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The raft is massive and, to the other team’s misfortune, possibly inescapable. 

Seeing the bruised, beaten faces of those that stood alongside Steve—that traitor —brings a sort of twisted satisfaction to Tony. People he once saw as trusted comrades, or faces he barely knew, stare back at him menacingly, daring him to do his worst. Tony clenches his teeth and scans through them again, feeding off the looks on their faces behind bars.

But the satisfaction barely lasts, and what takes its place isn’t pleasure. It isn’t victorious, either. Deep down, he just feels defeated, like he spent months training for a marathon, only to come in second. Steve’s entire team is locked up; Steve is on the run. So why does bile still cling to his esophagus like an old friend? Why does he feel like he can never face his mother’s grave again without hanging his head in shame?

Thoughts of his mother inevitably lead to thoughts of the assassin—the one Steve so desperately tried to protect. The one he threw himself in front of, as if clinging to the last piece of himself he had left in this world. Steve’s pleas, his ocean eyes that always swim with so much emotion, displaying every one of his thoughts on a canvas for all to see, had begged for Tony to stand down. 

Deep down, maybe Tony would’ve.

Deep down, he thought of their banters, his ribbing that always elicited some sort of response from Steve. He thought of the times they fought alongside each other, standing back to back with the rest of their team of misfits. At the time, they fit like puzzle pieces, completing one another. 

At the time, Tony had felt like he belonged.

And then Tony had glanced behind Steve, at the man whose eyes drooped in exhaustion and shame. He glanced at the man whose hands bore a gun, the metal arm’s plates whirring. All Tony could see was the death of his parents. He saw their bulging eyes as they took their last breath, their life forcefully pried out of their lungs by malicious hands that had been bred to kill. He saw them beg for their lives, only for the words to die with them on their heavy tongues. Their blood, drawn or not, coated that assassin’s hands.

Tony couldn’t take it anymore.

He lost a comrade, possibly even a friend that day, but that friend chose his parents’ killer over him—over their team. Steve had looked him in the eye, saw his loathing, his ache, his loss, and chose to turn away. 

Tony slowly scrubs a hand down his face. 

“Happy now, Tony?” Sam grits. “You got what you wanted. Wanda’s strapped like an animal upstairs and you’re taking home your prize. You won.”

He did. Tony won. But he still feels like he lost—because in the end, it cost him everything. 

The Antman—Scott, he thinks—grumbles in his cell. “Never thought I’d be back in prison. Shouldn’t have been surprised, though. I just hope my daughter doesn’t hear about this. She’d be disappointed.”

“You have a daughter and decided to join their side, anyway?” Tony says. “Sounds like you were practically begging to be put back in prison. Wonder how your daughter would feel, knowing her dad sided with a pack of criminals. Nice to know you stayed consistent, though.”

Scott’s face scrunches and pales, like he took a punch to the gut and can’t breathe through it. Sam huffs and crosses his arms. “Tony—”

“No, no, don’t take that tone with me, as if I’m in the wrong here. You’re the ones who chose to fight against the government. Not my fault you brought this on yourselves.”

“You don’t actually believe that,” Sam states, and he’s serious. He’s dead serious that he can stare Tony down, drilling holes into Tony’s skull with his eyes, and read every one of his emotions like an open book. That might’ve worked on Steve, but not on him. Definitely not on Tony, who spent his whole life running away from his own reflection’s problems instead of confronting himself and admitting his darkest fears. 

In a way, he was his own first betrayal, and Sam’s digging glare does nothing to him.

Clint sits on the floor of his cell, staring straight ahead at the polished white wall, as if its crevices hold a story much more interesting than Tony. Even when Tony approaches his cell, Clint doesn’t flinch or give any signal that he notices, but Tony knows Clint is cataloging his presence and watching his every move out of the corner of his eye.

Maybe that’s what hurts most. It wasn’t just Steve that left him today. Sam, Scott, Wanda—these are people Tony barely knows and has never fought with, people that are in no way tied to Tony’s life and obligated to stay. But Steve, Clint, Natasha—these were people he shed blood with, people that had his back when they fought. These were people that dug their claws into Tony’s life and then viciously pulled away, leaving marks on him. But none of them turned back even when Tony bled from each of the holes their claws left. 

Now Tony licks his own wounds, wrapping them in hopes that they’ll heal and return him to a blank slate, before they sank their claws into him. 

There’s a crash deep in the raft. Something screeches and howls like a lurking beast, and Tony startles. The raft quakes, shifting uneasily on the water. Judging by the others’ faces, none of them expected it, either. A tearing scream drills past them, echoing off the walls and numbing Tony’s brain and hearing for a minute. 

“What—” Scott gasps. “What’s happening?”

Clint’s eyes widen, and he jumps up from his position on the floor, “Wanda. It’s coming from Wanda’s cell.” For the first time since they fought, Clint looks at Tony, his sagging eyebags doing nothing to cloak the desperation in his eyes. “Tony, you need to check on her. Something is wrong.”

“Yeah, no shit something is wrong, but you’ve officially lost it if you think I’m going to check that out. I actually value my life, thanks.”

“Tony,” Sam says firmly and, God, Tony is really getting sick and tired of this man patronizing him like he’s a child, “please check on her. She could be hurt. I know you don’t like any of us, but I refuse to believe the man Steve told me about would leave a helpless woman alone while she suffers.”

Of course, he had to pull out the Steve-card. Of course he had to guilt trip Tony, as if Steve acknowledging them as friends and then leaving wasn’t hurtful enough. But alas, even without the guilt tripping from Sam, Tony would’ve done it plenty himself. A form of self-sabotage, his old therapist used to call it. Even if Sam hadn’t told him and Ross and his goons would’ve advised against it, he probably would’ve wandered down to check, anyway.

Leaving the others, he heads towards the sound of screeching, like claws dragging against sheer metal. Sweat pricks at his brows, his fingers tingling as he stands before the door to Wanda’s cell. From underneath the door, violently red lights flash, throbbing like a heartbeat. 

He fiddles with his watch and pulls the nanotechnology over his knuckles, creating a makeshift iron fist. The door shakes off its hinges with a single punch, already loosened from whatever he’s about to walk into. Turning inward, the door collapses onto the cell floor, clanging and disturbing the raft. 

Wanda sits in the corner, curled into a tight ball like every muscle in her body hurts. She writhes under the straitjacket, twitching and twisting to get out of it. Her eyes are glazed over and her skin is pale, and she moans in agony like her body is lit on fire. Every now and then, her body glows red, bouncing off the walls and reflecting on the metal floor. 

“Okay, God, okay.” Tony rushes to her side, severely out of his depth. He grabs her by the shoulders to stabilize her, but she shakes out of his arms. “God, kiddo, stay with me, alright? You stay with me. What’s going on? Come on, speak to me.” 

Wanda lets out another pained wail, her eyes nearly rolling into the back of her head. Tony panics. He grips the straitjacket and begins tugging, tearing it at the seams and throwing its scraps to the side. 

Her body slumps to the floor and convulses, something trying to claw its way to the surface. Tony says, “Breathe for me, kid. Wanda? Can you hear me? I need you to breathe, alright? What’s going on?” Tony can’t seem to slow his heart down. It bounces around in his ribcage, fuelled by pure adrenaline and fear. 

He doesn’t want her to die. God, he hates everyone who took Steve’s side but he doesn’t want them to die. 

Wanda’s hands glow red and sparks fly from her palms, darting out of the room and hitting every wall in the cell. The lights bounce off the ceiling and slam into Tony’s skull.

He thinks he screams, but he doesn’t know. His head is underwater, his ears gushing with white noise. His breath staggers and trips and, suddenly, he can’t breathe at all.

His body goes numb. He doesn’t feel it when his body collides with the cold floor.

***

Is he dead? Oh God, please don’t tell me he’s dead. I can’t deal with dead bodies.

He’s not dead, Scott. He’s breathing just fine.

Where are we?

Voices. Tony hears voices. They start out foggy, gurgled out under the water. Then, they grow louder and closer, like Tony’s body is rising to the surface of the ocean. Finally, his head penetrates the surface of the waves, and he gasps. His lungs squeeze in protest as he inhales as much as he can, filling them until he no longer has to breathe manually.

Opening his eyes is another terrorizing task. His eyelids may as well have been sewed to boulders that weighed them down, and if he opened them, he’d risk tearing his eyelids off. 

He opens them, anyway.

“He lives!” a voice chimes above him and three faces peer down at him. Tony quickly sits up and regrets it when his head spins. “Whoa, okay, easy there. You were out of it for a while.”

Tony dusts himself off, smacking away Sam’s extended hand. “Where are we? Or, better yet, why are you three out of your cells?”

Clint shrugs. “Same reason why we’re no longer on the raft. Something happened to Wanda. You were supposed to check on her.”

“I did! I checked on her, and she was shaking like a leaf so I took the straightjacket off of her—”

“You put her in a straitjacket?!”

“That’s not the point,” Tony holds up his hand. “The point is, her freaky magic came at us out of nowhere and next thing we know, we’re all here.”

“And where is ‘here’, exactly?” Scott questions. He whirls around, scanning their location, and they all follow suit.

Up ahead, the street bustles with people—women gossiping outside of cafes, men donning suspenders and smoking cigarettes, children chasing balls down the street and getting yelled at by drivers. Cars whizz past them, their engines grumbling and looking like something straight out of a history textbook. Women fluff their bobs and smooth the fabric of their ankle-length skirts, daintily sipping at their cups of tea. 

Sam’s the first to speak. “Am I going crazy, or are we—”

“In the past?” Tony finishes dryly. “If I weren’t here right now, I’d say you’re crazy and this is just an attempt for you to get yourselves out of prison… But I’m here, so if you’re going crazy, then we’re probably all going crazy.”

“Do you think Wanda knocked us all into the same dream?” Scott asks. “Maybe if we close our eyes really tightly, we’ll wake up on the raft.” He closes his eyes. “One, two, three…” Clint pinches Scott’s side, letting go when he yelps and shuffles away. Scott rubs at his aching hip. “Yep, not a dream. Definitely not a dream.”

“So, then—” Before Sam can finish his thought, a groan comes from behind them. Cardboard boxes rustle as they’re pushed aside. Tony and the others tense, crouching at the possibility of an attack. 

