Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

For once, it’s all going exactly according to plan.

What passes for one of Sam’s plans, anyways.

Scratch that. He makes great plans. Forget Bucky and his constant caterwauling about it. Not like that guy’s coming up with brilliant stratagems either. Hell, he barely even listens to the plan when Sam has one. Which he does. Usually.

Sometimes. So, he’s not always the Star Spangled Man with…shit, he hates that stupid song anyway.

This plan, though? It’s going pretty well.

He’s already freed the hostages in the upper floors of this apartment tower, taken out a few goons from this Flag Smasher splinter group with all of Karli’s flair for the dramatic and none of her erstwhile concern for the safety of innocent bystanders. He started at the top floor, Bucky started at the bottom, and Sam’s confident he’s going to get to the middle before that idiot does.

He’s debating what kind of beer he’s going to make Bucky buy him when he wins their bet and beats Bucky there. He’s not paying as much attention as he should when he rounds the corner leading to the stairwell and a brown-eyed grandma in a mint green robe and pink slippers tries to separate his head from the rest of his body with a kitchen knife.

It’s not the first time someone’s ambushed him in an apartment building. It’s not even the first time a woman with white hair has tried to kill him. He can thank Zemo for that one.

It is, however, the first time a kindly looking grandma in a bathrobe has ever come at him with a knife in an apartment building in New Orleans, just a few short miles from his childhood home. He chalks his somewhat stunted reaction up to that.

He gets his shield up in time to block the blade, and it goes skittering into the floral wallpaper next to his head. She comes back with another wild swing, and he’s ready for this one. At least he would be, if the hit wasn’t strong enough to send him stumbling back a step. Lady had her Wheaties with whole milk this morning.

He peers over his shield, wide-eyed. Grandma stares back through horn-rimmed frames, face twisted in a snarl. Wrinkles around her eyes, thin lips, a chin hair or two she missed plucking this morning. Looks just like Meemaw Wilson, though he doesn’t remember her wielding a knife with this level of ferocity around anything except a fresh pecan pie.  

She raises the knife in both hands over her head, like a monster out of a bad C-list horror movie, and comes at him. Sam’s ready this time, though. He gets his shield up and out, away from his face – gotta keep this gorgeous thing intact – and braces.

And then she’s…gone. Sam blinks. Waits a second, then gingerly eases around the corner. No Meemaw in the hallway, just Bucky, flipping the knife in one hand while he snaps the handle off a utility closet door. The banging from inside tells him where Meemaw ended up.

Bucky looks up at him when he comes around. Looks at the knife, too, then the door. Back at Sam. “Sam…” he starts.

“Whatever it is you’re thinking of saying,” Sam interrupts, “just…don’t.”  

“Because what I was going to say…” Bucky tries.

“Shut it.”

“Is that…”

“Stop.”

“It kinda looked like…”

“Hey,” Sam tries again. “Don’t you have some hostages to free?”

Bucky shrugs. “Already took care of it. And I disabled the bomb.”

“Bomb?”

“Yup.”

“Both of them?” Sam asks.

Bucky’s eyes widen. “What? There’s two of…oh.” He scowls. “Very funny.”

Sam grins. “So, are you telling me we’re gonna get out of an encounter with a bunch of Flag Smasher yahoos without anything getting blown up?”

“First time for everything,” Bucky notes. He quirks a brow at the door, rattling with Meemaw’s pounding. “You want to tell me what that was all about?”

“No,” Sam answers.

“Did she say anything…?”

“No.” Sam scowls.

“Offer you some brownies first?”

“No.”

“Try to set you up with her granddaughter?”

“No.”

“Because that’s the reaction you usually get from people in that age group.”

“I am aware,” Sam counters.

“Also,” Bucky smirks, “did she…stagger you?”

“Meemaw packs a punch, alright?” Sam snipes, defensive.

Bucky gives the vibrating door a dubious look. “Guess so. Now are we done—” A distant explosion interrupts whatever he’s about to say.

“Bucky?” Sam glares.

“Well, I got the bomb in this building,” Bucky grumbles.

Sam rolls his eyes. “One out of two ain’t bad, right?”

They find the source of the explosion at the strip mall next door, make quick work of the cronies who set it off, because apparently nail salons are legitimate targets these days. They’re a little busy after that, Sam ferrying bystanders to safety, Bucky taking out the goons one at a time until the place is clear. Then it’s liaising with the locals, giving their reports, and Sam barely remembers to pull aside one of the unis and tell her about the psycho grandma locked in a closet next door.

By the time they’re wheels up from New Orleans, he barely even remembers the grandma. Bucky would probably have remembered, but he’s nursing a sprained ankle by that point, and seriously how does one man, who’s serum-enhanced to boot, manage to collect so many injuries?

So Meemaw is nothing more than an afterthought, for both of them. Maybe Sam will ask around when he’s back in town this weekend.

And he would have, too. If he were anywhere near here by the time the weekend came.        

He doesn’t spare much thought for psycho Meemaw after that. They’re too busy tracking down a few LAF operatives in Montreal, saving a Prime Minister’s son from separatists in Spain, and meeting with some GRC officials in Vienna. Well, Sam’s the only one who has to worry about that last encounter. Bucky begs off before they get there, saying he’s reached the limit of his courage.

Sam would give him shit for that, but he keenly remembers Bucky’s last visit to the City of Music hadn’t exactly gone well for anyone. So, Bucky misses out on a day of too much coffee and even more political jargon and double speak.

Then it’s back on a flight to the States and a date with a few cold beers, thank God. Their plane’s nearing Philly when they get the call though — another LAF goon squad, this one taking hostages and making demands. He’d leave it for the locals, but then Rhodey tells him it’s at the Air and Space Museum in DC.

“What do you think?” he asks Bucky with false flippancy. “Take a pass on this one?”

Bucky gives him a grin, all teeth. “Try not to break anything while we’re in there.”

He smiles back. “What about some LAF noses?”

Bucky nods. “Oh, sure. Those are fine. Let’s keep the Spirit of St. Louis intact, though.” 

Sam quirks a brow. “You telling me that? I’m not the one with a track record of destroying priceless artifacts.”

“One time,” Bucky sighs. “One time, and you get a reputation.”

“One time?” Sam asks. “We’re never getting back inside the British Museum after that.”

“Just stole all their shit from other countries anyway,” Bucky grumbles.

“So,” Rhodey’s voice echoes out from the speaker of Sam’s phone. “I’m taking that as a yes?”

“Yes,” Sam answers. “Be there in twenty.”

“Good,” Rhodey says. “And if you guys break the lunar module, I will end you.”

Sam shoots Bucky a look and asks, sotto voce, “You think he knows the one in there is only a replica?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Let the man dream, Sam.”

“You assholes know I can still hear you, right?” Rhodey snipes. “And hey, pick me up some of that astronaut ice cream while you're there.”

“He works like two miles from there,” Bucky groans. “Can’t get it for himself?”

“And he’s actually been to outer space,” Sam adds. “Feel like he’s eaten way more exciting things.”

“I’m a man of simple tastes. Now get your asses over there,” Rhodey counters. “And get the strawberry. That’s my favorite.” 

The museum is the quietest Sam’s ever heard it. It’s one of the reasons he’s always loved this place – no hushed silences or muted, self-important expositions on what the exhibit really means. Instead, it’s usually filled with the sounds of awe uttered by children and adults alike, gaping at the planes up above, stomping through the models down below. Quiet today, though. Might have something to do with the armed terrorists who are apparently running around here.

He exchanges an uneasy look with Bucky in the museum’s foyer. “Maybe it’s just me,” he mutters, “but I don’t see any terrorists.”

Bucky squints in the middle distance, tilting his head like a German shepherd listening for a cue. He frowns. “Not just you. I don’t hear anything either.”

Sam glances around. “Rhodey said some people called it in. The guards cleared everyone they could find out of the building.”

“Not liking this, Sam,” Bucky says.

“Same here.”

Bucky nods at the elevated walkways on the second level. “You wanna check out up top? I’ll go make sure the Colonel’s precious lunar module is intact.”

Sam scans the stairs, the wire-bound planes and vessels above them. “I dunno. This whole thing is…something’s not right.”

“No shit,” Bucky snorts. “Someone said a bunch of terrorists took dozens of people hostage in a museum and it’s quiet as a pin in here. So yeah, I’d say something’s not right. Let’s split up. We’ll clear this place out sooner.”

“Sure,” Sam counters. “Split up. Have you seen any horror movie ever?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Don’t get it. Who wants to watch a movie like that? Like the world isn’t scary enough already? ‘Sides, come on. There’s no one here. Probably some kid who wanted out of a school trip called this in. Let’s just take care of it and get out of here.”

“Fine,” Sam concedes. “I’ll go high, you go low. You hear so much as a mouse sneezing, you let me know.”

Bucky gives him a funny look. “You know I can actually hear a mouse sneezing, right?”

Sam returns the look. “Yeah, jackass. Now get moving.”

“Whatever,” Bucky grumbles. “Try not to fuck this one up.”

Sam flips him the bird before he floats up to the second floor and takes a quick look. As quiet up here as down there. Not a sliver of movement, not a peep of sound. “Not seeing anything up here,” he murmurs into his comm.

“Nothing down here either,” Bucky responds. “See, we’ll be outta here by lunch.”

“Sure,” Sam agrees. He stalks down an unexplored hallway, checking the doorways and corners.  “What are you thinking? That falafel joint? Korean barbeque?”

“Maybe,” Bucky answers. “That new vegan place in Adam’s Morgan is supposed to be pretty good.”

“Bucky Barnes,” Sam snickers. A quick peek in a storage closet left ajar. Nothing there. “Look at you. Stealth hipster.”

“Shut up,” Bucky complains. “I’m trying to listen for that sneezing mouse.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam gripes. He eases the door to the men’s room open, scans under the counter, peers into each of the stalls. He comes back out, casts a glance down the empty corridor in either direction. “Hey, do you think—” a flash in the corner of his eye and he wheels, bringing the shield up.

“Sam?” Bucky asks, any trace of humor vaporized.

Sam studies the door to the women’s room. Was that closed when he got here? “I thought…”

“What?”

“Maybe…” he shakes his head. “Thought I saw something. It was nothing.”

“Guess you’ve been watching too many of those horror movies.”

“Shut up,” he volleys back. He stalks over to the women’s room door. “Almost done up here. One more thing to check and I’ll meet you back at the entrance.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “Gonna head to the cafeteria, then I’m clear down here.” 

Sam pushes open the door and eyeballs the room. He checks under the sink, nothing, pushes each of the stalls open, still nothing, and comes to a stop in the middle of the room. He’s marveling at the vase of flowers —they get flowers in here? — when there’s a ding behind him.

He whips around, shield at the ready. His eyes flash across the wall, to the door, to the window, before he sees the grenade on the floor. Between him and the exit, and there’s not enough time to punch through the window so he does the only thing he can, draws the wings and the shield up, braces for the explosion.

It never comes. There’s a soft hissing instead, and the world around him turns white. A smoke grenade? He switches his visor to infrared and waves a hand in front of his face, coughing.

“Found something,” he sputters through his comm. Jesus, he doesn’t remember these things smelling so bad.

“What?” Bucky snaps. “Who? What is it? Where are you?”

“One question at a time, Buck.” He cuts his link so he can hack out another cough. “Looks like someone literally just popped smoke. Still don’t see anyone.” He sniffs. Seriously, what is that smell?

“You alright?” Bucky asks. Sam is too busy blinking eyes that have gone watery from the fumes to answer. “Where are you? I’m coming to you.”

He clears his throat. “Nothing here, man. Finish clearing the first floor. I’ll let you know if I see anything else.” He rubs at his temple with his free hand. “Damn. This place is giving me a headache,” he mutters.

“You sure you’re okay?” Bucky asks. Sam hums an answer. “Fine. But I’m coming up there. Now.”

Sam squints against his suddenly blurry visor. Thing must be fogging up. “Copy,” he mutters, before he has to shoot a hand out to brace himself against the wall when the floor tilts beneath his feet.

“Shit,” he says, only he realizes he’s not saying it out loud at all because his lips aren’t quite working. “Bucky,” he tries again, but the silence on the other end tells him that didn’t come out either.

“Sam? Where are you?”

He folds to his knees, gets an elbow beneath him so he doesn’t smash face-first into the floor. A swarm of boots appear in his vision.

“Sam?”

He blinks a few times until the fleet reduces to a single pair, then they multiply in front of his eyes again.

Not smoke, you idiot, Bucky’s voice rings in his ears, except not in his ears because Bucky’s got no idea what’s going on. It’s gas, dummy. He follows the boots up to a hazy figure. The figure shifts, fades, turns into several more.

“Sam!”

Try not to fuck this one up, Bucky’s voice in his head again. Too late, Sam thinks, and that’s the last thing he thinks for a long time.    

“Sam? Where are you?”

Bucky waits for a reply. Thought I’d take that old Spirit of St. Louie for a test flight. And waits. Exploring the farthest reaches of the galaxy. And waits. Trying on Armstrong’s suit. It’s a little tight, but I think I can squeeze in.

“Sam?” He casts a glance behind him. The cafeteria is still and quiet – just cups of yogurt parfait and half-drunk mugs of coffee steaming on the tables. He tilts his head again. Narrows his eyes. Listens.

All he hears is the buzz of the old AC units along the walls. But there…footsteps? Could be Sam. Maybe he had an issue with his comm. Maybe he found something, needed to go quiet. Bucky listens harder. Yes, someone walking, an even gait. Must be Sam.

Except…there’s another one. And another one. Then there’s a thump, a crash, the sound of glass shattering.

“Sam!” He’s moving, vaulting over those tables until he’s back in the main area. He covers half the stairs to the second level in a bound, another and he’s up. He dashes down the hallway, boots thudding in the thin carpet, toward where he thought the sounds were coming from. It’s silent, now. He scans the area, sees nothing.

He pauses. Listens again. Still not hearing anything but…what is that smell? He sniffs a few times, experimentally. Gas? He traces the scent across the room until he pegs its source. The woman’s restroom?

He sets his jaw, takes a deep breath. He charges through the door, senses primed, arms up, ready for anything. There’s nothing. Just that sour-sickly smell, and it’s not coming from the flowers on the countertop between the sinks. He bolts to the broken window and peers out over Independence Avenue. There’s no sign of movement in the brutalist government buildings across the street. He looks up, down, around. Not a thing. 

Bucky leaps out of the window, lands with an easy thump on the lawn below. The street is quiet, inside the perimeter Metro PD set up. He switches channels on his comm.

“Rhodes?”

“Yeah, man. What the hell are you guys doing in there? Don’t tell me they were out of strawberry. Fine, I’ll take chocolate, but don’t even think about trying to push that vanilla crap on me.”

“It’s Sam.”

A crackle, static tension along the line. “What happened?”

“Sam is…” Bucky scans the street again, looks up at the broken window, turns to stare blankly at his reflection in the glass façade across the road. “I…can’t find him. He’s gone.”

He spends the rest of the day scouring downtown, looking for any trace of Sam. Rhodes shows up in War Machine too, flies in widening circles around the mall. They tell the Metro PD, the Park Service, TSA, everyone to be on the lookout for a group of potential terrorists with a hostage. And everyone comes up bupkis.

Rhodes sets down on the street next to him when the sky over the Lincoln Memorial starts turning pink and amber. “Nothing,” he says, like Bucky doesn’t know that already. “They’re watching at the airports, Metro stations, hell, even the water taxis. If they go through there, we’ll find them.”

Bucky stares mournfully at the Washington Monument, marble tip gleaming in the growing twilight. “Yeah,” he agrees. “You know whoever took him is long gone by now, right?”

Rhodes is silent for a long moment next to him. “Don’t think like that. We’ll find him, alright?” In a much softer voice, he adds, “You have to believe that.”

Bucky clenches trembling fingers. “Who the hell did this?”

“What do you think?” Rhodes asks. “You know better than me who might be gunning for you guys.”

“Could be anyone,” Bucky mutters. “Terrorist group, multinational crime syndicate. Hell, could be a bunch of angry racist nutjobs who just wanna…” He snaps his mouth shut before he can finish that gruesome thought.

Rhodey shifts beside him. “Let’s try not to go to the darkest place first, alright? Let’s just focus on finding him.” He chuckles mirthlessly. “Guy’s wearing a giant white bird suit. Can’t be that hard to find, right?”    

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Yeah. So, what, you guys gonna put out an APB on Captain America?”

Rhodes grimaces. “If we have to, yeah. Can’t help but think letting the world know Captain America is MIA might not be the best idea.”

They’ve gone on five assignments — freeing hostages, clearing out terrorist cells, disabling explosives — this week alone. Bucky sighs. “Just be rolling out the doormat for seven kinds of crazy.”

“So, you got a better idea?” Rhodes asks. “Don’t suppose you went and got Sam microchipped when I wasn’t looking?”

Bucky blinks. “If only. No.” The seed of an idea sprouts in the back of his head. “Not Sam, at least. Let me see what I can find.”

Bucky “borrows” a car from one of the incident responders and makes it to Sam’s townhouse through the tail end of the evening rush hour. Sam never gave him a key to his place. They’re usually together whenever Bucky stops by. And Sam probably figures Bucky can find a way in anytime he wants. Sam’s right.

Bucky scopes the place out, hoping this is all a misunderstanding. That somehow Sam will be sprawled out on his leather couch, watching some terrible old action movie. Will give Bucky an unphased look when he comes in, will ask “what took you so long?” The place is still and dark, though.

He plops down on that couch after his search is complete. He takes his phone out, staring at the bright screen in the darkness of Sam’s living room. He scrolls to the S’s in his contact list. He has more than eight numbers now, thank you very much Dr. Raynor. Sam’s the first one. He gives it another try, even though he knows Sam’s phone is sitting in his bag on that C-130 at Andrews.

It goes to voice mail after a few rings, like he knew it would. Hey, this is Sam. Sorry I’m not –

Bucky ends the call with an angry jab. He goes back to the contacts screen. Right below Sam is another name. His thumb hovers over the entry before he scrolls down again. To another S. He stares at it for a long time. He chews his lip, considering. What time is it over there? Who knows if she’s awake.

Who is he kidding? He knows she’s awake. Still, everything’s a little too…raw…maybe, for a call. She always preferred texts anyway.

Hey, he sends. I know it’s been a while. I’m sorry. But I need to ask you for another favor.

He watches the screen until he sees those dots, less than a minute later.

Surprised you’d be asking me for a favor again, so soon, she responds. He waits. When he doesn’t get anything for another minute, he replies.

I know. I’m sorry. About everything.

The dots come quicker this time. Sorry? About everything?

Yes.

Everything. I take it that means freeing the man who killed my father and our king? That everything?

He winces. Yeah. That thing. I don’t know what else to say. I was doing what I thought I had to do.

Was it worth it?

He gives that a moment. Was it worth burning one of the few bridges he had left? Worth revisiting the worst version of himself at that bar in Madripoor, worth the nauseating memories that whole encounter brought up? Worth setting up that showdown with the Smashers in Riga that got Lemar killed, that made Walker break bad? Worth seeing Karli’s lifeless body, making more of an impression on the people she tried to hurt in death than she did in life?

Worth a few short hours in Delacroix, that fleeting impression of a community he could belong to, some day? Worth sharing beers and swapping stories on the dock with Sam as the sun went down over the bayou?

Fuck. Sam.

Jury’s still out on that one, he texts back. I need your help. He runs right over the objection he can see she’s trying to type. Sam’s missing.

The dots disappear. Appear again a moment later. What happened?

Seemed like a milk run. We went to clear out some terrorists who took over a museum. At least we thought that’s what we were doing, but there was no one there. We split up, he has to stop typing for a moment, suck in an uneven breath. When I went to look for him, he was gone. Not a trace of him, or anyone. But I smelled something in one of the rooms, some kind of gas. I think they took him.  He takes another breath. I have to find him.

He starts when the phone in his hand starts vibrating. Huh. She’s actually calling him. He answers.

“How can I help?” Shuri asks the moment he picks up.

“He was wearing the suit when he disappeared,” he says.

“I see. And?”

He would laugh, in a different situation. “Come on, Shuri. All that tech and vibranium you put into his suit, and you want me to believe you guys have no way of tracking it down?”

He can see her, in his mind’s eye. Shuri is shifting in her seat. She’s a genius, and a scientist, and a princess. She is not, however, either a diplomat or a spy. Maybe that’s why he likes her so much.

“Please,” he asks. “You wanna be pissed at me, that’s fine. Not saying I don’t deserve it. But this is Sam.”

“Do not for a minute believe we would not do anything in our power to help either of you, regardless of...events that may have occurred.” Shuri’s eyes must be flashing right now. She waits a beat. “And yes. I…may have a way to locate the suit.”

He snorts. “Of course you do.”

“Do you want me to tell you how?” This is the Shuri he knows, with that sly grin gracing her face.

Bucky’s own lips lift in a sympathetic smile. “Yes. Small words, please.”

“Very well. Vibranium gives off a specific type of radioactive energy.” She anticipates his next question. “Extremely low amounts, not enough to be dangerous, unless you’re in a mine surrounded by it. We may be able to track this radioactive signature, however.”

“So, you can find vibranium anywhere?” He looks dubiously at his arm. Ayo never did tell him how she found them in Riga.

“Not exactly,” Shuri replies. “After some of the….incidents…we experienced with stolen vibranium, I believed it would be wise to develop a method to locate large deposits. Sam’s suit contains a significant amount of vibranium. Again, not enough to pose a danger to him. But enough that we could probably find the signature.”

“Okay?” he prods.

“We should be able to get a general location. It will take time to retask our satellites and to cover all possibilities, however. Unless you can think of an area in which we should focus our efforts?”

Bucky frowns. “He vanished in DC. I have no idea who even took him, so I don’t know where they might have taken him.” Because I wasn’t there, and I should have been. He doesn’t tell her that part.

“We will start there, then. Hopefully they have not gotten far.”

“Hopefully,” he agrees with an optimism he doesn’t feel. “Hopefully he’s still in the suit, too. Any way to tell?”

“No,” she sighs. “I did not equip the suit with the remote monitoring capabilities we typically install in our technology. My brother felt that would be an…imposition.”

Damn that impeccable diplomacy, for once. “Alright. You’ll let me know if you get anything?”

“Of course. We will find him. I will contact you the instant I learn anything.” She ends the call, and Bucky’s left staring at a blank screen.

“We’ll find him,” he says to himself. “We’ll find him.”

He takes a deep breath and looks out the window of Sam’s living room. Full darkness has settled over the city, and distant lights flicker on. The Wilson house in Delacroix is probably stirring, everyone getting ready for dinner. He debates giving them this, one more innocent evening.

Bucky shakes his head. No. She deserves better. And this isn’t something he can tell her over a text message. He turns back to his phone and scrolls up a few entries, to the next name on his list. 

He wonders who called her before, the last time her brother vanished. Was it Steve? Probably. It’s the kind of thing he would do, letting his friends' families know what had happened to them. The kind of thing he would have done, rather. Bucky’s family died thinking his skeleton was rattling around the bottom of a ravine in the Alps. Most days he thinks that’s for the best.

He presses the call button and brings the phone to his ear. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. She picks up on the third ring.

“Would you tell that dumbass brother of mine to answer my calls?” Sarah says. “Been trying to ask him if he wants to come down here for the party we’re throwing for the Jacksons’ fiftieth anniversary, but I guess the idiot’s too busy and all important to talk to me.”

“Sarah…” he starts.

“And I’m sure he ‘forgot’ to tell you, but it's next month and you know they’ll be expecting you too, so you better make sure—”

“Sarah,” he interjects. “It’s Sam.”

There’s a burst of static, or silence, or a curse, or maybe that’s just the crackle of Bucky’s brain, and the crack of Sarah’s heart breaking. Again. The ambient sound behind her telescopes out – she must be ducking out of wherever she is to find some place quiet. A brief laugh punches through the distance over the phone – A.J. or Cass.

“Is he dead?” Sarah asks.

Right. God knows how many awful calls Sarah has had to take in her life. Sometimes you just go right for ripping off the band aid. “He’s missing,” Bucky says.

“What happened?” Sarah’s not the type to beat around the bush.

“We went to clear out some terrorists at the Smithsonian. ‘Cept there weren’t any terrorists, at least as far as we could tell. We split up to cover more ground. That was a bad call. My call,” he adds. “By the time we realized there was nothing there I went to find him. And he was just…gone.”

“Who took him?”

“I don’t know. They didn’t leave any traces or demands. Shu…the Wakandans might be able to figure out where his suit is, though.”

Sarah’s quiet for a long time. He might think she’d hung up on him, but he can hear her breathing, consciously long and steady. “And you don’t think he’s dead?”

He stares at the far wall of Sam’s living room, at the framed photo of a young Sam and Sarah, pulling faces for the camera. “I don’t. If…if they killed him, I don’t think they would have been quiet about it.”

“Alright,” she says softly. And then, firmer, “Find him.”

“I will,” he answers. Or die trying, he doesn’t add, but he’s pretty sure she hears it anyway.

