Chapter Text
It’s not that Bucky hates his job – if you can even call being an Avenger a “job”. Really, the whole setup feels more like contract work than anything else. It’s hardly a career. Hell, Bucky doesn’t even have a resume, unless you’re counting the boxes and boxes of old Winter Soldier project files and mission reports lying around in some government vault somewhere. And it’s not like those would be able to land him any job that fell within the confines of the law.
It's fine, most of the time. Bucky clearly had not been cut out for the life of a political leader. He’s not sure what the hell he was thinking, there. Wanting to do good without inflicting violence? Using words instead of fists to solve problems? He hasn’t had the luxury of nonviolent conflict resolution since the 1940s. A congressional approach was never going to end well; that much should have been apparent from his inability to form coherent thoughts with a camera and microphone shoved in his face. Politics fell through, and now he’s back to being a full-time superhero, for whatever that’s worth these days.
So yeah, it's not that Bucky hates his job, but he does hate violence. Blood has always left a bad taste in his mouth, literally and metaphorically. When he opened the mailbox and saw that draft letter, so many years ago, he was terrified. Shaken to his core. Bucky never wanted to be a fighter – that was always Steve through and through. Steve fought for what was right. Bucky only ever fought for Steve. But the war was raging and Steve was trying so hard to put his own fragile life on the line and Bucky knew that if either of them had any chance to survive, Bucky was going to have to put on a brave face. Pretend that the violence was honorable. Pretend that he was anything other than a scared little boy who just wanted to hold hands, not guns.
He learned to fight. Now he doesn’t know how to do much of anything else. Every time he tries to escape, the fight always comes right back to his doorstep. This time is no different.
Valentina’s whole “New Avengers” shtick makes him sick to his stomach. For a brief, beautiful moment – after he escaped from HYDRA, after Wakanda, after the trigger words that stained his cerebrum had been wiped away – at least he fought on his own terms. Not being used as someone else’s pawn, but fighting for what he truly believed in, because he truly wanted to. First against Thanos, then helping Sam bring down the Flagsmashers. He realized that maybe fighting wasn’t so bad after all, if you can choose what you’re fighting for. Who you’re fighting with.
Valentina had wrenched that choice from his fingers. Bucky hates her for it.
The only reason he doesn’t hate his job is that, well, the other members of the team are in the same position he is. They are all broken, discarded things who dared to hope for something better, only to be manipulated into fighting battles they don’t get to choose. He understands them – feels a strange drive to help them. It’s not perfect, but it could be worse. And at least he doesn’t have to wear a suit and tie anymore.
More than once in the two months that have passed since the founding of the New Avengers, Bucky has found himself hours deep into phone calls with Sam. The man has been a godsend, not that Bucky would ever give him the satisfaction of knowing that. Bastard is smug enough already. But if there is anyone out there who knows the struggle of being appointed as a hero without any input on the matter, it’s Sam. Steve made the right choice, and Sam came around eventually, but the weight of stars and stripes on a Black man’s shoulders had aged him. Bucky’s circumstance was obviously different, but regardless, Sam understood where Bucky was coming from in his hesitance and discomfort with being a quote-unquote New Avenger. Hell, Sam probably had heard more about Bucky’s feelings than his therapist at this point, and had remained a steady force of comfort and wisdom. Told Bucky what he needed to hear: make the best out of the situation he’s in, provide leadership to the younger members of the team so that their own tortured pasts don’t consume them, and that maybe somewhere along the way, Bucky might find himself healing too. It was unfair. Bucky’s a centenarian – he was supposed to be the one giving out advice to whippersnappers, not the other way around.
Bucky has never led anyone anywhere in his life. Even back in the days before the war, Bucky was always chasing after Steve. From there, his strings had been yanked around by one master after another, following orders whether or not he had a say in the matter. He was stubborn, sure – especially around one Samuel Wilson – but had very little practical experience in actually telling others what to do. It was hard enough keeping track of himself most days, let alone being responsible for others.
The notion of leading a team is daunting. The notion of leading a team full of people whose combined list of shellshock triggers could fill a novella is outright terrifying. At least, he supposes, he has plenty of experience being terrified.
“I tried the, uh. The grounding thing,” Bucky says gruffly, eyes resolutely fixed on a vase containing a single orchid on Dr. Ngozi Okonkwo’s desk.