A man steps out from behind the trash cans, coughing and dusting off his dirty white button up. A bruise sits cozily under his eye, accompanied by a cut, and blood trickles from his nostrils. “Shit,” he hisses, reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief to stop the bleeding. His unruly blond hair looks like it hasn’t been combed in days, dirt clinging to its ends and to the underside of his knees. “I’m so dead.”

Next to Tony, Sam stiffens, his breath hitching. The voice is so unnervingly familiar, like a ghost coming back to life. He hears that voice every time he thinks about how Steve pleaded for him to let the assassin go, claiming his friend wasn’t a killer. He hears that voice every time he thinks of how deep the betrayal cut into his heart like a jagged knife. 

It couldn't be. The man before them barely comes up to Tony’s shoulder. He probably can’t even reach the middle shelf in the cupboard, and his clothes hang off him like he stole it from his dad’s closet. Even the slightest gust of wind looks like it would carry this man away. 

But when he turns to the others to verify if his eyes are playing tricks on him, he sees that they’ve all come to the same conclusion. 

“Is that… Captain America?” Scott whispers, as if Steve will hear him if he speaks too loudly. “Holy shit, I mean. I know the textbooks said he wasn’t always big and all, but this? I was not expecting him to be so—”

“Short? Tiny? Skinny?” Clint provides. “Yeah, me neither.”

“I feel like I’m seeing him for the first time,” Sam confesses. 

Tony doesn’t contribute to their awe. This was the man his father had first met, the one he gushed about and prided himself on experimenting on. He’d read his father’s detailed reports on the serum’s properties and their functions, how it affects the human body and what it did to Steve. But the man standing before him would probably die from a bee sting. There was no way he came out of the other end of that experiment unscathed (even though Tony had seen the results of it with his own eyes). 

Steve, despite their concerns, doesn't notice them. He still holds the handkerchief to his nose with one hand and scrubs at his face agitatedly with the other. “ Fuck , Bucky is gonna kill me.”

Bucky . That is what Steve had called the assassin. The mention of the man who took his parents from him sends chills up Tony’s spine. 

“Well,” Clint huffs, “I guess that settles it. We’re officially in the past, courtesy of Wanda’s mysterious abilities.”

“And courtesy of a certain someone who probably triggered them,” Scott adds. Sam, Clint, and Scott all turn to face Tony, staring him down.

“What? You think I did something to Wanda?”

Scott shrugs. “Well, no. But you definitely had a hand in whatever happened, considering you sided with Ross and he’s the reason we’re all locked up, anyway.”

“Excuse me—”

“Guys, stop,” Sam says. “He’s moving.”

Steve cleans the remainder of the blood from his nose and throws it in the trash. He straightens out his clothes, runs his fingers through his hair, and walks out of the alley.

He walks right through Tony.

For a second, Tony feels faint, electricity zipping through his spine and to his fingertips. It runs down to his toes and back up to his head and, for the hundredth time in the last… however long it’s been, he clutches his head. A headache teases the edges of his skull, but never comes. 

“Did he just—”

“Walk right through me? Yeah, he did.”

Sam hums considerately. “Huh. So we’re basically apparitions, but we’re not dreaming? And no one can see us?”

“How is that even possible?” Clint asks.

“We’re probably awake in some way and present enough to sense things, but there’s a thin barrier between where we are and where Steve is.” Tony considers ripping his tongue out after uttering that name. “Therefore, we exist here—wherever here is—but we’re veiled and can’t interact with anyone around us.”

More grumbles drag them out of their thoughts, and they turn to see Steve stomping away, blending into the crowd. It’s not hard to do for someone his size, sinking into the shadows of others and letting himself get swallowed up by the tons of people rushing past to get home after hours—or, at least, that’s what Tony assumes, eyeing the briefcases the men are carrying and the setting sun.

The four of them trail after Steve, noting how people barely notice him, and the ones who do merely elbow him out of the way, like he’s an inconvenience stopping them from reaching their destinations. Finally, he arrives at a building in the middle of nowhere and slips in. 

“Well this is… delightful.” Tony observes the leak coming from the ceiling and the rust clinging to the walls and the stairs that look like they’ll cave in if you step on them. 

Steve heads to a door on the second floor, holds the doorknob and mumbles something under his breath, and opens it. “Hey, Buck, I’m home.”

The man in question sits up from their beat-up couch, throwing his book down. The couch is barely holding itself together at the seams, as if Steve and “Bucky” found it abandoned on a sidewalk and brought it in without washing it. But the sight of the couch is nothing compared to the sight of the assassin— No, James Barnes. 

This was the man before the killer, before he had the blood of his victims running through his veins. Barnes’ hair curls at the top and the first few buttons of his shirt are undone, like he just came home and ripped open the buttons that stifled him. He was young, Tony notes. His eyes burn almost as brightly as Steve’s, a fire only a youthful heart could carry before it’s snuffed out by the horrors of the world—of the war. 

But even then, all Tony can see is the man from the video, his eyes devoid of any emotion, icy cold apathy left in its place. His eyes hadn’t so much as twitched when he killed his parents mercilessly. That man’s hair had sat limp over his shoulders, nothing like the tamed and styled hair that this version of Barnes’ had. That killer’s eyes had sunken into his skull, his face blank, while the young man in front of him probably couldn’t win a game of poker to save his life. 

Even when Tony can barely equate the two, his stomach churns with a bitter taste and he considers Scott’s ridiculous suggestion that they all close their eyes and hope they wake up again on the raft. His lungs squeak and close in on him, and he suddenly finds it hard to breathe.

Sam rushes over. “Whoa, whoa, man, you gotta breathe, okay? You can’t pass out on us right now. You listening, Tony?”

Tony furiously rubs at his eyes, willing his heart to calm the fuck down. “I’m fine . Don’t touch me.”

“Steve,” Barnes’ breathy, fuming utter pulls them back, “what the fuck happened?”

“I, uh, fell down a flight of stairs?” Steve scratches the back of his head and glares at the floor, as if it were personally at fault for his bruises. 

“Steve, you picked another fight, didn’t you? What have I told you about getting yourself into these petty arrangements?”

“It ain’t my fault, Buck! They were picking on one a’ those kids down the block. I hadta do something.”

Bucky freezes, his eyes bulging. Then, his shoulders sag, and he slumps, defeated. “The queer kids?”

“Yeah, Buck,” Steve says, “the queer kids. The guy didn’t know they were queer but he was still picking on ‘em cuz they were smaller than him and dressed like they were queer.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, Steve,” Barnes whines. “You shoulda just let them be.”

“Let them be? You want me to sit around and watch those bullies pick on people that just happen to be more unfortunate than them? It ain’t their fault they’re queer. Why should they be beaten for something they can’t control?”

Barnes gawks at Steve, and so does Tony. Here stands the personification of the American flag, the face of their country, and he was beating people up in alleyways and standing up for the unfortunate as a pastime. Tony could say he didn’t see this coming, but really, he did. 

Ever since Tony met him, Steve had been nothing like the history books made him out to be. He was loud, ambitious, opinionated, stubborn, and always finding himself butting heads with people one way or another. Nice to know that’s one thing he carried with him to the future.

Barnes groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Miss Rogers, please forgive my incompetent soul.” 

“Don’t bring my mama into this, Buck.”

“Well your mama is watching you from the heavens and let’s just say, she ain’t impressed that you’re still getting your ass kicked and I haven’t been doing my job protecting you.”

“I ain’t a charity case!”

Barnes flinches back and curls in on himself, ashamed. “No, that’s— That’s not what I meant, Steve.”

Steam practically fumes out of Steve’s ears. “Well it sure as fuck sounded like it. It ain’t your place to protect me all the time. I don’t need you watching over my ass like I don’t know how to handle myself.”

“There’s nothing else for me to do when you continue putting your ass on the line like your life is meaningless. One of us has to look out for you, and if it’s not gonna be you, it’s gotta be me.” Barnes sharply inhales and rubs at his eyes. He waves Steve over to the couch. “Sit down. I’ll get the ointment from the bathroom.”

The fight leaves Steve the instant he sags into the torn couch cushions, and he deflates like a balloon. Barnes comes back with an ointment, squeezes a bit on his fingers, and rubs it over the cut and bruises under Steve’s eye. Steve hisses and tries to pull away.

“Stay still, punk.”

“Jerk,” Steve replies reflexively.

Barnes sighs and runs his fingers gently over the bruises. “Even if you won’t let me do anything for you, at least let me have this. I don’t know how I’d face your mother in heaven if I didn’t keep you alive.”

Steve tries to smile. “My mama loved you, dumbass. Saw you as her own. Nothing you do could change that.”

Barnes sits back on his haunches and observes Steve for a second. He trails over the bruises and the blood crusted underneath Steve’s nose. “Just… try an’ stay out of trouble, alright? One wrong crowd and you could get yourself killed.”

“I ain’t afraid of death, Buck.”

“But I am.” Steve falls silent, and Barnes looks away. “Not just for you but… for me, too.”

“Why would you be afraid to die? It ain’t like you’re the one getting your ass kicked.”

Barnes’ eyes darken and, for a second, Tony sees the man that becomes the Winter Soldier. Barnes doesn’t reply, like he wouldn’t know what to say even if he did. Even though nothing has happened yet, this version of Barnes looks like he already knows what he’ll become, what he’ll be made into. 

“Maybe not, but that don’t mean I ain’t afraid. So please try to stay out of things, okay? If not for me, at least for your poor ma.”

Steve regards Barnes, then huffs incoherently. “Fine. I’ll try my best.”

Steve runs his fingers through Barnes’ hair, ruining the curls and leaving them to fall over Barnes’ eyes. Their eyes don’t break contact, and even the air stills to give them space. They linger there, hovering in each other’s gaze and fusing together like they don’t know where one begins and the other ends. Steve’s fingers cease, but he doesn’t seem to notice. If they leaned in a little closer, they’d be kissing.

And isn’t that an uncomfortable thing to picture?

“Uh, is it just me, or is anyone else getting the vibe that maybe we shouldn’t be seeing this?” Clint speaks up. 

None of them have time to reply because the image begins to fade, and Steve and Barnes become nothing more than dust.

***

This time, when Tony comes back to himself, the stars twinkle in the night sky. The air, crisp and chilly, brushes against his cheeks. They’re out on the street again in a neighbourhood completely different from the one they’d been in.

Up ahead, Barnes snuggles into a thin coat and walks swiftly, glancing around every few seconds to make sure no one’s there. He’s alone. 

No one is out on the streets in this neighbourhood, locked up in their homes and awaiting sleep. But not Barnes. His eyes dart around, his nerves on end like a wanted man. His shoulders rise to his ears, his muscles tense with something akin to fear. 

