment for this visit for a more thorough scan than their usual public meet up. Bucky’s next therapy session wasn’t for three days. That was almost three entire days to figure out where Sam was and what he was doing, and how to get in contact. Figure out how they could get the shield out of the government’s choice and back into the right hands.

First he had to make sure he didn’t go to Sam looking so much like a complete mess. What little Bucky knew about Sam was that he cared about appearances; vanity. Even on the run with Steve, he’d taken care of his image.

Meanwhile, Bucky could count the number of times he’d showered in his new apartment on one hand, minus a few fingers. He’d cared once, too, had thought that spark was reforming in the early days of his release, even if the thought of clippers or scissors anywhere near his head made him want to break something. More recently it had been…hard to summon the effort, for anything.

Now he had motivation. He pulled his clothes off in a series of rough movements, including the boots he hadn’t managed to take off before curfew, and stepped into the shower. He turned the knobs and didn’t bother to wait for the temperature to fully adjust before he stepped under the spray, starting to clean himself up with detached efficiency, ignoring the way his hipbones still jutted past his enhanced musculature. Mostly his thoughts were on Sam and, if he was honest, the fact that he was about to finally really test if the government was lying about how much freedom he had instead of just implying it.

The collar’s curfew seemed to have adjusted for the change in time zone for his release into Brooklyn. Was it going to keep to that, or would it change the hour according to his location? What kind of clock was the collar even operating on? Would it signal someone the instant he left the state? The city?

He’d have to account for every possibility. Sam would have questions if Bucky slipped up and he saw the collar in action. Too many questions.

He wasn’t going to let Sam see it.

He finished his shower and dried quickly with the single towel he’d bought, pulling on a pair of black pants, replacing his boots. When he reached for a shirt, he saw a flash of silver on his neck reflected in the fogged up mirror over the bathroom sink, drawing his gaze as it made him pause. He moved forward, slowly, and ran his hand in a wide series of streaks over the glass surface, the condensation clinging to his palm.

Since the day he’d allowed it to be locked around his neck, he’d never looked at the collar directly. And he’d never seen it while he was wearing it.

He stared into his own face first, the thick shadow of stubble, the way his temples and cheeks seemed hollow, the dark and puffy lines beneath his eyes. Then he looked down at dog tags that hung over his chest, silver against pale, damp skin. Steve’s gift. And above them, at the base of his throat, the collar glinted in the bathroom light.

It hugged his throat tightly, and the skin directly around it was faintly red, either from the constant pressure or the collar’s nightly warning system. Or maybe he just hadn’t managed to fully heal from his time at the black site; the ebbs and flows of pain in his throat had become his new normal. The whole thing was small enough that it might pass for a piece of weird jewelry. Sam would probably still comment on it.

But Sam didn’t need to know.

Bucky raised the shirt he’d grabbed, pulling it on and hiding the collar from view with its high neckline. He layered a thin grey hoodie over it for good measure. Then he grabbed a comb, hoping to make himself look at least half decent.

He wasn’t even done with his second stroke when he heard the sharp series of knocks at his door travel over to him in a demanding announcement.

He froze all movement. His shower had been fast, and he hadn’t lost time. His PO wasn’t due for over two hours.

The edges of the comb were biting into his palm, adrenaline washing through his system in a colder shock than the first spray of his shower. He determinedly slid a third run through his hair, then set it down on the sink and turned his eyes to the bathroom door.

The knock came again, followed this time by a shout. “Barnes! It’s time to open up, buddy!”

He didn’t hesitate a second longer, leaving the bathroom and crossing the apartment, his heart pumping up a racket behind his ribs. The TV was still on, showing a rerun of Walker’s official appointment as Captain America. Bucky finally turned the thing off in growing agitation, then picked up his leather jacket that was sitting on the floor in the living room, Steve’s notebook sitting in one of the pockets. He pulled it on before he answered the door.

It wasn’t just his parole officer present. Bucky looked at the second and third officers and kept his expression calm, even though the change in routine coupled with being outnumbered made his throat tight. He kept his front open, vulnerable, and his eyes down at the gold badge on display at the front of the officer’s puffy jacket. Waiting.

“Morning,” his PO said in his normal even tone. “The usual position and then Still, please.”

Bucky backed away from the door, taking up a spot in the middle of his living room just as the collar began its threatening buzz. At least his PO let him stay standing for this part. It might just be routine, beyond the change in time and the added officers. So far his parole officer had been mostly professional and hadn’t shown any tendencies towards cruelty.

But the men outside the door were unknowns. Dealing with one authority over the collar at a time was bad enough. Bucky really didn’t like that these others were out of his sight. Didn’t like that he didn’t know why they were necessary. Why this was happening so much earlier than expected.

Bucky watched his parole officer give his usual look around in the apartment, saw the man’s face change into vague surprise when he saw the new electronics.

“New TV?”

There wasn’t any suspicion in that tone, but Bucky was still on edge about what he’d think about the additions. “Therapist recommended it,” he said, voice somewhere between a whisper and a croak.

The officer patted the top a few times. “Looks good. You’re really turning this into a nice little place.”

Bucky thought it had looked good, too, up until he’d watched the shield being retired, and everything that had come after. He stayed quiet, hoping good behavior would get them out faster. The other two officers were still outside the apartment. They hadn’t said anything.

His apartment was searched top to bottom, his officer not commenting on the fact that Bucky’s “nice little place” still lacked anything beyond a sofa chair for furniture. Then he checked Bucky’s body, hands patting him down, over his sleeves, his pockets. The notebook was acknowledged and left alone without even being looked through. The collar was scanned, the data checked. He let it all happen, not moving a muscle as he waited for his release.

“Barnes? Barnes!”

He blinked and his parole officer was standing in front of him with a concerned expression. Bucky belatedly realized it felt like an anvil was taking up space in his chest, and he was breathing too fast around it. He tried to get ahold of himself.

“Sorry,” he answered, somehow managing to sound vaguely normal through his constricted throat.

“I’m done here,” the officer said, and the collar stopped buzzing. “Everything looks all right.”

Bucky felt like the strings of tension had been cut from his shoulders. He nodded in acknowledgment. It was fine. They were leaving. He could finish getting ready and find Sam, now. He could-

“Those two outside said you’re to go with them next.”

Bucky felt a sharp flare of alarm shoot down his spine and coil rapidly in his belly, the urge to run, find a very small space and hide himself away rushing over his senses. He gaped, hoping he’d misheard. “What?”

His parole officer raised his eyebrows. “You’ve got your first assignment. I’ll see you when you get back.”

Assignment. They weren’t trying to lock him back up, or institute any kind of punishment. Once his PO was turned away he shut his eyes tightly, then quickly reopened them and looked back over his apartment, sighing through his nostrils. He turned to the kitchen counter, grabbing his apartment key from the surface. Then he stepped out and locked the door behind himself, warily turning to present himself to the other officers, eyes down on their gun belts. They were both very tall, large, imposing - probably picked specifically to deal with him. Normally, he wouldn’t care about that, especially with the vibranium arm. But with the collar in place, he cared about a lot that he hadn’t used to.

He especially cared about the fact that this probably meant no Sam. Bucky promised himself he would get to him, eventually. It had become the one drive that was keeping him going.

He walked between the officers without complaint, head down as they led him to a parked car on the street. They loaded him into the back, hand on his head, initiating the Still command after he was buckled in place. The collar buzzed, and Bucky locked up every muscle in his body, wishing he’d directed his eyes out the window instead of the back of the seat in front of him before he’d been ordered in place.

They’d only verbally ordered him, though - not the more extreme version of the command. Which meant he could still talk.

And he needed to. Because there was a drill in his stomach he wanted to ease.

He swallowed, readying himself in case they didn’t like questions. “Where are we going?”

“We’re going to the airport,” the officer in the passenger seat said. He didn’t sound annoyed; Bucky saw in his periphery as the man craned his neck to look back at him. “You have a flight to Georgia in ninety minutes.”

Bucky frowned, staring at the leather of the seat in front of him.

What the hell was in Georgia?

Chapter Text

John had gone quiet in their hotel room in the hours before his ride to Custer’s Grove.

Having been by his side for most of their teenage and adult lives, that kind of thing wasn’t a shock to Lemar. It was a habit that had been around since John’d been made captain of their high school football team, all the way through his promotion to Captain in the United States Army. He wasn’t completely immune to worry or misgivings, but Lemar knew those feelings wouldn’t have any kind of appreciable effect on what was going to go down once he started the work. Especially if he had both his best friend and wife there to support him.

Still…Lemar hadn’t seen things get to this level of brooding intensity since Afghanistan. Maybe it was the rebound that had something to do with it - there was all this pressure to wait around when the last few weeks had been pretty damn exciting. John excelled at the physical, especially when he was riding that high.

The fact of the matter was that John hadn’t just been made Captain again, he’d been made the single most important Captain that could ever exist. Not just a soldier and a hero: he was America’s hero.

All of that came with a lot more responsibility when it came to presentation and interviews.

Lemar knew John could do the job, but there was a reason he had failed drama class in high school. His game face when he was down was pretty nonexistent.

Olivia had gone out to pick them all up their pre-show dinner at the Custer’s Grove Diner, one of their old late night haunts that carried everything from burgers to gyro plates, hoping to cheer John up with his favorite order of breakfast nachos. John, meanwhile, had a stack of papers at his side - details to the multitude of contracts they’d both signed on for this process, and a list of the most recent edit of his scheduled meetings with senators and the press. He wasn’t looking at any of that nearly as much as he was staring at the clock.

”They put all that training into me,” John murmured, fist clenched on his thigh, sitting on a chair next to the hotel room’s single table, “and now they won’t even use it.”

Lemar looked up from his own paperwork, which was a lot less extensive. He wasn’t the star of the show, so the demand from him wasn’t as much as John’s. It was still way more than most people ever experienced.

”They’ll use it,” Lemar said encouragingly, setting his stuff aside as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and straightened up, abandoning his previous lounging position against the headboard. He was dressed in his army uniform, same as John. “It’s just a little bit different. You know even on maintenance exercises we’re gonna stay mission-ready until they send us out.”

”They just booked another stop on the tour,” John said, frustration brimming as he turned his eyes to Lemar. “If they keep this up that shield is going to have spent more of its life in front of a camera than out on the field.”

John might not have been wrong; the sheer amount of Captain America documentaries and specials that had been playing nonstop since his appointment had been kind of mind-blowing. Lemar wouldn’t have been surprised if they knew every single detail of Steve Rogers’ life at this point.

”John, I know it doesn’t seem like it, but this kind of stuff is gonna be important. It’s part of the process we gotta roll with.” He leaned forward. “They didn’t put us through all of that testing just to show the numbers and move on. You’re not just a Captain of a single team, now. You gotta raise the morale of the entire country.”

”And I could do that by bettering my country as soon as possible instead of wasting time,” John said, a cue to the fact that he wasn’t really gonna budge on that.

Lemar shook his head; once John was put in front of an actual interviewer, saw all the people that were standing behind him in real time, all this negativity would transition as he fell into the moment.

Speaking of which… Lemar looked at the stack of barely-touched papers on the table. “You look over Barnes’ file?”

John shrugged, glancing in disinterest at the folder at the very bottom of the stack. “I know I can turn off the limitations to the inhibition device. Not that it’s going to matter if all we’re going to do is parade around for weeks on weeks.”

Lemar reached out, gently taking the folder. The first page inside of it was a disclaimer for the extensive testing they’d done for both the efficacy and safety of the device Bucky Barnes was required to wear for the duration of his five year parole. The President had faith in his turnaround, but they wanted to be absolutely sure before he was allowed a complete release. Lemar understood the need for caution just like he understood the need to give someone a second chance. If Barnes did have any lingering issues, John was exactly the kind of leader that could turn him around, maximize his potential and make sure he was going to get that full pardon at the end of his service.

“The funny thing is, he gets to pick whether or not he participates in the tour,” John said, jealousy coloring his voice.

Lemar turned the page, coming to the guide of optional preprogrammed commands designed to decrease the flight risk of their new partner and increase their confidence in him given his super strength and history as a brainwashed assassin. Still. Stay. Come. Guard. Hush. Track. Break.

Even before he finished the first line of words, Lemar knew he agreed fully with John; a lot of it was unnecessary and pointless - would be especially pointless in the heat of battle. They needed someone that was going to step up, not be pushed down by a bunch of vocal signals. And Barnes had already shown he was willing to fight to save the world twice all on his own, just like Lemar and John had fought for their country time and time again. There was no better way for any of them to continue that work than at each others’ sides. Especially if they could give him a break from the strict parameters of his inhibitory device - the people behind it were probably the same kind of people that needed their newly appointed celebrity superheroes to tell the world who they were before they had the chance to prove what they could do in their new roles.

John had been right to completely ignore it.

”People already know plenty about him,” Lemar reasoned as he closed the folder and looked back up. “You and me? We’re the new models. Top of the line.”

”He has the serum,” John said, gaze dropping from the clock as he hung his head between hunched shoulders. “None of his capabilities will be in question.”

”Hey, that serum’s gonna be on our team, now,” Lemar reminded. “And I sure as hell know even Bucky Barnes could learn a thing or two from the most decorated soldier in American history.”

John looked forward, eyes half-lidded, before he intentionally straightened his neck. Lemar smiled, knowing that look. John was going to be better than all right - he always was, once that seed was planted. Didn’t mean there wasn’t a strong chance those breakfast nachos would make a reappearance before he got himself in the spotlight, but he’d keep going even if they did.

”How long before he gets into town?” Lemar asked, out of curiosity.

John looked at his phone. His eyes widened and his spine stiffened. “I missed the text.” He turned to Lemar with anxiety and excitement reignited in his eyes. “They’re thirty minutes out from the high school.”

“He’ll be there before us, then,” Lemar said. “Think we should go in early?”

”Well, it would be good for us to get introduced,” John said with a small smile, the eagerness coming back into his eyes.

”And you can do your pre-interview practice,” Lemar said, to which John rolled his eyes. It was a better response than the previous deflation.

”Yeah, yeah, all right,” John agreed.

The door to the hotel room opened, Olivia making her reappearance at that moment with a huge smile as she flourished armfuls of plastic bags that swung against her long coat. “Diner specials are served,” she announced, with a knowing side-eye at Lemar. “I made good time. They might not even be completely soggy.”

John and Lemar got up to grab their food, the smell instantly catapulting Lemar back to his teenage years, when he and Olivia had sat around a scratched table with John and both known that he was destined for great things. That knowledge had never wavered as the years had passed, and even now, Lemar knew how true it was in his bones, even if sometimes John slipped.

They’d eat, meet with Barnes, then John would do his first interview, and they’d cruise through the rest of the tour before they started working on the GRC’s missions, Captain America and Battlestar on their way to setting the country to rights.

But those nachos were definitely gonna come back up.

They headed to the high school together after dinner. Lemar saw those familiar buildings and thought about the lens of fame that the entire world would be seeing him and John through, now. The idea of homework and football games were both well in the past, but their new, experienced selves would have a grand welcome waiting in the place that had raised them.

There was already a crowd gathering on the football field, and a line of cars of people arriving for the event. The sound of cheerleaders calling out and a band practicing filtered through the air. They’d cleared the locker room so John would have somewhere to get ready. Lemar and Olivia were going as is, so they didn’t need to join him.

“What do you think?” John asked as he started to back towards the locker room. “Should I suit up first?”

”Whatever you feel best in, John,” Olivia said.

”Depends,” Lemar said cheekily. “You still take five minutes to adjust the helmet?”

”Three,” John said. He looked down at his fatigues, then back up. “Later,” he said decisively. “I’ll be right back.”

The door to the locker room opened again fast enough that Lemar knew John hadn’t tried getting into his alternate uniform. But he was holding the shield at his side, proudly on display. “It’s a good compromise, right?”

Lemar clapped him on the shoulder, glad to see him back in such high spirits. “Let’s go meet him.”

They had brought Barnes to wait in the gymnasium adjacent to the locker rooms, away from the gathering crowds that were setting up on the football field. He was standing between two officers on the court, the three of them dressed darkly against the bright shining floor. With his jacket and hoodie and jeans, the wardrobe Barnes was wearing fit in more with the casual vibe of the high school than John or Lemar or Olivia’s.

His eyes, though, were pretty intense. Maybe more intense than anyone Lemar had met, which was saying something after years of service with some of the most hardened and capable men in the country.

Right now those eyes were on the shield in John’s hand as they made their way across the gym, the sound of their steps echoing in the open space. Lemar silently congratulated John on making the judgement call to bring the shield; of course it would mean a lot to the man that had fought by its side since its creation.

“Bucky Barnes,” John greeted as they reached them, his raised voice filling the open space as he held his left hand out eagerly. “It’s an honor. I’m Captain America.”

Barnes flicked his eyes up, but not quite at John’s face, then at Lemar, then Olivia, then back to the shield. His jawline was something else. Lemar wondered what body fat percentage he was at.

“You’re left handed, right?” John asked when Barnes hadn’t made a move.

”No,” Barnes answered, his eyes still down. He hadn’t blinked once the entire time.

”Oh,” John said, quickly making the shield change hands before he thrust his right out in offering instead.

Barnes wordlessly reached forward with a gloved hand, his answering shake concise before he pulled back. Lemar snorted, and John turned to give him a look.

”It’s the arm he uses for combat, Lemar,” John said in irritation. “It was a good guess.”

”It was a good guess,” Lemar agreed. “Wasn’t the right one.”

Barnes had gone back to staring at the shield, standing completely still as one of the officers reached up and pulled down the fabric at his neck before beckoning John closer. John stared in confusion.

”You’ll need your phone close to add your authority to the system,” the officer explained. “Did you download the app?”

”What app?” John asked.

”The link to it should have been in the back of the folder you were given.”

John grimaced. “Oh. Um…”

”He’s been pretty busy,” Lemar covered.

”I can go back to the hotel to get it,” Olivia offered.

”With that traffic you won’t make it back before the interview,” John protested.

”It works just fine without it,” the officer said with a wave of his hand. “We’ll just code the collar specifically to your voice. You can pair it with the app later.”

John laughed in relief. “Well, that sounds like the easier plan, anyway.”

Lemar thought he saw Barnes’ lips start to twist, but it was gone before he could focus on it. The officer pulled the neckline of his shirt down further, showing that the inhibitory device was a pretty small and unassuming piece of hardware. It wasn’t going to draw attention or detract from any of his physical capabilities, and he could obviously keep it covered up so it wasn’t on display.

“Say your name,” the officer said to John, just as a blue blinking light popped up on the side of the device.

John squared his shoulders. “John Walker,” he said.

“Okay,” the officer said, pulling the turtleneck back up. Barnes swallowed convulsively in the aftermath, eyes tightening at the edges before they loosened while the rest of his stance somehow got even more rigid. “That should do it. You want him with you or back at the station to wait until tonight?”

John frowned, his eyes going between Barnes and the officers. “I thought he got to pick?”

The officer shrugged, glancing at Barnes, who apparently still wasn’t huge on looking anyone in the eye. ”Until the end of this assignment, everything you pick is what he picks. If you want to ask his preferences, that’s totally up to you. You’re in charge now, Captain. Everything is your call to make.”

“Right,” John said, nodding in understanding. “Thank you, officers. You can get back to your duties.”

The officers nodded in acknowledgment and left them.

“All right,” John said, turning to face Barnes, who didn’t even acknowledge that his escort had left. “You… did you want to be at the interview? It would just be for a minute, but-“

“No,” Barnes broke in firmly, a light rasp to his voice. He was still staring at the shield.

“He can stand on the field with us,” Lemar offered.

“It’s easier being out of the spotlight,” Olivia said.

“Right. Bucky?” John asked. Barnes didn’t move, but Lemar could see in his eyes that he was listening. “I want you to know right now that I’m looking for a partner. I don’t want this to be some kind of work release mandate. You might be on parole, but as far as I’m concerned that’s not counting for anything here unless you give me a reason to think it should. Steve Rogers picked you to be at his side. I think you’re going to do some pretty amazing things at mine.”

Barnes didn’t respond. Lemar and John and Olivia all traded looks.

All right, so first impressions could be a little shaky. Lemar knew John’d get him to open up.

Olivia touched John’s shoulder. “You should go get ready.”

”Yeah,” John agreed. He looked at Barnes determinedly. “We can go over things tonight after the interview. Just stick with either of these two for now.”

There was some kind of a reaction, then - a twitch of his facial muscles and another stiff swallow, followed by a long exhale. Barnes stopped looking at the shield and dropped his eyes to the gymnasium floor.

John looked hesitant at that reaction, but then there was a distant roar outside that drew his attention. It was the sound of hundreds of people cheering in excitement. The preshow proceedings were about to start.

Lemar watched the realization of that smack into John, and the worry sharpened on his face. He was gonna have a different kind of battle in just a minute.

“We’ll get him settled,” Olivia said encouragingly.

John gave a quick nod. “It was great to meet you,” he said to Barnes, then rushed back off towards the lockers.

”You need water, bathrooms?” Lemar asked when they were alone. “Once this stuff really gets started it’s probably going to go on for a minute.”

”John’ll have a lot of press after the cameras stop rolling,” Olivia agreed.

“No,” Barnes said. Besides the twitches, the three words he’d spoken and the couple of times he’d moved his eyes, the only difference between him and a statue was the slow breaths that moved through him.

Lemar looked over the chiseled cut to Barnes’ cheekbones. “What about food? Cafeteria’s technically closed, but we can still grab something from one of the vending machines. You can save it for later if you don’t want it now.”

Barnes flicked his eyes up towards Lemar’s face - still not quite eye contact. He dropped them back down almost immediately, nodding in response.

Olivia reached into her coat pocket, pulling out her wallet and grabbing a bunch of bills that she handed to Lemar. “I saw them on the way in,” she said. “I think they actually carry more than Doritos and candy bars now.”

”Hey, Doritos and candy bars got me and John through some tough games,” Lemar said as he took the money. “I’ll take him. You want to make sure John’s actually getting ready?”

She nodded. “Come check on us if we’re not out in ten minutes,” she said.

”You got it,” Lemar said. “Come on,” he told Barnes.

Barnes followed him two steps behind, perfectly matching his pace as they went outside the gymnasium and crossed the campus towards the cafeteria. The space was wide open concrete with a few planted trees, but in the distance the gentle rumble of the crowd on the field continued on.

“Heard you came from Brooklyn,” Lemar said, wanting to clear at least some of the lingering tension. “How was your flight?”

”Fine,” Barnes answered, his tone flat.

Lemar laughed. “That bad, huh? John gets pretty antsy, too, being cooped up on planes. He’s an action guy, through and through. I wouldn’t be surprised if he could keep up with you even without the serum.” Lemar cast a look over his shoulder; Barnes turned his gaze to the side like he was especially interested in the Home Economics building. “That super strength, though… how much can you bench?”

A crease appeared between Barnes’ brows. “What?”

”What’s your single rep max on the bench press?”

”I’ve never bench pressed,” Barnes said, sounding almost offended, his gaze moving to scan the other side of the campus.

So John was probably also right that they were less interested in measuring Barnes’ stats. Lemar shrugged as he faced forward; it wasn’t a big deal, he’d just been curious to find out how close they were. “I’m Lemar Hoskins, by the way. Field name Battlestar. I’ll be John’s number two when we’re out on missions.”

The silence extended. When Lemar looked back again, Barnes’ eyes were down, that crease on his face doing some impressive expansion.

”What?” Lemar asked, keeping his voice light.

”Battlestar?” Barnes repeated, his voice pitched higher.

”That’s what I said,” Lemar confirmed with a grin. “Should have gotten yourself a name when you were Captain America’s partner. You can think of something now, if you want.”

”I don’t want a new name,” Barnes said, all but glaring at the ground.

”Suit yourself,” Lemar said. “But if you want my opinion, I think it would really help to bury that whole Winter Soldier thing.”

They got to the vending machines. One of the rows in the first one was lined with protein bars. When Lemar asked Barnes for preferences, he shook his head, then stood there still as a rock. Lemar just grabbed a few of the peanut butter and chocolate-flavored ones, handing them off.

“Thank you,” Barnes said, pocketing two of the bars and quickly unwrapping and taking a large bite out of the third, the corners of his eyes tightening as he swallowed too big of a mouthful too quickly.

Lemar put more money into the machine beside the snacks, dropping down a water bottle for good measure. “Here,” he said. “Might not be that thirsty now but those things’ll suck all the moisture right out of you.”

Barnes finished the bar in another single bite, reaching for the bottle without complaint. His throat struggled then eventually won out over his second swallow. “Thank you,” he repeated gruffly, holding the bottle loosely in his hand.

Lemar nodded. “No problem. We should get back to John. He always needs a tag team before a big event like this.”

Barnes followed, again with that two steps behind, keeping a precise distance. ”When’s the assignment?” he questioned quietly, back to glancing around as they crossed back to the gymnasium.

“You’re kind of looking at it,” Lemar said. “We got some intel on our first dispatch, but this tour’s taking priority for now.”

”What’s the intel?” Barnes asked, ignoring the second part of Lemar’s statement.

”There’s a rogue group called the Flag Smashers trying to incite revolution. They’re getting violent. Targeting suppliers. And now we’re receiving reports they might be stronger than the average human. We’ve got a tracer trying to narrow down their next stop.”

“What kind of tracer?”

Lemar had to give Barnes props for being proactive, but if he couldn’t turn that side of himself off he’d probably be in for even a rougher time on the tour than John. “A combat and reconnaissance drone. Air Force. It’s checking things out overseas as we speak.”

Barnes was quiet for an extra beat. Then he spoke, deliberately slower. “What model of drone?”

“One based off a Stark prototype,” Lemar said.

”From the EXO-7 Falcon?” Barnes prodded, insistence in his voice.

Well, he at least knew his stuff. “Yeah,” Lemar said. “We’re keeping an eye on data it gathers while we’re working stateside. Things aren’t chaotic enough yet for them to cut the tour short to send us out.” He looked over his shoulder. “Just hang tight, though. John’s raring to go, too. It’ll be sooner than you think.”

The side of Barnes’ face twitched and his jaw clenched, head bending down as he took a deep breath through his nostrils. Looked like he was going to take the tight part of that statement a lot more seriously than the hang.

Laughter and cheers rose like a wave to Lemar’s ears, the field in the distance coming alive. Barnes stared out towards it, jaw clenching harder beneath steel blue eyes.

It was almost showtime.

“Sarah, I’m heading out,” Sam called as he came down the stairs, footsteps echoing against the wood, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “Depending on what’s going on I could be back as soon as the day after tomorrow, or not for a couple of weeks.”

Sarah was sitting at the kitchen table, probably going over the next weeks’ orders. “I’ll hold it down,” she said, that same air of distracted stress around her that had been filling the place since he’d come back.

Sam heard the TV on in the living room, and frowned - the last thing she needed was unused electronics racking up her bills. “You’re not even watching that.”

”I like the background noise,” Sarah said with a shrug, then pulled herself up, closing her laptop and packing it away in its bag before grabbing her clipboard. “But I gotta head out, too.”

Sam was about to go when he half heard exactly what interview was happening on the TV as Sarah walked over to the couch to grab the remote. Slowly, he came over to the living room, staring at the screen before she could press the power button.

John Walker was sitting on a chair at a high school football field, proud in a star-spangled uniform, being enthusiastically interviewed and congratulated for his recent appointment as Captain America as well as apparently being a perfect physical specimen of a human being.

But that wasn’t what really caught Sam’s eye. What caught Sam’s eye and strained his breath and brought down his whole morning was when the camera angle changed, revealing a host of men in uniform standing on the field in the distance, with a woman in an elegant long coat. And with them, standing out like an angry bionic sore thumb in a jacket, hoodie, turtleneck and jeans, was a very familiar looking super soldier.

Bucky Barnes, new haircut and all, doing his part to support the new Cap right there on ABC for the entire country to see. Not even bothering to drop the murder face for the camera.

Sam felt a tightness in his chest, a blow that had just started to fade coming back with a sack of sledgehammers.

Sarah was looking at him out of the corner of her eye, the remote hovering unused. “You all right?”

”Yeah,” Sam said, shaking his head and blinking as he settled his bag more steadily over his shoulder. He had work to do, and Bucky was free to do what he wanted with his life, even if that meant following the guy that hadn’t been Steve’s personal pick.

There wasn’t any point in getting upset about this right now; Sam had done what he’d known in his gut was right.

“Yeah,” he said again, wishing the burrowing ache in his chest would listen to his head. “Just turn it off. I’ll see you later.”

Chapter Text

Olivia Walker could not be more happy for her husband as she waited on the field for his interview with Good Morning America, her favorite coat draped over her shoulders. The night air was perfect: not too cold, just enough of a breeze to keep things from getting muggy. The sky was crystal clear, the moon bright overhead - like the weather itself knew what an important day this was, and wanted John to succeed as much as she did.

John had made his first appearance as Captain America, but this would be his first real public interview. Thousands were about to see and react to what she saw almost every day; a man who was strong, smart, capable, kind, devoted, and worth loving.

The people who already knew that about him surrounded her in their designated spots close to the stage. Lemar was off to the side laughing with some of his army buddies, their smiles reflecting the pride she felt filling her chest to bursting.

As she scanned over their interactions, letting their joy feed into hers, the one person nearby who was not smiling caught her eye.

Bucky Barnes.

The jolt she felt at the sight of his stony gaze reminded her a little of how it felt when she sometimes missed a step on the stairs. She hadn’t forgotten he was there, but the look on his face, the furrow to his brow…something about it set her a little on edge, and she couldn’t put her finger on it.

So far he wasn’t the friendliest prospective partner of John’s Olivia had ever met; he didn’t even really seem to like John that much during their initial interaction. Even if that rubbed her the wrong way, she’d been around much worse. Not every soldier John had ever worked with was exactly the politest person.

John was excited about working with him, and had full faith in their partnership. That was enough for her to try and ignore her instincts.

While she watched, his gaze flicked her way, then just as soon back forward with a rough swallow, one of his eyes twitching while his gloved left hand curled at his side. He was staring towards the stage in the center of the field, where Sara Haines would soon be interviewing John. Olivia didn’t think he’d said a word to anyone the entire time he’d been on the field. The water bottle in his right hand was empty - she hadn’t seen him drink it.

She looked away, hands in her pockets, a little thrill of anxiety pulsing like a thread in her stomach. He seemed like he wanted to be left alone, so she would leave him alone.

She saw Lemar walking back over in the next moment with some of his friends, and felt a frisson of relief. They weren’t coming up to her, though.

She watched as Lemar walked straight over to Barnes and began introducing him. Barnes dropped his eyes to the turf as the men formed a half circle around him, taking a single step back before coming to a stop, every muscle going still.

“I hope you don’t mind, they really wanted to meet you,” Lemar said, responding to the behavior more jovially than Olivia would have been able to bring herself to do.

Caleb Coursen, a tall army chaplain with olive-toned skin, was the first to come forward and extend his hand. “Sergeant Barnes. It’s a pleasure. Glad to see you’re back in the fold.”

Barnes hesitantly shook hands, exhaling heavily as he raised his eyes and looked to the side where the half-circle of men around him broke off.

“John’s done great work for this country,” another man - Olivia thought his name was Daniel - said. “I can’t believe you get to work with both Caps.”

“Can you imagine if John had the serum? He’d be the most unstoppable person on the planet.”

“Don’t suppose you got any extra supply, Barnes?”

They laughed and continued chatting and joking, ignoring or not noticing the strictly reserved demeanor of the focus of their attention.

Olivia noticed. She wondered why Barnes had agreed to stay for the event. She knew it had been John’s choice to have him on the field, but he would have given Barnes permission to sit it out if it was going to make him this uncomfortable, just like he’d let him sit out the interview itself.

It was clear John was going to have to broach that subject first. Olivia would give him the suggestion when she saw him. She’d talk to Lemar about it, too. He was clearly trying to make Barnes feel welcome.

Her thought process was interrupted as cries of the crowd rose up like a wave, startling her. Barnes’ eyes shot up in that instant, meeting hers before he jerked them away with a wince, lips twisting as his breaths sped up and the blood drained from his face. The others had already turned away to look at the source of the noise, so they didn’t see his response.

Olivia watched him an extra second before she turned away, that thread of unknown anxiety in her lingering as the band started playing, enthusiastic notes blaring into the night air.

Then John came jogging out onto the field, and the crowd’s cheers grew ecstatic as he headed along the line of fans, signing autographs. He looked really good in his uniform, fit and strong and confident. The unease Olivia had felt began to leave her as she watched him begin to take to his new role, multiplying the smiles and encouragement directed his way in real time. That was her husband, taking responsibility of one of the most influential mantles that could ever exist.

Eventually, he got on stage, taking a seat while the men manning the cameras nearby readied themselves. The crowd continued cheering for him. Olivia and Lemar cheered for him along with them.

When Olivia thought to glance back at Barnes again, he was a few steps even further back from his previous position, his eyes back on the turf. Lemar and the others had moved forward, their attention fully on John. Like Barnes was invisible.

Barnes seemed to prefer it that way. At least until the interview wound down, and John moved on to sign a few more autographs for some eager fans while the majority of the people that had been seated in the bleachers began to filter towards the parking lot.

“How much longer is this thing?”

Olivia looked over her shoulder with a returning of that thread of anxiety, unsure if she’d really heard the words or just imagined them.

He stood a few feet behind her, waiting in the same spot he’d been standing in the entire interview, the dark jacket and the shadow of stubble on his jaw a sharp contrast to his pale skin. His eyes were up, now, stormy grey lined by shadows, directed her way without looking at her directly.

”I think it should be winding down soon,” Olivia said, just in case she hadn’t imagined it.

The bright lights overhanging the football field illuminated strongly enough that the muscle that jumped out of his cheek in response was obvious. His lips moved.

Whatever he said was drowned out in the nearby laughter of Lemar as he caught up with his friends. “I’m sorry?” she asked, turning to face him fully. “I didn’t catch that.”

”I have a curfew,” Barnes said, eyes scanning the field, the people leaving in waves. He looked angry and wound extremely tight.

“Oh,” she said, her gaze going to John, who was busy with a line of reporters. She wasn’t really the person with any authority on this. “But they sent you out here to be at this event with John. Wouldn’t that negate it?”

The muscle in his cheek jumped out again. He didn’t answer her question. Or look at her. But he clearly hadn’t liked her response, at all.

”We can talk to John about it when he’s done,” she said reassuringly. “I’m sure he’ll make arrangements.”

Barnes sucked in a deep breath through his nostrils and swallowed. He didn’t say anything else.

Olivia stayed at his side for another ten minutes in awkward silence before she finally heard John call out as he jogged across the field. “Hey guys!” He was grinning, his cheeks flushed as he turned and gave one last wave to the line of fans he’d left behind. He wrapped an arm around Olivia and she sank into him, accepting a brief kiss that warmed her heart. “What a night, huh?” John asked, practically bouncing on his feet. “That was pretty amazing.”

She patted his chest. “I’m so proud of you.”

“You killed it, John,” Lemar said as he trotted up to them.

”Yeah,” John said, smiling widely. “Yeah, I did.“

“John,” Olivia murmured, and John turned his eyes on her, instantly attentive. “I think it would be a good idea if you talked with Barnes. He seems really uncomfortable.”

John frowned, looking taken aback, then turned to look at Barnes. Whatever he saw sobered his expression, his shoulders straightening as he nodded.

”We can get things sorted out on the way back to the hotel,” John said decisively. “Bucky,” he called. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

Barnes didn’t answer, but when John, Olivia and Lemar started to move, he followed close behind.

Olivia stepped on the breaks for the twentieth time in less than two minutes; her calves were sore from her heels, and now they were moving at a crawl down the street in their rental car. Roadwork combined with the amount of people that had come out to see John, or just be in the vicinity with the chance to see John, was making the trip back a long one.

John was beside her in the passenger seat, Lemar and Barnes taking up the seats in the back. Every time Olivia checked the rearview mirror Barnes was staring out the window, brake lights flaring a red tint over his face.

“I’ve just gotta ask,” John said, looking over his shoulder. “The staring thing. You don’t seem to like looking at anyone.”

Barnes kept looking out the window.

John sighed, turning back forward and lightly knocking his knee with his fist. “All right, look. Clearly you have some misgivings about this whole thing. But is it okay if we iron those out? We just met, and if we’re going to be working together, it’s only going to be to our benefit if we can talk things through.”

”How far are we from the hotel?” Barnes asked, instead of responding to John directly.

”With this traffic?” Lemar responded, shaking his head despondently as he looked out the window. “Man. Be lucky if we’re in bed by midnight.”

Olivia glanced in the mirror again; from their angles, they probably couldn’t see it, but there was a growing intensity with the way Barnes was looking through the glass beside him. It was like he was trying to get the cars to move just through his eyes alone.

That odd thread was coming back into her stomach. She wished she knew what it was from, or if it was just her overactive mind planting something that wasn’t there.

”We’ll have plenty of time to catch some shut eye before we have to head out in the morning,” John said. “Just relax, Bucky. You’re in good company.”

Barnes sucked in a deep breath through his nose, then exhaled as his lips twitched. He clamped his eyes shut tightly, face still turned towards the window.

“You all right, man?” Lemar asked, tilting his head worriedly.

Barnes took another deep breath. Then another. Then he finally turned away from the window and let his head fall back against the seat, keeping his eyes shut as his stiff shoulders slumped down and his arms grew looser.

John had craned his head around to look back at the odd reaction, but once Barnes went still and quiet, he seemed satisfied. “There, you see?” He said, turning to relax back into his own seat. “We should all take a page from that statement. Tonight was a blast, but it’s not what I’m here to do. The real work is waiting out there. We need to keep even heads to meet it.”

The rest of the drive to the hotel passed in mostly silence - except for a couple of quiet exchanges between John and Lemar, and once - so soft she thought she’d imagined it - some low, short sound, deep in Barnes’ throat.

It got worse when they finally arrived at the hotel.

Relieved to be able to stretch out her aching legs, fantasizing about falling into bed, Olivia stepped out onto the pavement of the parking garage and stretched her back. John stepped out on the other side, still in his uniform, shield in hand. The sound of distant sirens rang through the air, but the hotel itself was quiet from the late hours, no patrons or staff in sight.

“Barnes,” Lemar said from inside the car. “We’re here, man.”

There was something in Lemar’s voice that sent the alarms ringing in Olivia’s head, the thread of anxiety turning into a coiling snake. She turned around as John wandered over to the door next to where Barnes was settled, opening it.

Barnes still had his head tilted back against the seat, his eyes closed. With the added light of the parking garage she could see that he was pale and sweating.

“Bucky,” John tried. He leaned down, raising his voice. “We’re at the hotel.”

“Something’s wrong with him,” Olivia said, finally voicing her feelings.

“He’s a supersoldier,” John said. “He can’t get sick.”

Maybe that was true, Olivia thought. But that didn’t mean something wasn’t wrong.

John reached over, shaking Barnes by the shoulder. “Hey! Come on. You need to get out of the car.”

Barnes flinched, his eyes shooting open, and then he was lurching out of the car and onto the stained ground, falling in an ungainly heap on the concrete at John’s feet.

Olivia moved forward as John knelt down, his hand going back to Barnes shoulder. Barnes’ eye twitched, his nostrils flaring around quickening breaths as he pressed his cheek into the grit of the pavement. His entire body was strained tight, and his right hand was visibly shaking.

“Bucky,” John said. “What the hell’s going on?”

“Is he all right?” Lemar asked.

John’s answer was interrupted as they all became aware of the fact that the sound of sirens was no longer in the distance but loudly approaching. Red and blue lights shone on the wall of the garage as a trio of police cars rushed through right towards them, coming to a stop beside their car.

John straightened up as the first of the officers stepped out, taking in the scene. “Captain,” he greeted respectfully. “We received an alert Barnes was defying his set curfew.”

John frowned, looking at each of the officers in turn as half a dozen of them came to stand around them. “What?”

Olivia looked down at Barnes in realization. His left hand slowly curled on the ground, gloved fingers squeezed tight together, lips pressed in a line so thin they looked bloodless, his chest heaving. His eyes had become like glittering coals as he stared harshly at the boots of the officers.

He’d tried to tell her, back on the field.

“Set parameters of the inhibitory device were violated.”

“What set parameters?” John asked impatiently.

“John,” Lemar murmured. “The manual.”

Olivia watched John’s face crease with confusion then smooth out in shock. He regained his composure quickly, broadening his shoulders. “He’s not defying curfew,” John said. “I had an event. It ran late. I haven’t had time to go over the manual yet.”

“It’s not Barnes’ fault,” Lemar added. “He’s been chill with us the whole night.”

The officers looked confused. “He does look like he’s following procedure,” one of them eventually said.

Procedure? It was procedure for him to lay on the ground? And there was a manual for that procedure? That was what John had forgotten back at the hotel?

What was this?

“He is,” John asserted. “I’m sorry to say you gentlemen have wasted your time coming out here. There’s no problem.”

The first officer looked relieved instead of annoyed. “Don’t worry, Cap. It’s an odd situation. They said they worked all the kinks out of the signalling system, but clearly something went wrong.”

“You need anything from us?” another officer asked.

“No,” John said, a stern edge to his voice. “I have everything handled.”

Slowly they all began moving back into their police cars, one speaking into his radio to explain that the situation was a false alarm. Then their vehicles began to take the route to the exit of the parking garage, leaving silence and confusion in their wake.

”Everyone in the hotel probably heard that,” Lemar said.

John exhaled heavily, shaking his head, then looked down at Barnes.

“Whatever limitations are on Bucky Barnes,” he said, deliberately enunciating. “Including curfews - I want them dropped. All of them.”

For a moment, Olivia didn’t see any change. Then Barnes blinked in a way that was more like a twitch, swallowing with a grimace as he spread a hand against the ground and started to slowly and cautiously push himself up.

”You need help?” Lemar asked, and received a tense shake in answer.

Barnes looked drained. When he was on his feet he stared in the direction the police cars had gone, like he was waiting for them to come back. Like he was dreading it. Olivia’s chest felt tight while she watched him.

“Meant to do that earlier,” John said, scratching the back of his head.

”What did Lemar mean about a manual?” Olivia asked. She hadn’t asked before now, but she hadn’t known it would be so important.

John dropped his hand, grimacing. “It’s a thing they gave me. Has the outline for the specs for his…the device he’s wearing for his parole.”

“They can’t be that worried he’s gonna try something,” Lemar said. He looked at Barnes. “I’m sorry. We didn’t know the rules on you were that strict.”

“They didn’t explain anything?” Olivia asked, the situation making her more and more aghast by the second.

John looked at her, his eyes softening as he saw her worry. “Not enough,” he said. “Bucky. Is everything all right, now?”

Barnes turned his head, and Olivia realized with a start that he was almost looking at John, for the first time that night - but the expression on his face was like it had been on the field, and in the car. There was an anger brimming beneath the surface that broke free from his eyes, pinning John in place like a wave of crashing fury.

The moment ended fast, his eyes moving away, towards the exit to the parking garage again, his stare hypervigilant. Even though he hadn’t spoken, this time his answer was clear. He could have been in severe trouble, and John’s confusion with the situation had almost guaranteed it.

John’s eyes met Olivia’s. She raised her eyebrows meaningfully. John sighed heavily, then pulled out his phone before turning around. “You guys take him to his room. I’m going to make a call.”

Chapter Text

The Training Room was far away and full of static.

There were still the grey walls and the hard floor illuminated by harsh light, along with the equipment lined with straps and the armored and armed figures standing ready to subdue him if needed.

Bucky saw all of those things without seeing them. Smelled - nothing. Felt nothing worth noticing. Heard no words but those that contained orders; they were the only thing that remained real, besides the ever-present threat of the collar.

The only thing that remained real.

“Better than yesterday. I’m glad you’re taking this so seriously. It’s the least you could fucking do.”

He registered the words and the fact that no command had been given. The static continued on, Goddard’s voice washing over him.

”Hey.” Fingers clenched into his jaw. He cast his gaze to the side as his chin was jerked up. “Maybe I spoke too soon. Do you think you’re too good to really pay attention? You listened to HYDRA without question for decades. You’ve got a lot to prove if you think you can even begin to make it up to America.”

He blinked sweat out of his eyes. Near his gaze, Goddard’s free hand was holding a thin black rod that ended in cylindrical silver metal, about an inch in diameter. The end of it was glowing red and radiating an intense heat.

A flare of something rose in a sharp enough breach that he felt a throb at his neck - not from the collar. It was just as soon drowned again in the droning of his mind.

Disobedience of a handler was a non-option. Getting another shock, when he was sometimes so disoriented by them he couldn’t immediately sort his memories to promptly obey said handler, was a non-option. Testing out the highest limits of the collar, when he didn’t know what those levels of electricity would do at such close proximity to his brain, was a non-option.

He did what he had to do. Even if that involved burying every part himself except for those he needed to keep to reach his goal.

“We’ll take a break from the words. It’s time you had some practice with the voice pairing settings.” His face was released. “Cole Goddard.”

The collar began buzzing in warning.

“So this is a useful option if you manage to actually gain the right for fieldwork,” Goddard said. “The collar will be working overtime on the voice pairing setting. Which means you need to work overtime to follow through. I’d really recommend you try to have a single intelligent thought over the next few minutes instead of staying a space case.”

The collar was still buzzing. Bucky swallowed, working his tongue beneath the bite guard. The collar grew louder, the noise transitioning into the edge of pain, then beyond, until over the next several seconds it became a constant surge - not so intense it incapacitated him, but sharp enough to burn his skin, make him almost surface from the static, to give into that urge to cry out and twist away from the source.

No orders had been given. Nothing for him to disobey. No indicated way to make it stop.

He wouldn’t move until he was given one.

“You’re a tough sonofabitch,” Goddard said appreciatively. “That’s why we have to take all these precautions with your release. You get into the outside world, you need to be the most upstanding and obedient parolee that’s ever existed. You set the bar of compliance as the Winter Soldier. So I don’t want to see even a hint of fucking crying over the extremely lenient treatment you’re going to receive here.”

Still no orders. The collar was getting worse.

“This setting you’re feeling now is for when your handlers mean business. A more forward reminder to stay on your toes.”

His jaw was starting to uncontrollably clench into rubber.

Static. The Training Room was full of-

“Try to fuck up when this setting is in place, get distracted, or even hesitate to follow an order, you’ll be wishing you didn’t real soon. But the best part? If you don’t receive and comply with any orders at all within a certain time frame, the collar will continuously escalate to encourage you to find your handler and get one.” Goddard stepped back from him demonstratively. Folded his arms. Stopped talking.

Bucky waited for orders.

They didn’t come.

“So that call I took. They actually properly explained what’s going on with the controls to the collar. I let them know in detail that I was very unhappy with the way that situation was handled.”

Bucky continued to shovel bacon and eggs into his mouth - partially to make up for the fact he hadn’t eaten anything but a couple of protein bars the day before, but mostly as an excuse not to need to look at or respond to Walker, who was sitting across the table from him at their booth in the hotel’s restaurant.

The shield was propped up on the seat next to Walker, enclosed in a case. Bucky tried to not look at that as he ate, too, without the same level of success.

They were readying themselves to travel for the next part of the tour. Olivia Walker had checked out and gone to visit family - Bucky had seen her once in the morning as he’d exited the hotel room with Lemar Hoskins, still in the clothes he’d worn the day before, to join the others in the lobby.

“And you read the manual?” she’d asked Walker during Bucky’s approach, voice pitched low. She hadn’t realized Bucky’s hearing was good enough to catch that whisper even in a sea of conversation from the other hotel patrons present.

“I don’t need anything in the manual,” Walker had responded back insistently, his hand running down the small of his wife’s back. “I told them that over the phone. I want him to be an asset, not a dog on a leash.”

Bucky had been close enough a second later for them to stop that conversation. She’d said goodbye to Walker and Hoskins, giving each a hug. Then she’d looked at Bucky, told him it was nice meeting him. She did a pretty good job of hiding just how uncomfortable she felt around him.

He’d given her a polite nod. She’d looked at John meaningfully after that, then turned and left.

“Last night, that whole thing looked pretty stressful,” Hoskins commented from where he sat beside Bucky, elbows resting on the table. “You bouncing back okay?”