He likes Dr. Okonkwo. She’s nicer than Dr. Raynor, and came recommended by Sam after Bucky’s court-mandated therapy had been completed. Bucky hadn’t even expressed that he wanted to continue with therapy, but Sam somehow just knew. Sam’s good like that. Bucky does weirdly miss Dr. Raynor’s callous demeanor and no-bullshit attitude sometimes, and he thinks that it was what he needed at the time. But now… he doesn’t mind a bit of softness. Finds it easier to open up to.
“And how did it make you feel?” Dr. Okonkwo responds curiously, resting a casual elbow on the armrest. She doesn’t use a passive-aggressive notepad during their sessions. Bucky appreciates that.
“Like I, uh…”
That’s another thing about Dr. Okonkwo. She doesn’t ask yes or no questions – she subtly forces him to come up with a non-monosyllabic answer. Some days he hates that. Other days it feels like the only thing that keeps him from sinking into himself.
“I felt, uh, tethered, I guess? Like I still wasn’t really in my body, but I wasn’t that far gone. It didn’t bring me back completely, but I didn’t get any farther away.”
They had been working on his nightmares for a couple of months now. For a short, gorgeous period of time after Bucky had finished his list of amends, the night terrors had subsided. He still got them four, five nights a week, but he occasionally managed to get a full eight hours unperturbed – a luxury that he couldn’t even remember the last time he had experienced. But after everything with the Void, after being sent right through a highlight reel of the worst moments of his uniquely horrible life, his fucked-up sleep schedule had gone right back to square one. Nothing gold can stay, or whatever.
“That’s a start. I encourage you to continue practicing your ability to ground yourself right when you wake up, and we can discuss whether you see any progress with it, or if you think you need to try something else.”
Bucky can do that. He can try. He nods.
“So,” Dr. Okonkwo continues, “You mentioned that the scope of your nightmares has been shifting in the past couple of weeks. Starting to look more like scary potential future events, instead of your usual flashbacks.”
‘Scary potential future events’ was a bit of an understatement. Last night he had woken up screaming after he watched his nightmare-teammates’ throats be slit open by invisible knives.
“Can you expand on any changes or anxieties in your life that may be influencing this shift?” Dr. Okonkwo finishes, reaching over to take a sip from her nearby mug. She likes black tea with some vanilla creamer. Bucky knows this because he always arrives early, and she always makes her tea while he settles in. He knows she times it like that on purpose so that she can offer him a cup of tea as well. He hasn’t taken her up on that offer once in the two years he’s been seeing her. The stability of the gesture is appreciated, though.
“I don’t… I mean…” Bucky pauses to think. “I’m just not used to needing to worry about being directly responsible for other people’s well-being. Or at least, I haven’t had to worry about it for a long time.”
“What makes you feel like you are directly responsible for someone’s well-being, versus simply caring about their well-being?”
Bucky almost huffs out a laugh. She likes to pull out the hard questions.
“With Steve – and later, with Sam – they’re my partners. We watch each other’s backs, but it’s not like… It’s not like I’m giving any direct orders to them. They aren’t – weren’t – my subordinates or anything. But now, with the new team…” Bucky licks his lips nervously, chest tightening as he stumbles his way into the heart of the issue. What’s been keeping him up at night. “If I make the wrong call, if I give the wrong order, they die. That blood is on my hands. I just don’t think I’m cut out to be a leader,” he finishes, avoiding eye contact. A moment passes, quiet, as Dr. Okonkwo mulls his words over.
“It sounds possible to me that the issue is one of trust,” she finally says. “I know that trust is an old enemy of yours, and that’s understandable, given your life experiences. But in order to properly lead, you need to trust that your teammates have the ability to take care of themselves. That they can, and will, bring it to your attention if they believe that you are making the wrong call. You need to trust in the competency of your team members. This may seem counterintuitive, but leadership is actually a two-way street.”
It's not a bad point, really. He hates when she’s discerning like that.
“Let me ask you something, Bucky. What does leadership mean to you?”
His mind immediately jumps to Steve. God, he misses Steve. An small, ugly part of Bucky’s soul still resents his best friend for leaving. It aches.
“Overcoming fear. Staying level-headed in a crisis. Understanding the battlefield, understanding your allies, and making the right decisions to avoid as many casualties as possible,” Bucky says easily.
Dr. Okonkwo raises her eyebrow slightly and leans back a bit in her chair. Oh, God. She does that whenever Bucky walks right into a philosophical trap she just laid out for him. He mentally steels himself for whatever obnoxiously perceptive insight she’s about to flay him open with.
“Let me rephrase the question. What does leadership mean to you when you are not in a life-or-death scenario?”
Bingo. There’s the kicker. Bucky’s throat swells.