“Okay.” Silence trickles down the line for a moment. “Look, I gotta get dinner for the boys. I’ll…”

“I’ll call you back. As soon as I learn anything. I promise.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

And that’s it. Can’t have been more than a minute, but Bucky feels like days have passed. God, how many call like that has Sarah gotten, that she can take another one with that level of steely determination?

He looks at his contact list again, thumb hovering over the screen. He scrolls down a few entries, still in the S’es, until he gets to the last one.

Steve.

Shit. Well, that one is many months past doing him any good. Hell, probably eighty years past doing him any good. If he were a braver man, he would delete it. No doubt the phone company’s given it to a new owner by now anyway. To some harried cab driver, or wealthy broker, or maybe even some other scrawny kid taking art classes at SUNY.

He wonders if Sam still has Steve’s number in his phone. He wonders if he’ll ever have the chance to ask. He and Sam…they don’t talk about this stuff much. Sam’s the kind of guy who likes to look forward, prefers not to dwell in the past. Bucky doesn’t have a choice, most days. Future arrives, if you’re ready for it or not.

Bucky has a sudden desire to crush the phone in his grip. To pitch it forward, across the room, into that picture of Sam and Sarah’s smiling faces. To send Sam’s coffee table after it, and then his lamps, and then his couch, and then…

He exhales shakily through his teeth. Blinks a few times. Turns back to his phone. He still has calls to make.

Twenty hours later, after he’s called everyone he can think of, after every miniscule lead peters out, after he manages about an hour of sleep interrupted by a predictable nightmare of finding Sam’s mutilated body on the doorstep, he gets a message from Shuri. One word.

Madripoor.

Chapter Text

It’s dark when Bucky arrives in Madripoor. Seems like it’s always dark in Madripoor.

He steps off a trawler flying under the Vietnamese flag at the docks, the stench of fish and diesel clinging to him like a shroud. It would take most people a few hours to adjust to solid land after time at sea, to acclimate to the feel of sturdy ground under their feet instead of the rock of metal and wood bouncing on the waves. His steps are even by time he’s out of the old harbor.

A direct flight would have been quicker. He doesn’t have a private jet at his disposal, however. Rhodey offered the C-130. That would have raised some eyebrows. He probably could have bummed a ride on a Wakandan jet too. Shuri’s got a soft spot for Sam, after all. But subtle as Wakandan tech can be, someone’s always watching in Madripoor, and he wants as few of those eyes on him as possible.

Once he reaches the main road it hits him. The ammonia and sulfur stench of Madripoor — acid, Sam called it, and he quashes the slicing feeling in his gut remembering that moment brings — smacks him full in the face. He’s almost longing for the briny reek of the docks.  

A few minutes of walking and he’s in lowtown. Sharon’s loft in hightown was great and all, but the beating heart of Madripoor lies in the warren of streets and alleys where few tourists would dare to venture. Except for the Germans and broke American students. They’re always up for anything.

Bucky walks a couple more blocks until he finds what he’s looking for – a rundown guesthouse with a hand-painted sign above the door. On a relatively quiet corner, but only a short distance to the main drag. One of those old ornate buildings, from the city’s colonial days, the elaborate edifice partitioned into separate dwellings after its European owners fled.

He pushes through the smaller metal door inset into a much wider arched wooden gate. The ancient tile floor gleams below aged wallpaper, the lower half of the graceful windows papered over with newsprint. A woman sits behind the reception desk in one corner, her creased and timeworn face matching the architecture.    

Bucky comes closer to get a better look at her and sees a Madripoori with bobbed grey hair and one milky-white eye who’s barely level with his chest. He asks for a room for a week and the woman quotes a price. Bucky snaps out a laugh, snipes back in Malay with a counter-offer at half the amount. Bucky could cover that first rate, no problem. Nothing in Madripoor gets settled without a little haggling first, though. The woman paints an affronted expression on her face, threatens to throw Bucky out on the street herself, so aggrieved is she by his proposal.

A few minutes later and Bucky’s got an acceptable price, and the owner —who he now knows goes by Al, for some reason — pours a dash of root tea, cold and bitter, into two petite mugs. Bucky takes a mug in his gloved fingers and downs it in one go. He exchanges the empty porcelain cup and a wad of bills for a brass key and gives Al a jaunty salute on his way up the stairs.

He checks every crevice of the room first, parts the curtains covering the window near the bed to study the sightlines, then goes to the tiny bathroom and cranks the frosted glass slats of the louvered window open. The bedroom window opens out over the street from four stories up, affording a view of waving laundry lines up high and puttering scooters down below. The bathroom window looks out on a narrow alley, cluttered with battered metal trashcans, abandoned wooden pallets, and a feral tabby yowling in heat.

He can’t fit between the slats of glass, of course, but he tests the aluminum frame around the window with one hand. Easy enough to punch the whole thing out, if he has to. The dark alley is forty feet below, empty of passers-by. A decent exit route if things go sideways. When they go sideways. Things always go sideways in Madripoor.

Bucky returns to the main room and dumps his duffel on a worn bed spread. A ceiling fan, loose in its fittings, circles lazily above the bed with a regular tick. A lamp perches on the end table, matching the one on the tiny desk smushed into one corner, paired with an old folding chair. The place is clean, and relatively quiet. The creaking staircase and floorboards in the halls will announce any unexpected visitors. As far as bolt holes go, it’s not half bad.

He doesn’t take much time to admire the view, however. A few minutes later and he ferrets out a back stairwell, taking it down to a side street. He walks north until he hits a road even dingier than the one his guesthouse sits on, too narrow for anything but scooters and pedestrians. He ducks into an electronics shop, the bright light oversaturating stacks of SIM cards and old Nokias and Samsung soundbars. He chats with the owner until the man waves him toward a back door, hidden by a heavy blue curtain.

Past the curtain he finds another alley, and a twitchy man smoking a cigarette. The man pops open the trunk of a nearby sedan. Bucky scopes out the merchandise carefully, settles on a Glock with a scratched off serial number that probably fell off a camion at a US base somewhere. He buys a box of ammo too. Nothing worse than running out of rounds in Madripoor. He passes more cash to the edgy man and takes his leave without a word. He squirrels the gun and ammo into the inner pockets he sewed into his duffel coat while he was lying on his bunk on that trawler.

He picks up a phone and a few SIM cards on his way out of the store. Those go in a pocket too. Back on the street he gives the side-eye to a few punks in leather jackets lurking under a darkened streetlight. That look that says I know what you’re thinking, and don’t even try it.

They tail him for a few blocks and try it anyway. He has the three of them flat in the gutter, groaning, in ten seconds flat. He hauls the one he’s pegged as the ringleader up by his collar. The kid peers up at him behind a broken nose.

“Try that again and I’ll hit you so hard you’ll be shitting teeth for a week. Tell your friends that too,” he snarls in French. The kid squints but gives him a nod, and Bucky drops him back to asphalt. He sets off on his way again, cracking his neck. That ought to buy him a little peace. For a few days, at least.   

Finally, with shelter located, weapons and comms procured, and his reputation established, he goes to work. He pulls up a map on his phone with the information Shuri sent him. She was able to locate the vibranium in Sam’s suit to within a few square miles. Part of that range falls over Madripoor. The rest is over the Banda Sea. He’s guessing Sam’s not on an offshore drilling platform somewhere, so Madripoor it is.

He pauses for a moment on a street corner. Watches the scooters putt by, weaving in and out of traffic, some laden with tarpaulin-covered loads larger than the machines themselves. Listens to the chittering of passersby in a dozen different languages, half of which he knows. Takes in a deep breath, lets the odor of sun-battered asphalt and burning garbage and diesel fumes sit on the back of his tongue.

“Alright, Sam,” he mutters into the clatter and clang of the most dangerous island on the planet. “I’m coming.”  

It’s twilight on Bucky’s second night in Madripoor when he sees Sam again.

Things must happen during the day in Madripoor too, but it’s like the whole place slumbers during the light hours, waiting for cover of darkness to reveal itself. The night markets pop up, an impossible array of colored stalls and tents basking in the neon lights. The air grows redolent with cracked pepper and roasting meat and the starchy tang of steam from the noodle pots. People huddle in clusters on undersized plastic chairs and tables while leather-faced women ladle soup into their bowls. Girls in short skirts and boys in leather, far too warm for the climate, loiter about on corners.

Bucky passes through it all, barely getting a glance, one shadow among a sea of them. It’s a lot easier to blend here when he’s not wearing the Winter Soldier get-up and trailing Zemo like a muzzled pitbull. He walks through the crowds with the casual confidence of someone who’s won far more fights than he’s lost, who knows there could be a thug with a shiv destined for his kidneys around the next corner but is more than capable of snapping that shiv in half.

He’s not looking for anything in particular, just wants to roam the streets for a bit, let the essence of Madripoor wash over him until he’s so attuned to its typical rhythms he’ll be able to pick up on any sour notes. Sharon sent him a terse text with a few names worth checking out once he’s got his sea legs. She also said she wasn’t that in the loop on the goings on in Madripoor these days now that she’s back in the states, and anyways they’ve got her pretty busy with other stuff. He supposes that’s a good thing. For her, at least.

In the meantime, he decides to do a thing few people in Madripoor do. He watches the skies. God knows he’s got no reason to think Sam would be up there. But every other time he’s wanted to find the man, that’s where he’s looked. It can’t hurt. Lowtown’s a dense place, apartments and studios perched precariously above lounges and stores, but it’s not that big as the crow flies. Or as Captain America does.

There isn’t usually much to see up there. The fog blowing in from the harbor hangs in the hollows between the grimy buildings. Soot from the island’s decaying coal plant veils the island like a shroud most days. Madripoor’s still a few decades off from the green energy revolution, apparently. 

Something flashes in the corner of his eye when he’s scoping out the space above a dingy street a fair distance from the main drag, or something rankles his enhanced senses, or maybe it’s just the wind shifting. A burst of white, brilliant and glorious, overlayed on the backdrop of Madripoor’s grime. Whatever it is, he follows it, jogging down a few dark alleys, casting glances skyward as he goes.  

Something there — a spark of light he knows better than the back of his hand — setting down in front of a doorway a block away, and he stalks it. Pushes through the creaking wooden door to a dingy apartment lobby. That flash again – in the corner, skittering up a set of stairs. He dashes over to the stairwell, peers up the dark trail to the landing, lit by the dingy glow of an exposed lightbulb. He blinks at the emptiness. Takes the steps two at a time anyway.

There are doors at each landing, gateways to other worlds, but he follows the stairs ever upward, drawn by a silent song ringing in his chest. The stairwell dead-ends and he pushes through the last door. That sparkle of white again, at the end of a grey hallway, and he bolts toward it with a shout.

“Sam!”

The shape stops as he draws closer. Even in the washed-out amber light he recognizes the figure, dark hair peeking out from the top of a light cowl. Sam’s broad shoulders beneath a stretch of white Wakandan fabric. The sleek shape of a thruster pack, the space behind it where Sam’s wings can go to rest. Past one of those shoulders, concentric circles sitting on his left forearm, framing a single star.

“Sam,” he cries again. “Thank God.” He reaches a hand forward, fingers questing for the man’s arm. “Where the hell have you —”

Bucky’s interrupted by a flash of that star in his near vision, the unmistakable twang of vibranium hitting human bone. He stumbles back a few steps, hand instinctively going to his face. Sensation follows sound, and a sharp throb splinters from his jaw to his nose. Blood pools in his mouth and he spits it out on the already-stained tile floor.

“Sam?” he asks, utterly astonished. “What the fu—”

The shield bursts toward his face again, and it’s all he can do to duck under the blow. “Sam!” he shouts. “It’s me. It’s Bu—”

He slips to his right, takes a glancing blow on his side that would have otherwise cracked half his ribcage. “Fuck,” he snarls, juking backward from another swing. Sam stalks forward, his face illuminated by a sallow lightbulb for a terrifying instant.

Bucky gapes despite himself. Sam’s face – nothing there, no expression, like looking into a muddy pond. No sparkle in his eyes, his lips not twisted in a grin, or a frown, or a grimace. Still and lifeless. Like he’s not even there, like Bucky’s not even there, like…

“Oh, fuck,” Bucky says, clarity crashing over him like a wave. Then there’s no time to think, because Sam’s shooting forward, wings swept back behind him in the narrow hallway. He slams straight into Bucky’s chest, plowing them both into the far wall. Bucky grunts as his back hits the plaster, the impact shaking the whole structure.     

The pressure on his chest eases and he has a split second to duck before Sam buries the shield into the wall behind where Bucky’s neck just was. Bucky bolts forward, dipping into a roll, flipping his body over and around until he’s facing Sam.

Or…whatever it is that’s wearing Sam’s eyes, his teeth, his suit, using his fucking shield. 

“Sam,” he tries one more time in desperation. “What the hell’s going on?” he gets out before the next volley comes. Then he’s ducking, dodging, juking, absorbing hit after hit with his vibranium arm. The sound is tremendous, the sharp chimes loud as a shotgun blast.

He tries to catch Sam’s eyes in a last ditch effort. Even behind the red visor, Sam’s expression usually shines clear. Determined Sam, angry Sam, righteous Sam, Bucky’s seen them all. But this…nothing. Not even the faintest trace of emotion. Something cold and foul coils in Bucky’s chest.

“What the hell happened?” he whispers between punches, and the answer slips through his defenses, hits him like a fist to the throat. He knows what this is, can feel that wicked truth slinking across his skin, burrowing into the base of his skull.

His mind scrambles. Someone’s clearly done…something…to Sam to make him not-Sam, and not-Sam seems wholly intent on smashing Bucky’s face into a pulp. Sounds eerily familiar. He’s not going to talk Sam out of this — that’s worked like one time in the history of ever — so his best bet is to take Sam down somehow, until he can get him somewhere safe, figure out what’s going on.

He leaps backward a few feet, hoping for some distance. Distance means time, time to figure out what’s going on, come up with something resembling a plan. It’s like not-Sam knows what he’s thinking as well as real-Sam would, though. Sam’s in his face again before he can blink, feinting a blow with the shield so he can crack his boot across Bucky’s kneecap. The hit makes Bucky’s leg tingle, but those serum-hardened bones hold up better than normal ones would.

He snaps out a kick of his own into not-Sam’s midsection – not hard enough to break something, but hard enough to send him back a step. Bucky thinks again. He needs to incapacitate, not kill. The former isn’t something he has a lot of experience with. A blow to the head is dicey – plenty of guys without the benefit of the serum don’t wake up from those. The Glock in his jacket is fresh out of horse tranquilizers. It does have sixteen rounds loaded, but with how fast Sam’s moving, Bucky doesn’t like his chances of not hitting him somewhere fatal.

The shield bangs off his shoulder — his flesh one, shit that stings —and he realizes making sure Sam comes out of this alive isn’t his only concern. He takes another glancing blow on his arm and he’s just starting to think maybe bonking Sam on the head isn’t the worst idea, when some bozo comes out the door of an apartment behind Bucky. Like he’s somehow missed the sound of an unstoppable vibranium force meeting an immovable vibranium object.

Bucky sidesteps, gets a quick look behind him at the guy. Hard to tell his age behind the stocking cap and the bushy, unkempt beard. Then his eyes drop to the guy’s shirt. Black, with a man’s face printed in the middle. No, not just a man’s face. It’s a sepia toned image. Of Marvin Gaye.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” Bucky declares. Anything else he might say is interrupted by not-Sam launching himself forward, bowling Bucky to the floor like a pin as he passes, heading straight for this guy.

“Goddamnit,” Bucky hisses as he pushes himself up and dashes after Sam. The moron — he’s got those insanely expensive headphones over his ears, which might explain how he somehow missed the epic battle going on in his hallway — stares at the oncoming bullet train that is not-Sam with wide eyes.

Bucky dives forward with a roar, loops his right hand around Sam’s ankle. He’s promptly dragged along like a rattling can behind a buggy. He scrabbles his other hand along the floor, the walls, anything he can get purchase on. Not-Sam drags him forward, relentless.

He finally hooks his free hand around a cast-iron radiator along one of the walls. Their forward momentum stops with a screech. From the radiator or Bucky, he’s not sure. Not-Sam turns to glare. In the near distance, the man in the headphones finally buys a clue. He bolts down the nearest stairwell with a squawk.

Bucky shouts too, his shoulders screaming from the strain of a few thousand pounds of thrust coming from Sam’s suit. Not-Sam kicks his fingers a few times with his free foot, but like hell is Bucky letting go.

There’s a terrible groan, and shrieking metal, then the radiator snaps from the wall, snagging a chunk of plaster. And then Not-Sam pulls Bucky, and the now detached radiator, and part of the apartment building, out through the far window. The shield protects Not-Sam from the shattering glass. Bucky’s not so lucky. He yelps as Not-Sam drags him along the shards sticking out like shark’s teeth. One slices him straight from wrist to shoulder blade.  

He clings to not-Sam’s foot through it, and then they’re out. Into fresh air, or as fresh as Madripoor gets. Hovering stories above the muted streetlights. No, not hovering. Climbing.

“Fuck,” Bucky snarls as he looks at the rapidly-retreating street. He can try to take not-Sam out here, see if he can rip one of his wings off again, and isn’t that bringing back fond memories. He could try to clobber not-Sam over the head with the radiator he’s still dragging behind him. Then they’re both in freefall, though. He has no idea if he can control Sam’s suit without…well…Sam.  

Windows lit by the glow of a hundred rooms slip by too quickly. He catches a glimpse of a couple arguing, a grey-haired woman cracking open a can of beer, a young man coaxing a toddler to take a bite of goop off a spoon. Not-Sam takes them high, too high, no way Bucky’s surviving the fall all the way down. Then the windows aren’t just slipping by, they’re spinning, rotating, and…

I don’t come up to the sky and tell you how to barrel roll or whatever, Sarah’s voice in his head, and is this what that feels like? Shit, how does Sam do this all the time? Bucky’s whirling, circling, on the end of a terrible top that yanks the radiator out of his grip but like hell is he letting Sam go, not when he has no idea where’s he’s been, where he’ll go, what the fuck whoever did this to him is planning and —

Sam’s boot slides cleanly off not-Sam’s foot. Bucky stares at it in his hand for a moment, dumbfounded, before his momentum sputters and not-Sam’s flying up and he’s shooting sideways, falling down.

“Shit!” He flails, turns, whips his head around, looking for a soft landing. Nothing doing there, but there’s the roof of a building coming up and at least if he can get his arm under him he can—

He hits the concrete roof at an angle, too fast, too hard. His vibranium arm shaves the worst of the impact off before his shoulder pounds into the roof, then his back, and his other arm while he rolls over and over for a few dozen feet before he punches into the low wall along the roof’s perimeter with a heart-stopping thump.

He stares upwards, groaning. Last time he tumbled that hard across the ground Sam was there. And that field of wildflowers in Germany was a hell of a lot softer than a roof in Madripoor. Hell, Sam was a lot softer, though Bucky’s heart stopped the same way when Sam crashed into him while he was dangling from that truck, wrapped his arms around Bucky and dragged him to safety. Like Bucky was worth the risk. Sam gave him shit about it for days, still gives him shit about it. But he’d do it a hundred times over, Bucky knows.

He’s not thinking of how hard this fall was, though, or how hard any of the falls he’s taken were.  

“Sam,” he whispers to the night sky, hovering smog lit by an unnatural orange glow from the neon signs in lowtown and the smoldering foundries down by the docks. He clutches the man’s lost boot to his chest, a pitiful excuse for Prince Charming. “What the hell did they do to you?”

He hunts Marvin down in the basement of the building, cowering in the boiler room. The guy’s got the gall to wave a loose piece of galvanized steel pipe at Bucky in a vaguely threatening manner. Bucky snorts.

“Nice try,” he says. “Put that down before you hurt yourself.”

Marvin, to his credit, holds fast. “Don’t come any closer,” he warbles in an unexpectedly thick Glaswegian accent.

Bucky levels him with a glare. “If I was here to hurt you, you’d be hurting by now. And that’s a hell of a way to say thank you to someone who just saved your…” Life? His brain stutters there. What was Sam here for, actually? He tries a different tack. “So, who wants you hurt?”

“None of your business,” the guy snarls.

Bucky sighs. He shifts, and he’s in front of Marvin, has a hand on the pipe before the other man can blink. He tugs the metal out of Marvin’s unresisting hand. “Let’s try that again.” He tosses the pipe to the concrete floor with a clatter that makes Marvin wince. “Was he here for you? Why?”

Marvin eyes the door behind Bucky’s back. Bucky shakes his head. “Man, don’t even try it.” He waves his bloody arm, Sam’s boot still clutched in his fist, in Marvin’s face. “Do I look like I’m in the mood right now? Tell me, and you get out of here with all your fingers in one piece.”

That gets Marvin talking. Bucky learns that Marvin — Kyle, actually — has been in Madripoor for a few years. Running the books for some of Madripoor’s higher lowlifes, giving them an avenue to offshore accounts, shell businesses, the things people who make money doing bad things need someone else to do for them. Kyle doesn’t know who’s gunning for him, but he gives Bucky half a dozen rival crime lords who wouldn’t be inconvenienced by his death.

He tells Bucky Madripoor is a powder keg, after Selby’s death, after the Power Broker’s web started unraveling without a stable of foot soldiers to hold it together. He says any one of those people who want him dead might be looking for a shot at the throne. Bucky guesses the people Kyle’s working for would be happy to be in charge, too. But he’s not here to play kingmaker. He’s here to find Sam.  

Bucky leaves Kyle with an admonition to get out of dodge. The people who might want him dead will probably try again. And the people he works for will be none too pleased if they find out he’s been sharing their secrets. Bucky glances behind him as he departs, one hand on the door.

“Hey,” he says.

“What?” Kyle asks shakily.

“Nice shirt.”

Bucky shucks out of his jacket and shirt to check out the gash on his arm when he gets back to his room. It’s long but shallow, tracing from his wrist bone to the middle of his back. Of course not-Sam couldn’t drag his metal arm over a shard of glass. He blots it a bit but doesn’t bother with a bandage. It’ll heal soon enough. He tosses the bloody towel in the bin when he’s done. He’ll just leave a few extra bills for Al when he checks out.

When he leaves. When they leave. When he finds Sam, inside that head somewhere. He’s still there. He has to be. Bucky did not come all the way to fucking Madripoor to watch his friend get swallowed by the same leviathan that almost destroyed Bucky. Hell, it did destroy him. For seventy years. That’s not going to happen to Sam, though, not while Bucky’s still drawing breath. Not when Bucky was so close to him a few days ago, just one level down and he still didn’t know, he wasn’t there. And not when Bucky was so close today, face to face, literally had a hand on Sam and he still got away and the only proof is that goddamn red and white boot and —

He snatches the folding chair up with teeth bared, brings it down across the desk and shatters it into a dozen pieces that clatter to the floor around him. He stands, panting, gasping for air. He takes a long breath. Another one, lets it out through his nose. One more, then he picks up the pieces of the chair and dumps them into the bin next to the towel. He’ll have to cover that too when he leaves.

He sits down on the bed when he’s done, now that it’s the only thing left in the room he can sit on. He pulls out both his phones – the burner he picked up earlier, and the one he brought here. He has some calls to make.    

Rhodey is first. Somehow, he thinks that will be the easiest one.

“Found Sam,” he starts when Rhodes picks up the call. “But it’s not Sam.”

Rhodey’s silent for a moment. “Uh. You gonna give me a little more than that?”

“I found Sam. But he…he didn’t recognize me, I guess?”

“How do you know?”

“Well. The whole trying to bash my skull in and drop me from seventy feet off the ground was kind of a hint.”

“What?” Rhodes sputters down the line. “What?”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “Exactly.”

“Well what…how…what the fuck happened?”

Bucky gets up to pace around the room while he fills Rhodes in – the apartment building, the fight. His suspicion that not-Sam was gunning for Marvin, Kyle, whatever the fuck his name is. What he learned about the latest politicking in Madripoor. All of which explains why someone would be after Kyle. None of which explains why Sam is that someone.

Bucky hears Rhodey breathing into the phone for a beat before the other man speaks again. “That’s…okay. Lot to process there. But…Sam came after you?”

He ponders that for a moment. “Yeah. But I don’t think he was…coming for me, exactly. Seemed more like I just got in the way of whatever he was doing. Like I was just an…obstacle.”

“Huh,” Rhodey ponders. Bucky knows what he’s going to say. “Because someone suddenly snapping and attacking their friends? That sounds kinda like…well…”

“Believe me,” Bucky sighs. “I know.”

“So,” Rhodey ventures, “do you think they could have…”

Bucky closes his eyes for a second. He doesn’t need to tell Rhodes it’s the first thing he thought of. Rhodes knows. “Sam’s been missing for a few days. What you’re talking about…” what I went through, he doesn’t say, “that takes longer. A lot longer. And the people who worked on that program…well, they won’t be doing it again anytime soon.” Or ever.

“So, we’re talking, what…instantaneous mind control?” Rhodey asks in disbelief.

“I guess? Don’t tell me you haven’t seen stranger things.”