“Where’s he headed?” Scott wraps his arms around himself, shivering against the persistent night. 

“I don’t know,” Tony answers. “But wherever it is, it can’t be good, considering how skittish he is.”

It feels like forever when they finally stop in front of a rundown building, the paint chipped and peeling from years of abandonment and precipitation. Barnes glances behind him one last time before heading in. If Tony thought the exterior was bad, the inside looks like it was set on fire and extinguished long after the fire devoured every stable structure, leaving behind the scraps. 

Barnes trudges down a staircase, the steps creaking under his feet and rattling loudly. Muffled noise comes from somewhere. 

“You don’t think he was involved in any illegal business, do you?” Scott says.

Clint replies, “I don’t know, but this isn’t looking too promising.”

Barnes stops in front of a door and Tony is only starting to realize the muffled noise is music streaming through the cracks in the walls and from underneath the door. Barnes walks in, and they follow.

Laughter and cheers echo and shake the walls. A band in the corner plays Artie Shaw—one of his songs Tony hasn’t heard since his father was still alive. A bartender slides drinks across the table to men in frilly dresses and women in suspenders. Two girls cuddle in one of the seats in front of the band, clapping along and giggling into each other’s mouths. 

“Holy shit,” Sam exhales. “We’re in a queer club.”

“Yeah, no shit Sherlock,” Tony says. “Can’t believe Cap’s best friend was prancing around in underground gay bars. That’s nothing like the skirt chaser the history books made him out to be.”

Barnes grins. “Lookin’ good, doll.” A woman whirls around at the sound of his voice.

No, it’s not a woman; it’s a man in drag. Kohl rims the queen’s eyes and the blush on her cheekbones is exaggeratedly pink. Red lipstick coats her lips. Her dress falls over her ankles, flaring out at the waist and dancing with her when she turns. Her blond wig is twice the size of her head.

“James, darling!” The drag queen cups Barnes’ face and gives him a kiss on each cheek, smearing her lipstick on his skin. “So glad you could come tonight, dear.”

“Wouldn’t miss seeing a fine gal like you for the world. New dress?”

“I’m so happy you noticed! It came in just the other day. What do you think? Stunning, isn’t it?”

Barnes pecks her on the cheek. “Just as beautiful as you.”

The queen teasingly smacks Barnes on the shoulder. “Oh quit it, you flatterer. Come, sit at the bar. We’ve got new drinks tonight. Who knows? Maybe you’ll even get lucky .” She winks at Barnes, who blushes and covers his face. 

There isn’t a single trace of the man Tony met. This Barnes is so young, blushing to the tips of his ears at the slightest ribbing, even twirling the longer ends of his hair in his fingers as he takes a seat at the bar. He smiles bashfully when the bartender slides a drink over to him, and he cups it in both hands. This Barnes carries himself with a sense of faux confidence, flashing cocky grins at anyone who looks his way, while the assassin Tony knows curled into himself to appear smaller. The longer he watches this Barnes, the harder it is to see the monster he later becomes. 

“Is this seat taken?” An unfamiliar voice comes from Barnes’ left. The man is broad, taking up half the room with just his shoulders—kind of like Steve in the future, when Tony thinks about it. Even his hair is a dirty blond, a few shades darker than Steve’s. The only differences are his eyes and his nose. His eyes don’t have the same uncontained anger and the promise of something more. And his nose isn’t crooked like he broke it and forgot to set it right. 

Tony doesn’t miss the way Barnes’ eyes scan the man appreciatively. He must be thinking the same thing, if the sparking interest in his gaze is any indication. 

“Depends.”

“On?”

“What your intentions are.”

The man takes a seat and thanks the bartender when he hands him a whiskey. “Well, I just happened to see one of the finest men walk into the bar and had to shoot my shot.” He shamelessly brushes a strand of hair out of Barnes’ eyes. “You’re gorgeous by the way, if I haven’t said that already.”

Barnes’ cheeks flush a rosy pink, and he ducks his head into his drink, smiling against the rim of the glass. “I’m James. My friends call me Bucky, though.”

“I’m Walter.” Walter grins, and Barnes softly smiles back, his blush still in tact.

“Huh,” Sam mutters. “Who knew Barnes was so… blushy?”

“Nothing like the guy we got in the future,” Clint chimes in. “This guy looks like he shits rainbows and butterflies and the other one looks like he’d crawl under a bed at the smallest hint of sunlight.”

Scott shrugs. “Aw, come on, guys. He wasn’t so bad. Granted, I actually didn’t speak to him at all, but he seemed nice.”

“Keyword here is ‘seemed,’” Tony replies, and he can’t help but wince at his own cold tone. “I just… can’t believe this is the man who…”

Sam sighs. “You know it wasn’t him, Tony. HYDRA made him do those things.”

“And that’s supposed to somehow wash his hands of my parents’ blood?”

“Wh— No,” Sam backtracks. “No, that’s not what I meant. I understand your feelings but—”

“Can it,” Tony snaps, “you don’t understand shit.” The music gets louder and, Tony finds, so does his voice. “You have any idea what it’s like, knowing that someone I considered my friend is out there, protecting some killer? Not to mention I had to watch my parents die in that fucking footage, and Steve still had the audacity to look me in the eye and claim his friend was innocent. You got any idea what that’s like?”

Sure, this version of Barnes is young and sweet, blushing like a virgin when another man plays with his hair and flirts with him. Sure, this version of Barnes is innocent, his eyes hopeful and unexposed to the monstrosity and gruesome blood he’ll later face in the war and in the decades following. Sure, this version of Barnes has done nothing wrong, but Tony still feels sick to his stomach when he sees him.

He feels sick when he sees Barnes’ easy smile, charming the men and women he talks to. He feels sick when Barnes throws his head back and laughs, all airy and gentle and inviting. 

He feels sick, knowing that this man will be stripped of his friends, family, his elegant confidence, and reduced to an unblinking, unmoving killing machine, incapable of telling right from wrong. 

He feels sick, knowing this man who seemingly has done nothing wrong, somehow got the wrong end of the stick and a mocking middle finger from the heavens itself. 

Sam starts, “Tony—”

Clint butts in. “No time to argue, guys. They’re moving.”

Sure enough, Walter, a copy of Steve with a few tweaks, takes Barnes by the hand and leads him to the back where the washrooms are tucked away. Sam flashes Tony a look that promises a further discussion later, to which Tony rolls his eyes. They trail into the washroom, only to find Walter cornering Barnes against the sink, taking him by the hips, and shoving his tongue down Barnes’ throat.

“Whoa, whoa!” Clints yells. “Okay, I don’t think this is something for us to be seeing. Look away, guys, look away!”

“I’m starting to think Wanda is into exhibitionism,” Scott replies, covering his eyes.

Walter grips Barnes’ waist in a bruising manner, pushing him so far against the counter that Barnes pauses and hops onto it. He spreads his legs to give Walter space, and welcomes him back, gasping and moaning in his mouth. His hands claw at Walter’s shoulder blades and pull him closer. 

Walter pulls back long enough to pant, “Christ, you’re beautiful,” then he ducks his head to run his tongue over Barnes’ jawline. Barnes lets him. He throws his head back and closes his eyes. His eyelids flutter sporadically and his teeth sink into his bottom lip, effectively silencing himself. Walter presses kisses along his Adam’s apple and the side of his neck, one hand leaving Barnes’ waist to cup his nape. 

Barnes whimpers and gasps against Walter’s lips. One of his hands reaches back to steady himself on the counter.

But just when Walter’s hand teases the edge of Barnes’ pants, Barnes’ eyes fly open. They bounce around the room, like he’s coming back to his body after subconsciously floating away, and he startles. He pushes Walter back and holds him at arm’s length. His stare moves frantically over Walter’s figure, taking in his shoulders, his eyes, his nose, his hands, and Tony begins to understand what he’s seeing.

Barnes looks into Walter’s eyes that are a shade too light, too carefree of the world around him, unlike Steve whose eyes are darker and are weighed by the people that beat and shun him, forcing him to use every bit of strength in his frail body to push back. Walter’s nose sits perfectly on his face, never coming in contact with too many fists he couldn’t dodge. His shoulders are too broad; his arms are too thick; he’s too tall.

He’s nothing like Steve. 

“What’s wrong?” Walter struggles to catch his breath.

“I—” Barnes swallows thickly and scrambles off the counter. “I— I have to go. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

“What? James, wait!” Walter tries, and fails, to grab Barnes’ arm, and Barnes rushes out of the washroom. He ducks past the drag queen who calls after him, rushes up the stairs, and out into the lulling night. 

“What… just happened?” Scott ponders. “I mean… they seemed fine a moment ago and then Barnes freaked and ran out.”

Sam watches Barnes drag his limbs behind him and head back home. “You mean, you really don’t know?”

“Know what?”

None of them answer. 

Barnes shudders against the chilling wind. He pulls his coat tighter around himself, but it doesn’t stop his shivering. He stutters out one breath, then another, then another—each breath working manually. He pants like he just ran a mile, staggering on his feet until he crouches down.

He lets out a sob, buries his face in his hands, and starts crying. His tears sink into his covered knees, absorbing it like they’re trying to get rid of the evidence—any evidence pointing to Barnes being anything but a cocky, boisterous, carefree man. If Tony weren’t standing so close, he wouldn’t even hear it. Barnes cries like he learned how to contain his voice at a young age, afraid that someone would find out he isn’t who he says he is. 

Barnes wipes at his eyes and his mouth, ridding him of any proof that he was out late kissing another man and then crying about it afterwards. But no amount of scrubbing at his face can stop the tears from flowing, dripping off his chin and staining his flushed cheeks.

For once, none of them have anything to say. All they do is watch as Barnes falls apart, alone with no one to lean on.

***

“Buck?” Steve mumbles, his voice muffled into his pillow. 

Barnes freezes by the dresser, and he pulls on a fake smile Steve can’t even see. “Go back to sleep, Steve. I’m just getting ready to hit the hay.” Steve grumbles a clipped “‘kay” and stops stirring, his body sinking into the sheets. Barnes strips off every last piece of clothing and climbs into the right side of the bed. It’s barely big enough for both of them to fit, but Barnes still shuffles to the very edge to keep as much distance from Steve as he can.