That was a direct question. Bucky paused in putting food past his lips long enough to reach out to take a long drink of his coffee to quickly clear his mouthful. “Yeah,” he answered, then quickly went back to eating. His throat was still sore, but if he didn’t get another correction, it would be long gone by the afternoon. Physically, he was fine.

Mentally…there was a pretty comprehensive list, all of which involved things that had the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. The most immediate of those was the fact that he wasn’t sitting in the most defensible spot in the restaurant, with Hoskins and Walker boxing him into the booth. There was also lingering worry that someone was going to look at the data from the collar regarding the curfew violation and decide he needed to be arrested and locked back up after all. He was also contending with the fact that the collar’s more restrictive settings had been dropped, while also being extremely aware that they could all be reinstated at a moment’s notice with just a sentence or the press of a button, and he needed to be ready and attentive in case that happened.

He’d almost taken advantage of those dropped restrictions while running himself in desperate circles the night before, trying to figure out how worth it the consequences would be to steal the shield, and take it - somewhere. Destroy Walker’s phone in the process so he couldn’t activate the collar at a distance. Give himself time.

Even if they put him away permanently once they caught him, the fact that Steve’s legacy would be taken out of the hands of a government agenda might have been worth it.

The only thing that had kept him from hanging himself immediately with that noose was what Hoskins had said to him before Walker’s interview.

They were tracking Sam’s movements via Redwing. Sam probably didn’t even know his drone had been hacked by the government and its information handed out to two specially appointed soldiers.

Or maybe he did - he’d been willing enough to drop the shield into their hands, maybe he’d given them full access to his gear. Maybe they were even working with him. Maybe he didn’t give a shit who’d picked up the shield after Steve had passed it on.

But if he wasn’t…and if he did…even just somewhat…

Steve had wanted Sam to have the shield. Had seen something in him that made him the right choice for it. Had told Bucky as much, before he’d left. One of the last things he’d told Bucky at all, besides the note he’d sent.

The world needs people like you.

There might still be a chance to convince Sam to take it.

Bucky polished off his plate just as the others finally received theirs, and Walker’s attention was taken off of Bucky by the waiter who demurely asked for his autograph for his son. Bucky kept his eyes on the shield as Walker was handed a slip to sign, bashfully but proudly handing it back to the waiter when it was done.

There was now a big stack of pancakes along with eggs and sausage in front of Walker, artfully covered with cream and fresh berries in a familiar red white and blue ringed display. The chef definitely had an idea who their customer was. Bucky felt his face twitch as he took in the decorations at the same time he tried to ignore the fact that his stomach wasn’t getting the memo that he’d already eaten his meal.

”Like I said yesterday, I want this to be a partnership,” Walker said, prodding at his eggs with his fork before taking a bite. “I’m not big on any of those rules they had set for you.”

Not big on looking into any of the instructions for the collar, either, until Bucky had nearly been dragged to prison and had his pardon revoked for something that wasn’t his fault. Which Bucky had always and still did consider a very possible outcome for his release.

Command of the collar being given to someone like Walker, he’d also considered a very possible outcome. Almost an inevitability once he’d read those parts of the terms.

What he hadn’t expected was someone like Walker wielding the shield after Steve had made his choice.

Expected or not, both concepts had only gotten worse over the course of the evening. Walker hadn’t made a plan or even strategized on what specifically he would do when paired up with a supersoldier with an inhibitory collar, beyond performing what he considered would be ‘amazing things.’

Bucky had spent most of their first day assuming Walker had known exactly what it meant having the voice command setting instigated, while enduring more shocks in the span of a few hours than he’d had since the entire time of his release from the black site. It had frayed his nerves, requiring that many corrections from a handler despite being absolutely willing to comply. At least the collar had taken the instructions to stay with Olivia Walker and Hoskins as an acceptable order to prevent escalation beyond the base setting.

Then right around when the punishment for curfew would start, and he’d been bracing for it the best he could, trying to keep himself together, Walker had told him to ‘relax.’

That casual of a statement was an absolute order from a handler with the voice command setting. Even if the punishment itself prevented him from following through on obeying said order. Even if he was about to be punished for unwillingly disobeying another order at the same exact time.

And it had turned out that the entire evening, Walker and the others hadn’t had a goddamn clue what the collar was doing to Bucky.

Bucky stared at the shield for another few seconds, then dropped his eyes to the table, swallowing to help soothe some of the rasp to his voice. “Do we have any new intel on the revolutionaries?”

“Intel,” Walker repeated, an edge of confusion to his voice.

Hoskins cleared his throat and gulped down the mouthful of hash browns he’d been chewing, which Bucky had also noted had been pressed into the form of a star. “Sorry, yeah - John, he was asking about the Flag Smashers last night. Told him a little before the event started.” He glanced at Bucky, reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone. “Let me look into it.”

“He’s not going to find anything,” Walker warned Bucky. “Trust me: we’ve been following that information since before they gave themselves a name.” A flash of something irritated formed in his eyes; he speared at another helping of eggs, again speaking as he chewed. “The established pattern of the Flag Smashers is that they wait at least a couple weeks between hits. They’re not going to bother trying somewhere else this soon. Which is a damn shame, because I’d really like to see them poke their heads out now that I’m officially Captain America.”

”They’re not gonna know what hit them,” Hoskins agreed, then froze as he stared at his phone, a slow scowl forming over his face. “Whoa,” he said, stretching his arm across the table to hold it out. “John, man, look at this.”

Walker peered over. His eyes widened, before they narrowed. “Was that up on your phone already?”

“I must have been checking for it before I dozed off at the hotel,” Hoskins said.

He hadn’t been. Bucky had shared a room with Hoskins the night before. It had been laughably easy to notice his inputted passkeys the few times he’d used them in front of Bucky - including when he’d humored Bucky’s questions about Redwing at the high school by double checking nothing new had come up. Once Hoskins’ breaths had slowed to indicate deep sleep, Bucky’d helped himself to scanning through it repeatedly during the night, putting the phone back in its exact spot before Hoskins woke.

Redwing was in Germany. And it had found something: a supply warehouse, with all signs pointing to an upcoming infiltration, possibly by the anti-patriots they were trying to locate. It was a note so subtle in the expanse of the drone’s surveillance data that Bucky hadn’t wanted to risk Walker and Hoskins missing it.

Because regardless of if Redwing was right or not, Bucky knew that Sam took the word of any and all of that drone’s discoveries like the thing was his Captain. He would be on his way there soon to follow that lead, if he wasn’t already.

Bucky had even considered pulling out his own phone and sending Sam a text of warning for the first time since the other man had dropped the shield into government hands. But he still would rather be there in person himself. Say something. He’d know what that was when he got there.

Walker’s eyes were lighting up with more and more excitement the longer he looked at the information on display. “They’re hitting Munich,” he said, lowering his fork, the food on his plate forgotten. “This is it. They’ll need to let us move now.”

“That’s some great timing,” Hoskins agreed, pulling his phone back.

”I’ll call our ride and tell them there’s been a change of plans,” Walker said, all but shooting out of his seat, the shield clutched at his side as he rushed off. Bucky watched him go, wondering if he was going to bother including either of his named partners in his plans before they set off.

If their paths were to intercept with Sam’s, Bucky couldn’t risk a punishment. He needed to be functional, and he needed to look like something besides a collared criminal. That meant choking down whatever feelings he had about the situation and doing what Walker wanted, at least in the short term. Which would be a lot easier if Walker told Bucky exactly what that was, instead of leaving him to wait for orders that would or wouldn’t come.

“Finally, some progress,” Hoskins murmured in satisfaction, showing none of the same concern with Walker’s lack of communication. He glanced at Bucky, then nodded towards the patriotic breakfast spread sitting across the table. ”He’s not coming back for that. You think you could eat more? I’m good with what I have. Just think it’s a shame to let that go to waste after they put so much effort into it.”

Bucky didn’t even think about declining.

When Goddard finally gave him the chance to follow instructions with the voice command setting in place, Bucky complied with every one without hesitation. Even when one of the orders was to position himself on a table so he could be strapped in for a forced feeding that Goddard told him was a reward for his good behavior. Even when Bucky’s throat was so swollen he could barely swallow what he was given, half-choking on a protein mixture and trying to force down his reflexive coughing long enough to get as much of it down as possible. The fresh echoes of the nightmare that was the Winter Soldier’s absolute programmed obedience reminded him how to best brute force his own compliance through any of his body’s involuntary responses as they happened.

Maybe all of that, doing what they wanted him to do to that extent, could have been considered breaking. Maybe someone looking in would have been shocked that he’d bent the knee so damn quickly, instead of fighting with everything he had as his entire world was crushed down, pulverized, and the remains scraped into a set of orders he needed to follow without question.

But Bucky knew better than anyone: however much he pretended he still possessed the will for the fight, the truth was that he’d already been broken, for a very, very long time.

Chapter Text

The next time Ross personally met with Barnes, there were obvious growing signs of discomfort from his difficult imprisonment.

While sitting on a metal exam table and surrounded by working lab technicians, he now kept his eyes on nothing and no one. There was a grey cast to his face that hadn’t been there at the start of his sentence, emphasized by his severely shortened hair and the halo of bright lights that shone down on him. The left sleeve of his prison suit hung empty and loose at his side. Even when Ross was greeted by the collar technicians upon his arrival, Barnes gave no indication he’d noticed his presence.

As for the inhibitor collar, Ross saw the evidence of its consistent use in the red, swollen skin that bordered it. When the techs manipulated the area, Barnes allowed the contact without movement or protest, eyes unblinking and his right hand clamped around the edge of the exam table. When Ross stepped to the side, he could see that grip was white-knuckled.

But he also knew that Barnes would heal, even with continued poor treatment and lack of sleep. The man’s enhanced body was as much a machine as the piece of hardware around his neck.

Still, the image he presented, hollow-eyed and haggard, was almost enough to make Ross feel sorry for him. But the reality was that the man in front of him had killed dozens, if not hundreds of American citizens - and a lot of those in recent memory, when everyone had thought him apprehended and under control.

And it wasn’t like he couldn’t take it.

It was truly a shame Barnes had included a complete lack of scientific progress in any fields of creating more enhanced individuals in his side of demands. Besides Rogers, he was the only known individual who had managed to avoid a monstrous transformation with a supersoldier serum. At least physically.

“Barnes,” Ross said, his gaze going to the man’s face - the hair covering his skull was about as long as the stubble lining his jaw and neck. “Any adverse effects to report?”

Barnes’ eyes, grey and polarized in the beaming light, moved ever so slightly at the question. A swallow moved through his throat, pushing inflamed skin against metal. “No.” His voice was barely there, the word scraping up whisper-quiet in the lab.

“Would you prefer if I read the overview from the techs,” Ross asked.

A pinch between Barnes’ brow formed and deepened, casting a single slight shadow on his face. He didn’t answer.

Ross helped himself to the computer system lining the wall, observing the data typed out on one of the monitors. He found himself pausing over the list of physical side effects being noted beyond the superficial neck damage, and one specific reaction in particular. Then he read through the notes from the techs and their statements theorizing that Barnes would fully recover from those side effects and more, even if they were to severely increase the voltage of the collar beyond the theorized upper limit.

He looked back at Barnes, who was still sitting solidly upright, the pinch gone from his brow.

Ross sighed. Damned unstoppable supersoldiers.

“Agent Goddard tells me you’ve only had a few instances needing corrections,” he said, without allowing his true judgments to seep into his voice. Barnes, as he had since Ross had arrived, kept his eyes forward on nothing. “Keep it up.”

The thing about heart attacks, was that you often didn’t see them coming.

A person could go living their years out in blissful ignorance of the time bomb developing inside of them until the moment it finally went off. In terms of prevention there were risk factors to consider: family history, diet, other precautions one could take to try and minimize the potential for an event. But all it took was one time to change your life. Or take it.

It was Ross’ opinion that the idea of releasing James Barnes into the world was like a heart attack waiting to happen. Even with the collar, the contract, and the training. His conversation with Director Fontaine prior to her recommendations had only served to deepen his doubts on their method of containment.

Even if most of the Avengers had disbanded, leaving no one for Barnes to collude with, Ross had seen what the man could do. How many skilled men he could mow down with just a thought. And now there was no one with a matching level of strength or technology to call on to keep him in check if that power again tried to turn and serve something other than the interest of the United States.

Brainwashed or not, why anyone thought the potential for a full pardon was a good idea was beyond Ross. If Barnes ever had a bad day, or simply didn’t like the look of someone…

Barnes wasn’t anywhere near the strength of the Hulk, but the Winter Soldier was a one man army in the right circumstances, even stripped of nothing but his flesh and blood limbs.

And if he had access to more…God help them.

A few days before Barnes’ set release, Agent Goddard came to report his progress.

Ross had already reviewed the footage from most of their sessions, so he knew it was going to be in Barnes’ favor. He’d seen the way Barnes was obeying day after day, withstanding coercion and deprivation and all manner of mind games from the Agent that had come so highly recommended by Director Fontaine.

Even if the subjects for the training changed, Barnes’ behavior stayed true: he followed orders, and reported for post-training labwork, then walked peacefully through every hall and elevator as he was escorted back to his cell day after day. The techs had noted his increasingly intensified physiological stress responses during exams, but he never showed any danger of becoming erratic or difficult with his handling.

Director Fontaine had been assured of her protégé’s methods. But it all was starting to seem way too damned easy to Ross.

“I don’t want Barnes getting out,” he said as Agent Goddard stepped into his office.

Goddard shrugged, looking neither surprised or offended at the statement. “I can double down. Make him do some extra uncomfortable activities. But I think he’ll do them all.” Goddard’s chest shook with a soft chuckle. “He wants the fuck out of here, Secretary. That’s for sure.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Ross said. “To be perfectly frank, I’d be a lot happier if he was showing some much bigger signs that your methods were effective. The fact that he isn’t makes me think that he wants something out there. Something out there that he’s willing to do whatever it takes to get to. Including pretending he’s a fully reformed and docile citizen with no complaints or motives about this contract.”

“Oh, he’s complaining all the goddamn time,” Goddard said, grinning. “Just not out loud.”

“He shouldn’t want anything else except following the rules set for him,” Ross insisted. “Without exception.” He thumbed over a closed folder on his desk, then picked it up and pulled it into the center of his desk. “I do have one more tool we can implement that I’m arranging delivery for. If Barnes cooperates, I might believe he’s actually ready for parole.”

Goddard looked curious, stepping forward and reaching out for the folder. He looked into it, then back at Ross. “And if he doesn’t cooperate?”

“Then you work on him until he does,” Ross said gravely, pointing his finger at the folder. “That’s the end goal. Anything less and I won’t consider him safe for the American public.”

“Consider it done, Secretary,” Goddard said, setting the folder back down.

Ross checked the camera feeds at his desk and paused, glancing back up at Goddard in instinctive alarm. “Barnes isn’t in his cell.”

“No,” Goddard said, the grin returning, wider than ever. “He’s still in the Training Room, finding out what happens when he breaks curfew continuously.”

Ross narrowed his eyes. “He’s disobeying?”

“I gave him a conflicting order,” Goddard explained. He laughed again. “Should have seen the look on his face when he realized what I wanted. Got him to shake for the first time.”

“But he did it,” Ross said.

“But he did it,” Goddard confirmed. “We’re not gonna get any data on the collar revealing he’s legitimately uncooperative enough to hold indefinitely.”

Barnes was dedicated, Ross had to give him that. It just made him more and more sure that the collar as it stood wasn’t enough.

“When’s this surprise of yours set to arrive?” Goddard asked.

“Right now it’s the day before he’s going to be released. If it’s delayed…”

“If it’s delayed, I’ll figure something out in the meantime,” Goddard assured. “Everyone has a line they won’t cross.”

Ross sat back in his seat. “Just make sure it doesn’t break any of the terms of his contract.”

“There’s plenty outside of that,” Goddard said easily. “A legal mastermind, Barnes is not. Otherwise he wouldn’t be spending the night locked in a box getting the shit shocked out of him.”

Chapter Text

Seeing John Walker's face plastered all over the airport before his ride to Munich hadn't been the most uplifting experience Sam had ever gone through. Especially considering it was fast on the heels of him trying to clear the low headspace he’d been in while trying to figure out the right strategy to help his family’s sinking business from capsizing completely.

Thoughts of Sarah and the boat, all the things he’d so far failed to fix despite his best efforts, his promises as Sam Wilson, were things that he had been making a concerted effort to leave behind for his next step. They were just being tabled for the moment - he wasn’t running away, even if he felt like he needed a win more than ever to keep his spirits up.

So of course it had been about then that the first poster would bring him to a dead halt in his tracks, the image of the shield and the words Cap is back! sending his emotions haywire before his head just as soon caught up with reality.

It wasn’t Steve. It would never be Steve again.

No, who it was, was John Walker, carrying that piece of painted vibranium on that poster, pride coating every inch of his expression. An advertisement for the new legacy for America that had begun, specially crafted by the US government. And they sure were working overtime to craft it, Sam realized, as even after he managed to break away and move on he saw poster after poster after poster after poster on his way over to the plane.

It didn't matter, he told himself as he boarded with his gear, freeing himself of all those images of red, white and blue, making the effort to seal up the grief over the wrong-footedness that the image of that shield, and those words - Cap is back! had stirred up to overflowing. What he was about to go do was of more importance than any of the current problems in his life. Who knew where the revolutionaries were gonna hit next. What people. Joaquin had recuperated well after his violent encounter with them, but the Flag Smashers were more than capable of living up to the second half of their terrible name, especially if they were raiding supply warehouses to bolster their cause. The world was suffering enough without someone out there trying to jam a square peg into the round hole that was post-Blip life.

And Sam knew he was a good fit to deal with the situation, if not the best; he’d fought alongside and against plenty of people, aliens, and others over the years capable of bulldozing their way through most of their human opponents. It was actually that fact that had him creating the current theory running rampant in his head; whatever they were looking at with these revolutionaries wasn't exactly 100% normal human, if they were human at all. Something was backing the strength of the Flag Smashers in a big way, some big secret that had been budding during the years Sam had been dust. And whatever it was, it was already taking advantage of the chaos of the state of the world.

Which meant if he was going into this alone, he was going to need to be extra focused. Ready. Not thinking about Sarah trying to do what she thought was the healthy thing in coming to terms with the loss of their parents' boat before it happened. Or that her choice was along the lines of what he'd himself probably counsel her to work towards if she'd been anyone but his sister, and what she was coming to terms with was anything but scrapping the Paul and Darlene.

And he definitely didn't need to think about the very literal poster boy for the Army and Air Force, America’s newest Captain and inspiration for the troops, face now probably plastered over every square inch of every military compound in the United States. Didn’t need to think about that ache in his chest that had refused to leave him since the shock of seeing the shield get passed on in the first place, despite his own self-assurances that he’d made the right choice in staying as the Falcon to help the world the best way he knew how.

And he didn’t need to have a vision of Steve’s expression, or the words he might say, if he’d known what had happened after Sam had tried to quietly retire the thing, wrongly assuming it would just stay a relic on display. Didn’t need to see pursed lips, that blue-eyed stare, those arms folded. It was heads or tails on whether or not even as a geriatric super Steve would try and rip the thing back to where he thought it should go.

No, Sam thought with a heavy sigh, fondness and exasperation coiling heavily inside him. He’d definitely rip it back. Maybe even use the newfound grandpa image as a way to get everyone to underestimate him before he broke his way into another government facility, start flipping through the air and kicking heads in if he was met with violent force.

But Steve wasn’t going to do any of those things. Because he was gone.

Shit, Sam thought as he stared across the empty cabin, grief of a different kind reigniting. Not thinking about things sure was going well.

When Torres finally announced the drop, Sam was more than ready, disembarking a full thirty seconds earlier just to get that little bit of extra wind on his face, settling into the work.

He followed Redwing’s coordinates, letting the drone go on ahead to an empty, half-crumbled warehouse, out of use for so long that there were full grown trees in the interior, stretching up to catch any bit of sunlight they could through the broken ceiling. It smelled of dirt, and mold, and he had to step around murky stagnant puddles of water as he made his way through. At the far end he found what he was looking for - a pair of semi-trucks being loaded up.

The group stocking them consisted of seven people, and a few of them were carrying oversized cargo, too huge and unwieldy for what their bodies looked like they could handle. Unless Amazon had put some kind of investment into hyper-light gigantic shipping containers, seeing two dudes hold what historically would have taken several men to maneuver just furthered Sam’s suspicions that his targets weren’t the normal humans they appeared to be. His money was on androids or aliens, at this point - wizards he figured would have more of a light show with their abilities, and Redwing wasn't picking up any odd energy signatures. Maybe that meant Sam could rule out androids, too, but he knew anyone making those in this day and age should know better than to give them any heat signatures out of the ordinary from a normal person's if they were trying to blend in. That was just the logical thing.

He watched them finish packing the trucks, heard the announcement that they were ready to drive off. Knew that their cargo was a whole lot of weaponry, if his suspicions about that were also right. Enough for them to comfortably push farther into whatever war they were looking to win. Especially if no one saw them coming.

They weren’t going to get that far.

Sam used Redwing to scan deeper into one of the trucks, wanting a closer look before they moved off, and was shocked when he saw someone sitting cramped between the huge crates. Someone small.

They had a hostage. Sam's heartbeat went faster at the realization but he didn't let himself run headfirst into danger. Anyway, it looked like whoever it was had been left alone and wasn’t under direct threat, so he had a minute. He let Redwing fly off as the trucks left the warehouse, confirming their route as they gained speed upon entering a highway. Then Sam commanded the drone to start working on making an opening in the side of the leading truck.

The driver of the vehicle in the back was definitely going to see him when he went for it, which meant that probably all seven of the Flag Smashers were going to be alerted to his presence seconds after his infiltration.

But at this point he was pretty sure none of them could fly. So that at least meant getting the hostage out of a grounded situation was going to be easier than his last mission.

Redwing finished his work, leaving just enough of the truck’s side intact that it would break off as soon as Sam went for it. Sam took to the air, trailing a steady distance behind, making sure the trucks were keeping speed before he accelerated his jets and helped himself to breaking through, withdrawing the wings as he made his landing in a crouch, braced for danger.

The first thing that he noticed was that the truck was full of vaccines. Not weapons. Everything within his line of sight was medical, or at least labeled that way.

He slowly rose, frowning as he looked over the supplies, his hand coming up to rest over one of the crates. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and froze.

The hostage was a short distance from him, behind another set of crates. Half a pale face peered out, staring cautiously over at him.

"You don't have to be scared," Sam said, turning to face her and sending a command to Redwing to go exclusively nonlethal. "I'm here to help."

The girl poked her head out a little farther, revealing a freckled face and red hair. Civilian clothes. Older teenager, or maybe even early twenties, but he had a feeling it was the former.

Why would the Flag Smashers want her? Was she some kind of young genius scientist behind the vaccine production? Or someone’s daughter, insurance to keep anyone from coming after them?

Whatever the reason, if they were people that wanted vaccines so damn bad, he was thinking he could rule out androids. And he was starting to have a suspicion the second truck was going to contain more of the same.

It didn’t mean he wasn’t going to stop them; just because it was vaccines and other medical supplies now didn’t mean it wouldn’t be something else in the future. But the hostage was a priority.

"Look, I can get you off this truck and to safety but you have to trust me," Sam said softly, wondering if the girl even spoke English, hoping if she didn’t it’d be one of the languages he spoke. "What's your name?"

“You’re here to rescue me,” she said - not only in English, but with an English accent. She came out a little further, looking him up and down. “You’re American. Are you Army? Are there others here?”

“More freelance,” Sam admitted. “But I do work directly with the Air Force. You’ll be taken care of.”

She stepped closer again, eyes wide. “So you’re alone.”

“I’ve got a buddy with me,” Sam said reassuringly. He held his hand out to her in offering. “Come on.”

He barely saw the fist coming. Over the next few seconds as he was sent flying back through the opening in the side of the truck, as he desperately activated the wings while his lungs stayed stubbornly expelled of all air, he realized he'd made a crucial mistake.

A simple no would have been fine, he thought as Redwing sounded an alarm for imminent danger. “Yeah, I noticed.”

He jetted upwards above the truck and saw movement beneath him before something grabbed his ankle and gravity came back in a violent rush as his ascent was brought up short. In the next instant he found his back slammed down onto a hard surface, forcing the air back out of his recently recovered lungs. Two masked people crouched over him, pinning him in place with inhuman strength. A third joined them a moment later - the girl, red curls whipping wildly in the wind, her face covered in a similar mask, those wide eyes now staring at him through the fingers of a blood red handprint.

Well, at least he knew Redwing had been right about the lead.

Sam looked up at that girl, saw the determination in her posture as she stomped over, and he realized with a start that he'd immediately changed his opinion entirely on what he was dealing with. That wasn't an alien, or an android. Neither were the guys holding him, masked up but eyes shining with similar intent.

"You're super soldiers," Sam said, voice straining as he struggled against the holds.

She punched him again, cracking his visor and sending the world spinning. Where the fuck had they gotten a serum? Why did they need vaccines? Questions he wasn’t going to have time to ask, especially if that small fist pulling back was going to make contact again.

Redwing popped up behind her head, firing shots to draw her attention. He did his intended job, but in the next instant the girl was in the air - and maybe she couldn’t fly but she could leap, her lithe body cutting through the air for an absurd distance before she snatched Redwing and made him meet his end in one smooth movement against her knee.

Shit. There went Sam's backup.

The girl who packed a mean punch stalked back and stood over him, fists clenched, fury bright in her eyes. She brought both of her hands together, this time, raising them up.

And got slammed in the side of the head with a round flying disc. Sam felt the Flag Smashers holding him jerk in surprise, and then a flash of a shadow slammed into one of them, taking the weight off of that side and sending the guy off the edge of the truck with a cry.

Sam took advantage, setting off his jets and managing to almost fly loose before a hand caught his ankle - a fourth of the Smashers had joined the party, and Sam knew more would be not far off. So he changed tactics, letting himself fall and withdrawing the wings before bringing them out again to catch the guy across his masked face, sending both of them tumbling.

And that was when a bigger flash of red white and blue came down from the sky and landed, shield and all, right across from Sam just as he pushed himself up from his side. John Walker, chest puffed out with vigor and thrill and confidence.

Whatever Sam thought about this turn of events was going to have to wait until the fight was over, because they had only taken out one of those strong opponents. The redhead was already straightening back up and the guy Sam had just clocked with his wing was doing the same, along with the other that had grabbed his ankle. The Flag Smasher that had been taken out by the person Sam hadn't gotten a good look at was the only one they'd lost, sitting in the road in the distance as the trucks kept making their way.

That still left them outnumbered. Even when another guy came flying from the helicopter on a rope, landing next to Walker after a brutal swipe at the redhead, sending her hanging off the edge of the truck before bumping arms with Walker in celebration.

Walker gladly introduced himself, and so did his partner, but Sam was a little too preoccupied to be concerned with introductions as he moved back into the fight. Not preoccupied enough to not notice every single time vibranium flew and hit its mark in multiple places, sometimes sailing just inches past his face. The sound of it, metal cutting through air until it made its impact with that familiar clang, made something churn in his gut with a longing so intense it almost dangerously distracted him. That sound was so irrevocably attached to Steve in his head, and Steve wasn't here. All that was here were three soldiers, including Sam - three competent but still limited with normal human strength soldiers, and-

Sam saw a vibranium hand clamp onto the side of the truck closest to him, then reach up and grab an ankle, pulling a Flag Smasher's feet out from under him, making him bounce his chin off the truck as he slid down with a shout.

"Good work, Bucky!" Walker called, then sent the shield flying back out.

Bucky - the shadow Sam had seen earlier - hauled himself up and made his full appearance, dressed in some kind of tactical outfit of navy blue and red lines going through it, black fabric stretching up over the majority of his neck. A nicely matching member to Walker and whoever else the other guy was.

The look he gave Sam was cold.

Sam's shock might have made him hesitate. Walker's shield took out someone to his side, and Bucky broke eye contact with Sam, jumping halfway across the truck in a single bound to punch into Smasher number five just as he tried to join the fight. Number six was close behind, but before Bucky could stop him from climbing up the redhead came at him from the side and viciously punched him hard enough to send his head rocking and make his skin split.

Sam saw the shock pass Bucky's face the moment before he heard Walker’s other partner cry out - one of the first Flag Smashers Sam had been engaging with had targeted him, putting a super strong forearm across the man's throat.

"John," the man croaked, just before Bucky dodged around the redhead and rushed over to him. He punched out the Flag Smasher, sending a second one over the edge in under a minute, adding three to his truck-dislodging tally - for about half a second, before the dude was up again, and the redhead came at him from behind with a fury she hadn’t shown anyone else, jumping and making him take a hit directly between the shoulder blades with her doubled-up fists. He bent forward with the blow, far enough that the guy coming up at his front could smash his own fist into his chin and send him reeling.

Sam saw the expression of growing frustration on Bucky's face alongside that pain, thought not so easy when the tables are turned, is it, then didn't think about much else for the next few seconds except avoiding the traffic sign coming their way, a sign that a Flag Smasher used the momentum of his own body to bust through like some radicalized version of the Kool-Aid man in his fervor to reach Sam, slamming into his chest hard enough that he was forced to back off and regroup.

Okay, okay, focus, Sam thought as he moved up higher, the pain in his chest letting him know if something wasn’t cracked he was at least going to end up with a spectacular bruise. He circled in the air, eyeing for his next opening. As he did, he caught sight of the first Flag Smasher Bucky had sent off the truck earlier in the fight just fucking running up alongside them, keeping pace on nothing but his own two legs. Because he was a super soldier, so of course he was.

Their odds weren't good. Walker and his other partner were still fighting but whoever these people were, strong was an understatement. Only vibranium was doing any kind of damage, and they had all of one shield and one arm of that material.

They went for Walker’s partner again while Sam was in the sky - must have figured out he was the easiest target.

"He shouldn't be here," Bucky roared over the air as he dodged and punched and took a few more hits to his gut and face – and seriously, Sam had never quite noticed how much Bucky’s fighting strategy seemed to involve letting himself get beat on.

"I've got it," Walker called back, pulling out a gun.

Sam had enough of a bird's eye view to see Bucky ignore Walker’s strategy and throw one of the Flag Smashers he was fighting - this one a woman with black hair - at just the right angle to send her through the air so she’d clip the other one holding John’s partner on her way past, sending all of them over the edge between the trucks, with only Walker’s partner able to reach out to grab at the edge before he completely slid off.

Could at least try not to get everyone killed, Sam thought towards Bucky as he dove down to assess the best opening. The redhead had now turned her attention to Walker, but both of the Flag Smashers that Bucky had managed to dislodge were beneath Walker’s partner on the truck, and one was stretching a hand towards his leg, ready to yank him down and smash him beneath the wheels.

Up top, the upper half of a vibranium-imbued torso slid over the edge, metal arm reaching out and clamping across Walker’s partner’s back, before Sam found himself on the end of that glare again, saw the lips twist on Bucky’s busted face before he swung his arm out and sent the guy flying, falling.

Sam shouted as he changed positions and flared his wings out just in time to catch him, sending them both sliding back into the center of the road and cars swerving. Old instincts took over for the landing, the rescue techniques he’d perfected again and again during his training with the Avengers, making sure the wing pack took the brunt of the damage as he directed them off the street and into a field alongside. His heart tried to break out his chest in the aftermath, the trucks rapidly making their way down the highway, the air quiet with the lack of danger. Walker’s partner had been moments away from becoming a red smear on the road but now he was alive, breathing heavily next to Sam.

“You all right?” Sam still asked, panting against the road, adrenaline taking its time to fade.

“Yeah,” Walker’s partner said, sitting up and brushing himself off, glancing at Sam with his hand held out. “Thanks for the assist.”

“Back at you,” Sam said, gladly taking the offer to rise up. He looked towards the trucks just in time to see another body go flying - Walker, shield and all, coming to a crash against a car’s windshield while the driver honked rapidly after screeching to a halt - like that was going to do anything about the fact their vehicle had just been pulverized by the strongest metal on Earth.

It took a minute of jogging for them to close the distance, and by the time they did Sam could see that Walker was uninjured enough to be pacing agitatedly at the side of the road, shield in one hand and the other on his earpiece.

“Bucky, report status." Walker's face pinched, his expression going frustrated as he turned to look at them both. "Well, can you get out of there?"

Sam opened his wings up and took off before he could hear the next response.

He knew going back in at this point was stupid, especially considering the tally of super soldiers guarding those trucks was exactly every single person he’d seen in that warehouse, and that the person he was about to try and rescue from said super soldiers seemed more intent than ever on being terrible to everyone - even his own teammates.

But the Flag Smashers were going to be about as loose with the gentle landings as Bucky had seen fit to be, and in a collision between a semi-truck wheel and Bucky’s face Sam was pretty sure who’d end up on top.

When he made it back to the trucks, he found Bucky's face already wasn’t on top of much. In fact was under a whole lot of swollen skin, his characteristic overconfidence humbled by bloodstained gritted teeth as his vibranium hand clenched into the metal of the truck and no less than six Flag Smashers tried to simultaneously kick and punch him off the side. Sam hovered back, waiting, until a boot slammed into Bucky’s neck finally put an end to it, sending his expression from furious stubborn resistance to pale, slack and slipping, vibranium tearing free from the truck as he flew back from the force.

Sam dove in, recreating the rescue he’d done with Walker’s other partner, aiming to get them off the road and into the neighboring field. Their rolling bodies crossed over the ground before they jerked to an abrupt stop, and through his aching bones and the brain sloshing around in his skull Sam realized that it was Bucky that had cut off their momentum. He was bearing down on Sam, crushing his chest, vibranium fingers clenched into the ground, staring down through a face painted red and one eye nearly shut with swelling, and that asshole, kept himself right in Sam’s personal space, in his face, looked him in the eyes, and said, "You shouldn't have given up the shield."

They didn’t have much of a track record of being on friendly terms. But the first words that Bucky had spoken to Sam in however long, and it was that?

"Get the fuck off of me," Sam demanded, anger boiling hot as he shoved up uselessly. "Some thanks I get for just saving your life."

Bucky rolled off, staring at the sky as he swallowed repeatedly, giving Sam some space from the coppery smell of blood. Less than five seconds later his face twitched, and he put his hand in the dirt, pushing himself up with a grimace.

"Where are you going?" Sam asked, not feeling quite ready for standing himself. He reached up, pulling off his cracked visor.

"Walker's called a ride," Bucky answered, bruised jaw clenched as he started walking away. And was it just Sam, or did even his voice sound a little different? Like - lower, husky. That shot to the neck must have been rough. Anything below his face was going to be hidden by his uniform, but the way Bucky was acting Sam didn’t particularly feel like this was the type of moment where he’d check on the dozens of injuries the man was undoubtedly sporting after trying out his best impression of a super serumed piñata.

"Right," Sam said, forcing his own body to move up with a groan. He gazed at the earpiece Bucky was wearing - a match for his two new buddies. Raised his voice. "Because you're on his team, now."

He’d moved on pretty damn fast. It was like he was friends with that stupid shield more than he was actually friends with anyone that wielded it. Sam could believe it, with how many times Bucky had willingly separated from Steve even after he’d gotten his memories back.

Bucky paused and leveled him with a severe look, then scanned the horizon behind them, swallowing a few more times. "Where's Redwing?"

And there was another bite to Sam's ego and emotions he really didn’t need about then. "They shattered him."

"Good," Bucky said bluntly, sending him another glance before he started back off down the road, like his face and his voice and the way he was limping were just minor inconveniences. "They were using it to track you."

Sam shot forward to join him, and quickly found that even obviously injured Bucky was walking at a way faster pace than Sam’s body could comfortably match. He stubbornly kept himself beside him. “What? Who’s ‘they?’"

"The government," Bucky answered, eyes still forward. His legs moved even faster, like he was intentionally trying to get away from Sam.

His answer explained all the weird glitches Sam had noticed with Redwing over the last few months. Had Joaquin been in on that? Sam swallowed down that betrayal to confront his most present one. “You mean the same government that you're working for, now.”

Bucky gave the landscape the meanest damn face Sam had ever seen as he trekked on. And Sam had thought the guy was an asshole before, but he hadn’t looked half as disgusted even back when he’d once used Sam’s face as a handhold during a brainwashed murder-rampage.

“Wait, is that how you all ended up here?" Sam asked, just thinking of it. No way Walker had just managed to come up with his own leads to coincide with that exact day and time.

Bucky didn’t answer him, just kept limp-walking at speed. Sam had to jog a little to catch up, his own anger rising again. "You know, the strong silent thing has less of an impact when you just got your ass handed to you by a little girl."

"You weren't doing any better before we jumped in," Bucky shot back, and Sam swore he was moving even faster.

"Yeah, so, we all failed together," Sam said, the heat in his voice downplayed by the fact that he was starting to go breathless again. "What did you expect when we were up against eight super soldiers?"

"Did you know they were super soldiers going into it?" Bucky demanded, shooting him another look, not slowing one bit.

Sam shrugged. "Thought it might be one of the Big Three at first."

"You were wrong," Bucky said.

"Yeah, no shit, man, that doesn't change the fact that we've got a whole new issue to deal with here. And can you slow the hell down?”

"Bucky!" Walker shouted, just as an army jeep came up from behind and stopped alongside them, the back popping open. Sam watched as Bucky immediately came to a stop, like whatever invisible force that had been pulling him forward at those superhuman walking speeds had finally been cut loose, his eyes dropping to the road beneath his feet. "Sam. Come on, get in."

Sam knew he most definitely did not want to get into the back of that truck, especially when Bucky sent him another glare and then broke off without a word, climbing inside and taking a seat. Sam stood there, looking at them, these three guys that came in and interfered with his op, using info from his hacked tech. One of them wielding Steve's shield, and another of them Steve's oldest friend, in both senses of the word. That friend wasn't looking at Sam anymore; he wasn’t really looking at anything, just staring at some point in the distance, like Sam's window of conversation had opened and closed like that.

Walker though, was all friendly tones, blond hair mussed around his head now that his helmet had been removed. "Listen, come on, it's fifty miles to the airport. We might as well discuss what just happened while we're on the way. Clearly none of that went according to plan. I think it’s pretty obvious this is a situation where we all need to work together if we want to succeed."

“Work together,” Sam said, laughing a little now that he had a better picture of why they had managed to find him in the first place. “I think I’m good. I mean, one of your partners just about killed your other one.”

“Yeah, we probably should work on your strategy,” Walker’s partner said quietly to Bucky. Bucky didn’t answer, looking at the fields that had taken his and Sam’s landing like they had some answering of their own to do.

“I’ll definitely be talking to him about that,” Walker said confidently, arm slung over the side of the jeep. “Come on, Sam. We’re not in combat now. And we learned at least some things; pretty sure we could be looking at an enemy that’s one of the Big Three. Let us give you a ride while we talk.”

Sam sighed, and didn’t bother to point out he could just fly that way just fine by himself. He got in the back of the truck. As soon as he did, he could feel Bucky's eyes on him again, unblinking, and it would be creepy if he hadn't fought beside the guy half a dozen times by now, would be creepy if it wasn't so damn annoying. He could sense the judgment in those eyes. Like Bucky had any right to judge Sam for anything, especially when even with the serum, it was him that had been beaten to shit.

Steve would have held his own.

The jeep started up, and as it made its way down the road, Sam belatedly realized something; Bucky hadn’t been walking towards the vehicle after Walker had signaled him. He’d been moving away from it as fast as he could.

The guy could turn uncooperativeness into a competitive sport.

Sam looked back between them all, Walker and his partners, two smiling, expectant faces and one furious, unblinking stare.

“They weren’t one of the Big Three,” Sam said, resigned to the fact that this was what he had to work with. “They were super soldiers.”

Chapter Text

They hadn’t succeeded in stopping the Flag Smashers.

John was going to have to file a report to his superiors. He’d have to give them details on what had happened that had led to their targets slipping through their fingers with a considerable amount of valuable resources.

The entire thing was a lot less than ideal for what he’d been hoping for as his first official mission as Captain America.

But there was no way the situation could be reasonably construed as a complete failure; now they had more information on what they were dealing with, and the magnitude of the revolutionary force. Super soldiers. And as one of the best damn soldiers on the planet, the people overseeing his missions had to see that sending him out again was their best option to neutralize that threat.

Maybe they’d been successfully repelled by their targets, but next time they fought, it would be different. John could account for those variables of superhuman strength and step things up. The Flag Smashers would answer for their crimes, and the world would be a safer place. And everyone would know that the shield was back in capable hands.

They just had to find the Flag Smashers. And to do that, they had to figure out where they were going to hit next, and then actually succeed in overpowering them.

John believed he could do it, even if it wouldn’t be easy. He was at the top of his game, a shrewd strategist, and he had the determination to back it up.

And he had Lemar and Bucky both fully on his side. The latter was even wearing the armor John had requested designed for him. It was complete with thin red lines in the shape of a star, an homage to the shield he was working under. John had proudly unveiled it to Bucky on their transport to the base.

Bucky had reacted to the bestowing of his armor like he reacted to most things: by staring at it for a while, unmoving. Maybe he’d been in shock at the quality and the level of protection the material would offer in combat. When they’d arrived at the base and John had told him where he could find some privacy to change, he’d immediately taken it. The suit had fit him like a glove, the engineers who designed it having been able to access Bucky’s measurements from his time in custody.

Bucky had stayed pretty hard to read over the next couple hours while they waited for permission to take off to Munich, standing with his back to the wall while John and Lemar quietly chatted. Eventually, John had suggested a haircut in the meantime to clean up some of the more uneven tufts before his first official mission - it was a small issue, but they’d had time to kill before getting the all clear to head out, anyway, and John figured it’d be good for each of them to be as presentable as possible.

And he’d wanted to give Bucky a reason to not just stand there stock still for another hour.

Things maybe had gotten a bit weird after that. Weirder. The staring thing that Bucky tended to do had changed somehow, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He hadn’t said anything, but he must have had some opinions about what he thought about John’s order. Maybe he’d done his hair himself and was a little embarrassed about being called out on its quality. But when John had repeated the suggestion, Bucky had just given him a wordless nod and immediately went along with Lemar to the on-base barber, following in efficiently paced steps.

Maybe John was growing a little proud of that kind of response and what it meant. Bucky clearly had misgivings, but he didn’t give John an overly hard time about them like some guys might have. He was obviously starting to see real benefit to John’s command and the team they were forming.

John knew that his next best step would be to bring Sam Wilson in and start the same process with him. It seemed only natural, since he’d been such a close supporter that Steve Rogers himself had passed the shield onto him. And John had seen the logs for Sam’s missions; even if he was working with the military under looser contracts, he was an outstanding soldier. A valuable component that could only compliment the work John was trying to do.

And with the four of them together in the back of the truck, chill air running over them as they rode towards their destination, gently rocking with the bumpy road, the timing couldn’t be more perfect.

“We need to work together,” he said to Sam, shifting around the lingering ache in his back. Luckily his suit had absorbed the brunt of his fall from the truck. “If they’re super soldiers, we stand a much better chance by coordinating our efforts to take them down.”

Instead of agreeing with him, or even taking a minute to consider it, Sam’s eyes grew more pinched. He looked between John, Lemar, and Bucky with a distinct lack of the enthusiasm John had been hoping for.

“I had this handled on my own,” Sam said, his cracked visor hanging loose in one hand a testament to the opposite of that fact.

“You have to admit, you were kind of having a hard time before we stepped in,” Lemar pointed out, echoing John’s thoughts. “One of those guys was about to damn near cave in your head before Bucky took him out.”

“And then he almost balanced that out by nearly taking both you and me out at once a couple minutes later,” Sam said, his eyes drifting to Bucky, who was sitting directly beside him.

Bucky stared back at Sam as he spoke, his face well on its way to turning a few spectacular shades of blue. He didn’t try to argue the point, though that look wasn’t the most open of expressions to allow for much interpretation. John still wasn’t used to that eerie stillness, or the silence.

John also knew Sam was right - Bucky was a valuable ally, and he might have an advantage in strength and resistance on all of them with the serum, but it clearly didn’t make him infallible. His most recent choices in combat had been risky, even if they’d ultimately been helpful.

“He’s going to tone it down,” John promised, turning to glance intentionally at Bucky, who did a frankly astonishing job of not acknowledging John at all in his continued efforts to pin Sam with his gaze. “Look, we were all surprised at this turn of events,” John said, deciding it wasn’t worth pursuing at that moment, “I know it’s disappointing that things fell through. But we have an opportunity now to see it through together.”

“Together,” Sam repeated, brow creasing, eyes back on John. “You could have approached me with that option before. Instead you hacked my tech and slid into my mission without warning.”

“I mean, it wasn’t exactly your tech,” John pointed out with a shrug. “That drone was government property. Our use of it was kind of fair game as government agents.”

“It was designed for me,” Sam argued. “And usually team ups require the other people knowing at least a little bit about what you’re doing.” That last bit was followed by another accusatory glance at Bucky.

Bucky somehow managed to glare even harder, lips tightening.

John raised his hands up in a placating motion, wanting to head off any furthering of heightened tensions. “It’s all right, Bucky,” he said, then waited a beat until some of that tightness in Bucky’s shoulders finally eased. He still didn’t look great on the companionable scale, especially because his eyes hadn’t even moved, but he seemed less like he was half a second away from pounding Sam's head in.

Happy that at least one person there was listening to him, John turned his attention to Sam. “If we join up with our combined knowledge and strengths, we’ll have the Flag Smashers taken out in no time.” He gave Sam time to respond, but Sam only seemed interested now in meeting Bucky glare for glare. “Come on, Sam,” John tried, “think about it. Captain America, Battlestar, Bucky Barnes and the Falcon.” He couldn’t help but grin at the way it sounded spoken out loud. “It only makes sense.”

Sam laughed, finally breaking away from Bucky’s eyes to look between the three of them dubiously. “I guess it would be harder for you to split now that your way of tracking me got destroyed.”

John frowned and leaned back, frustrated at the continued lack of trust, the unwillingness to give. Everything he’d heard about Sam Wilson had made it seem like he was the type to be able to work with everyone.

“Look, if this is about where the shield ended up, I know it’s going to take some getting used to,” John said. “But I was chosen to wield it for a reason. And I know…I’m not trying to be Steve.” He gestured across the truck at Bucky. “And for what it’s worth, Bucky’s already completely onboard with being on my team.” Sam looked sharply towards Bucky at that, again meeting him gaze for gaze. For a minute John was worried they were going to spiral into another staring contest, but instead he saw something new come onto Sam’s face. A give, instead of constant, immovable antagonism, folding in around his eyes and softening their edges. Then those eyes dropped to the floor of the truck.

John leaned forward slightly, seeking out that bend. “But if I had you…”

“If you had me, what,” Sam asked, eyes solemn when he raised them back up, the hardness back, but something expectant out there alongside it. This was John’s chance.

“Well, it would definitely make things a lot easier if I had both of Cap’s wingmen.”

Instead of coming onboard, Sam suddenly laughed again, shaking his head. “Cool. Thanks for letting me know my worth up front. You can stop the car,” Sam said, voice and hand raised to signal Gary. The brakes engaged on the truck, and Sam didn’t even bother to brace himself long enough for the vehicle to come to a complete stop. He jumped off the back, calling behind himself. “Enjoy your new team up, Buck.”

Bucky watched Sam go, finally blinking for what seemed like the first time since he’d climbed into the truck. He swallowed a few times, his hands curling in his lap, the flat stare becoming infinitely more intense. It was another change, just like the one John had seen on Sam.

John considered that response. Bucky’d had interactions with Sam before. Enough that there was obviously some kind of attachment, and that when John had mentioned Bucky specifically, Sam had been the closest to joining them compared to any other point in the conversation. John himself apparently wasn’t at the point yet where Sam saw the obvious value in their coordination, but another fellow soldier could be the difference.

“Go after him,” John said to Bucky as the idea fully formed.

Bucky turned his gaze sharply on John. The tension in his body rose, obvious even if he wasn’t giving any kind of verbal response.