“Yeah,” Rhodey ruminates. “Hey. Were his eyes blue, by any chance?”

Bucky frowns. “Sam’s? No, they were…” empty vacant dead, “no. Not blue. Why?”

“Good. That’s just…something we’ve seen before. And there weren’t any…strange vibes coming off him?”

“Other than that trying to kill me vibe?” Bucky asks incredulously. “Yeah, no, nothing.”  

Rhodey sighs. “Right. Okay. Guess I have seen some strange shit. I’ll make some calls, check in with the…usual suspects. If it’s not them, though, what are you thinking? You know more about this stuff than me, man.”

Bucky knows more about it than just about anyone. He doesn’t say that either. “Don’t think its surgical…he wouldn’t be up and running around yet. And the guy he was going after…that seemed like a local affair. Not something any of the people you’re thinking of would care about.”

“A local affair that’s got mind-controlled people attacking other people? Sure. Yeah, think I’m passing on that spring break trip to Madripoor,” Rhodey snorts.

“It’s got a hell of a music scene, though,” Bucky counters, considering Rhodey’s question. “Hey, can you look into something else for me?”

“Sure thing, man. Shoot.”

“We had this weird run-in with someone in New Orleans a few weeks ago. This old lady came out swinging for Sam. No idea why. We got pulled into some other stuff, never had a chance to follow up. Mind seeing if anyone ever figured out why she thought it was a good idea to make shish kabob of Captain America?”

Silence for a moment. “Sam almost got shived by a grandma and you guys didn’t think to tell me?”

“We were a little busy with the terrorists and the bombs. But…yeah.”

“Okay,” Rhodey drawls. “I’ll see why Betty White tried to skewer him.”

“More Nina Simone than Betty White,” Bucky corrects.

Rhodey humphs. “Don’t suppose you got a video of this? For investigative purposes, of course.”

“Of course,” Bucky agrees. “‘fraid not, though.”

“Ah, well. I’ll ask around, let you know.” Rhodey’s tone turns somber. “Hey. Now that we know where Sam is…sorta…and we know he’s not…himself…you think maybe it’s time we lift the lid on this whole situation? Go public? Maybe someone out there has seen him, would call it in.”

Bucky almost laughs. “If someone in Madripoor has figured out a mind-controlled Captain America is running around here, they’re not gonna call it in to be a good Samaritan.”

“Fine. Could be someone else knows something, though.”

Bucky scuffs a boot into the worn rug. “Maybe.”

“Not hearing a lot of enthusiasm for this plan, Barnes.” 

“I…” the words stick in his throat. Rhodes gives him time to get them out. “Look, priority is finding Sam, obviously. But something like this starts getting wider traction, people know he’s being…controlled or whatever? It’s just…you know how much shit he’s getting. Already getting. Last thing we need to do is give all those people taking potshots at him more ammunition. Put him in a situation where he’s gonna have to try to explain why he did all these things when he didn’t have a…”

Yori’s expression flashes blindingly bright in front of his eyes, that moment of open-hearted anguish before a steel shutter dropped over his whole face.

He clears his throat. “Anyways, I’m not putting him in that situation. Not if I can help it.”

Rhodes is quiet again, and Bucky waits for the retort, the this isn’t about you, the finding him is more important, the no one would ever believe he could be that kind of person, not like—

“Yeah,” Rhodey says. “I know what those people would say about him, too. I don’t want to put him through that either. Not when…right. I get it. We’ll table that for now.”

Bucky sags against the wall next to the window. Get it together, he tells himself. “Okay. Let me know if you hear anything.”

“Of course,” Rhodey answers. “Now what’s your next play?”   

Bucky gazes out the glass panes, watches a thug speeding by on a scooter try to snatch a middle-aged woman’s purse off her shoulder. They scramble over it for a second before the woman pulls out a taser and jabs it into the thug’s neck. He spasms for a moment before he falls to the pavement, twitching. The woman resettles her purse against her side, dumps the taser back in her pocket, and steps over his body to resume her journey.

“Madripoor’s got all sort of criminals. If Sam somehow got wrapped up in a fight between a bunch of petty crime lords…maybe it’s time I see if I can’t draw a few of them out.”

“Oh, good,” Rhodey says brightly. “The guy with no back-up sets himself out as bait. This should end well.”  

“I’ll let you know what I find,” Bucky replies.

“Hey,” Rhodey counters. “Seriously. You think it’s a good idea for you to be running around there alone? You know I could get out there in a few hours, tops.”

“No,” Bucky answers. “You’d stick out like a sore thumb here.” He continues over Rhodey’s sputtering objections, “I don’t think what passes for a government around here would take too kindly to the US military showing up uninvited, either.”

“You think I give a shit what the President of Madripoor thinks?”

“Prime Minister, actually,” Bucky mutters.

“What?”

“She’s a…nevermind. Doesn’t matter. But come on, you can do a lot more to figure out some of the stuff going on back there than I can.”

 “I’ll thank you not to blow any smoke up my ass, Barnes. Colonel here, remember? I get plenty of that from the junior officers.”

Bucky snorts. “Roger. And hey,” he continues, softer, “thanks for this, Rhodes.”

“Thank me by pulling Sam’s ass outta the fire,” Rhodey counters. “I got no desire to be the token black superhero anymore.”

Bucky smiles despite himself when he hangs up the call. He’s left looking at his contacts list, and his smile drops. Right. He still has another call to make. He’s not going to be smiling at the end of this one.

Sarah picks up on the first ring this time. “What’s going on?” she demands. “Did you find him?”

“I…yeah,” he answers, off balance.

She’s silent for a long moment. “You better start talking.”

“I found him. But he wasn’t…”

“Wasn’t what?” she snaps.

“He wasn’t…himself.” How else to explain it? He finds an ugly gratitude in the knowledge that no one ever had to try to explain what happened to him to his family. Where could anyone even start?

“What do you mean? Is he there with you now?” There’s the faintest blush of hope coloring that question.

He debates lying to her for longer than he should. “He’s…no. He’s not here. I don’t know where he is anymore.”

“Oh,” she replies. That single, soft sound, conveying a novel’s worth of disappointment and despair. “What…what happened?”

“He…” Fuck. How do you tell someone their loved one nearly killed you without making it sound petulant?

“Just tell me, Bucky. I can take it.” He guesses you start by telling them the truth, all of it, unvarnished.

“I found him. Here, in Madripoor. I chased after him, but it was…like he didn’t know me. He fought me. Well, I guess we fought each other.” If you could call it that. Bucky barely landed a blow. It hadn’t even felt like he was fighting Sam. Same suit, shield, face, sure. But that cold focus, that utter indifference to causing harm? Like he was fighting some shadow of the man, stripped of all the color—the compassion, the fortitude, the spirit — that makes Sam Sam.

He blinks away that image when he realizes Sarah is waiting for more. “He got away.”

“Is he hurt?” Sarah asks simply.

“No. Not that I could tell,” he amends. “I think someone did something to him. I know they did something to him. I’m not sure what.” He injects all the steel he has left into his voice. “But I’m going to figure it out.”

“Okay,” Sarah says, surprisingly small. She takes a deep breath. “Find him. Again.”

“I will,” he promises.

“Please,” she says. He’s not sure she’s talking to him, though. “Please find him.”

He gives her one last promise before he hangs up the phone and tosses it on the bed. It bounces against the boot he threw on the duvet too when he got back. Sam’s boot. He picks it up gingerly and inspects the sole, the stitching, the inner lining. No clues here, at least as far as he can tell. Although, looking closer, there’s a splash of…oh.

He snags his ruined t-shirt and scrubs frantically at the stain his own bloody hand left on the white gusset. He gets a little water from the sink, tries that. Finally, he resorts to scraping at the stain with a fingernail until there isn’t a speck left and the boot is as shiny and new as the day Sam got it.

Bucky stands there for too long, studying the shoe, until a slant of sunlight pierces through Madripoor’s neon canyons and strafes across his face. He shakes himself, glaring at the coming dawn. Enough navel-gazing. He has work to do.  

Chapter Text

He wakes. He knows it is not the first time this has happened, but this is the first time it has mattered.

He blinks his eyes a few times until he sees the woman, seated in a chair across from him. She is sitting on a low, sleek couch in creamy white leather. He is in a simple wooden chair with arm rests. There is a short table between them, blonde wood in an elongated vertical S shape. There is a tray on that table, with a few objects. An old book. A tablet in a burnished leather case. A short tumbler in cut crystal with amber liquid and a single, perfect cube of ice.

He studies the room behind her. Heavy curtains drawn across tall windows, abstract paintings hanging from beige walls. The room smells clean, like an exotic fruit he cannot place. He hears a clock ticking behind him, his own breathing. Someone out of sight shuffling between their feet. The chair beneath him is hard, warmed by his own body heat. His mouth tastes strange, dry. There is a solution to that. He cannot conceive of it now.

The woman’s painted lips turn up at the corners. Hello. Do you know how you got here?

He does not.

That’s fine. Do you know why you’re here?

Again, he does not.

You are here to listen to me. You are here to comply. You are here to fight. He listens keenly, watching her lips form every word. When she is done, she regards him with a level gaze. That’s why you’re here. Did you understand what I told you?

He does.

Good. Do you know who you are?

He does not.

Of course not. Do not concern yourself too much with this question. You are you. That is enough.

He tilts his head, considering. After some length he nods.

Do you know where you are?

He is in a room.

Where is this room?

He does not know.

We are in Madripoor. Do you know anything about Madripoor?

He does. He tells her: it is an island in the Indonesian archipelago. It was once a pirate haven and is now a haven for all other sorts. It is a lawless place, held together by only the thinnest strands of civilization. It is kept in check and afloat by shadowy figures from the underworld. Here, the power broker is always watching.

She nods for most of his answer. She frowns at his last comment. Some would disagree with that, she tells him. Some believe Madripoor can no longer be controlled. But Madripoor will always need a king.

He frowns back. He does not understand why they are speaking of royalty, but he does not say this.

Where are you from?

He does not know.

Here. You are from here. You were created in Madripoor. This is your home. It is your job to defend it. To uplift it. To fight for it.

He nods. The word created strikes a sour note. He feels this is the wrong phrase, but he does not correct her. He does not believe it is his place to do so.

Do you have a family?

He stares at the woman, thinking. He knows this word, what it is supposed to mean. When he searches for this word in himself, he finds a black void. He concludes he does not.

The woman nods. Do you have friends?

He searches for this word, too. There is only darkness where he believes it should be. A haunting, shapeless sound. He decides he does not have this, either.

Correct. You do not. You have me. You have us. You have Madripoor.

He does not understand the comparison between the woman and Madripoor, and those two words he is certain are supposed to mean something to him. He does not tell her this.

Now. Do you know what you are capable of?

He pauses. He knows he is capable of breathing, of speaking. Listening, understanding. He believes he might be good at these latter two, but he does not know why. He is certain she is asking for something specific. He tells her he does not know.

Let me show you, then.

The woman picks up the tablet and passes her finger over the screen a few times. She flips it to face him.

Watch this.

He does. He sees a man in a white and blue suit with wings arcing through the air. Throwing a round object at a nearby person. The round object knocks this person to the ground before bouncing back to the man in the white suit. The man in the suit soars up into the air, then spirals down to escape gunfire from a separate person. He dives forward, towards the camera. The screen freezes on a close-up of the man, his face filling half the screen.

This, the woman says. You are capable of this.

He finds he leaned forward at some point to watch the video. He shifts until the reflection of his own face in the screen overlaps with the image of the man in the video. He looks at himself. He still feels the phantom sweep of wind across his face. He longs for that sensation again with an ache he cannot describe. He does not tell the woman this. She did not ask.   

Do you understand this?

He does. He does not. He tells the woman that first answer.

Good. I have a few more questions to ask before we release you.

He glances down at himself. He just now sees the metal loops that secure his wrists to the chair. Beyond that, there are similar loops around his bare ankles. He had not noticed. It does not matter. He turns back to the woman.

People believe the world is complicated. Do you agree?

He does not. He thinks perhaps the world was once complicated. It is now simple.

Do you understand that you are to listen to me, and me alone, at all times?

He does.

Do you understand that there are those who will try to convince you to do otherwise?

He does.

Do you understand that those people may try to stop you?

He does.

Do you understand what you are to do to these people?

He does.

Do you understand the task ahead of you?

He does.

Then get to work.

He does.  

He does as the woman directs. She tells him to find a place, a small gambling parlor near the harbor, popular with deckhands and roustabouts. He visits this place late at night, waits on a low rooftop. He watches this place, listens to the hubbub of an intoxicated crowd, smells the stench of cigarette smoke layered between diesel fumes and brackish air. He waits until the people below have mostly trickled out of the parlor’s doors, drunk and yet again penniless. A man with dark skin and a scar across his cheek comes out the front door when the night tilts toward morning. The man looks in his direction and waves him in.

He follows the man into a back room. The man goes to a safe and pulls a satchel out. He does not look in the satchel when he takes it from the scarred man. He does not look in the satchel at any point in his journey. He passes it to the woman, seated on the couch, when he returns. She smiles at him when he does so, thanks him for his efforts, and advises him to get some rest before his next assignment.

He leaves the following night again. This time, he goes to a different place. He finds the person she asked him to find there. Unlike the scarred man, this person, a young woman with curly purple hair, is not pleased to see him. She yells something, and more people pour into the room. They come at him with objects – a knife, a crowbar, a cattle prod. The shield he carries makes short work of most of them. They seem surprised to see it, but he does not know why. They were using strange objects in the fight too.

When his attackers are stunned and moaning on the floor, he turns back to the girl with purple hair. She’s reaching for something in a desk drawer. He knows it’s a gun. He tells her he was instructed to break both her arms if she picks up that gun. She looks at him for a moment, brown eyes wide with an emotion he does not know. She withdraws her hand and quietly asks what he wants. He tells her.

She stares at the floor for a long time, at the people on the ground. When she looks back up at him her eyes are flat. Tell her I’ll do what she wants, she says. He nods and departs without a word.

He returns to the woman on the couch and tells her what the other woman with purple hair told him. The woman nods, satisfied, and congratulates him on his effectiveness. She says she’ll have another task for him tomorrow, but that he has free reign of the building until then.

He stops by the room he was given to change out of the white suit he is to wear when he completes his tasks. He hangs it with care in the closet, and then polishes the shield with a rag. After that, he visits the kitchen and prepares himself some food. He cleans and dries the dishes when he is done and places them in their appropriate stations. He returns to his room, lies down on the bed and closes his eyes until he is asleep.

Then…he dreams. Perhaps. There are strange figures in his dream, people whose faces are different from his own but reflect some of the same fundamental qualities. People who smile at him, laugh with him. A woman he knows wraps her arms around him and gasps in his ear you’re back, you’re back. He smooths down braided hair that smells like honeysuckle and sobs into her embrace. God, I missed you so much.

Then morning breaks, and he awakes, and there is nothing there.

The woman has several tasks for him that day. The first is a delivery instead of a retrieval. It’s daylight, so the woman directs him to wear normal clothes rather than the white suit. He waits on the appointed street corner, backpack slung over one shoulder. A woman with a pierced nose pauses on the sidewalk next to him, looking straight across the street at the scooters and cars passing by. He drops the pack by his feet. She waits for a break in the flow, grabs a strap of the pack, and sets off without a word.

Next is following someone. That’s it. He stalks the man from a distance, through a shopping center, down a few roads, until the man goes into a residential building and doesn’t come out again. He returns to the woman to report what he’s seen. She thanks him and tells him he will follow this man again, later, but recommends he rest now. He does so.

After darkness falls, she directs him to trail the man again, this time from the sky, wearing the white suit. He follows the man he was directed to follow, leaving his apartment late at night to travel to a casino. He spends most of the night perched on a nearby rooftop. Shortly before dawn, the man leaves the casino. He follows him further, to an office building, then a construction site, then back to the apartment.

He does not know who this man is, or why he is following him. It does not matter. He returns to the woman on the couch as daylight begins to flood the city. The woman tells him to report his findings. He does. The woman dismisses him with a nod.

The woman tells him to follow the man again the next night. He does. The man completes the same circuit: apartment, casino, office building, construction site, apartment. He wonders, briefly, in some recess of his mind about the connection between these locations before the louder part of his brain tells him it does not matter.  

The woman sends him out again the following night. He receives new directions.

Find this man. Bring him to me, she tells him. If he resists, kill him.

He understands from her face that this is a test of sorts, though she does not say it, and he does not understand exactly on what he is being tested. His only reply is to assent with a nod. She studies his face for a moment before nodding herself, pleased.

He sets off as he has for the previous assignments. He dresses himself in the white suit. He does not know where it came from, and no one has told him. All he knows is that this fabric gives him wings. He pulls up the trousers and tugs on the boots. He slides the top over his head, attaches the cowl, and slips on the gloves. He reaches for the shield, propped up inside the closet. He does not know where this came from, either.

He has another…flash…then. Lying on the ground, bloodied and broken but somehow triumphant. The shield, in much the same state. A figure cloaked in darkness tosses the shield down next to his head, where it settles with an overwhelming clang. There are words, caught in his throat, that he tries desperately to get out. I’m sorry, you were right, and asshole, you don’t just get to walk away, and come back, come back, please. The figure keeps marching onward, though, until it’s swallowed by dazzling light.

He shakes his head a few times and blinks until the images around him resolve into here, and now, this room with plush carpet instead of cracked concrete, plastered walls and soaring windows rather than rusted metal sheeting and boarded up holes.

He climbs the stairwell and lets himself out on the roof. The wings unfurl because he wills them to do so. He does not know how. He knows there is something else, hidden in the same spot on the white suit where the wings nest. He does not know precisely what it is, but he feels bereft for that lack of knowledge.

He takes to the skies, closing his eyes against the strange red visor. He thinks this must serve a purpose other than just to protect his eyes, but he does not know what that purpose is. The wind whips over his face, susurrates through his ears. He has done this before, he knows it. Not just the first time the woman gave him the suit, either. He does not understand how this can be accurate, when the woman has told him otherwise. He wonders, for a fleeting moment, if two contradictory things can be true.

…it’s someone else’s.

It isn’t.

He blinks his eyes open at the strange voices. He should not be able to hear anything, this far up. He looks down at the city, a sweep of neon lights cut into the sea’s darkness like a jagged scar. He swears he has seen many of these lights before, from a different angle, walking with others instead of alone. He shakes his head again. He must be mistaken. The woman told him he might be confused, at times. That has certainly proven accurate.   

He lands in an alleyway outside the man’s apartment building. He does not crash straight from the sky through the man’s window, although he suspects that would make an impression. The woman told him not to draw attention to himself. The woman told him not to be seen. Yet something inside him tells him he wants at least some people to see him, to know where he is. He cannot explain why this is.

He stalks into the apartment building from ground level, pushing through a wooden door with chipped paint. He walks up the narrow staircase, ignoring the litter gathered in the corners of the landings. He heads down the long hallway at the top of the stairs, boots nearly silent on the tile floor.

Someone calls out a word. There’s more sound behind him, footsteps approaching, then that word again. He can tell by the treads in the hallway that this person is getting closer, aiming for him.

Do not let anything, or anyone, stop you from accomplishing your tasks, the woman told him. He does as he’s told.

He spins and brings the shield down across the stranger’s face. The man stumbles back, cursing. Says that word again. The stranger looks at him with this…expression. He does not know what that expression is. He knows it’s dangerous. To him, to what he’s assigned to do.   

He strikes, again and again. The stranger meets his blows, again and again, but does not land any of his own. He strikes harder, uses every move he doesn’t remember learning. Only a few slip past the stranger’s defenses. The stranger finally lands a hit of his own, propelling him back a few feet.

He redoubles his efforts, perplexed at how one person can be putting up this much resistance when all the others so far have crumpled like wet cardboard. He’s debating how to extract himself from the situation — do what you must, but do not draw undue attention to yourself, the woman told him—when his assignment appears in the hallway.

He launches himself forward, planning to catch the man frozen stiff in fear at the door of his apartment. If the man resists, he will bring the shield down with enough force to kill him – this metal has taken a life before, hasn’t it, but how does he know that? Then the stranger latches onto his ankle. He flies farther down the hallway before he is brought to a wrenching stop when the stranger hooks his hand around a radiator along the wall. The stranger is preventing him from accomplishing his task. That he cannot allow. He kicks at the stranger, but try as he might, he cannot dislodge the grip. Then the wall starts buckling, and he turns up his thrusters.

The stranger’s anchor rips loose of the building with a terrible groan, and he punches through a window. He suspects most people would let go of him rather than be dragged out of a building fifty odd feet above street level.

The stranger is apparently not most people. He does what he must to loose the stranger, arching into an upward spiral. Still the stranger holds fast, spinning around like the end of a pendulum. He feels the pressure on his ankle shift, slip, and suddenly the stranger is gone, along with his right boot. He watches the stranger tumble across a nearby roof top.

Part of his mind tells him no normal person could have survived that impact. The stranger has not appeared like a normal person so far, though. Still. He should…he should go check. On the stranger. To ensure he’s no longer a threat. To ensure his task has not — make sure he’s okay what if –

He shudders that thought away. The woman told him to do no such thing. He cannot fathom why such an idea would occur to him. He scans the street. No sign of his task. A few passersby on the street stare up through the lights, trying to scry out his figure.

He needs to heed the woman’s guidance, remain discreet. He should depart from this place expeditiously. And yet, he remains a moment longer. He turns his gaze back to the stranger, watching his still figure until he sees motion, the stranger’s foot scrabbling across the ground. He shakes himself back once again and flies into the night before the stranger can recover, or the people below can identify him.

He lands back on the roof, oddly perturbed. He cannot recall feeling like this before. He reasons that this emotion must be attributed to his failure. And yet there is…something else. Something about the stranger. And that word he kept shouting. Like the stranger expected him to know it, react to it.

He heads down the stairs, to the room with the couch where the woman told him she would be waiting for his return. She glances up from a sheaf of papers when he arrives.

Were you successful?

He was not. He tells her this. She asks him to explain what happened. He tells her about the building, about the hallway, about the stranger who came up behind him. About fighting the stranger, about how he was unable to subdue him. About how the distraction allowed his assignment to escape. About how he left, once he was able to extract himself from the stranger’s grip, because he was drawing too much attention.

The man you fought. Describe him to me.

He does this too, in broad strokes. Tells her of a man with light skin and dark hair, in a black jacket, who managed to dodge many of his blows, block most of the rest. Who would not let him go, until his shoe came off. She glances at his boot-less foot when he says this.

No matter. We will get you another. Anything else about this man?

He tells her no. He does not tell her about why this man was able to absorb so many of those blows. About the metal clank he heard whenever his shield hit the stranger’s left arm. About how the stranger was able to hold on to both an anchor and his ankle, when a normal person’s body should have failed. About how he waited, hovering in the air, until he saw that the stranger survived the fall. He tells himself he withholds this information because it is irrelevant to the woman.   

Have you seen this man before?

He has not. The subtle rebellion slips easily from his lips. He does not believe it to be one. He has never seen the stranger before. Someone else has, someone he might have known in a distant time. Someone else knows that face, the name that goes with it. Someone else has fought that man several times, and then, impossibly, has fought beside him far more times. Someone else would have shouted in anguish, seeing him fall, would have dived after him with little regard for his own safety to catch this stranger. But he came into being just a few short days ago. So no, he has not seen the stranger before.

There’s a little niggling thought in the back of his mind though, that perhaps he wants to see this man again. Needs to. He cannot fathom why.

Some setbacks are inevitable. We will recover from this one. That is all for today.

He nods and turns on his heel without a word and retires to the room he sleeps in. He disrobes, hangs up the suit, polishes the shield. He sets his single remaining boot on the floor of the closet. His eyes catch on the sight. It’s…wrong. Some things are meant to be in pairs. He sighs and pauses. Has he sighed like that before? He is unsure.

He prepares himself for bed and slides under the covers. He stares up at the ceiling, replaying the fight in his mind. Sleep does not come quickly this time.   

The woman has another assignment for him the next time he sees her.

The man you fought. We need to find him. You need to find him.

He has never had to find something on his own before. The woman has previously given him all the information he needs – photos and maps and exact locations. He is uncertain where to start. He tells her this.

I know. This will be a challenge. We are pursuing many avenues. And I am certain you are up to the task.

He asks what he is to do after he finds the stranger. The woman studies him with narrowed eyes. He rarely has questions about his assignments. The woman is usually more thorough in her directions, he believes. Or his other assignments have not required this level of clarification. But this one…he feels it is important to know what happens after. He needs the woman to tell him what he is to do with the stranger. Some part of him hopes she does not ask why.

Do not fight him, she says at last with a sharp stare. Find where he lives. Figure out who he is. Do not be seen. And tell me after.

She dismisses him with a nod. He feels sweat slipping down the small of his back as he walks away. This is strange. The room was pleasantly cool, as it always is. He puts this aberration out of his mind. He has a task to accomplish.