“I wouldn’t fucking know, considering my life has just been one life-or-death scenario after another for ninety years,” Bucky responds churlishly, crossing his arms and glaring a hole in the wall behind Dr. Okonkwo’s head. The wallpaper is nice. Some calming, blue floral pattern. He doesn’t feel very calmed by it.
She stares him down patiently, eyebrow still raised, a neatly manicured fingernail tracing circles around the rim of her mug. Bucky glares daggers at the wallpaper for probably at least a solid thirty seconds before finally relenting.
“I wouldn’t know,” he repeats, softer. “I… I want to be of service to people, like Sam said. But I don’t know how to do that unless I’m in a direct crisis scenario. That’s my skillset. That’s what I’m good at. That’s why politics didn’t work out.”
“Your time as a congressman is an entirely different can of worms that I don’t think we want to get into in this session,” Dr. Okonkwo replies, her tone light but respectful, “But let’s focus on what you said before that. You don’t know how to be of service unless you’re in a crisis. But soon you’re going to learn that being a leader is much more than just telling people what to do in high-stress situations. You need to nurture a relationship with those that you lead – learn about what makes them tick, what helps them to grow, how to communicate with them. I think that if you focus on fostering those relationships, your trust in your teammates will ease your anxieties about failing them, because you will trust them not to fail.”
The tightness in Bucky’s chest has graduated into a full-on cramp. She’s probably right, and that makes the whole thing a thousand times worse. “That sounds like a load of horse shit, Doc.”
Dr. Okonkwo lets out a full, hearty laugh at that, perfect white teeth shining in contrast to dark skin, eyes filled with mirth and a little bit of hope. She always sees right through his gruff charade. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see, Bucky.”
As is usually the case, Bucky hears a heated argument from several floors away as he rides the elevator up to the main living area of the tower. The sound-proofing in this building is exceptional everywhere except the elevator. Maybe they should get someone to look into that.
With a faint ‘ding’, the elevator locks into place and the doors slide open to reveal what has become a familiar scene to Bucky over the last two months: his team members scattered around the room in front of the TV, half on their phones, half debating about some shitty reality show that’s playing in the background. Bucky has always wondered what the hell is up with reality TV, anyway. If you want reality, go outside. A TV set should be strictly reserved for news and fictional media. (The Great British Baking Show is an exception, and one of the few shows that everyone in the tower can agree on).
“Bucky, look at this!” Alexei’s booming voice announces as Bucky strides off the elevator and into the room. “Is mobile game where you rescue mother and daughter from blizzard. No ads! Twenty-four hours free energy! A great deal!”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Ava says. “Don’t tell me you’re falling for that.”
“No, no, don’t play Gossip Harbor. It’s nothing like the ads,” Yelena interjects, snatching Alexei’s archaic iPhone 5e from his hands. “You have to play Project Makeover. Great storyline, good mechanics,” she continues, using a leg to keep Alexei at bay as he complains and tries to wrench his phone back from her.
Again, a familiar scene. Anxiety had eventually given way to boredom as the New Avengers rotted away in their tower, a shocking lack of actual missions crossing their desk. There was the occasional search and rescue, and one mission to collect some sensitive data in Hungary, but otherwise? Just boredom. Valentina had explained that the New Avengers were legally legitimate, but between her scandal and the not-so-squeaky-clean nature of the members’ various backgrounds, both public opinion and government reception to the team were mixed. She mostly sent them out for some flashy hero PR business, saving children from burning buildings and whatnot. But more often than not, the team ended up sitting in the tower, finding new ways to entertain themselves. Bucky had it a bit easier – he had been pulled into several missions with Sam, much to his teammates’ jealousy and chagrin – but even those had become less frequent in the past few weeks, and Bucky was getting restless.
“Is that Love Island?” Walker asks irritably as he enters the room from a side door, shaking out his wet hair like a dog. “I told you guys not to start that shit without me.”
“You were taking forever in the shower, we got bored,” Yelena snaps back as she finally relents, shoving Alexei’s phone back into his hands as if she’s appeasing a toddler with an iPad.
Bucky closes his eyes, takes in a deep breath as he feels annoyance flood into his chest. Grounding. He has to get grounded. He needs to ground himself.
“I did not take forever in the shower. I was in the goddamned Army, I never take longer than two minutes in the shower.”
“That’s a really weird thing to brag about, Walker. Do you even have time to properly clean yourself?”
“Fuck you, Yelena, I’m extremely hygenic—”
“Bucky,” Alexei interrupts once again, before Bucky can even begin to make his escape. “Did you and your boyfriend break up? You have been in the tower much more lately.”