That response was more than Bucky had shown throughout the entire ride; there was something there on Bucky’s side, too. It let John know he was making the right choice. “See if you can bring him around,” John encouraged. “We’ll be waiting for you at the airport.” John looked Bucky up and down - one super soldier against six had left him with some pretty awful sustained damage, at least visually. “You should probably take a minute to heal up a little before we take our next step.”

Bucky inhaled deeply, the side of his eye twitching again. He nodded sharply. He rose to his feet, jumped off the side of the truck in one easy movement, then proceeded to jog in the direction Sam had gone without any hesitation.

John sat back, watching as he disappeared around a building, then signaled for Gary to drive on. Bucky might need some work on his communication skills, but John could see hints of how he’d been so integral to the success of Steve Rogers. Sure they’d gotten off to a bit of a rocky start, but since they’d taken off for their mission Bucky had promptly followed every spoken order. He’d been incredibly focused on the ride over, and hadn’t hesitated when John had given him the instruction to jump.

“You sure about this split, John?” Lemar asked. “Those two looked like they were about to tear each others’ faces off until you calmed Bucky down.”

“He has a history with Sam that I don’t. We might as well utilize that before I try again.” John took out his phone. “And I have that app on my phone now. It’ll let me know wherever Bucky goes. All I need to do is program in a recall to let him know when he needs to come back.”

“I’m just glad you were able to get him settled in,” Lemar said. “I’ll admit for a minute there I wasn’t sure how this was going to work. But he seems like a really good guy. Follows instructions without a fuss.”

“He’s a little intense,” John said. “But I can handle intense.”

“Like no one else,” Lemar agreed, eyes filled with the trust John had failed to inspire in Sam. “So. Didn’t think super soldiers would be the first called out spot on the bingo card.”

“We’ll get them,” John said. He hefted up the shield between his knees, staring down at the stripes. “It’s only a matter of time, now. They can’t go to ground forever.”

And if Bucky could convince Sam to agree to join them, it’d be even sooner.

Two more days. Or three…or two? More days. Before his release. Before they gave up on using calibrations as the excuse to shock him.

The cell around Bucky seemed to pulse, bright lights digging the pain in his head deeper into his brain matter while the ground beneath him shook and shuddered and dug into his aching joints. His throat was so swollen that even air struggling through felt like it was filled with razor blades that had been heated over an open flame.

And maybe that was him that couldn’t stop shivering, and not the ground itself. Could have had something to do with the fact that his stomach was a roaring ache to match the sledgehammer trying to force its way to flattening his brain. He was pretty sure he hadn’t been fed during the last training session, however long that had lasted. Didn’t remember the tube, hard plastic scraping its way down into his stomach while straps gripped tight to his rigid limbs and pinned his head in place, like they had every day since...

He…fuck. How many days had he just decided it was? Fuck. His right hand came up to press against the top of his head, feeling the fuzz of stubble coming in beneath his palm. Then he sucked in another unfulfilling breath and tried again, pushing past the pain of his skull breaking apart and running through his memories with a fanatical intensity. Remembered Secretary Ross staring at him as he signed the contract and let them lock the collar around his throat, giving them point blank for their main method of corrections. Remembered the first night of curfew, when he hadn’t understood, when he’d fought and panicked with every shock.

He’d been there long enough now that he sometimes panicked even when the shocks weren’t happening. Like he was doing right then, head spinning as his breath wheezed in and out. He just didn’t know quite how long, exactly, that had been.

His tongue snaked out and ran over chapped lips as he directed his swimming vision towards the door to his cell. There were three more days before his release. Or two? He still couldn’t be sure.

If there’d been a post-session examination, he hadn’t noticed it, thanks to the fact that the hours he’d usually manage some sort of fitful rest had been overtaken by metal walls crushing him down and a haze of furiously agonizing red.

He didn’t know.

He tried to breathe as the trembling in his limbs increased, but even when he put everything he had into the effort of filling his lungs, it never felt like he was getting enough oxygen.

He had to use logic. Keep track of patterns. Both of those things told him violation of curfew was punished overnight and only let up in the morning.

So it had to be two days, if they’d kept him in that metal box until the collar had stopped.

But he didn’t quite remember if the collar had stopped at all. Or if it had still been firing when he’d been dragged back to his cell. Or how long he’d been laying on the floor since then, trying not to fall apart because he knew it was only going to get worse in the time he had left.

He’d survive it, even if right then he half wished he wouldn’t. He hadn’t even experienced the highest punishments the collar could dispense, which Goddard reminded him of enough during their sessions that it was either a bluff to keep him in line or a very real threat that he had to keep himself from stumbling into.

Another sucked in breath, his teeth clenching into the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood, the fresh pinpoint of pain drawing his attention from the pounding of his brain. He started to go through his memories again, starting with him signing the contract, checking off every major event on the list. The tests, mild at first, taking a hard turn after they cut his hair. The limb removal. The Training Room. The Training Room. The Training Room.

The door to his cell opened when he was still midway, the guards filtering in and standing expectantly. He tried to hold onto them, but he felt the thoughts in his head go quiet and dissipate and leave him with nothing but air that he couldn’t force down.

He wanted more time. He hadn’t sorted out his memories yet, but he thought if he tried hard enough, long enough, they might come back. Had to come back.

“On your feet, Barnes,” one of the guards barked.

Bucky blinked bleary, burning eyes and braced his hand against the ground. He pushed himself up onto his knees and then stopped, swayed through the intensely increasing pressure in his head and the flames in his throat that seared hotter with every movement, choking him.

The guards didn’t wait for him to try to get the rest of the way up or regain his fragile ability to breathe; they poured in around him, yanking him roughly to his feet before moving him out into the corridor, while Bucky wildly strained for any thought that would tell him where he was chronologically, let him know how many more times he would need to come back here.

He couldn’t find the memories. Maybe the collar was already taking them. Maybe his neurons were being fried, destroyed in patches from stray volts, and he didn’t realize it. Another adverse effect he’d never report because then they’d have him. They’d keep him. And he wouldn’t be able to fix anything.

The Training Room door was a monolith. The part of him that had shrunk away when the guards had come for him buried itself deep.

He’d try again. When he could think. When he could breathe. The memories had to be in there somewhere.

He’d try again.

Chapter Text

It didn’t take Bucky long to catch up to Sam, even with his injuries from the fight.

It had been a while since he’d experienced being pitted against multiple super soldiers. The Flag Smashers had been a lot lower in skill level than any of his past opponents, to a point he knew they must have been new to the power the serum had given them. That inexperience was also clear in the way they engaged in battle. But with that level of strength, especially against a normal human, they wouldn’t need much skill - even a tank with an unlicensed driver hitting a single person off-center would do severe damage.

Bucky wasn’t a normal human. What he was, was a pardoned ex-assassin super soldier with a contractual obligation to the American government ensured by several signatures and a shock collar.

But he’d listed his own pardon parameters in that paperwork. And among them was a demand for no killing, or orders of any kind that would lead to the death of another person.

He could acknowledge that going for the kill could have changed the outcome of their mission. Letting Walker fire off his shot into the Flag Smasher holding Lemar Hoskins might have even turned the tide in their favor, even if it would have raised the chance of the rest of their enemies targeting Walker with lethal intent.

Because with long experience over the years of repeated combat, Bucky could tell something else in that fight, beyond the Flag Smashers’ strength and their lack of skill, and it was the fact that they’d been holding back. They hadn’t wanted to kill him or Walker or Lemar or Sam; they’d just been trying to get them off the trucks.

He didn’t know if any of the others had noticed the same thing. He’d just known that as soon as Walker put a bullet into one of them, that would have changed.

Sam wasn’t happy with Bucky’s tactics during that fight. Neither was Walker. Bucky knew better than to argue any of their points against him, and not just because the entire time he’d been looking at Sam he was waiting for that awful buzz to start up at his neck and show Sam exactly just how right he was not to trust him.

Bucky himself wasn’t happy, either, because he’d known the risk to Lemar’s life in his choice. But five super soldiers changing their strategy to lethal would have raised that chance exponentially. Lemar didn’t have a vibranium shield or wings or the serum to protect him from a fist that could cave in his ribcage as he was sent flying hundreds of meters into traffic.

It hadn’t gone that way. It didn’t mean that Bucky wasn’t heavily aware of how terrible he was handling that method of combat. He wasn’t built to save people. He didn’t have experience in protecting them. And if he had, once upon a time, it had been overridden repeatedly with the opposite, for years and years and years.

He was paying for that inexperience with a body that was still viciously aching from becoming the Flag Smashers’ sole target when he’d been the last one standing on the truck. The armor Walker had given him might have been good in a standard combat scenario but had been barely able to absorb anything meaningful once he’d been pinned down and surrounded by people that could match his strength. The redhead in particular had been incredibly powerful, even compared to the others; his throat was still recovering from her trying to slam the goddamn collar through his trachea. The sensation had all but hijacked his brain when it had happened, pain flaring into a nondescript crashing wave until he’d been so sure the collar was being set off, and completely lost his ability to keep himself in place.

It was only after Sam had caught him that he’d been able to distinguish the difference of a blunt blow on tender skin from the arc of burning electricity. Then the anger had taken over, all the emotions and opinions he’d consistently choked back around Walker for the better part of the last few days bursting out of him in one accusatory phrase, right at Sam’s face.

The next twenty minutes had gone… not well. And now Walker had given him a specific mission, to be performed without backup. There was a tense ball in Bucky’s stomach, everything he wanted to say jumbled into a hard knot, pain coating the edges from bruised ribs and maybe some fractures he was going to ignore until they went away. He still felt like his odds had been better stuck back on that semi-truck being pounded into the roof.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to try.

He didn’t bother to hide his approach, or modify his step around the pain still shooting through his hip and thigh. Sam heard him coming, paused in his walking, and muttered, “You’ve got to be kidding me,” then turned around. He looked a little surprised as soon as he saw Bucky’s face, his expression just as soon shutting back down. “Thought you were Walker,” he said, then craned his neck to look behind Bucky, the sun piercing the overcast sky enough to gleam off his forehead and cheekbones. “He on his way?”

“No,” Bucky answered, his throat stinging as he slowed his jog to a halt. He swallowed through his sore throat, holding back a wince, hands flexing at his sides. “They’re riding to the airport.”

Sam’s voice went tenser, his chin rising. “And you’ve decided to go on a run through the countryside as a chaser to letting six super soldiers try to cave in your face, right? Because I know you didn’t just follow me out here after I made myself clear on that truck.”

The words were still in a knot in Bucky’s stomach. But something broke loose, stimulated by the fury and frustration. Why couldn’t Sam see? Why didn’t he think this was at all important? “You need to take the shield back.”

Sam laughed, short and harsh, shaking his head. “Yeah, sure. I know that would go over well with your squad.”

“Steve wanted you to have it,” Bucky said, bristling harder when he could see his words were having no effect. He raised his voice. “You didn’t have the right to surrender it.”

Sam’s expression changed; there was something dark forming in his eyes, rising to meet Bucky’s challenge. “I don’t need to take orders from someone who can’t even follow them himself half the time,” he said, voice low, a slash of teeth showing as he spoke. Bucky sucked in a breath through his nose, ignoring the chill that seemed to coat his spine out of nowhere, feeling that emotion just feed into his fury. “You’re clearly hung up about that shield,” Sam went on, raising a finger to point at Bucky’s chest. “But you can get everything you want out of it with your new buddies until you decide it’s time to abandon them for the next group of people you want to annoy with all that staring.” He dropped his arm, looking away for a moment, the edge leaving his voice. “Anyway, I’ve got a more important situation to worry about, now - maybe you’ve heard of it. Eight super soldiers running loose and wreaking havoc? Each of them with enough force to dent an armored tank?”

“Yeah, maybe got that,” Bucky bit out, feeling so angry at Sam’s dismissal he could choke. Or scream. Or punch a hole through the nearest building.

“Right. So you can understand how I’m not going to worry about joining whatever attempt you want to make to steal that thing back from the people that legally own it.” Sam folded his arms, his visor in his grip and hanging off to one side. “I’ve got equipment to fix and work to do. Landing my ass back in prison is the last thing I need, but feel free if you want to toss that pardon to the curb and spend the rest of your life on the run. I’m sure that’s something Steve would want.”

“Have you seen what’s happening?” Bucky asked, holding his arm out to indicate their surroundings. “The entire world’s off its axis. People need that shield. That symbol.”

“You’re following the guy that has it,” Sam pointed out. “With the money they’ve put into advertising for it the only way people aren’t seeing it right now is if they’re blind. And even Steve knew when to drop that thing like a glorified pancake.”

“It’s not-” Bucky started, then broke off. He tried to breathe, looking out over the horizon. Sam didn’t see. Bucky wasn’t going to convince him. He could feel his chance slipping through his fingers, leaving his lungs to feel like they were going to burst in his chest.

Walker had given him a mission. Maybe if he followed that he’d be able to be around Sam long enough to convince him. “Come with us,” he tried.

Sam raised his eyebrows, stunned. “Come with you? The pushy dude that thinks self-righteous harassment constitutes a relationship?”

“You can do more,” Bucky insisted. He didn’t say the entirety of that sentence. You can do more if you have the shield.

“I am doing more,” Sam said, the flinty look back in his eyes as he uncrossed his arms. “Maybe you should worry about your own contributions to the world and less about mine.”

Bucky licked his lips. “Steve-”

“Mention Steve one more time and see what happens,” Sam said, the edge back in his voice as he stepped forward.

Bucky wasn’t worried about physical danger from Sam, and Sam probably knew that. But he could complain to Walker again about Bucky’s behavior, to make sure there were penalties. Or he could just walk away right now instead of letting Bucky say another word. Bucky felt like the second of those things would be worse, but neither option was great.

“We have to find out where the serum’s coming from,” Bucky eventually said.

“Yeah, maybe got that,” Sam said sarcastically, parroting Bucky’s earlier words. “But unless you have any kind of an idea on how to do that banging around in that cyborg cranium, I think we’re done here.”

Bucky pressed his lips together, a thought stirring from his memory - one that had been stimulated during his short walk from the site where he and Sam had crashed into the field. Walker had caught up to them before he could mention it.

“Hold on,” Sam said, looking into Bucky’s face, curiosity folding over him fast. “Can practically see those rusty wheels turning in there. You got something?”

“Depends,” Bucky said, the bite to his voice making his throat flare. He swallowed down against it, meeting Sam’s eyes. “Are you going to listen?”

Sam blinked a few times, then narrowed his gaze, his eyebrows drawing down. “Okay,” he said with a nod. “Let’s say I’m willing to hear you out. I just want to know one thing before I do. And I want you to answer me honestly.”

Bucky stared at Sam. Nodded back. He felt like he’d say anything, as long as-

“Did you follow me out here because you wanted to, or did Walker tell you to do it?”

Bucky felt any half-considered response to that run straight into a brick wall.

Sam sighed, disappointment closing him off. “That’s what I thought.” He looked down as he stepped back. “Look, I’m glad you’ve found your calling. I hope it makes you happy.” He gestured up and down at Bucky’s frame. “Or, you know - whatever passes for happy for a guy like you. But I’m not making that choice for myself.”

“Why not,” Bucky asked, teeth grinding together. He wished he could have as much an influence with his words as his vibranium limb had on…anything. He wished he could think of the right thing to say, the same way Steve had always done.

Sam laughed, and Bucky was starting to really hate that sound. “I’m not actually obligated to explain myself to you.”

“Steve wanted you to have that shield,” Bucky repeated, like it would make any difference beyond emphasizing just how unconvincing his arguments were to Sam.

“So what? You’re not. Steve.” Sam paused, his eyes drifting back to the horizon before they came back to Bucky. “And neither is Walker.”

Did Sam not think Bucky knew that? The heat of anger gripped tight to Bucky’s lungs, flaring out sharply around the shame that coated everything inside. He’d failed his mission. Sam was about to walk away from him. And Bucky would have to stay with Walker, and Steve’s shield, and get directed to wherever they told him for five years until they either did or didn’t keep their promise to end his contract.

As much as he’d hated Azzano, every Hydra base, the black site, at least the walls in all of those had been obvious. Even now he was waiting for Walker to get impatient with him, or just not understand what he was doing with the collar until it activated on its own, again. That noose around his throat, ready to tighten and grow taut.

Or just a collar ready to shock the shit out of him. Didn’t exactly need a metaphor.

He knew one thing: Walker didn’t know what he was up against with the Flag Smashers. Operating off the government’s orders he might not even dig deeper to try and figure out how they had come to be in the first place. What the revolutionaries were doing was a problem, but what if there was a lot more serum out there that could make more like them?

Sam’s frown deepened with Bucky’s lingering silence. “I guess you’ve said all you’re gonna say,” he said, and turned away, boots crunching into the pavement.

“Baltimore,” Bucky blurted.

Sam paused. He didn’t turn around, shoulders tight.

Bucky continued. “I have an address. In Baltimore. Of where you should look first.” He paused, chewed on the inside of his cheek, felt the movement pull at his bruised face. “But I don’t know if you’ll get in without me.”

“Good excuse,” Sam said, turning his head. “What kind of defenses are we talking? Barbed wire, security detail, heavy artillery?”

“It’s one person,” Bucky said.

“One person,” Sam repeated dubiously, twisting his head further to look back at him.

“And his grandson,” Bucky added.

“And you don’t think they’ll let me in without you,” Sam said, turning fully back around. “Because you’re friends, or because you’ve tried to kill them before?”

Bucky felt his eye twitch. “One of them,” he admitted. His voice grew faint. “But I’m not going to do that, now.”

Sam stared at him for a long moment, then exhaled through flared nostrils hard enough that his chest heaved with the intensity. “I’ll go,” he said. “But not with Walker. There’ll be too many rules and regulations and we don’t have time for all of that. Does any of that stuff apply to you?”

“No,” Bucky said, knowing he’d spoken too quickly as soon as he did.

“So that’s a yes,” Sam answered, seeing right through him - and Jesus, it was somehow more irritating than when his therapist did it.

“I’m following orders,” Bucky snapped. That at least, wasn’t a lie. Sort of.

“Yeah, sure, Buck,” Sam said, a thin smile showing he still didn’t believe him. “You know you can still give me that address and I’ll head out on my own.” He shrugged. “Or you can come show me yourself. Either way, after it’s done, you leave me the hell alone forever. Sound good?”

Leave him alone forever. Without the shield. Which would mean that Steve had made the wrong choice after all.

Bucky felt his anxiety ratchet up, directionless, a sucking sensation that threatened to unbalance him. He immediately went over the specifics to Walker’s instructions as a distraction: See if you can bring him around, and We’ll be waiting for you at the airport. Even if the collar had been activated by those words, which he was fairly sure it wasn’t, the interpretations for those orders didn’t explicitly involve a timeframe for his return. And curfew had been dropped, though he was sure Walker could reinstate it at a distance if he wanted to.

Bucky didn’t technically need to risk it. He could probably tell Sam the right thing to say to get himself inside the door once he arrived at the destination Bucky would give him. He was good with people, so he might even get the information they needed better than Bucky could if he came with him.

But Bucky wasn’t going to waste this opportunity, even if the thought of the possible consequences were a tip of a shovel readying itself against the ground at a gravesite, sending ice coiling through his spine and organs, a convulsive swallow pushing against the metal hugging his throat. This entire situation was too important for him to sit back - or, God forbid, keep fighting on Walker’s side. Especially five steps behind, waiting for mission assessments and go-aheads, debriefs after every outing. Chancing that they might get called off the search entirely.

Walker had wanted Bucky to rest up. A long plane ride would just about do it. So he’d be following that suggestion, too, really. If someone thought about it.

“I’ll show you,” he said, letting that shovel press deep into the dirt.

Sam’s eyes flickered; he looked Bucky up and down, like he was reassessing him. He jerked his head in the direction he’d been walking. “Then come on. Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

The interior of the plane cabin was quiet. After boarding, Bucky had peeled off the upper half of his suit and tossed it on the ground haphazardly, leaving himself in a black long-sleeve turtleneck shirt and revealing to Sam that on top of the new haircut he’d definitely lost a few pounds since the last time they’d seen each other. Steve had always managed to be lean and huge at the same time, but there was a hollowness to Bucky’s stomach and a few too-sharp protrusions at his ribcage that caught Sam’s eye in a noteworthy way.

He knew asking about it wouldn’t be appreciated. So he settled himself in for takeoff while Bucky stared down at his tactical pants long enough that Sam wondered if he was thinking about dropping them completely. But Bucky’d just reached down and unlaced his combat boots, then hauled himself up on a supply crate as the plane began to move, a pinch to his face with the movement revealing that he’d definitely been covering the pain of his injuries during their walk.

Sam didn’t hear a word out of him over the next couple of hours as he lounged for some shut eye. That was fine with him; he still hadn’t quite cooled down from their talk before Bucky had pushed his way into Sam’s mission. The less they acknowledged each other, the better.

Sam did look up from time to time, just to check that the bruises on Bucky’s face had finished darkening and were on their way to fading. The eye that had been nearly swollen shut was coming back open. If his healing was anything like Steve’s, then by the time they landed, it might be almost back to normal.

But somehow even looking better on the injury front Bucky managed to grow progressively less relaxed as the flight kept on. His hunched shoulders tightened more and more, his fingers clamped and worked into each other between his knees, while his jaw went from clenching itself every few minutes to about every ten seconds, that movement emphasized by the length of black fabric that crawled up nearly his entire neck, contrasting against the shape of his pale jaw. Sam could practically hear his teeth grinding across the cabin.

He didn’t know if the guy was still pissed off, or worried about something, or just bored, but he did know it was annoying. Bucky looked like a massive angry toddler hanging out on his perch, his stormy eyes getting even stormier as the minutes passed, oozing a whole heap of tension out of his pores. And Sam had been around him enough to know Bucky’s resting face was not the friendliest - what he was seeing now definitely wasn’t that resting face, what with Bucky practically snarling at thin air.

Sam had a couple theories about that attitude. The first, of course, was Bucky deciding the thing to do to deal with everything that had happened to him was to become the world’s biggest walking asshole. The second was that Sam was pretty sure that Bucky was going to be in deep shit with Walker if the man was his commanding officer and he’d just gone flying off back to the United States without so much as consulting him. That had the potential to put Sam in Walker’s crosshairs if it was the case, but at the moment at least, despite most of the time expressing all of the intelligence and emotional depth of a grumpy caveman, Sam believed Bucky had a genuine lead. So he was personally willing to risk it, just like Bucky was willing to risk it.

And the sooner they got the whole Flag Smasher thing untangled and sewn back up, the sooner he could get back home and fulfill his promises to Sarah to save the boat and fix the family business.

Another hour passed that way, with Sam doing his best to ignore Bucky, and Bucky looking like the personification of an active volcano. Or a hurricane. Or some other kind of natural disaster.

And, damn it, maybe Sam had calmed down enough that he thought he could take another interaction. He had a feeling he was going to regret it, but… “You got a phone?” Sam asked, his voice carrying easily in the quiet.

Bucky unhinged his jaw just long enough to lick his lips. “Why.” Just one word, still in that deeper-than-usual gruffness. Sam could hear the aggravation in it, the challenge, see that jaw reset back down pretty hard. How did the man even still have teeth left after all of that grinding?

Sam took a three-second inhale, telling himself he wasn’t going to rise to Bucky’s tone. “Just wondering if you should check in with you-know-who when we land.”

Bucky turned his eyes on Sam, then dropped them down, and instead of a jaw clench Bucky’s face did some type of spasm before he pulled his lower lip between his teeth. “He can’t know where we’re going.” Firm, but a little less aggressive of a response than Sam had thought he was in for.

The words themselves, though, made Sam frown. Every time he got a hint more about where Bucky was taking him it seemed to get weirder and weirder. He shifted himself up into a sitting position, peering at Bucky’s face to try and get a better read on him. “What makes me knowing any different?”

Bucky moved his eyes back up, but looked forward instead of at Sam. He shrugged one shoulder up. “It’s different,” he said.

“Okay, great,” Sam said, raising his hands in exasperation before he let them clap back down onto his thighs. “Thanks for the clarification.”

“You’re welcome,” Bucky said dryly, then swallowed. Then swallowed again, and again, and his body went back to that position of hunched tension.

That was fine, Sam told himself. He could respect Bucky’s stupid decisions even if Bucky couldn’t respect Sam’s logical choices. Their conversation had gotten him a little angry, but nothing like what he’d been expecting. Better to leave it at that before they could really rile each other back up.

When they finally landed, Bucky’s expression was much the same as it had been the entire ride. But when Sam asked him if he was ready to go, he laced up his shoes, landed on both feet - without, Sam noted, too much of a grimace - and grabbed the upper half of his suit before he followed him off the plane.

When Sam headed over to drop off his visor for repairs, it was quickly apparent that things still weren’t as cool with Bucky as they seemed. His posture as Sam led him through the base was intensely rigid, and his eyes locked onto every single person that entered his line of sight with an expression that was distinctly not calm.

Sam could only take so much of that before he brought them to a halt, his good sense taking over at how much of the whites of his eyes Bucky was showing to people that were just minding their own business. Those eyes were quick to latch onto him at that point, Bucky swallowing before he looked away, like he was going to explode if he didn’t do a perimeter sweep in one of the most secure places either of them could be.

“Why are we stopping,” Bucky demanded as he kept scanning the area.

“It’s your last chance for a phone call,” Sam said, trying to redirect him. “If there’s any conditions-of-pardon-based reasons you’d want to make one.”

“I told you I didn’t,” Bucky snapped, cheeks pulsing in and out, fingers digging into the fabric of his suit.

Sam stepped closer to him, lowering his voice. “Then chill out with the death glares, okay? Just for ten minutes.” He raised his visor. “I’ve gotta go drop this off and I’ve already arranged our ride, but I’d like it if you didn’t insult everyone on this base with your eyes before we leave.”

Bucky just aimed said death glare right at him. He’d really dialed everything up to the nth power.

“Should have expected that answer,” Sam muttered, turning around and leading him on, trying to take the edge off the barely controlled soldier of fury right behind him by waving jovially whenever he caught anyone’s eye. “And just remember,” he said to Bucky once they were out of earshot. “You’re making your own bed with this.”

He didn’t expect a response. But he got one, after a long second of silence, so quiet he thought he might have imagined it, if not for that hoarse rumble that seemed to come along for the ride every time Bucky spoke, now.

“Believe me, I know.”

“Barnes, hey! Good news - you don’t have to wear the bite guard today!”

The grey walls of the Training Room filled Bucky’s vision as Goddard’s voice washed over him with blaring intensity. He was on his knees again, holding still and keeping quiet while the guards roughly latched him to the metal pole in the center of the room, that familiar pressure of the metal belt and cuff digging into his skin.

The box he’d spent the last night in was sitting across the room with the front still open, darkness inside like a waiting maw. He kept himself from looking directly at it, or the table where he was force fed, or the other pieces of equipment that hadn’t been used yet. Or even Goddard himself as he turned around, footfalls soft as he approached where Bucky knelt, raising the hairs on the back of Bucky’s neck.

“Still,” came the order.

Bucky went Still.

Sam and the shield. Steve’s faith and legacy. Fixing some of the bad he’d done as the Winter Soldier. Stopping the corruption that was still ongoing because of that.

All his motivations for getting through and getting out.

“I said, you don’t have to wear the bite guard today,” Goddard repeated, standing tall in front of Bucky’s restrained body. “What do you say to that?”

Bucky licked dry, cracked lips. Tried to swallow through his swollen throat. That dead feeling that haunted every choice he’d made in the Training Room surged in. “Thank you.” His voice was barely a sound, his vocal cords still too inflamed from the damage sustained the night before.

Goddard’s laughter coated his next words. “You want to try that again?”

Bucky’s throat moved ineffectively through another stinging half-swallow. His mouth felt like it was made of cotton, barely able to produce the moisture needed. “Thank you,” he rasped, trying to project his voice loud enough to be understood - but increasing the volume only made it cut out completely in the attempt.

This time when Goddard laughed he slammed his open palm to the side of Bucky’s head at the same time, sending reverberations of agony through the burns sitting beneath the metal hugging his neck. Bucky struggled to breathe, blinking repeatedly through his splitting headache. He tasted copper on his tongue, but everything above his shoulders hurt too much for him to notice exactly where it had come from.

“You can do better than that,” Goddard loudly coaxed, his voice rebounding off the walls of the room as he pulled his phone free. “Put some effort into it! You should have plenty, since you fucking skipped out on our post-session gratitude exercise yesterday.”

Bucky inhaled carefully, hearing the unspoken threat, knowing whatever twisted logic was being used against him didn’t matter. He had orders.

He croaked out a third response, but it was even less intelligible than the first two, and before he’d taken another full breath the shock was tearing through him, stopping up his lungs and sending his teeth grinding, the back of his head slamming into the metal pole behind him. He fell forward when it stopped, sharply held in place on his knees by his restraints digging viciously into his body, and the collar immediately started up again with another punishing blast. He jerked himself back up desperately, blood coating his tongue; he’d defied the Still order when he’d collapsed. The collar quieted as he frantically corrected himself, grasping uselessly at air with his hand as he stabilized his position, stomach a roaring ache, the room swooping wildly around him while he tried to brute force his thread-thin thoughts into enough coherence to at least find the memories he still had, all the while he struggled to take in enough air that he didn’t feel like he was suffocating.

Somewhere inside he knew enough to know he wasn’t dying. It’d take a lot more than what he was experiencing. A lot more. But it still felt like it.

And they’d barely started the session.

Goddard’s voice slammed into his ears. “I can see someone’s having trouble today! So I’ll give you a second bit of good news. You’re going to get a chance to make up for this joke of a show of your compliance.”

Bucky’s next “thank you” was barely mouthed through slack lips - Goddard had already turned away. He didn’t look up as Goddard started going through the tools on the table. Didn’t think about how his body was so run down that there was a good chance that anything Goddard asked him to do, even if it was simple, he’d fail at completing efficiently enough to avoid correction. He wouldn’t even need the mind games to make Bucky slip up.

Bucky also didn’t think about how he was still going to do anything he was commanded, to the best of his ability, no matter what it was.

Goddard turned from the table and approached; Bucky breathed heavily as his space was invaded again, eyes half-closing in a flinch as he forced himself to not turn away. Goddard lifted a hand and let it rest on the side of Bucky’s neck, thumb pushing harshly into his throat until he tilted his head back with a grimace, letting out a cry that stole the oxygen he’d been trying to take in and wildly thankful that it hadn’t been the three-buzz Still that had been implemented, the one that would have punished him for that noise.

He was less thankful that Goddard was still digging his thumb into the raw skin of his throat. “Open,” Goddard ordered, and the collar chimed in with its warning buzz, which even at a low level against the burns sent Bucky desperately bracing into reality as he parted his jaw.

The collar stopped its warning; he kept himself in place as he saw a flash of silver. Metal was being fitted into his mouth in the next moment, settling roughly between his teeth, pinching into the sides of his face. The straps to whatever it was were tightened behind his head, pulling the metal in more firmly, situating it all the way back towards his molars.

Then Goddard began manipulating some mechanism on the side. Bucky felt pressure push upwards and downwards at his teeth, then push harder, and harder, so that even when he had to fight his body’s instinct to bite down it kept spreading him wider, until the force caused a lancing ache through the sides of his face that turned fiery and vicious, and his throat tried to squeeze a grunt through swollen walls. His hand had clenched hard beneath the cuff securing it, stomach pressing painfully into the metal belt as he tried to expand his diaphragm enough to support the heavy breaths he took through his gaping lips.

Goddard stepped back, laughing delightedly. “You should see your fucking face,” he said, then pulled out his phone with the camera setting to show Bucky exactly that, and Bucky turned his gaze aside because he didn’t know if looking himself in the eyes would count with the collar’s eye contact settings, and he couldn’t take another avoidable shock.

“Hey!” Goddard snapped, and then lashed out a fist against Bucky’s cheekbone, heaving a groan from him as his skin split against the metal holding his mouth open. “I said look.”

Bucky looked. Saw his own face, coated in sweat, the uneven growth at his scalp drifting down beside his ears, feeding into the stubble that lined his jaw. He saw his eyes, wide enough he could see the way the whites were reddened. He saw the thing in his mouth, the metal contraption painfully distorting his face, exposing his bloodstained tongue and the gleaming, vicious swath of thickened, darkened tissue that was the back of his throat.

He intentionally avoided focusing on anything beneath his chin; his desperate thoughts followed Goddard’s orders to the letter, and he’d only been ordered to see his own face and nothing beyond that. Already he was wondering if looking down into his own throat counted against him, if the collar would know and shock him for the misstep.

But all that happened was Goddard lowered the phone, freeing Bucky from his most recent order. Bucky turned his gaze aside but carefully did not move, knowing the Still command hadn’t been lifted.

“There we go, use those ears,” Goddard said patronizingly. “Today’s gratitude exercise will be adjusted to make up for your current shitty language skills.” Bucky saw out of the corner of his eyes as Goddard’s hands went to his belt, undoing the clasp with a sharp snick. A cold inkling was quick to form, like a sudden cloud of freezing fog. He watched warily, heart pounding in his ears as those hands moved to the zipper at the front of Goddard’s pants. “And you can start it by choking yourself out on my dick.”

The collar started up warningly. The freezing fog had become a huge, immovable glacier, accentuated by the bubbling acid in Bucky’s stomach and the pounding in his head and the line of barbed wire he was pulling down his throat with every thin trickle of air. Through his rushing adrenaline he saw Goddard pull himself out, already half-hard, in full view of the guards lining the walls. He wasn’t standing close enough for Bucky to follow his order even if he hadn’t been staring dumbly, his brain whited out.

The collar didn’t care. The punishment shock sent him thrashing, teeth grinding on metal, black edging in the corners of his vision until it completely folded over him.

When he’d recovered enough to see, one of Goddard’s hands was pressed to the center of his forehead, holding him upright against the pole he was bound to. “Since I’m feeling generous, I’ll drop the Still command for this part. I have a feeling this is going to take your dumbass a few tries. Move however you need to so you comply with the order.”

The order. What order? He couldn’t breathe around the pain in his chest. There wasn’t enough oxygen in the room to help him think. He’d…he’d signed the contract for his pardon. They’d taken his vibranium arm. They’d…

“Barnes!” Goddard shouted, and Bucky sucked in another useless breath at the pain in his skull. Belatedly, he realized Goddard was standing right in front of him with his own cock in his fist. “I said choke yourself out on my dick.”

The collar buzzed. Bucky felt his body spurred by that stimulus, leaning forward and practically slamming his own face over Goddard’s crotch, filling his mouth with the cloying taste of flesh and salt, the length swelling heavily over his tongue.

Goddard’s laugh sent his entire body moving; one of his hands came to rest on top of Bucky’s head, the other snaking around and cradling the back of it. “Jesus, didn’t even hesitate, did you?”

The collar was still buzzing. The collar was still buzzing because Bucky was complying, but he hadn’t complied with the entire order yet. He could still inhale around Goddard’s girth. Could still…

He pushed himself forward, ignoring the pain of the restraints as he strained, which was quickly overcome by a different agony as Goddard’s cock hit the back of his throat, where everything was on fire, and he nearly threw himself back but he knew how to comply when his body was screaming with everything in it for him to do the opposite. He couldn’t do the opposite, because if he even thought about fighting Goddard would just intensify the collar punishments until all that happened was Bucky was deemed noncompliant and this would all be for nothing and it couldn’t be for nothing - it just, it fucking couldn’t-

“Here,” Goddard said, breathily, both hands sliding to the back of Bucky’s head. “Let me help you out.”

He thrust forward, pushing his length in deeper, sandpaper coated in spines scraping the walls of Bucky’s throat and Goddard’s stomach smashing into his nose. A half-wheezed noise that wanted to be a scream formed and died somewhere in Bucky’s chest, air beyond his reach, his wrist twisting sharply against the cuff holding it in place, spots filling his vision as the seconds stretched, and the collar was still buzzing, because he hadn’t complied yet, he hadn’t complied-

Goddard pulled out. Bucky gasped in a desperate breath and lurched forward, trying to chase him, only for Goddard’s hand to clamp around Bucky’s neck, the pressure on his damaged throat enough to make him go still with a bark of pain.

The collar had stopped, he belatedly realized. The collar had stopped.

He gasped in air, slumping against his restraints and the hold on his neck, chest aching, ruthlessly crushing down the urge to vomit around the lingering taste in his mouth. His eyelashes were clumped together with moisture his body couldn’t afford to lose. The movements of his chest as he tried to fill his lungs rocked his entire body.

Goddard was still hard. Still exposed. Still in Bucky’s space. He stuck his fingers in Bucky’s mouth, intentionally pressing into the damaged tissue of his throat and reigniting Bucky’s nerves, stimulating another rasping shout that cracked into silence before it was done.

The hand at Bucky’s throat twisted intentionally over his skin, pushing the collar against the burns beneath it while Goddard shoved his fingers as far to the back of Bucky’s throat as he could manage, smiling as Bucky gurgled and choked and felt fresh blood flow as nails gouged into him. “Think if I got you spread enough I could fit my whole hand in here?” Goddard pulled his hand out, shaking it out before setting his damp touch back against Bucky’s head, lowering the hand from his throat. “That was a good start, Barnes. A very good start. Time for round two - and this time, I want you to do it all yourself. And make sure you hold it until you pass out.”

The collar buzzed again, pitiless and demanding.

Bucky shut his eyes and bent forward, taking Goddard’s length back into his mouth. Taking everything, then pushing farther, because he knew he could. He had to.

He could go a long time without air.

Goddard kept talking, in between breathless growls, his hands clutching roughly at Bucky’s head. Urging Bucky on. Telling him he needed to prove it, that he’d do more for the American government than he ever did for Hydra.

Bucky could convince himself that there was some choice in it, later, when he wasn’t starving himself of oxygen while Goddard thrust himself down his throat, lungs quaking and jaw screaming and tasting salt and blood and bile and metal while the buzz of the collar went on, and on, and on, waiting for him to slip up so it could really dig its teeth in and turn his world to searing fire. He could tell himself all about his larger picture motivations for complying, like they hadn’t been distilled and bled from him and turned into a series of purely instinctual movements from a body and mind that knew that things could always get worse, and worse had to be avoided at all costs.

He could believe that there was a reason he was needed, outside of those grey walls where it was just him and the sound of skin on skin and the useless fluttering of his raw throat and guards lining the room with guns ready to be aimed at his body. He could envision some inherent worth that would propel him out of the pit he’d filled with the countless bodies of Hydra’s targets. A chance to move on. Be more. Someone that had been worth all that effort to save, even if he hadn’t been enough to stay for.

And he could tell himself like he’d been all along that he wasn’t losing it, terrified and alone, his heart smashed to pieces. He wasn’t wishing it would end, or begging the universe for an ounce of mercy in the corners of his mind. Wasn’t screaming for help in his own thoughts as Goddard repeated the same order, again and again and again, laughing every single goddamn time Bucky leaned forward to take him into his mouth.

He could do all of that. Would do all of that.

Goddard did end it, eventually. Let Bucky's body be released so he could slump to the floor. Then he removed the thing from Bucky's mouth. Laughed as he noticed Bucky couldn't close his jaw.

He was always laughing. Even half-conscious, barely able to know where his body was, Bucky could always hear it.

"Think I might be convinced you're grateful enough for once," Goddard said, pulling a cloth from somewhere and wiping firmly and carelessly at the mess around Bucky's mouth and chin. "Rest up, Barnes. Secretary Ross tells me tomorrow will be a special day. Get through that, and you're done here."

So it had been two days left. Bucky hung limply as the guards yanked him up, eyes burning and sounds of half-strangled pain coming from his throat. He blinked back the building moisture from his eyes, only for more to immediately take its place, coursing free.

One more day.

One more day, and then Bucky would get his release. And he would find Sam, and the shield, and everything would be worth it.

Chapter Text

Isaiah got notice from Eli before they came to his door.

“Chris says two new guys have been wandering around the neighborhood,” Eli said, sitting on the couch next to the window, eyes on his phone, reading whatever he’d found through spiderwebs of splintered cracks in the screen.

“What kind of guys?” Isaiah asked, finishing up the dressings of his double sandwich lunch. Chris had helped himself to creating and heading the neighborhood watch on their area’s Facebook group. Isaiah didn’t have an account on Facebook - last thing he needed was someone able to find him on social media - and he had even warned Eli against it in the beginning. But now he could admit it came in handy when everyone on the street was just about as paranoid as he was. The only difference was, he had decades-long experiences backing up his vigilance. Isaiah knew from Eli that the only thing that had ever happened to Chris was in his own mind, watching those police scanners and looking out his window at a world he rarely stepped into.

Sometimes that was all that was needed, opening up a person’s eyes to the way things really worked. It put them on more common ground than Isaiah wanted to admit: neighbors who had some idea about each other but had never spoken, never met face to face. Best not to be out there drawing attention.

“One of them’s Black. Just walking the streets for the last hour. Seems alone. Real friendly.”

Friendly, or looking for information. “Could be a family member who flew in for a visit,” Isaiah allowed, deciding not to settle on any judgment until he heard more. “Who’s the other one?”

“Ernie says he thinks he saw someone jump his fence.” Eli straightened up, at attention. “Now other people are saying they saw someone in their yards.”

Isaiah frowned, more attentive now that this information had been revealed. “They call the police on him yet?”

Eli shook his head. “Whoever it is keeps avoiding the property cameras. People see someone out of the corner of their eye and then he’s gone.”

“Stealing?”

“Maybe. Ernie ain’t find anything missing. No one else said anything about stealing.”

Isaiah grunted. Maybe it was some dumb kids, looking to cause trouble. They wouldn’t find anything in his yard worth taking, unless they were planning on taking part in the local garden society’s plant swap. In which case, Isaiah would have no problem chasing them off himself.

His lunch was ready. Isaiah took a bite of one of the sandwiches, deciding to stay on his feet, some age-old feeling coursing through his bones, like someone had lit several fuses that were slowly sparking their way through his body, right to his lungs. Only time would tell if there’d be any kind of detonation. “Stay away from the windows,” he said, then went back in for another bite.

About twenty minutes later, Isaiah heard them. Talking in low voices as they ventured up the street. Sounded like they were arguing. Not kids. Eli was sitting on a chair in the dining room but engrossed in the television and his phone, and didn’t have Isaiah’s enhanced hearing, so he didn’t know what was up until the knock came, and those voices hushed.

That was the thing about Facebook. Had to wait for someone to post before you could get the information.

Isaiah stepped into the dining room and turned the television off without a word. Eli got up without asking and went to the door, just like he’d been taught, while Isaiah kept himself back and out of sight, heading over to the half-washed dishes still in the sink, ready in case it was finally his time.

He listened as Eli warned them off, stony and firm. Heard low voices trying to negotiate. Definitely wasn’t solicitors.

Eli walked back over to him a moment later.

“Who was it,” Isaiah asked.

“They’re still out there,” Eli admitted. “One of them said he’s the guy from the bar in Goyang.”

The bar in Goyang.

Isaiah was still in his kitchen, standing where the midday sunlight coursed in over the tiles, brightening the stainless steel beneath his weathered hands. But suddenly the world seemed a lot darker, shadows creeping in every corner. His lunch settled heavily in his stomach as he set the dishes aside.

Goyang, during the Korean war, where he’d proven himself and defended his men and country by taking down another super soldier. The best the other side had to offer, a combatant whispered about behind the lines, everyone always worried because wherever he showed up, no one made it back out.

Isaiah had smoked him. Taken his metal arm. Only time he’d ever fought a man that had been part machine. Hadn’t managed to kill him, though. But after, it had caused a quiet in the war - that arm had been state of the art, technology beyond anything they had, at least according to the people that had looked over the shreds Isaiah had delivered. Difficult to replace. Isaiah had been the only one to ever encounter him and come out of it still breathing.

And that super soldier, the assassin on the wind, had ended up killing him just as dead in all the ways that mattered, with a shot fired from whatever stronghold they kept him buried away in, when he’d reported back to his superiors with his tail between his legs about the man that had torn his arm off.

Isaiah knew that because those same superiors had come for him, in the end, when he had been trapped in a prison designed to hold someone with his level of strength. They’d known exactly who he was. What he could do. What had made him that way. They’d even known how to keep him quiet about things, those times they’d invaded his cell. The threats to the people on the outside that he’d be powerless to help if he stepped out of line. And it didn’t even matter at that point because the people on his side of the war were more likely to hurt him than the people that had been on the opposite.

A deep breath filled Isaiah’s lungs, those fuses burning down. “Let them in,” he said, and walked across to the dining room, positioning himself to wait, facing the door head on. “I want to see it with my own eyes.”

Eli opened the door back up. Unlocked the screen. Let them in.

And then Isaiah watched as there was another invasion, this time of his own home, where he’d been living for years as best he could. It sent his hackles up, the knowledge confirmed that he’d been found, that he wasn’t safe. That he could be found again.

His heartbeat was steady. Ready for the fight. Some kind of peace in that; it had never really left him, after all.

Just two men coming through his door this time. But he knew one of them enough to know that two was all they would need. That same soldier he’d taken down, once upon a time, stepping through his living room towards him. Barely older than the day they’d fought. Shorter hair, but the face was the same. A thin black top hugged his body, reaching up to cover his neck. He looked like a normal civilian, almost, except for the gloves on his hands, and the combat boots down below that gave him away.

And the arm was back. Regrown, and hanging at his side.

The voice, well. That was the most different of all. “Isaiah.” Soft, and sounded like he was well spoken. Hadn’t said a word in Goyang, but Isaiah still remembered those brassy howls he’d let loose as he’d ripped the metal arm to pieces, how his voice had cracked and deepened when Isaiah had gotten a hand around his neck, taking advantage of that lost limb to try and finish the job. Somehow he sounded worse, now, as he introduced Isaiah to the man he’d walked in with. Maybe his voice was the only part of him that had aged.

The man beside the Winter Solder, Sam, was looking at Isaiah and then back as he had it explained to him how they’d met. He stood quietly, hands folded in front of him. Listened, observed. The confusion was plain on his face as the Winter Soldier laid out Isaiah’s identity. Then the Winter Soldier called Isaiah a hero.

That word started something, deep in Isaiah’s gut. He looked back down pointedly at the combat boots that had tracked dirt into his home. “You come here to kill me?” He’d put up a good fight. But he knew - young versus old, it was probably going to go the same way as it did with normal folks. Their bodies looked separated by decades.

And Isaiah was rusty. Might have handed the Winter Soldier’s ass to him once upon a time, in the prime of his youth, but he hadn’t seen combat or war since… before. Before the walls with bars and the hands and needles. Before he knew he was going to die alone.

But he’d do it. He’d fight now, until he did die alone.

He hoped they had the decency to leave Eli out of it. But Eli knew as well as anyone the risks he took just existing on the streets. He stood against the wall, observing and not interfering, good senses leaving the situation to his grandfather.

“No,” the Winter Soldier said, keeping his voice low. “I’m not a killer anymore.”

Not a killer anymore. Just like that. Like that was all it took, for this man who was so good at killing he had slaughtered hundreds. Soldiers, civilians, children, and anybody else unlucky enough to be caught in the path of a soldier that the other side never wanted to be seen. Never known about. A ghost, they’d called him.

But don’t worry, because he’d flipped that switch off. He didn’t do that anymore, on the same day Isaiah had heard tales of his neighbors having their yards invaded by a man so stealthy that none of them could quite be sure he was even there.

Life sure was a funny thing.

“Is that what you tell the people you meet?” Isaiah could feel a grin, small but nasty, forming on his face. “So you think you can just decide what you want? Like it’s not in your blood? The things you did? It doesn’t work like that.”

Isaiah watched the eyes across from him go hard, flatten out. Being called out with the truth usually made people like that do one of two things - shut it down and lie, or come at him to try and shut him up. The Winter Soldier was so far choosing neither, but it was there, buried beneath the surface.

“Or maybe you can,” Isaiah continued, anticipating that change, that violence. “I mean, look at you - government letting you strut your stuff all over the public eye. How many people have you hurt since they let you go?”

“No one,” the Winter Soldier said, and he was trying to stay relaxed but Isaiah could see it, the tension around his eyes.

Lies. Always lies.