He starts in the skies, for no reason that he can explain. It is easier, sometimes, to see how a city moves from above. The details and intricacies blur, but the patterns become apparent. Madripoor is not, contrary to the strange words floating around in his head, a fetid, chaotic, swamp. He watches many people go about their days, stealing nothing, hurting no one, seeking only the next handful of food.

Still, he watches many other people do all these things. Steal, lie, buy dangerous things so that they may sell things that are more dangerous still. Spin their webs, to bring in the most prey. It is not clockwork, but from up here it appears to be, sometimes.

The people who disrupt this natural harmony, who throw a steel rod in the gears, they are easy to find. Discordant notes in the song, their actions echoing like plucked strings. He thinks if he follows one of these strings long enough, he will find the stranger. He is right.  

Chapter Text

A reasonable person would start small, find a little fish in Madripoor’s big pond, work his way up the chain, step by step. A reasonable person would at least start with one fish, rather than the whole sea of them. Bucky is not a reasonable person.

He wants to bounce a few ideas off Sharon, but she’s getting as bad at returning calls as Bucky is. So he goes for the next best thing, buys Al a fifth of Japanese whiskey and gets the woman talking. Al tells him all about Madripoor, the local gangs she pays protection money, the rival cartel that shot one of her nieces, the syndicate that’s running a brothel above the Mahjong parlor down the street. At least Bucky won’t have to go far to find someone doing something illegal who he can piss off. Madripoor’s a target rich environment.

Bucky asks Al something else, drops it as casually as he can. Wonders if Al’s ever come across anyone in Madripoor who suddenly stopped acting like themselves, suddenly went all Clockwork Orange. Al gets the reference. Bucky wishes Sam were there to see that he gets the reference too.

Al gives him a squinty look and barks out a low laugh. Says she’s seen that happen to a hundred people, most of them young, who took too hard to the bottle, or took hard to things harder. Says she’s seen a dozen people OD on the street outside on the things they barter from the guys on the corner. Says the problem with being able to buy anything in Madripoor is that you can buy anything in Madripoor.

Bucky steps out on that street after their conversation, watches that corner, revisiting the conversation with Rhodes in his head. He still doesn’t think Sam’s been through anything like the Winter Solider programming in the few days he’s been absent. And his gut’s telling him this isn’t anything supernatural. So that leaves the mundane.

He gets his first taste of what Madripoor has to offer that night. He starts with the how one can buy anything in Madripoor. Meeting a dealer on a street corner is so last century here, it seems. Now there’s an app for that. Of course there is.

He sets up a buy a few blocks away. Tosses the baggie in a dumpster and follows the guy from a distance after, all the way down to the docks. He watches the dealer huddling with some buddies at the end of the pier until a dark yacht pulls up to the jetty. They vanish onboard for a few minutes, come out with full duffels. He purloins a motorboat to follow the yacht to a makeshift quay in the industrial district, outside an abandoned warehouse.

Well, not entirely abandoned, if the guys loading pallets from its darkened interior onto the yacht’s deck are anything to go by. He waits, a shadowed blot in the dark water. Another ship comes by after the yacht departs. This one offloads dollies full of unmarked barrels and vats into the warehouse.

Jesus. He’s been here a few days and he’s already found this operation. It’s like they’re not even trying to hide. In a place like Madripoor, he supposes they don’t have to.

Bucky waits until the second boat departs, the pale dawn light starting to blush the factories and warehouses pink and gold. He idles the boat near the shore, on the other side of a rocky breakwater from the warehouse. He takes a leap and lands with a faint splash in the shallows. He shakes kelp and sea trash from his boots as he approaches the warehouse. 

He and Sam could play this half a dozen ways. Sam would blunder in like a lost tourist, stare around him wide eyed and ask obnoxious questions while Bucky snuck around the back and took out anyone with a weapon. Sam would ask him what took him so long. Bucky would complain about having to do all the work.

They might try for a little stealth. Sam would use his visor and Redwing to spy on the guards through the walls, try to discern a pattern in their patrols. Bucky would set himself up in a secluded spot, wait for someone to walk by and take them out. Sam would call out the next one, coming to investigate where his wayward colleague had ended up. Bucky would take that one out too, and the next, until they’d cleared the place out. Sam would delight in the subterfuge. Bucky would, again, complain about having to do all the work.

Or they’d try out one of Bucky’s favorites. He’d stumble into one of the guards, let himself get taken captive. Make snarky comments along the way that’d alert Sam to the goings on inside. Wait until he was deep enough in the facility to get the whole lay of the land and give Sam a signal. Fight his way out while Sam fought his way in. Sam’s not a big fan of those plans, says they usually end with Bucky getting a few broken bones or a brand new bullet hole. Sometimes Sam’s got a point. Bucky would never admit it, though.

Except right now. Bucky would admit to anything and everything, if it meant Sam were beside him. He sucks in a breath at the thought and buries it in that dark corner at the back of his mind. He’s got other things to focus on right now.

Bucky lets himself in one of the side doors. Down an unlit hallway, he comes to a doorway. Inside he sees steel tables laden with lab equipment – burners, beakers, barrels. A bit like Nagel’s lab, though much larger and far shabbier. A pair in aprons shuffle between the tables, cooking, cutting, and packaging.

There’s a sole woman with an assault rifle guarding the entrance. She’s on the floor in three seconds. Really, it’s like they aren’t even trying. He turns to regard the pair at their tables. They turn as one to look at him. Then they turn back to their work, ignoring Bucky and the woman lying insensate on the concrete floor.

Bucky blinks. “Uh. Hi?” he tries. No one spares him a glance. “That’s not weird,” he mutters under his breath. He walks over to the closest person, a young woman with dark skin and hazel eyes. He snags her elbow as she passes. She tugs half-heartedly in his grip, like one of those robot vacuums caught on the corner of a rug. He ducks to get a better look at her face. “Hello?” He might as well be trying to talk to one of those vacuums too.

Her stare is empty, open, blank. His own eyes widen in response. He’s seen that expression before. “Shit,” he hisses. “You too, huh?” She doesn’t answer. The other one, an older man, continues puttering between the tables, stepping around Bucky like he’s nothing more than a piece of furniture.

He lets the woman go and she resumes her circuit like it was never interrupted. He looks between the two of them, chewing his lip. He’s not here for them. He’s here for Sam.

He sighs. Not like he can just leave them here, though. Sam would be furious, if he found out. And Bucky probably doesn’t have a lot of time until the next ship shows up.      

Mind made up, he snags one of them in each arm and tosses them over his shoulders. They push at his arms, his back. Not hard, not soft. Regular, robotic. It’s freaky as fuck. Still, he carries them outside into the coming day. He gets them both into the trunk of a nearby car easily enough. It’s a tight squeeze, but they don’t seem to mind. They tap rhythmically at the lid of the trunk while he’s driving away. Times like these, maybe he’s glad Madripoor’s finest rarely show up to do their jobs.

He pulls up to the nicest hospital in Hightown. Watches a side doors until a man in scrubs comes out to take a smoke. He tells the nurse what he wants and slides a few bills into his palm. He hangs around just long enough to watch a few orderlies wrestle the pair out of the trunk of his stolen car and into the hospital’s doors. Bucky wants to go in those doors after them and see what the doctors can figure out. No telling if what happened to them is what happened to Sam, but it seems like a damn peculiar coincidence. His night isn’t over, though.  

He drives the rattling jalopy back to the warehouse, squinting as the sun peeks through the buildings. He stops on a side street to take a look. The place is swarming with people now, snapping at each other and waving assault rifles like they’ve never taken a gun safety class or something. He doesn’t dislike his odds, but after the pair earlier he doesn’t know who’s there by choice or not. So, warehouse is off limits for the moment. That’s fine. Plenty of other fish in this particular sea. 

He heads back to the wharf after darkness falls again for his next project. He’s not there for more than an hour before he sees the yacht puttering to the pier. It’s decked in black matte paint and gilt furnishings, and he can see a crystal chandelier in one of the rooms from here. Looks like Swarovski, even. The deck is lousy with suit-clad guards wearing earpieces and sunglasses. At night. The ship powers through the wake-free zone, nearly taking out a family on a small fishing boat hauling their dinner in. They might as well be waving a flag for how obvious they’re being.

He waits until it whacks into the nearest berth, and two of the guards set out a small staircase down. That’s sweet of them. He doesn’t need the stairs, though, just vaults himself from the jetty onto the lower deck. He makes quick work of the remaining goon squad, sends most of them running, tosses the few who didn’t get the hint onto the pier. He boots the captain straight into the water of the harbor, slick with oil. Guy can probably swim.

A brief peek into the crates on the deck reveal exactly what he was expecting. Barrels and buckets full of…whatever was in that lab. A glance at the cartons on the other side of the deck reveals more cargo - guns, ammo, explosives. The crime lord’s holy trinity. They didn’t even bother to try to cover it up. He admires the brazenness, if nothing else.

Another circuit of the yacht to make sure it’s clear of any remaining thugs, and he sets himself up in the wheelhouse to motor the ship away from the pier. He anchors in the middle of the harbor, in clear sight of land but a good distance from any other boats. He drags a few of the crates to the spot on the deck right above the engine room, helping himself to a few trinkets along the way.

Then it’s into one of the life boats. He’s surprised those don’t have a custom paint job, too. He rows a few dozen feet from the yacht before he pulls the pin out of a grenade and tosses it with unerring accuracy right into one of the open crates on the deck.

The explosion is glorious, lighting up the night sky. Flames spiral up the wheelhouse, growing into a towering orange blaze. Acrid smoke arcs up to the sky to mingle with Madripoor’s omnipresent pollution. Anyone within a few miles should be able to see this. Maybe the lighthouse can take a night off.

He bumps the raft into a pylon near the docks and easily scales it. A short leap, and he’s back on the pier. He peeks over the edge at a gasping sound. It’s the yacht’s captain, clinging to a metal ladder in the water, cursing at him in Cantonese.  

Bucky gives him a jaunty salute and smiles back. “Tell your boss I said hi.” Then he’s off, back into the darkness of the drying shacks and warehouses. He passes by a small stall, an old woman throwing whole fish, eyes and all, onto a grate over smoldering coals, then plopping them into cones of newspaper and shaking a dash of spice over the whole thing.

He grabs one on his way by and sets off back into lowtown. He bites off half the fish in one go, the yacht’s golden glow lighting up the night sky behind him. He doesn’t have time to stop and watch the show, though. He’s still got work to do.

The encounter at the bar is so obvious Bucky might think someone had scripted it, if he still believed in things like that. He lost most of his belief eighty years ago in a Hydra lab.

He hit another warehouse last night. More guards that time, and a handful of those blank-eyed automatons cooking and splicing. That time, though, he didn’t leave until he got an answer.

“I don’t know his name,” a woman there told him, her face turning red and purple in the neon glow. “But I know his place. The Green Gazelle.”

“Great. Was that so hard?” Bucky asked. Sam wasn’t the only one who could get people to open up to him. Sam might have said dangling the woman from her ankle thirty feet above the ground was overkill. Sam wasn’t there, though, so Bucky did it anyway.

“Yes,” the woman answered. He almost smiled as he dumped her on the roof, still damp from the afternoon’s monsoon rain.

So here he is, at that time of night when the glitter turns to grit, when all the smiles grow a little sharper. Sour smoke hangs heavy over the mostly deserted tables in the lounge when he enters. He makes out a few zebra pelts plastered to the walls through the gloom. There’s a stuffed lion’s head above the door. Bucky stares, unimpressed, into the beady eyes of the namesake gazelle mounted behind the bar.

An older woman with heavy makeup that shows every one of her years sways on a low stage, crooning Rhinestone Cowboy in Russian. She’s wearing what he supposes is meant to be a tribal dress that clings to her body in all the wrong places. The drummer and keyboardist behind her, whose playing suggests they’re amateurs at best, or just drunk at worst, are clad in similar outfits. Only one of them bothered to put on a top for the show. He snorts. Maybe that is the show, actually.  

He hums along as he walks toward the back room. The singer’s actually got a decent voice. He meets no resistance in the narrow hallway behind the bar. He doesn’t bother to knock when he pushes through the door. He suspects they know he’s coming.

There are a few more guys in suits inside the backroom, packing some predictable snub-noses in their jackets. A heavy-set man, his bushy dark beard concealing what must be several pale chins, studies Bucky from behind a desk. He drums fat, ring-laden fingers on the glass top. “I’ve been expecting you for a while,” he grumbles, words thick with what might be a Russian accent.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Bucky replies.

“I doubt that very much,” the man counters, and Bucky revises his estimate. Not Russian. Interesting.

“Well, I’m here now.”

“Yes. I can hazard a guess as to why.” The man adjusts the collar of his green track suit. It clashes terribly with his complexion, gives his whole face a queasy tint. Guy’s got a favorite color, alright. “You have not been subtle.”

“No, I haven’t. So, you want to keep chatting? Or should we get down to business?”

The man sighs and looks at Bucky with dark, hooded eyes. “You Americans. Always so rushed.”

“And you Sokovians,” Bucky replies in that language, “always so cagey.”

The guards around Bucky shift, but the man only chuckles. “You are not incorrect,” he replies in English. “But let me dispel some of that characterization for you. I am called Zetkov.”

“That’s nice,” Bucky drawls.

Zetkov sighs. “So, Mr. American. What have you got against me?”

Bucky smirks. “Right. What have I got against the guy who’s operating drug labs all over the island? What is it you’re cooking up in there? Fentanyl? Something worse?”   

Zetkov hums, the corner of his lip twisting up. “People have need of a product. I supply it. This is basic economic theory, yes?”

He’s…not wrong. This stuff is everywhere. Always has been. Even more people are using now, and plenty of people are selling. Five years when half the population had to deal with an unbearable loss, and now all the people who didn’t have to deal with that loss having to come to terms with everything else they lost while they were gone…yeah. World’s a mess. Bucky doesn’t blame anyone for looking for a few minutes’ escape.

Hell, not like he’s in a position to judge. He tried just about anything he could get his hands on in those years on the run, hoping one pharmaceutical concoction or another would either shake loose the things he couldn’t remember or bury the things he could. The serum always scuttled that plan, though.

“You can tell yourself whatever you need to help you sleep at night,” he answers. “It’s not gonna help you with me, though.”

Zetkov tilts a heavy eyebrow. “Who are you working for? Whatever they are paying you, I will top it.”

Bucky snorts. “Yeah, thanks. But no. Not too interested in working for a guy who dopes people up until they don’t even have a choice but to work with you.”

Surprise, and a gleam of something else, twist Zetkov’s face. “Ah. Yes. The…” he waves a hand, “what would you call them? Dolls, maybe?”

“People,” Bucky snarls. “I’d call them people.”

Zetkov shifts in his seat, but his face is placid when he stares back at Bucky. “Ah. I am now thinking that perhaps you were not sent by the people who I believed sent you.” Bucky takes a step forward, purposeful. A tall guard with a thin blonde mustache starts to reach into a pocket. Bucky shoots him a look that could shatter stone. It’s a wave from Zetkov that gets the guy to pull his hand away from his pocket, though.

“That’s what you’re after, then? The…” he says a word in Sokovian. Bucky’s not sure of the exact translation. Something like tether, maybe. That gets his hackles up further. He gives Zetkov the same glare he gave Nagel in that lab, and if Zetkov keeps it up there’s a good chance he’ll end up like Nagel, too. “Then I am afraid I must disappoint you,” Zetkov continues. “For you’ve come to the wrong place.”

“What’s the right place, then?” Bucky growls.

Zetkov shrugs. “I could not tell you.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “So, you’ve got those…people…working in your outfit, doing whatever you tell them, and you want me to believe you don’t know where they’re coming from.”

Zetkov cuts him a glance, shrewd. “Those people are working in my facilities, yes. But it is not me they are listening to.”

Bucky stares for a moment. He starts forward. The closest guard, the one with the mustache, reaches for him. Bucky snaps a hand up to catch the man’s wrist. A squeeze, and the guard howls in his grip. Bucky lugs him around one-handed and slams him down on the desk in front of Zetkov.

A gun cocks behind him. Zetkov meets his stare, sitting still in his chair. “Start talking,” Bucky snarls.

Zetkov eases his hands up, palms toward Bucky. His eyes linger on the line of Bucky’s bicep, flexed against his jacket sleeve. “Very well.” Zetkov smiles caustically. “But first, please.” He gestures at the guard writhing on his desk. “I don’t believe Maksim is enjoying himself at the moment.”

“Sure.” Bucky hauls the guard away and tosses him at one of his colleagues, the one who’s pointing a gun. She stumbles under his weight but recovers, holding him still with a hand around his elbow. Maksim shoots Bucky a poisonous glare. Bucky’s gaze shifts to Maksim’s uninjured hand. “What?” he asks. “You want a matching set?”

He glances over at Zetkov’s tsk. “I do not believe that will be necessary. Maksim, please be more solicitous with our guests in the future.”

Bucky turns away from Maksim with a smirk. The faint melody of Strangers in the Night starts slinking through the gap between the door and the thin carpet. “Go right ahead.”

Zetkov clears his throat. “Those people. The…dolls. I do not control them. They are from my…customer.”

“Why are they in your factories, then?”

“They are the final link in a long chain. I purchase chemicals and materials overseas. Have them shipped here, to my facilities, where they are refined. My customer sends the dolls. They are the only ones who know the precise recipes to manufacture the drugs. My customer delivers them at the beginning of the process and retrieves the final product at the end of it.”         

“You’re a fucking middleman,” Bucky marvels.

Zetkov shrugs. “I am a supplier. I take minimal risks, and I maximize my profits. In your country, they would simply call me a businessman.”

Bucky eyes the Kandinsky canvas, a rainbow of colors slashed against a dark backdrop, hanging on the wall behind Zetkov’s desk. It’s by far the most tasteful thing in this entire establishment. “Working real well for you, isn’t it?”

Zetkov follows Bucky’s gaze, then casts a glance at Maksim, still moaning over his wrist. “It was. Until a strange American came here and started ransacking my facilities and setting my ships ablaze.”

“Yeah,” Bucky drawls. “And I’d be happy to keep that up.” He pauses for a moment. “How long have these people been working in your facilities?” Shit, how many like Sam could there be by now? They hadn’t even known there was one extra super soldier out there before they realized there were a whole handful of them.

Zetkov twists his lips. “A few months, perhaps.”

Bucky frowns. “And you didn’t tell anyone?”

That gets a genuine laugh from Zetkov. “My friend, who would I tell here in Madripoor? Who would care?”

He tilts his head in concession. “Fair. Now, you wanna tell me where these people are coming from?”

“I procure from a cut-out. Who procures from a cut-out. Who procures from a cut-out. I suspect you know how these things work.”

He does. “I think it’s time for you to start paying a little more attention to your cut-outs. Unless you want the rest of your facilities burnt to ashes.”

Zetkov stretches his stout legs out under the desk with a hum. “You make curious demands, for someone who is alone. Do you know how many people I have on this island?”

Bucky shrugs. “No. Don’t care. How well have any of those people done against me, anyway?”

“I suppose,” Zetkov grumbles, eyeing Maksim again with distaste, “you have a point. Now. As I said, I am a businessman. Make me an offer.”

“It’s not an offer,” Bucky counters. “You’re going to figure out where the…dolls…are coming from. And you’re going to tell me. And I’m not going to destroy the rest of your factories. Or break every bone in your body. For now.”  

“What a deal maker,” Zetkov chides. The corners of his mouth twitch. “Very well. You have caused me enough disruption. I will see if I can learn more about the dolls.”

It seems a little too easy, and Bucky can’t quite figure why Zetkov is being so accommodating. He’s only destroyed a few factories, after all. Then it hits him. The tone in Zetkov’s voice every time he mentioned those people. “You don’t like it. What your customer is doing to them.”

Zetkov’s eyes widen for a second before he schools his face back to that guarded expression. “The dolls,” he contemplates. “Making people behave as they do. It is…distasteful.”

Bucky’s brow furrows. “Says the guy who’s selling drugs all over Madripoor?”

“Not selling drugs,” Zetkov counters. “Middleman, remember?” He sighs. “The people who buy this product, they have a choice.”

Bucky’s met plenty of those people. Saw more than a few of them on the front, shaking and nauseous and weepy until someone handed out the Benzedrine. “Not much of one.”

“More than the dolls do, at least.” 

“Fine,” he grants. “Still. I’m surprised you’re so…upset by this. Considering your profession. Why does this bother you so much?”

Zetkov smirks. “Ah. Well. We Sokovians, we know what it is to live under the heels of other men’s boots.”

Bucky blinks. He’s lived under plenty of boots himself. He nods finally, points at Zetkov with warning. “Fine. See what you can find out.”

“And if I do discover some information? How would I share it with you? You have not exactly left me your calling card.”

He turns on his heel to stalk towards the door. He shoots Maksim one last glare on his way, lips twitching. He’s surprised when Maksim meets his stare evenly, the threat of retaliation flickering in those blue eyes. He smirks at that.

“Oh, don’t worry,” he calls over his shoulder as he pushes out the door. “I’m sure you’ll hear from me.”

Chapter Text

The woman summons him to the room with the couch a few days later.

He’s gone out every night since she gave him his new directive, searching for the stranger. He puts the suit on the same way each of those nights and still finds his fingers fumbling with the new boot the woman provided. It’s well-stitched, stiff sandy leather in the same shape as its predecessor. It fits him fine yet feels like a pale imitation.

He sees proof of the stranger’s passage as he goes – the bruised bodies and burnt out rooms and ransacked buildings. Yet he always arrives a beat too late to catch the stranger in the act. He might call the emotion he feels at these near-misses frustration, were that word in his vocabulary. He might call it relief, too. The woman is stone-faced when she listens to his reports every day, simply tells him that every possibility they eliminate improves their chances. He might call the emotion he feels at this fear, but he is not supposed to know that word either.  

The woman looks up from her phone when he enters. Her painted lips twist upward.

I believe we have a lead on our mysterious stranger.

Perhaps his pulse quickens when she says this. Perhaps he feels sweat gather in the small of his back again, slick and sour. If these things occur, he cannot say why. The woman gives him an even look when he does not respond.

Are you not pleased to hear this?

He tells her he is. It is not a lie. She has told him not to lie to her. So, it cannot be a lie, despite what his suddenly dry throat is telling him.

Good. We have studied where he has been. We think we know where he is going next. You are to watch this place, from above. Do not be seen. Come tell me at once if you see this man.

He assures her he will. She gives him a location, tells him to go there without delay. He does as she says. He waits on a nearby rooftop until darkness falls. Studies the patterns of people traipsing into the warehouse, shuffling out. Some, the ones with guns, swivel their heads as they travel, searching the grounds like wary rabbits. Others plod forward, move from one beat to the next without emotion, without sound, lemmings marching to a distant drum. He watches these people longer than he should. Their mindless lumbering strikes a low chord deep in his belly. He does his best to ignore it.

He observes the warehouse, and moves closer when the night fog rolls in and paints his vision a milky red. He has an inkling that this red visor could help him see through the murk. The woman did not tell him it could do so, however, so he dismisses the thought.  

A crackle of gunfire on the far side of the warehouse informs him the stranger must have arrived. He does as he was told and waits. A few of the guards break rank and pour from the doors like agitated ants. More pops indicate some of them are holding their ground. The pair of guards on the roof of the building, who have spent most of the night blowing cigarette smoke at each other and complaining about their wives, set up around the stairwell.

The door snaps out, bowling them over. A dark shadow streaks out of the doorway. It snaps a fist into one guard’s face, and he drops to the ground. It lurches forward to the next and swirls toward the edge of the roof. In a pool of jade light blooming from the sign on an adjacent building, the shapes resolve into the stranger and the other guard. The stranger pushes her towards the edge, closer and closer, snapping at her in a low timbre.

The higher register of her voice carries over to him on a damp breeze. Please. Please, I have a family.

He cannot make out the words of the stranger’s voice, only the increasingly frantic pitch of the woman’s response. I don’t have anything to do with that, with them, I swear. I’m just here to watch the roof, honest to god I don’t know where they came from we only need the money I’ve never even fired that gun just please—

The stranger flows forward with the guard, their shapes melding until they fissure apart again. Now the stranger is holding the guard upside down over the edge of the roof. The stranger barks at her, sharp enough that he can hear the words.  

He’s not listening to the stranger’s voice, though. He’s staring as best he can at the stranger’s silhouette across the distance and through the gloom. That note rings through his head again, a tuning fork set to the wrong pitch. Something between him and the stranger, clinking together. Glass? He feels the corners of his mouth turning up.

He shakes his head. That cannot be. He must be recalling their fight earlier, the clang of metal on metal. Yes. That’s it.

I don’t know his name, the woman cries. But I know his place. The Green Gazelle.

The stranger’s head tilts. He considers for a moment what he will do if the stranger drops this woman. Only for a moment, because at the same instant he knows in his marrow that the stranger will not do this. He cannot say why.

He is right. Yes, the guard says, and the stranger steps back and releases her to the roof. Another step back, out of the halo of light, and the stranger melts into the fog.