“Sam is not my boyfriend, and we didn’t break up,” Bucky responds with exasperation, feeling a vein in his forehead throb. The statement makes his gut twist in a way he’s not entirely comfortable with. “I was literally at his nephew’s birthday party, like, three weeks ago. He just hasn’t had any missions he needs support with since then.” Christ. Even Bucky had to admit that he sounded a bit like a neglected girlfriend in denial.
“You know,” Ava smirks, “The fact that you knew who Alexei was talking about doesn’t do much to prove your point.”
“And, I mean,” Bob finally chimes in from the corner, “Not really possible to break up with someone if you aren’t dating them. That’s kind of a, uh…”
“Catching-22?” Alexei supplies helpfully.
“Catch-22, kinda, yeah,” Bob says.
“Start the fucking episode over,” John whines.
Fuck what Dr. Okonkwo thinks. Fuck everything they had just talked about in their session. Bucky is going to murder these people, and he is going to do it with his bare hands. He hates violence, but this may be worth making an exception. He distantly wonders if the old Avengers had to put up with any shit like this back when they were all still living in the tower. They always seemed fairly professional, but Bucky can imagine that Stark got up to some chaotic bullshit.
Too late to ask Steve now, Bucky’s brain cruelly supplies before he can stop it.
“Everybody shut up, I’m ordering dinner. If anyone has requests, speak now or forever hold your peace,” Bucky announces, in a desperate attempt to derail his current morbid train of thought.
“Ethiopian,” Ava calls out.
“You know Alexei can’t handle anything with spice in it.”
“He can just eat the injera, he’ll be fine.”
“I was kind of craving sushi.”
“Walker is a pussy about raw fish, though.”
“Look, I just think the texture is kind of weird—”
“Barbeque! Lots of protein for strong muscles! Do not worry, I have DoorDash premium account—”
Bucky rolls his eyes, ordering a dozen large pizzas as the others continue to squabble in the background. Some girl on the TV named Huda is complaining about a hot new bombshell that has entered the villa, whatever the hell that is. Bucky grabs a Heineken from the fridge, pops off the cap with his vibranium hand, and settles into a crook of the couch that is sufficiently far away from the bickering children.
Forty-five minutes later, and Bucky has to physically drag himself away from the TV to go meet the food delivery person downstairs. Love Island is deceptively entertaining.
The moment of peace is appreciated, though, as he heads out to the street and feels the cool October air hit his skin. Bucky hadn’t bothered with a jacket – he would only be outside for a moment or two, and there is no level of naturally occurring cold weather that can really compare to being cryogenically frozen – so the breeze quickly infiltrates his cotton t-shirt, sending goosebumps down his arm. Bucky thanks the delivery girl, who seems to be suddenly overwhelmed by the fact that she just delivered pizza to the Avengers. He politely accepts when she asks to take a selfie. Manages to balance twelve pizza boxes and twist together his facial features into what he hopes is a friendly smile as she snaps the photo. (As uncomfortable as the attention sometimes makes him, he has accepted that being asked for selfies is a significant improvement over people running away screaming as soon as they catch a glimpse of a metallic arm.)
The elevator ride up is suspiciously quiet.
“Dinner’s ready,” Bucky calls out into the room as the doors slide open once more. “Tell me I didn’t miss elimination.”
It takes Bucky a moment to realize that none of the team is on the couch where he left them. Quickly scanning the room, he finds them all hovering around the holographic comms projector, looking equal parts excited and nervous. Bucky drops the pizza boxes on a nearby table. This had better be good. He’s hungry, damn it.
“Well, look who’s decided to join us!”
The singsongy call of Valentina’s voice, slightly distorted over video call, sends a chill down his spine. He almost turns around, grabs the food, and walks right back out of the room. That probably would set a bad example, though, and he hears Dr. Okonkwo’s voice distantly echoing something about leadership in the back of his mind.
“What do you want, Val,” Bucky responds, tone flat and unimpressed. She didn’t call often at all, so something relatively important must actually be going on for once.
“Now don’t give me that sass, old man! You should really be grateful. I know you’ve been bored since Sam stopped playing with you a couple of weeks ago.”
Bucky’s jaw ticked. “Get to the point.”
“Gladly,” Valentina grinned, cat-like. Bucky suddenly feels very nervous about where this is going. She’s too excited. “Pack up, chickadees. We’re going to be sending you all on a very violent little field trip.”
He’s going to need at least three of those pizzas to survive this call without crawling through the screen and strangling her.