Isaiah stepped closer, gratified when the man took a step back. “How many people have you wanted to hurt?”

“No one,” the Winter Soldier repeated, quieter.

Isaiah lifted his finger, speaking sharply. “That’s the wrong answer.” He turned to the young man that had come in alongside, still staring between them without speaking. “Sam, right? You’re with him?”

Sam blinked, hands coming apart. He nodded, respect in the movement. “Yeah.”

“You should know better,” Isaiah snapped. “It’s not worth the risk. Anything happens, he’s going to side with them over you.” Isaiah brought his gaze around, met the Winter Soldier’s stare head on. Saw the way the fool dropped his eyes so he was staring at Isaiah’s chest. “Yeah, I caught you out. Don’t know what it is, but I know that look. I’ve seen it on people’s faces time and time again. When they told me the serum was experimental but safe, and I watched my brothers die in agony. When they locked me up and told me I would be left in peace, and then invaded my cell every damn day for their tests. Even let in those people, your people.” His voice was shaking, that rage boiling up inside him. He remembered once, being able to feel it without it entering every atom of his being. Before the serum. Before the world had turned on him. He turned back to Sam. “He’s a goddamn liar. And he’s hiding something big. Can’t even look me in the eye.”

Isaiah could see doubt fill Sam’s face. Saw him look towards the Winter Soldier, the lines between his eyebrows coming on strong. Good. He had enough sense to worry.

The Winter Soldier himself had gone paler. He swallowed four times, like he was trying to fill himself up to let the words out. “Isaiah,” he said, still soft as a whisper, his gaze coming back up. He was nervous, but he wasn’t afraid. “We’re here because there are more people, strong like you and me. And we need to know where they’re coming from.”

“I’m not repeating myself,” Isaiah hissed, grabbing a tin and slamming it into the wall. It didn’t help the anger; it never did. “Like you and me. Do you know what they did to me for being a hero? They put my ass in jail, for thirty years! Thirty years of what I said. Imagine if I’d been like you, murdering for the other side. For sure wouldn’t be dancing around in the streets, people knowing who I am. Wouldn’t be invited to serve again. Celebrated. Sure as hell wouldn’t be asked to follow Captain America and make talk show appearances.”

To his credit, this time the Winter Soldier stared at Isaiah head on, looked him in the eyes, waited for him to finish before he dropped them. But all of that was too late. Just the thought of what was in Isaiah’s house, what he was being asked to do, reminded him of being in that cell, the questions he’d had to answer. The things they’d take away if he didn’t.

The things he’d have taken away now, if they knew where he was. That all this man had to do was say the word, just like he had after Isaiah had beaten him half to death in Goyang.

“Get out. Of my house,” Isaiah snarled, moving forward, watching as the Winter Soldier stepped back. “Get out!”

The fight he was waiting for didn’t happen. They got out without resistance, Eli putting a hand on Sam’s shoulder as the man turned aghast brown eyes on Isaiah one last time. Then they walked right down his porch towards the street while Eli locked things back up.

The sun was still shining in, but Isaiah couldn’t see it on account of his eyes sliding shut, the burn of welling tears forcing their way through. He felt a seat beneath him that he didn’t remember sliding onto.

He heard footsteps approach, and waved Eli off with a trembling hand. “Listen. You keep an eye on the outside, all right? Watch for the police. You see anyone come up to this house, don’t answer it. You go out the back.” He felt the first of the tears break free, that gaping ache moving in to take over the rage.

“I don’t think they’ll call the police,” Eli said, hesitantly. He’d seen Isaiah’s emotions swing wide a few times. “They fought in the war with the Avengers. Think one of them is an Avenger.”

“That white man killed people, he needs to prove himself,” Isaiah said. “If he tells someone who and where I am they’ll hail him for a damned hero. So you listen to me, and you watch the outside. And you run if they come.”

Eli knew better than to argue. He nodded, then took up his post. Pulled the curtain away from the window, then cursed almost immediately, flinching back. “You right. The police came.”

“I told you,” Isaiah said, bursting to his feet and rushing towards Eli, ready to pull him away. “Didn’t I tell you-“

“They ain't coming to the house,” Eli said, hesitantly moving himself for a better look.

Isaiah slowed, then looked out the window through the blinds, careful to angle himself so he wouldn’t be seen. He saw men in uniform in the street outside his house, readying themselves around Sam, their hands on their weapons. Some of his neighbors were coming out to observe the scene, while others had holed up and shut their doors tight. Maybe one of them had finally complained to the police about someone going through their yards, but Isaiah had a feeling those rumors were more attached to the man in the black turtleneck than the person the police were currently targeting.

The Winter Soldier had turned on Sam. Maybe even put the blame him for all the reports of trespassing. Isaiah sucked in a breath, sorry to see it. But he knew there wasn’t shit for him to do unless he wanted them to jump on the chance to take another black man into custody.

Eli pulled out his phone again. “It’s on Facebook,” he said. “Chris is recording it.”

“It’s right in front of us,” Isaiah said irritably, heart in his throat as he watched the ways of the world play out. “We don’t need to watch Facebook to see it.”

Eli held the phone up to his ear, just as Isaiah saw the officers move away, and the Winter Soldier turned and spoke with Sam. Sam, who was shaking his head, looking as angry as Isaiah felt every damn day.

When the officers came back, the Winter Soldier went perfectly still while they spoke to him. He saw Sam’s face change as the police closed in - but they weren’t coming for him.

Isaiah turned to Eli, trying to listen in on the phone’s speakers. “What are they saying?”

Eli turned his eyes to Isaiah, frowning. “They’re arresting the guy from Goyang. Mr. Barnes.” He dropped his arm, looking down at his phone so he could see what he could of the feed between the cracks in the glass. “Said he missed his court-mandated therapy session.”

Isaiah looked back out the window just in time to see the cops guide the Winter Soldier to the side of the car, closing a pair of handcuffs over his wrists. Isaiah might not have been young but his vision was still perfect, even standing slightly to the side of the window where he knew no one could get a good look at him. He saw the look in the Soldier’s eyes as those cuffs he could break through like paper were locked into place. Not the same kind of nervous he’d been in the house, but something deeper, something Isaiah had seen when he’d torn that arm off all those years ago. No screams this time, but it all showed in the way he moved, when the officer’s hand came over on his head to guide him in the car, and in his wide eyes as they went towards Sam with a single shake of his head. Isaiah saw the way the officer leaned in, lips parted, when the Winter Soldier was sitting inside the vehicle, speaking a single word before drawing back.

Eli said something about restarting the feed on his phone as Isaiah turned away.

“Don’t you wanna see everything that happened?” Eli asked.

“I don’t need to see what happened,” Isaiah said.

So they got the right guy off the street, for once. For however long it took until he was bailed out. Probably not long, especially since the government was being so soft on him that he was getting free therapy on their dime on top of everything. Typical. Isaiah knew if it had been someone like Sam in the Winter Soldier’s place, best case scenario, the government would have completely ignored his mental health and worked his ass to insanity while telling him everything was fine.

Worst case, it’d be a lot closer to what Isaiah had gone through, during those thirty long years.

He stepped up to the tin buried in the wall. Pulled it loose, and set it back on the table. “You keep an eye out. You let me know if more come.”

Eli lowered his phone. “All right.”

That fuse inside of Isaiah had blasted, and now it was relit, slowly charging that feeling back through his limbs before the tears had even had the chance to fully dry on his face.

They knew where he was, now. They’d know even more soon. It was only a matter of time before someone else was at his door.

Chapter Text

“Here we are,” Lemar said to Barnes as they walked into the on-base barber shop, showing him the line of heavy duty chairs with their metal footrests spread out on the tile. “You know I actually prefer getting my hair done on base.” He set his hands on his belt, smiling fondly as he thought of the young, nervous but determined recruit he’d been getting his first cut, and what he’d become now. “There’s just something about the attention to detail here you don’t get with a non-military stylist. They’ll fix you right up.”

Barnes scanned the room, hands hanging at his sides, his eyes taking in every detail, every piece of equipment, before pausing on the line of mirrors that hovered right behind the chairs. Seated in one of those chairs was an active-duty veteran getting his hair finished up by who Lemar knew was the only barber currently on staff, a tall Black man in a smart black and blue smock combo and camouflage pants.

“Be right with you gentlemen,” the barber called, without sparing a glance from his work.

“You want it shorter, or just evened out?” Lemar asked, genuinely curious on what Barnes would go for now that he was about to have a lot more of a public-facing role. Not that he seemed to be the adventurous kind with his appearance, at least during the current day.

Barnes looked at him, a flicker of a blink passing over his eyes. He opened his mouth like he was about to respond, but no words came out before he closed his lips again and looked back towards the barber, pushing his tongue to the inside of his cheek as a heavy exhale rocked through his chest.

“You all right, man?” Lemar asked, frowning. That was the second time he’d been compelled to ask that in the few days he’d known Barnes.

Lemar got another nod, the black fabric at Barnes’ neck moving as he swallowed.

The lack of spoken answer wasn’t a surprise. Barnes had been even more quiet than normal as soon as Walker had given him his uniform, which was saying something considering he wasn’t the most engaging conversationalist. The new outfit was giving him exactly that edge they needed - Barnes had looked intimidating in just his jeans and shirt and sweater and jacket, but now he was wearing something that more matched his rigid stance and forbidding eyes, the colors of his country proudly on display through the fabric wrapped around him, left arm gleaming in the fluorescent lights. He was strong, capable, and ready to go.

Still…there was definitely something on his mind he wasn’t talking about. And it was hard to guess what that was when Barnes was a lot less forthcoming with the things that bothered him than John was.

Usually with John, all it took was enough prodding and support and sometimes some good-natured cajoling to get him back on track. With Barnes, even just having known him a few days, Lemar was pretty sure it was very different; after what he’d seen during their time together, he’d actually be shocked if the guy ever actually got off any track he set his mind on. Which, respect, but also - not exactly necessary a hundred percent of the time.

Maybe he just needed a little help changing things around in his head to convince him that this was relevant to the job they were about to do instead of a round of self-care practice to kill time before they departed. At the very least, it would give Lemar the chance to test what did and didn’t work in cooling off his new teammate.

“Hey, we can skip out, if you’d prefer,” Lemar said. “Doesn’t exactly need to be regulation for you to work with us. John just wants to keep the image tight, you know? For the mission.”

Barnes shot his eyes to him and then proceeded to start a third, more thorough scope of the room - the tools, the mirrors, even the windows on the other side as a pair of soldiers strolled past. His gaze only went back to the barber and his current customer as the seat was vacated and they said their goodbyes, and then the barber started up his disinfecting procedures for his tools.

“It’s good business, too,” Lemar said, lowering his voice. “There were some cuts made after the Blip. They had to dump the option to tip on credit. Harder times for everyone, working twice as hard for the same money. I’ll be happy to take your spot just so he gets an extra customer.”

Barnes’ face settled a notch up on the hardness scale, the deep wrinkles of his brow intensifying the sharpness of his nose while the slant of his unblinking eyes turned to the side and held Lemar in place. His cheek twitched up as the sound of the barber spraying his clippers hissed through the air, then he finally spoke for the first time in hours.

“What does Walker want?”

“John?” Lemar asked, then shrugged. “Don’t think he’d mind your old style - that vintage 40s look? Back when you were with the OG Cap?” Lemar grinned, elbowing Barnes gently; Barnes swayed to the side, eyes drifting back to the barber. “Gonna have to grow out what you’ve got for that patented Bucky Barnes ladykiller image, but I think with what you’ve got going on now we can at least do a shorter version.”

“Great,” Barnes said, in one of the flattest sayings of the word Lemar had ever heard. Barnes finally stopped staring at the barber work, moving his eyes towards the wall. “Tell him to do that.”

Man, John had really gotten through to Barnes faster than Lemar had thought possible, if he was this concerned with his opinion and willing to follow his lead on something as minor as what he thought was the best hairstyle for their team. And Lemar hadn’t been lying; Barnes hadn’t wanted to give himself a new codename, but linking his appearance to the sergeant he’d been before the reputation he’d earned as the Winter Soldier could only help public perception.

As soon as the barber waved Barnes over he was - walking wasn’t quite the right word for it - but stalking across the room towards that chair like he was squaring up to engage it in combat. But there was zero hesitation as he turned his back and sat himself down, back and head perfectly straight, his arms separated and solidly elbows to wrist against the armrests of the chair, shoulders tight. The barber grabbed a fresh cape to drape over those tight shoulders, covering the sleek hue of his uniform with camo green, which didn’t do many favors for Barnes’ pale complexion under the bright salon lighting. He definitely looked better in blue and red.

The barber grunted as he inspected Barnes’ head. “Not the worst hack job I’ve ever seen,” he said, patting Barnes gently on the shoulder, close to his neck. “You do this yourself?”

“No,” Barnes answered softly, his eyes having decided to find a different wall to stick on. Lemar could practically pinpoint where his knuckles were beneath that cape.

“Don’t tell me you actually paid someone to leave you in sixteen different unblended lengths! Looks like you were run through a demented lawnmower.”

Barnes’ eye twitched, but his voice stayed calm. “No.”

Lemar grinned wider. “I told you they’ve got better standards here.”

The barber craned his head around to the side, trying to catch Barnes’ eye. He didn’t. “Drunk friend, then?”

“No.”

“Okay hang on, hang on - I’m good at this game, I swear. Pissed off a relative? Older brother!”

“No.”

“Lost a bet?”

“No.”

“Family dog got a little too excited?” The barber gave a pause that Barnes refused to fill, and then gave a jovial laugh, giving Barnes another series of pats on his right shoulder. “I’m just playing with you. What are you looking for today?”

Lemar waited a few beats to see if Barnes felt like answering himself, and found those steely eyes flicking to his face, looking a little round at the edges. Lemar took the signal for what it was and jumped in, pulling a picture up on his phone of a young soldier next to Steve Rogers. The young soldier who was probably just as shocked as Lemar at where history had seen fit to place him - at Captain America’s side again, serving his country with the best job in the world.

“We’re going with a modified version of this,” Lemar said to the barber as he showed him the image. Once he got a nod of confirmation, he stepped back and folded his arms.

“Won’t take but a minute,” the barber said softly, then reached for his supplies.

Barnes was back to staring forward like his life depended on it as the clippers were turned on, his lips tightened into a thin line on his face. Lemar casually stepped into his line of sight, still smiling, and finally managed to get those eyes back on him. “Hey,” he said, because he was pretty sure now he’d figured out what at least some of the problem was - that was a whole heap of nervousness on Barnes’ face he hadn’t noticed before. Maybe it wasn’t just the salon cape giving his skin that paler hue. Hard to tell, but a little extra word of encouragement never hurt anybody when they were feeling down. “You’ve got this, Barnes. You step out of here in that uniform, with that ‘do? Don’t tell John I said this, but you’re giving him a run for his money. That’s a solid second place ranking for hair on the team, and all you gotta do is sit tight for a bit.”

Barnes’ brow pinched a little closer; some of the intensity drained from his gaze. “Second,” he repeated, voice still with that soft, spacey tone, but now there was an edge of confusion.

“That’s right,” Lemar said, jerking his chin. “Which - as the firmly in-first-place member - I am more than qualified to distribute.”

Barnes looked away again while the barber kept up his work. If Barnes had any kind of a sense of humor, Lemar hadn’t managed to find it yet. But he took the ribbings without any sort of rise in visible irritation. Then again, maybe he was just irritated to the max 24/7.

Didn’t matter. Barnes was all in on following John, which was the important thing. And if they spent enough time together, Lemar was sure he’d get a better handle on the dynamic when it came to the two of them.

“Looking forward to seeing you in action,” Lemar said. “Won’t be long now; the exciting part of the job’s just around the corner. We’ll be catching up to that lead in no time.”

That at last seemed to stir something. Barnes didn’t give another verbal answer, but he did answer - in one single nod, which he did right before he closed his eyes and sat completely still and silent for the rest of his haircut.

Just under two days later, they were back in America, keeping track of Barnes as he carried out his order from John to try and bring Sam Wilson onto their team.

“Where’s he at now?” Lemar asked John, hoping there was some good news.

“On the ground in Baltimore,” John said, then uttered lower. “And it looks like…trespassing on several properties.”

After John had set Barnes loose, he and Lemar had waited at the airport in Germany while Barnes had followed Sam Wilson back to the air base. Within an hour after that, the GPS on Barnes’ parole device had put him in the air, heading over the Atlantic Ocean in a beeline towards America.

John’s initial confusion at that fact had been overridden by confidence. “He did it,” he’d exclaimed. “He got Sam to take him on.”

Lemar had felt some surprise at that turn of events, but he should have known better when it came to John’s hunches. It had been sobering, seeing the more obviously angry side of Barnes come to the fore like it had when they’d all been in the back of that truck in Munich. Whatever his beef with Wilson, it was clearly something big. Just seeing that look on his face when Wilson had climbed into the truck had made Lemar reevaluate all of their past interactions with Barnes, wondering if he had really just been showing off his more social side to them all along.

John had gone digging to find exactly which flight Wilson and Barnes had gotten on and where it was headed, and then they’d boarded their own plane to take off after it, taking the downtime to sleep and refuel. John had come off that flight with renewed energy, pumped for the next step of their mission, especially when they were given the go from oversight for whatever John thought was best for them to move forward on the Flag Smashers. As of that moment, they were more reliable than even Langley for information on the revolutionaries.

As for Barnes, John rationalized his actions with some pretty good points as they kept an eye on him while another couple hours passed and he didn’t report back in. “I never specified what airport,” he said, looking at Lemar. “And I didn’t give him a time frame for the mission.”

“Because it was gonna probably take a minute, the way those two were engaging,” Lemar responded, seeing the vision.

“Yeah, yeah,” John said, dipping his chin down as his eyes fell back to the screen. “Sam’s got connections that will be more useful on this side. The time it takes to bring him in will be worth it.”

“I hope Barnes is making him see the light,” Lemar said.

Another several minutes passed in silence, while John watched the signal from Barnes’ maneuver itself around in what Lemar could only describe as chaotic.

“I don’t understand what he’s doing,” John said softly, eventually. “How does this part connect to convincing Sam? He’s just running around some random neighborhood.”

Lemar peered over at the screen. “You thinking about that recall?”

“We’ll give him another minute,” John said. “If what he’s doing is for the job I don’t want to disrupt it too early.”

“I’d be surprised if it wasn’t,” Lemar said. “Pretty sure even when he sleeps Barnes is thinking about serving. And I don’t think he’ll mind us dropping in if you want to do that. He really looks up to you, you know.”

John looked startled, glancing at Lemar then his phone then Lemar again. “What, Barnes?” he asked, smiling with humor like he thought Lemar was about to tease him. Which, good call, but that wasn’t what this was, this time.

Lemar nodded, leaning in so John knew he was serious. “When we went to get his haircut on base. He asked for whatever would impress you the most.”

John’s mouth hung open a little. “He did. He did?”

Lemar patted him. “Come on, John. You can’t say that isn’t earned.”

John swallowed. He looked down at his phone. “It’s been long enough now that Sam’s probably cooled off enough to give me another opening. I’ll activate the recall. Just to let Bucky know not to wander too far when we’re heading to him.”

While John worked on that, Lemar tilted his head curiously. “So it just…sends a signal to the device he’s wearing?”

“Wherever he is, yeah,” John confirmed. “He’ll know it’s time to come report in. It even has a communication system to tell him what direction and how far we are from his current location.” He stared at his phone, frowning. “That’s weird.”

“What?”

“I just programmed it, and he just started going in the opposite direction from us,” John said, bringing his phone in even closer. “He’s on the road, going forty. I think he’s in a car again.”

“Any idea where its destination is?” Lemar asked.

John shook his head, settling his phone down on his thigh, gazing at some sort of line that seemed to be a control for the intensity of the recall signal. He ran his thumb across it, saturating the entire length with red, then clicked off and went back to staring expectantly at the symbol for Barnes’ location as it continued to make progress in the incorrect direction from them.

“No, he knows,” John muttered, grabbing the shield and his helmet and getting to his feet. “It's set as high as it goes. Something must have happened to stop him from coming back. Let’s head out to intercept.”

They got their answer to what had happened about thirty minutes later while they were on the road being driven towards Baltimore, when John’s phone vibrated to signal an incoming call.

“John Walker,” John answered. “Yes, Bucky Barnes. I’ve been working with him. He what?” John shook his head, squinting in confusion. “Therapy? He shouldn’t have therapy.”

Lemar drew his brow down. Barnes had therapy? That…actually was probably a good thing, even if Lemar couldn’t even begin to imagine what those sessions looked like for whatever poor therapist got to try and get that guy to say more than a few words.

John’s tone was getting more irritated by the second. “Well that same government paired him with me to execute some sensitive missions for the protection of this country, and that more than outweighs any of his previous obligations.” He paused, listening to the other line in silence. “What?” More silence. John sighed. “Yeah, I was issuing a recall, which your officers impeded. It’s probably messing with the hardware. Put him on the phone, let me talk to him.” Another pause, and then John’s voice raised. “I just told you-” He bit off his words before he could continue, listening a bit longer. “Good. Fine. Just… keep him there. I’ll be on my way soon.” He hung up, all but slamming the phone in his lap as he reopened the app for the parole device. “Bucky was arrested.”

Arrested, damn. Lemar could see why John had been outraged. “For the trespassing?”

“For missing a therapy appointment,” John said, slamming his back into the wall behind him in irritation. “Which no one saw fit to tell me would be a problem because apparently they think it’s fun and games for him to have about fifty obstructions in place that need to be individually cancelled before he can be a consistent asset.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Lemar said.

“I know! We’re trying to protect the stabilization of this country. That serum needs to be on the team for us to have the best chance of that.” He pulled his phone back up. “And they reset the collar’s original settings, which means the curfew was reactivated, which apparently means he can’t be spared to come to the phone. I’ll make another call. Make sure everything is dropped until the mission is complete.”

“So Barnes is locked up,” Lemar said, going back over John’s side of the conversation in his head.

“He’s being detained at the Baltimore Police Station,” John said, already dialing a different number.

“That recall on the device still active?” Lemar asked pointedly.

John paused, his finger hovering over his touchscreen. He sighed, deleting the numbers he’d been inputting and reopening the parole device’s app, thumbing off the alert. “Not anymore it isn’t.” He rolled out his shoulders, reaching down for his shield, phone call forgotten. “All right, new plan. I’ll get to that call later. Take a left on this road, we’re stepping out,” John instructed their driver. “I want to take a look at that street he was roaming around on before we pick him up. It’s just around here.” He looked at Lemar. “Time to go to work.”

“Time to go to work,” Lemar echoed, even if he kind of thought that heading back to the station should be their first plan. But he knew when John got like this, it was better to let him burn off at least a little of that steam before he talked him around.

He just hoped Barnes had found something to make this hassle all worth it.

Chapter Text

“I’m sorry, Mr. Barnes. You’re under arrest.”

Two sentences. Two sentences were all it took to send Bucky’s day, the plans he’d only just started cobbling together, and his entire fucking life down that sharp inevitable nosedive, about to violently crash somewhere where his fear and pain and guilt and shame could crush him from existence and leave the world all the worse for the things he’d done.

Eight supersoldiers. Maybe more. Infinitely more. Not programmed weapons like the Winter Soldier, precise and subtle as he tore the world apart at someone else’s order. Not like Steve, grand and heroic and true as he protected it. And not like Isaiah, permanently retreating to the shadows once that same world had turned on him.

They could do it. Overturn everything, make it just how they wanted. And HYDRA had started that spark, because as the Winter Soldier, Bucky had drawn attention to Isaiah Bradley’s existence by failing spectacularly against him in one on one combat, garnering their interest in the American supersoldier that had managed to take out their strongest weapon and threaten everything they stood for.

Bucky wasn’t sorry that Isaiah had stopped him all those years ago, even if he had felt the ache of guilty acknowledgement when he’d finally learned about everything that had come afterwards for a hero that HYDRA had feared, from the people who were meant to be on his side. But Bucky was sorry for what was happening now, thanks to those events, and he could actually do something about it.

Could have, that was, if his time hadn’t finally run out.

The collar was buzzing warningly against his neck, sending Bucky’s stomach plummeting; the officers must have activated it. Or maybe it just knew who they were and what they wanted, and all it needed was to hear the words. He didn’t know, and it didn’t matter.

Bucky swallowed a few times through the nauseous, building horror and risked a look towards Sam - Sam, who was still incredibly angry with Bucky for running through several civilian properties without explanation while he walked the streets and hissed Bucky’s name in vain, trying not to draw attention, engaging with the people he encountered while Bucky grimly made his route and purpose in the neighborhood as convoluted as possible. Bucky hadn’t broken into any of the houses, even though it would have been easy, and some of the houses had even been unoccupied. He probably should have; he didn’t know much about the collar’s tracking capabilities, but he’d known he couldn’t risk it. He just also hadn’t wanted to risk Sam deciding he needed to intervene with that kind of action, or leave the mission entirely.

Sam’s anger towards Bucky hadn’t improved after the visit with Isaiah. Or the encounter with the police officers that had followed. It clung to him like a cloud, stiffening up his shoulders while it darkened his eyes, deepening the lines around his mouth as his lips twisted when he spoke, his breathing deep and slow like he was trying to calm himself down, keep things quiet while he tried to tear Bucky a new one through his eyes alone.

But he was still there. He hadn’t walked away from Bucky, despite all that rage. But now Bucky had to walk away from him, and after all that spouted fury towards him in the street he was sure that Sam hadn’t heard what he actually needed to hear, back in Isaiah’s house.

Sam had to know how important it was that Isaiah had mentioned Bucky’s people. Bucky couldn’t tell him outright with the collar activated and the officers waiting; he couldn’t point him in the right direction of where to go to try and find more of the answers he needed while they had an audience.

And the collar was slowly escalating in the few seconds he’d hesitated, the officers growing visibly more nervous, while more people left their houses to stand in their yards to watch. Bucky sucked in a deep breath through his nostrils, knowing that once they took him, he was probably never going to see either Sam or the light of day ever again.

He tried; one last signal, a last ditch pitiful excuse for an effort to honor the message from Steve cradled between the pages of his notebook, tucked into the pocket of his tactical pants. He opened his mouth. Felt the words fade under an onslaught of instinctive terror as the metal hugging his throat pulsed higher - a sharp, painful correction that had him sucking in a breath, swallowing and biting back the pain because if Sam saw, if he knew, that would be worse. He wouldn’t do what Bucky knew needed to be done to reach their end goal but he might not follow the trail at all if he lost what little trust he had in Bucky’s motivations. If he knew what Bucky had been hiding.

Sam had definitely seen something in that moment. His eyes narrowed, locked to Bucky as he moved away, towards where the officers were waiting, one removing the handcuffs from his belt. Bucky’s heart pounded as he extended his hands and the restraints were applied. He looked towards Sam again, shaking his head in the direction of that scowl. Don’t think about me, he thought desperately, trying to communicate the words with his expression alone. Don’t get distracted. Do what you need to do. Find where the serum is coming from.

And then Bucky was in the car, and the officer quietly gave the Still order as he was buckled in.

The door was closed, loud against his side, the lock engaged. The air inside the car was stifling with the late afternoon heat. The officers entered the front driver and passenger seats and it began to move, away from both Sam and Bucky’s chance to try and resolve the unresolvable.

He wanted to reach for Steve’s notebook; see the message he’d left Bucky, before they took it from him. Give himself one last chance to paint those hand written words on the back of his mind, a fantasy to hold on to even if they weren’t even close to the truth. He didn’t dare move his hands from his lap.

Somehow, despite the awful routes his life insisted on venturing down, what happened next was still a surprise.

A few miles down the road, the collar buzzed harder, bringing him to attention, heart skipping in confusion before he felt a long sequence of varied stabs meant to communicate a message in the collar’s twisted version of morse code. Recall and report. Southwest, two one three degrees. Thirty miles. John Walker.

Bucky swallowed hard as he assessed his situation; he was in a car that was heading northeast, locked down by a Still order that hadn’t been undone. He had until the third signal to comply, and then the collar would begin a set of punishments for his disobedience after each neglected command.

The collar started the message again. Recall and report. Southwest, two one three degrees. Thirty miles. John Walker.

Bucky felt tension furiously grip to every nerve as he resisted the urge to break the handcuffs and forcefully slam his vibranium arm into the door of the vehicle, knowing that wouldn’t do any good, that even if he managed to break out, he wasn’t strong enough to physically fight through a punishment for a defiance of the Still order to travel fast enough to prevent recapture. His mind cast about frantically for another option, any option.

The collar repeated the sequence. Recall and report. Southwest, two one three degrees. Thirty one miles. Then, in a rapidly hellish escalation that had his lungs spasming - John Walker.

Not even the punishment yet; Walker had turned the settings up on the collar to something incredibly high, a level guaranteed to ensure Bucky was so debilitated he would be useless to attempt engaging in any further compliance. He breathed heavy and fast in the space between messages, blood in his mouth from where he’d bitten into his cheek, clenching his cuffed hands in his lap. He could feel the clock tick down with cruel inevitability.

“I have to report in,” he managed to blurt to the officers, before the collar turned into a thousand burrowing, flaming hornets that swarmed over every nerve ending, leaving him arching against his seat as his eyes rolled back.

When it finished, and he was blinking dumbly in the aftermath, muscles strained from vicious contractions and the vibranium arm dead and heavy from the current, he heard the voice of the officer driving. “Mr. Barnes, please cooperate,” he said. He sounded spooked, and his phone was in his hand. “You’ve already missed your appointment. Don’t make things worse on yourself.”

The officer thought Bucky was being corrected from trying to disobey the Still order. And right at that moment, Walker probably thought Bucky was intentionally disobeying him while being ordered to return. Shit. Fuck.

Orders, he was good at following orders. “I’m not-” he tried, but the Recall started again before he could say more, sending Bucky’s mind to nowhere while the rest of him was still trapped in a glowing inferno.

And then, ten counts from him failing to follow the Recall, just as he managed to scrabble for half-clarity, the second punishment started.

His mind was purged of rational thought. When he came back, the officers had raised their voices, sharply ordering him to stop fighting them. Bucky’s throat was too swollen for him to begin to even attempt to explain himself.

Then the Recall began again.

Time skipped, and then he was on the ground, shouts in his ears demanding his compliance and calling for backup as sharp weights dug into his skin, gripping into his limbs, a hand harshly pressing his head into the grit of the sidewalk.

Another savage drowning and reawakening, and he found his body being roughly maneuvered into extensive restraints meant for high risk prisoners. More bodies had surrounded him, holding him pinned as they continued to misinterpret his movements as attempted defiance of the Still order.

The world burned to ash again, disappeared, then came back. Bucky’s eyes rolled over his surroundings in frightened, helpless agony as he was dragged down a corridor with fluorescent lighting.

Not that room, he thought in a haze of wild confusion. Anywhere, anything but that room, where they had the-

Another torrent. It wouldn’t stop. Even when he came back to himself in a locked holding cell, still bound.

Recall. Punishment. Recall. Punishment.

He was frantic with the pain and the lack of air. In a reprieve between shocks his desperate gaze found a poster on the far side of the room, the only splash of color against a white, tiled wall. He saw the shield at the very front of the image. Someone was holding it out towards him - a blurred figure of red, white and blue. Steve, he thought, an ache of longing nearly swallowing him, before the collar tore through him and darkness encroached on his vision again.

“Bucky!” Sam was snarling under his breath in the distance. “Are you kidding me? I am about to walk away right the fuck now if you don’t get back here and explain what’s going on. And don’t pretend you can’t hear me!”

Bucky launched himself over one final fence, after checking for lines of sight in the rest of the neighborhood to be sure he wouldn’t be caught where he landed. It hadn’t exactly been his best job of random infiltration - he was pretty sure at least one or two people had spotted him, but he was also certain that they hadn’t gotten a good look.

That wouldn’t have been even close to acceptable work as the Winter Soldier. But those people got to continue on, even if Bucky felt those old instincts in the back of his brain, like an unwanted knock on a door. From a hammer.

He rounded the block, coming to a stop across the way, staring where Sam was still craning his neck in the direction he had last seen Bucky, doing an absolutely terrible job of staying subtle. The neighbors had definitely noticed him.

Sam glanced towards Bucky, did a double take, then started to approach with quick steps.

“I thought you were looking for something,” Sam said, irate as he pointedly gazed at Bucky’s empty, gloved hands.

“Didn’t find it,” Bucky said, eyes scanning the street to assess any potential threats. Everything was quiet. They could progress to the next step.

Sam scowled in outrage. “So this detour was for nothing?”

Bucky swallowed, and felt the band of the collar press into his trachea as he looked back at Sam. “No.”

Sam raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “Oh, so you just had to waste time away from the main goal.”

“I wasn’t wasting time,” Bucky said, refusing to elaborate as he turned around to lead them down the street.

“Bucky,” Sam snapped warningly, not following.

Bucky kept going, squinting into the sun. “You can yell at me while we walk.”

Sam cursed and hurried to catch up. “No, look, you need to slow down and explain this shit right now.” He got in Bucky’s way, standing in front of him to stop his progress, pointing back the direction they came. “Because what I saw back there looked an awful lot like someone trying to lose a tail, and as far as I know you weren’t being followed by anyone but me.”

Bucky had expected Sam’s freak out, but he hadn’t expected him to get that close to the right assessment. He still wasn’t explaining anything to him. They weren’t here for that, and they didn’t have all day to talk about it, and they definitely didn’t have time for Bucky to mention that grating feeling that had been raking itself down the back of his mind as soon as he’d made the decision that ditching Walker was his best bet for influencing the situation to where it needed to go.

“The house is right down this way,” Bucky said, irritation coloring his own voice as he stretched out a hand to indicate the street they’d need to turn onto to reach Isaiah’s residence. “Can we move?”

Sam begrudgingly allowed them to continue progress, tense with discontent at Bucky’s side as they rounded the corner. He didn’t stay quiet for the entire walk, sending Bucky another glare. “You gonna jump into this guy’s backyard, too? Or are we actually doing something that doesn’t risk putting both of us in jail, now.”

“There’s not enough evidence to put me in jail for that,” Bucky insisted, something cold snaking around his spine at just the concept. “Even the people that noticed me barely got a glimpse.”

“You get how that’s the shittiest argument you could come up with, right?”

“It’s Black Falcon!” some kid yelled, distracting Sam while Bucky gratefully kept walking until he made it the rest of the way to Isaiah’s porch.

God, a fucking moment to breathe. Once Bucky was sure Sam wasn’t watching, he carefully reached up with his right hand and prodded at the fabric around his neck, touching his fingertips firmly to the band of metal gripping his throat beneath it, waiting. The collar was dormant - he hadn’t so much as received a warning in almost two whole days. Which was a first since the device’s application to his person. It seemed like Walker’s release of all restrictions was still in place.

Which meant no jail yet, despite Sam’s concerns. Bucky could still make this work. He still had time.

He hurriedly dropped his hand back down to his side as Sam turned to join him.

Bucky laid with half-opened eyes on a concrete floor, nothing left in him to fight, or even to panic. He shuddered through the continuing corrections but the strength in his body was gone.

His mind still struggled back to awareness through each and every gap in the shocks, reminding him exactly what was happening after every time it got so bad that he faded. He didn’t think of much in those moments, just hopeless anticipation for the framework of agony he was trapped inside. A dim thought that maybe it could just finally kill him. But for all Bucky knew maybe it could tell where that edge of intensity was, and how it could avoid it so he was forced to ride that line as painfully as possible but never cross it.

Recall. Punishment. Recall…

A change. He didn’t notice it at first. The bars around him started to solidify in his vision. Officers came in and checked on him once, twice, while he drooled onto the floor.

Eventually, when his body started taking in enough oxygen to clear his head, he realized that the time between those molten charges had gone on too long. A few minutes more, his mind returning to him like a slow drip of intelligence, and he cautiously started to think that he wasn’t just imagining things.

He waited longer, until he knew for sure.

Walker had dropped the Recall.

Bucky wheezed against the floor and clamped his eyes shut, throat too damaged for him to even think about trying to swallow down the saliva in his mouth. Every beat of his heart felt like the organ was ensnared by wire, struggling to move against the cutting force constricting it. The collar was still buzzing, but low, familiar, just the lightest of warnings against the swollen skin of his neck, barely able to be heard even if he felt that extra pain worse than he would have when undamaged.

Curfew.

And he was on the ground, satisfying the requirements, even in the tangle of restraints that prevented him from laying absolutely flat. Small goddamned mercies.

Bucky stayed prone for long minutes, limbs limp as he let exhaustion and pain drag him into that haze of existence and his body’s grim, inevitable clawing towards the continuation of his brutal recovery, wracked by residual tremors that he couldn’t help. The vibranium arm had reawakened, twitching along the plates, awaiting a proper reset for its full movement that he couldn’t give it with his wrists and elbows strapped into place behind him, pinned to a wide belt that had been locked over his torso, ankles bound together and linked up to that same belt.

He could probably break the restraints, even though he didn’t feel like he had the energy for anything just then except trembling against the floor. They weren’t meant for someone enhanced. But he didn’t know if the collar would notice and take that as a reason to start punishing him again. So they stayed on.

He didn’t like the belt. But at least it wasn’t that too-tight, bruising, unyielding metal that cut into him when he tried so much as to take a full breath. At least no one was shouting commands that he would have to scramble to try and follow while wearing it. Ordering him to Open, and then…

Yeah. He really didn’t like the belt. And he liked it less the longer he was given to himself, the healing process progressing enough that he could start sorting through his memories. Which meant he began slowly remembering exactly what had led him to that point, and just how utterly fucked he was. How all those things he was thankful weren’t happening now would be happening again soon enough. And worse. Because he’d had his one chance, and he’d fumbled it, hard.

His eyes found the poster across the room, the one he’d seen in his pained delirium. Of course, it wasn’t Steve he’d been looking at before. Walker was the one who wielded the shield and was celebrated for it. And after him, whoever the government picked next. And on, and on, until Steve’s good work was just a distant memory, twisted and distorted as a tool for those in power to use to justify their actions.

Bucky blinked against the floor and breathed in insufficient air, hoping that at least he’d done enough to set Sam on the right path to find the serum’s source of production. He tried to come to terms with the fact that he’d never know for sure if either of them had proved Steve right or wrong in the end.

No, that wasn’t true. He did know the answer. At least, the one for himself.

He stalled his attempts at combing through the events of the previous few days and whatever move he would have to be prepared to make next as his terror faded into a sick bleak numbness that flooded every part of his being.

There were no more plans to be made for his future.

He no longer had one.

Chapter Text

On the last day of the calibrations, when Bucky was painfully dragged into consciousness by a body hungry, thirsty, trying to make its way back from extensive oxygen deprivation and repeated days of electroshock torture and the knife’s edge of dissonance that came with everything he’d done to get himself where he was, the tech was crouched above him. The one with the pale skin and round face and the glasses that reflected the fluorescent lights. The one that had cut his hair and locked his vibranium arm in a box.

He went very still - didn’t swallow against his swollen throat, though he very much wanted to. He watched. Waited. Tried to remember the events of his imprisonment. He could feel the knowledge there, at the edges of his pounding head, but like the day before, he couldn’t seem to make the sequence stick in all the right ways. Couldn’t convince himself something wasn’t wrong with his brain, that he was forgetting what he shouldn’t.

The tech’s fingers gently tapped the screen of a tablet in his hand, each small noise and shift sending Bucky’s heart hammering as he tried to focus on something else.

The plate of food had been in the cell recently. Bucky hadn’t been awake for that but the scent of it was still heavy in the small space - warm coffee and salt and grease. The promise of something sweet clung to the air, intermingled with the other scents, butter and maple filling his nostrils. His salivary glands sent an ache spiking into his jaw, a pitiful attempt at a biological process that he didn’t have the ability to reward. Or maybe that was the unhealed injury from the metal thing he’d worn during the last training session.

He hadn’t been given any of the nutritional slurry the day before. Which had made it two? Days? Since he’d been given food or drink, or what passed for it. Two days since he’d had any calories, besides…

Two days since he’d had any calories.

That was at least one memory back, tearing itself violently and graphically into the empty din of a mind attached to a body that was screaming for sustenance, anything it could have that would help it continue to function. A drink of water. Something.

His stress levels rose and his head instantaneously started pounding harder, making him resist the urge to clamp his palm against it. He could barely think through the pain. He couldn’t sort through anything of his memories except varying sensations of hurt, the sound of skin on skin and the feel of his damaged throat convulsing agonizingly as his airways were blocked. And he didn’t have any way of soothing himself from any of those things, because anything he could think of would just bring with it more of the same.

He must have done something, made some movement or noise, because the tech paused in whatever he was doing, the tablet slowly lowering.

“Um, Mr. Barnes.”

Bucky kept his eyes forward, nerves prickling to attention, stuck in the awful dread of his own reality. He didn’t bother trying to answer.

“I’ll be done in a few minutes,” the tech said, the tablet coming back up. “Just checking the collar data and your vitals.”

He didn’t sound anything like that echo that haunted Bucky. Too young, tense, with none of that smarmy certainty or the glee of discovery. Bucky’s skin crawled all the same, his body urging a retreat he couldn’t give it.

A few more minutes and the tech breathed in and out. “Everything looks good. Ready for the last of the calibrations.”

He wasn’t talking to Bucky. But he reached behind himself and pulled forward a silver case towards where Bucky was pressed into the floor.

The same case Bucky had seen when…

It opened. The vibranium arm was inside.

He stared, uncomprehending.

“Your arm is being returned to you,” the tech announced.

Not a Swiss accent. Not a pronouncement of his place in an authoritarian terrorist organization. Not even an arm made by anyone but the nation that had cleansed his mind and set him free.

And not an order.

Bucky sat up slowly, carefully, watching the blurred shape of the tech in his periphery, those glasses that glinted as he shifted positions. Once up, shoulder blades pressing against the cot for balance, waiting for the increase in pressure in his head to pass, Bucky finally let himself indulge in a round of swallows that had his eyes tightening at the edges. He looked at the vibranium arm, gold lines shining in his cell. His right hand fisted against his thigh.

He licked his cracked lips. Rasped, his voice barely recovered from the day before, “Do I have permission to put it on?” He went silent while he waited for an answer, head down, not making anything even near eye contact.

The tech sounded taken aback. “It’s yours,” he said, reaching - too quickly - and aborting the movement when Bucky braced and turned his face aside, breaths quickening through his sore throat. He heard the case scratch against the floor as it moved towards him, slow. Bucky’s head tilted to follow the change when no added orders or pain followed. “Yes, Mr. Barnes,” the tech said quietly. “You can put it on. If you want.”

Bucky did want it, even if being given back that level of strength wouldn’t change anything appreciable about his situation. They could still tell him to do whatever they wanted.

He reached out, felt the cool metal beneath his palm, gripped onto the bicep of the limb. He maneuvered it into the hanging sleeve of his prison suit and felt it click into place, the sensors coming online and filling that empty, defenseless space that he’d been carrying with him into the Training Room. Then he swung his arm around in a circle to reset it, carefully eyeing the tech’s tense body language for any increasing disapproval.

“Thank you,” Bucky said, then waited, head aching and throat dry.

There was a shift in the hum of the energy field outside of his cell. The door opened, and bodies filtered in, a familiar voice at their front. “Hey, Barnes. Looks like those gratitude exercises are really starting to stick! I’ll take things from here, Emerson.”

“Yes, Agent Goddard. Excuse me, Mr. Barnes.” The tech gathered his things, retreating from the cell quickly.

Goddard came closer, stopping right in front of where Bucky sat; he could see the bite guard hanging by its straps in the man’s hand.

“It’s almost time for your surprise,” Goddard said.

Bucky stared at the bite guard. He didn’t know how he could feel so nauseous and hungry at the same time, all those signals from his body becoming one giant wave.

One more day, and then he’d be out. One more day, and then he could take steps towards finding Sam and the shield. One more day, and he’d be back in Brooklyn, and he could keep moving forward, and do something about the scars of death and disruption the Winter Soldier had left behind.

“On your knees, then Still.”

The collar started up. Bucky flinched, his hands instantly going to the ground so he could shift himself into position. It was a lot easier now that he had the steadiness of vibranium to make up for the weakness of the rest of him.

The guards moved forward once he was up. They pulled his arms behind his back and locked the metal belt around his waist, then pressed his wrists into the cuffs, a second one having been added to clasp around the newly returned limb.

He didn’t get any verbal warnings from Goddard about what would happen if he tried to use the metal arm to break the restraints, but he could take a guess on how that would end for him.

Goddard stepped forward with the bite guard, the smell of him enfolding over Bucky and sending his empty stomach churning with acid. “Open,” he said.

Bucky opened. Let the bite guard go in.

He only had one more day of this.

It didn’t matter that his body screamed in denial against even that. It didn’t matter that the day itself meant nothing; he was back to being firmly encased in that cycle of being at the whims of people who told him what they wanted, what they thought, what he needed to give them. That the ring of metal around his neck did more than enough to make him want those same things, even if he could remember why he shouldn’t.

And they were probably right, after everything. After all, so far it was just him that suffered from all of this. Maybe this was what it would take to keep the echoes of the Winter Soldier from overtaking him after he was let out. That thing had been shocked into him; it could have been that what it needed was to be shocked back out.

He was pulled to his feet and led from the cell, Goddard’s tall, broad form guiding them along. They ventured down the same halls, and entered the same elevator.

But they stopped at the wrong floor.

Bucky felt his brow pinch, noting that they were on a higher level than any of the others he’d been in since he’d first been incarcerated. In fact, they were practically at the surface.

He obediently stepped out as the guards pressed him forward but the difference in routine had his mind racing. They’d given him the arm back - all the torture equipment had always been in the Training Room, and there’d be no reason to move them, the same way there would have been no reason for Goddard to feel the need to personally accompany the guards for his retrieval when every previous time he’d been dragged to the man and practically dumped at his feet.

This high up, Bucky was nearer to the exit for the black site than he’d ever been. They couldn’t be releasing him early? They wouldn’t need the bite guard for that, unless Goddard had just done it to fuck with him one last time before he was taken out of the man’s hands.

It couldn’t be that easy.

A few hallways later, they stopped him in front of a large pair of steel double doors that were a good few feet higher than any of the others he had previously seen and about twice as wide. Goddard’s shoulders moved beneath his shirt as he utilized a mechanism out of Bucky’s line of sight to trigger them to unlock, a great groan coming from the doors as they slowly began to retract into the wall. Goddard turned his head to glance back at Bucky and Bucky dropped his eyes immediately, even though he wanted to see what was waiting for him in that room.

Goddard took a step towards Bucky, invading his space. “Time for your surprise. Are you ready?”

Goddard liked his direct questions answered. Bucky nodded, knowing that no matter what response he gave, he was going to find out what was coming - it was just a matter of whether or not he was beaten and shocked beforehand.

Goddard was satisfied with that; he moved back, and the guards pushed Bucky forward. The doors behind them groaned again as they began to slide shut, the heavy locks slamming automatically.

The room was bigger than the Training Room, practically a warehouse, clean, and bright with hanging lights, with a polished floor and a ceiling made out of stone. A cave, man-made, climate-controlled. Secure. It was mostly empty, but there was something in the room, a tall, wide shape covered with a large, shining tarp.

Goddard was back in Bucky’s space before he had time to warily assess much more, a hand coming up to grasp painfully tight at his jaw. Bucky clenched his teeth into the bite guard and felt the plates in his vibranium arm shift.

Goddard noticed that, but he just laughed it off. “Relax your jaw,” he ordered Bucky. “And keep it relaxed until I say otherwise.”

Bucky let his jaw go slack, responding so quickly that the collar didn’t even have time to give him a warning buzz.

“The rules today are simple,” Goddard said. “Rule number one: you listen to any and all things I say, and you follow them to the letter, without hesitation. I tell you to quack like a duck, that means I want you to quack like a duck.” He shook Bucky’s face in his grip, like he was trying to emphasize his words. The sharp movement strengthened the ache in Bucky’s head. “Rule number two, you’ve mostly gotten down, but I’ll repeat it in case you forget: no eye contact with superiors. You keep that fucking staring problem respectful. And rule number three - which is more important today than ever!” He raised his second hand, using it to dig his thumb into the bite guard and shove it farther in until it was pressing on the back of Bucky’s still-raw throat, springing reflexive tears to his eyes. “You show some appreciation after the session that I’m even giving the time of day to a murderous sonofabitch like you.”