The woman on the couch told him to return as soon as he located the stranger. Yet he lingers. He watches the guard, shaking on the roof for a few minutes before she pulls herself to her feet and disappears into the stairwell. Another minute later and she comes out the front door onto the street she was dangling precariously above earlier. She sets off down the road without so much as a glance backward. He does not believe she will return to this place.  

He studies the corners around the warehouse, the doorways and ramps and boarded up windows. Scrying through the darkness for that shadow that makes the base of his skull buzz. He does not see it.

He returns to the room with the couch. The woman is waiting for him.

What did you discover?

He tells her about the warehouse, seeing the stranger on the roof. He tells her the stranger did not kill the guard, though he certainly could have. He does not tell the woman he knew the stranger would do this.

What did you learn about this man?

He hesitates. The woman leans forward with narrow eyes.

Tell me. Now.

He tells her that he could not hear what the stranger was saying. He says he heard the guard mention a name. The Green Gazelle. The woman’s eyes light up. Her lips twist.

Of course. Like a hound on the scent, this man. Now we know where he is going.

A hound on the scent. This is close, he knows, but not quite right for the stranger. He does not know how he knows this. He does not tell the woman this either.

The Green Gazelle. You will wait at this place tomorrow night. I suspect the man will go there. Follow him when he leaves. If he leaves. Discover where he is staying. Remain hidden.  

He does this, the next night. Waits on a nearby building until he sees that hauntingly familiar shape approach the bar and head in. He waits for the sound of gunfire, yelling, explosions. He is surprised when these sounds do not come. After long minutes the stranger emerges again.

He peers through the murk, looking for a hitch in the stranger’s step or an arm curled around his side that would indicate an injury. He tells himself this is only the sensible thing to do, should he by chance find himself fighting the stranger again. But the stranger’s gait is steady, even. Is he relieved to see this? Why would he be?

The stranger sets off down the road, and he does not have much time for consideration. He stays farther away from the stranger than he did from the other man he followed. Somehow, he is certain the stranger would see him when others failed to. It is easier to follow the stranger from the air than it would be from the ground. The tall buildings offer him ample concealment. And he knows from watching Madripoor’s streets for days that few among those who walk them ever think to look up.

He eases himself to the top of a partially-built building. Light spills from the windows in the lower floors, and the sounds of idle chatter float out into the air. The top of the building is only plywood and pylons, steel beams rising from the concrete like bony fingers. There are several buildings on the street below – some in modern metal and glass, some in weather-worn brownstone. A few announce themselves to be lodging. Some look quite comfortable – plush rugs and overstuffed couches visible from crystal windows.

There’s another building on the street, though. One with a short set of stone stairs, leading to a rusty metal door framed by grimy windows. He knows the stranger will enter this door instead. He does not know how he knows these things. The stranger trots up the stairs and vanishes into the doorway. He watches that door for longer than he needs to once the stranger has disappeared from his view.

He returns to the room with the couch. This time, he waits there for the woman. She enters after a few minutes and studies him from head to toe.

What did you learn?

He learned much this night. He tells her he saw the man enter and leave the bar. He tells her he followed the man to a guesthouse after. It is an incomplete answer. He does not tell her he learned that the stranger was unharmed in this encounter. He does not tell her this knowledge brought him an inexplicable relief. And he does not tell her he knew where the stranger was going before he got there. He decides these details are irrelevant to her.  

What was he doing in there, I wonder, she mutters. These words are not meant for him. It is not a question he can answer, though he finds he too wants it answered. No matter. He has caused enough trouble already. And you have a new task for tomorrow.

He stares at the woman. He finds he knows what she is going to do before she does it, too.

Find the man again. Tomorrow night, she says. You will bring him here. If you cannot, you will kill him. I will be satisfied with either.

He waits outside the guesthouse again the next night, until the stranger arrives on foot from the west. He does not know where the stranger went today. He does not need to know this. He lurks on the nearby building again after the stranger goes into the guesthouse, until the night reaches that hour closest to dawn, when Madripoor is at its quietest.

He alights on a fire escape that clings to the outside of the brick building like a set of jagged teeth. He eases the window open and lets himself in. He has another flash then, another sense of knowing. He is capable of doing this, but he prefers the front door. There is someone else he has traveled with who usually does this part.  

He shakes his head to clear it. That cannot be accurate. He does not travel with anyone. He has never traveled with anyone. Every assignment he has completed, he has completed by himself. He walks down a flight of stairs, growingly certain. Yes, he works by himself. It has always been this way.

There’s a set of doors along a narrow hallway. He listens carefully for any movement. Hearing none, he pads silently down the hallway. The stranger has been in this building, but there is no way of knowing which of these rooms might be his.

He scans the closed doorways. There’s a door at the far end of the hallway, equidistant between the stairwell and a window that opens out to the street. It must be in the corner of the building. It would have a view of both the street out front and the alley beside the building. It’s a perfect little bolthole, a voice in his head tells him. The stranger chose this room. He knows this with that still unexplained certainty.

He creeps up to the door. He’s been as silent as he can. He’s waited until everyone should be asleep. No one should know he’s here. But he knows the stranger knows he’s here. He knows the stranger is bracing himself, right on the other side of that door.

He charges through the door, metal shield pulverizing the thin wood. He plows straight into the stranger, who’s already got his arms up to absorb the impact, and drives him back into the window at the far end of the room with a crack and a puff of plaster powder.  The metal of his shield echoes of the metal of the stranger’s arm with a terrible resonance.

He moves without thinking, letting instinct guide him. This time it’s like he knows what the stranger is going to do, how he’ll absorb a fusillade of blows without returning any of his own. How he’ll dance just out of reach, how his stance will put his left arm in front of the rest of his body. How he’ll repeat a word, that word, first with despair, then grim determination.

The stranger moves with a peculiar economy of movement around the small room, making the slightest move possible to dodge or block his strikes. He does not attempt to incapacitate the stranger. He suspects this man would prefer death to capture. And he finds, to his surprise, that he is struggling to defeat the stranger. He discovers a new sensation, growing in his body. He believes it might be fatigue.

He begins to consider how he will extract himself from the situation. He was given no guidance for what to do should he be unable to accomplish his task. Perhaps the stranger realizes this. Where before he sought to avoid, to evade, now he is countering with increasing intensity. Striking at the shield hard enough to make bone shudder.

His muscles grow sluggish. He realizes it was a mistake, facing the stranger here, in this small space. Out in the open, where he can take to the sky, dart out of the stranger’s range in between blows, he might stand a chance. The earth is the stranger’s territory, however.

He starts to recognize a new pattern in the stranger’s movements. The stranger’s metal hand keeps darting forward, over and under and around the shield. Not to strip it away, though he is certain if his grip slackened for a moment that would be the result. The stranger is trying to get past his defenses, get a hand around him. He believes the stranger means to grab for his neck, is certain he has seen this before, though he cannot comprehend how.  

The realization fills him with renewed effort. He has seen the stranger’s strength. He is certain if the stranger gets a hand around his neck, it will be the end of him. For all his fighting, the idea does not strike him with as much dread as he believes it should.

The stranger hits the shield again, driving it up. His arms scream from the effort to pull it back. Then the stranger hits it again, propelling it down, using his own momentum to knock it away, leaving his head and chest exposed. That metal hand is there, through his defenses.

There’s a noise then, a new voice yelling. The stranger’s eyes flit over to the side. His follow, and he sees a short Madripoori standing in the pulverized door, eyes wide and mouth open. The stranger yells back, waves a hand violently to direct the woman away. And he sees a weakness, an opening. He turns away from the woman and brings the shield across the stranger’s head, again. The stranger falls back, bringing his hands up to protect himself.

He hears more yelling at his side and looks over. The Madripoori charges at him, something metal in her outstretched hand. A pipe? No, he realizes as it comes closer. A sword. He thinks he might find this fact humorous. He does not understand how this could be funny, however.  

He ducks easily under the blow, bringing the shield up and around to launch the small woman over his body. She tumbles through the air past the bed, smacking into the window with a grunt. The wall around the window bends under the woman’s meager weight and then simply…disappears. The woman falls into the empty space with a shout, arms pinwheeling.

The stranger bolts for the window and dives out the opening after her. He watches, stunned, before instinct kicks in. He leaps to the window too and peers over the edge. The stranger is dangling from a ledge by one hand. The woman is dangling from the stranger’s other hand, several stories above the street. The stranger is whipping his head between the two of them, gaze skittering for a solution.

A new world swirls into focus before him. He tosses the shield aside. He leans out the window into the sunlight, arm outstretched, shouting. The stranger looks up, relieved, and hauls the woman up – how is that possible with one arm? – until she can grab the outstretched hand. He tugs the woman to safety with a grunt. Then he’s back, leaning out the window. He reaches his hand out again. Didn’t want to leave you hanging, he says. The stranger rolls his eyes with an exaggerated sigh. Keep this up and I’ll let go, just so I don’t have to hear any more of your shit. But the stranger slaps a free hand into his with a grin anyways.

He pulls the stranger to safety, makes a show of brushing off his dusty jacket. Hey, flying’s my thing, remember? The stranger rolls his eyes again with a grin. Now, the stranger says, let’s find the assholes who did this to you.

Did this to you.

Goddamnit, I’m gonna find the people who did this to you, I promise I will, just hold on Sa—

Did what? To whom?  

He blinks, and he’s back to this room. There’s no sunlight, just the dim glow from distant neon constellations. The stranger is still hanging by one hand, looking straight at him. Yelling. Again.

Sam!

He shakes his head. He was given a task. He must complete his task. He raises the shield and brings its metal edge down onto the stranger’s hand. The stranger lets out a wrenching shout that strikes something deep in him. He pauses after he raises the shield again, stunned.

The stranger seizes his hesitation, rocks back and forth until he gets enough momentum to heave the woman away from him with a shout. She tumbles through the air, screaming. He does not understand this, why the stranger would put himself at risk for this woman only to toss her aside. Then he sees.

The woman hits a roof across the street, no more than ten feet below them, with a howl. She keeps howling, and that is how he knows the stranger has saved this woman’s life by seeming to condemn it.

The stranger turns back to him. He sees in the stranger’s eyes the predator flash before the pounce, and he smashes his shield down on the stranger’s hand. The stranger howls, though his grip doesn’t slacken. So he brings his shield up once more and bashes it across that hand. Again, until he feels the bone below the shield give way, splinter. The stranger’s fingers spasm open, then he’s falling, falling.

He is diving out the window after the stranger, wings unfurled. He catches up, closer and closer. He reaches his hand out, out, out. The stranger spins in the air, meets his gaze for a moment before his own hand reaches out, out, out. Fingers connect, then palms, then he’s got a hand around the stranger’s wrist. He pulls them out of a dive, ignoring how his shoulder screams under the stranger’s weight. They arc forward, momentum driving, pull up from the pavement just before the stranger smashes into the ground.

He looks down at the stranger. Something tugs the corners of his lips up. Cutting it a little fucking close, the stranger snarls, but there’s a smile in his voice. Wouldn’t want you to take me for granted, is all, his voice says.    

Impossible. He blinks again. The stranger is still falling. No one is there to catch him. He bounces of one ledge with a thump, another with a bang, then he hits the concrete of the street, dirt puffing up around him. The stranger lies flat on his back in the street, unmoving.

Bring him here, the woman told him. He studies the still figure down below. Perhaps this is a feint. He does not believe he can get close enough to the stranger to capture him.

If you cannot, you will kill him, the woman told him. He does as the woman asks, always. He pulls the arm holding the shield back, ready to let loose.

He leaves it there, again, for a long moment. Who was it, in his vision, who pulled the stranger to safety, who smiled at him? Who was it who dove after the stranger, let out a long exhale of relief when their hands touched?

He shakes his head. Kill him. He shoots the arm holding the shield forward, lets it fly.

Chapter Text

He’s fallen plenty of times. From the fire escape outside the apartment he grew up in, trying to get out before his father got back from the saloon he spent too much of his meager wages at. From that same fire escape, trying to get in after a night out, before his mother could wake up and find him missing.  He’s fallen from speeding trains, sputtering helicopters, low flying planes.

Last time he fell hard he jumped, though, and he had a forest worth of firs to slow his descent. And Sam to give him endless shit about not being able to stick a landing. Sam had a point.

Sam.  

Bucky’s eyes fly open, searching for the wrecked window, brick and timbers blown outward from the building. The hollow socket perfectly haloes Sam’s figure. He’s holding the shield right above his head. Ready to let it go. But he hasn’t, yet.

“Sam?” Bucky gasps. His eyes widen, and he rolls over as the shield slams into the pavement where his neck just was, spalling splinters of concrete into the air. “Fuck!” He pushes himself to his feet with both hands. His right hand screams at him when he does. Hell, most of the rest of his body screams too. He tells it to shut the fuck up.   

He casts another glance upward to see Sam…not-Sam…diving down towards him. He scrambles under the overhang of a nearby building. Not-Sam lands next to the shield and tugs it loose. Or tries to. The asphalt holds it fast, the first break Bucky’s had in what seems like years. He doesn’t wait to watch not-Sam set his feet and tug at it some more. He hobbles down the street, avoiding the lights cast by neon advertisements and store signs. He ducks behind a dumpster to grab a breath of fetid air.

He takes stock for a second in the refracted light from a nearby window. His right hand is a bloody tangle of skin and tendons. The bones grind together when he tries to flex them. If hitting one of those ledges didn’t break something in his left leg, it sure as shit bruised him to the quick. The throbbing at the base of his skull suggests that’s what he landed on when he hit the street.

He stands, panting, warily eyeing the entrance to the alleyway. He got a few hits on not-Sam, but nothing that’s gonna put him in the same ballpark of hurt that Bucky is now. He curses, looking down at the hand that’s already starting to swell. Bucky’s got a literal handful of broken bones, a leg he can hardly put weight on, a T-shirt with a few holes in it, and sweats. He didn’t even have time to yank his boots on before not-Sam broke the door down.

Not-Sam’s still got the suit – minus one shoe – probably the shield, and all of real-Sam’s not inconsiderable combat skills. And none of the real-Sam’s reticence to use all those tools on Bucky. Shit. Maybe Rhodey had a point about Bucky’s piss-poor planning.

He shakes that thought off. Prioritize, his brain says. First threat is not-Sam. Getting away from not-Sam, because it’s a hell of a lot harder to fight to incapacitate than it is to fight to kill, especially when Not-Sam is playing by a different set of rules. He’s gonna need someplace to lie low for a bit, fix the things he can tell are broken. But all his stuff is in the room he and not-Sam just trashed. In Al’s guesthouse.

Al.  

He leans out the mouth of the alley, holding his breath. No sign of not-Sam down here. He scans the rooftops, the thin sliver of sky between buildings. Nothing up there, either. He pads back the way he came. He has no idea if not-Sam is going to keep looking for him. Last time, he bailed as soon as Bucky foiled whatever his assignment was. Course, this time it seems like Bucky might have been his assignment. Not a lot of other reasons to burst into a guy’s room in the middle of the night, after all. He creeps around the closest corner, shoulder pressed to the roughhewn stone.

And skids back into place behind it, heart hammering. Not-Sam is pacing the streets like that fucking tiger he pretended to be at Selby’s bar, but he sure as hell isn’t smiling this time. Bucky’s eyes flit around the alley. Not much else here – a fire escape he could try to climb before not-Sam gets here, but he’d be exposed the whole way there, and only one of them has wings. A few trashcans, a twisted bicycle. That dumpster that reeks of fish carcasses and melon rinds. The thing’s already overstuffed, probably not enough room for a super solider. If he hides behind it, all not-Sam has to do to find him is walk by.

So, not in, not behind. He tilts his head at the sliver of darkness carved like a blade below the blue metal. Under?

He sneers. He is not going to hide under a dumpster to avoid a fight. He’s never backed down from a fight in his life. Even the hopeless ones, the ones he knew he could only lose. The ones he did lose. He sneaks another quick look at the street, at Sam’s distant silhouette. The same broad shoulders, the same shining suit. Not the same Sam, though, who’s turned on his heel and is stalking back this way, peering into every alleyway.  

Bucky slides to the dank pavement under the dumpster with a swallowed curse. This isn’t about his fucking pride. He hauls his bare feet into the darkness just as he sees not-Sam’s booted feet approaching from the street. He holds his breath, watching those mismatched boots pace closer. They pause. Turn to the right. Then the left. Stop again, toes facing Bucky.

He frowns at the two-tone shoes. Why they hell isn’t not-Sam using the visor? Or Redwing? Either of those would be able to ferret out Bucky’s hiding place in an instant. Why didn’t Sam use Redwing in any of their fights? Much as he would never admit it out loud, that little fucker is useful sometimes.

He shakes that thought away when Sam’s boots shift once more. Turned away from him, but still close enough to touch. Damnit, why the hell is he hiding, why isn’t he even trying when –

The shadows in the alley shift as Sam’s wings unfurl, and the muted whirl of thrusters give him a split second of warning before the boots are gone. Bucky eases forward a few inches until his eyes are past the dumpster’s edge. He scans the ground, then the sky. Nothing. Hopefully not-Sam is calling it a night.   

He makes his way back to the sidewalk outside the guesthouse with care, scanning the skies and studying every darkened doorway. He finds the rift that Sam’s shield carved into the pavement and ogles the damage. Real-Sam was clearly pulling his punches on those poor trees around Sarah’s house. He turns his gaze skyward. Nothing he can see up there. It shouldn’t be that hard for him to find Sam’s white suit here of all places. But not-Sam managed to find Bucky without him knowing, so maybe not-Sam’s mastered that subtlety thing that never seemed to come naturally to Sam. Wouldn’t that be just Bucky’s luck.

He clings to the shadows until he comes to backside of the guesthouse, trying not to put too much strain on his left leg. He pries the locked door loose and eases into the stairwell, squinting in the sallow light. He limps up several flights of stairs—shit, why did he choose a room so many stories up again—until he’s on his floor.

Not-Sam’s not waiting for Bucky in his room, so that’s something at least. Bucky gathers what he can from the mess – supplies and clothes, phones and the gun. He shoves his feet in his own shoes, stuffs Sam’s boot and everything else into his duffel, and slips on a jacket. Hopefully no one saw the vibranium arm in that scuffle. That’d be a whole host of attention he doesn’t need right now.    

He peers out the gaping maw in the wall where the window once was and gazes across the street. The rooftop where he threw Al is empty. Hopefully that means she was smart enough to get gone as soon as she could. God only knows what happened to the sword. If Bucky ever gets out of Madripoor, he’s going to have to empty his savings to pay for all the damage to this place.

He casts one more gaze up at the sky, the eastern horizon blooming ocher. He needs to be in a new bolt-hole before the sun clears those buildings. It’s a lot harder to hide in Madripoor during the day.  

The smart thing to do would be to get the hell out of dodge so he could lick his wounds, figure out a new plan. The smart thing to do would be to leave Sam here, in the clutches of whoever the fuck has him, let them send Sam off to do their dirty work. Make him hurt people. Maybe kill people, too.

Well. Bucky’s not that smart.  

His first call is, again, to Rhodey, once he’s set up in his new place.

He thought, for all its grit and sky-high crime rate, he was safer in lowtown. He certainly has more experience blending in places like that than with the upper crust. Most people in lowtown are too busy making it to the next day to worry about one among the many strange faces that pass through. Not-Sam figured him out in no time, though. He’d almost admire it, if not-Sam’s success hadn’t left Bucky with a busted hand, a bruised leg, and a banged-up backside.

Now he’s zigging where he would normally zag. This building is just past the main bridge from lowtown into hightown. The apartment is a palatial, rambling thing, on the top floor of an absurd amalgamation of steel and glass. Floor to ceiling windows, blinds he needs a remote to operate, an expansive kitchen full of walnut cabinets and marble countertops. Three bedrooms too, because why the fuck not. And he never had to meet the person he’s renting it from. Madripoor’s anything, anytime app really is a godsend for Bucky. And every other two-bit criminal in this town.

He sets up on a chair in the living room, next to a window that affords him a view of that bridge between two worlds. The vehicles and people below look like insects up here, plodding slowly to some unknown end. Past the neon towers are taller peaks, cloaked in shades of brilliant green and topped with wispy mist. He dumps his phone and the first aid kit he dragged out of the wreckage of his room in lowtown onto the tufted leather ottoman at the edge of the chair.

“Jesus,” Rhodes complains on speaker phone when he answers Bucky’s call. “Do you have any idea what time it is here?”

Bucky blinks at the sunlight bathing most of the living room. “Uh. No.”

“Really fucking early,” Rhodes informs him. “So, this better be good.”

“Found Sam again,” Bucky notes as he pulls a roll of medical tape out of the satchel.

“And?” Rhodey asks after a beat.

“Lost him again.”  

“He try to bash your skull in again?” Rhodes asks, low.

“Yup.” He rolls out several feet of fabric.

“And he got away from you again?”

“Yup.” Bucky holds the tape against the ottoman with his right knee while he tears a piece off with his left hand.

“That’s it?”

“Yup.” Hmm. Maybe he can hold the tape in place against his hand with his chin while he secures it?

“Barnes,” Rhodey barks. “Tell me you’re not bleeding out on a rooftop somewhere.”

“I’m not bleeding out on a rooftop somewhere,” he repeats dutifully. He watches the bones wiggle in his hand when he flexes them. No, he needs to set those before he bandages it.  

“For fuck’s sake. Turn your video on,” Rhodey demands.

Bucky stares at his phone. “What?”

“I don’t believe you. Turn your damn video on.”

Bucky sighs. He leans forward to punch the video chat icon and props the phone up against the medical bag. He stares into the screen as the pixels resolve into Rhodey’s face. “Fine.”

“Fine,” Rhodey parrots. He studies Bucky as best he can through the small aperture. “Now tell me what the hell happened.”

Bucky does. Tells him about sensing something outside his room late at night. About not-Sam busting the fuck in and trying to use Bucky’s body as a battering ram. About Al coming in, and saving her from becoming a smear on the pavement. About non-Sam doing his best to turn Bucky into that smear on the pavement, instead.

“Wait,” Rhodes says when he’s done. “She had a sword?”

Bucky gapes. “That’s the part of this story that bothers you?”

“No,” Rhodey counters, “I just…never mind. Okay. So, Sam is still…”

“Not-Sam,” Bucky supplies.

“Right. Not-Sam. You got any idea why that is? Because so far I’ve turned up nothing.”

Bucky sighs. “Maybe. I don’t think he’s the only one not acting like himself. I’ve run into some more…well, this guy I met calls them dolls.”

“This guy you met?” Rhodey asks. “Did this meeting involve one or both of you getting shot, by any chance?”

“No,” he scowls. “No one got shot. He’s a supplier. He sells chemical precursors for some of the stuff they’re cooking up out here.”

“Guessing we’re not talking about Tylenol here.”

“Not exactly. Anyways, someone this guy sells to has apparently got a lot of these…dolls…working for them.”

“So, you figure if you keep fighting your way up the food chain, you’ll eventually get to whoever’s behind this?”

“Maybe,” Bucky mutters. “Still have no idea how they’re controlling these people, but this is the best lead I’ve got.”

“Yeah,” Rhodey agrees. “And then you’ll…what the hell are you doing?”

Bucky looks up from his right hand, clasped in his left. “Like I said, took a hit. Just fixing this up.”

“Are you,” Rhodes winces, “are you resetting your own bones?”

Bucky frowns. “Uh. Yes?”

“Oh. Oh!” Rhodey cringes at the slick grinding noise coming through his speaker. “No. No way.”

“Gotta get done,” Bucky points out.

“Yeah, by a trained medical professional!” Rhodes counters.

Bucky gives him a one-shouldered shrug. “I’ve done this before.”

“That does not make it better,” Rhodey continues staring in disgust.

“What?” Bucky asks. “You told me to turn the video on. You want me to turn it off now?”

Rhodey shakes his head. “Nah. I gotta watch this for posterity. I should record it, even. Make Sam watch this when we get him back. Tell him he needs to sort this kind of shit out.”     

Bucky’s got half a grin on his face before he remembers what exactly it is that’s preventing Sam from sorting this out. “You know, there was a moment back there, during the fight. He was going to throw the shield at me. And he did, eventually. For a second though, I swear he hesitated. Like…maybe…maybe he didn’t want to do it?” He hates how pitifully hopeful his voice sounds at the end. “Maybe…I don’t know. Maybe it was just wishful thinking.”

Rhodey stares at him for too long. “Hey,” he says. “I’m sure it wasn’t. Maybe…maybe part of him remembers? That’s a good thing. We can use that to get him back.”

It’s not the pain radiating out from his hand that gets Bucky’s teeth grinding together. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Barnes,” Rhodey insists. “Bucky. We’re gonna get him back.” He eyes Bucky’s hand. “And seriously. I don’t think this lone ranger routine of yours is working too well.”

“I’m fine,” Bucky replies automatically.

“You’re playing operation with the bones in your own hand and your face looks like it met the business end of an Abrams tank. I wouldn’t call that fine.”

Bucky sighs. “Look. I think I got a lead, alright? Let me play this one out before you come in here, guns blazing.”