The thin blanket isn’t enough to keep out the cold, or maybe there’s another reason why Barnes won’t stop shivering. He shakes and buries his face in the blanket, hiding himself from no one in particular. Unwillingly, a stray tear slips out of Barnes’ eye and over the bridge of his nose, soaking into his pillowcase.

Steve groans under his breath, twisting in the sheets until he’s facing Barnes’ back. Even in his sleep, he seeks the heat radiating from Barnes’ body, and crawls closer to rest his forehead between Barnes’ shoulder blades. Barnes’ entire body seizes when Steve carelessly slings an arm over his waist, snuggling closer. 

Barnes opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but he closes it. 

Then he opens it again. “Love you, Steve,” he whispers. Steve snores loudly. Barnes turns his face into his pillow, shutting up his own sobs. 

Even through his tears, he hesitantly grips Steve’s hand, running the pads of his fingers over Steve’s bony fingers and protruding knuckles. His tears don’t stop, but a part of him relaxes when he notes that these hands are familiar—nothing like the hands of the man who held him at the bar. These hands, he eagerly welcomes, and he subtly shifts back to press himself closer to Steve. His body language screams in shame, but it doesn’t stop him from seeking out what little of Steve he can get. 

It’s almost painful to watch. Tony swallows bitterly at the crying man who seeks comfort in the hands of a friend that doesn’t hear his inner sorrows. 

“Oh,” Scott mutters, staring wide-eyed at the young adults in bed. “I didn’t know they were like that.”

You’re only realizing that now? Tony wants to retort, but he doesn’t, because he didn’t know either until now. 

He didn’t realize any of it until now.

He doesn’t even think Steve knew it was like that until he lost Barnes.

And suddenly, things are starting to fall into place, like how Barnes only sought out Steve even after the fall of SHIELD, and how he stuck close to Steve in Siberia, as if ashamed to touch him, but still chasing after what little of him he could get without feeling greedy. It makes sense why he hunted that last piece of himself he still remembered, even when he forgot everything else, and Steve, to his luck, finally met him in the middle after remaining oblivious to his pain in their shared past.

Tony looks away and Wanda, whether she’s watching them or not, takes mercy on him. The memory crumbles away.

***

He doesn’t like this.

Tony doesn’t have to look around to know where they are. And turns out, neither do the others. 

All Scott says is a fearful, “Oh no,” and everything collapses. 

Water leaks from the ceiling and no light streams in from the outside because of the absent windows. Tony can’t tell what time it is. Medical equipment, such as scalpels and syringes, sit atop operating tables and strewn boxes. In the middle of the room rests a large chair, loose straps hanging off the ends. 

A short doctor in a lab coat stands before the chair and pushes his wire glasses up the bridge of his nose. “And all the tests are running smoothly?”

“That’s Arnim Zola,” Sam whispers in dread. He gags into his hand.

“Oh no,” Scott repeats. “Oh no, oh no. Guys, I don’t want to watch this. Wanda! Hello? Can you hear us? I don’t want to see this! Please.”

Another scientist, his hair stringy and his scalp balding, holds a clipboard to his chest. “The contestant is responding quite well to the side effects, albeit a few… setbacks?”

“Setbacks?”

“Lack of appetite, doctor. He refuses to eat and his skin is nearly sticking to every inch of his bones. He acts out irrationally and believes someone is looking for him.”

Zola sighs and pulls his glasses off. “Ah, he awaits the old captain. Such rebellion will hinder our outcome. Bring him in.”

The scientist leaves and comes back only moments later, followed by two other scientists who drag Barnes in by his remaining arm. His skin that once glowed and flushed rose now compares to a dirty wet rag, rung out and left to dry in the shade. His eyes are sunken into his skull, a premature echo of the ghost he will soon become, and his lips are cracked and caked with dry blood. 

He kicks his legs and screams, trying to wrench his arm away with the little strength he has. “Get off of me! Fuck you! Fuck all of you! Get off! Ya fucking bastards, let go!”

The scientists deposit him before Zola’s feet. “Good evening—” It’s evening , Tony notes— “I hope you haven’t had too much trouble with your stay. My men and I have put in effort to make your time here more comfortable.”

Barnes glares up at Zola, and Tony takes a step back at the single burning flame in his gaze. Even now, with his body frail and small, he puts up one last fight. He and Steve really are a match made in heaven . “Fuck you, ya rotten bastards. Steve’s comin’ for me, you’ll see. He’s looking for me right now. And you’ll all be sorry you even dared to mess with him.”

The raw hope in Barnes’ eyes, the pure, undying loyalty and trust he holds for Steve beats like a heart, reverberating through them. 

“I feel sick,” Clint says. He turns away.

Zola frowns and presses a hand to his heart, feigning sorrow. “Oh dear, I can’t believe it. Has no one told you the news?”

Barnes’ glare smoothes out until he stares, confused, at Zola. “What news? The fuck are you talking about?”

Zola exaggeratedly gasps into his palm. “Oh, we didn’t! This is truly heartbreaking. It’s just… You see… Your beloved captain had something of an accident.”

Barnes’ eyes bulge and he agitatedly grabs at Zola’s pant leg. “What do you mean Steve had an accident?” 

“Well, it’s just… there was an unfortunate event and he couldn’t get out fast enough.” Zola reaches into the bag on his arm, pulls out a stack of newspapers, and drops them on the floor. “Truly tragic, I must say.”

Barnes lets go of Zola’s leg and flips through the pages. Tony watches every sickening expression play out on Barnes’ features, dancing between shock and confusion and anger and disbelief. 

Nation’s Hero Lost at Sea

Is This the End of Captain America?

Funeral to be Held in War Hero, Captain America’s Honour

“What— What is this?” Barnes trembles as he holds up one of the papers, his eyes flying over the headlines like it’ll change if he reads it long enough. “You expect me to believe this, you sick fuck?” But even when he says it, his voice cracks and crumbles, like the day he sat on the road and cried after running away from a man that would never be Steve. 

“Believe it or not, that is your reality, Sergeant,” Zola shrugs. He kneels, smiling mockingly and he leans in close to Barnes’ ear. “Your captain is gone. There is no one looking for you. No one will come for you. He is dead, and you will be reborn as the fist of HYDRA.”

Captain America is dead. Captain America is dead. Captain America is dead. Captain America is dead. Captain America is dead Captain America is dead CaptainAmericaisdeadCaptainAmericaisdeadCaptainAmericaisdeaddeaddeaddeaddeaddeaddead—

Tony watches Zola snuff out the flame. 

Barnes screams and scrambles for the door. “No, no, no no no no! You’re lying! You’re fucking lying! You’re lyin— Get off of me !” He elbows the scientist that tries to grab him. With only one arm, he drags his uncooperative body to the exit, screaming, “Steve! Steve! Please, Steve— No, get off! Get off! Please, please get off! No! Steve !” The scientists grab him from either end as he kicks and screams, thick tears rolling down his cheeks and his wails ripping through every cell in Tony’s body. His hand still clutches one of the newspapers.

This is different from the last time Tony saw Barnes cry.

The first time had been silent, a desperate and muffled cry to hide his humiliation and his aching heart. The first time had been one of longing, one that yearned to be closer to the man he loved but never knowing how to get close without scaring him off. The first time had been a loose dancing leaf in the wind, sticking to the outside of a window and peering into the cozy warmth of the house it could never enter.

This, though—this is loud. Barnes’ cries shred the tissues in his throat and claw at that locked window in agony, begging to be let in. His cries resemble that of a dying animal, pleading for help, though it knows no one will come. 

Because that is Barnes’ reality.

No one ever came.

His screams fade down the hall, but the echoes of it linger in the room. Tony looks around, only to find Clint still turned away, Scott with his hands over his ears and his eyes tightly shut, and Sam looking pale and faint. 

The room chips away around them, but Tony can’t stop thinking about the last time Barnes ever felt hope.

***

Shrill laughter fills the playground. Barnes and Steve occupy a couple of the swings. They don’t look any older than sixteen, but they’re much older than the other kids in the area. A gaggle of children push each other down the slide, screaming in delight and begging to go again. Steve pokes at the dirt with the toe of his shoe, absentmindedly rocking back and forth on the swing, while Barnes is still, a soft smile tugging on his lips as he watches the children move on to a game of tag. 

“Aw,” Scott coos. “I remember when Cassie and I used to come to the playground every Friday. She loved the swings.”

“Before you got arrested?” Clint asks.

Scott blinks slowly. “Yeah. Before I, uh, got arrested.”

“What time does your ma want you home?” Steve asks. He fiddles with his hair, settling on pushing the stubborn strands to the right side of his head. 

Barnes shrugs, pulling his eyes away from the kids to look at Steve properly. “I don’t know. Probably soon since she’s got her hands full with the girls. Imma have to make dinner tonight.” His voice curls at the end and cracks, teetering on the edge between boyish and adulthood. At this age, he looks significantly bigger than Steve, his limbs growing at an awkward rate and leaving him a weird clash of lanky and broad. 

Steve, on the other hand, looks like he could blend in with the children. The only indication that he’s his age is the way he carries himself and his voice that sits a little lower than Barnes’. 

“Well,” Steve stands and brushes his hand over his pants, “we best get going then. Sun’s about to set.”

Barnes moves to stand when he catches a girl slipping out of his peripheral vision. She’s shorter than the others, chubbier and much younger—probably a sister that wanted to join in on her older sibling’s fun—and she falls, her legs incapable of keeping up with the rest. She scrapes her knees on the playground rocks, and starts crying. 

“Shit,” Barnes mutters, and he quickly stands up and rushes over to the girl. He pushes her messy pigtails out of her face. “Hey, hey, shh, you’re alright. Lemme see what the damage is.” He pushes her dress above her knee and grimaces at the peeled flesh and blood coating the edge of the thin fabric. “Yikes. Does it hurt?”

“Mhm,” the girl nods, wiping furiously at her tears.

“Alright, here’s what we’re gonna do.” Barnes pulls a clean handkerchief out of his pocket and gently dabs at her cheeks. “We’re gonna stop crying, and we’re gonna stop the bleeding. Then we’ll look for your parents together, ‘kay?” He smiles when the girl nods. “Steve, can you hand me your handkerchief?”

Steve frowns but does as he’s told, and Barnes folds the handkerchief in half. He wraps it around the girl’s knee, crossing it underneath, and tying it at the top.

“There. Now, it might not be much, but it’ll at least stop the bleeding for now. When you get home, make sure you tell your parents to clean it thoroughly, alright?” The girl nods again, and Barnes turns around and waits expectantly. “Hop on my back. Let’s find your parents.”