Bucky’s heartbeat was so loud it had become everything, pounding to a rhythm that backed the words he chanted in his head. One more day. One more day.

“Lucky for you, there’s only one other order you need to follow for this session.” Goddard didn’t let up the pressure on the rubber in Bucky’s mouth, his white teeth visible in the corner of Bucky’s eye as he grinned and listened to Bucky gag unproductively. “Remove his restraints. Except the bite guard. This stays in. Are we clear, Barnes?”

Another direct question, to which Bucky gave a direct nod against the hold on his face, pushing the bite guard deeper with his own movement, choking on it.

“Good. You can do what you want with your mouth,” Goddard said, finally releasing him, allowing him to give into his body’s urge for a round of deep and painful coughing that felt like it was cracking his skull apart as it sent bile burning through the inflamed tissues of his throat. The metal belt and cuffs fell away as he recovered, letting his arms hang loosely at his sides and his diaphragm move freely. The guards took up positions around him, hands on their weapons.

Bucky stayed where he was, trying to catch his breath and blink the moisture out of his eyes while Goddard moved towards the shape that stood across the room. Bucky watched as he reached out for that tarp, which had some weight to it if the way the muscles in his forearm bunched were any indication. He pulled the whole thing free, tugging it across the floor where he dropped it well out of the way.

But Bucky barely noticed that, because the thing it had been hiding was the very same thing that was behind every single one of his nightmares as an active Winter Soldier.

The chair. The chair that purged his memories, along with everything else that he was. That would remove his body’s instincts to run, and to fight, and to replace them with only knowing that what he needed to fight was what other people thought he should think it was, even if that meant unfeelingly carving through lives, any life that stood against his orders.

Goddard walked over to the machine, stepping over thick black cables that snaked from the frame and plugged into huge outlets in the wall. He powered on a pair of lights that shone down on its towering, metal shape, illuminating the arm rests and their attached metal clamps, and then powered on the screens to the connecting monitors. The half-circle arm attachments above the chair turned downwards in a steady arc, crackling loudly in the open space and filling Bucky with pure, animal terror. The arms slowly creaked back to their start positions before falling still. Ready and waiting for another activation, for an occupant that they could clamp themselves onto and burn into nothing.

The room fell silent except for Bucky’s heaving breaths and the blaring shriek that only he could hear. He didn’t move from his spot, listening in despairing denial for his next order.

The first order that he would be given that he knew he could never, ever comply with, no matter what.

Goddard straightened, done with whatever adjustments he was making to the machine. He turned back to Bucky and folded his huge, muscled arms, then started immediately laughing at whatever he saw on Bucky’s face, high and repeatedly.

Bucky could feel his body shaking violently as he waited for the inevitable.

Goddard regained some control of his mirth, but the laugh still ran beneath his next words. “Well, I’ll be damned. Secretary Ross was right.” Then he took a breath, enunciating with volume and clear joy. “Barnes! Get your ass over here and sit down.”

The collar started buzzing.

Bucky’s mind stopped.

Goddard laughed even louder.

Bucky didn’t earn his pardon that day.

Chapter Text

“One more time, Mr. Barnes,” Christina urged, about twenty eight minutes past the time her appointment with James was generally meant to end, all the while wondering if at any point in the future these sessions would ever not feel so much like trying to squeeze blood from a stone. “And try to sound a little less like these are your last words before you dive into an active volcano.”

“There any of those around here?” James asked flatly. At Christina’s unimpressed look, he heaved a sigh that rocked through his shoulders, his eyes drifting to the window. The light did nothing to brighten the shadows beneath his eyes, and the line of his cheekbone was stark against his stubbled skin. “I am no longer the Winter Soldier,” he repeated, then swallowed twice. He inhaled deeply before continuing. “I am James Bucky Barnes, and you’re part of my efforts to make amends.”

Better, but not amazing.

Christina took a moment to observe her client, the dark fog around him that had only seemed to only grow thicker the more sessions they did. He hadn’t gained any appreciable weight and his sleep clearly hadn’t improved, despite her trying to work with him in earnest to get that under control with some basic behavior changes. He was still wearing that turtleneck, the thick pants, the hoodie and jacket and gloves, even though they were days into New York’s first heat storm of the year. About the only thing about him that had changed was the thickening hair on top of his head and around his jaw.

She wasn’t entirely surprised at the very limited progress he was making - even the very concept of coming to terms with the worst things in people’s lives was frequently messy, sending emotions firing on all cylinders. And from what she knew from his files, even through his other general physical rehabilitations and the literal reformation of destroyed neurons, James had been running from the worst of his life for years. That avoidance had probably been a part of his identity for much longer than an alternative.

Cracking open such horrors, repeatedly, was unfortunately a big part of what most helped people come to terms with and move past them. As long as it was in a correctly guided and productive way, like she was trying to do having been appointed by the government to work with the most unenthusiastic client she’d ever had the opportunity to meet, even after he’d had his situation clearly explained to him multiple times.

If he’d been working at a snail’s pace their first few sessions, now he was a chipped pebble in the road that only made any kind of progress when a passerby came to kick it. Except Christina was, currently, the exclusive passerby, seeing as James had made one half-assed attempt at contacting someone and then gone on radio silence towards any social interaction.

They were at a point now that the literal walks she tried to get in weekly for her own mental and physical wellbeing had been significantly decreased in favor of expanding her sessions with James - because she knew he desperately needed it. It wouldn’t increase her pay, of course, but if he decided to do something that ended him back in jail, even if that was a resounding inefficiency when it came to engaging with improving his own mental health, then her job would come to an end nonetheless.

His behavior hadn’t been quite uncooperative enough yet to warrant more than verbal warnings, but he’d definitely driven her to lose enough patience to make some substantial notes. Usually seeing that spurred him to work with her a little better, but really her future goal was to not need to reprimand him like a child every ten minutes. He didn’t have to like the therapy, but digging his heels in so harshly could stand to be a little limited.

It wasn’t like this was optional. With his history, James didn’t get optional when it came to his regular evaluations. He couldn’t just sign for the acceptance of his pardon and then not do the bare minimum required of him to keep it.

He was good at orders, no doubt about it. It was the honest self-reflection or engagement in genuine sharing of what exactly he was thinking in the moment that were like stone walls she felt like she was going to need a vibranium arm of her own to be able to break through. But James was the only person on the planet with that arm, and he was also the only person on the planet that could get those walls down, because they were his and his alone. She wouldn’t get shit if he didn’t want her to get anything.

Which was why she needed him not to throw in the towel on his end, and put in more effort than he had been showing. They hadn’t even finished the first two months of their work, and this was at the very least going to be a five year stint. Unless he decided to keep showing up without entirely showing up, and then it would be a lot shorter. He would receive the ultimate consequence if he fucked up badly enough.

“James,” she said sternly, and saw his eyes predictably tighten as he started that swallowing habit he favored, shadows forming in the creases at the corners of his mouth. The grey of his eyes swiveled quickly to avoid looking at her, but this time in the opposite direction from the windows, towards her office door.

“What did I do,” he asked, pressing his lips together.

She sat back in her seat, easing some of the soreness in her back muscles from having been stationary for so long. Since the start of her sessions, every time she’d stood up or approached while James was on that couch she had been met with a marked sharp increase in nervousness in his body language. Staying seated the entire time was just another of her own sacrifices in spending more time on his therapy that she wasn’t about to let go to waste by stopping things when she knew he had it in him to do what she wanted.

Because he had better have it in him, damn it.

“Do you want to do good?”

James blinked. Then he frowned at the wall, his face pinching. “What?”

That appeared to be genuine confusion, which meant she didn’t need to reach for the notebook just yet to start marking down his uncooperativeness. “Do you want. To do good.” She jerked her head towards the window where the sunlight was streaming through, and his eyes followed that and resumed staring into the open world. “Out there, in society.” She raised her eyebrows. “Or at least do a little differently from when you were using your prosthesis to crush people’s tracheas.”

He shut his eyes abruptly, not looking anywhere anymore as he tucked his chin down to his chest, hands resting loosely in his lap.

He wasn’t answering, even though she’d pointedly reminded him exactly why these sessions were so important. So she reached over to the side table, and saw his gloved hands clench as he heard the notebook slide from its surface, another swallow following the sound of her clicking the pen into writing mode.

She’d written down three words when he broke in. “I can do better,” he said, voice soft. “Just tell me what you want. Please.”

She stopped, breathing evenly and glancing at the ceiling as her own fatigue folded in. She’d kicked the pebble, and she hoped the damn thing just rolled itself down a mountainside at this point instead of coming back into her path with the same rigid stagnation that was its habit.

She let her eyes fall back to him; he’d leaned forward a little, a change in his posture signifying he was actually listening. Sometimes it lasted, sometimes within the next thirty seconds he would slump himself back into the couch and resume that dull stare. She took advantage nonetheless. “You’ve been having these nightmares a long time. I think you had the right idea in trying to help some of them by dealing with their origins. Shaping the best mindset we can is an important part of this process. So that’s why I’m asking: do you want to do good?”

He swallowed, staring into nothingness. “I…” He closed his eyes again, and that slump she was dreading did show up, but he surprised her when he kept talking. “I don’t think I know what that means anymore.”

There it was. Something, finally. Christina could hear the defeat in his voice, even if she couldn’t exactly read his mind.

“I think you’re not giving yourself enough credit,” Christina said, gesturing towards his pants pocket where she knew he kept his notebook. “You made a list of the amends you could make without my input. I think it’s fair to say you get the jist of what’s right and wrong, most of the time. Just make sure you’re following the rules we set while you complete that list, and you’ll be on a productive path.”

“And say the words,” James said, but there was a dry tone to his resignation that told her he was at least entertaining the idea of not preferring to end their session by melting away into oblivion right on her office couch cushions.

“And say the words,” Christina agreed. She sucked on a tooth, then said, “With like, five percent more feeling. Come on. I believe in you.”

He shook his head, sighing through flared nostrils. “Real inspiring, Doc.” His eyes darted warily to the notebook in her lap, another gulp moving through the turtleneck.

“Okay, then let’s hear it,” she said, pointedly keeping the notebook open and her pen in her hand as she did. “I’m not asking you to sound thrilled about it. Just say the words. Smile. Even if you’re faking it, a happy expression can stir a chemical reaction in your brain as if it’s the real thing.”

James smiled immediately. It was, for a lack of a better term, a little too inhuman. But he was trying without argument, and it at least looked less bleak than the one he’d shown her during their first ever session, so Christina was going to let herself feel positive about that even if she wasn’t positive about the way his face moved.

“Good,” she said, setting the items in her hands aside in a peace offering. He dropped the smile as he glanced over at the notebook, as if to reassure himself it had been taken out of play, then darted his eyes away again.

He really didn’t want to go back to jail, that much was clear. There were only so many chances she could give him to avoid that, but for now, he was successfully scraping that line of the most minimal adherence of what was required. “Now, try. All of it.”

“I am no longer the Winter Soldier,” James obediently responded.

The night at the police station passed both in agonizing slowness, and not nearly slowly enough.

Minutes stretched and contorted and kept stretching, punctuated by stiffening limbs and the odd clicking of the vibranium arm, which responded to Bucky’s attempts at moving it in a severely delayed response, almost like the entire thing had rusted stiff while it was still attached to him.

Officers occasionally walked by and peered into his cell, checking on him. Twice they entered to make sure that he hadn’t broken his restraints, their searching hands and testing jerks against his bonds sharply heightening his unease with a thousand distant echoes of a lifetime of imprisonment while he waited for something worse, for those hands to grip in harder and drag him out to the deep dark hole he would spend the rest of his life encased inside. But they always left him where he was.

Occasionally, they spoke to him when they were outside the bars. Not orders, and so Bucky let their words filter through his ears like the sound of running water, finding no reason to waste energy or suffer more pain from any interactions, even if every acknowledgement had something primal within him twist into a knot. He knew if they really wanted him to do something, they’d use the collar to force him to do it.

And he’d do it. Even with the promise of helping the world gone forever. As long as it didn’t involve the things he’d refused. He’d fight that, again and again and again, until the agony of the fight was the only thing he had left to his existence. Just like he had before, when…

His eyes burned. The minutes kept stretching and contorting.

At some point, the collar stopped buzzing completely. Bucky blinked in confusion against the floor when it happened, because it had been long enough that he could almost breathe halfway normally again and his body’s hunger and thirst signals had reignited with a vengeance, but he was almost certain it was still the middle of the night. Curfew wasn’t over until early morning.

Which meant the collar had been turned off. Which meant whatever was going to happen, was about to happen.

He didn’t bother moving.

“Barnes,” an officer said, about ten minutes later. Bucky froze in anticipation, his chest going tight as his eyes went to a pair of black, shining shoes. “Visitor.”

“Jesus Christ,” another voice immediately exclaimed - familiar, and not the one he’d been expecting. “Does he really need all of that?”

Walker.

Bucky lifted his eyes far enough that he saw a pair of dark blue boots rapidly approaching his cell, and the swinging red edge of a shining, curved object. He tightened his lips as his wariness rose, along with the remainder of the helpless anger he had left; this was just the fucking thing he needed to see before he lost everything.

“He was continuously resisting transport, sir. It was for the protection of our officers.”

Those boots turned sideways, facing the black shoes. “Look, I explained why that was. Was he literally being violent towards anyone?”

“Sorry, Cap,” the officer said, and he genuinely sounded it. “Mr. Barnes is a known flight risk. We had to follow procedure for his safety as well as ours.”

“Okay, okay, I understand that,” Walker said, polite but impatient. “But I’m here, now, so can we get that off of him?”

“Clearance hasn’t come in, yet, sir.”

“Well, why don’t you double check on that, because I - Captain America - just put in for that clearance at the front when I arrived.”

“Yes, sir.”

The black shoes moved away. The blue boots turned towards him and stepped closer to the holding cell bars. They creaked as Walker crouched down, bringing the shield down with him. Bucky’s eyes clamped onto it; the real thing, not a poster. Either way, it wasn’t where it was supposed to be. And either way, this was probably his last time ever getting the chance to lay eyes on it.

“Bucky. Are you okay?”

Was Bucky okay, after Walker had again triggered the collar into a relentless torturous cycle that he couldn’t stop or defend himself against, and he had spent the last several hours contending with the aftermath of that. Was he okay with the headache and the chafing immobility and the scorched nerves of his throat that froze him in place when he so much as twisted his head, the raw and constant gnawing of his stomach, the growing dryness of his mouth.

Was he okay, while he was standing several feet beneath the surface in the grave he had dug himself, and Walker had just shown up to gawk at him in that outfit and Steve’s shield before a mountain of soil was shoved back in to smother him.

At that point he didn’t know if it would be worse if the pain had been intentionally applied or ignorance like it had been the first night he and Walker had met. The chill slowly winding and tightening itself along his spine told him that either way, right at that moment, Walker was still in control.

“Yeah,” Walker sighed, like Bucky had answered anyway. He straightened back up. “Look, maybe in the future it’s better if you report in every so often if we separate. It’s just going to be smoother if next time we’re not sidetracked by everyone assuming you’re defying parole. I mean, not that I’m not happy with the outcome of your work. Great job on that, by the way.”

Next time, Walker had said, with a tone that seemed friendly enough. Next time. Bucky heard the words and their implication, but he needed confirmation. He moved his aching legs, pulling them beneath him so he could push himself up into an unsteady kneel, ignoring the sharp pain at his neck and tightening grip of his restraints as he curled against them, a constant physical reminder of his status. Once he was upright, pulse pounding in his head, he attempted swallowing again, or just to get enough air to feel like he wouldn’t suffocate if he spoke. Walker was very close to the outside of the bars, and Bucky’s mind careened unbidden to some very unpleasant places at their respective positions. He tried to keep note of the barrier separating them to distinguish one reality from the other.

“What outcome?” he asked gruffly through the protest of his throat, squinting at the red lines at the top of Walker’s boots where they hugged his calves, the shield in his periphery.

“Sam,” Walker said, like it was obvious. He stiffened. “Wait, you don’t know?” He gestured with the shield towards the far door. “He’s waiting for us out in the lobby. Even brought the top to your suit with him.” There was a shifting noise, and said top slipped to the ground outside of the bars. “Wouldn’t have wanted to lose that. He seemed pretty worried, from what I saw.”

Sam. Sam. Bucky inhaled deeply and painfully, traitorous hope stirring in his chest, dimmed by the anxiety of too many unknowns, the chance that his transport to the black site was just waiting for him outside the door, about to burst in and drag him away.

He kept his eyes lowered, thoughts racing. If there was even the possibility that wasn't the case... “I wasn’t ignoring your order,” he said, licking his lips and keeping his tone even, but loud enough to be understood through the lingering added rasp to his voice. “They’d already arrested me when I got the signal for the recall.”

“And you weren’t being intentionally combative with the officers, I know,” Walker said. “This entire thing has really been one ridiculous fuck up after another. But I’m getting the last of all the hoops of your pardon conditions out of the way, once and for all. They are more than pointless for what we’re trying to accomplish.”

Bucky swallowed as he felt that hope brim stronger. Whatever Walker’s motives, he’d go along with them if it meant he got another chance.

He clenched his jaw, relaxed it. Felt something stir in his mind, a sharp prod he didn’t think he could ignore, especially after he’d been brought so low. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Walker said. The shield shifted higher, drawing Bucky’s eyes a few inches upwards with it. “While we’re waiting, there was something I was meaning to ask you.”

Despite Walker’s assurances that he wanted the restrictions kept off, Bucky didn’t have the nerve to make eye contact with him so soon after the collar had thoroughly reminded him of exactly how much pain it could put him in. Especially since he didn’t know if Walker had known what he was doing as he’d done it.

He kept his eyes on the shield and waited.

“What were you doing in that neighborhood where you were arrested?”

Shit. No good answer there that was anywhere close to the truth. Bucky swallowed, winced at the sting - a combination as familiar now as breathing, trying to wrack his brain while his instinctual alarm bells rose at his delay in response.

“Lemar and I checked it out before coming here,” Walker went on, and Bucky felt something tighten in his chest, alongside a flash of nervous anger at the thought of Walker going anywhere near Isaiah. “Seemed like a pretty normal, rundown set of houses to spend that much time investigating.”

“You wanted Sam’s help,” Bucky said, carefully trying to sound like that was all it was.

“I did,” Walker said. There was some movement in his body, like he was rolling his shoulders or working out a muscle in his neck. “I’m just a little confused about what trespassing on a bunch of civilian properties had to do with any of that. It didn’t seem connected.”

Bucky looked up higher, warily risking a glance to see what expression was on Walker’s face, and found a smile that was a little too tight. The words themselves were light, but even then there was something there beneath the tone. It was very subtle, but ninety years of experience and Bucky could recognize it even in the vaguest sense: the promise of a fight. Something old in Bucky wanted to rise to meet it - and he would have, hoping to stir it into fruition, if he and Walker were on anywhere near even ground - or even uneven ground, with Bucky’s advantages putting the odds into his favor.

They weren’t, and they didn’t. And at that moment, it looked like Walker was all that stood between Bucky and getting damned even lower. And he’d almost do anything to avoid that.

He let his eyes drop back down; his pulse boomed in his ears. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

A moment of silence, those blue boots in his line of sight unmoving. Then Walker huffed out a breath, then laughed a little, then laughed a little harder, and that tension Bucky had been sensing in the air eased. “God. Do I even want to know the history between you two?”

I tried to kill him and then he chased me across the world for two years on the orders of the man whose shield the government stole for you, before sacrificing himself to a prison at the bottom of the ocean so that same man and I could stop a group of supersoldiers. He got out, then we both died in a war, got resurrected, and then he accepted that shield and legacy when he had no intention of honoring it. “Probably not,” Bucky answered.

“It must be something if it made you shortsighted enough to end up in here,” John said, jokingly, tapping the shield against the bars between them and sending an extra spear of pain into Bucky’s aching head, before he turned around to stare at the door. “Geez, where is that officer? Don’t worry; if he’s not back in the next five minutes, I’ll just break the lock.”

Bucky was fairly sure Walker wasn’t joking about that part. But in the next two minutes the door swung open, and several pairs of black shoes were stepping forward, attached to multiple bodies. The cell door was unlocked, those bodies surrounding him in the too-small space, reaching for him. They began undoing his restraints, pressure on his limbs removed one by one, the belt removed last. Bucky stayed down and remained absolutely still so they didn’t feel threatened. Then they vacated the cell, shaking Walker’s hands one by one, all smiles and eagerness, any thought of procedure gone now that the man whose poster decorated their station had come in to handle the prisoner they’d been so nervous around.

No questioning Walker’s authority or influence with that response. Bucky became a little more certain that he wasn’t about to have the rug swept out from beneath him for another violent fall into an even worse prison. For a few minutes, at least.

Only when it was just him and Walker did he finally slowly stand and rotate the vibranium arm, resetting it so it once again moved freely and fluidly at his command.

“All right, come on, grab your uniform and let’s get out of here,” Walker said.

Bucky swallowed again, plucking the suit from the floor, his gaze lowered. “Can I use the restroom,” he asked.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Walker said, slinging the shield back into the harness at his back. “It’s just down the hall.”

Walker didn’t follow him in, and so after relieving himself, Bucky took the opportunity to examine himself in the mirror above the sink, knowing Sam was about to see him. He looked way too pale, but that could be explained away by the late night and the fluorescent lighting and the contrast of the black turtleneck against his skin. No obvious injuries were showing - even the ones he’d incurred from the fight with the Flag Smashers were totally gone. But from the feel of his neck he knew under the turtleneck his skin was probably still a vibrant shade of freshly applied inflamed red. He didn’t bother opening his mouth to check the back of his throat, something deep in him cringing away from even the concept.

The biggest problem about his appearance at that moment was that as soon as he’d stepped into the restroom he had started shaking, and he couldn’t seem to get it to stop.

Fuck, he thought, grinding his jaw as he stared harder at himself in the mirror, urging his nerves to collect themselves, but that just seemed to make things worse.

What he’d been terrified would happen, wasn’t happening, now. It wasn’t happening. The hell that had been his night was over, and he was still pardoned after everything. He even got to keep Steve’s notebook, still nestled in his pants pocket, along with Steve’s last note, both of which he confirmed by slipping a hand inside to grasp at them tightly. And he might even still get to follow that trail of serum-enhanced revolutionaries before their numbers skyrocketed.

He didn’t know what was going to happen in the immediate minutes that he stepped out of the restroom, but it wasn’t restraints and a bite guard and an endless round of days dragged between his cell and whatever his captors felt like putting him through after he’d reached a point of no return on his usefulness.

So there was no fucking point to his body’s reacting like it was. And he couldn’t let Walker or Sam see him like this. He reluctantly took his hand out of his pocket and put the top of the uniform on, feeling like he needed the added barrier, even though he would have preferred his own clothes. His jacket. His gloves. Walker hadn’t apparently bothered to bring those with him.

It took a couple more minutes for the trembling to completely stop. Bucky felt light-headed in the aftermath, but that was easy to mask; he'd kept going through worse. He took a breath before he determinedly turned towards the door.

He stepped out of the restroom and followed Walker step for step as he led him out into the station lobby, surrounded by officers who glanced at Bucky but mostly ignored him when they saw that Walker was in the lead.

Well, at least Bucky’s night couldn’t exactly get worse.

“James! Stop right there.”

Bucky’s eyes darted up to see Dr. Raynor in the lobby across from him, a huge leather bag slung over her shoulder. She was standing right beside Sam, and her eyes narrowed directly at him and her face full of enough condensed fury that the thrill of anxiety Bucky’d just nearly rid himself of came back up in full force.

“Yes, I can see you,” she said, then held her hand up and pointed at him. “Stop moving. You’re not following John out that door.”

Bucky froze. The collar wasn’t buzzing but his body responded to the order like it was, another cold sweat quick to form and the trembling threatening beneath his skin because it was too soon for him to handle even a minor shock.

Dr. Raynor was the other person who could officially revoke Bucky’s pardon through her assessments of his performance, and specifically the one who knew and would care that he’d violated the terms of it, even despite the importance of the mission they had been on. And she wouldn’t be as easily fooled by his excuses as Walker.

And Sam was right there, watching Bucky through narrowed eyes, frowning in consideration.

“Oh yeah, forgot to mention,” Walker said, folding his arms with a grin. “Christina wants to wrap things up.” Then, as Bucky was slowly processing the fact that Walker was apparently on a first name basis with his therapist, he leaned in. Bucky’s hackles rose at the proximity. “Do me a favor and just cooperate with her, huh? That way we can get back to the actual business. Got some juicy details about our revolutionaries to divulge.” Walker patted him on the shoulder and winked at him, then sauntered away and out the door, like he hadn’t just signed off on leaving Bucky in charge of negotiating his own worth for the right to stay out of a concrete box.

“James,” Dr. Raynor said, stepping quickly towards him, snapping his eyes back to her, his shoulder still tingling unpleasantly where Walker had touched him. “Condition of your release session, now. You too, Sam!”

Bucky turned his eyes on Sam, and as their gazes met, realized that it was so much worse than that. Because if Sam agreed to join them he was about to watch Bucky navigate that negotiation, in person, while Bucky was still recovering from an intense onslaught from the collar and the complete despair of being certain he’d lost his pardon.

And beyond that, it felt a lot like he was going to explode out of his skin if anyone else even stood too close to him, no matter who that person was.

Or maybe he would just start shaking again.

He turned away to follow Dr. Raynor, working to wrestle those feelings down and focus on the facts as behind him Sam tried to protest the meeting and was promptly shut down.

All Bucky had to do was follow orders. He was good at that, when they weren’t complete opposites that sent his body shrieking with ruthless voltages. And the Doc hadn’t done anything like that to him yet, intentionally or unintentionally. He’d never received a collar correction under her care, though she’d scared the shit out of him plenty of times by reminding him how easily she could report his disobedience if he didn’t cooperate or he broke some of her rules.

Which he had, including recently. And Sam had seen him do it.

The door to the room they were borrowing was nothing special - nondescript, with a window high on one side. But when Dr. Raynor opened the door, Bucky was greeted by walls of a familiar shade of pale grey, and a metal table in the center.

He came to an abrupt stop, breath frozen in his lungs, everything in his body resisting forward movement. Somewhere in a distant room, he heard laughing, and his heartrate spiked.

Sam was at his back, close enough that Bucky could feel his own back muscles twitching at the sensation of too-close body heat. Sam would be in the way of any attempted retreat.

“Your actual client appears to be blocking the door,” Sam called. Bucky could feel the brush of his breath across his ear, and he shivered once.

“James,” Dr. Raynor said, her tone aggrieved.

No order, and no demands from the collar, so Bucky swallowed down shards of glass and ignored her as his eyes roved over the room as his breaths carefully restarted. It was different; different layout, too small, just a table and two chairs. It even had windows along one side, and tile walls instead of a smooth grey surface. It was located above ground. Entirely different from the place where that voice echoed too loudly off the walls and that dead feeling gripped Bucky’s heart and lungs. And nothing like the other, worse, room.

“If you’re not gonna go in, I’ll just make my way back to the parking lot,” Sam said, his body heat moving back.

“Not so fast, Sam,” Dr. Raynor called, already seated at one side of the table, her hand moving in a beckoning motion as her other pulled free her notebook and set it on the silver surface, along with her pen. Bucky felt his eyes immediately fall onto those items. “Both of you come in and sit down.”

Direct order. Bucky’s feet pulled him across the threshold while his breaths escalated and the cacophony of warnings in his mind and body cried out unanswered. He instinctively grasped inside himself for those old thoughts to get him through as the grey enclosed him on all sides.

Sam and the shield. Undoing some of his wrongs. Moving forward.

Except Sam didn’t have the shield, and didn’t want the shield. And so far instead of undoing anything substantial Bucky had only been made aware of more and more wrongs he’d inflicted on the world that were spiraling out of control even now. The only moving he’d actually done with his life had been to nearly send himself back to the hell that looked a lot like the room he was in, now. That he probably would still send himself back to, if this session went the way he thought it was going to.

That dead feeling, though, that twisted inside of him and flooded his mind. That part stayed the same, as he moved forward with his head down, and sat himself in the chair on the right, trying to get his breathing under control while Sam took the seat at his left, bristling with irritation.

Crush everything down. Obey. Dr. Raynor usually responded well when he became stressed enough to beg. She might still, if she wasn’t finally fed up with him.

What did it even matter if Sam saw, at this point. It wasn’t like he thought the shield and Steve’s word were worth it; it was pointless for Bucky to think anything about his own views and words even had a chance of changing that when those couldn’t.

“All right,” Dr. Raynor said, folding her hands together as she looked between them, as uncaring about Sam’s disapproval as she was with Bucky’s.

The notebook was in front of her, open, the pen resting on a blank page. Untouched, for now, but waiting.

“Who would like to start?”

Chapter Text

Sam was pretty sure his day couldn’t get any worse.

The hope he’d had in Munich that Bucky maybe had known what he was talking about when he’d first suggested that he had a lead on the Flag Smashers had encountered plenty of hurdles when it came to just dealing with Bucky’s anger and blame on top of his insistence on going for the Olympic Gold in miscommunication, but things had calmed down during their plane ride and hadn’t escalated beyond management once they’d landed at base. So Sam had rolled with it, respected his own feelings and their validity but didn’t let them interfere with the job.

And he’d started regretting that as soon as they’d hit Isaiah’s neighborhood.

“I gotta look for something,” Bucky had said, and that was all the warning Sam had before he felt the air shift at his side as Bucky launched himself in a ten foot leap over someone’s fence.

“Bucky!” Sam hissed as he stopped moving; Bucky had said they wouldn’t need gear so he’d left his wings along with his visor at base, which meant following a super soldier would be impossible. “Bucky!” No answer, for nearly a half hour, while Sam wandered alone on the sidewalk of a neighborhood in Baltimore, pissed off and stressing out because he had no idea what the hell was happening.

“Can we move?” had been demanded of Sam later, when he was still fuming from the shit Bucky had just put him through without explanation, without seeing how incredibly uncool and unreasonable his actions were, when all it would have taken was just a little bit more clarification of literally any kind to set Sam’s mind at ease.

And things had just gone downhill from there.

“He’s a goddamn liar,” Isaiah had said of Bucky not five minutes after they’d entered his house. “And he’s hiding something big. Can’t even look me in the eye.”

And Bucky hadn’t answered the accusation, or even acknowledged the hurting in that man’s tone, the grief Sam could see deep in those eyes. No, Bucky had just come out with why they were there, what use they needed to make of Isaiah to help them.

“We need to know where they’re coming from.” The words had been soft but pointed, glued to the mission at the expense of everything else.

Isaiah had flipped. And no wonder he’d flipped.

A Black super soldier that had tried to go through the same route as Steve and had paid for it with thirty years of his life, enduring such nasty shit during that time that Bucky hadn’t even told Steve about him.

Of course, when Sam had asked about it, Bucky wouldn’t answer at first. So Sam had to stay pissed, had to yell, wishing his lead on the thread for the Flag Smashers had come from literally anybody else, because this was something too important: an enhanced Black man in hiding, erased from history, broken by it. Sam kept seeing Isaiah’s face as he’d told his story, spoken those words, and beneath Sam’s shock, he had wanted to do something, anything to help someone who had served and now was so obviously hurting, had been so intensely wronged by the world he’d tried to help.

The entire thing had made Sam more glad than ever that he’d retired the shield, even if what was happening with it in the present still made him ache to think about. All the bad attached to that symbol and those colors… there was no way Sam could just support it, hold it, and ignore all of that. Even if he’d never stop respecting, loving, and missing the man that had once carried it.

And Bucky had glared at him as they’d walked away from Isaiah’s house like he was making a big deal out of nothing. Told him he’d kept it a secret because he thought the man had already been through enough.

Apparently he hadn’t been through enough not to break that secret when it suited Bucky’s agenda. No, Bucky had given himself sole discretion over that, just like he’d given himself discretion to imperiously tell Sam to hand over his ID when they were confronted by officers in that same street just for talking, only redirecting his sharp tone when tensions rose enough that Sam had nearly had a gun pulled on him. And then Bucky got his own ass arrested less than a minute later for missing his court-ordered therapy session. Which meant Sam had been left completely alone on the street with his lack of explanations.

Thanks a lot for that, Buck.

It should have been the last straw. A lot of those instances should have been the last straw. There was something going on with Bucky, beyond all the weird shit that was always going on with Bucky. Sam couldn’t shake the feeling that Isaiah had been right.

But there’d been a weird niggling at the back of Sam’s mind when he’d seen the look on Bucky’s face when he’d been told he was under arrest, and it had only grown once he watched Bucky get put in that police car. A break in that stoic, angry, staring mask, lips going a little too tight, eyes going a little too wide.

Sam had wanted to know the end to that story, so he ended up making his way to the police station where Bucky had been taken. Even picked up the top to Bucky’s uniform on the way.

He could tell himself it was to honor Steve’s memory all he wanted, but the reality was that Steve wasn’t there. Sam was there for Bucky on his own terms.

He just wasn’t completely sure what that said about him.

Of course, he ran into those same two officers again not soon after he’d walked in.

“Mr. Wilson!” the shorter of the two said, looking only mildly less twitchy than he had on the street. His hand was off his sidearm, though, so that was an improvement. “Good to see you. Again, I am deeply sorry about what happened earlier.”

“Thank you for the apology,” Sam said, because the last thing he needed was to stir up trouble by voicing any kind of discontent right in the middle of the police station. “I was actually here to ask after Bucky. Mr. Barnes. I’d like to give him his uniform back.”

At that statement the officer was back to the higher end of twitchy, eyes shifting to his partner nervously. Sam noted that reaction and wondered if it was more because of him or Bucky. “I’m sorry again, Mr. Wilson, Mr. Barnes is being detained pending evaluation of his pardon violation.”

They’d said as much at the desk when Sam had asked. No bail. No visitors. He’d at least convinced them to reach out and contact Bucky’s therapist as soon as possible, even going so far as to put his own name in the message to her.

Because if there was a chance Bucky was going away for good for something so minor - Sam was pretty sure Bucky’d at least been right when he’d told Sam he was good enough to not be caught at any of his trespassing - Sam needed to ask Bucky a few more questions, even if that endeavor was looking like it might be the equivalent of trying to bang his head against a brick wall to break through it.

The twitchy officer and his partner thanked Sam for his service before they stepped out; Sam hoped they thought twice before their next launch into racial harassment in a Black neighborhood, but he had a feeling they were just going to go right back to it.

He took a seat in the lobby. Waited. Found himself trying to spend the next hour avoiding eye contact with another pair of John Walker posters.

He got told, eventually, that a call had come in for Bucky, and he was looking at a possible release that night.

Which had been good news, he’d thought, up until Bucky’s therapist, Dr. Raynor, had actually shown up in the flesh, and Sam had been given all of ten seconds to introduce himself and thank her before it was clarified to him that it hadn’t actually been her that had arranged for Bucky’s release, and like clockwork John Walker called out to him from across the station.

“Sam! Good to see you,” Walker said as he approached, a huge smile on his face as he waved back to the people who’d recently been crowding him for photos and autographs. Sam’s heart sank and his irritation rose like the flip of a switch. “You’re on board!” Walker cheered, pumping his fist in celebration. “That’s great. I’m glad you changed your mind. And thanks for bringing Bucky’s suit, I can take it from here.” Sam felt the scowl come onto his face at that acknowledgment as he handed the uniform over, but Walker turned to Dr. Raynor before he could argue it, leaving Sam with an eyeful of the shield slung over his back. “Christina, hey. Bucky’s schedule’s going to get a bit of loosening up. You can wrap things up with this last one, but there’ll be no more sessions required until further notice. Just wait out here, I’m going to head back to collect our errant super soldier, then you can do whatever you gotta do with him, and send him out to me.”

And then Walker was off as soon as he’d entered, moving towards where an officer was waiting for him, taking him through the double doors back towards the cells, waving jovially towards some belated calls of acknowledgement as he did.

Sam was still standing stunned and irritated when Dr. Raynor started digging into her purse for her phone as it began to ring. “Excuse me for a minute,” she said, stepping aside so she could take her call in private.

Sam stood alone in the lobby, waiting for Walker to come back out with Bucky, when he saw the officer that had led Walker back come back through those doors and head to the far counter in the room, looking worried as he spoke with the officer sitting in front of the monitors.

Sam narrowed his eyes and folded his arms. He couldn’t read lips or listen in from that far without his gear, but the returning officer seemed tense while he waited for an answer to something. Eventually, the other officer in front of the monitors spoke into his radio, waiting for a response.

Sam watched for the next few minutes, until the doors from the other side of the station opened and half a dozen policemen walked in, nodding in acknowledgement to the one who’d led Walker away. They all headed through those doors together, quietly chatting. Sam watched them go, getting the sense that their gathering was more than just a collective lunch break.

Dr. Raynor was heading back over to him a moment after that, her lips pressed together as she sighed deeply. “Well, I’ve just received word that James’ court-ordered therapy sessions have been overridden by Captain America, pending my assessment from this last session. I guess I’m on vacation after tonight.”

So Walker had definitely possessed enough power and influence to affect the terms of Bucky’s pardon. “You know John Walker?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, we did some field ops back in the day,” Dr. Raynor said. “Tremendous soldier. Congratulations on working with him, by the way.”

Sam shook his head with a dark laugh. “I’m not…exactly, working with him.”

“Well, he seems to think so,” Dr. Raynor pointed out, unnecessarily. “Is this hesitance you’re showing for that concept because of John or James?”

“Look, I’m just here to get a few questions answered for something I’m working on,” Sam said.

“And do you think John or James has the answer?” she asked, refusing to let it go.

“It’s sensitive mission material,” Sam said, growing a little irritated at her insistence.

“Is it?” she asked, nodding in a way that said she completely did not believe him. “Well, I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’d really rather ask myself-”

“Oh, you will,” Dr. Raynor said bluntly, turning just as Walker and Bucky walked through the doors and out into the lobby, with Bucky back in his full Cap-supporting uniform. “James! Stop right there.”

Sam realized a few things in the minute that followed. The first was that Dr. Raynor had clocked his concern for Bucky almost immediately in that lobby and was using it to play dirty. The second was that his decision to show up there had been entirely the wrong idea to follow through on, because the way Bucky looked at him as soon as he stepped through those doors made it clear that Sam’s presence was unwanted on an extremely deep and primal-looking level.

The third was that Sam was going to let himself get dragged onto that derailing circus train in the name of giving Bucky a better chance at receiving his release.

So it was great to be behind Bucky and figure out pretty quickly that he was going to bristle up like a porcupine if Sam so much as walked too close to him, arms stiff at his sides and fists clenched, eyes practically bugging out of their sockets. That lasted until they got to the actual interview room, when Bucky abruptly decided to veer to the other side of rude as he suddenly stopped and stood in Sam’s way, not even acting like he noticed his existence anymore, even when Sam all but yelled through him to talk to Dr. Raynor.

But they did go in, eventually. Unfortunately. Bucky moved himself in enough to let Sam slide by, looking less than happy about the fact that he was being ordered inside like a disobedient child.

Which was too bad for him, since it was his mistake that had dragged them both into their current situation, which was sitting in a tiny, closed-off room, about to have Bucky’s missed therapy session - together. Because Bucky’s therapist was apparently going to hold onto implementing this idea like a dog with a bone, even though Sam was getting the sense that him being there was just going to make things worse.

Luckily, this time, Sam knew he could keep it calm on his side. The shock of Isaiah’s existence had pulled him a very specific way but now he was very aware of their location, and the fact that he needed to keep things cool here. If he stepped out of line, got angry again, there were a lot more police officers who might not know that he was an Avenger. And a lot more who probably wouldn’t give a shit even if they knew.

And he had enough power here that he could still just walk out. Not deal with it.

Bucky was sitting slouched in his chair and might have seemed at ease to a general passerby but there were subtle signals in the way he tilted his head slightly away. Plus the look on his face, the tight lines around his lips. The twitch he’d made when Sam took a seat beside him. His hands were clenched together in his lap, and he was angled away from Sam in his red, white and blue. Like he disgusted him.

Sam felt that hurt, kind of like the way he’d felt when Bucky had told him to just show the officers his ID to satisfy their prejudices. He didn’t know why he expected anything different.

“So. Who would like to start?”

Sam was all set to begin an explanation of his own, a completely level-headed example of why he didn’t need to be here.

But a voice came from his right, interrupting him before he could try.

“You said there’d be lenience.”

Sam looked at Bucky; Bucky was now watching the table, chin dipped to his chest. His voice had been so low if there’d been any competing noises at all Sam was sure they wouldn’t have been able to hear him. But Sam had, and it was enough to notice that rumble in Bucky’s voice had somehow been intensified. Like he was sick. Except Sam was pretty sure he couldn’t get sick, so what the hell had happened to make him sound like that?

And there he went, giving a damn again. Like that was going to lead him anywhere good.

“Lenience,” Dr. Raynor repeated, her voice sounding her confusion.

“If I missed an appointment but had adequate reasons,” Bucky said, his neck bent and his hands clutched together, working themselves in his lap. He knew he was in deep shit, it looked like.

“Yes, I did,” Dr. Raynor answered, with a huff of a sigh. “James, just finish what you mean to say.”

Adequate reasons. Sam wasn’t sure where Bucky’s therapist was going to stand on the work they were doing but he wasn’t about to snitch on him. Especially when Bucky looked like he was biting into the inside of his cheek so visibly that Sam was going to be shocked if he wasn’t bleeding from it.

Reluctantly, Bucky parted his jaw. “Does this apply?”

“Does what apply,” Dr. Raynor asked, tapping the table impatiently. “Details, James. We’ve talked about this.”

“My mission,” Bucky said, that odd rumble still extremely present. It almost sounded painful.

“You’re speaking of your collaboration with John Walker,” Dr. Raynor said.

Collaboration. Sam sent Bucky a look, realizing then that there was another outcome to this whole thing he was ignoring - that Bucky would drop him and just go back with Walker. The man was the reason he’d get to keep following that Flag Smasher trail from here on out, after all.

But it was kind of hard to tell what Bucky was thinking just then, seeing as his neck was still all but hunched into his shoulders and he had moved his eyes down and away from either of them on top of that.

He did give Dr. Raynor a very short nod.

“I also told you that phone appointments were a thing,” she said. “And I know your memory now is too good to have forgotten that.”

A muscle bunched and popped out in Bucky’s cheek, that razor jawline working while his eyes shifted to the notebook on the table before shooting away again. His shoulders were tensed enough that Sam felt like he should be on guard for a punch just for sitting where he was.

“The work we’re doing is critical,” Dr. Raynor said. “It’s part of the requirements for your pardon. It is the requirement. Another thing I shouldn’t have to remind you of, seeing as you’re the one who signed that contract and agreed to everything.”

“I can do better,” Bucky said.

“Yes, you can!” Dr. Raynor practically snapped. “But you haven’t. Again, and again. James, we’ve discussed this - if you cannot make an appointment, you call.”

Sam blinked, taken aback. When he looked at Bucky he was swallowing, swallowing, swallowing, before his tongue pushed harshly to the inside of his lips.

“You know you are walking a very thin line here,” Dr. Raynor said, eyes flashing with anger. “The responsibility of adhering to our work falls solely on your shoulders. I would be completely within my bounds to submit a report of your behavior. You might get one more field trip with John, but that would be the end of it.”

Instead of arguing with her, or offering an excuse, Bucky simply stared at the notebook on her desk. It didn’t seem like he had anything to say.

Sam felt that niggling inside of him again.

Dr. Raynor went on. “But it seems like this entire thing is being taken out of my hands after this. Captain America’s authority is more than adequate to postpone our court-mandated appointments.”

Cautiously, Bucky brought his eyes back up. He licked his lips. “Meaning?”

“I think if you’re hoping to go somewhere with your goals to reintegrate with society, you could pick worse places than working alongside one of the most esteemed soldiers in American history. So, no - I will not be submitting a report at this time.”

Bucky dipped his head. He swallowed for about the eighth time in two minutes, then exhaled heavily. “Thank you,” he said.

Sam’s scowl moved from Bucky to his therapist, then back. Bucky didn’t meet his eyes but there was enough for Sam to see in his darkening expression when he noted Sam watching him to gather that he wasn’t going to be offered any of that same politeness.

Still on square one, then. Square negative.

Dr. Raynor sighed. “Do you have something you’d like to say, Sam?”

“I was just thinking how impressed I am,” Sam said, looking towards Dr. Raynor so he could have a break from seeing that disdain. “They must have picked just the right woman for the job.”

“Oh,” Dr. Raynor said, blinking rapidly. “Thank you. That’s…kind.”

“I’ve never seen him show that level of respect to anyone,” Sam said, because it was true.

“Sure as hell helps when the person deserves it,” Bucky muttered.

“Okay,” Dr. Raynor said sharply, like she could see where that was going. “James, we’re here for a session, not an insultathon.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky immediately said.

“See?” Sam said, gesturing to the slouched figure next to him, ignoring the flash of Bucky’s eyes as they glared at his hands. “I’ve never seen him do that!”

“Well, I’m glad you’re impressed,” Dr. Raynor said dryly, “because you’ll probably see a bit more of it after we start.”

Sam immediately went reserved, realizing that the little talk she and Bucky had just had apparently wasn’t going to be the end of it. “You seem to have things handled,” he said. “There’s not really a reason for me to be here.”

“James, would you agree with that?”

The side of Bucky’s eye twitched. “He can leave if he wants to.”

“That’s not what I asked, and you know it.”

“Then, no, I don’t think there’s a reason for him to be here,” Bucky said, a sudden bite to his tone, enhancing that rasp.

“Why not?”

Sam folded his arms, ready to hear it. Bucky’s eye twitched again. He looked even further away, was quiet for a beat, then two.

“He made his choice,” Bucky eventually said, somehow injecting enough venom into the words that it probably would have sounded nicer if he’d just cussed Sam out.

“Choosing things is what people do as human beings,” Dr. Raynor said, unaffected by Bucky’s tone. “Like you’re doing right now, childishly deciding against engaging in any descriptive sort of manner when we’re already months into these sessions.”

Wow. Maybe Raynor’s style wasn’t exactly on board with the professional side of things, or even the extreme basics of what Sam thought a therapist should be considering when engaging with their client, but hell if she knew how to call Bucky out.

Bucky wasn’t as appreciative. “I can start describing things,” he said, and it sounded like less a promise to Dr. Raynor and more a threat to Sam.

“You need me to get you a thesaurus?” Sam asked.

“Great, sounds like you’re both ready to start talking,” Dr. Raynor said. “James, you’ve looked at Sam for all of half a second. I think I have an idea what our next step should be. Gentleman, turn your chairs and get close to one another, it’s time for the soul-gazing exercise.”

“Oh great, this’ll be right up his alley,” Sam said, putting his hands on his chair in resignation to start scooting it around. “You should really enjoy this one,” he told Bucky, then paused when he noticed Bucky hadn’t made any attempt to shift his chair the same way Sam had. “You wanna hurry up so we can get this over with?”

Bucky glared at his lap, cheek twitching again all the way up into his eye while he swallowed repeatedly. He stayed right where he was.

“Now’s not the time for toxic masculinity,” Dr. Raynor said. She waited a moment, then spoke in aggravated impatience. “Christ, James, man up! Get close to Sam and look into his eyes.”

Bucky shot his gaze up and stared at the notebook, sucking at the inside of his lip. Then his stare drifted towards Sam’s thighs, his hands resting on them, a clear frisson continuing to rise in the room as his lips started to twist in something that started to look a lot like a snarl.

Then he launched out of his seat and stormed out.

“Shit,” Dr. Raynor said, rising to her feet in a rush. “Stay there, Sam, we are not finished. I'll be right back with him.”

She hurried across the room, Sam watching as she opened and closed the door on her way out, leaving him alone in the empty grey with the window, Bucky’s vacated seat facing him sideways, the descending silence like a physical weight.