Rhodey glares. “I got a few more things I want to follow up on here. Then I’m coming out there, whether you like it or not. Because if Sam finds out I was sitting on my ass back here while not-Sam was over there trouncing your ass, he’s gonna kill me.”

Bucky pinches his left fingers around his right hand until he feels his scaphoid slide back into place next to his radius. “Fine.”

Could be the lighting, but he swears Rhodes is turning a little green. “Sweet baby Jesus,” Rhodes hisses. “Would you hurry up with that? This is not exactly must-see TV here.”

“You don’t have to watch,” Bucky says.

“Well, I’m watching,” Rhodey rumbles. “Now, tell me who this guy you didn’t shoot is.”

He tells Rhodey everything he knows. Rhodes does the same, saying he’s talked to just about everyone he can think of who might know a thing about mind control. He adds something else.

“So, asked some friends if they could follow up with Freddy Krueger’s grandmother.”

Bucky’s eyes flit from his hand to Rhodey’s face. “And?”

“And, turns out they charged her, then let her out on bail. They went back to talk to her, and she skipped town.”

Bucky gapes. “She’s gone?”

Rhodey shrugs. “Looks like it. They’re keeping an eye out, though.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Bucky curses. “I miss one damn appointment with my shrink and I get wrapped up, and Betty White has a chance to jump bail after she tried to slice and dice Captain fucking America?”

“Nina Simone,” Rhodey corrects him.

“Whatever.” Bucky works his right hand. Feels like the bones are in the right place now. Tendons and flesh and blood vessels…well, that’s another story. “So, we got nothing.”

“We got some things,” Rhodey corrects. “We know Sam’s there, even if he’s not quite himself. We know what might be causing it. And you might have a way to find out more. So, we’re somewhere. We’re getting there.”

Bucky glances at the phone’s screen. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Rhodes confirms emphatically. “So, you’re gonna get your hand fixed, cover that shit up, get some sleep, and call me when you know something.”

“Okay,” he agrees. “I’ll let you know.”

“And tell me you’ll see a real goddamn doctor this time?”

“I’ll see a real goddamn doctor this time,” Bucky parrots before he hangs up. They both know he won’t.

He does grab a few hours rest before he makes his next call. Rest might mean hunching over his phone on the floor to re-research everything he’s ever learned about Stockholm Syndrome, and traumatic bonding, and dissociative identity disorder, and chemical dependence, and all the phrases that were thrown around his head in Berlin, and Wakanda, and Raynor’s office, like he hadn’t spent that time on the run learning everything he could about them. Like he couldn’t tell people what was really wrong with him, if they cared to hear it. He reassures himself he’s just waiting for the arrival of a more reasonable hour in Louisiana. It’s half true.

She picks up on the first ring, again. “What is it?”

“I saw Sam again.”

“And?” Sarah asks.

“And he got away. Again.”

He hears her shaky inhale. “You fought him, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Is he hurt?”

“No he’s…” Okay is not exactly the right word. “He’s not hurt, I promise.”

A deep exhale this time. “Did he…did he hurt you?”

“I…I…” he works his jaw for a few seconds. “I’m fine, Sarah.”

“Tell me everything,” she demands.

He does. Mostly. He leaves out not-Sam sending Al through the window and doing his best to chop Bucky’s hand in two. He tells her he has a thin lead, and he has every intention of following it to the bitter end.

“Find him,” Sarah says again. Maybe she hears something in his voice. She adds, quieter, “and look out for yourself, Bucky.”

“I will,” he says. He doesn’t tell her what part of her request he’s concerned about.

He leans his back against the windows, warmed by the hazy sunshine this far off the streets, after they hang up. The phone creaks in his left hand. He slides down the glass until his ass hits the floor, his bandaged right hand flopping to the hardwood. He brings his legs up and drops his aching forehead to his knees. He’ll get back at it. He just…needs a minute. Or two.

Daylight does the Green Gazelle no favors. Bucky jiggles the locked door handle when he gets there. He’s about to pop it open, propriety be damned, when he sees a figure approaching through the limewashed window. They unlock the door and crack it open. The singer from a few nights ago peeks through the opening, face scrubbed of makeup and light hair up in a loose bun. He makes her out to be in her fifties. Her skin seems too thin for her face, stretched out on wires drawn across her bones. Still, there’s a rough-hewn handsomeness to her features. She’s wearing a leopard print sweatsuit instead of the dress. It’s a variation on a theme, but he thinks she looks a lot better like this. She narrows mossy eyes at him.     

“Privet,” he greets her.

She makes a dismissive sound in the back of her throat but lets him in anyway. The sour stink of old smoke assails him. The tables and upturned chairs look forlorn in the milky light, and the dark carpet is in desperate need of a good shampooing. The place seems…exposed, somehow. It’s like being backstage during an opera. Takes away all the magic. Last time he was backstage like that it was at the Hungarian State Opera House and he killed most of the characters Puccini’s third act didn’t, so he might be a bit biased.  

The singer goes back to the bar to do whatever it was she was doing. Bucky shuffles toward the hallway in the back, watching her through the corner of his eye. She drops her face to the polished wood and snorts a line of white powder he’s just now seeing. She winces and presses a polished fingernail—green, of course—to one nostril as she inhales again. Ah. It’s that kind of day. He’ll show himself to Zetkov’s office.

Zetkov looks up from a battered laptop with a quirked brow when Bucky pushes through the door. If he has thoughts about Bucky’s bruised face, or bandaged hand, or limping gait, he wisely keeps them to himself.

“Hello, Mr. American. You’re a little early for tonight’s show.”

“What a shame,” Bucky drawls.

Zetkov waves at a decanter and set of tumblers on a scratched cart in the corner. “I at least offer you a drink.”

Bucky tics his head. “Not here for your booze, Zetkov.”

Zetkov pushes himself back from the desk with a groan. “Suit yourself. I take it you are here for business?”

From somewhere back in the bar, Bucky can hear the singer start to practice her scales. “Well, it’s not pleasure.”

Zetkov gives Bucky a leer from head to toe. Bucky resolutely does not blink. He’s faced far worse. Zetkov smirks. “As I say. Suit yourself.”

The door handle behind Bucky rattles and he twists his head to look. Maksim pushes through the door, sneakered feet muffled by the carpet. He’s wearing a track suit too, this one in navy. Zetkov must get a bulk discount. Maksim’s eye drops to Bucky’s wrapped hand. He smirks, flexing the fingers of the hand Bucky could have snapped in two. Bucky glares before turning back to Zetkov.

“What have you learned?”

“I learn you have been very busy, Mr. American.”

Bucky tilts his head. “I think you already knew that.”

“Oh, the warehouses, the factories, of course. But that’s not all you’ve been up to.” Zetkov hums. “Plucking some of the dolls from those factories, in fact.”

Bucky stares, blasé. “You found them.”

Zetkov shakes his head. “Oh, no, my friend. She found me.”

His heart stutters. Why would she come here? Last he checked in with nurse at that hospital, both of the dolls were still strapped to their beds, certain their hearts were about to beat out of their chests. “What?”

“She had quite the story to tell. A mysterious stranger in black who saved her from a life of servitude. Who rescued her from a factory, and brought her to a hospital. Once she was…restored…she made her way here.”

Bucky’s brow furrows. “Why would she come to you after that?” He’d figure those two would go back to the factory, if they were still under the influence. Unless he’s been very, very wrong about Zetkov’s role in all this.

“Not me, exactly,” Zetkov drawls. “One of my associates.”

“What,” Bucky grinds out between clenched teeth, “happened?”

Zetkov makes himself comfortable, like he’s settling in for story time in front of a fire. Maksim does the same, setting down in a chair along the wall, next to the bar cart. He pours himself a drink and sneers at Bucky while he takes a sip. Bucky wonders what Maksim would look like with a broken nose for a moment before he turns his attention back to Zetkov.

“This girl you saved, this young lady from London,” Zetkov starts. “Once she got out of the hospital, she came to one of my people. Looking for the usual, you understand. A little loan. Barring that, a little something to take the edge off.”

Bucky tilts his head. “Thought you didn’t sell. Just a middleman, right?”

Zetkov waves a dismissive hand. “I don’t sell any of these fancy concoctions your country’s pharmaceutical companies cooked up. Too risky. But these simpler things, these lighter things…” He grins. “I dabble.”

“Like the stuff your girl at the bar is enjoying?”

Zetkov’s lips twitch. “Lulu does whatever she likes. And she likes that very much. She is something of a traditionalist.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Fine. So, you don’t sell the fancy shit. What does this have to do with that woman from the factory?”

“While she and my colleague partook together,” Zetkov continues, “she told the whole story. Of one of her usual dealers offering her a new high, better than anything she had ever felt before.”   

“Yeah,” Bucky drawls. “That sounds totally above board.”

“Of course, it was nothing of the sort,” Zetkov says, ignoring his comment. “No nice trip for her, just a compulsion to obey. She told of being forced to learn how to make the drugs she was so eager to seek. Of being unable to come out of her stupor until you pulled her from that facility. My facility.”

“So she was being…controlled,” he wonders. “They were making her do that.”

Zetkov nods. “It appears so.”

“And could that drug make…” he catches himself, glancing between Zetkov’s keen face and Maksim’s shrewd one. They’ve both leaned forward ever so slightly towards him. Two predators, searching for a weak spot. Shit. He should know better. “What happened after that?” he asks instead.

“A few days at the hospital and she was…good as new, as it were.” Zetkov continues studying him through narrowed eyes, looking for any reaction. Bucky isn’t going to make that mistake again, though.

“She just…snapped out of it?”

Zetkov shrugs. “I understand it was not a pleasant process. Cold turkey rarely is. But yes, after a few days away, she returned to her senses.”

Bucky would fall to the floor in relief if he were alone. He stays standing, paints a flat expression on his face. “Where is she now?”

Zetkov smiles. “She is in…a safe place.”

“Where?” Bucky growls.

“Ah, ah,” Zetkov holds up a preemptory finger. “I have given you plenty and received little in return. This barely seems fair, don’t you think?”

Bucky snorts. “What I’ve given you is a few days without having to worry about one of your facilities exploding. I’d say that peace of mind is worth something.”

“True,” Zetkov agrees. “But I have something you are dearly seeking. Would you destroy every single one of my facilities to reach it?”

“Yes,” Bucky says, the promise of blood dripping from his voice.

Zetkov’s eyes widen. “Ah. I do not believe you are lying to me.”

“I’m not.” Bucky’s eyes track Maksim pushing up from his chair, coming to stand beside Zetkov’s desk. He meets Bucky’s stare as he empties his tumbler in one gulp.

Zetkov also studies Bucky, eyes lingering on the bruises and bandages this time. “I see. But I think, perhaps, you are not at peak form right now. And I wonder how much longer you can continue at your current pace.”

“You wanna find out?” Bucky snarls.

“No,” Zetkov shakes his head. “I do not. But it would do you no good, to try to force me to tell you this information.”

“And why’s that?” he sighs.

“Because,” Zetkov chuckles, “I do not know where this girl is.”

Bucky stares for a long moment. “Then why the fuck am I here?”

“Because,” Zetkov repeats, “Lulu does.” He tuts. “Wonderful voice she has, no? Tell me, my friend. Would you break all her fingers,” his gaze flits from Maksim’s bruised arm to Bucky’s bandaged hand, “to get her to tell you what she knows?”

Bucky works his jaw for a long moment. Glares.

“Yes. I thought not,” Zetkov says. “And I do not believe that would be necessary. As I told you before, I am a businessman. As such, I have a business proposal for you.”

“What,” he barks, “is it?”

“My people will bring this woman to you. You can ask her anything you like.”

“And?”

Maksim and Zetkov both grin, smiles like matching sharks. Zetkov leans forward, bracing his elbows on the desk. “And all you must do for me in exchange, Mr. American, is a tiny little favor.”  

Chapter Text

Maksim trundles down the hallway in front of him, cigarette dangling languidly from his lips, until they reach a closet. He pulls the door open, waves Bucky in with a flourish and a smirk that set Bucky’s teeth on edge. Zetkov’s a lion, proud and dangerous. But Maksim’s a snake and Bucky knows sometimes the smallest creatures have the biggest bite. He keeps the corner of his eye on the man when he steps into the closet. Maksim tugs the chain to an overhead bulb and Bucky winces at the flare of light.

Maksim chuckles, low in his throat, and steps fully into the closet, pulling the door shut behind him. He crowds closer to Bucky, stupid grin still plastered to his face. This near, he has to peer down his nose to look at Bucky. He plucks the cigarette from his teeth with his uninjured hand and blows the smoke straight into Bucky’s face. “Alone at last, yes?”

Bucky snarls, blinking the foulness out of his eyes. “Cut the shit or I’ll put that thing out in your fucking eye.”

Maksim takes another drag, eyes not moving from Bucky’s face. He puffs this smoke out the side of his mouth. “Ah. Little bird is a little tired. A little hurt, maybe?” His eyes flicker to Bucky’s bandaged hand. “I know this feeling.” He looks at a worn leather rucksack on one of the shelves. “Maybe you like something to take edge off? First one free.”

It always is. Bucky wouldn’t take a fucking Tylenol from this guy. Nothing Maksim could give him would feel as good as wiping that repugnant little smirk off his face anyway. Bucky settles for his best glare.

Maksim shrugs. “Eh. Offer open, if you change mind.” He jams the cigarette back in his mouth and hauls a long black case down from a different shelf. He presses it into Bucky’s chest. Bucky brings his arms up to take it and Maksim’s hand stays where it is, knuckles flush with Bucky’s jacket. “You need help using this, I am happy to show you.”

Bucky pulls his lips back. “Oh, I got it. And I’d love to show you how I’ll use it.”

Maksim snorts. “Other time, maybe.” He tugs the door open and steps out, pulling the light cord as he does. He peers back into the darkened closest, the ember glow of his cigarette casting the rest of his face in shadow. “Come. I show you the other things you need.”     

Watering your neighbor’s plants while they’re on vacation in Hawaii, that’s a little favor. Picking up an Oreo cake on your way to a party, that’s a little favor. Holding the shield while Sam runs to the little Avenger’s room, again, because he drank way too much Gatorade on the flight over, that’s a little favor.

This, though — peering through the scope of an M95 at the front entrance of one of the swankiest restaurants in Madripoor, where an amuse bouche costs as much as a month’s rent in lowtown — is not a little favor.

Bucky followed Maksim’s directions to a tee, finding the unlit office in this empty building across the street from the restaurant. He’s been holed up in a darkened window frame all day. The position’s not exactly kind to his body, and his right hand is throbbing like he slammed it in a bank vault. That’s fine. He’s still a damn good shot left handed.

She comes out the front door of the restaurant a little after eleven. Hair so dark it looks blue in the night coiled on top of her head, and a navy sheath dress above matching Louboutins. She’s not paying any attention to where she’s going, of course, has her head buried in her phone, the screen painting harsh lines across her delicate features. She doesn’t even acknowledge the valet at the little podium below the steps, expects him to recognize her. He does.

The valet brings around her silver Mercedes while she’s tapping that five hundred dollar toe against the sidewalk impatiently. He parks the car in front of the entrance and hustles out to hold the door open for her.  

Bucky tracks her figure through the scope as she paces to the driver’s side door. He leads her in the sights, covers the windshield beyond the valet’s arm a second before her head gets there. He takes the shot.

She stares at the shattered glass, screaming. The valet – good man, too good for this place – dives at her and takes her to the pavement. Through the restaurant windows, Bucky sees more patrons in suits and dresses hit the deck. A second later, a high pitched whine announces two screaming motorcycles. The riders open fire as they pass, strafing the restaurant and the Mercedes. The windows of both explode, accompanied by the predictable sounds of squealing and yelling.

The riders don’t stop to take stock, just jet away, leaving the carnage behind them. Bucky spares a moment, though, to study the scene. The woman, who lost one of her shoes in the melee, is pounding on the valet’s arms and chest in fury. A bold waitress in a starched shirt collar and black apron steps to one of the broken windows and peers in both directions down the street. She shakes her head and calls something over her shoulder.

The patrons start to rise, collapse back into their chairs. The sommelier decisively snags the bottle he just uncorked. He takes a swill of it himself before he pours wine to the brim of two glasses in front of a grey-haired couple in matching ties. They bring the glasses to their lips with appreciative nods. A busboy appears with a broom and dustpan and starts sweeping up the broken glass. A few shrieking laughs ring out the busted windows.

Bucky turns his gaze back to the woman in the Louboutins. She’s got her perfectly manicured nails deep in the valet’s hair and is too busy sucking on his mouth to notice the commotion. The valet doesn’t seem to mind.

And the gears of Madripoor keep turning, drive by shooting or no. No sirens, no more shouting. Bucky’s eyebrows rise. “I think I might like this place after all,” he mutters to himself.

“Good,” an unfamiliar voice behind him announces. “Because you’ll die here.”

Bucky spins around to the sight of three men in dark suits, goatees, and ponytails. And guns, of course.

“Ah, cute,” he says. “Did you guys plan on buying the matching MP5s, or did that just happen on its own?”

He takes advantage of their momentary confusion to close the gap before they can think to use those matching MP5s. He gets a hand on one of the guns, wrenches the barrel up toward the ceiling while he snaps out a kick into the next man’s groin. That one goes down as the third gets his shit together and gets a few rounds off. Bucky flips the first man into his chest, watches them both go down in a heap.

He spares a glance for the second man, who is rolling around on the floor, clutching himself. The other two, tangled in each other’s arms, groan into the carpet. Bucky stomps on one’s arm, the other’s leg, snapping the bones in both. Last thing he needs is these yahoos chasing him down.

He tucks the rifle under his right arm, stacks the MP5s and snags them in his left hand while the three stooges are still insensate on the ground. He drops the guns in a nearby dumpster on his way back to the motorcycle Maksim supplied him with. Not like anyone’s going to bother tracking those things. Dirty guns are a dime a dozen out here.

It’s only when he’s on the seat, ready to start the bike, that he feels the twinge in his side. He jerks the bottom of his jacket and shirt up to see the bloody furrow just above his left hipbone. He prods at the torn skin with a vibranium hand. It’s not too bad. He’ll just add it to the laundry list of shit he needs to deal with later.

He sighs, disgusted. A bunch of guys in bad suits and worse haircuts getting the drop on him. Getting winged by one of the bozos too. Sam would give him so much shit for this.

His fingers still. Right. Sam. For a good minute or two there he was almost able to forget why he was here, in this shitty town, running a shit job for a shitty excuse for a mobster, getting shot at by even shittier excuses for assassins.

He watches the blood pool above his waistband before he drops his head and lets out a little groan. God, if he could just get a fucking minute to catch his breath, get some rest, take it easy so he can…so he can find Sam, who’s not able to do any of those things, who’s completely at the whim of who the fuck knows and who the fuck knows what they’re doing to him right now and—

His breath hitches. “Get it together,” he hisses. He yanks his jacket back into place and starts up the bike. Hauls out of the alley with a squeal of the tires. No time to waste.           

He studies Zetkov’s face when he walks into the office. Is it surprise he sees there? Satisfaction? Hard to tell what’s going on behind that beard. It certainly can’t be relief. Maksim’s here too, perched on the edge of the desk, watching Bucky with that leering smirk. Jesus, is he getting sick of that guy.

“Did you encounter any trouble, Mr. American?” Zetkov asks.  

“What do you think?” he snarls. Maksim’s eyes trail across his body with a lingering look that makes him wish he kept one of those MP5s.  

“I think you are standing here now,” Zetkov gestures at Bucky with an upturned palm. “So, if there was trouble, it was certainly within your capabilities to meet it.” Bucky glares in response. The corner of Zetkov’s mouth twitches up under his beard. “I am relieved to see you survived, nonetheless,” he continues. “And I understand the woman is at home now, just fine.”

“I’m sure,” Bucky drawls. “Tell me, what was I doing saving a member of parliament from getting shot through with bullet holes?”

Maksim snorts. Zetkov raises an eyebrow. “I do not believe I provided you the details of her occupation.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow of his own. “I do my homework. What, she on your payroll or something?” He tilts his head. “Or are you on hers?”

“I merely sought to assist her in her hour of need,” Zetkov allows. “One never knows when these little favors might come in handy.”

“You could have just told her not to go to that restaurant tonight, if you knew something was going to happen,” Bucky counters. “Getting her attention by shooting her car seems like overkill.”  

“Perhaps,” Zetkov agrees.

Bucky’s eyes narrow. “That was a warning, too, wasn’t it? Letting her know that shot could have gone in her, instead.”

Zetkov almost grins. “I think, Mr. American, you would do very well here in Madripoor.”

“Pass,” Bucky growls. “You know why I’m here.”

“Yes,” Zetkov grants. “I do.”

“So where is she? The girl.”

Zetkov hums. “Right to business, again. But, my friend, you are starting to look a little worse for wear.” Zetkov and Maksim both eye Bucky’s side. He shoots a subtle glance down and sees the stain darkening his shirt and the side of his jeans. He tugs the side of his jacket over until it conceals the mark. Shit. Shouldn’t that have stopped bleeding by now?     

“Offer still stand, little bird.” Maksim tugs a tiny pill-filled baggie from one of his pockets. He holds it out and flicks it with his ring finger. The sound sets Bucky’s teeth on edge. “Make you feel much better.”  

“Thanks for your concern,” he drawls. “But I’m just fine. Now where’s the girl?”

“As you like,” Zetkov waves at the door. “She is out there. Lulu will show you.”

Maksim slinks by Bucky to the door. He pulls it open with his good hand and crowds the doorway so Bucky has to turn sideways to sneak through the entrance. Maksim sneers when their faces are lined up, a few inches from each other. Bucky shoots off a warning look as he passes. Seriously, he’s coming back here to beat that snide face in once he’s done with the rest of his work in Madripoor.

The singer from that first night is waiting for him by the bar, back in her patterned dress. Lulu, apparently. She gives him a look that takes his measure when he approaches. Her eyes flit between the bandage and the stain on his side that he can tell is growing. Her stare is just as calculating as Zetkov’s and Maksim’s. She spares him the feigned concern, though, just waves for him to follow her to a booth in the back.

He slides into the bench across from a young woman, suppressing a wince. It’s dark enough in here that no one else is likely to see the bloodstain on his shirt. Not that anyone would care.

The girl looks up at him between her lashes when he takes a seat. She purses her lips. “It’s you.”

He studies her dark face, framed by thick black hair. “You remember me?”

She nods. “From the factory.”

“Yeah.” He thinks for a moment. Sam would take the time to ask her about herself, put her at ease, do everything he could to reassure her. He’d probably get her whole life story, be asking after her mother and know her favorite color by the time he was through.

“Who gave you that drug?” Bucky doesn’t have time for that shit, though.   

She shrugs. “A dealer I usually go to. First time anything like that’s happened. Don’t think I’ll be buying from that asshole again.”

He smiles despite himself. “Good call. Then what happened?”

She shakes her head. “I’m not sure. It’s a little…hazy. I took what he gave me. He wanted to watch me do it. Said he’d give me a discount if I let him.” Her lips twist. “He’s a fucking creep. But fine, I thought. I shot up in front of him, in this alley outside the café he works at. I felt fine at first then…”

“Not so fine?” he guesses.

“Not exactly. I didn’t feel terrible, really. Just…strange. And then next thing I know he’s taking me to this warehouse. And there’s more people there, people I’ve never seen before. And people like me, looking blitzed out of their minds. So the people at the warehouse, they tell us we need to start doing things for them.”

“And you did?”

“Yeah. Didn’t even think about it.” She worries at the cuff of her jacket, keeps her gaze there. “It was like…what they wanted me to do, that was the only thing that mattered to me. Like listening to them was the only thing I had ever done. They taught me how to cook all the other drugs they were making. And I did it. Every day, for weeks. Didn’t even think twice about it.”

Bucky blinks. “What was in whatever the dealer gave you?”

She purses her lips. “I’m not sure. But they made us take it once a day.”

“Right. And after you hadn’t taken it for a few days…”

“Back to normal,” she says. She laughs coldly. “As close to normal as you can get after something like that.”

He nods sympathetically. “Yeah. Where did they get this stuff from?”

“Couldn’t tell you. Wasn’t like they were sharing their secrets with all of us.”

“They didn’t say anything, while you were around? Anything about what they were doing with all of you, why they were doing this?” It all seems like far too much effort just to cook up a couple kilos.

She shakes her head again. “No. Look, I told you everything I know.” Her eyes dart between the darkened faces of the other bar patrons. “I really…I really shouldn’t even be here. If someone sees me…”

“What about your dealer?” he asks. “He still around?”

She scowls. “Fuck if I know. Hope he drowned or something.”

“I’d like to talk to him first,” Bucky insists. “After that, I don’t care.”

“Good luck,” she snorts. “I found him on the app, you know? No idea what his name is or who he is.”

“How do I find him?”

She tilts her head. “You don’t. Or you try buying everything you can get your hands on here, hope you get lucky. It’d take you some time to get through all of them, though.” She nibbles at her lip. “I really need to leave, okay?”