Steve stands off to the side and shifts from foot to foot. “You sure you got time for this? You said you needed to be home soon.”

Barnes adjusts his grip on the girl, and she snuggles into his back. “Eh, I’ll be fine. Besides, I already have three sisters at home. What’s one more?”

It doesn’t take long for them to find the girl’s parents and her older brother she had been following. In that time, Barnes rattles on about his own sisters—how he does their hair in the morning, or how he puts them to bed on his parents’ date nights, and how the youngest cries when Barnes isn’t the one to read her a bedtime story. The little girl listens attentively, her short arms barely wrapping around Barnes’ neck as she brings up her brother, slurring her words through the gap between her baby teeth.

When Barnes finally delivers her to her parents, she turns around one last time and waves, flashing a toothy grin. Barnes waves back, only dropping his arm when she’s out of sight.

“Huh,” Tony mutters.

“Huh,” Steve mirrors, as if he read Tony’s mind. “Guess I never really understood how well you were with kids.”

“Oh, please, like I’m not a full-time babysitter to my sisters and to you.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I wonder,” Barnes grins mischievously, barely dodging the swing Steve takes at his shoulder. “I’ll race you back to my place.” He turns and sprints, leaving Steve behind.

“Oh, what the fuck?” Steve curses under his breath. “Buck, wait up!” He takes off at a slower pace, huffing as Barnes slows and laughs. 

It fades before Tony has a chance to say anything.

***

“Buck? What’s wrong?” Steve cautiously approaches Bucky, his steps slow like he’s speaking to a wounded animal. 

It hasn’t been long since he brought Bucky to Wakanda. Though Bucky had suggested cryostasis at first, Steve was quick to shut down the idea. He wouldn’t sit ideally by as his friend continued to treat himself like a deadly beast in need of being caged. We’ll get through this together, Steve had said, and he cupped Bucky’s remaining hand, resisting the urge to place a kiss on each of his knuckles. 

Since then, Steve has been working with Shuri to find a way to break down the words that kept Bucky chained to HYDRA. With them in Bucky’s head, he was forever rooted in place, obeying handlers that kept him submissive even in death. 

Each night, Bucky pushes his dinner plate away, claiming he’s not hungry, and the shadows under his eyes grow, carrying the weight of ghosts on his shoulders from every kill he had been forced to commit. 

Some days, Bucky lashes out, screaming and throwing anything close to him at Steve’s head and cursing at him to get out. Other days, he goes mute, staring into nothing and lost in his head.

Today is one of the latter days. 

Bucky sits on the windowsill, cataloging the moving bodies on the ground below. Steve wants nothing more than to scoop Bucky into his arms and shield him, but he doesn’t. He wouldn’t want to scare Bucky away.

Bucky peels his eyes away long enough to stare straight through Steve. “My thoughts have been louder lately.”

***

“No, no, not again. Please, not again.” Scott paces around HYDRA's laboratory. 

Zola is here again, casually checking over notes as he stands next to the chair. The room hasn’t changed since the last time they were here: the scalpels are in the same position, the syringes are still neatly placed, and reports with experiment results are piled to a corner of the table. 

New additions, however, don’t mirror the order of the rest of the items. Schematics litter the only free surface on the table. They each contain drawings of an arm. This was the beginning of the Winter Soldier’s metal arm , Tony thinks. When he peaks at them, he takes in the technicalities, the advanced engineering. He frowns as he does the math, piecing the images together and its possible outcome.

“This arm must’ve weighed a ton,” Tony comments mindlessly.

“How do you know?” Sam tilts his head.

Tony points at the images. “See how they’ve marked where the arm will fit and how it’ll sit against the bones? This much pressure on the spine would paralyze the average person permanently.”

Tony freezes.

Seventy years.

Barnes has been walking around with this arm for seventy years, weighed down by its bulkiness and the awkward way it was attached to his shoulder. He’s been walking around with a ton of pressure against his spine, enough to land him immovable for the rest of his life. But he’s still up and moving, still functional after all this.

His eyes scan the rest of the diagrams, and he pauses at the last schematic.

He takes in the sensors built into the arm, meant to connect to his neural pathways. The sensors are described to feel temperature, touch, and any form of pain inflicted on it, just like a regular arm with a few tweaks.

Tony’s traitorous mind teleports him back to the last time he saw Barnes—when he fought Steve and Barnes in Siberia and they left him with a broken arc reactor and the abandoned shield. He vividly remembers tearing at Barnes’ arm and feeling disgustingly content at the picture of exposed wires protruding from Barnes’ shoulder, sizzling and sending electric currents to an arm that was no longer there. Barnes went pale, retching on the ground and sweating from every pore in his face. His eyes glazed over and he’d dropped, limp and vulnerable and weak enough that Tony could’ve killed him if Steve hadn’t stopped him.

Barnes had felt that. He had felt the loss of his arm for the second time, feeling it ripped off his body like his flesh arm. 

Tony had done that to him. 

He clenches his eyes shut and wills the creeping headache to fuck off. 

Seemingly satisfied with the notes, Zola places the clipboard down and summons the scientists that they saw last time. “Bring in the contestant. We shall try again.”

Barnes appears moments later. Judging by the room and Barnes’ overall appearance, it hasn’t been too long since Zola broke the news of Steve’s death.

“Jesus Christ,” Clint exhales shakily.

It’s evident the news took a toll on Barnes. If he hadn’t already looked horrible before, he looks worse now. His eyes are puffy and rimmed red, and dry tear tracks stain his cheeks. He’s lost more weight, his skin clinging to his ribs for dear life and failing to keep out any of the cold. Each breath Barnes takes comes out as a white cloud, and his limbs don’t cooperate, frozen stiff. His entire body is one big bruise, his skin turning blue and showcasing his thin veins underneath. The cheap fabric of the clothes they put Barnes in is dirty from being dragged across the floor, and the room stinks of urine.

“Hello, Sergeant Barnes! So nice of you to join us today,” Zola exclaims in faux excitement. Barnes doesn’t answer, his pupils blank and swimming in anguish. “How are you feeling?”

Barnes doesn’t answer again.

“Oh God,” Scott whispers in horror.

Zola sighs, giving up on his attempts at holding a one-sided conversation. “Very well. Place him in the chair. We shall begin the procedure.” As Barnes submissively lets himself be strapped to the chair, Zola claps his hands in delight. “Oh, I am quite excited for this to go well. We’ve put much effort into your improvements.”

This time, Barnes’ chest trembles as he inhales, and he mumbles something, too quiet for any of them to catch.

Zola leans closer. “What was that?”

Barnes doesn’t stop trembling. “Kill me… please…” For a moment, his eyes finally clear up. 

Tony presses his palms into his eyelids.

This was coming from the man who claimed he feared death—who begged for Steve to stay out of trouble.

How cruel did you have to be for death to become an act of mercy?

“Please… I wan…wanna die…”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Barnes, listen to me.” Tony doesn’t realize he started talking until he catches himself. He skittishly takes a step closer. “Barnes, you need to keep it together.” Barnes makes no indication that he’s heard. Tony glances up at the ceiling, silently pleading that wherever Wanda is, she can hear him. “You need to fight back if you’re going to get any chance of escape.”

Zola ducks his head and sighs. He brushes Barnes’ oily hair off his forehead—a complete opposite of the Barnes who fiddled with the curls on his head and took the time to appear charming. Now, he’s reduced to a mess of wet clothes and putrid body odour from being locked up too long. “You poor thing. There is nothing left for you. Your friend is gone—lost in the ocean, and he left you here.” He clucks his tongue. “He must not have cared for you as much as you think.”

Sam butts in, “Barnes, he’s wrong. Steve cares so much about you. I would know; I watched him chase after you for years even when I told him it was all a lost cause. He believed in you even when I didn’t, even when the whole nation was convinced you were just a psychopathic murderer. You have no idea how much life pumped in Steve when he found out you were alive. Before that, he was just the hollow shell of the person he used to be, trapped in a world that wasn’t his own.”

Tony hadn’t known that. But then again, he had barely paid attention to Steve, and every interaction they shared led to one of them blowing up.

“But when he found out you were alive,” Sam continues, “it was like he had a purpose again. His whole world revolves around you and keeping you safe. He went into the ocean thinking you were dead. And he never would’ve left if he had known you were alive. He’s out there right now, and you need to hold on for him, okay? Steve will find you.”

Even if Barnes could hear him, his words are nothing but hollow, falsely promising an alternative reality where Barnes was spared from HYDRA. But that reality doesn’t exist. Steve crashed into the ocean, taking a broken heart with him and the belief that he was one step closer to meeting Barnes in the afterlife. And Barnes was cursed to place his hopes in a man that wouldn’t save him.

There was nothing left for him.

“It must hurt to know you weren’t important to him. You must be aching.” Zola pulls back and grins. “But not to worry, Sergeant.” He trails his calloused hand down the side of Barnes’ face, and Barnes doesn’t have the strength to resist. “All that agony in your heart, all your miseries, will be gone when we’re done. You will be free.”

He nods to one of the scientists, who fiddles with the controls of the chair. The scientist grabs a plastic gag and pries Barnes’ limp jaw open, forcing it between his teeth. The metal hood above slowly drops down, gently caressing the sides of Barnes’ head. The volts pierce through his brain and rattle his skull.

He screams.

“I can’t watch,” Clint says. No doubt all Clint can think about was when he was under Loki’s control. At least then, he hadn’t been strapped and electrocuted.

Finally, Barnes comes to life, thrashing in the seat to no avail. He uses his right shoulder to push against the straps, trying to wrestle out of it, but it barely budges. He starts sobbing, tears sliding down from the corners of his eyes. 

Barnes had silenced each of his cries, tucking away a part of him that yearned for more but cowered in shame and ridicule. The last time he had cried was loud, too riddled with grief to be shameful and embarrassing. 

This time, he’s forced back into muffled silence, the gag holding back the full potential of his sobs and screams no matter how much they ache to tear through the plastic and burst into the open.

His body writhes on the chair and he whines in between hysterical cries, calling out to a friend that’s long gone and a group of scientists that stand around and watch in pleasure, entertained by his misery. 

This is it, Tony realizes. 

This is the creation of the Winter Soldier—where it all began. This is the moment that led up to the deaths of his innocent parents.

And, Tony realizes, he hates it. 