The guy couldn’t even stand to look at him.

“Cool,” Sam said to no one, his voice swallowed by tiled walls. He rubbed his hands over his thighs, like that would help soothe out some of the ache that remained in his chest. “Glad we're doing this.”

Chapter Text

Instead of the wild goose chase Christina had been bracing herself for, James’ abrupt escape ended rather anti-climactically in the nearby men’s restroom not eight seconds after he’d left the interview room.

That was good, seeing as if he’d actually been intending on avoiding her she physically wouldn’t have been able to keep up on a normal day, let alone when she was only operating on several cups of too-late-hour coffees and her back and hips were aching like a bitch from her impromptu three and a half hour drive over the I-95. And when she hadn’t been able to keep up, that would have meant involving law enforcement to apprehend him. And if the police became involved, that had the potential to open up an entirely different can of worms on her journey to keep her job and her client, which she’d just learned that night could be put on hold regardless of her recommendations.

She’d thought James would spend the rest of his life being ignored by the powers that had assigned her his case, but apparently his rehabilitation strategy could and would be dropped entirely to suit their needs. Who cared about the conditions of nonviolence outlined in his release when it was the US government that wanted him to go back to punching people with that metal arm.

And she’d been encouraging him all along that having his mind and choices back were a good thing, and he should be adapting to and accepting of a normal civilian life. She couldn’t wait to see what this interference meant for their future sessions.

But that was later. Right now she had her current problem, which was figuring out what the hell James thought he was going to accomplish by fleeing their session with Sam.

She didn’t know what to expect when she walked in on him in that restroom. In between his very limited genuine engagement in their appointments James had always varied between catatonic, dry belligerence, and looking like he was ready to bolt, but he’d never actually followed through on the action of the latter. Something had finally pushed him over that edge, and she’d bet good money it had to do with the man they’d both left in that meeting room, and not the world’s most sudden and urgent case of needing to take a piss.

When she reached the closed door of the restroom, there was a tall officer coming from the other end of the hall that looked a little more concerned about the situation. “Is everything all right?” He spoke gravely and looked towards the restroom door meaningfully, having clearly seen James rush in. Christina wondered if he’d been outside all along, monitoring their session.

She nodded reassuringly despite the extra flare of annoyance that idea brought. “There’s no emergency, I just have some pressing work with my client,” she said, intentionally leaving out details. “I’d appreciate it if we were given privacy until I resolve the situation.”

Despite the very lackluster attempt at congeniality in her response - for God’s sake, it was nearing 3 AM and her entire body knew it, she didn’t have the willpower to be polite - relief shone in the officer’s eyes; he clearly wasn’t interested in experiencing the difficulty of sounding the alarm for the potential danger of a super soldier. His shoulders relaxed. “I’ll pass the information along.”

“Thank you.” She waited, the half-assed smile she’d been displaying dropping from her face as soon as he turned his back. She readied herself for whatever was coming next; there were no sounds coming from the restroom to offer any clues, and there had definitely been no toilet flush. “James?” She rapped her knuckles on the door, leaning against it so she would hear if he called out. “If you expect the label on the door to deter me from coming in you’re very much mistaken.”

He didn’t respond, which was her cue to push the door open. When she entered she was presented with the sight of men’s toilets and urinals and questionable dark stains on several tiles on the far wall. James was standing in the center of the room, still in his mission uniform, beside half a dozen open stalls, not making any kind of move to indicate he intended on using any of them, and he - oh, yeah. Yep.

This was a meltdown, all right.

“James,” she said, carefully closing the door behind her and moving forward as she listened to the sound of air racing through his mouth and saw the way he grimly kept his red-rimmed eyes forward and unblinking. “James, you’re hyperventilating. You need to slow down. Breathe in through your nose and exhale through pursed lips like this.” She demonstrated, willing him to join her; she was close enough he had to see what she was doing even if he was intentionally avoiding her gaze.

James didn’t follow suit, pale as a sheet, a sheen of sweat cast on his forehead glinting in the bright overhead lights. She came closer and he reacted with a severe jaw clench, eyes dropping down to his boots, stopping his breaths only long enough to choke down a rough swallow beneath the black fabric covering his neck, his hands fisted at his sides and his feet glued to the spot.

“Come on, James,” she said.

“Do it in here,” he half-croaked, throat probably dried out from his stress. She made a mental note to stop at the water cooler she’d seen outside as soon as possible.

“Do what in here?” she asked, knowing that even though she was frustrated with this situation, calling him out on his difficulty now was likely to just send him to a worse place.

James shook his head, staring at the tiled floor. “I’ll take it,” he said, tongue darting out as his chest expanded and contracted with alarming quickness, the wrinkles on his forehead deepening. “Just not in front of Sam.”

“We are not doing your therapy session in the men’s restroom of a police station,” she said, trying to use stern logic to bring him back. “James, breathe.”

“I am breathing,” he said, then continued to pant at an absurd rate.

“Breathe slower,” Christina said, raising her voice, which did her both her head and the level of stiffness in James’ body no favors. She lowered her volume back down. “In through the nose. Out through the mouth.”

Finally, James nodded in acknowledgment. He creased his brow in concentration and breathed with her for several moments, doing an admirable job of matching her pace. Christina started to feel a little better as they went on, but James’ tension barely abated. It was actually a little shocking to her, how upset he was at that moment. Something with Sam had set him off very badly. Unfortunately, she doubted he would be immediately open with what exactly that had been, and the experiences of a man who’d had no control of his own mind for decades left for a lot of options of varying triggers.

“Slower,” she said, and when she tried to step closer James still didn’t move away, but he did go absolutely rigid, eyes hardening as he slowed his breaths even further. He also started shaking.

She took a quick step away to give him that space back; he hadn’t exactly ever seemed to like her coming near him, but this blatant of a response was a new level. “Come on, slower,” she half urged, half ordered.

“Is this what you want me to do?” James asked, sounding confused now in addition to acting like he was under attack.

She moderated her tone accordingly. “What I want is for you to do a simple exercise with Sam Wilson so we can start uncovering some of the massive hangups you two are clearly hiding from each other.”

“I don’t want it in front of Sam,” James repeated again, desperately. Another tremor ran through him.

“Just keep breathing,” she said. “We’ll talk about the other thing in a minute.”

He closed his eyes, swallowing, and breathed even slower, nostrils flaring and lips pursed and eyes tight around the edges.

After a few minutes of no response, Christina said, “James?”

“We talking about it now?” James asked, keeping his eyes closed, and Jesus, he really sounded worse than he had the day they’d started their sessions.

“How are you feeling?”

He kept breathing slowly, like his life depended on it. He gave his answer in a rush between one inhale and exhale. “Like I really want to stay away from Sam while you do this.”

“While I do what?” Christina asked, unable to help her sharp tone. “Calm you down? I hate to break it to you, but Sam saw you jump ship. It’s probably pretty obvious to him what I’m doing.”

“Okay,” James said, in what was clearly him trying to be agreeable in response to her annoyance.

She tried to dial it back; it was hard, when she just wanted to find a hotel for the night so she could finally get some sleep. But the faster she got through to James, the faster that would happen. “Look, you obviously care a lot about what Sam thinks of you,” she said. “So you must think there’s something in that relationship worth salvaging.”

“We don’t have a relationship,” James said quickly, lips twisting before he exhaled again. Not so shit-scared he couldn’t be a little angry, apparently. “And I don’t care what he thinks.”

Christina raised her eyebrows. “Seriously? You’re currently hiding in the bathroom from him like a shy prom date.”

“I told you why that was.”

“Barely,” Christina said. “Sam’s still waiting for us. I want you to follow me-”

“Just do it already,” James said softly, resignation heavy on his voice.

“-and finish this session so we can all go on with our lives some time before dawn.” She sighed, his words belatedly registering in her mind. “Do what, James? I already told you I wasn’t going to report you. What exactly do you think is going to happen?” Her tone might have been going more to the other side of exasperated at that point. She knew that wasn’t fair to James, but shit.

James’ lips twisted. “Whatever you want to happen,” he rumbled, turning his head away from her the slightest inch.

“Christ Almighty - and here I thought I was being clear on what it was I wanted.” She folded her arms, deciding she needed a different approach. “Do you know why I’m here?”

“You’re my court-ordered therapist,” he said, then inhaled deeply through his nose as he continued the breathing exercise. “I have to do what you say.”

Funny how he knew that but kept somehow mostly doing the opposite. “Great. Yes. But I meant why I’m here, now.”

“You’re my court-ordered therapist,” he repeated, hands opening and closing at his sides.

“Sam had a message sent to me,” she said, spelling it out for him. “And if he hadn’t, I wouldn’t have been here to recommend your continued pardon after your mission with John. The note would have gone out that you weren’t following the terms of your release, and your potential to become a very real and severe threat to this country would have come into consideration. If it had been up to these officers, I can almost guarantee they would have been happy to throw away the key.” James opened his eyes and warily glanced towards the restroom door; he definitely appreciated what the consequences would mean for him when it came to that. Christina went on, hoping for some goddamn understanding. “I know you’re tagging along with John at the moment, but Sam is the one who had the forethought to make sure that I knew you hadn’t run off permanently.”

“There’s a mission he needs my help with,” James said, like that explained everything about Sam’s motivations.

“And what about all those previous times he reached out and was soundly ignored? James, you were barely tying your shoes in the morning at that point, let alone flying halfway across the world and using that as an excuse to avoid your very long, long list of problems. If you want my opinion, that man has the patience of a saint for continuously choosing to engage with you. And I’ve told you this before: it means something, that he’s willing to do that.”

“It doesn’t,” James said, everything about his posture drooping while he glared at stall number three and gave another inhale and exhale. “He doesn’t care about what’s important.”

Christina highly, highly doubted that. The brief information she’d gathered on Sam Wilson other than his history as an Avenger had placed him as one of the most well-respected soldiers in their country when he had been serving. The physicality and aptitude required to even handle the special forces training required for his pararescue position was nothing to scoff at, let alone considering he was one of the very few soldiers to make the cut for the EXO-7 program. He’d sworn his life to save people, and he’d done it very well - the antithesis of everything James had been programmed to do as the Winter Soldier.

If those two could just get their shit together, she didn’t doubt the benefit to James in having a friend like that. Especially since it would raise the count of those from near zero to one.

“Well, even if you think that, it is my job to make sure you’re okay. That means that it is also my job to help you work through whatever’s eating at you, or in this case - whoever. And since our usual tactics haven’t worked, I’m going a little unprofessional with this one.”

“I’d be more okay if we didn’t do that,” James said.

“You are far from okay, James,” Christina said bluntly. “You think that outright ignoring the rules of your pardon and getting yourself thrown in a jail cell for the night is the go to for a good time. So we’re going to ignore those things for a minute and pretend this is a world where you care about your own mental health and safety.”

“Safety,” he repeated flatly, faintly.

“Yes, safety,” she repeated. “Despite your efforts, you haven’t fucked up badly enough yet. I’d really like you to put a hold on the dramatics that test the limits. Just for a couple hours.”

Another inhale, sharper and stilted, like the air was fighting him going down. He bared his teeth, tension straining his tone. “Do you still want me to breathe slower?”

Christina narrowed her eyes. “Are you calmer?”

The shake of his head was more of a twitch. “No.”

“Well, at least you’re honest,” Christina said, the words dark with humor. “But if it hasn’t helped you at this point, another five minutes isn’t going to do much. Just go back to it if you think you’re going to pass out.”

James wet his lips, nodding as he dropped the breathing exercise - but he kept his quick breaths mostly through his nostrils. “I don’t want Sam to know,” he said - though what, exactly, he didn’t want Sam to know, he of course wouldn’t say out loud.

“You know, that sounds exactly like someone with a relationship to someone else would say,” Christina pointed out.

“I…” James blinked and grasped for words, his mouth hanging slightly open. His voice went very low and small, his gaze flicking about nervously. “What’s going to happen if I look into his eyes?”

Aha, and there it was. The mention of that as if it was a nuclear bomb that had the potential to go off.

“That, I couldn’t tell you,” Christina said, glad to have finally gotten somewhere. “The soul-gazing exercise can be intense for people. But that’s a big reason of why we’re doing it, since you two can’t seem to just talk normally like adults. And I’m not going to tell you that it’s going to be easy, especially for someone that can’t seem to muster up the ability to engage with what is clearly the most obscenely low-hanging fruit on the social scale. Sam pisses you off? Confront it. Deal with it head on, using actual words and details. Because doing nothing sure as shit hasn’t gotten you anywhere.”

James sucked on his lip, still far too pale. A shudder raced through him before he went still. “I mean… are you… will you…”

She waited, but he didn’t finish. “Will I what?”

He shook his head, like he couldn’t say what he wanted. There was a suspicious glimmer in his eyes that he quickly blinked away. “What are the rules you want me to follow?”

“James, there have only ever been three rules from me that you need to follow. As long as those are adhered to, and you actually take part in your court-mandated sessions, you don’t have to worry about any consequences from me except to that of your ego.”

“You won’t…” He closed his eyes again, swallowing and visibly grimacing. “Punish me. In front of Sam.”

She breathed in and out deeply, eyeing him. Even after months with her, his mistrust sometimes ran so deep that sometimes she wondered if every tool she could ever have at her disposal would do a thing to help him. No wonder he was being so stubborn about Sam.

But if he lost that thread for good, it would be a critical blow for his recovery. So here they were.

“Even if I hadn’t already told you that I wouldn’t, I’d say you’ve done enough punishing yourself tonight. I’d like to move on from it, if that’s all right with you.”

That seemed to pull him back a little from the cliff’s edge; his eyes came open, moving hesitantly towards her. Then all in a rush he was rolling down the opposite hill from that cliff, coming down low, his gaze sliding back to that vacant place he liked to hang out in. He tried to swallow again, but couldn’t quite seem to manage it, a small cough brimming up from his throat.

Christina would have let him table things for now if she’d been in any position other than the one she was in - God knew they all would have benefited from a night of sleep before coming at this. But she didn’t have that option, and the fact was, Sam had caused this giant reaction, and working things through with Sam was the only way to get things to rights.

Even if she had to drag James to it by his scruff, this was going to happen.

Slowly, she moved back to the door, opening it. James followed her with his gaze, his brow drawing down lower, some of the emotion flooding back in to push aside his slide into numbness. His hand strayed to his hip, clasping against the outside of his pocket, his shoulders still dipped down.

She jerked her head, speaking firmly. “Let’s go.” James came after her with slow, trudging steps, while she waited for him at the door. She slipped through it when he was a couple feet away, holding it open so he could step through after her. “And for God’s sake, drink something. You sound just like the engine of my neighbor’s shitty motorcycle did before it blew up.”

As they moved on Christina took a moment to wave off the two officers she could see lingering down the hall. James glanced their way briefly and then continued to follow her closely, downing the three paper cups of water she offered him from the cooler she found in a nearby break room and grimacing like they were shots.

He tensed back up considerably once they were back inside the interview room, but returned to his chair with even steps, staring it down all the while.

Sam looked between them both, frowning as he took in their respective moods. “You work it out?”

“Not quite yet,” Christina said, retaking her position at the table. She gave Sam a small smile. “That’s what you’re here for.”

Sam looked distinctly unhappy at that proclamation and then was distracted as James sank into his own seat, legs spread, staring at his lap. His posture was loose and sullen, and he didn’t look much more willing to take part in the session than he had before he’d interrupted it by running out. But he at least seemed to accept that there was no avoiding it.

Sam watched him, hands on his thighs, his frown deepening.

“James,” Christina prompted.

Without hesitation or argument, James set his hands on the arms to his chair and started to move it so it began to face Sam.

“Oh, we’re actually doing this,” Sam said, hesitantly putting his hands on his own seat as he watched James correctly position himself.

“Told you you’d have a chance to see more,” Christina said brightly. James was still looking at the floor, but they’d change that soon. “Now get close.”

“All right, you got it,” Sam said, with very obvious forced nonchalance.

She watched them situate themselves in exactly the wrong way, knees knocking together, making Sam wince, the testiness flashing back across his face while James’ eyes raised and locked balefully at Sam’s knees at the contact, his hands clenching down on the armrests of his chair. But James kept his thoughts to himself and he didn’t shoot out of his seat again to avoid it. He pried his hands off his chair and laced his fingers together as he looked towards the desk Christina was sitting at, the tendons in his neck showing in sharp relief at the angle required for that view. He clearly thought that would be it for the preparation for the exercise, but he was mistaken.

“The eye contact has to be closer than that,” Christina critiqued.

James exhaled sharply. Jerked his chair forward without looking, knocking his and Sam’s knees together again and freezing like the contact pained him.

“Why are you keeping your legs open?” Sam demanded, staring at the side of James face.

“It’s how I sit,” James said, his irritation bringing him back enough to restart his lungs, his head turning back forward to glare at Sam’s seat. “Are we going right or left?”

“She said close,” Sam pointed out. “There’s better options if you stop the manspreading.”

James scoffed, gesturing at their legs. “What options?”

“You know what? Fine.” Sam grabbed at James’ chair, pulling it forward, and James bared his teeth and clamped his hands down on Sam’s seat and dug his heels in to prevent the movement.

“Stop,” he barked, eyes on Sam’s belly - which was better than his legs or his chair, but still not enough.

“It’s your therapy session, man,” Sam snapped back. He flung an arm out to indicate the exit. “You don’t want it? Head out that door again.”

“He’s not going back out that door until we’re done here,” Christina said.

“No, I’m not,” James said, eyes going to chest-level, a grim challenge to his tone.

“Then let’s get on with it instead of wasting more time,” Sam said. “You had absolutely no problem pinning me to the ground and staring me down the other day.”

Christina raised her eyebrows at that new information.

James let go of Sam’s seat, jaw clenched as he pushed forward at a slight angle, while Sam did the same, until their legs were bracketed together, knees to crotch and hip level.

“All right,” Christina said. Awkward, but it got the job done. “James, comfortable?”

“No,” James bit out, but he had the ability to keep his eyes level with Sam’s chest and only looked somewhat like he had the potential to rocket back out of his chair.

“We’re just doing it the way you wanted,” Sam said.

“Oh, now you care what I want,” James muttered.

“Believe me, this is about the extent of it,” Sam said. “And you know my eyes are the things up here, right? They teach basic anatomy in the 40s?”

James curled his lips into a snarl, eyes up another increment. “God, I wish you would talk less.”

“Man, exactly what I was just thinking. How about that?”

“Guys!” Christina snapped.

They stopped, bristling in their seats like a pair of alley cats. James had managed to raise his eyes to almost neck-level for Sam. It was time to make him go all the way.

“Look into each other’s eyes.”

Sam started it, eyebrows cocked expectantly. James pressed his tongue to the inside of his lip, took a breath, then raised his gaze those last few inches. A tension flowed through him and he almost immediately started his compulsive swallowing behavior. But he kept up the eye contact, even if his hands were clenched so tightly in his lap that the knuckles of his right hand stood out in sharp relief.

Sam narrowed his eyes, tilting his head forward, chin dipping down to his chest. Then something changed.

James didn’t look away from Sam. Sam didn’t look away from James. Christina watched as it unfolded, emotions swirling in each of their eyes, and this was good, this was better than she’d expected. Maybe they’d actually make some progress, especially considering… neither of them had blinked in the span of forty seconds.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered once she realized. A staring contest. They were literal children.

But she saw the way some of that extra tension flowed out of James at their ridiculous display of what was only delaying the session, and stopped herself just short of interrupting. Even when, a couple minutes into it, Sam’s eyes started watering in an involuntary response to keeping them open for so long, and he let out a small noise of strain, while James just seemed to be hitting his stride, lips curling into the ghost of what actually looked like a bit of smugness, an expression so startling that Christina knew she’d been right on the damn money about Sam.

Another thirty seconds passed. Neither of them seemed willing to let up.

“Oh yeah,” Christina said to the desk, in disbelief of the continuing stupidity, the seconds continuing to tick by. “No, it’s fine, let’s keep pulling this all-nighter.” She grabbed her pen, testingly, sliding the notebook open.

James kept staring forward. Either he really was entirely focused on Sam or he knew she’d done it but had decided what he was doing was more important.

Less than a minute later, finally Sam blinked involuntarily and cursed softly but with feeling, raising a hand to rub some of the moisture out of his eyes while the smug look on James’ face became full-fledged.

“Did we have fun?” Christina asked mildly. James looked over at her and the notebook, whatever positive feelings he received from his victory fizzing out as he went still like a deer in headlights at the sight of it, his hands curling against each other in his lap.

“Don’t worry, I was just trying something,” she said, quickly closing up the book, placing it into her bag for good measure. “Now James, while looking at Sam - and I cannot stress this enough, blinking normally - why, exactly, does he aggravate you?”

James looked down towards the floor, still clearly spooked by the notebook but distracted enough by her question that the feeling started to fall away. She could almost see the thoughts actually churning in his head instead of his usual instinctive deflection or rigid refusal or stone-still unresponsiveness.

Sam watched him, ready and scowling, hands on his thighs, his own thoughts kept quiet.

James looked back at Sam, his eyes firmly raised, staring unwaveringly. All hesitation gone.

Sam quirked his brow, waiting.

Then James opened his mouth, and spoke.

Chapter Text

The days leading up to the ceremony at the Smithsonian were warm and heavy. Sam moved through them with a conflicting ache, feeling the weight of history and the chaos of the present and the uncertainty of the future in every step he took.

He knew he was going to do what he always did in the face of it: keep on. Help people. Take the missions suited for him. Try to pave the way for any kind of better he could manage for a world that now had to deal with the inevitability of the fact that when you saved it, all the ugly things got saved right alongside the good - and sometimes, that meant they got worse.

He just couldn’t do it carrying those colors, or slotting himself into a role that had been both raised and filled to bursting because of the very man that had been assigned to it. Even if that same man had told him with utmost certainty that there hadn’t so much as been a second choice in his mind who that symbol should be passed on to.

The shield had been made from vibranium, but it might as well have been sand when Sam thought about what kind of future he’d have if he tried to wield it. On its own, the paint job over the surface meant so much more for that thing’s meaning in the eyes of the world than the place the near indestructible material that formed it had originated from.

But Steve, a good person through and through, who showed interest, tried to understand what he didn’t, knew that people were people - those values Sam wouldn’t mind continuing to spread in his own way. Putting the shield to rest so it could stand in time with the other great symbols that had carried the country to the place they were now seemed like a more than fitting close to that chapter.

So he gave it up. He made his speech about Steve, trying to let anyone that might be listening know that all of the strength they put into that symbol, be it that of vibranium or sand, didn’t matter at all if Steve wasn’t around to carry it. And he didn’t respond to Senator Whitmore, who came up after the ceremony and thanked him for turning it in, then told him it had been the right thing to do. After the basis of Sam’s entire talk, the senator still thought Sam would be receptive to outside validation for his choice from someone that wasn’t Steve Rogers. But the ability for an entire room to listen to Sam in silence, take in every word, and then completely ignore or misinterpret his intentions was just one more reason he needed to cut that mantle loose. Senator Whitmore didn’t see Sam Wilson, he just saw the shield.

They were quick to put the shield in its place, locked into the hall where Steve’s legacy was celebrated in vibrant colors, panels of history on proud display in electronic text. Rhodes took a walk with Sam along the exhibits, through bright lights and dark walls and cool air. Sam kept things casual and friendly but he knew the question was coming - the one that made that conflicting ache in his chest rise up again with renewed strength, especially since this time it was because Rhodes saw him as Sam Wilson that he felt the need to ask it.

“Why didn’t you take up the mantle?”

I’ll do my best, he’d told Steve. As far as he was concerned, he was sticking to that sentiment, just maybe not quite in the way Steve had expected him to.

“It feels like it belongs to someone else. That someone else is Steve.”

But because Rhodes saw him, he also took Sam’s answer to that question and accepted it. That meant a lot.

Sam spent a while after Rhodes had left staring at the shield in its exhibit, knowing the next day would bring with it crowds upon crowds to the museum of people eager to see it up close for the very first time, with all of their own interpretations and meanings to apply to something that had never made a single decision for itself. But maybe here and there someone would see it, and gain some inspiration in the face of Steve’s hopes on display alongside the symbol, and make some good decisions of their own about the kind of people they wanted to be.

It was night when he headed out of the Smithsonian, leaving the shield behind in its final resting place. He took his phone out of his pocket and turned off the Do Not Disturb settings for the first time since the night before. A slew of texts came up - some from Sarah, a couple from First Lieutenant Torres, and one in particular that stopped him dead in his tracks with surprise on the sidewalk just outside the building.

It’s Bucky

Steve’s old best friend, the one that had spent the 40s helping to teach him a lot of those core values he’d kept while carrying that shield: show up for people, and there was a good chance that they would show up for you. Steve had kept his faith that Bucky would turn out to be a good person unwavering even in the face of Sam’s realistic caution at the knowledge and firsthand experience of the brainwashed soldier they’d encountered going up against HYDRA. It was all kinds of annoying, but also maybe a little more joyous than Sam would admit, that it looked like this would be one more thing in a list of things that Steve was right about.

Sometimes the ugliness didn’t rise up and become worse. Sometimes it tried to stop stabbing people every five minutes and just kind of simmered, got a presidential pardon after confirmed rehabilitation courtesy of the most technologically advanced country in the world, then reached out with an extremely awkwardly brief text when you least expected it, but maybe at just the right moment for you to need it.

Sam responded with friendly eagerness, being sure to congratulate Bucky on his release and pardon. Didn’t even take the chance to roast him on his terrible understanding of texting social norms.

He hadn’t known that he would be left hanging, text after text after text, with no return of a phone call. That he wouldn’t even see Bucky again until he was on television, standing in a high school football field in support of John Walker’s acceptance of the shield as he was celebrated as the new Captain America.

He also hadn’t known that he’d eventually be sitting in a room, knees-to-crotches with Bucky as, after partnering with John Walker, Steve’s old friend came at Sam’s decisions in a fury, soundly adding his name to that list of people that heard the things Sam said and completely ignored or misinterpreted them.

Bucky had been on that lakefront when Steve had passed the shield on. He’d heard Sam’s hesitance in taking it. Maybe he’d even taken the time to watch Sam’s entire speech at the Smithsonian. But if he had, he sure as hell hadn’t perceived Sam’s worth enough to listen.

“Why did you give up that shield?”

And Sam was really fucking tired of hearing about that shield.

“Why are you making such a big deal out of something that has nothing to do with you?”

Bucky’s eyes hardened, a spasm forming in his cheek; he had no problem making that eye contact he’d been so resistant about earlier, and now it looked like he was going to make all of that Sam’s problem. “It should’ve been you; not Walker. Not whoever the government decided should take it. Control it. Send it to whatever ends of the world they wanted for whatever reason they wanted.”

No fucking shit. “You think I wanted this to happen?” Sam demanded, even though he knew - what the hell was the point of asking it of Bucky, pointing out that what he was feeling was the opposite. It would just be one more thing to be ignored. Talked over. “That it didn’t break my heart to watch them march him out and call him the new Captain America?” He gestured at Bucky’s get up of red and blue. “To see that you decided to be out there in that uniform fully supporting him?”

“It should’ve been you,” Bucky repeated hoarsely, and Sam just sensed that he was going to go longer without blinking than earlier when they’d been having an actual staring contest. “You knew that Steve picked you for a reason. He trusted you.” His voice began to raise, that rumble behind it intensifying enough to make a couple of his words crack. “You think he wanted his legacy to become this? You think he wanted the man he asked to carry that symbol to just throw it away?”

“Shut up,” Sam said, feeling each word like a shot.

“You didn’t even hesitate,” Bucky said, uncaring of Sam’s protest, gaining speed in addition to volume. “You lied to Steve’s face about accepting it and then you turned your back on everything he stood for. You could have let him know you didn’t give a shit first thing so he could give it to someone who deserved it, but instead you took it and left it to rot under whatever decisions and agendas the government wanted to assign for it. You left it to the exact opposite of everything Steve worked towards.”

The end of that rope Sam was sliding down was approaching at lightning speed. “I said shut up.”

“No, because Steve? He really believed in you. He told me you were a good man. He meant it with all of his goddamn heart. He wanted you to make a difference in the world; he thought you wanted to make that difference! That’s why he decided you should have everything his legacy represented, and you just tossed it out like you didn’t care. Like you had better things to do. Like it was nothing. So maybe he shouldn’t have bothered! Maybe he was wrong about you all along!” Bucky leaned forward, practically in Sam’s space, teeth bared, so close Sam could see his eyes were bloodshot around the edges. “And if he was wrong about you, then he was wrong about me!”

Bucky slammed back in his seat, tension practically exploding from his pores while he started to swallow convulsively. Sam sat in silence while he felt the discomfort from all that yelling slowly fade from his ear drums. He kept his promise to himself to keep it together, not lose it in kind, even though it kind of felt like he was about to sink through the floor and throw up all at the same time. Dr. Raynor watched them from behind the desk without offering input; sure as hell no need for her to ask Bucky to let anything out at that point, when he’d excised his rage with all of the grace of an infected wound being ripped open with a jagged, rusty saw.

Sam tilted his head, kept his body language loose. “You finished?”

“No,” Bucky said, back coming a little off the back of his seat, almost looking like he was ready to lean all the way forward again.

“No, I think you are,” Sam said sharply, heading it off before Bucky could pick up steam again. He held his hand up and out. “Sit back.”

Bucky slammed back, then looked even more pissed, jaw creaking beneath dark stubble. “I don’t just give up when things get hard,” he snarled, and there was - God, there was something beneath that, in his voice, which still sounded off. But Sam was all kinds of angry at that point and Bucky just wouldn’t stop.

“Maybe you should,” Sam said firmly. “Because you have no idea what you’re talking about. And maybe this is something you or Steve will never understand… but can you at least accept that I did what I thought was right?”

Bucky stared at Sam, his eyes glittering, throat moving beneath the fabric of his turtleneck. Then he slumped into his seat, looking away as he bit harshly into his dry lip, the skin around it going bloodless with the pressure.

That was a big no.

Show up for people and they show up for you, Sam thought. So what did that make this?

Sam knew as the man that had personally backed Steve closely for years, to the point he’d risked a lifetime of imprisonment in a high security underwater prison and then followed him willingly into criminal exile, there was always the potential Steve could have been wrong about something. He was enhanced, but he was still human.

Sam’d just never expected his first time being disappointed would be from it being shouted in his face that the something Steve had been wrong about was him. And especially not by the guy who’d, once upon a time, been the person Steve had been the most close with in the entire world.

Dr. Raynor broke her silence, quietly addressing her client. “James?”

“I can’t do this,” Bucky said, chin dipped to his chest and eyes firmly dropped, that discomfort folding back in as he hunched in his seat. He still sounded like he was being torn apart, but at least he was done with the shouting.

“Good,” Sam said, more than ready for it to be over, to give Bucky that space he so clearly wanted. “Because we have other more important shit to worry about, in case you’ve forgotten. So how about this - we go deal with that, talk it out with Walker or whatever you need to do, and after it’s finished, we go on separate, long vacations, and never see each other again. Sound good?”

Bucky tilted his head back up. He didn’t say anything; just looked agonized, with those watery blue-grey eyes back to doing their best to burn a hole through Sam’s skull.

Whatever. Sam was moving past this. He leaned forward and gave Bucky a firm clap against his vibranium shoulder, since he was showing signs of increased agitation at close contact with his skin; Bucky swayed with the force. Then, slowly, Bucky finally nodded in agreement.

“Good,” Sam said again, sliding his chair back, the air cold against his legs now that he wasn’t feeling the furnace of super soldier body heat. “I’ll be waiting outside. Thanks, Doc, for making it weird.”

Sam walked through that police station, out the front door, Bucky’s words and the emotion behind them still ringing in his ears. Everything out in the open.

Sometimes the ugliness didn’t rise up and become worse. Sometimes, it morphed. Sometimes it pointed the finger and eviscerated the ugliness that it perceived in turn.

But if Bucky’s very questionable loyalty to Walker didn’t throw a wrench into things, he was still probably the best ally Sam was going to get if he wanted to find and stop the Flag Smashers as soon as possible.

But he sure as hell wasn’t a friend.

The collar didn’t argue. It didn’t compromise. It never slept. There was no reasoning with its interpretations. No way to stall it. No way to explain.

“I’m sorry, Captain America, but this belongs to you.”

The shield was handed over, the special at the Smithsonian well into its second airing of the night. A relic to be placed into retirement, all purpose and meaning to be bundled into a locked glass box. Never wielded again. Even when the world was falling apart. Even when it was needed more than ever.

The collar didn’t know the importance of that. It enacted curfew with the same rigid schedule as always, despite the fact that the person that was wearing it was losing what was left of his scrabbling mind, needed to be up, to see what had happened up close, because it couldn’t be true, this had to be another nightmare and all he needed to do was - fuck - he needed-

Bucky ground his teeth and breathed in harsh pants into the floorboards of his Brooklyn apartment, wood digging into his cheek as the collar buzzed unendingly at his neck and Sam Wilson abandoned the shield for the second time that night to a round of polite applause.

His emotions lashed and contracted and lashed and contracted without end or closure. If he could just have ripped the fucking collar off, found some way to tamper with it, could have forced his way into withstanding the shocks it dispensed through sheer will...

A cold sweat broke out beneath his clothes. He couldn’t breathe. He just needed to be able to lift his head up even an inch but he couldn’t do that unless he wanted to incite a correction, couldn’t do anything, because it was already fucking done, it was done and he wasn’t going to have the chance to change anything, or ever be anything more than what he was, or whatever anyone who controlled the collar wanted. They’d said five years until he was cut loose, but he knew - whatever time limit they'd told him didn’t fucking matter, especially now. And he should have expected that. Should have known.

But it would have been Sam. It should have been Sam. It had to be Sam.

On the television, the special ended, then began again. For the third time that night, Sam Wilson proved both Steve and Bucky wrong.

“I’m sorry, Captain America, but this belongs to you.”

Chapter Text

“James, please don’t tell me you’re planning on sitting there the rest of the night.”

Bucky didn’t move his burning eyes from Sam’s vacated chair, his throat tingling in protest as he pulled in the stagnant air of the interrogation room into his lungs. Just a few minutes earlier, he’d been shouting and reigniting the lingering damage on those tissues, while it felt like every negative emotion he’d ever felt had flared itself to the breaking point. And all of that had been backed by being so severely on edge about the physical contact required for the session that the eye contact between him and Sam had quickly warped itself from a non-option to an absolute necessity if he was going to have any hope of making it through things without completely losing it in twenty ways instead of ten.

He was still there. He’d done it: completed the first interaction since his release from the black site, one where he’d fully known neither the inhibitory device around his neck or Dr. Raynor’s oversight would interfere. He’d had the freedom to speak his mind, no collar warnings or threats of a mouthguard to influence any self-regulation.

And it still hadn’t worked.

Sam thought what he thought, and what he thought meant that Steve’s decision would be discounted and the shield would go on being wielded by Walker.

Sam had even said it; he’d believed he’d made the right choice in giving it up. Enough to withstand Bucky’s words, even when they made him so upset he’d gone quiet in the aftermath instead of quickly coming back with a quip or comment. When he did finally speak, it was to stand by the decision he’d made, and ask Bucky to do the same.

But if Bucky let himself believe that Sam was right, what would that mean for him and the shield and everything Steve had stood for? What would it mean if he believed Steve was right, and now was gone, and Sam and the rest of the world were moving on?

As for Bucky’s own choices, he wasn’t a paragon of virtue by a long shot. Otherwise he wouldn’t have gotten himself into the mess he was in with his pardon’s contract, even knowing what he’d known after all his time spent as the Winter Soldier. He wouldn’t have put that look on Sam’s face just to once more utterly fail in convincing him what needed to be done, and drive Sam to abruptly and stonily switch gears to nothing but their mission with a clear message that if Bucky could find it in himself to arrange their cooperation, it would absolutely be their last team up.

There were still multiple super soldiers running free. Bucky knew in his place, Steve wouldn’t give up until that situation was resolved. Neither would Sam. And HYDRA had known about Isaiah and the true prowess of the serum he’d taken because of the Winter Soldier’s defeat; this was a wound from Bucky’s past actions bleeding into a broken world that he wanted to help staunch.

So at least there was something he knew they all agreed on.

He swallowed, face pinching, and tore his eyes away from the chair, looking towards the table that Dr. Raynor was sitting behind. He carefully noted the continued lack of a notebook on its surface before he spoke, his voice filling the empty space between grey walls. “Are we finished?”

“Seeing as Sam’s gone, yes,” she said, reaching down for her purse; just to grab it, not to pull anything out. When Bucky still hesitated, she placed the bag in her lap and looked up. “Look, I appreciate your willingness to cooperate, but I’d like to check in somewhere so I can finally get some sleep. I suggest you do the same. Unless there’s something more that you need before we part ways?”

There was only one thing Bucky needed, and it looked like he was never going to get it.

He swallowed and shook his head, glancing back at Sam’s chair. “So I can go.” He had to be sure.

“I don’t have any compelling reason or ability to stop you,” Dr. Raynor said, pulling her purse strap over her shoulder and adjusting it. “I’m not exactly about to order an arm wrestling match. Just do yourself a favor? At least try to take a couple days to shake off that cold before you throw yourself into whatever mission you’re undertaking.”

Bucky frowned, his head tilting back in her direction. What did she mean, shake off that…what?

His throat, he realized a moment later. His voice, still ragged around the edges from his night of punishment. And Dr. Raynor thought he was…sick?

She thought he was sick.

The next few seconds came down on him in an avalanche of realization so strong he placed his hands on the armrests of his chair to make sure he was still upright.

Dr. Raynor had been deeply angry back in that bathroom, and he hadn’t received so much as a buzz of a warning from the collar throughout their entire interaction while she’d demanded he return to the room with Sam. There was always confusion and frustration when he was around her, nearly worse than any mind games Bucky had been a part of over all his decades of imprisonment. But she hadn’t brought out her personal phone once, not in any single one of their sessions.

He pushed himself up from his seat, uncertainty dimming. There were super soldiers out there to contend with. Even if he failed miserably at everything else, there was still something he could try to help.

“I know that look,” Dr. Raynor said before he’d half crossed the room. “What’s wrong?”

Not an order; an unspoken request. Bucky felt himself flood with the knowledge that he could ignore it and keep going out that door. The only thing that could stop him at that moment was himself.

Dr. Raynor didn’t know about the collar. She’d never known.

He paused all the same, thinking of the amount of damage that those super soldiers could spread across nations already destabilized, mostly unguarded by the enhanced people and symbols that had once held them up. He thought of Walker standing outside the bars to his cell, pride overflowing, as he had asked Bucky about that neighborhood in Baltimore with a too-tight brightness to his tone and the shield in his hand.

The fight was coming. And if Bucky wanted to pull any of those situations towards their desired outcomes, he knew his part in them.

Dr. Raynor wasn’t exactly a joy to be around. Wouldn’t have been, even if Bucky had figured things out on her side any sooner. And not knowing or having direct control over the device around his neck didn’t exactly change the fact that she could and was obligated to report him to those that did. But she didn’t know the details of exactly what that act would result in for Bucky, and she wasn’t a sadist. Whether she should have or not, she’d been looking at him all along with the expectation that he had the ability to improve.

The only improvement he’d shown was in the intensity of the emotions that had ripped from him like fire from a gatling gun; that look on Sam’s face, telling him he’d hit his mark.

“What was rule number two again?”

”You stop looking in the eyes of your superiors unless you’re ordered to do it.”

Bucky looked up, and met Dr. Raynor’s eyes for the first time; saw the dark marks beneath them, the drawn lines on the face of someone decades younger than him. She looked back, still in her seat, exhaustion painted over her expression. Just a woman, embittered, tired, and whether through negligence or another decision specifically made to mess with Bucky’s head, brought into a task to which no one had the decency to fully explain to her the parameters.

The collar stayed quiet.

“Don’t hurt anyone,” she said, enunciating clearly.

He liked that rule better.

It was too bad that, collar or not, he knew he’d never be the kind of person that was capable of following it.

“Goodbye Doc,” he said, and stepped out the door.

Sam wasn’t directly outside the police station, where the morning dew and fog that rolled in from the nearby bay condensed the scents of car pollutants sharply in the night air. Bucky glanced around the empty street with a jolt of confusion, down the neighboring streets, the stoplights gleaming in reds and greens. Had Sam been too angry with Bucky after all to wait for him?

But when he focused, Bucky caught a set of familiar voices drifting towards him from around the corner of the building. He hurried towards them.

He found Sam standing next to a line of parked police cars, talking with Walker and Lemar. A quick assessment of the situation from a distance showed Sam didn’t look like he was engaging them in friendliness and Walker’s expression was beginning to strain around the edges; beside them, Lemar was frowning while he looked between them, the straps of a pack in his hand, the bulk of it hanging by his thigh.

“I agree with you that this is a situation that needs to be dealt with,” Sam said, quiet but stern. “But those authorizations you’ll be needing just to fix it aren’t exactly going to help in dealing with a group of underground super soldiers. We need to move fast.”

“And if you’d been paying attention you’d notice I’ve been doing that,” Walker said, smile still stubbornly painted on his face despite the condescension seeping in, his arms folded casually over his chest. “Come on, Sam. You’d still be in that lobby waiting for Bucky if I hadn’t stepped in.”

Bucky felt his tension rise as he crossed the last few feet, knowing he had to intercept their conversation quickly. They all glanced towards him simultaneously as he arrived without announcement, placing himself firmly next to Sam.

“Bucky,” Walker greeted, his expression filling with satisfaction, as he leaned against the car he was standing against, the shield on his back pressing into its surface with a creak. “I was just telling Sam about the new info we gathered on the Flag Smashers.”

“And I was just telling him I didn’t think it was the best idea for us to work together,” Sam said bluntly, brows drawn together.

“And I told him that he was free to go it alone, but he’d be missing out on a critical opportunity by sidelining the three of us,” Walker said with a jerk of his head, raising a hand to indicate both Lemar and Bucky.

“Not with all those barriers keeping you from following the flow,” Sam said, refusing to be convinced.

“What, you mean Bucky?” Walker asked, shrugging, the smug look refusing to fall. “Don’t worry, I dropped all of those settings. He’s basically a free man right now.” Walker looked towards him. “Right?”

Shit. “Where are they taking the stolen supplies,” Bucky asked sharply, needing to steer the conversation far away from any hint about the collar.

“At any one of the displaced camps formed since the Blip,” Sam answered, sounding less than impressed.

Great. So much for Walker’s juicy details.

Walker’s expression changed, his lips closing and his smile turning to a shadow of itself at Sam’s ongoing refusal.

“You don’t know which one they went for,” Bucky said, frustration filling him, because he knew Sam was smart enough to know they shouldn’t rely on such limited information. “Walker, there’s hundreds of those camps all over the world.”

“And with the four of us, it’s only a matter of time until we find the one they fled to,” Walker said, dismissing the concern, like just being appointed Captain America was going to mean all the solutions to his problems just floated down into his lap.

Bucky knew there was a way to do this that would get them the fastest information they needed to find the trail for that serum, and it wasn’t waiting for clearance while bolstering Walker’s pride as he second-guessed himself when he didn’t even have any leads for them to go on in the first place. Who knew how many super soldiers they could end up facing by the time Walker got everything together, or if there would even be an end to their numbers.

The mission would never happen the way it needed to, if Bucky was stuck with Walker. If Sam and Bucky were stuck with Walker.

But it might if Bucky and Sam were alone.

A thrill coursed through him at that knowledge. Even with the serum his body was urging him to take a minute, go the easy route, take more time to recover from the stress and pain and damage that had been caused by his arrest and Walker’s trigger of the recall before he put himself in another scenario that had the potential to drag him into another round of incredible pain.

He wasn’t going to do that.

Sam looked between Walker and Lemar, then finally, at Bucky. “Thanks for the offer,” he said, eyes trailing down the uniform that Bucky was wearing. “But you’re gonna have to settle with the three of you.” He nodded with stiff politeness towards them and turned, about to walk away.

“We need to split up,” Bucky said, loud enough to make Sam pause. Walker rounded on him, expression stunned. Beside him, Lemar narrowed his eyes and leaned forward for a better look. “He’s right, Walker,” Bucky said, while every wary instinct he had activated what was left of his depleted adrenal reserves. “We can’t sit around waiting while you narrow it down.”

“If we stick together, we’ll find them,” Walker insisted, voice raising like that would make it any more true.

“By what, looking real hard?” A cold anger brimmed in the depths of Walker’s eyes; Bucky swallowed roughly through his dry mouth in the face of it, but there was too much at stake for him to back down. “Look,” he said, trying to sound reasonable. “You organized a suspension on the rules of my pardon. I’ll be more efficient on this mission if I’m not held back by the same regulations you are.”

“Barnes, are you serious right now?” Lemar asked, stepping out from beside Walker to face him. “You’re gonna act this way after everything John’s done for you?”

Walker was still; he stared into Bucky’s eyes, completely silent. Bucky looked back, tension keeping his back straight, stomach churning, that tremble threatening to return to his limbs for the third time that night. Daring whatever awful consequence would come as a result to just happen already - for this to be another failure, another wrong choice.

Because he probably understood John Walker a lot more than he ever would Steve or Sam.

“Yeah, he is,” Walker murmured softly, rolling his neck. “You don’t want to work with me, either, do you?” He pushed off the police car and stepped towards Bucky, about to invade his space. Bucky braced himself, knowing that whatever happened, collar dormant or not, Walker was still his appointed handler. He couldn’t raise a hand in his own defense.

But another hand stretched out to stop Walker before he could come too close, even if it did nothing to distract him from staring Bucky down. “Whoa, whoa, take it easy, Walker,” Sam said, having rushed back in. He kept his arm hovering between them. “Look, man, I don’t have to tell you that Bucky could take you in a fight.”

“Take me?” Walker asked, then huffed out a breath of sarcastic humor, his hand drifting slowly towards his pocket; Sam noticed, and kept his own hand up. “I could drop him in a second.”

Bucky stared back, glued to the spot, waiting in anger and dread for Walker to pull out his phone in front of Sam while he couldn’t do anything to stop him.

“Yeah, right, sure,” Sam said in amusement, lips quirked, the meaning of their conversation going right over his head. But when Walker’s glare swung right to him, he sobered. “That shield might be vibranium, but so is Bucky’s entire arm,” he pointed out, expression utterly serious. “And carrying it doesn’t automatically give you the strength of a super soldier. Let’s just cool it, okay? Bucky’s right; it doesn’t make sense for us to work with you.”

Walker looked back at Bucky, eyes gleaming, the corners of his mouth downturned. “That’s what you think, huh?”

Bucky kept his mouth shut; his teeth felt like they would get crushed to dust in his mouth with how hard he was grinding them together, his hands fisted impotently at his sides against that whisper of violence in the air that his body wanted nothing more than to have the ability to answer.

Walker twisted his head again, like he was working out the kinks. “Fine,” he said gruffly, plunging his hand into his pocket; Bucky’s eyes immediately zeroed on the movement and he began swallowing repeatedly, sick fear rising up to enfold over him. “We’ll split.” Walker took out his phone, and held it up meaningfully, displaying the darkened screen to Bucky’s face. “Just as long as you remember exactly who’s holding the reins on this mission.”

Bucky got the message, acid churning in his stomach.

Walker swung his gaze around to Sam, and Bucky felt that tension inside of him escalate, his muscles coiling in readiness. “And you - a word of advice? Stay the hell out of my way.”

The shield caught and brightened in the street lights as Walker turned his back to walk away from them, heading off in a steady pace down the street, asphalt crunching beneath his boots.

Lemar stepped towards Bucky, holding out the pack in his hand; when Bucky looked up at him he was met with a deep frown. “Your stuff,” he said, sounding reserved as he dropped it into Bucky’s outstretched hands, shaking his head. “Real disappointed in you, Barnes.”

Yeah, well. Who wasn’t?

Lemar turned and jogged off to catch up with Walker. Bucky didn’t move as he watched them go, waiting for the collar to give him any signal that Walker had changed his mind about leaving the restrictions off. It stayed quiet against his tender skin.

Fuck.