He wonders, for a moment, what Zetkov did to get her here in the first place. She looks like she’s about two seconds away from bolting like the bar’s namesake animal, though, so he asks the question he needs answered most instead.

“One more question. While you were…under, I guess. Did you remember anything?”

She peers at him. “Remember anything?”

“Yeah. Who you were before. How you got there. Anything.”

“Well,” she sucks at a tooth. “Not really. I mean, I’d get little flashes, right? Like someone would say something around me, and it’d trigger this memory. But nothing I could really figure out, so I’d let it go. All I really cared about was doing what they told me.” She grabs at her bag on the bench beside her. “Now look, I have to go.”

“Hey, just, just one last thing,” he pleads. She stops, feet planted in the carpet next to the bench, and gives him a hurry-it-up look. “Maybe…maybe you should get out of here. Madripoor, I mean.”

She snorts. “Yeah? And go where?”

“Anywhere,” he recommends.

She looks down at the table before her eyes skitter up to meet his. “Yeah,” she says. “Maybe.” She pushes up to her feet and disappears into the hazy bar. He watches the empty seat across from him for a while. Experience robs him of hope that she’ll ever leave this island in anything but a coffin. He shakes the cold feeling in his gut off after a minute. Can’t win them all.      

He takes the bike back to his new place in hightown. Zetkov didn’t give him a time limit on this thing, and it’s a hell of a walk from the Green Gazelle to here. The building is empty enough that he treats himself to an elevator ride to his apartment. It’s a lot of stairs to make it up when half his body has some harsh words for him. He shoots a glance at himself in the mirror next to the floor buttons on the way up to admire the wicked shiner he’s got going on too. Was that from Sam, or the guys outside the restaurant? He’s losing track.

He still checks out the hallway before he goes to his apartment and inspects every room inside once he’s past the door. Unless not-Sam’s hiding under the bed, Bucky is good. He pauses at that thought and backtracks to the bed, gingerly bending down to peer under the wooden frame. All clear.

He shrugs out of his jacket and shirt on the way to the bathroom that’s the size of his childhood apartment and checks out the wound on his side in the mirror. It’s still oozing blood, sluggishly. Must be deeper than he thought, if the serum hasn’t already taken care of it. He grabs a wad of gauze from his rapidly-diminishing stash and does his best to tape it to his skin with one hand. It’s not his finest work. Sam would have kittens if he could see this rush job. Yeah, you’ve got the serum, I get it, but would it kill you to use a little Neosporin? Bucky turns too quickly at that thought and catches himself on the vanity when the floor lurches under his feet for a second.

He snags his jacket off the floor as he trudges back to the living room to haul his phone out of a pocket. He stares blankly at the empty screen. He owes Rhodey a call. And Sarah. And probably a dozen other people who would want to know how Sam’s doing. He sets the phone face down on an end table instead.

The plush armchair in the living room cradles him when he sinks into the tan leather. He stares out the closest window at the blinking lights of a distant jetliner streaking through the sky. The stars can’t pierce Madripoor’s murk, but he knows they’re out there somewhere. Sam might be out there tonight, too.     

The girl said she remembered some things while she was under the influence. Maybe he wasn’t imagining Sam hesitating before he threw the shield. That girl also said she came back to herself after a few days. From what he could tell she didn’t have much to come back to, but at least that’s something.   

It means there’s hope for Sam. Hope that if Bucky can find him, get him somewhere safe, Sam will snap out of it on his own. Hope that there’s a good ending for all of this.

There’s hope, but he can’t bring himself to believe in it right now. He leans back into the chair and pulls his legs up. Rests his bruised temple against a scraped knee. Not right now. Maybe tomorrow.  

Chapter Text

Bucky goes back to Zetkov’s bar the next night too. Shit, he’s practically becoming a regular.

He made good use of that app today, trying to set up every buy he could. None of the two-bit dealers he shook down had anything useful to say about a mystery drug floating around the island, or where it might be coming from. All he’s got to show for his efforts is a few extra bruises. Not as bad as the few broken bones he left in his wake, but it isn’t exactly improving his chances of winning the next fight against not-Sam. He’s knows there’s another one coming.

He made less use of his phone for other purposes. A quick text to Rhodey, a short call to Sarah, confirming what he already expects. He doesn’t tell them what he did for Zetkov to get the little information he has. He figures they don’t need to know that part.

So, he returns to the one place he’s had luck at in this seamy city. If nothing else, maybe he’ll finally get a chance to punch Maksim’s nose in. The only familiar face he sees when he enters is Lulu, though. She’s taking a break from her set, washing down a cigarette with a drink at the far end of the bar near the stage. She waves him over.

“You enjoy the company here, or the drinks?” she asks in a heavy accent, blowing a thin stream of smoke over his head.

“Neither,” he replies. “Change my mind.”

She chortles out a laugh that turns into a cough. “Then perhaps you are coming to the wrong place.”

He shrugs. “Maybe. But your boss is pretty well connected out here.”

Lulu scowls. “Not my boss. I work for myself.”

“Good,” he answers. “Independent woman. I like that.”

He’s just close enough to make out her eyeroll. “What is it you are looking for from him? I think not money, or a job.” She waves at the lit stage with the smoking tip of her cigarette. “Unless you have hidden talents. Maybe you are great singer?”

He snorts. “No. Definitely not. I just…want to find what I’m looking for.”

She stares at him through the murk. “I see. You are looking for the dolls, yes?”

“How do you know about that?” No point in playing dumb. That would only insult her. He thinks he does not want to insult her.

“I have eyes. And ears.” The corner of her lip twists up. “And I hear how you make Maksim yell, when he come after you.”

He smirks a little at that. “You don’t sound like you disapprove.”

“Bah.” She takes another drag of her cigarette. “Dumb man with dumber mustache. Always working for himself. Always taking what he wants. You do not give him what he wants. This is good.”

“What does he want?” Bucky asks evenly.

She frowns at his feigned ignorance. “You know what he wants. People like that want one thing. Do whatever they need to get that thing. However they can get it.”  

He does know exactly what Maksim wants. He’s seen those kinds of looks on enough faces. “Then why does Zetkov keep him around?”

“Crude thing, Maksim is. But he has uses.”

“If you say so.” He glances around the bar for a sign of either of those men. “So, what’s your angle? Guessing you want something from me too.”

Her eyes narrow, shrewd. “Yes. I want you to find what you come for. So you can leave. And business goes back to normal.”

He tilts his head. “As soon as I do, I will.”

She nods. “Then you look harder, find these people behind dolls. Then you can find your friend.”

“Who said anything about a friend?” He forces his face flat.

“Please,” Lulu sighs. “You think because I am singer in lounge, I am dumb? I know who you are. I know who he is. I know why you are here.”

He watches the lit tip of the cigarette arc from the ashtray to her pink lips. “Do you?”

“They do not.” She nods towards the backroom. “But, these tiny little bears. They only pay attention to the meat waved in front of their faces.”

“How do you know who my friend is?” he asks sharply.

She gives him half a smile. “People in Madripoor. They talk. Strange man comes here, starts waving around strange shield? People talk about things like this.”

“And you’re going to help me find him, out of the kindness of your heart? Forgive me if I find that hard to believe.”  

“Ah. Brains of operation, no? I think you have uses, too.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he grumbles.

“Yes. And I will.” She purses her lips. “We have shipment tomorrow night. We have been having problems with shipments. You make sure it arrives in one piece.”

His brows furrow. “Yeah. Pretty sure I was the problem you’ve been having with your shipments.”

“You think you are only problem we have in Madripoor?” she scoffs. “Mr. American has very high opinion of self.”

He blinks. “Okay. Point taken. So what, I get to keep someone else from blowing your stuff up this time?”

“Stealing,” Lulu sniffs. “But same principle. Shipment coming to docks. You see it gets to factory.”

“I’m not killing anyone for you.”

Her eyebrow lifts. “I did not say kill. Do what you must. Make sure it arrives.”

He sighs. “I do this for you, and you help me? Just like that? You’re making this too easy.”  

Lulu flicks the cinders on the end of her cigarette into the ashtray and leans closer, an emerald glow in her pale eyes. “I too am not liking these dolls. Making people do whatever you want them to do, just like that.” She snaps the fingers on her free hand. “I do not care for this. I come here so no man, my father, my brothers, my husband, can tell me what to do.” She tips her head back, and he makes out the long line of a thin scar tracing from her collarbone to her jawline. “I will not live that life again.”

His left hand twitches. How many similar scars would he have to share, if the serum hadn’t robbed him of that? “Then why are you making me do this? Just help me find the dolls. We want the same thing.”

She tuts, adjusting the straps of her dress. “Letting you find our customer…this big risk for us. Zetty, he help you too easy. He has weak spot for,” her eyes skim his torso, “shiny, pretty things. I think you know this.”

He does. He’s seen those looks before too. Saw one on Selby’s face, right before someone put a bullet in the middle of it. He pulls a smirk on his lips to cloak his unease. “You think I’m pretty?”

She laughs again, a low, throaty sound. “You know what you are. And I know what I am.”

“A pretty thing, too? That why Zetkov has you here?”

Her face goes flat and dark. “No one has me here. I am here because I choose this.” The corner of her mouth twitches. “But Zetty?” She hums. “Yes. He likes to look, I think.”

“And you let him?”

She shrugs. “When it suits me. Now. I can get you what you want.”

“Sure.” He rubs the back of his neck. “And all you want in return is a favor. Another one.”

She nods, a wry smile gracing her lips. “Every place has currency, yes? Money, oil, bribes, weapons.” Her eyes fall to his left arm. “Violence. But here? Favors, debts, power. This is how you buy things in Madripoor.”

He meets her eyes for a moment. “A favor for a favor, then.”

Smoke curls languidly around her face before it dissipates. “Yes. You do this for me, I do this for you. Make Zetty set up a meeting with this customer.”  

“Sure,” he drawls. “You can get him to do that?”

She bats her eyelashes coquettishly before her expression turns to a scowl. “Mr. American. I think you should stop underestimating people because of how they look.”

He shifts, remembering a small teenage girl kicking him into an oncoming semi. “I’ll…keep that in mind.”

“Good. Tomorrow night.” Her eyes narrow. “Do not be late.”

Bucky thinks he wouldn’t mind spending more time with Lulu. She’s clearly got a story. Goes for what she wants. Has no patience for fools. Reminds him of a few other women he used to know.

He’s a little leerier about Zetkov. He thinks he’s got the guy figured, knows what he wants. Knows some of what he wants. He can play that game, dance around that fire without getting burned. Probably.

Maksim, though? The worst. Makes something tingle across Bucky’s scalp. Like Lulu said, a guy who figures out a way to get what he wants. Someone who doesn’t much care for anyone else’s opinion on the matter, either.

So, naturally, it’s Maksim he’s stuck with on this little favor. Maksim insisted on driving the truck down to the docks. Bucky doesn’t love that, but it means it’s his left arm between the two of them on the console. That, he doesn’t mind.

He’s expecting a leering gaze, some thinly veiled suggestions. The type of conversation that’ll make his skin crawl. Maksim’s quiet, though, eyes flickering between the windshield and his mirrors as he puffs on another cigarette, letting the smoke drift out the cracked window. Somehow the silence is even worse.

Bucky gets out of the truck while the deckhands load pallets into the back. He tells himself it’s to find a better vantage point, in case they do get ambushed. Really, it’s just to buy a few minutes outside of the cab, a little more distance from Maksim’s unblinking stare. Maybe he’s starting to get why that kind of thing unnerves people when he does it.    

The docks are still bustling at this late hour, rain-dampened asphalt gleaming under the lights. The breeze blowing the fog in from the sea almost feels cool against his face. He lets his gaze drift across the scene, looking for anything out of place. Out of place for Madripoor, that is, so he doesn’t pay much attention to the pallets of brand-new electronics, the crates of scratched weapons, the stacks of bills that pass from hand to hand.

A sharp whistle draws his attention back to the truck. Maksim’s leaning out the window, craning his head to stare at Bucky. He taps a hand on the side of his door impatiently.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky mutters under his breath. “Hold your fucking horses.”

Maksim navigates the loaded truck through thronged streets. Bucky’s eyes ping back and forth. Way too many potential threats around here, and he wonders why Maksim didn’t choose a quieter route. Then he realizes in a place like this, trying to avoid the crowd is just waving a flag saying they have something worth stealing. Maybe Maksim’s not as dumb as he looks.

Maksim eventually turns down a road that hugs the coastline. Bucky studies the thinning buildings and landmarks with interest. He knows this area. He followed one of Zetkov’s boats here, to a warehouse, what can only have been a few days ago but feels like years.

“So,” Maksim starts.

“No,” he interrupts. “Whatever it is. No.”

“Ah, ah,” Maksim tuts. “Careful. This go bad, you do not get what you want.”

“All I need to do is make sure this truck makes it where it’s going. They didn’t say anything about you getting where you’re going,” he counters.

Maksim smirks. “Yes. But something happen to me…truck does not get where it is going. And you do not get what you want.”  He turns a lurid eye toward Bucky. “And I want you to get what you want.”

He could probably find this place they’re going on his own, if he smashed Maksim’s teeth out on the steering wheel. Right? The truck crashing off the side of the road probably wouldn’t kill him. Really, he’d be doing Zetkov a favor. He settles for drumming his fingers on his thighs, instead. “Just drive.”

“As you like,” Maksim hums. “We enjoy moment. Long drive, alone together, down a dark, lonely road. Who knows where it leads.”

Bucky stares out his window. No, this is way worse than that earlier, uneasy silence. He hopes a cold shoulder will shut Maksim up. It seems to do the trick, at least for a while. Bucky contents himself with scanning the passing scenery and wondering how Sam would deal with the asshole in the seat next to him.

Sam might take a calmer approach. Find a way to connect to Maksim, somehow. Try to put himself in the guy’s shoes. Figure out what makes him tick. Then Bucky thinks about what Lulu said. Always taking what he wants.

Who is he kidding? Sam would want to smash this guy’s nose in too. But hey, Bucky’s worked with worse people, right? Hell, he’s been those worse people. He can make this work, too. Failure is not an option.

He’s snapped out of his reverie when they come around a turn to the view of a junked-out sedan parked across the road, blocking both lanes. A cliff overgrown with brambles and ferns on the right, a rocky drop-off into the water on the left. Only way out is forward or back. Maksim idles the truck, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

“You gonna turn around?” Bucky growls at last.

“No,” Maksim answers, nodding at the image in the rearview mirror of two SUVs with no headlights roaring up the road behind them, blocking that exit route too. Bucky sighs. Maksim stares.

He stares back. “Did you want to do something about this?”

Maksim grins, tugging a fresh cigarette from his shirt pocket. “I think, Mr. American, that is what you are here for.”  

Bucky eyes his side mirror. Three figures appear from the SUV on the right. Three come out of the one on the left. “One to three is a little better than one against six,” he points out. Maksim shrugs but otherwise doesn’t move a muscle. “Right,” Bucky hisses. “Thanks.”

The passenger door creaks when he shoves it open with a heel. He makes his way past the truck bed, getting a better look at the ambushers. Four men, two women, from what he can tell. They’re sporting a mohawk or two, several pierced noses, leather jackets, torn jeans, suspenders, and he sees one guy is wearing cargo shorts. Shorts. To an ambush.

“Not exactly the A-Team here, huh?” he asks them.

He’s answered with a hail of gunfire, rounds pinging off the truck behind him, and he launches himself forward with a curse. He could care less about Maksim, but he’s got a feeling some of that cargo is flammable, and he doesn’t need to see his hopes of finding Sam go up in flames along with whatever chemicals it is he’s supposed to be guarding.

Other weapons appear in the group’s hands. Knives, a bat, and shit he’s pretty sure that’s a nunchaku. He goes for the woman with the gun first. The only one who was smart enough to bring a real weapon to this fight, so she’s clearly the biggest threat. He crushes the gun in his left hand while he brings his right elbow into her surprised, kohl-rimmed eyes. What did she think was going to happen?

He ducks his head to the side to evade a snap from the nunchaku, the wood and metal close enough to his ear he can hear the whistle. He reaches for the hand behind it, flips the man through the air and brings him down on the dude with a cricket bat. He’ll give them credit for ingenuity, if not execution.  

The other woman comes at him, fists up by her head in a fighting stance. She dances on the balls of her feet, weaving back and forth just out of reach. She’s had some actual training. He still charges straight into her, ignoring the right hook she throws at his jaw, as he takes her into the grille of an SUV hard enough to dent the metal. She collapses to the ground when he steps back.

A knife skids toward his face and he jukes to the side. His right hand is closest, so he shoots that into the nearest face, winces when his broken bones grate against one another while they’re pulverizing someone else’s nose.

The last man standing gapes at his fallen colleagues before he darts back toward one of the SUVs. Bucky snags that nunchaku from the ground and pitches it at the guy’s retreating figure. He goes down with a grunt when it cracks into the back of his skull.   

Bucky shakes out his hand as he stalks back to the truck. Why didn’t you use the arm? “I know, I know,” he sighs. He stops beside the open driver’s side window, meeting Maksim’s unimpressed stare. “Thanks for the help.”

Maksim waves a hand at the rusted-out car impeding their progress. “Take care of that.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches tight enough something pops. “Doesn’t look like that car is going anywhere.”

“Then,” Maksim leans back in his seat with an exaggerated groan, “I suppose we go nowhere too. Until you move it.”

He eyes the car a few yards beyond the truck’s hood. Looks like the engine’s gone, most of the interior as well. Of course he knows he could move it, as easily as he took care of the thugs that just tried to rob them. If Maksim knows he could move it, though, he’s on the edge of a dangerous precipice. He decides to play dumb, and ignores Sam’s voice in his head asking, play?

“How the hell do you think I’m gonna move that?” He points at the sedan’s front bumper. “Drive into it there. Slow. It’ll move.”

Maksim studies him for too long, nothing between them but humid air, the sound of waves dashing themselves apart against the rocky shore. “As you like,” he mutters at last, shifting into gear. The heavy truck easily shoves the sedan aside, metal grating against metal and bald rubber screeching against worn asphalt.

“You couldn’t do that earlier?” Bucky shouts. Maksim just gives him that shit-eating grin from the driver’s seat again.

Bucky eyes the road behind them warily as he walks to the truck. At least those SUVs should delay anyone else seeking to follow them. It’ll delay them, when they come back this way. If they come back this way.

He hops into the passenger seat once the truck is clear of the car. Maksim stays put, one foot on the brake, eyeing the side of Bucky’s head in the anemic dome light. “You need something?” Bucky growls, the fading adrenaline prickling across his skin, heartbeat still stuttering from the fight.      

Maksim takes a napkin from the cupholder between them and reaches toward him. Bucky flinches back into the passenger window, teeth bared. Maksim’s hand hovers in the air between them. That stupid mustache dances over his twitching lips.

“You have,” Maksim touches his own neck with his free hand, “little nick, no?”

Bucky’s hand creeps up to his throat before he can stop it. There’s wetness on the tips of his fingers when he pulls it back. Maksim’s still staring at him when he glances over. “What?” he barks.

Maksim jiggles the napkin. “Would not want blood on Mr. Zetkov’s upholstery.”

“Fuck the upholstery,” he snarls.

Maksim smirks as he tilts his head, running his gaze across Bucky, still pressed into the corner of the cab. He finally replaces the napkin in the cupholder. “As you like. You may explain to him what happened, when we return.”

Bucky eases back into his seat, keeping a wary eye on Maksim. “Just drive, asshole.” A flash of white teeth in the darkness is all he gets in response. Bucky ignores that too. Maksim turns back to the windshield and leans on the gas pedal, and Bucky’s fingers reach up to prod at his neck. That knife sliced a line across his throat and up to his jawline, thin but deeper than he likes. Shit. How did he miss that?  

The rest of the drive is uneventful, the truck’s pale headlights cutting a jittering bright gash along the rough road. Bucky almost lets out a sigh when he sees the silhouette of the warehouse rise up from the earth, before he remembers who’s sitting beside him. Maksim parks the truck outside one of the loading bays, and more people emerge from the darkness around the facility.

He trails Maksim into the warehouse, eyeing the figures as he passes. Rough faces, some pocked with scars, others with tattoos. Calling out to each other in sharp tones in the type of pidgin he expects from a place like this. He follows Maksim into the warehouse’s central room, and his feet are suddenly stuck to the concrete.

Two forms pace mindlessly from the pallets to the benches, and back again. Blank stares, flat faces. “You have to be fucking kidding me,” he says.

Maksim shoots him a look over one shoulder. “Yes, Mr. American?”

Bucky gapes, waving at the people, one man, one woman. The man is a thin blade, dark hair above pale eyes. Her, though. That girl, curly dark hair falling in her face, obscuring her vacant eyes. Those same implacable movements. Any hint of emotion, of fear, of disgust, wiped off her face. Replaced with the mindless stare he saw the first time he met her. “She’s…what is she doing here?” Bucky sputters.  

Maksim regards him with a considering frown. “Working?”

“No…” Bucky works his mouth. “She…I got her out of here.”

“Ah,” Maksim says, eyes widening. “I see. This is the one you pulled from here? She did not get far.”

“But…” Bucky works his mouth. “She was free,” he says, more to himself than anyone.

Maksim hears him, though. “She was. Guess she could not stay away.”

Nonononono, his brain screams. “She said…I thought she wouldn’t go back to…” he catches himself there.

“Maybe not so easy to leave behind. Maybe harder, when you have no where else to go,” Maksim muses, oddly thoughtful. This is the moment that Sam would seize on, start trying to worm into that sandy-haired head. “Habits can be…hard to stop.” He chuffs. “I see many people come back, begging, after they scream that they would stay away, never come back. Not so easy, to change.” Maksim blinks away the pensive expression on his face, paints that stupid smile on his lips when he looks back at Bucky. “Like you, Mr. American. Keep coming back for more, no? You must like it.”

Sam would get it, right? If Bucky had to leave him here, had to flee for the hills, just because he really, really, needed to punch this asshole’s face in?

He eyes the girl mournfully. ”Why did you go back?” Was she that desperate, that chasing her next high was worth getting caught in this mess again? If she hears him, she doesn’t show it. He wants to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. He would, too, if he thought it would make a damn bit of difference. But how many times did the thought of crawling back to Hydra on his hands and knees occur to him those first few weeks on the run? How close was he to doing what she did?

He could drag her out of here again. But it’s not going to do any good, if she keeps coming back. If whoever is behind this keeps finding replacements. If he can find who’s doing this, where the drug is coming from…can’t he help more people?  

“Some people,” Maksim mutters, “they cannot be saved. Best to not try.”

Bucky turns back to Maksim, gaze hooded and sharp. “Whatever. Are we done here?”

Another snort, and Maksim waves for him to follow. He clenches his left hand into a fist but falls in line. He casts one glance back, as they leave, at the two dolls, their faces blank slates. “I’m sorry,” he whispers to the girl, one last time, before he turns for the exit.

He doesn’t have a choice. He has to leave them here. He needs to find Sam, and then he’ll find whoever is making this drug. Then they’ll be free. All of them.

He’ll make this right. He’ll make everything right.

Right?    

He finds his way to Lulu, once they’re back at the Gazelle. She’s in the same perch, at the far end of the bar with a drink and a cigarette between her emerald fingernails. She gives him an appraising look when he approaches.

“Everything go well?”

“The hell do you think?” he snaps.

Her lips twitch. “Ah. I think you are not happy with favor I asked.”

“You want me to protect drugs…supplies…whatever for you, that’s one thing. You didn’t tell me what would be waiting on the other side.”

“Because I did not need to,” she points out. “You know how this works. And this makes no difference. You plan to put a stop to dolls, yes?”

“Not the dolls,” he growls. “The people making them.”

She hums. “Then you do what you must.”

He chuckles darkly. “Means to a necessary end, right?”

“As you say.” She blows out a thin line of smoke. “We call our customer. Tell them we need meeting tomorrow. You come here in the morning. I will give you location.”

“And you think this customer of yours will actually be there?”

She shrugs. “Who can say. Someone will come. Maybe someone you need. Maybe someone you don’t. Do you have better option?”

He watches the bassist and the drummer take the stage and start settling in. “No,” he answers, laid bare.

“No,” she repeats. That smile comes back to her lips. Zetkov keeps calling himself a businessman. He’s got nothing on this woman, though. “One last thing, Mr. American. When you have what you want, you leave. You draw too many eyes. And your friend, if everyone knew he was here? Would draw many more. You take care of the people behind the dolls, then you take you and your friend off my island. And all these eyes watching for you, they stop seeing me. Yes?”    

He’d swim away from this place right now, dragging Sam with him against the current, if he could. “Deal.”

She takes one last drag of her cigarette before she rubs it out in the ashtray. “Good,” she says, smoke haloing her face. “Tomorrow morning. We will have something for you then.”

He watches her sway up the short steps to the stage. He waits until she starts singing, then navigates through belligerent patrons to the front door. He pushes out into another Madripoori night, the last few bars of Luck be a Lady following him into the dark.

He turns his gaze to the murky sky, cast in a green glow from the sign hanging over the bar’s stoop. “Hold on,” he says, but he isn’t sure who he’s talking to.