He harboured more than just ill feelings and a negative opinion on Barnes and, along with Steve’s betrayal, he let them brew inside him like a mixture gone wrong. And now he’s watching it from the beginning with the knowledge of who Barnes was before they stripped him of his identity, and he hates it. 

He wants it to stop.

Barnes’ voice thins out and, as he loses consciousness, one last tear trickles out of his eye.

***

Wanda startles, gasping as she settles and becomes one with her body again. Her head throbs with a headache that rips through her skull, bouncing around like her uncontrollable magic. She notices several things amiss. 

First: she can move her arms. She’s no longer hugged by a tight straitjacket. Instead, the scraps of it lay to the side. Did she do that?

Second: the door to her cell rests on the floor, unceremoniously pulled off its hinges.

Third: random crevices of her cell are burnt, crumbling along the ceiling and the walls. Residue of her magic lingers in the marks. 

And fourth: Tony Stark’s unconscious body lies at her feet.

Dubiously, she brushes her hair out of her face and shakes Tony Stark’s shoulder. No response. “Mr. Stark? Are you alright? Hello? Mr. Stark?” Again, no response. She begins to panic. She pulls down Tony Stark’s collar and presses two fingers to his throat in search of his pulse. 

It’s there, beating steadily.

She sighs in relief and leans against the wall.

“What the hell happened?”

***

Snow carpets the grass, covering every inch of it. The snowstorm is vicious and thick enough to hide the weak moon behind its cascade. Not a single peep graces the neighbourhood with its presence, and all the lights are shut. A single street lamp is lit in the distance, casting more shadows than light onto one of the only houses on this side of the town. 

It feels like a scene cut out of a horror movie.

Scott’s teeth chatter. “God, couldn’t Wanda choose cozier memories?” He wraps his arms around himself. Tony knows he doesn’t just mean the weather. 

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then, one of the doors opens. The movement is so subtle, so hush, Tony wouldn’t have caught it if he weren’t paying attention. A boot-clad leg steps out of the dark and, behind him, he hears someone’s breath hitch. 

Out steps the Winter Soldier, his black uniform hugging every dip and curve of his body, rendering him one with the night shadows. Judging by the length of his hair—brushing the top of his shoulders—this is decades after the war. His face dons an equally intimidating black mask, covering him up to the underside of his eyes. Even from this distance, the vacancy in his eyes is colder than the snow that passes through them—so far removed from the man that cried when he believed no one was watching, and the man that screamed in agony and begged for death to come. 

This is the man Tony remembers from the footage—the one who killed his parents. But after seeing how many emotions Barnes was capable of, how could he equate the two without it feeling out of place?

Still, it doesn’t stop the shiver that tickles the base of Tony’s spine as he takes in the emptiness of Barnes’ gaze. 

Every move he takes is calculated, his eyes thoroughly searching the snowstorm for any signs of witnesses. Despite the size and evident weight of his boots, they don’t make a sound when he crushes the snow beneath them.

The metal arm has already been fused into his shoulder, hanging limply at his side and no doubt forcing him to put more weight on his left. His stance doesn’t give any of this away, possibly beaten out of him until he learned to distribute the arm’s weight throughout his body without standing at an odd angle. 

In his flesh hand, he holds a knife coated in fresh blood. 

“Tony—” Sam starts, no doubt trying to continue the conversation from a while ago.

“I’m fine,” Tony retorts. “No need to check on me. It’s not everyday I get to watch my parents’ killer in action.” His words fall flat, lacking the malice and rage he once held. 

“I don’t think we have to see him in action,” Clint says. “Looks like we arrived a moment too late.”

“And thank God for that,” Scott finishes. 

From his breast pocket, Barnes pulls out a white handkerchief—that looks similar to the ones he and Steve used to carry—and wipes the drying blood off the knife, rubbing harder at a few stubborn spots that flake off. He tucks the knife into the holster strapped to his upper thigh, and starts his trek to the meeting point, having successfully completed a mission. 

Until he hears a sniffle from behind the crates by the door.

The meek voice settles, but the damage is done. Barnes’ attention has been drawn. He turns and heads in the direction of the sound, hand poised over the hilt of his knife. 

“That’s a kid,” Scott panics. “He’s gonna kill the kid. Holy shit, he’s gonna kill the kid. What do we do?”

“There’s nothing we can do,” Sam states, resigned. “We can’t change anything. We’re merely spectators.”

“He’s gonna kill the kid. That’s a fucking kid and he’s about to kill them.”

“Calm down,” Clint advises. “We don’t even know if he’ll do anything yet.”

“He has his hand hovering over his knife! He’s literally getting ready to kill the kid. Oh my God, I’m going to throw up. Holy shit.”

Barnes stops by the crates, and he peers over them. He comes face to face with a girl, barely older than the one he had treated at the playground. Her flimsy skirt barely covers her calves and she pulls her knees up to her chest, trying to shield herself from the bristling wind. Snow soaks her hair, and her breath stutters when she tries to stop crying. 

She locks eyes with Barnes, and her tears crash into her once more.

She huddles as far as she can against the side of the house, hoping that, if she makes herself smaller, Barnes will show mercy and move on. 

But he doesn’t. He continues standing there, observing her with a stony expression. He blinks slowly and methodically, looming over her as she muffles her cries, trying and failing to suppress them. A hint of something races through Barnes’ eyes before they strategically harden again.

Carefully, he kneels in front of the girl. He reaches out his flesh hand.

Scott makes a strangled sound. “He’s going to kill her with his bare hands. He’s going to strangle her .”

“He won’t.” It slips out before Tony can stop himself. “Barnes wouldn’t do that.”

Barnes touches the girl’s knee, pushes her skirt above her knee, and pulls her leg closer to him. There’s a gash on her knee, slicing across her skin and welcoming snowflakes into the open wound. She must’ve slipped in the house while running out. 

Taking in the sight, Barnes’ blinks quicken, like he’s waking up after a nap and coming back to himself and his surroundings. The girl’s sobs begin to slow as Barnes pulls out the dirty handkerchief, folds it to a clean corner, and tenderly wipes the blood. The girl’s eyes warily track his movements, but she doesn’t pull away, mesmerized at the slightest kindness displayed by the man that murdered her parents. 

It feels like forever when Barnes pulls back and folds the handkerchief, tucking it into his pocket. 

The girl sneezes. Then she shudders and runs her hands over her biceps, coaxing out waves of warmth. 

Barnes studies her attempts to produce body heat, eyeing how her lips are rapidly turning blue. He scoops her up in his arms, ignoring her choked out scream, and holds her close. 

He begins trudging through the snow, heading in the direction of the town, where more street lamps occupy the roads and the houses are closely packed together. 

Melting into Barnes’ chest, the girl wraps her arms around Barnes’ shoulders and buries her face in his neck. Barnes cradles her to his body with his flesh arm, the metal one hanging at his side.

“тебе холодно,” the girl mumbles. Barnes hums but doesn’t reply. That’s the most noise he’s made all night, and it scratches his throat, hoarse and croaking like he hasn’t spoken in a while. With that mask—practically a muzzle—Tony wouldn’t be surprised.

“Did anyone catch that?” Sam asks. “Does anyone know what she just said?”

“‘You are cold,’” Clint replies. They all stare at him, and he shrugs one shoulder. “What? You pick these things up when you’re friends with Nat for as long as I’ve been.”

Barnes’ efforts to shield the girl from the cold are futile, and she shivers, anyway. 

They walk past several houses with their lights turned off, until they arrive at one with the living room lights on. The house sits cozily, buried under snow and forming ice. The welcome mat on the doorstep is soaked. Voices ring out from inside the house. 

Barnes raps at the door with his metal fist. The conversation indoors falls mum, and then footsteps are hesitantly approaching the door. A short lady with a bob opens it, stepping back when she takes in Barnes’ appearance. Apprehension scrunches her face. 

It slides away a second later when Barnes disposes the girl on the ground, and the lady takes in the girl’s sorry state. She immediately fusses over the girl, rubbing at her bare arms and spewing long Russian phrases.

They all look to Clint for a translation. He holds up his hands. “Hey, don’t look at me. I didn’t learn that much Russian from Nat.”

The lady wraps an arm around the girl’s shoulders and leads her into the house. The girl, though, pauses and turns back to Barnes, who still watches her. She grins. “Спасибо.” Thank you. She reaches out and grabs a hold of Barnes’ metal arm.

Tony sees the moment Barnes’ entire frame goes rigid, his shoulders pressed up to his ears. His eyes go wide—the most emotion he’s shown so far. He stares down at where the girl still holds him. Nothing malicious or haunting swims in his gaze—just shock. And a mix of confusion, too. 

This is probably the first time someone has touched his metal arm in a way that didn’t suggest bodily harm.

The little girl, oblivious to Barnes’ dilemma, grins wider and lets go. She follows the lady into the house, and the door shuts behind them. 

Barnes stares at the door for a long time after the door closes. He doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t even shift when the wind knocks into him. 

His expression smoothes out into one of indifference.

As Tony watches, Barnes stands up straighter, and he turns his head.

He looks right at Tony.

Tony doesn’t have the chance to be surprised before the picture fades, taking every last inch of Barnes along with it.

***

The Asset— No, Bucky falls out of bed, stumbling blindly for the bathroom. He doesn’t have time to turn on the light before he’s crouching by the toilet, hugging the rim while he vomits what little he ate for dinner—a few spoonfuls of the porridge Steve made. It was supposed to be kind to his stomach, considering he spent seventy years feeding off of liquid nutrients, but judging by how the remnants swirl in the toilet water, it wasn’t.

Tears sting his eyes and he squeezes them shut, dry heaving one last time before he flushes the toilet and wipes his mouth.

In the bedroom next door, bedsheets shift in a distraught manner before rapid footsteps run to the bathroom. Steve is awake.

Steve’s blond hair sticks in every direction, flat against his skull on the right side—where he slept facing Bucky and watching his chest rise and fall. Any trace of sleep that might’ve clung to his eyes is gone as he takes in the sight of Bucky gagging into the toilet. He only wore a loose pair of sweats to bed, but he’s not ashamed of his half-nudity, rushing to Bucky’s side and rubbing his back.

“Oh God, Buck,” Steve sighs, tentatively brushing his hair off his forehead. “The food didn’t sit well in your stomach again, did it?”

He already has his answer, but Bucky nods, anyway, to appease him. Bucky presses his palms into his eyes, fighting the prickling onslaught of tears. 