“Not a problem,” Sam said under his breath, belatedly responding to Walker. He looked at Bucky, not exactly seeming any more pleased with him than Walker and Lemar had been. “Tell me you’ve got something more than a name and a bunch of grandstanding.”

“Maybe,” Bucky said distractedly, eyes still on the path Walker was taking, unwilling to move just yet.

“Hey, forget about him,” Sam said. “He’s gone.”

If only that was true in the way Sam meant. Bucky swallowed again just to feel the metal press harder into his throat, double checking it wasn’t active; he nearly raised his right hand for additional confirmation, but Sam was still there.

Walker and Lemar rounded a corner and moved out of sight, and only then did Bucky shake out his shoulders as a shudder ran through him. “Let’s go.” He turned, ready to get out of his damn uniform and back into his own clothes, then stopped as a hand came to rest against his vibranium arm.

He froze, then turned to Sam. Looked into his eyes. He could do that, now. Could have always done it, if his brain hadn’t taken him into a paranoid self-preservation mode so deep it had felt like any wrong move would teleport him back to the black site.

“I need you to tell me something right now,” Sam said, and even though he was holding Bucky he was keeping his torso well away. Sam sighed through his nose, dropping his hand and stepping back, lengthening the space between them. “You gonna actually explain things as we do this or just start dragging me along for weird shit again without communication?”

Both, Bucky thought. He double checked that no one was around to listen in on them before he answered. “You heard what Isaiah said. HYDRA had access to him while he was locked up. We need someone that knows all their secrets.”

“That someone isn’t you?” Sam asked.

“I was a Winter Soldier, Sam. I knew what they wanted me to know, and that didn’t tend to involve anything outside of an active mission. And after I lost the fight with Isaiah I… wasn’t exactly being told a whole lot.” Or speaking. Or moving much. “I only found out what happened to him after I got out.”

“But not enough to help us now,” Sam deduced. “So find out more.”

Bucky shook his head, turning to walk down the street in the opposite direction from Walker, unable to help looking over his shoulder as he unzipped the bag Lemar had given him. “That’s what I’m doing. We don’t have time for another way.”

Sam fell into step beside him. “No, I know where you’re going with this, and we do if it means we’re not trading in that time for something that incredibly dangerous.”

“He’s a genius,” Bucky said - did Sam think he didn’t know the risks? That he didn’t remember that failure, knowing he’d tried running, pretending he could have even a parody of a normalcy, food and a bed and privacy and freedom, and it all had just led to even more people dying at his hands? “He was obsessed with HYDRA. We don’t have any other option.”

“So you’re just gonna go sit in a room with Zemo - Ze - mo - and give him another chance at probing into your mind? Isn’t he locked up in the same place they put you before he made you go on a murder rampage?”

“They transferred him from the Joint Counter Terrorist Centre after the Blip,” Bucky said, keeping his voice flat. He found his phone in the bag’s contents, and the rest of his clothes, along with an assortment of snacks and protein bars he knew were courtesy of Lemar. He grabbed the phone, intending on checking it for tampering. “Staffing issues. He’s been held in an isolation ward at the Berlin Correctional Facility ever since.”

“Oh, so at least things won’t be awkward for you,” Sam said, a thread of resignation in his sarcasm as they came to a stop at a crosswalk and he casually held a hand out to stop Bucky from jaywalking before turning to the pole next to them. “We’re heading back to Germany, then. I guess I should be glad they didn’t haul him to the Raft. The last thing I need is to risk running into Ross. Did you hear there’s rumblings of him trying to run for president?”

Bucky paused with his phone in his hand, looking at Sam sharply as his stomach did its best to plummet through the sidewalk, but Sam was too busy pressing the button on the pole next to them with the heel of his hand to activate the walk signal to notice.

No. No, Bucky hadn’t heard anything about that. He clenched his jaw as the potential for that future solidified in his mind. Of course. Why the hell not?

“Wonder what kind of world that would be,” Sam mused darkly, while Bucky quietly contemplated maybe throwing himself into the minimal amounts of early-morning traffic and seeing if he could test the strained limits of the serum.

Across the street, the light changed, giving them the signal to walk. Bucky opened up his phone and saw a recently delivered text.

Check in at 1200 and 2200 EDT.

Walker. Bucky deleted the text and quickly placed the phone into his pocket before Sam could notice.

“Okay,” Sam said, visibly gearing himself up with a nod, the argument finally faded from his expression as he fully agreed to Bucky’s plan. Or at least, the parts he knew about. “Let’s go see Zemo.”

Bucky nodded back in grim determination. He followed Sam as he crossed the road, his borrowed time extended once again.

But not indefinitely.

Chapter Text

John’s phone sat inactive on the table in front of him, next to his steaming cup of coffee and his half-eaten breakfast sandwich at a cafe just outside the base they’d camped at the night before. He stared at the screen, shoulders hunched up around his ears as the distant chatter of patrons and the shop’s slow but bright piano music filled the interior, a small knot of tension in his stomach while he waited to hear from anyone on what his next step should be. Langley had offered up only crumbs; after the destruction of their top of the line surveillance drone by Karli Morgenthau, they were forced to make due with the slow route.

A few people had excitedly asked for his autograph when he’d arrived, but even that hadn’t been enough to cheer him up. Especially when he thought he’d caught a couple of the patrons looking distinctly unhappy at his arrival. They’d seen themselves out without comment or confrontation, but something about their faces, the judgment they didn’t express with anything but their eyes, had stung sharply.

Lemar had noticed his response. “They’re probably just bugged by all the noise,” he’d said.

Because John had accepted becoming Captain America in hopes that he would bug people.

It didn’t help that he’d only been able to sleep for about five hours the night before. He took advantage of base supplies when he woke, creatine loading and hydrating in case he was called out and didn’t get another chance. But all along his frustration simmered low, and he couldn’t seem to shake it as he thought about the night before.

He’d really tried to make it work with Sam and Bucky, but it was clear that they couldn’t move past their own problems for the greater good. They couldn’t see that, serum or not, John was their best option to lead their mission. He hadn’t been awarded the most honorable role a soldier could ever be appointed on a fluke.

So John had pulled rank. He still remembered the way Bucky’s eyes had hardened in response; it had been the same stare he’d given John after the inhibitory device’s subduing protocol had been deactivated the night they’d met. It made John wonder just how much Bucky had been hiding from him.

Didn’t Bucky get it? He was lucky he’d been assigned to John’s side - John had seen what kind of hard-asses their line of work could produce. He could have ended up with someone else - someone who wouldn’t see the opportunity in giving Bucky the slack to be the vital resource he was, or give him incredible allowances beyond the ones the government had instated after all of the terrible things he’d done. Especially with the serum, which wouldn’t ever spontaneously evaporate like the brainwashing.

Keeping oversight on Bucky’s actions was just common sense, especially now that they were seeing firsthand what kind of chaos people with the serum could cause if they took it without the best intentions. John wouldn’t have needed to apply any restrictions to Bucky in the first place if he hadn’t started acting out. He had a history of being a dangerous criminal, what did he think was going to happen if he started going against Captain America? They had a job to do; schoolyard disagreements over what friends to side with was never going to fly, especially when Bucky looked like he wasn’t above breaking the law without consulting John to get what he wanted.

And John had just as much responsibility to utilize Bucky as he did the shield. If someone high up in the government started to analyze how he was handling either of those situations, and decided they didn’t like what they saw…

The piano music ended and another one started up, same as the last one but with some kind of annoying hollow tapping sound threading through it, like the ticking countdown of a clock. The phone was still where it was, idle and silent. And somewhere out there, enhanced revolutionaries were gearing up for their next move. Their next hit.

The shield rested heavy against John’s back. He wasn’t going to take it off again until they got the signal for…whatever they got the signal for.

“They call you back?”

John looked up as Lemar took his seat across from him, back from his trip to the restroom. The tension in John’s stomach went another notch tighter.

Lemar sighed, putting his forearms on the table. “Nothing, huh?”

John dropped his eyes, reaching for his coffee cup. “They know the route they were taking; they just need to figure out how far out they actually went. The Flag Smashers might be enhanced, but they can’t make three giant trucks disobey the laws of physics.”

Lemar looked at the phone pointedly, then back at John’s face. “You still thinking about Barnes and Wilson?”

“I just don’t get it,” John said, shaking his head. “They were Cap’s wingmen.”

“I agree they’re crazy for dropping the opportunity to work directly alongside you,” Lemar said. “But Barnes agreed to still report in, right?”

Not exactly. John had gotten no response to his text. He didn’t like the way that made him feel.

“And you can still track him through his parole device,” Lemar added. “Where’s he at now?”

John brought the surveillance app up on his phone. “Over the Atlantic.”

“Could check their destination,” Lemar suggested.

“He knows he needs to report in,” John said, putting down his phone. The annoying piano music was still going - what even was that instrument going alongside it? It sounded like the irritating one-note cousin of the xylophone. “They’re not going on anything better than we are; they’re probably just heading back to Munich, and we already have people installed in that warehouse.”

Lemar nodded, then his brow pinched. “So, just taking our time. Waiting for something to come up.” He waited a beat. “What are you going to do if Barnes doesn’t report in?”

“If Bucky cares at all about the safety of this country, he’ll report in,” John said solemnly. “When I talked to Cole about the assignment, he said Bucky wanted to earn his pardon with all of his heart.”

“Cole said that?” Lemar asked, brows raising. “He’s probably right. I bet you they come back as soon as they realize they’re not getting anywhere without us.”

“If they do, I might not be as polite,” John said lowly. His phone began ringing; he grasped at it so quickly a couple of the patrons turned in startlement as he answered. “John Walker. Captain America.”

“Captain,” a voice on the other side said. “We’ve got information on the location Karli Morgenthau went to ground after her latest strike.”

John sat up straighter. Finally. “Let’s hear it.”

The air was full of razor blades. They dragged themselves down and scoured the tissues of Bucky’s throat, piling into his lungs, while his eyes refused to open, his ears processing distant sounds but his limbs unwilling to move, his mind unable to hold onto its own thoughts. Rubber parted his aching jaw, the breaths he could take coming in thin, reedy pulls of air through his nostrils that couldn’t satisfy his oxygen-starved body.

The time was unknowable, but the serum did its work to pull him back all the same, dragging him fully into that hell of pain and confusion. When he opened bleary, burning eyes, there was a hulking shadow awaiting him, bolted into the ground and releasing a hum that sent his overtaxed body into a severe state of dread and a survival mode it couldn’t make use of; as he slowly moved his gaze upwards the chair’s halo crackled with energy, sparks stretching visibly along the ends of the crown. His heart took up an erratic pace as he stretched his arms out, vibranium and flesh, and tried to move the agonized lump of meat that was his own body to get away from it.

“Barnes, Stay.”

He wanted to ignore the order. He wanted to get up and run. He needed to.

He collapsed where he was, face pressed into the floor, body shaking violently, teeth digging into the bite guard. He couldn’t take another shock. Had they even put him back in his cell overnight, or was this the same session? He tried to follow that line of thinking but he lost his grasp, too weak and in too much pain to make sense of anything.

The chair was still crackling with energy. The collar was buzzing against the tender skin of his neck, ready to ramp up.

There was movement, and then someone crouched next to him. A hand gripped at his face, jerking his head around so roughly his upper body lurched with it. He felt his muscles seize in frantic expectation but it was only his own response; the collar hadn’t gone off at perceived disobedience of the Stay order.

Goddard stared him down, nails digging roughly into Bucky’s skin, mouth stretched in amusement.

“Get in the fucking chair, Barnes.”

He couldn’t. The collar would go off again but he couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t-

Bucky jolted awake on a rumbling floor, swallowing heavily with a swooping feeling of terror that seemed to make even his bones shudder as he cast his eyes about. No chair. No mind wiping that could rewire his every belief and turn him back into an obedient killing machine.

Not real. Not real.

Not this time.

Not exactly.

He brought his full attention to the thing around his neck, which…wasn’t buzzing, or ready to bring him to heel. He carefully kept still despite that, swallowing again and again to check that he could, then after another minute, finally believed it enough that he gave himself permission to bring himself further back to reality.

He was out of Walker’s uniform and back in his own clothes, with a fresh turtleneck covering the collar, a thin hoodie, his jacket and pants. He was on a plane to Berlin with Sam, about to meet with Zemo for more information about where they might find a lead to the origin of the serum. After they’d boarded, he’d stuffed three of the dry protein bars Lemar had left him down his sore throat before he’d nodded off for the first time in days, taking the floor because even the concept of keeping himself on a bench while he slept had made his hackles raise.

He remembered that. And remembered Walker from the night before, the text outlining the specifics of Bucky’s leash, the consequences of the confrontation that had led to their split. He also remembered the terrible therapy session with Sam and Dr. Raynor, where he’d let his feelings out - something he could never walk back, even if he wanted to. He remembered his panic in the bathroom, and the reason he’d been broken down, all those seemingly endless hours in a holding cell having his mind and body torn apart while waiting for the sentence that would mean he was dragged off to worse.

And the reason all of that had happened, why he was on that plane with Sam, about to plunge into an interaction with an extremely intelligent and dangerous criminal who knew HYDRA and super soldiers and the Avengers inside and out - Isaiah. The source of the new serum.

Okay. Everything was still in its place in his brain. That meant he could turn his attention to the next problem.

He checked on Sam, first. Sam had taken one of the benches along the side of the cabin, an arm pillowed behind his head, dressed in a soft-looking shirt and jeans, his jacket slung over the bench near his feet. His eyes were closed but there were tense lines on his forehead, and his breathing hadn’t evened out with sleep. But he hadn’t noticed Bucky was awake. Hadn’t seen him panicking.

Another win. Slowly, Bucky pulled himself into a sitting position, bracing his back against a nearby crate and placing himself out of sight as he tried to get a handle on his breathing, keep things quiet while his heart continued to pound in his ears and the sweat began to dry on his skin.

He reached into his pocket for his phone, checking the time and doing some rough calculations in his head to assess how long he’d been out and how long they had left until they touched down in Germany. A few hours was the answer to the first part, which meant more than a few hours to answer the second.

Dr. Raynor would have something snarky to say about that little time spent asleep, and probably tell him that he had to seriously work at it for his own mental and physical health. But Dr. Raynor hadn’t known that every night, when he wasn’t being tormented by nightmares, he was wide awake and waiting for someone to break down his door while he was helpless to fight them off.

That last reason wasn’t the case, now. Just good old nightmares. He knew he could have used another few hours to speed the time that he finished recovering from damage that the collar had done to him the previous day, but that wasn’t going to happen.

A gurgling noise sounded from across the cabin and drew his attention. He craned his neck around the side of the crate just in time to see Sam lift his head up and look at his own stomach, then drop his head back down and glare at the ceiling of the cabin, that pinch on his brow deepening as he shook his head.

Bucky looked towards his pack, which was sitting beneath the bench across from him. He moved forward and grabbed it, looking inside; he hadn’t bothered to repack the uniform, leaving it back at the base where he’d changed, so it was easy to tally the meager contents. Three bars left. Enough for him to eat and feel less like his stomach was clawing itself out through his abdomen for another half a day, or…

He reached in for one, the wrapper crinkling in his grip. Paused. Grabbed a second. Then he set the pack down and got to his feet.

Sam looked over at him sharply as he approached, eyes fluttering as he sighed. “You’re awake,” he noted softly, looking Bucky over, while Bucky himself noted the puffiness beneath Sam's eyes and the dull cast to his skin. “You think of something?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, then tossed the protein bars right onto Sam, catching the flinch of surprise as they landed solidly on his upper chest before Bucky turned back around and crossed the cabin, taking a seat on the bench opposite.

Sam peered at the bars, grabbing them and pulling himself up, using one hand and his teeth to rip the packaging on one. “Thanks,” he said, taking a bite. “Should have grabbed something back at base, but I wasn’t feeling too hungry at that point.”

Because he’d been upset. And now he was hungry enough that it was something else affecting his sleep. Bucky laced his hands in his lap and stared at the floor to the cabin, listening to the sounds of Sam chewing and telling himself to give himself until they landed before he ate the last bar in his possession.

“We’ll stop for something heartier when we land,” Sam said, then took another bite.

Bucky shook his head sharply. “We need to head straight to the prison.”

Sam jerked his head up, a flash of something in his eyes. His voice stayed low, but a firm edge encroached, tension meeting tension. “I hate to break it to you, but I’m not going to be my most efficient self operating off 400 calories for two whole days.”

Bucky lurched up, reaching into his bag for the last bar and tossing it across the plane so it landed squarely against Sam’s shoulder and clattered onto the bench between him and his jacket.

Sam looked over at the bar in irritation. “Oh yeah,” he said dryly. “That’ll be a big help.”

Bucky slammed back down. “We can’t waste time.”

Sam glanced at him sideways, then set the empty wrapper against his thigh. Something warning filled his tone. “Is this a problem with me or an actual problem with the mission? Because I thought we both agreed to table all of that so we could focus and get things moving.”

Bucky ground his jaw at the idea that what Sam was referencing with that first option could ever be untangled from everything else. He knew what answer would keep things going, though. “It’s not you,” he said, grudgingly.

Sam nodded in acknowledgment, the heat in his eyes dialing back but his tone staying firm. “Okay. So then listen to this: I know you’re serum-enhanced and all that, but if you really want me to do this with you? I’m going to need you to start making the bare minimum of concessions. Twenty minutes isn’t going to make a whole lot of difference.”

Twenty minutes of Walker knowing exactly where they were while they made no moves to change location was exactly twenty minutes too long. Bucky was already feeling agitated knowing he would be inside the prison in one place long enough that Walker would eventually figure out what he was doing even if he didn’t update him, right down to Bucky’s location near Zemo’s cell. That if Walker didn’t like what he saw, he might activate the Recall on the collar.

Bucky knew the collar wouldn’t give a good goddamn even if he had to swim across the entirety of the Atlantic Ocean to return to handler.

But he needed to keep Sam with him on this. Sam, who had been Steve's actual choice. Who had a chance of finishing things if Bucky couldn't.

“Five minutes,” Bucky said, then ground his teeth again at the thought.

“Wow, cool, thanks,” Sam said sarcastically, starting to open up the second bar. “Ten. And I’ll grab you something, since you let me have these.” The barest of smiles pulled the edge of his lip. “I know Steve could carb load like there was no tomorrow. Assuming that’s the same with you.”

So he cared about Steve’s preferred eating habits enough to apply them to Bucky, but not enough about Steve’s wants to take the shield. Perfect.

Bucky’s stomach agreed with the sentiment, though, and all that hunger was feeding into his mind’s stress levels about Walker and his ongoing anger about the situation with the shield. He was in unknown territory and he didn’t know how long he was going to have before it all came crashing down. All he could do was get Sam as far along that trail as he could before he was taken out of the search, shield or no shield.

And some part of him didn’t want to risk the past anti-food settings of the collar reverting at a moment’s notice. If he received a shock, that would delay them even more. It would also redamage his throat, which might lead to more questions. Sam hadn’t said anything about the way Bucky had sounded after his brief incarceration, and Bucky wasn’t about to bring it up.

He heard a sigh of discontent from the other side of the plane, but he didn’t want to respond directly to Sam’s last statement, knowing it would just drag him down another path to anger and frustration. After a few minutes, Sam swung his legs back up onto the bench and closed his eyes.

Bucky took out his phone a while later, examining it again. They were set to land about forty minutes after Walker’s ordered check in; they’d be too high from any towers for cell service, and Bucky’s phone didn’t support the kind of apps that could be connected to Wi-Fi for messaging even if he’d had the mind to do it.

He could have texted Walker before they’d left, maybe, but he hadn’t wanted to risk pissing him off that soon. And now, either Walker was going to be vindictive enough to do what he’d told Bucky he wouldn’t, or he’d stay true to his word and not jump on making Bucky pay for his delayed compliance.

But maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe, like the phone, the collar couldn’t get a signal that high up in the air.

And maybe Bucky should stop the wishful thinking.

His stomach growled. He looked down at it, tried to tell himself he didn’t need food that badly, that true cognitive decline and hindrance of his physical levels on substandard calories with the serum wouldn’t occur for days.

But, fuck, he was already going to be at least forty minutes late reporting to Walker. And Sam getting both of them food would give him a chance to get in contact with Walker without Sam knowing. If Walker didn’t like any of his excuses, well… what was one more strike against him?

Sam’s breathing evened out. Bucky watched him sleep under the dim lighting of the cabin, noting all the subtle signs of unhappiness and tension that had gone away now that Sam wasn’t conscious, and decided he didn’t entirely regret handing over those bars.

Chapter Text

“Bucky, I explicitly wanted a call an hour ago.”

“I was on a plane,” Bucky said to Walker, carefully moderating his tone. He paced on a sidewalk in Berlin with his phone pressed to his ear, glancing back to the sandwich shop where he’d left Sam to make sure he wasn’t finished picking up their food before turning away again. In his other hand was a pen he’d surreptitiously swiped after they’d landed; he rolled it around between gloved fingers. “My phone doesn’t connect to WiFi. I won’t be able to consistently get in contact.”

“Your phone doesn’t…how in the hell did you even find a model like that?”

“I’m calling now,” Bucky said, pausing as he stepped away from a nearby pedestrian and into the street so they wouldn’t overhear him, fluidly retaking the sidewalk once they passed. “We slept and now we’re getting lunch. We’re still looking for a lead.” Not even a lie, at that point in time. He just knew for certain that Zemo would have one.

“I knew Sam’s excuse about having a lack of obstacles from regulations would deliver squat,” Walker said vindictively, and Bucky set his jaw tight at the criticism. “You know things are just going to get worse the longer this gets delayed.”

“We’re working on it,” Bucky insisted.

“Eight super soldiers, Bucky. Eight.”

Bucky felt his face spasm; eight supersoldiers at least from a serum that had a high probability of a connection to HYDRA. He didn’t need a reminder of the significance when it was driving his every action. “I know.”

A beat of silence, and then Walker came back with even more frustration in his voice. “Okay, well, fine. This has been extremely unhelpful,” he said, like it wasn’t his decision that Bucky was contacting him before they’d done anything fruitful. “Lemar and I will be back on that side of the world soon enough.” Bucky took that in, knowing that if Walker fully believed in whatever trail he was following at that point, he wouldn’t be so concerned about Sam and Bucky’s. It also meant that Walker was effectively starting a chase a lot earlier than Bucky had expected, even if he wasn’t aware of the need for it yet. “Report in nine hours. Early or on time. That’s an order.”

Walker hung up without another word. Bucky lowered the phone and stared at it, a low smolder building in his chest as he instinctively waited for a buzz at his neck. The collar had definitely heard that last part.

Nothing happened. It looked like his excuses were still working, even if Walker was unhappy with him. But he knew if he tested being late again, the collar was probably going to enact a punishment, all conditions having been dropped or not. Walker might not even be aware that he’d triggered it.

But there was a chance he was aware, and had intended it. And if Bucky called him to double check…

He put the phone away, swallowing down against his anger, the uncertainty of where he stood. He knew he needed to keep pressing at those boundaries if he was going to have a hope of doing what he had to do. He’d deal with the future when it arrived.

He looked back in the direction that would take him back to the sandwich shop, and the next hurdle on his list of challenges. Sam was going to be upset with what they needed to do to complete Bucky’s plan, and Bucky couldn’t communicate the steps for it yet, or there would be unnecessary stalling before he could bring Sam around, or worse - a complete backing out.

And he needed Sam, shield or-

He needed Sam.

Sam was one of the only people in the world that had managed to survive multiple encounters with super soldiers, and had been close friends with one for years. Bucky needed what Steve had seen in him, what Bucky had thought he’d seen, before things hadn’t turned out the way either of them had expected.

He also needed Zemo, though now the reasoning for that would be twofold. The first was to find out through Zemo’s extensive knowledge of HYDRA and unwavering dedication to his beliefs, including his convenient hatred of the existence of super soldiers, exactly where the serum was coming from. The second, was to have a member on their team that would have the skill set and resources to help keep them one step ahead of Walker - and for that, he would have to have the understanding that they needed to stay one step ahead of Walker at all costs, for as long as possible.

And to make sure of that…

Bucky sucked in a long breath through his nose before he finished that thought, pressing his tongue so hard into his cheek that the band of tissue holding it to the floor of his mouth twinged with sharp pain, all too aware that the ticking clock had started again.

Nine hours. He could do a lot in nine hours. Especially when he’d already started putting things into motion.

He pulled out Steve’s notebook and uncapped the pen.

All things considered, Sam felt better than expected when they landed. About their mission, at least.

He wasn’t thrilled about the ongoing situation between him and Bucky, and he was definitely heading back to Baltimore to pay a visit to Isaiah as soon as he had the chance, but it felt like anything at that point was going to be better than the encounters he’d had the previous day. There was also a lingering ache clinging to his head, and his gut was still filled with that discordant roiling despite his efforts to tell it to knock it the hell off, because they had super soldiers to find.

Having a game plan, knowing where they were heading, was at least something. Even if that something was probably not entirely too cheery about the reason he’d been locked up in a German prison under security so tight it was just a step down from the deep dark cell quarters of the Raft.

Sam hadn’t exactly been too thrilled with his own short stint on the Raft or the years spent being a fugitive thanks to the things they’d needed to do to stop Zemo. But he’d had enough time to think things through on the plane ride, and he was as ready as ever to endure a conversation with the anti-Avengers zealot that had successfully split them up, all while hoping that he’d be a little more zeroed in on the idea of stopping a group of super soldiers causing worldwide problems than with messing with Sam and Bucky, his literal previous targets.

But first, food.

Sam found a place a couple miles from their destination that served up some hearty sandwiches; grabbed one for himself and two for Bucky, because the more he’d thought about it, the more he’d realized he hadn’t seen Bucky actually eat anything except those protein bars in the few days they’d been together, and it was starting to bother him. Super soldier endurance or not, Bucky couldn’t just run off air - his body needed something to fuel up his capacity for being his annoying self. That was just tactics; even on the run with Steve and Natasha, they’d known when to move, and when to adequately refuel to make sure they could keep moving. A hungry ally raised the risk for everyone.

Just under ten minutes after heading into the sandwich shop, Sam stepped back out with a paper bag in hand, fragrant with honey mustard mayo and pulled turkey, pausing when he didn’t immediately see Bucky. Slowly, he crossed onto the sidewalk, that now-familiar feeling of frustration flaring anew as he looked up and down the street for several seconds with no sign. If Bucky had gotten impatient enough to run off to go to the damn prison without him…

But he saw Bucky turn a corner down the street just ten seconds later, quick steps bringing him in a beeline back towards the front of the shop, jacket clinging to his rigid posture and squinting in the sunlight, gloved hands closed tight. “Thought you’d left without me,” Sam said, relaxing a little as he reached into the bag and held out a paper-wrapped sandwich.

“Had to go for a walk,” Bucky said as he eyed the offered food, his voice well on its way to sounding back to normal after the odd gravelliness that had randomly sprung up the day before.

And how many crimes did you commit in those nine minutes, Sam wanted to joke, even with that stiffness he could see sticking to Bucky’s shoulders, but he also didn’t want them going into their next step freshly angry. If there was one thing he knew Zemo would narrow in on, it would be to see them at odds even without him digging into their histories.

And maybe their plane ride and his time in the sandwich shop without Bucky had given him space to relax and regroup in a way he hadn’t realized he’d needed. It reminded him of a habit he’d developed on the run with Steve and Natasha; they took those quiet moments where they could, because something was always going to come about to throw them into the next whirlwind of going after bad guys or dodging the people who thought the bad guys were them and wanted them buried for it.

He was extremely glad that part of his life was over, even if he didn’t regret making the call that had helped make it happen in the first place, and just the thought of those times made him miss Natasha and Steve with such a fond and fierce longing his brain had trouble processing the fact that they were gone all over again.

His added bonus for all of those choices and the continued absence of his closest friends was apparently going to be the ability to experience standing outside on a sidewalk in Berlin on a cool early afternoon, feeling increasingly weird and exasperated as Bucky made no move to take a sandwich from him, and wondering if he should just pack it back in the bag and call this a loss for him and another point towards the ongoing antagonism he was experiencing and a further deepening of his conviction to keep going solo just as soon as they finished the damn mission.

“This one’s yours, in case me holding it out to your face is not clear enough,” Sam said instead, shaking the paper-wrapped sandwich, willing Bucky to just take it already.

Bucky’s nostrils flared, and finally, he seemed to loosen up a little. Then, miracle of miracles, he reached up and grabbed the sandwich, pulling the wrapping off in one smooth movement and not even checking what was in it before he dug in, cheeks bulging as he began to chew. No thank you after he was done swallowing his first massive bite, but those were definitely the actions of a hungry man. Sam felt a little better about his decision, reaching for his own meal and taking it in at a much more normal, not-about-to-choke-himself-to-death-in-the-streets-of-Germany pace. He kept another verbal prod quiet, this one about how the Task Force had relied too hard on bullets to snag Bucky when they probably could have just lured him out and caught him with a big cardboard box propped up by a stick with a burger stashed beneath it. Hell, maybe Sam should have tried it, all those months he’d spent tracking a ghost in the wind after they’d stopped Project Insight.

They headed towards the prison, the two of them keeping quiet while they ate. Bucky only paused for a moment when Sam held out the second sandwich just as he finished his last bite of the first. He slid his hand out to take it without too much hesitation, even finally uttered a quiet “Thanks,” before he continued to chow down, that time a little less with the frenzy of a feeding shark.

It was the most peaceful interaction they’d had yet. Sam was almost wishing he’d grabbed five more sandwiches, just to see how long he could make it last, but his wallet wouldn’t have been thrilled with that expense.

Then he was down to his last couple bites, anyway, and the Berlin Correctional Facility was no longer a distant building but an imminent encounter.

They tossed their wrappers on the way, and without food to occupy him Bucky started dividing his attention between the prison, the people around them, and Sam. But that intense pressure he’d carried around with him when they’d started working together wasn’t quite present to the same degree.

That was proven further when they caught a break in the people around them and Bucky licked his lips before he asked, “Any opinions on the line of questioning?”

“For Zemo?” Sam checked, and got a hasty nod in response, a swallow moving Bucky’s throat beneath the ever-present turtleneck. “I’d say the less we talk, the better. Doesn’t give him as many chances to screw with us, which you know he’s going to love doing. He starts any monologues, we shut it down, or we don’t respond. Anyway, I get the feeling he’d like figuring things out on his own.”

Bucky nodded again, consideringly, then turned his eyes forward as they neared the prison. Some tension re-entered his posture when they crossed the entrance, but he still took the lead in heading to the front desk, steps sure and back straight as he clocked the people in the room without severely bristling at everyone within twenty feet. He even took the initiative and spoke in German with the people manning the counter, telling them who they were and what they were there to do, keeping his tone assertive but polite.

While Sam waited, he noted another good thing about his day in Berlin: he didn’t have to deal with posters celebrating Walker-as-Cap plastered everywhere on the walls. Or have a risk of being dragged into an interrogation room for an impromptu and extremely painful therapy session.

At that thought, Bucky’s snarled words from the day before sounded in his mind in a crystal clear recollection that sent a stab through his chest before he could stop them.

Maybe he was wrong about you all along!

Right. In the barest semblance of companionability he’d almost forgotten all that had happened. He had a feeling that particular tirade would be randomly showing up in his head unbidden for a while to come.

Squash it, he thought. Keep going.

A single officer arrived for their escort about then, which thankfully gave Sam something else to focus on. As they followed the guard through the halls, Sam took comfort in the fact that Zemo had successfully been held for years and years; whatever security they had on him, it was good, and it worked on someone that had managed to trick literally the entire world into an all-out manhunt. They’d be as safe as they could be while heading in - physically, at least. Psychologically, well…Sam was ready for conflict with Zemo to more than make up for Bucky’s slow transition into someone making use of his allyship without extremely consistent inflammatory behavior. Steve had told Sam all about Zemo’s motivations and hatred, the calculating way he’d gone about his plan to hit the Avengers where it hurt.

They hadn’t reached the cell yet when Bucky asked for privacy from the officer, and instead of taking another moment to go over a plan for the type of questions they would need to ask or angles to take, said to Sam, “I’m gonna go in alone.”

Sam turned to him with a frown, not missing the fact that Bucky had decided now, at the last minute, was going to be the time he communicated his true plan, despite Sam’s previous conditions to their team up. He spoke sharply, his body instinctively waiting for another escalation now that it was used to the frequency of their arguments. “Why?”

Bucky kept his tone calm, reasoning, and his eyes refused to break contact with Sam’s. “Cause you’re an Avenger; you know how he feels about that.”

Sam rolled his eyes; Bucky was being nicer about things at that moment but it looked like he was considering taking up peddling bullshit as a replacement. “Yeah, and the reason I know about that is because he broke into a high security prison and used you to throw me across the room by my face. That’s not the kind of intro that starts deep friendships. And you know you’re not exactly completely exempt from the Avenger label these days.”

“He was obsessed with HYDRA,” Bucky said, like that was a point to his advantage, and not another gigantic red flag to his plan when HYDRA had been so obsessed with Bucky they’d erased almost everything he was. “We have a history. Trust me. I got it.”

Then Bucky was turning on his heel and heading down the corridor without waiting for Sam to so much as speak a word of agreement.

Sam hung back, that trust me hanging with him, right beside the memory of the look in Bucky’s eyes as he’d said it, along with that edge in his voice - a low certainty, not completely devoid of desperation, but the fact that he’d actually checked with Sam on how he thought their interactions with Zemo should go before he’d pulled his reasoning for leaving Sam behind out of his ass...maybe that wasn’t nothing, even if it didn’t exactly erase the sting of the last few days.

Shit. Sam didn’t like it, but he stayed back in the hallway, watching white walls, hoping Bucky came back with something good.

At least it meant he didn’t have to personally deal with Zemo on top of everything else. The bright side of things really just kept piling up for him.

Bucky entered the viewing area for Zemo’s cell, coming to a stop in front of the reinforced clear divide. The trigger words came to him first; a low chant from his one-time handler’s mouth as Zemo rose from his cot, stepping forward in a calculated taunt while he recited the sequence that had once preceded the Winter Soldier’s descent into complete, unbreakable obedience.

Bucky had intentionally placed himself in a spot where the cell cameras wouldn’t clearly pick up his next action. “Those days are over,” he said, making himself steadily hold Zemo’s gaze as the words washed over him.

Then he reached up with his right hand and pulled down the fabric at the front of his neck.

Chapter Text

The person who entered Helmut Zemo’s isolated corner of the Berlin Correctional Facility was a most welcome change to his endless days of monotony.

James Buchanan Barnes, the former first Winter Soldier of HYDRA. A man who had attempted to disappear after his defection from said organization and live out the rest of his life nameless and unknown, until Zemo had flushed him from hiding like an adept hunter seeking a clever fox.

Steve Rogers had been a man of few weak points for the type of overtaking Zemo had intended to apply to the leader of the Avengers, but in the end, his care for his old friend had been a plain and simple manipulation.

Zemo considered his actions during that time a full success, even though he had been denied his attempted immediate exit. It was somewhat of a comfort even considering his long sentence to know that death would come to him eventually all the same - he simply had to wait for it. And then, along with all else, the visions of the events that had driven him fully to his calling would finally, blessedly cease.

Yet his acceptance of the wait did not inform his appreciation for it. So it was that when his visitor appeared, he found a deep stirring as his mind was allowed to engage in an assessment and analysis that had for years been relegated to the prison guards, who were much less intellectually enriching.

Externally, there were a few obvious differences in James from their last meeting: he was notably thinner, and his hair was kept in a shorter, clean cut style, though he seemed to prefer as frequent a shaving schedule as Zemo was allowed to enjoy in his incarceration. His clothing was simple, but layered; the most peculiar aspect was a turtleneck, which rested beneath a shirt, which was worn beneath a jacket.

It was said that the trigger words had been removed from James’ head by the leaders of the nation of Wakanda. Zemo found they fell from his lips easily nonetheless; for even if James was successfully deprogrammed, one would not simply forget the words that had controlled nearly their every waking moment for decades upon decades.

And it was no small pleasure to imagine the words still held their sway. The wall of Zemo’s cell would not stand up to a vibranium limb. The guards and prisoners alike, however many responded, would not stand up to a super soldier’s reflexes. James could provide an adequate enough diversion while Zemo made his escape.

Such a daydream could not be sustained for long, but at least there was equal distraction to be found in reality.

James stood before Zemo’s cell unflinchingly, shaking his head in dismissal before Zemo had managed more than a few words. “Those days are over,” he said.

In the next instant, he had moved the fingers of his gloved hand up to delicately slide into the black stretch of fabric that covered his neck, pulling it down just enough to reveal a thin silver glimmer catching in the light.

Zemo moved forward, his interest piqued as he analyzed the strip of metal and the skin around it. Someone with no knowledge of super soldiers might be forgiven for assuming a mild reaction where the material pressed against the neck of the one wearing it, but Zemo knew better. James was recovering from an assault from an intense voltage that would have likely killed a normal man. Anything less, and it simply would not have left a mark on his flesh. The timing of the event was less certain, but if it had been a wound inflicted even a day prior and had only healed this much in all of that time, the potential for severe agonizing intensity in the attack increased. And since the cause appeared to have not been removed, that raised the likelihood of such an injury being a very deliberate application of a punishment more than enough in its strength to keep a super soldier neutralized.

And the particular method, to electrocute a man who had once been vigorously electrocuted repeatedly to keep him from even the capacity for thoughts of resisting his handlers’ commands… one had to wonder if the decision had been made more out of calculation or cruelty.

The situation was certainly interesting. The knowledge Zemo had received about James was that he had been granted a full pardon by America for the actions he had taken as a Winter Soldier; there had been no information of this additional parameter in his release, which meant it was not a detail openly advertised.

And James had shown him immediately upon their meeting.

A flurry of questions, theories, and conclusions made themselves known in Zemo’s mind. This was a particular stimulus he had not been afforded in a very long time; a puzzle to solve, and the chance to choose how his will would affect the world in a direct interaction.

It was a shame such an effort was doomed to be so limited. James’ visit had already brightened Zemo’s cell far more than the single casting of light afforded in the small window he had been granted.

James was standing out of sight of the cell cameras, which meant he wanted his revelation kept secret. Zemo allowed his eyes to venture up, meeting the stare of his visitor head on, noting the careful stillness, the coldness that attempted to wall him out of any meaningful analysis of James’ emotions. But Zemo could not be withstood by most men so easily. He had seen James’ eyes at a close proximity when he had activated the Winter Soldier programming; what he was viewing now did not look…entirely unfamiliar, in comparison.

Those days are over, James had said. And perhaps that was true, but in their place, something else had begun. An echo of a sharp glint pierced outward from the grey eyes on the other side of Zemo’s prison, refusing to be completely buried. The influence of the trigger words had been professionally and thoroughly removed, certainly, but whatever was left…the precise form of it ached to be unraveled. Unveiled. Just as the mystery of the deceivingly delicate-looking band of metal that clutched at James’ throat.

The hand pulled fabric upwards and then fell, ending Zemo’s review, though now the location of the collar and its position upon James’ throat was emblazoned in his mind. As Zemo looked closer, he noted that it had been crafted with enough subtlety that no hint of its presence could be found in the fabric covering James’ neck.

He glanced up once more to meet that stony gaze. “This world certainly knows how to contain those it disagrees with,” he said, acknowledging the reveal without directly mentioning what he had been shown. “But why should they not? After all, this new you… I believe something is still in there. It only makes sense that others would feel the same.”

No words answered his, either to deny or defend. The expression of the man facing him remained hard. A valiant attempt to conceal what they both knew, and James’ feelings surrounding it.

“Still, they must be somewhat satisfied with your progress,” Zemo continued. He gave a solemn indication of his own room, which James was welcome to visit, and Zemo was never permitted to leave. “You are allowed the chance to move freely through the world once more. And at least you were not conscious for most of your imprisonment with HYDRA.”

There was another response, and its softness did not blunt the anger contained within it. “That time wasn’t exactly a picnic.”

Zemo had a recollection of the sounds James had made as he was pulled back to the inevitability of his programming: the scream, and the heavy impact of metal backed by several tons of force as it pounded against his reinforced prison. James had attempted a life of solitude, away from the Avengers and HYDRA, before Zemo had forced him from it and bent him to his will, fueled by his own memories of foregoing sleep and food and rest for days on end, only for his search to end in his bloodied hands uncovering the truth of the very hell he had furiously denied in its onset.

Perhaps the only thing worse than a super soldier was a super soldier controlled by those with supremacist ideals. Zemo did not count himself amongst them, as his only interest had been in choosing the most effective method for a dismantling of the Avengers and preventing more large-scale catastrophes to the world from their selfishly reckless heroics, and do for others what had not been done for him before it was too late. But he could appreciate the harm he had caused in mimicking such people while pursuing his goal.

“For what it’s worth, I am sorry,” Zemo said, intent on letting James know at least that. “It was never personal. You were simply a means to a necessary end.” One he would take again, fully willingly and with just as much confidence in its necessity, if not more, should time revert itself. Though he would assuredly change the quickness with which he removed himself from the conflict, and save himself the years of monotonous confinement and continued regret.

James dropped his eyes and took a silent breath. And in the next few minutes, as he spoke again, Zemo was made cognizant of several critical facts.

Someone had developed a new super soldier serum, in possibly limitless amounts, potentiating the infiltration of an army of enhanced humans and their sway upon the world. A horror that they both intimately understood could not under any circumstances come to pass.

James believed there was a thread connecting the situation to HYDRA, and thus was incredibly, deeply motivated to discover the identity of the perpetrator. He had sought out Zemo for information as one would seek salvation, and was willing to do what most would believe unreasonable to ensure he received such help.

And finally, Zemo’s initial assessment of his own ability to influence the world directly was about to undergo an immediate, tremendous, and much-needed change.

He simply had to decide what he wished to do with such an opportunity.

His escape was executed perfectly. James had known exactly where to apply pressure and yet leave no undeniable trace of himself in the proceedings. There was notably less bloodshed than Zemo had expected from the former Fist of HYDRA, but of course, not a complete lack of violence or escalation of said violence. Zemo wondered how disappointing it had to be to James to not allow himself personal involvement in the skirmish of prisoners and guards that followed.

It was a glorious day outside as Zemo left his prison of years without interception or injury, free to move and continue moving in whatever direction he chose, to see more of the endless blue sky. He was not even beholden to follow where he knew James would be waiting - should he wish it, he could disappear into the wind, test whether or not whoever was holding the reins on James would attempt to send him on his own hunt, eventually. Perhaps Zemo would have even welcomed the intended outcome of that chase.

But he would not do any of that now that he possessed the knowledge that there were freely roaming super soldiers in need of elimination. The Avengers were gone or dispersed; they hardly needed another set to begin to form and inflict itself on the many rebuilding nations of the world.

Zemo found James outside of the garage housing his family’s collection of antique vehicles, slouched against a brick wall with the flat of his boot pressed to the surface. Zemo noted the disrespect with a fleeting but pointed glance, to which James did not react even though he’d surely noticed.

“Sam’s inside,” James said, one hand in his pocket and the other grasping a torch - one that Zemo recognized had been kept in the property’s emergency storage. “We split up to look for the lights.”

Zemo interpreted that James meant Sam Wilson, another Avenger who had been incredibly close to Steve Rogers. Zemo had been careful to consider his involvement in his plans, glad to have instigated the man’s capture by authorities. Of course, Steve Rogers had managed to release him after the most modest of sentences.

Zemo came to a stop, still enjoying the feeling of the sun on his shoulders and the afternoon breeze that carried with it the scent of dry grass from a bordering field. “I assume you have more you wish to say to me, now that we are not being watched.”

James stared at him coolly, his voice soft and even. “Sam doesn’t know about the device. I don’t want him to know.”

Zemo blinked. The surprises from James simply continued to pile up. “You do not trust him?”

“I trust him a hell of a lot more than I trust you,” James asserted. Zemo believed he was genuine in that, at least.

“So it is he who should not trust you,” Zemo casually concluded. “Hiding critical information at the expense of your ally in hopes it will simply go unnoticed; what an Avengers-like strategy you are engaging in.”

Silence, which stretched beneath that lingering, unblinking gaze. In the passing of those seconds, filled with nothing but the sound of distant birds, Zemo became more and more assured of the whispers of the Winter Soldier that yet clung to his liberator’s mind.

“Sam can’t know,” James repeated, the vowel of the last word low and gravelly.

Though the precise motivations for that reasoning remained yet unclear, Zemo was certain he would know the specifics in due time. “One would think you would have then chosen an alternate decision to allowing me to know it exists.”

“You would have found out about it eventually,” James said, his quiet combativeness warring with a brief edge of weariness. “And you need to know - if anything happens to it, or me, a lot of people will come to my last known location. And they won’t stop until they find out what happened.”

Thus interfering with their objective to stop the new gathering of unknown amounts of super soldiers in favor of a singular one, who was already hobbled. As Zemo continued to assess that steely stare, he realized something else with yet more surprise. “You are using this fact to threaten me.” James did not dispute his statement, brow drawn down. Zemo took the warning for what it was. “An odd choice, to show your teeth so soon after you bared your throat.”

“There’s a guy out there I figure would really enjoy putting you back behind bars,” James said with a hint of wryness. “He’s probably gonna know you escaped in less than a day.”

“He is your current handler, I presume.” Zemo craned his neck, narrowing his eyes pointedly at the black fabric over James’ throat. “Was he the one that administered your most recent punishment? It seemed quite brutal.”

James’ eyes glittered, his jaw clenched tight, a reflexive swallow forming. That was a confirmation. “I’m required to report in with updates on the mission. We need to stay ahead of him.”

There were two things of note in that statement: James did not assume himself fully capable of that task himself, but he had faith that Zemo would be. Which meant James’ believed his handler would not have the intelligence or the drive to match them despite regular correspondence.

Zemo could appreciate a man with enough self-awareness of his own limitations to do what needed to be done to account for them, even if it made him more certain than ever that what James had told him back at the correctional facility about his transference into his new self had not been precisely truthful.

“That should be no trouble, I have already signaled to organize our transport,” Zemo revealed, easily taking in the minor complication of a distant handler and immediately assessing half a dozen possibilities for their continued success in avoiding him, including an assumed generous level of tracking capability. He took a step towards James, his eyes going to the fabric still in place around his neck. “Now, about this collar. Does simple contact cause an issue, or…?”

“You’re not touching it,” James said, pushing off the wall and pulling his hand free of his pocket. An approach forward instead of a retreat, and yet another symbolic baring of his teeth. With the proximity Zemo was able to confirm a slight bulge in James’ pocket; he had been grasping at something within it. “It has an inbuilt artificial intelligence system that protects it from tampering.”

New technology. Not Zemo’s precise area of expertise, which meant he would have to know more before he made a choice on how to proceed in that area. “Surely there are ways around such a device. I understand the shocks must be an incredible deterrent to any of your own attempts, considering your history-“

“You’re not touching it,” James repeated, sharp with warning. His left hand was curling readily, his shoulders looking as if they wanted to rise and stiffen. But as in every previous time, he contained his obvious, deep-seated aggression. “Ever.”

Zemo gave a single nod, though his curiosity had only blossomed now that he had been allowed to know more. “Noted.” He spread his hands with a small smile, at ease in the face of James’ tension. “It will be our little secret.”

James sighed through his nose, the gaze he pinned Zemo with speaking volumes as to his skepticism of that statement.

Zemo allowed his hands to fall, tilting his head. “Does this mean you are confident there will be no instances where your handler would find the need to utilize it?”

“We agreed to split up,” James said.

“And if he decides that should no longer be the case?”

James performed a series of swallows, something on his face softening, resignation spilling like water over marble to occupy the space that had held his previous anger, all wrapped over the core of violence that he had verbally disowned. “Sam will take care of it,” he said vaguely. Though the words were calm, he might as well have been screaming with the same desperation he’d shown when trying to break himself free of his prison as the Winter Soldier’s activation sequence was recited. “I’m heading inside. Give me five minutes to talk to him before you come in.”

James slipped through the door, easily wandering in through the darkness. Had the action been a tactical retreat due to Zemo ever-nearing the true meat of him? James gave himself away with only the poorest of defenses, all the while insisting on the strictest of subterfuges towards his companion.