When he began training with Shuri to unlock every emotion he had tucked away into little boxes, fear and rage and sorrow were the first ones to reappear. His fear stemming from being prodded and picked at translated into anger, which led to him using Steve as target practice, which then led to shame as he sat on the floor and cried over every sin he committed. 

Lately, it feels like all he’s capable of doing is translating his overwhelming wave of emotions into either tears or hollow anger. For a man who thickly swallowed every bubbling feeling he experienced for seven decades, he didn’t think they’d come back to slap him in the face so soon.

Only, he looks at those boxes that cage his emotions, and he recently realized he never labelled any of them. Now when he feels something new tickling his chest, he no longer knows what it’s called. He’s starting to label them all as symptoms of a panic attack—and his need to shut down every suspicious behaviour has him wrangling those strange feelings.

Bucky inhales shakily and forces himself to look at Steve. Even in the dark, the moonlight filtering through the bathroom blinds illuminates the ocean blue of Steve’s eyes, and Bucky looks away before he drowns. “Stark… I saw Stark.”

Steve’s eyes darken, nearly black. “Where did you see him?”

“In my dream… He was there. I saw him. He was—” Bucky takes another deep breath. Steve waits patiently for him to continue. “He was watching me.”

Steve lets out a strangled whimper and holds Bucky to his chest. One hand cradles the back of his neck, gently coaxing Bucky to nuzzle Steve’s shoulder, while the other hand wraps protectively around Bucky’s waist. His lips graze Bucky’s temple. “Oh, Bucky. He will never get close to you again, I swear on it. I will never let him touch you for as long as I live. No one will ever hurt you again.”

But he didn’t hurt me, Bucky doesn’t say. He was just… there.  

The guilt eats him alive.

At the very least, his dream showed him mercy. 

But it should’ve been cruel and showed him the raw hatred Howard’s son harboured towards him.

Maybe then he’d sleep better, knowing that, if the guilt didn’t kill him, Howard’s son would.

After all, he’d prefer being handled with excruciating cruelty.

Kindness is the most agonizing form of torture.

***

Tony registers pain before anything else.

He doesn’t feel his limbs—his arms, legs, torso, his head—or the muscles in his face. He’s one big exposed nerve, floating in the abyss and throbbing with flames coating him from one end to the other—except he can’t tell where he begins nor where he ends.

Fighting every nail screwing his eyelids shut, he opens them. A thousand needles stab his skull. His tongue lays dry and heavily in his mouth, and he struggles a great deal to speak. “W—”

Wanda sits in the corner, her arms free. Her eyes are bloodshot and bleary, and she looks like she hasn’t slept in days. She weakly waves. “Hello, Mr. Stark. You’re awake.”

“Wha—” God, Tony really needs to invest in more painkillers. “Jesus, you really don’t play around with your abilities, kid.”

Wanda smiles sheepishly. “Sorry. I don’t even know how it happened. It just exploded… like an overflowing jar.” 

“Yeah, well, you sure had me seeing interesting things over there.”

“Over where?”

“Over— You know what, nevermind. I don’t have the energy to explain. Can you stand?”

“Can I— Yes.” Wanda scrambles to get up, supporting herself with one hand on the wall. Her legs shake, and they give out under her. Tony grabs her by the arm to steady her. She gently pulls away. “Guess I’m not used to standing up this long anymore.”

“You and me both.” Tony heads to the entrance, stepping over the door on the floor, only to realize Wanda isn’t behind him. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Wha— Oh. Oh, yes.” She quickens her pace to walk alongside him. As they walk out and into the hall, Wanda stands a few feet away from Tony. She fiddles with her fingers, turning them over and picking at the dirt underneath her nails. She clears her throat but doesn’t say anything, and stares off into the distance.

The silence is stifling. 

Tony can understand why she’s nervous, though. After all, he doesn’t think he’d want to be in the presence of someone who locked him up like his mere existence was dangerous.

Still, Wanda is the one that breaks the silence first. “So, uh, why are you here exactly?”

“Well I was having a delightful chat with our friends in the cells over there, until you started shooting us down with your freaky powers and I had to inspect it since everyone else was, um, preoccupied.” 

“Right.” 

Collective groans come from the cells. Sam rubs at his head, sitting up from the floor and letting out a long sigh. Clint shakes out his joints and massages his temples. Scott stares blankly at the wall, blinking twice to come back to himself. They all look how Tony feels—miserable and tired and aching. 

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauties,” Tony says in false cheeriness. “Your prince has arrived.”

Clint blinks the blurriness out of his vision and he grins in shock upon seeing Wanda. “Hey! You’re alright. And out of your cell. How are you?”

Wanda approaches the cell and leans against the bars. She tucks her hair behind her ear. “Much better now. Felt like shit when I woke up, though I’m guessing you might already know a bit about that.”

“That, I do.”

“So, what’s the plan now?” Sam asks. It’s a general question, but he directs it at Tony. 

Tony shrugs. “Well…”

There is nothing else for him to do—except one thing. 

He doubted Ross and the accords from the very beginning, but he followed along because he believed it was best for him and everyone else. When he watched that building collapse on those civilians, he teleported back to the moment he found out his weapons were being used against innocent people. He experienced that sinking in his chest again, dropping to the pit of his stomach until he couldn’t stand to look at himself in the mirror without seeing a terrorist. 

With Ross, he believed he could change that. When Steve had disapproved, Tony just believed he didn’t understand. And when he tried to amend things between them, he became blindsided by his grief and anger to think rationally. 

Despite the ache between his pupils, he feels fresh for the first time in a while.

“I made a few mistakes lately,” Tony admits. “I don’t expect any of you to be chummy with me anytime soon, but I have some people I need to speak with in Wakanda. Any chance you’d be willing to join me?”

It’s as close to an apology as he can get, but he hopes they’ll take it.

***

“Bucky? Honey? You awake?”

Bucky stirs, moaning in objection at being awakened. The bedroom slowly comes into focus, materializing around him. He catalogues the feeling in his five senses:

He sees the rays of sun streaming through their window, the curtains pulled back. When he rolls over, he sees Steve smiling down at him, apologetic after pulling him out of his much needed sleep.

He hears the birds chirping outside, some sitting on the branches of the tree directly outside of his room. He hears the sheets crinkling and rustling when he shifts.

He smells fresh bacon sizzling in a pan in the kitchen and a fresh brew of coffee.

He feels his new metal arm recalibrate, whirring as it comes to life with him. He feels the sheets pool around his waist, displaying his naked torso. 

He tastes nothing but dry bitterness on his tongue, then the sweet flavour of coffee when he pulls Steve down for a kiss.

That’s a thing now—a new development. He gets to kiss Steve whenever he wants. 

It’s only been a few days, but he feels brand new, repaired in ways he didn’t know needed repairing. He spent a lifetime longing for a man he thought wouldn’t want him back, and then he forgot. He forgot and he still longed for Steve, chasing after a love he couldn’t even remember. 

And now Steve’s here, reciprocating his feelings, and holding him, and kissing him like he’s always dreamed of. 

Not too long ago, he would’ve been convinced he didn’t deserve this kind of affection. After all, what right did he have to love and possibly taint a pure soul like Steve’s, when he was painted black and rotten to his very core? 

But even if he didn’t believe he deserved Steve’s love, Steve still loved him, and wouldn’t it be cruel if he wasted that just because he was blinded by his selfish self-hatred?

He may not love himself, but he sure loves Steve, and that has to count for something.

Steve’s the first to pull away, and he combs his fingers through Bucky’s hair. His smile drops as he runs the pad of his thumb underneath one of Bucky’s eyes. “You didn’t sleep last night, did you?”

“Barely,” Bucky admits. He was up until he heard the first trace of birds stretching out their wings and getting started on their day. He listened to Steve breathe and even counted how many breaths he took to lull himself to sleep. But his heart raced as he thought about the message Tony Stark had sent to Wakanda earlier this week: how he was on his way to “make amends”—whatever that meant. For half the night, he paced every inch of their floor of the castle, and for the other half, he battled with himself to wake Steve up, but he couldn’t bring himself to drag him out of his slumber just because Bucky couldn’t handle it. “I’m alright, though. Really.”

“Okay,” Steve says dubiously. He knows Bucky is lying—they haven’t known each other their whole lives for nothing—but he doesn’t call him out on it.

One of the many things they’ve been working on together is giving Bucky the benefit of the doubt when he says he’s okay. Even when Steve may disagree, he’s learned to trust that Bucky will be honest when he doesn’t feel right.

“So,” Steve continues, “Tony’s already here.”

Bucky stiffens. His eyes fly around the room. Where are his knives? Does he have time to get to the kitchen to grab them? Did Steve hide his gun? What if he doesn’t make it in time and they’re attacked? What if Tony brought an army, or worse, Ross ? What if what if what if what if what i—

“Buck,” Steve cups his face and rests their foreheads together. He smooths out the wrinkles on Bucky’s forehead, the frown on his lips, and he gently pecks them. “I know you’re marking every exit in your head and planning an escape route for us.”

Bucky smiles sheepishly. Yeah, Steve really does know him best.

“But you don’t have to worry. Tony and I had a conversation this morning while you slept. It was…” Steve exhales through his teeth. “Well, it was interesting, to say the least, but we sat down and came to an agreement.”

“What agreement?”

“We’re revising the accords. Together. As well as the rest of our team. Natasha is still out there somewhere, but she’ll be back. Probably. Sam and Clint are downstairs with him. I think we’ll be okay, Buck.”

We’ll be okay.

Bucky hasn’t heard such reassurance in a while. And, because it’s Steve, he believes it.

They’ll be okay.

And if not, he still has Steve. 

He’s in the middle of getting dressed when Steve adds, “Oh, I forgot to mention, Tony wants to talk to you.”

“Oh.”

Bucky doesn’t want to spiral—he’s been doing so well lately—but his lungs tighten and shrink to the size of a bendy straw. He starts marking the exits again, planning the quickest path to the knives in the kitchen, when Steve reigns him in by the waist. 

“Breathe, Buck. You’re alright. I’m right here.” His large hands fit easily into the curve of Bucky’s waist, his fingers panned out and covering as much skin as they can. His chest feels solid when Bucky leans against him, and his body’s heat wafts off of him in waves that Bucky envelopes. He breathes into Steve’s neck, pressing his lips against Steve’s pulse and wrapping his arms around Steve’s shoulders. “I know what you’re thinking—trust me, I do—but I’d sooner rip my own arm off than let Tony lay a finger on you.”

Bucky pulls back to look at Steve incredulously. Steve rolls his eyes. 