Interesting.

The minutes began to pass. Zemo tilted his head back and breathed in the fresh air, grateful for the opportunity to put the world to rights once more. When the first of the lights inside turned on, and the arguing started, loud enough to carry towards him, he found his smile growing.

This was certainly going to be an entertaining endeavor.

The dynamics of the situation threatened to change dramatically once Sam was involved.

Perhaps Zemo had entered a minute too early, and perhaps he had made that choice intentionally, but instead of those deliberate yet imperfect walls of stoicism, he found James speaking to Sam with an ease of emotional openness to a degree that he had not been expecting. James’ voice was raised, his body language exhibited stress in his quick movements to intercede when Zemo’s presence was noted by their third.

Sam was clearly very much not in favor of Zemo’s accompaniment, or James’ part in his freedom.

“You’re going back to prison,” Sam insisted furiously to Zemo, only held back by James from attempting to follow through on that with immediate action right then.

“We need him, Sam,” James said, staring at his companion with naked desperation.

“If I may,” Zemo began.

“NO!” the two of them shouted simultaneously.

Well, then. Zemo would await their acknowledgment of his vital contributions for a few moments longer.

“I told you that I needed you to let me know,” Sam said, rounding his anger fully upon James, in a tone that was well moderated yet hid nothing of his disapproval. “And you just keep pulling this shit again and again. It had to stop yesterday, Bucky, not when you felt like it. We’re not spies or assassins. You got that pardon for a reason, and now you’re just going to throw it all in the faces of the people that got you here?”

Something on James’ face formed - a small twitch, but for the Winter Soldier it may as well have been an outright, full-body flinch. “Sam-“

“No, listen.” Sam stepped closer, and James closed his mouth, his anxiety shining through his eyes but not the remainder of his body. There was no sign of possible offensive danger he’d shown Zemo just minutes before. “If this is who you really want to be, then fine. Do that. But don’t keep making it my problem, because you keeping me out of the loop like this just puts this whole mission in jeopardy.”

“You wouldn’t have let it happen,” James protested.

A likely correct observation, Zemo thought.

“No shit I wouldn’t have,” Sam agreed. He laughed darkly, before his expression quickly resealed itself. “You know, when Steve came up with some crazy idea he would have at least most of the time run it by me first or given me an out instead of dragging me right into it with no warning.”

Also highly probable, from what Zemo knew of Steve Rogers’ consideration towards his fellow Avenger.

Wait, had Sam said most of the time?

“It has to be like this,” James quietly insisted, his full attention yet on his companion. “Otherwise, we have no plans, no leads. Nothing.”

Again, a statement Zemo agreed with, and another proof that James possessed a healthy knowledge of his own shortcomings.

But Sam still disagreed on the proceedings. “We can’t have a leg up on things if you’re just going to pull me around without knowing the score. I know what this whole thing means to you, but come on, Bucky - you’re letting it push you off the deep end.”

“I really think I’m invaluable,” Zemo offered, throwing his own voice into the discussion.

“Shut up,” Sam said, with neither interest nor obvious intimidation from Zemo’s presence. Which was irritating, but Zemo fell silent all the same, waiting to see how their conversation progressed.

Sam sighed heavily, disappointment creasing his features as he shook his head. “If you can’t at least do the bare minimum of discussion from now on even with stakes this important, then this is over. I’ll get him back in prison and we’ll go our separate ways. Again. So you won’t need to try so hard to work against me anymore.”

It was a line clearly drawn. James ground his teeth while Sam met him steadily, gaze for gaze, his own anger and pain subtle but certain.

Zemo’s uncertainty flared in the coming silence. James was claiming a new sense of self, but there was something of another comparison to be made in the way he looked at Sam. Not the Winter Soldier’s mindless loyalty, no, there was far too much agony and conflict there. But it was notable enough to make Zemo wonder if his freedom was truly about to be as short-lived as Sam clearly intended.

“I don’t want that,” James eventually admitted, the words coming as if they were pulled through his throat, barely able to be heard in the expanse of Zemo’s garage.

“Good,” Sam said firmly, but genuinely. He glanced at Zemo, then away, gesturing towards him with a slant of his head. “Now go take care of him so we can get him back behind bars. I’ll make the phone call. I’m assuming from all that bullshit you were spouting earlier that there’s nothing to connect his escape to us.”

Zemo straightened in readiness for possible confrontation, knowing the movements he would need to go for the closest weapons located in the garage, but James hesitated in his compliance of that order while frustration began to build in his gaze. He spared Zemo only a glance, his mouth open, and - was that… something like fear, Zemo saw in those depths?

Perhaps desperate was becoming too understated a motivation for what drove James.

James licked his lips, turning that feverish expression back to Sam. He opened his mouth, closed it, then finally, said, haltingly, “I’m…asking.” Soft, but there was somehow very little calm contained in the words, or anything that would negate Zemo’s previous assessment of James’ emotions.

Sam paused in withdrawing his phone, looking back up, getting a view of James’ expression for himself. It was enough to make him hesitate.

“You broke the law once before to help put things right,” James went on, imploringly. “For Steve. Even when most of the world wouldn’t back him. And you did it to help me.” He swallowed roughly, tensely chasing eye contact when Sam let his gaze fall. “Sam,” he urged, the name a spoken plea. “I’m asking you to do it again.”

Zemo let his gaze focus primarily on Sam, awaiting his response with interest, to see if he would allow the divide to stand, since James had technically followed through on his outlined protocol. Not an apology for his past behavior, precisely, but a marked increase in shown respect. That bar of trust James had proclaimed to Zemo, coming to the fore.

And yet there was still no admission of the metal around his neck, or the hints of his true nature that Zemo had glimpsed and was continuing to see.

Sam, of course, did not share Zemo’s insight; despite his earlier anger, his face crumpled with a sigh when presented with James’ rationale. Which meant he, too, appreciated the magnitude of importance for the safety of humanity in accepting Zemo’s contributions. Enough to risk his own freedom.

“Okay,” Sam said, raising his torch and letting it fall against the vibranium arm with a light clang of finality, the phone forgotten in his pocket. His expression was of one steeling himself for a difficult task, a deep inhale expanding his chest.

James finally looked away, towards Zemo. So did Sam.

“But if we do this, the same I just told him goes for you,” Sam said to Zemo, expression tight. “You don’t make a move without telling us.”

“Fair,” Zemo acquiesced. Unlike James, he would have no trouble explaining his logic and motivations, at least eventually. He did not try to hide who he was.

“Okay, Zemo,” Sam said, solemn and wary, but still willing. “Where do we start?”

“Madripoor,” Zemo readily answered, his mind once again awash with the excitement of a building plan. He gestured between them. “Once I have procured the proper attire for the two of you, of course.”

“We’ll have to get our gear,” Sam said.

“No,” Zemo said, and at Sam’s expression, raised his hands placatingly. “We may pack it so it is available for the future. But for the extent of this part of our mission, neither of you can present as Avengers. That includes all distinguishing defenses.”

“He’s right,” James said. “On Madripoor it would just get us all killed.”

“Well what about your metal arm?” Sam pointed out.

“That particular device contains more of an association with an alternate identity,” Zemo said, heading to the wall to trigger the remainder of the garage’s lights, eager to divest himself of his stolen uniform.

“Told you,” James said quietly to Sam.

“Yeah, you’re really racking up those points,” Sam said with a hint of bite.

“I’ll simply need to acquire some quick measurements from the two of you,” Zemo said, ignoring their continued tension as he moved towards the most recently used vehicle in his collection. “After I take a look through these cars for a few supplies. Then we will see what we can do for your wardrobes.”

He already knew precisely the types of outfits he wanted to procure for their venture. And while his decisions would be mainly driven by the need for absolute, deliberate caution - a technologically advanced metal collar hidden by thin, indefensible material was simply asking for trouble when it came to such a lawless, paranoid nation that personally surveyed and escorted every entrant that stepped foot upon its shores - he would admit there was not an insignificant amount of curiosity to see James’ and Sam’s responses to his particular choices.

He would diligently follow James’ demands to keep the control collar around his neck hidden from Sam and devoid of Zemo’s direct touch. In fact, he would ensure both of those things with far more thoroughness and security than James himself.

And for that, the turtleneck would certainly have to go.

Zemo’s replacement would be much more effective.

Chapter Text

“Sit in the chair, Barnes.”

“Sit in the chair.”

“Sit in the chair.”

“Sit in the chair.”

“Fuck, you’re really all in on this! Sit in the chair.”

“Sit in the chair.”

“Get up and sit in the chair.”

“You did it for Hydra, again and again; you need to show that you’ll do it for us. The country that you turned your back on. Your country. All of those people you were convinced to murder. Sit. In the chair.”

“You’ve got something?”

“I’ve got something,” Sam confirmed to Joaquín over the phone, squinting into the sun with Zemo’s garage that housed his car collection at his back. So much land, just resting open and unused. All in Zemo’s name. And another change of scenery, about to be left behind as the mission Sam was working took another unexpected turn with another unexpected, unwanted teammate, and one he had managed to convince himself would help fix things instead of spiraling them out of control.

He’d deal with the company, but Sam really missed the days when he’d worked with more people that he got along with than those he didn’t. Missed those people, most of all. Hell, even Scott would be a godsend at that point in time.

“Not to pry or anything, Sam,” Joaquín said. “But is there a reason you’re sounding like you’re trying to hide the fact that someone just shot you in the foot?”

Sam frowned, hand stalling on its way to dig out his sunglasses. “I don’t sound like that,” he said.

“And you’re not giving me any details,” Joaquín said. “Which is cool, I get it, you’ve got stuff you need to keep under wraps-”

“All right, all right,” Sam said. “I’m good here, no bullet wounds. You just make sure to hang back so no one else tries to cave in your face with super strength.”

“Copy that, no ass whoopings on this side for at least another week. But I’ll keep digging through things. You let me know when you and that really grumpy guy who keeps bumming rides strike paydirt.”

Despite himself, Sam cracked a little bit of a smile. Joaquín was definitely slowly solidifying himself into the Get Along With category, even if the energy the guy could muster up and consistently sustain sometimes made Sam feel like he was fourteen cups of coffee behind. “His name is Bucky.”

“Sergeant Barnes,” Joaquín said, with a notable lack of inflection compared to his usual tone. “Oh, I know his name.”

“He was pardoned,” Sam said, then wondered why the hell he felt the need to step in about this. Bucky had been incredibly grumpy, especially during that first ride back, and especially with Sam. It didn’t take a good judge of character to note the unfriendliness that had been radiating from him.

“Presidential pardon, Wakandan rehabilitation,” Joaquín listed. “Now he’s just mean instead of homicidal. Not a fan of smiling or sleeves.”

“Trust me, I’d like nothing more than to go back to working this with just you,” Sam said. “We’ve got a good lead, though. Probably one of the best. But we’re taking an alternate transport for this next leg. I can’t connect you with it in case there’s complications.”

“Oh, uh… what kind of complications? Or are you not saying? You’re-you’re not saying.”

“I’m not saying,” Sam confirmed, well aware that if the government had hacked Redwing, there were plenty of other things they could mess with, and he didn’t know if John Walker would think better of their split and try other means to snoop in on them. They let him have the shield; they let him change the terms of Bucky’s release, set by the President. They might decide a little extra monitoring of Sam Wilson’s phone was just another government-given right for their chosen Captain America. “But when we pop back out I’ll give you a call. It sounds like this is a trail that will take us to the end. I have this part handled, but we’ll probably need all sides worked for intel.”

In the building behind him, he heard a shuffling sound, and then Zemo’s distant voice, softly chiding. “James, please.”

The answer came low and firm. “No.”

Great. Zemo was done with his insisted-upon freshening up while they waited for their ride to mobilize, and tension was bleeding into the air already, enough to follow Sam all the way outside. He ignored it for the moment; Bucky had wanted Zemo to help them, enough to go behind Sam’s back about it, and Sam had agreed - now they both had to deal with it.

At least Zemo should have a pretty vested interest in making sure whatever serum had been created as the probable result of the blood taken from Isaiah Bradley didn’t spread. And Sam could appreciate, even through all of the other less than ideal things, that it seemed like Bucky would keep the information on Isaiah’s continued living existence as secret as he had all those years before his abrupt heel turn in motivation to barge into the man’s home. The last thing they needed was their newly-recruited super soldier homing missile of a criminal genius setting his eyes in that direction.

Especially because that was still another thread Sam was determined to pick back up as soon as he could. He didn't exactly know what he was going to do about it, but...he'd do something.

“I’ll call you as soon as I’ve got more information,” Sam promised.

“Likewise, Sam,” Joaquín said. “I’ll be ready and waiting.”

Sam hung up, pocketing his phone and his sunglasses and turning to head back into the garage to see what this newest problem was about.

“It will be just a few quick measurements.”

“I know my measurements.”

Crossing around the lines of polished cars, Sam saw that Zemo had shaved and changed out of his stolen prison guard uniform and was standing in a long, expensive-looking coat with fur along the collar. It was apparent pretty quickly that the man had also taken the time to freshen himself up with a generous application of cologne; the interior of the garage now had a light, woodsy tang.

Bucky was probably getting even more of a noseful, on account of the fact that Zemo was standing pretty damn close to him, a cloth tape measure resting in his gloved hands, the line of it hanging in a loose loop between them.

“You took them recently?” Zemo asked, tilting his head as he looked Bucky over with a critical eye, neat and cleanshaven in contrast to Bucky’s thickening stubble. “Your weight seems to have fluctuated quite a bit from our last encounter.”

“I know the ones that count,” Bucky said, a new thread of tension in his voice and a steely glint to his unblinking eyes. Already reaping what Sam had said they would sow by letting Zemo out to freely interact with them as much as he pleased.

“Our covers will be better if you are wearing clothing suited to your current size.” Zemo gestured to Bucky’s left arm, the hand of which was clenched into a fist. “And obviously with the vibranium arm on display-”

“Sleeves are easy to remove,” Bucky said, and Sam felt a twinge of amusement as he remembered Joaquín’s assessment. That humor faded pretty quickly when Bucky’s eye twitched and he turned to glance at Sam, face pinched and unhappy. Which was just business as usual at this point, but Sam gave him a small nod nonetheless, letting him know he was ready to watch Zemo if Bucky needed a breather.

“If you insist,” Zemo said. “At the very least, allow me to check your chest and neck.” He took a step forward, pausing when Bucky’s glare rounded back on him and grew even more warning. “It’s just a few moments, James, I do not understand why you feel the need to be argumentative about something so simple.”

“Then don’t,” Bucky said, and turned on his heel and walked out, stepping past Sam with an agonized glance, jacket rustling and muscle pressing harshly to the skin of his jawline. His vibranium arm was a lot quieter than the last model, but Sam thought he’d caught a hint of those servomotors working when Bucky had drawn in close.

Sam stepped deeper into the garage, unsurprised at Bucky’s unwillingness to be messed with, and not discounting the chance that Zemo was pushing the issue because he knew exactly that. “You can use mine to estimate his,” Sam suggested. Then he added, kind of hoping Bucky was still in listening distance, “Not much to change except making sure you leave a bit less room in the seat of the pants.”

Zemo gave him a thin smile, lowering the unused tape measure, his cologne about the only thing Sam could smell, now. “I appreciate that, Sam, but James is several inches taller than you are.”

“I’m not insecure about my height, but two is sure as hell not several.” Sam said, folding his arms and leveling Zemo with an unimpressed stare.

“The fact remains.” Zemo sighed, craning his neck towards the door and quirking his eyebrows. This close, Sam could tell he’d taken the time to even moisturize. “I don’t suppose you would consider trying to convince him to return?”

Sam would not consider it. “He got you out of prison for this, and we’re letting you plan the itinerary. If he doesn’t want to do this, I wouldn’t be looking to push on those buttons.”

“Hmm,” Zemo mused, putting his full attention back on Sam, those considering eyes looking over him. “You would let him get aggressive.”

“He didn’t get aggressive,” Sam pointed out, even though, yeah, maybe it looked like Bucky had been about two seconds from punching Zemo through the roof of one of his fancy cars, right before he punched that fancy car through the roof. “He told you no, twice.”

“But you saw it: what he was made. It lingers, and he denies it.” Zemo shrugged, as if he was unsurprised. “I expected it from him. But from you…well, I suppose the Avengers casually associating with that potential violence and destruction without consideration to the possible consequences is not new. In this case, we will use it to our advantage. Carefully monitored, of course. We will not allow things to grow out of hand.”

“How about you take my measurements, now,” Sam said flatly, refusing to acknowledge those statements, or anything else Zemo was trying to insinuate with his insidious hypocrisy. “So you have an actual idea of how tall I am and we can get things moving. They’re probably well aware you escaped by now.”

“From my cell, maybe. If they have the other prisoners under control. To confirm my complete escape from the prison itself will take time, and be very embarrassing to admit to.” Zemo stretched the tape between his hands a little too much like someone preparing a garrote for Sam’s taste. “But, very well - I will do my best to estimate where it comes to James. If things are an uncomfortable fit, he will only have himself to blame. Please, stand straight and turn around.”

“I expect to be as comfortable as possible with that kind of promise,” Sam said, doing as Zemo said, thinking that on the list along with his initially suspected androids, aliens, and wizards, this was the more unbelievable option. Helmut Zemo, the man who had dedicated everything to get the Avengers to tear themselves apart - and had been willing to do that through imprisonment, death, whatever it took - gently measuring him up like a professional tailor. Sam was sure he was going to smell like the man’s cologne for weeks.

“You will be in the finest fabrics,” Zemo promised, pressing the tape measure along the length of Sam’s leg. “The shoes may take some getting used to, though.”

Sam frowned, glancing down. “Wait, what’s going on with the shoes?”

“Sit in the chair.”

“Sit in the chair.”

“Sit in the chair.”

“I’m only repeating myself in case all of this stalling is because you forgot how to understand English. The collar knows the order. If I wanted to sit back, I could just watch you fry for hours without saying another single fucking word. But I’m being nice by reminding you. Sit in the chair.”

“Sit in the chair.”

“Sit in the chair.”

“Sit in the chair.”

“Sit in the chair.”

“As many times as you need. We can do this as many times as you need! I told you: I stay, I get paid. And this is goddamn hilarious to watch. Sit in the chair.”

“Sit in the chair.”

Bucky walked out of the garage and away from it, leaving Sam to watch Zemo, the back of his neck prickling and his nose still burning with the wood-orange scent that hung on Zemo like a cloud after his shower.

He’d gotten what he wanted; Zemo had the drive and the intelligence and the connections to get them where they needed to go. Hydra’s involvement meant that Bucky’s past actions had helped to bring the situation into being, but there wasn’t a better option in making sure it stopped than Zemo.

The problem now was that Bucky didn’t know how long they were going to be in Madripoor, and he had a deliberately detailed order hanging over him: report in early, or on time.

He already planned to test Walker’s promise about his intentions in their partnership to the limits in order to help find and stop the Flag Smashers. He couldn’t just fly off and go no contact and cross his fingers that there wouldn’t be consequences this early into the search.

The smoldering thing in his chest that had flared to life when Zemo started demanding coming in contact for his measurements grew heavier as the minutes passed. He didn’t stop his traversal through the open air until dirt and dried grass were all he could smell on the breeze.

Eventually, he forced himself to reach into his pocket for his phone, and dialed Walker. The collar rested quietly against his throat as he listened to the line ring.

“Bucky,” Walker said after a handful of seconds, eager and tense.

Bucky swallowed, and somehow kept the phone against his ear instead of crushing it in his fist and launching it across the field. “I’m calling early because we’re flying out.”

“Flying out? To where?”

Bucky kept walking, taking himself farther from the garage and bracing readily in case Walker ended up deciding his behavior warranted a correction. “Madripoor.”

“Madripoor? What the hell is Madripoor?”

Walker had turned his head away from the phone; he’d been talking to someone else, probably Lemar. Bucky answered anyway. “A place that requires special clearance to get in.”

“You found information on Karli Morgenthau,” Walker said, sounding surprised.

“Got it,” Lemar said in the background. “Madripoor. Looks like it’s a criminal haven in Indonesia. Definitely seems like the kind of place the Flag Smashers would frequent.”

“All right,” Walker said, “then we’ll get a flight there to meet you-“

“No,” Bucky said, his steps quickening as he moved deeper into the field, turning his head to make sure his feeling of being alone and unfollowed was correct, that Zemo and Sam were still inside.

“What do you mean, no? This is important-“

“John,” Lemar interrupted, “this place…there’s no way in hell anyone would sign off on us heading there. Even if we had a good reason.”

“This is why we split up,” Bucky said. Dried grass crunched in a steady rhythm beneath his feet.

“So you could go to a criminal haven alone. While on parole.”

Bucky swallowed, his skin pressing against metal. No vibrations. No buzzing warning of a punishment coming. “We’re going there because we’ll find more answers.”

“And this is information you got from where, exactly? The sandwich shop you were wandering around, or the prison you visited?”

Bucky breathed out and kept walking. He’d known Walker would track him through the collar. This wasn’t a surprise. And he’d made sure even though he’d visited Zemo, even though his exact location could be tracked, there would be nothing concrete connecting him to the escape.

“One of the inmates I’ve met before had information,” he said, voice carefully steady.

“Which inmate?”

Bucky ground his teeth. “Zemo.”

Walker’s voice rose. “The terrorist that blew up the UN?!”

“I updated you, like you wanted,” Bucky said, swallowing, his entire body coming to attention at the obvious anger, old habits and rituals threatening to materialize, demanding protocol of handlers be followed at all costs. But the collar was still quiet. Walker hadn’t been driven to trigger it. Yet. “I won’t be reachable by phone until after we’re off the island.”

Walker’s voice went stern. “No. No. That’s not our agreement.”

Bucky didn’t bother to point out he hadn’t exactly agreed to anything.

“John,” Lemar said, “if they’re getting closer to something… I mean, wouldn’t be above board for us to handle things that way. But are you mad because of that, or are you just mad you can’t go with him?”

Walker’s voice moved away from the phone, still fuming. “Maybe I should go with him. We don’t have to sweat the rules if it gets the job done.”

“Walker,” Bucky said, trying to regain his attention, holding onto his plan determinedly, desperately. “We can’t wait for you. I’ve got it. I’ll update you when I’m back.”

“We can get together then,” Lemar said.

Bucky bit the inside of his cheek until a sting of sharp pain made him wince. At some point, he’d stopped walking.

“The second you’re out,” Walker eventually agreed, his voice back in close to the phone. “And in the meantime I’ll go have a chat with Mr. Zemo myself once we get to Germany. Get whatever else I can out of him.”

Bucky released the bloodied patch of flesh in his mouth. “Good idea,” he said, keeping his voice as neutral as possible.

“I’ll keep an eye on your location so I know when you’re available,” Walker said, and then hung up.

Bucky lowered his phone, the smell and taste of copper now overriding everything else, and looked back at the distant garage while his emotions ran rampant and the collar clung to his neck, ever-present but still dormant. He started the walk back, chasing himself in circles for the thousandth time about just how much he wanted Sam to change his mind about the shield, for it to be out of Walker’s hands permanently. Bucky was supposed to be setting those feelings aside for their mission, but with every subsequent conversation with Walker he was forced to admit to himself that he couldn’t, ever. Sam had been Steve’s choice to have that shield, and the importance of that was anchored into everything. It had to be Sam. For every reason.

Including the fact that Bucky knew where the end of all possible roads for him would lead.

Sit in the chair.

He reached for his pocket, habitually seeking out the shape of Steve’s notebook.

It wasn’t there.

His stomach left him in a jolt at that abrupt, unexpected emptiness, lungs freezing in his chest. He checked his other pockets, his mind racing as he sorted through his memories, turning around to look at the spot in the field where he’d just been standing. He hadn’t been shocked at any point; he shouldn’t have lost time. Unless he didn’t remember the shock. Unless he-

He took a breath. Swallowed, testing his throat and noting the lack of pain. Then he sorted through his memories with more care. He’d had the notebook earlier, he’d touched it during the talk with Zemo before he’d gone in to see Sam, and then they’d had their argument about Zemo’s involvement. Then Zemo had started gathering supplies, showering and changing, and making arrangements for their travel including his stupid demand to take Bucky’s measurements, the cloth tape pressing against Bucky out of nowhere and his body viscerally reacting to the proximity.

He narrowed his eyes and made his way back to the garage in quick steps.

Zemo and Sam were inside, talking. Bucky couldn’t hear them over the haze that had overtaken him, his mind completely honed in on his target. Zemo saw him coming, but still somehow looked surprised when Bucky surged forward and reached out and grabbed him by the neck with his metal arm, not hard enough to cut off air or blood supply but firmly enough to pin him in place and counter any ensuing struggle. Visions of all avenues of death that could be applied in that moment, from seconds to minutes and painless to brutal, sprung to Bucky’s mind as easy as breathing.

“Hey, easy!” Sam said, coming in close - but not touching. He glanced from Bucky to Zemo with a frown. “What did he do?”

“Where is it?” Bucky demanded of Zemo, the smell of that cologne and its ending sweet notes filling his nostrils cloyingly, adding to his fury.

Zemo was quick to respond, pulling the notebook from his pocket in one swift movement and dropping it on the floor between them.

Bucky glanced down at it, but kept his fingers clenched around Zemo’s throat, and looked him in the eyes so he knew he was serious. “If you touch that again,” he promised, “I’ll kill you.”

Zemo gave a swift nod of acknowledgment. Bucky forced vibranium to release, choking on his rage as he snatched the notebook up from the garage floor. He double checked that the paper with Steve’s message was still inside. It was. He shoved the notebook into his pocket, furious and shaken that he could have lost it so easily, and especially angry at himself for being distracted enough for Zemo to apply that trick.

Zemo twisted his neck, regaining his composure quickly. He looked towards Sam meaningfully. Bucky saw it, but ignored it, not even a little interested in whatever communication they’d had while he was gone.

“That’s Steve’s notebook,” Sam said in realization, while Bucky slowly pulled himself together, the fear-backed rage and urge for violence slowly filtering into something dull and aching. “I told him about Trouble Man, he wrote it down in there. Did you listen to it? What did you think?”

Bucky glanced at Sam and his expectant, raised eyebrows, and realized he was waiting in interest to hear what Bucky thought. Bucky had listened to Trouble Man at one point. It was fine. Everything on the list had been fine. Besides the things he hadn’t been able to pay attention to, because his brain had done its best to stop liking anything at all, and even the songs he’d loved when he’d been young had become an alternating roulette of echoing, vast numbness and despair that seared like dripping molten metal. He ended the majority of his nights sitting on the floor of his living room in complete silence until the collar inevitably chimed in with its own song to force him to the ground.

“You didn’t like it,” Sam realized, an edge coming to his voice as his face fell.

Bucky noted that expression, but he immediately became more preoccupied by the fact that he thought he heard footsteps in the distance, outside of the building. He licked dry lips, his gaze going towards the door. “I like 40s music, so…”

Sam’s expression immediately dropped the rest of the way into stunned outrage. “Everybody loves Marvin Gaye!”

“I like Marvin Gaye,” Bucky muttered distractedly as he kept his eyes on the outside of the garage, already back to thinking about what Walker had said during the phone call. He was going to know Zemo was missing within a day.

“It is a masterpiece, James,” Zemo added, jumping onto the subject with ease, acting completely unbothered in the wake of Bucky’s threat. “Complete. Comprehensive. It captures the African-American experience.”

“We need to go,” Bucky said sharply, temper frayed thin. Whoever was wandering the property outside wasn’t moving with stealth - they were probably someone in Zemo’s employ. But that didn’t mean others wouldn’t come soon.

“Wow,” Sam said, shaking his head. “You know, he’s out of line, but he’s right.”

“I liked it,” Bucky said, wanting the conversation to be over so they could get on with their mission.

“Steve adored it,” Sam insisted, staring almost accusatorily.

Steve adored you, too, Bucky thought with a huff, his irritation more than happy to latch back to that familiar sore subject. That shield had been an incredibly deep and important message, more meaningful than any note.

But here they were. And the man that now carried it was getting closer to their location by the minute. And with every second that passed Bucky found himself hating more and more that he had it at all.

But he couldn’t say that without risking upsetting Sam enough to lead him to threaten to leave again. And Sam couldn’t leave. So instead, Bucky looked back at Zemo demandingly. “Where’s our transport?”

“We will need a few minutes longer to ensure the supplies are packed,” Zemo said, moving towards the exit. “But we may board the jet now if it comforts you.”

“Wait, a jet?” Sam asked as he and Bucky both followed Zemo out of the garage, his previous dissatisfaction with Bucky’s unenthusiastic opinion of Marvin Gaye redirected. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a collection of those, too.”

“Only three,” Zemo said. He gestured in the distance to an aircraft that hadn’t been there when they’d arrived, t-shaped tail standing tall. “But this is my personal favorite.”

They crossed the runway towards the jet, Bucky scanning the property in all directions as they did, his vigilant instincts reignited to their fullest from his recent stressors. He wondered where exactly Walker was; how soon he’d land. How long it would take him to figure out that Zemo’s cell was unoccupied. If there hadn’t been such extreme possible consequences, maybe Bucky would have found the thought of him experiencing that surprise a funny one.

“It was a valued craft for the Sokovian military’s SAR,” Zemo was saying as they approached their ride. “Unfortunately, it is no longer needed.”

“So I’m guessing you’re paying for our costumes out of pocket,” Sam said.

Zemo smiled tightly. “A small price for the desired outcome of our mission. What, did you think I would steal them?”

“Not now that I know you have a fleet of antique cars and a trio of private jets.” Sam looked at the airstairs leading into the jet, where a man was standing in a black suit. “And a butler. You have an actual. Butler.”

“That is Oeznik,” Zemo said, warmth and pride coming to his voice.

Oeznik greeted Zemo, but whose expression visibly fell when he saw Sam, and didn’t look any happier when his eyes moved to Bucky. Bucky knew this was the body he’d sensed earlier, and immediately got the impression that despite his advanced age, the man wasn’t as harmless as he seemed. He saw that impression and knowledge directed right back at him.

They boarded the jet, the setting sun restricted to the wide windows and the breeze blocked by cabin walls. Bucky scanned the interior, noting the cleanliness and robust air conditioning that managed to filter Zemo’s cologne to a less obtrusive scent. The aircraft had been kept maintained during Zemo’s imprisonment.

A pair of the seats were piled with boxes, garment bags draped over their backs. Bucky looked over them while Sam ran his hand over the material covering one the seats and cursed under his breath as Zemo explained the mechanism to get them to swivel.

“Ah,” Zemo beamed when he saw the packages himself, removing his gloves and nodding in thanks as Oeznik took both those and his coat for him. “It would seem they were quicker on delivery than I thought.” He walked down the aisle, slipping by Bucky as he reached for a round black box that was nestled in one of the jet’s seats, running the tips of his fingers over the lid before lifting it into his grasp, meeting Bucky’s eyes directly as he did. Then he smiled and gestured to the wider cabin. “Please, settle in.”

Bucky chose a spot near a window, slumping down into the jet’s luxury seat, staring out at the horizon with his hand clutched tightly around Steve’s notebook. Oeznik returned to offer Zemo a drink, the two exchanging friendly words in Sokovian before he ventured back to the cockpit. As the jet began to move, preparing for takeoff, Zemo relaxed his posture, one hand resting on the round black box in his lap, and began explaining Madripoor to Sam.

“An old associate of mine, Selby, works in Lowtown,” Zemo said, taking a sip of his drink. “We will utilize my connection with her to climb towards our end goal in finding the serum. Sam, you will have a cover that will keep you in line with the expectations of Madripoor’s lawless nation while inspiring respect in your reputation, and not an insignificant amount of fear in the lesser inhabitants. James,” Zemo said, waiting until Bucky looked over at him. He lifted the black box from his lap, holding it out across the aisle between them in offering, his drink still in the grasp of his other hand. “You will have to become someone you claim is gone.”

“You think this is a game, Barnes? We’ll play it for weeks. Secretary Ross knew you’d back out when it came to this. How the hell can we trust you if you’ll follow orders from Nazis and other shitstains of the Earth but not the people that want you to reintegrate into society, make some goddamn difference for good for once? Or do you know you can’t do that? Is that it? You itching to start back down old paths and habits? Be the monster those fuckers made you? Forever? I thought you wanted to be more than that!”

“Sit in the chair.”

Chapter Text

The collar was wide, thick, and solid metal. There was no obvious locking mechanism built into the ends where it would clasp shut around his neck.

There was no paperwork for him to sign to take it. No contracts. The hum around him was that of the engines of a landed aircraft and not an energy field bordering thick cell walls. No one was even watching him; he was standing completely alone in a bathroom, staring down at the contents of the black round box he’d been given.

If he decided that the next thing that he would do with his time was crush the goddamn thing in his vibranium fist and thrust it down the jet’s toilet, no one could stop him.

He knew what the new collar meant; what Zemo wanted him to be in exchange for his help. Zemo’d said he was confident they would find a trail to the recreated serum in Madripoor, which meant a future opportunity to intercept the Flag Smashers, and maybe a better idea of their numbers. So Bucky wasn’t going to do that.

He swallowed. It didn’t hurt. It hadn’t hurt for more than a day. Wherever Walker was - if he’d been to the prison already, and knew Zemo was missing - he wasn’t triggering it.

“James,” sounded outside the bathroom, raising his attention. “Our entrance into Madripoor has been approved. The escort will be arriving shortly.”

Bucky closed his eyes, red painted on the inside of his eyelids from the brightness of the bathroom lights burning through skin. He tried not to think too hard about the violence that itched to be let loose. He’d already donned the rest of the outfit: leather jacket and tactical pants with a harness tightened across his chest and upper back. Vibranium arm exposed. Gloves off, turtleneck gone. The inhibitor collar was shining silver against his throat. Exposed.

Only the new stretch of metal was still waiting to be applied.

The lock to the bathroom unclicked and the door opened. Bucky ground his jaw but didn’t turn as Zemo blithely invaded his privacy, making it feel like every nerve in his skin was suddenly standing at attention from the incursion. Alongside his rising irritation was that familiar anticipation of orders flushing through him, even though he knew he didn’t have to follow them under pain of punishment. Which made him even more angry.

The bathroom for Zemo’s jet was bigger than most commercial airlines: in front of Bucky was a generous sink with a large mirror hanging over it. In its reflection he could see Zemo take a calculated step inside, avoiding close contact with Bucky as he closed the door behind him and relocked it.

And then Zemo started talking. “The ringless design is for show over function, similar to the harness you are wearing.” Bucky’s gaze was drawn back down to the black box. He could feel Zemo’s gaze on his back, smell the refreshed cologne he’d applied filling the space of the bathroom. “I tried to gauge the best sizing despite your unwillingness to allow for more accurate measurements.”

Bucky didn’t respond. Didn’t move. Didn’t have to answer to shit, which was good, because his brain was a little preoccupied.

“James,” Zemo murmured, and when Bucky looked back into the mirror he saw that Zemo was clasping his hands before him, gaze drifting pointedly to the box on the sink. “It’s a needed safety measure if we are to keep the device protected and secret.” He looked at Bucky’s left hand. “The metal that composes it would be quite removable were you to use your vibranium limb.”

Right. And Bucky was sure that was all it was.

Still, he thought with a rough swallow, his gaze once again dipping down to stare at the thick band of metal. Zemo was right. It would keep the other collar hidden from Sam. And he could…he could deal with it. Maybe.

But there was a problem.

“You’re not allowed to make contact with your current collar, are you?” Zemo asked. “With just the vibranium, or does the order constitute either limb?”

As far as he knew, Bucky was still allowed to touch it with his right hand.

Zemo stepped closer. He reached out his arm, deliberately keeping it out of contact with Bucky as he went for the collar in the box. The metal was lifted from its velvet seat while Bucky felt his skin twitch and bristle and visions of Zemo’s arm twisting and cracking beneath his grip seared through his mind.

He let them pass, knowing he wouldn’t jeopardize the mission now. He still leveled Zemo with a warning stare; Zemo responded by giving the most minimal of steps back to give him the barest amount of extra space.

“Do you have something you wish to say?” Zemo asked, still calm, the collar hanging open in his grip.

Say, no. A lot of things Bucky wanted to do, though. He felt for the weight of the notebook in his pocket; Zemo hadn’t tried to snatch it again. Lucky for him.

“What outfit did you pick for Sam,” he asked instead, eyes going to the shut door.

Zemo tilted his head, brow furrowing. He lowered his hands, loosely curling both around the collar. “You are concerned with his disguise?”

Bucky answered with silence.

Zemo sighed, relaxing his shoulders. “He will be playing the part of a criminal of international repute. It is my intention that we act as companions. His cover will be that of a man that I have recruited to my cause.”

“This guy interested in supersoldiers?” Bucky asked.

“Not especially, but Conrad does have a history of trying to secure power. It leads him to frequently seek distractions outside Madripoor. I happen to know he is en route to areas north on such a venture and is not planning on returning for several weeks. It would not be out of character for him to show interest in the serum were I to approach him.”

Good enough. “And what about Selby.”

“There is no prior relationship that would make her a specific danger to Conrad. We’ve had some good times, she and I. She will be easy to appease, especially if we offer her a chance to exert her control and will; she’s at the exact position of leadership on Madripoor to emphasize that hunger. That is where you will come in.” Zemo lifted the collar again, maintaining his aura of calm. “I can apply it safely and comfortably,” he offered. He gestured with the ring of metal towards Bucky’s neck. “I will keep our deal to not come in physical contact with the device while doing so. Unless you would prefer to do it yourself after all?”

Bucky grimly took a breath. In lieu of answering he turned away and clenched his jaw, swallowing again as his hands slowly balled on the sink counter. He stared into the mirror, watched as Zemo stepped up behind him. Tried not to let the bathroom morph into a cell with an energy field around it.

Zemo stayed unmoving for a beat. “Shall I take this as permission?”

Just put it the fuck on, Bucky couldn’t say. He managed a single, tense nod, then directed his gaze to the ceiling.

A moment later Zemo was at his back, the new metal hovering open around Bucky’s neck. This time there was no hair to pull aside in accepting it. The chill of the collar was sharp against his skin as Zemo carefully closed it around his throat; it pushed against the device beneath it as it tightened, straining Bucky’s anxiety so strongly and abruptly that his lip started to curl and Zemo hesitated before the ends could meet.

Then in another quick movement, Zemo locked it shut, and dropped his hands. No contact, just as he’d promised. Not even with Bucky’s skin. Not that Bucky’s hammering heart could tell the difference.

Bucky looked into the mirror, and the thick line of metal that covered a generous span of his throat. It looked the part, and he couldn’t lower his chin much with it in place, but in reality it was a lot less dangerous than the device it was hiding. Even though Zemo still hadn’t explained how to remove it. If it took a key. If it was meant to be removable at all.

Bucky felt his skin itch as he waited, wondering next if the inhibitory collar’s AI would react to being enclosed like that in a way fabric hadn’t caused, if that buzz would start up, demanding its encasement be removed. If he would be able to do anything to stop it if it did. It was heads or tails if Zemo would help if he couldn’t. Or if Sam would find out then, after everything.

A minute passed, nothing happening. All those ifs began their achingly slow transition from heightened anticipation to cautious acceptance, while Bucky finally unraveled his mind enough to note once again that Zemo was right - even if there was no way to get the new collar unlocked, he could break it with his vibranium hand, probably without even coming into contact with the device beneath. Conceptually. If he was careful. The cold sweat threatening to burst out at just that thought was something he needed to ignore. Suppress.

He breathed through it, forcing his jaw to loosen, coldly berating himself for wasting time. He wanted this, the ability to support the mission. And, so far, at least, Zemo was following Bucky’s demands to the letter.

“I would highly suggest you leave your phone behind on the jet,” Zemo said. “We would not want your handler attempting to intercept our work.” When it was clear Bucky wasn’t going to say anything in response to that, Zemo finally moved away from him. “When you are ready,” he said, tone as calm and polite as it had been since he’d broken into the bathroom. Bucky heard the door open and close, the lock re-engaging.

Bucky’s own hard gaze bore right into him, greyed out eyes and pale skin, hair too short, stubble too long. His swallow pushed against metal the entire way down, the weight of the new collar making the inhibitory device press even more sharply against his throat.

When he was ready. Sure.

Fuck.

Sam stared at the outfit Zemo had chosen for him in incredulity, bright colors and jewelry and heeled, shining shoes. What the hell was he supposed to be on Madripoor, some kind of pimp? The man seriously took one look at him and his skillset and decided to choose this as his costume? All it was doing was leaving a lingering, sour taste in Sam’s mouth.

But maybe that was the whole damn point. Zemo was acting casual but he was clearly getting one or two kicks out of trying his little mindfuck destabilization tactics on Sam and Bucky. As soon as they’d sat down for their ride Zemo had given himself a quietly self-congratulatory chuckle over Sam’s experience with incarceration, and heavy implications that he thought Bucky was covering up the part of him that was still the Winter Soldier.

Sam was secure enough in himself to let that shit bounce off of him without too much rage - yeah, he hadn’t liked that reminder of the time the powers of the world had decided the best thing for the planet was that he and his friends should be locked up at the bottom of an ocean, without so much of a hope of yard time. Back then, he’d kept to his convictions that he’d done the right thing in earning that ending, but all that uncertainty of what would happen in the years to come, while he was buried in the depths, forgotten by the world for an unending stretch until his death… that hadn’t exactly been the easiest thing for a man to deal with. Or to have brought up to him again, smugly, by the guy whose decisions had a very specific hand in causing it.

Sam had agreed to the partnership; he’d known what it would entail. And he had plenty of experience with people who looked at him and were ready to start poking to incite a reaction. A little of the petty side of himself could only hope that Bucky was paying for it just as much as he was.

Another side of him was remembering the fact that Isaiah hadn’t been so lucky when it came to his imprisonment; that it had been most of the man’s life before someone had stepped up to get him out. And now he was keeping himself a secret from the world forever, while they chased down the trail of his blood.

Sam got changed while Zemo and Bucky talked lowly in the bathroom - Bucky’s costume apparently complicated enough that it required a second pair of hands. When Zemo came out a few minutes later, looking satisfied and with all of his limbs still attached, Sam was dressed, and he received an appreciative smile.

“Very good,” Zemo said, then moved away towards the galley. “Very, very good.”

“Listen, we gotta do something about this,” Sam said, raising his voice as he tugged self-consciously at his lapels, thin gold chains dangling delicately against his chest. Zemo had definitely oversold the comfort aspect; the heels were already starting to drive Sam crazy. “If you’re really expecting me to go into some kind of pirate haven and pretend to be a pimp-“

“I did not dress you as a pimp,” Zemo asserted as he returned with a glass in hand, the liquid inside bubbling up the sides. “Your American biases have no place on Madripoor, Sam. You are disguised as Conrad Mack, aka the Smiling Tiger. He is a man who is charming. Handsome. Dangerous. Much like yourself.” Zemo reached into his pocket, then held out his phone to Sam. “Though a bit more fashion forward.”

Sam looked down at the image he was presented, mollified despite himself at Zemo’s description, even though he wasn’t quite discounting this as more mindgames. He saw the photo of the guy he was meant to be dressed as, and was startled when he realized he looked like he could have been a long lost brother. The outfit would not fly in Sam’s hometown, but he started to feel a little more like he could mostly ignore that for the time being.

Except for the shoes. But Zemo had technically warned him about those. He’d tough out the heels.

“Okay,” he said, a little begrudgingly. They’d already landed, anyway; it wasn’t like there’d be time for a complete overhaul at this point. “I guess it’s not the worst disguise.”

Zemo smiled, raising his glass before taking a hearty swig.

“Doesn’t really seem like the best time for a drink,” Sam commented.

“This is sparkling glacial water,” Zemo said. “We have a long journey ahead.”

Cool. Another look into how the other half lived.

The door to the jet’s bathroom finally reopened. Sam looked up as Bucky stepped out, his gaze forward as he chewed on the inside of his cheek. No weird, distinguished look for him - no, for his outfit he was wearing tac pants, boots, a pale brown leather jacket with a gun harness, and a-

Sam squinted, and then his eyes widened, something hot and sharp stabbing into his lungs as the thing on Bucky’s neck belatedly coalesced into what it was. “No,” he said firmly, somehow keeping his voice even. Bucky darted his eyes up at him, working his stiff jaw. Sam looked at Zemo, who blinked at him in confusion. “We’re not using that.”

Bucky looked confused in turn, his brow furrowing as he raised his head further. Because, Sam realized, he couldn’t lower it beyond a specific point, on account of the huge metal collar keeping his neck rigid.

“It is just a temporary disguise,” Zemo assured.

“There’s no world where you’re convincing me this is for the good of the mission and not just a chance to get your kicks off of humiliating him,” Sam said, having second thoughts about his own outfit as he did, wondering if Zemo was just trying to get him to play along for a private chuckle.

“I have commanded the Winter Soldier once before,” Zemo said, stepping towards and to the side of Bucky, who watched him approach in his periphery, but didn’t move. “But I do not have an especially expansive reputation in that area. This collar will help cement the belief in my absolute control over him.” He stared unblinkingly at Sam, raising his finger. “It is of the utmost necessity that we play our roles perfectly to prevent all of Madripoor from turning on us. We would not survive that.”

Instead of responding to Zemo, Sam twisted his head towards Bucky. “Say you’re okay with this.” There was no way in hell Bucky was okay with this.

Bucky peered at him and licked his lips. He looked like he wasn’t sure he’d heard Sam right. “He’s right,” he said.

“He can remove it whenever he wishes,” Zemo said, expression calm, like he was being reasonable and not indulging in any of his privileged psychopathic tendencies. “It is for our image, Sam.”

“We can stop talking about it and talk about the plan,” Bucky said gruffly, glancing between them. “What are we doing once we’re out there?”

Zemo happily bounced on the chance to give them their directives. “We need an interview with Selby, so we can find out what she knows. But she does not usually give such gifts away for free. A valuable tool like the Winter Soldier might be exchanged for the chance to recover more serum to make more people like him.

“You’re-“ Sam cut off, speechless, then started again. “We go to a criminal haven and your plan is human trafficking?”

Bucky didn’t say anything more; just kept up that wordless, incredibly unhelpful stare.

“James has the skill and strength to rejoin us once we have what we need,” Zemo said.

“So you’re telling me you don’t mind double crossing and losing this special connection of yours in the process over all of this.”

“In order to prevent an infinite amount of super soldiers?” Zemo’s eyes gleamed, his jaw set. His next words were challenging. “I am prepared to do anything. Are you?”

Bucky had gone stone-faced and calm as he stared at Sam but Sam would bet the Paul & Darlene itself that Bucky wasn’t as together about all this as he seemed. He’d been especially weird about physical touch since the Baltimore station; Sam had been careful to only come into direct contact with Bucky’s metal arm, and he’d used a flashlight after their argument. Being presented to a bunch of strangers as a completely obedient brainwashed assassin wasn’t going to lead to anywhere good in that area, no matter how brief that shit was.

And Sam wasn’t entirely sure Zemo didn’t know that.

Sam breathed in deeply. At least he was hesitantly convinced Zemo wouldn’t immediately be looking to kill a certain bird with the stone that was his super soldier agenda. And maybe he could have gone a lot worse for Bucky’s outfit than what he’d settled on. It wasn’t like Bucky wasn’t used to having his throat covered at all times in recent days, even if there was no real comparison between a turtleneck and a huge metal collar.

Bucky was still watching him, something odd moving through his unblinking gaze - an emotion worming into his expression that, for once, didn’t seem to be like anger or anything like it. He opened his mouth a little, looked like he wanted to say something, then shut it, nostrils flaring as he looked towards Zemo. Only then did Sam think he saw a little of that anger reigniting.

“Shall we?” Zemo asked them, like he’d proven his point. He finished off his water and set down the glass in a random cupholder, then stepped towards the jet’s exit, where his butler was patiently waiting to see them off. Bucky followed after him, glancing at Sam as he passed.

Sam sighed, gearing himself up, walking after them in turn, staring down at his clothes and those stupid shoes, then back up at the metal that covered the back of Bucky’s neck in a seamless line.

It looked like they were doing this.