“That wasn’t a reference to anything, by the way. I’m just saying. I would never let him harm you. But I don’t think he will this time. Remember, I’ll be right there with you.”

He waits for Bucky to respond. Bucky doesn’t. 

“It’s also okay if you don’t want to see him. I completely understand. You say the word, and I’ll tell them to fuck off and we can go back to bed.”

“You can’t just tell them to fuck off ,” Bucky laughs. “They’re here for business. You’re kind of an important part of that discussion.”

Steve shrugs like he’s made up his mind. “Well, they’ll just have to discuss it without me. My priority is right here.” He presses his lips to Bucky’s forehead. “The revision can always wait. My best guy comes first.”

Bucky melts into his arms and stays there. The offer is tempting. He wants nothing more than to crawl back under the sheets, cuddle up against Steve and let himself be held. Maybe this time, he’d actually have a chance at falling asleep.

But he’s tired of avoiding every obstacle he encounters. He’s tired of running. 

If Tony wants to talk, he’ll talk. He’ll beg on his knees for forgiveness in hopes that he can finally sleep at night without swallowing around a bile of guilt. It’s the least he can do.

“It’s fine, Steve. I’ll go down and talk. I have to apologize, anyway.”

Steve looks wounded. “You know it wasn’t your fault.”

“Doesn’t change what happened. It’s still my hands that bear his parents’ blood. If I were him, I wouldn’t forgive me, either.”

Steve holds him until he feels like he can’t breathe, and then he lets go with one last squeeze to his waist. 

Bucky barely gets through breakfast without throwing up.

***

Seeing Stark again is unnerving. 

The last time they were in one place, his metal arm had been ripped off. It came off as easy as tearing a paper in two, but he felt every bit of it. He felt the exposed wires hanging out like torn nerves. He felt the crack in the metal like a cut through his flesh. He’d passed out shortly after Steve took him out of there, the pain paralyzing him.

The moment they lock eyes, Bucky’s heart stops. If it weren’t for Steve’s hand resting on the small of his back, he would’ve sprinted back into their room, locked the door, and hidden under the covers until every ghost in his head finally vanished. 

But this time, Stark’s—Tony’s—eyes don’t bear that bitterly cold betrayal anymore. He holds a look of carefully crafted indifference, keeping himself together in case something were to slip through the cracks of his mask.

“Terminator, what a delight,” Tony greets. “Nice to see you again. And whole, this time.” He eyes Bucky’s vibranium arm. Guilt flies over his features before he dons that mask of indifference again. 

“What?” Bucky mumbles, but Steve nudges him. 

“Don’t worry about it. I don’t understand half the references he makes.”

“Oh. Well, okay, then.”

A beat of silence goes by.

“Well, Barnes— Bucky,” Tony clears his throat, “how about we talk more privately?”

Steve tenses, and he slowly shuffles in front of Bucky. “I don’t think so, Tony. I don’t want you in a room alone with him.”

Tony has the decency to look wounded. “I won’t pull anything, Cap. I just need a moment with the guy. We have things to talk about.”

Steve looks like he’s about to protest, but Bucky kisses him behind the ear and squeezes his hand. “It’s fine, Steve. You can wait out here. We’ll only be a minute.” He hopes his smile is reassuring, but judging by Steve’s expression, he doesn’t really succeed. He straightens up. “Okay, Stark, let’s talk.”

They file into one of the rooms. It’s a spare bathroom the size of Bucky and Steve’s old apartment. A bathtub that could fit ten people sits at the very back, and the countertop takes up half the left wall. The shower looks like something out of a science fiction novel Bucky probably read as a child. 

“Well, this is,” Tony gestures to the room, “a fine scenery to talk in. Great backdrop and all. I wonder how that prince does it.”

“You wanted to talk, right?” Bucky toes at one of the floor tiles. “So talk. What do you have to say?”

Tony shuts up for a second. Then he sighs. “Look. I know our last meeting was… less than ideal.” That’s one way to put it. “But I recently ran into some. Complications. No, don’t ask.” He holds up a hand when Bucky opens his mouth. “We had complications, those that shall not be named, and I… I saw some things that I wasn’t expecting.

“The truth is, I wanted to kill you. There, I said it. When I found out you killed my parents, I wanted to release that anguish on you tenfold.”

Bucky already knew that, but hearing it doesn’t make it any better. Maybe it’s not too late to run out, drag Steve into bed, and hide in his arms.

“We had that whole fight, yada yada. You were there. I obviously don’t have to recount all of it to you. But the point is: I hated you. When I lost my parents, I lost a part of myself. Sure, my father was a jackass and we barely got along, but he still loved me in that weird, fatherly way of his. And I also loved him. And don’t even get me started on my mother. When they were gone, just like that, I didn’t know what to do. My whole life, they’ve been guiding me every step of the way, and suddenly, I had no one. I could never understand who would do such a thing to them. I was always told it was an “unfortunate accident,” and I believed it. Until that footage in Siberia, that is.”

Bucky hangs his head. 

“No, don’t— Don’t do that kicked puppy thing. I’m not finished. I saw that footage in Siberia, and I hated you. I hated Steve, too, for siding with you. I just couldn’t, for the life of me, understand why he’d side with a complete killer over his own team. Now, rationally, I knew that you were his friend since childhood and we were barely even a team for a few years. Steve didn’t even talk to us in his free time unless I pestered him. But the point is, I was blinded by anger. I wasn’t thinking rationally. I hurt you and Steve.

“Then I went through… complications, as I’ve said before, and I realized something. I came to an epiphany, if you will. I watched how you treated Steve when he was barely five foot nothing—how terrified you were of him dying. I saw you take care of that girl on the playground and another girl in Russia even while you were HYDRA’s soldier.”

Bucky’s eyes widen. “How do you—”

Tony holds up his hand again. “It doesn’t matter how I know. I told you, there were some complications. But I saw a totally new side of you that I hadn’t even bothered to get to know first. I watched you be brainwashed, but somehow your kindness was still intact when you didn’t even remember yourself or your past. You committed a murder because you had to, but you cared for a hurt child because you wanted to—because that level of altruism was built into you. I saw a different man from the one I initially envisioned. It’s kinda hard to hate someone when you watch them carry an injured girl around because she reminded him of his sisters.

“Point is, I don’t hate you anymore. Actually, I can’t hate you anymore. Not after everything I witnessed. You killed my parents unintentionally—well, it was intentional but not because you wanted to, but because— Well, you know what I mean. And I attacked you… not so unintentionally. Now, this doesn’t mean we’re besties and we will get matching tattoos together and whatnot, but I know your guilt is probably eating you alive, just like how my anger ate me alive. So… truce? For now.” 

Tony holds out his hand expectantly, and Bucky stares at it blankly.

If he clenches his eyes shut and opens them, he’ll still be in bed, waking up from a lovely dream where he no longer has to carry decades worth of burdens on his shoulders. 

But the tiles under his feet are very real, and his laboured breathing is real, and the hand Tony holds out to him is real. Everything is real, and Bucky feels illusive. 

He shakily reaches out. His palm sweats as he clasps Tony’s hand in his, but Tony is kind enough not to mention it.

Tony shakes it, then drops his hand to his side. They stand in awkward silence. 

Tony exaggerates a cough. “Well, glad we could put that behind us. Nice talking to you and, uh, guess I’ll see you around.” He claps Bucky on the shoulder—the metal one—then leaves.

The stillness engulfs Bucky, enough that he would hear a tightly pulled thread vibrate even from a mile away. 

Then he collapses to his knees, the cold tiles pressing into his calves, and sobs openly.

A ton of weight on his chest lifts, and he feels twenty pounds lighter.

***

“Tony said all that?” Steve baffles when Bucky relays every detail of his conversation with Tony before bed. “Wow, I didn’t realize Tony was capable of anything other than arrogance and his I’m-always-right syndrome.”

Bucky chuckles. He picks up the shirts strewn on the floor and tosses them in the laundry basket. “You should give him more credit. He came here out of his own volition and is taking one step closer to setting things straight.” He slides into bed, right into Steve’s arms. “He doesn’t hate me anymore, Steve.”

Steve holds him tighter. “I told you, you have nothing to be sorry for. Tony finally came to that realization, too. I guess I should say I’m proud of him.” Steve kisses the bridge of Bucky’s nose. “But I’m more proud of you. Accepting that you deserve to heal is you taking one more step towards your recovery.” Then Steve’s grin turns cheeky. “Besides, Tony is finally seeing how amazing my best guy is. How could I not be happy?”

Bucky blushes and ducks his head. “Steve…”

Steve laughs and rolls Bucky onto his back, nuzzling his neck and sitting between Bucky’s spread thighs. “Come on, Buck, don’t hide your face from me.” Bucky squeals when Steve bites teasingly where his neck connects to his shoulder. “You know I love it when you blush for me.”

If it’s possible, Bucky’s blush darkens, spreading down his collarbones and across his chest. “God, Steve.” His laugh echoes around the room when Steve bites down again. “You’re really too much.”

“Is that right?” Steve presses the tips of their noses together. “Huh. I thought you could handle me.”

“I’m probably the only one that could handle you,” Bucky retaliates. “No one else could. I’m just the crazy fool who fell for an idiot like you.”

“Aw, shucks, darlin’, you really know how to make a guy feel special.” 

Steve nuzzles his neck again, and sucks the air out of Bucky’s lungs by connecting their lips. Bucky moans into the kiss, tilting his head and looping his flesh arm around Steve’s broad shoulders. He dazedly lies there, letting Steve kiss him breathless while he wraps his legs around Steve’s thin waist. Even when he pulls away to breathe, Steve pulls him back in, pressing him deeper into the soft mattress and covering Bucky’s entire body with his unnecessarily large bulk.

In the end, Steve pulls back first. He smiles warmly, and Bucky drowns in his ocean eyes, slipping under the water and letting out his last breath before he sinks like a rock to the bottom. He doesn’t ever want to come up for air.

“I love you,” Steve breathes into Bucky’s lips. “I love you so much.”

Bucky smiles. “I love you, too. Thank you for not giving up on me.”

“I wouldn’t leave even if you told me to. You’re stuck with me forever. End of the line, remember?”

That sounds nice. 

That sounds really nice.

Bucky faintly remembers a time he wished he would die, where he believed whatever waited for him on the other side would make up for his lifetime of suffering.

In a way, he did make it to the other side. Him and Steve both.

And he’s glad he’s alive.