He has failed again.

He does not know what to expect from the woman on the couch when he returns.

He does. That sinking part of him that knows more than it should tells him he should expect swift punishment for his mistakes. It says a shadow who once walked his path received that countless times. He does not know how he knows this. He does not know who this shadow is.

He does. He has stood beside this shadow, walked beside it, though he cannot comprehend how.  

All the woman gives him when he informs her of the night’s activities is a scowl, however.

Tell me.

He tells her he found the stranger’s room. That he charged in, hoping to take the stranger by surprise. That the stranger was waiting for him, ready.

How did he know you were there?

He does not know. He took great care not to be seen as he entered the building.

Then what happened?

He tells her they fought. He tells her he was unable to overcome the stranger until an unknown woman interrupted them. He tells her this intercession gave him an opportunity to counter the stranger’s blows. That it led to the woman, and then the stranger, dangling by a handhold outside the window.

Why were you unable to defeat him then?

He tells her he brought his shield down on the stranger’s hand. He tells her he watched the stranger fall. He does not tell her he saw in his mind’s eye someone helping the stranger up the window. He does not tell her he saw himself, flying after the stranger, catching him before he hit the ground. He does not tell her he felt relief in this vision, when he saved the stranger.

He was not hurt in the fall?

He tells her believes the stranger was injured. He tells her he threw his shield at the stranger. He does not tell her about that peculiar moment when he hesitated, when his body would not let him loose the shield.

And then?

He tells her by the time he retrieved the shield the stranger had vanished. That he searched the nearby streets and alleys. That he left shortly after, fearing discovery from those attracted by the sounds of the battle. He does not tell her he had another vision then, of the other man who wears his face conducting that search, examining every nook and crevice of the city. He does not tell her he knows that man would have never stopped looking for his…for the stranger.

The woman looks at him, then her phone. She makes a call, studying her fingernails as she does so. He got away, it appears. Have you… She pauses, frowning. Ah. I see. He thinks he is the hunter, here? Let us disabuse him of that notion.

The woman holds the phone against her shoulder for a moment. She bids him come closer and reaches long fingers toward his face. He does not flinch when she does this. She did not tell him he could flinch. She runs a manicured nail along a bruise flaring on his cheekbone, where the stranger landed a glancing blow.

Do you see? she asks. Do you understand how dangerous this man is? What he would do to you?

He nods. The stranger is dangerous. Of that he has no doubt.

She grants him a short smile. Good. I expect you to be successful next time. She dismisses him with a wave and returns to her call. He listens to her voice as he pads out of the room and down the hallway.

I suspect so. Of course. Not that I’ve seen, no. We have nothing to worry about there.

His feet still on the carpet. He is certain the woman is speaking about him. She is correct. She has no reason to be worried about him. He blinks at the beige wall in front of him. Does she?

Have a little surprise waiting for him next time. Yes. That will do nicely. We’ll see how many traps the little pest can weasel his way out of.

He casts a glance behind his shoulder. Now he knows the woman is speaking about the stranger. She is making plans to deal with the stranger. Without him. Of course. She hardly needs his permission. Still, he feels strangely…excluded…to know there are wheels that he is not setting in motion when it comes to that man. Why?

He shakes his head. Because that was his assignment. Yes. That’s it. He does not like leaving a task unfinished, forcing other people to compensate for his mistakes. That must be it.

He doesn’t see the woman much the next few days. She summons him in the evenings, and directs him to sideboard in the room, where a syringe and vial sit. He prepares the syringe as he was instructed. He injects the syringe into the bare skin of his neck, as she showed him. He sets the syringe down on the tray when he’s done and waits for her to dismiss him.

She tells him to rest and prepare, though she doesn’t say for what. He is left on his own, in the room he was given, in the kitchen where he prepares his meals. Without direction, without a task, he itches for guidance. He feels he is not accustomed to idle time, though he cannot say why.

In the quiet hours between meals, his mind charts peculiar paths. He thinks one day he hears the sound of young boys laughing. The next he swears he smells something baking, starchy and sweet, in the breeze that blows in from the sea. Yet another time he closes his eyes and sees a machine that cannot be – a monstrosity the size of a city block, laden with aircraft, that hovers hundreds of feet in the air. At the far end of this construction, he sees a figure cloaked in black, shimmering in the sun. He has seen this figure before, seen it recently, but he cannot give it a name.  

He thinks about this city, too. Madripoor. The only home he has ever known, according to the woman. Yet when he thinks of that word – home – it is not this place he thinks of, a stitch of neon lights nestled against verdant peaks, amidst the warm, dark sea. It’s a thing far smaller, a cluster of buildings clinging to the banks of a muddy river. It’s a forest of faces he swears he might know, but when he looks too closely at them all he sees are shapeless forms above and around him, faces gone black, eyes burning bright.

He ponders the stranger, too. This man who he cannot best, who has met nearly every one of his blows. He is certain the stranger has power beyond his reckoning, though he has not used it. Why did the stranger keep repeating that one word? What did it mean? And why did he hesitate to throw his shield at the stranger, if only for a moment?

He cannot answer these questions, so he considers what he has told the woman about the stranger. More importantly, he considers the things he has omitted. And why. He cannot answer these questions either. He is not certain what he will do when she asks him to hunt the stranger again. But he knows he wants it to be him charged with this task, and no one else.

He finds his answer, at length. The woman summons him back to the room with the couch and watches him inject himself. She asks him to sit beside her when he is finished. This is odd – other than the first day in the chair, he remains standing in this room. Her eyes are bright and keen when he takes a seat. Her painted lips pull back to reveal perfect white teeth.

We’ve found him. He is very hard to kill, isn’t he? You are not the first to fail at this. But we have a plan. It’s time for you to finish the job. Are you ready?

That voice in the back of his mind screams. The things he can barely recall yell. Something in his chest, heavy and warm, answers.

But it’s his lips, tied to the commands that come from her, that reply.

Yes.

He flies to the appointed place, a crumbling, rambling building that clings to a thin strip of land between the hills and the churning waters of the island’s northern bay. Battered railroad tracks trundle from either end of the building, and a few graffiti-covered railroad cars sit abandoned next to it. The air is heavy with the monsoon rains, the promise of far horizons blowing in on the sharp breeze. He alights on an exposed rock on the hillside overlooking the old station. And waits.

We believe he’ll be there. He’s been sniffing around our operation. Someone told him about this place, told him he could go there to…well. They told him it held something he is searching for. But all he’ll find when he gets there is you.

Late in the afternoon, while the sun rests behind watery clouds, he sees a dark shape slink toward the entrance. It easily scales the chain link gates at the facility’s front. It approaches the doors and slides through them into the building.

We’ll lay the trap before he gets there. All you need do is spring it.

He flits down from his perch to land at the doors, one of which is cracked open, just wide enough for a body to fit through. He slides through the opening himself, knowing the stranger was here just moments ago. The knowledge fills him with an emotion he cannot identify.  

It will be a simple task for you. Once he is in the right place, you simply set it off. Stay close to the exits and make your departure quickly. You will not have much time, but I am confident in your ability to escape without harm.

He does not understand this, asking him to place himself in harm’s way like this. He will not hesitate to do it, he knows that, but he has a niggling thought he would not ask the same of anyone else. Almost anyone else.

You do not need to enter the building. Simply confirm the man has entered it.

The woman told him to remain close to the door. But he does not see the stranger. He pads deeper into the building.

Take care not to get too close to this man. He will hear you coming long before you can see him.

His boots crunch in broken glass and scattered rubble. He has no reason to remain stealthy. The stranger knows he is here. He is confident of that. He follows the stranger’s trail until he comes to a central area with high ceilings. Those steel tracks from outside pace through here as well, echoes of an era long since passed. Empty patches in the ceiling where the rain and wind have worn down the glass paneled roof let in slants of pale light.

The stranger is standing in one of these pools, staring evenly at him. The stranger says that word again. He thinks he almost knows what it means. He thinks he has heard it many times before. Before Madripoor, even, an impossible event that could not have occurred. The stranger continues speaking.

So. She said someone would be here. Guess I should have figured it would be you.

He tilts his head. Someone?

Still not entirely sure who the people who took you are. Or what they’re doing. Guess they’re giving you some sort of drug, though. Sounds like it’s a real trip. Swear to God, when I find the people who did this to you…

He searches the rest of the room. The woman told him to find the trigger mechanism. He sees nothing in this room that suggests a trap of any sort. But it is not for him to question.

It’s an injection, right? That’s what the girl said. They making you take it once a day, too?

He blinks at the stranger. He thinks of the syringe and vial, waiting for him on the tray every night. How could this man know that?

But this girl I talked to, she said she remembered some things. That’s what happened with you, isn’t it? I think you coulda really hurt me when I was on the ground outside Al’s place, if you wanted to.

He shakes his head. He does not understand this question. He does not know who this Al is. Then he remembers the Madripoori woman. With the sword. Could that be this Al? He has a faint inclination he would admire her, in another life.  

But you didn’t. Why do you think that is?

This gives him pause. The woman has asked him many questions, about what he has seen, what he has done. She rarely asks him what he thinks. He does not know how to answer this question.

And now they’re sending you after me. Why is that? Do they know who we are? Well. Who I am? Obviously, they know who you are. Suit’s kinda a dead give-away, right?

We?

So, look, not expecting you to just snap out of it here. I know that’s not really how it works.

How what works? What does the stranger know about him?

All I’m asking here is that you don’t kill me before I can figure out whatever it is. Kinda got a feeling that’s what they sent you here to do.

They did. She did. The woman…she told him to kill…the stranger. She told him he was to do whatever she directed him to do. There is no other possibility.

Just…I know you’re in there. I know I can get you back. I just need a shot, here.

He takes a step away. Back? Back to what? There was nothing before Madripoor, he knows this. And yet…

Gimmie a chance. Come on. Try to remember. The stranger steps toward him. His own heels lift, drawn by a force he cannot comprehend.

Sam.

He watches the stranger step closer and closer, two hands held out away from his body. One wrapped in a stark white bandage. The other cloaked in black. He broke one of those hands. The stranger tried to use the other to break him fr — break him. That metal hand would be the end of him.

He feels the phantom weight of the woman’s finger, tracing the mark this stranger left on him. Do you understand how dangerous this man is? He does. And the woman told him to kill the stranger. He obeys. Always.

He launches the shield with a roar, right into the stranger’s midsection. He’s in the air before it completes the rebound, snags the edge with one hand. He shoots straight up, up, up, out into the paltry sunlight. Above the roof he sees it – the device bolted to drums of fuel sitting in a hollow of the station’s roof. And he sees the spot he is meant to hit with his shield, a bright red blemish. As the woman promised. She has never lied to him.

He heaves the shield at the trigger. The roof folds in on itself, dropping the drums and the device to the level below. A silent moment, a pregnant pause. He sees the flames warp up through the holes in the roof before he hears the blast that obliterates the boards concealing the building’s windows, before he feels that terrible warmth wash over him.

He watches the station burn, thick black smoke pouring from every opening. The stranger is in there. Was in there. The stranger…the man…who he could not defeat. Who asked him what he thought. Who knew…what did that little word mean again?

The woman told him to remain here. To watch the place burn to cinders. To scry through the rubble afterwards, until he could spy whatever remained of the stranger.

The hot wind blows ash in his face. He has to blink moisture out of his eyes, though he knows the odd red visor should be protecting them. He has to turn his face away, for a moment. Once he does, he finds he cannot look back.

He flies off, sounds echoing out from his throat, his chest, his heart, that he does not understand. He does not need to understand them. He still has a job to do.

He walks into the room with the couch. The woman looks up when he enters.

Were you successful?

He tells her he was, though he feels anything but. She beams at him.

Excellent. We will have more assignments for you. Until then, enjoy your victory. She waves at the vial and syringe, arrayed on the tray as always. He steps to the buffet and takes the syringe in one hand. He extracts the liquid carefully.

Some kind of injection, right? the stranger asked. How could the stranger have known?

He presses the tip of the needle against his neck, as he has always done, every day, for as long as he can remember.

I just need a shot, here.

He looks over a shoulder. The woman’s head is buried deep in the phone she holds in one hand. The other swirls amber liquid around a perfect ice cube in a crystal tumbler.

He presses the plunger towards his skin. The liquid in the syringe dribbles down the side of his neck, pools under the collar of his white suit. Invisible. He sets the empty syringe down on the tray and pads out of the room without a word.

Gimmie a chance.

He thinks, perhaps, it is too late for the stranger. He thinks, perhaps, someone might call what he is doing a lost cause. He thinks, perhaps, he has a thing for lost causes.

He repeats that word, that single syllable, to himself as he pads, feather light, to the room he was given.

Sam.

Chapter Text

There’s a moment, a flicker, when he thinks he see Sam’s eyes in not-Sam’s face. Only a moment.

Then not-Sam takes real-Sam with him through the hole in the roof, and Bucky’s world goes supernova in a blood-curdling rush of heat and a bone-shattering roar. It’s instinct, honed by surviving everything the world threw at him for decades, that propels him through the boards covering the nearest window, not anything close to conscious thought.

The heat ripples the air around him, the concussive snap of the explosion drills straight into his brain. He hits the damp sand outside the factory in a roll that has more to do with the vertigo from the blast than any sort of plan to extinguish the flames that are writhing up his body. He comes up in a dead sprint, knowing he needs to get clear of more blasts, needs to get out of the open before not-Sam spots him. He skids under a rocky outcropping near the edge of the bay, pulse hammering in his ears.

He eyes the thin stretch of sky visible between the acrid black smoke pouring out of the facility and the green moss dangling from the rocks above him. There’s nothing up there beyond a thick deck of clouds hovering near the horizon. He pants, warm breath pooling in his mouth. Then it’s the crackle of the flames he hears. Then it’s the scent of burning rubber and melted metal he smells.

Then it’s fuckfuckfuck Sam tried to blow me up?

No, his brain whispers, not Sam. The fuckers who made Sam do this. Another sharp breath. Yeah, he’s gonna kill them. All of them.

First, though. He pats down his chest, looks for blood. Then he checks that his legs and arms are all still attached. Huh. Maybe he made it out of there okay. Then he twists his spine, peers over his shoulder. Oh. That’s…probably not good.

Everything’s still back there. Just not quite in the shape it should be. The jacket across the right side of his back is a smoking, smoldering, charred, sand-clogged mess. He arches so he can get his left fingers under the hem. He peels the fabric back. Or tries to. It’s not going anywhere. Not without taking a good chunk of his skin with it.

This is…definitely not good. Burn that bad, covering that much of his body? That’ll send even a serum-enhanced body into shock in no time at all. He turns back to the beach. And if not-Sam is still here, and comes for him, he’s toast. He giggles a little at that. Toast.

He shakes his head. That’s…not good either. He looks at the wound again. It’s just starting to tingle and prickle. Good. Must mean the nerves are still intact. Then the prickling flares into a white-hot agony, like someone’s dragging barbed wire right across those nerves, and he amends that thought. Might be better if he couldn’t feel anything, actually.

His breath starts to catch in his lungs. Okay. Think. He needs to get out of here, in case not-Sam is patrolling the coast. He needs to get this burn taken care of before it has a chance to turn into something worse. Needs to get the fabric, and the sand, and whatever the fuck else is in there out before his serum-enhanced skin can start sealing it in. That at least, he knows from ample experience, does not end well.  

He stumbles toward the road while his feet can still carry him. His bike is where he left it, no sign of not-Sam around. Real-Sam’s always giving him grief about how much more dangerous a motorcycle is than a car, but at least he can sit on it without his back coming into contact with anything. He’ll let Sam know. He can already see the annoyed look on Sam’s face, hear that begrudging tone his voice takes on when he knows Bucky’s right about something.   

Oh. Oh right. Sam. He stumbles over a loose rock on the road, lands on his good hand and both knees. Stays there, for a second, gasping as the asphalt grows blurry in his vision. Okay, okay, he tells himself. Get it together. Get on the fucking bike. Get the hell out of here.

He drags himself upright, chest echoing with a short whine when his vision fades to white for a second or two. He bites his tongue until he comes back to himself, every inch of his body quivering. Drags one foot in front of him. Then the other. Pretends he doesn’t hear the sounds that movement wrenches from his throat. Pretends his eyes aren’t burning to match his back, pretends his throat isn’t caught on a sob. Pretends Sam is on the other side of the road, waving a hand to urge him on.

If he can just get to his bike, Sam will be there. He’ll grab Bucky’s arms like he did when Bucky staggered out of that destroyed estate in Managua, you asshole, you didn’t tell me that was part of the plan, shake him a little, seriously what the fuck were you thinking, before he ducks his head to get a better look at Bucky’s face, Jesus, you’re okay, right? Tell me you’re okay.

“I’m okay,” he whispers, but it’s just the gleaming chrome of the bike around to hear his words. He heaves a leg over the seat and braces his hands against the bars. Starts the bike and rides it along the beach road until buildings take the place of rocky shoals. Keeps going, ignoring how the rattling of the tires on the rough road echoes through his battered body. He tries to hold himself as still as possible while he goes, but that makes the muscles in his back clench. What’s left of them, at least.

He navigates into lowtown on autopilot. He doesn’t even consider going to the hospital he dropped the dolls off at in hightown. God knows who might be on the take, there. Instead, he heads in the direction of the Green Gazelle, though he pulls off on a side street a few blocks away. He needs a few tries to get the kickstand set and leaves his bike — Zetkov’s bike — in the mouth of a nearby alley.

He stumbles down a narrow stone staircase next to a shabby brownstone. The dour faced man at the desk in what passes for a reception area in this back alley clinic takes one look at him and waves him through. He lets himself into a back room doused in overhead light. The only furnishing is a single hospital bed in the middle of the floor. The only decoration is a lacy curtain in front of the narrow barred window at the top of the wall.

An older woman bustles in, the kind with the pinched, no-nonsense expression he expects from a place like this. A younger woman, her dark hair pulled in high pigtails away from her round, pale face — the daughter, or the assistant, maybe both—trails in too. There’s no chit chat, no tell me what happened, no what are your symptoms. They don’t care to hear it, and he doesn’t care to tell it. That’s the thing he likes about places like this. No dumb questions.

The older woman motions him to sit at the edge of the elevated bed. She and the assistant vanish behind his back, and shit if that doesn’t make him jumpy, even if he knows what they’re doing back there. One of them pries the edge of his charred jacket up and he bites back a scream. Some muttering — could be Laotian, he’s having a tough time focusing on it right now —and the assistant steps out of the room. She’s back a moment later, wheeling a cart in front of her. Bucky does his best not to look too closely at what’s on it.

More bustling, the clinician selecting her tools. The assistant picks up a syringe and an unmarked vial, raises her eyebrow at him expectantly. He shakes his head. This place is supposed to be alright, but he’s still not letting anyone put something in him when he doesn’t know for sure what’s in it. He’s a bit paranoid like that.

The assistant exchanges a look with the clinician and shrugs. She sets the syringe down and picks up a metal bowl. She presses it into his uninjured hand and has him bring it up under his face. He’s trying to figure out what the bowl is for when the clinician steps behind him.

“This will hurt,” she says in crisp English. Then there’s a ripping sound, something sloughing off Bucky’s back. An odor that reminds him of burnt goat meat hits him full in the face. The clinician shifts and Bucky’s back is suddenly burning cold before it flares into agony. She dumps the charred remains of that part of his jacket in a tray in the cart, and that’s when he realizes it’s not just his jacket she was pulling off him, and that bowl comes in very handy when he loses the fried rice he had for lunch.     

The clinician continues her labor, removing one charred strip of fabric and who knows what else after another and there goes breakfast too. Another piece, and another piece, and still another piece and good fucking God he’s changed his mind whatever is in that syringe he’ll take it fuck he’ll take whatever Maksim had in his bag it has to be better than this and fuck how long can this keep going like he’s a goddamn textile factory and just when he’s about to say fuck it whatever’s left can stay just get him the fuck out of here…she’s done.

“Finished with that,” she says. “Now the worst part.”

Oh, fuck him.

He hobbles out of there, side and back covered with kerlix and tape, dressed in a worn brown button up the assistant dragged out of a back closet. There’re a few faded stains on one arm, and he knows better than to ask about its previous owner.

If he had any doubt before, there’s none in his mind now. He’s going to find the people who did this to Sam and skin all of them alive. Then he’s going to punch Sam in the face. Then he’s going to go back to the people who did this to Sam and punch them in the face. Lather, rinse, repeat.

First, though, he’s going to reevaluate his position on street drugs, find the closest thing to an opiate he can, get back to his rental and wash them down with an entire six pack. And he’s going to really, really hope Sam doesn’t find that place anytime soon. There’s no way he’s surviving another round with tall, dark, and slightly psychotic. He’s barely keeping himself upright.

God, he’s gonna give Sam so much shit about this when he…

He has to stop, catch himself on the wall of a nearby building, hissing when that tugs on the skin of his brutalized back. Fuck. Sam. Sam, who came perilously close to killing Bucky this time. Sam, who if he was himself right now would be losing his mind, his lunch too. Sam, who some crazed fuck has turned into a mindless murder machine. Sam, who is the whole reason he’s here, who he’s lost three…no, four times already. Sam, who would do anything for his friends, and for Bucky. Sam, who Bucky can’t do a goddamn thing for right now, who Bucky keeps failing over and over and…

He slides down to his knees, fingers digging divots in the masonry, trying to expel whatever might be left in his stomach. He blinks the water out of his eyes when he’s done. He takes a long breath in through his nose, out his mouth. Another. Okay. Okay. Sam’s still out there. He’s not dead. Bucky’s still got a chance. He pushes himself back up to standing, ignores the wobble in his knees. He turns around and heads back the way he came, to that clinic. Places like that stash all sorts of shit. They’ll have what he needs.

The drive back to his apartment is transcendentally painful. He’s been hurt plenty before. Hydra wasn’t exactly known for its humane methods.

Burns though, he thinks those are the worst. The way the pain can just roar up behind you, snatch your breath away. The way the throbbing from the bad burns radiates outwards, grabs the rest of your body and pulls it back in until all that’s left is a singularity of terrible, overwhelming, indescribable agony.

At least that’s what he’d tell anyone who asked about it. Not that anyone out here is going to. The only person on this thrice-damned island that might care how he’s doing…well, the lights are on there, but no one’s home.

So he keeps his thoughts to himself on that excruciatingly long ride across the bridge. He takes the elevator up again. No fucking way is he making it up those stairs, he’d be done by the time he made the landing of the third floor. It takes him a few tries to get the key in the lock. Why do they make those holes so small, anyway?

He locks the door behind him on sheer muscle memory. Then he’s down on his hands and knees on the floor of the foyer. He takes a stab at getting back on his feet. He blinks once and he’s prone on his stomach instead, clammy forehead pressed into the tile. It’s fine. It’s pretty nice tile anyway. He snaps a few breaths through his mouth.

It’s not that travertine he sees in his vision, though. It’s the look on Sam’s face, the moment after Bucky said his name. The confusion, the understanding, the sorrow, the rage. Then it was gone, so quickly he wonders if he saw it at all, if it wasn’t just more wishful thinking. Rhodey seemed to believe Sam was still in there when they talked, at least.  

Rhodey. Shit.

Sarah. Shit.

He owes them both a call. Should tell them he saw Sam, one more time. Should tell them he failed Sam, one more time. Should tell them he failed everyone.

He still has his phone. Damn thing’s come out of all this shit with nary a scratch. He can feel the plastic and metal digging into his hip. Right below that spot where the bullet wound from the encounter outside the restaurant is still mending. Huh. If he focuses on that discomfort, the blazing, screaming, blistered, shredded mess that is the right side of his body doesn’t feel quite as bad.

Why is he thinking about that bullet wound, again? Oh, right, his phone. It’s there, right there. Certainly close enough that there’s no excuse for not telling Rhodey and Sarah what happened today. Letting them know not-Sam did his best to turn Bucky into Winter Soldier Satay.

He should call them. He should call anyone. He should get his ass up off this floor, at the very least. Instead, he turns his head, presses a bruised cheek into the tile. Lets his eyes droop closed. He’ll take care of this other stuff, he will. He just…needs another minute.

Bucky’s back at Zetkov’s the next day, running on the afterburn of adrenaline, a few hours rough sleep, and his own, simmering, boiling, blinding rage. He threw an old t-shirt and his spare jacket on over the bandage this morning. At this rate, he’ll exhaust his wardrobe by the time he’s done here.

He doesn’t give Lulu a chance to open the door for him, just wrenches the handle open in his vibranium hand. Doesn’t look like Lulu’s in the building anyway. He’ll find her later. For now, he heads to the backroom and shoves open the door to Zetkov’s office.

Zetkov’s there, as always. He wonders briefly if the man even has a home, or if he sleeps under the desk in here. What would the criminal even look like, outside of his natural habitat? Could he survive anywhere but this bar in Madripoor, or would he just be gasping and flopping around, like those sturgeon Bucky sees when he’s walking along the docks in Delacroix with Sam?

He draws his skittering mind back in time to see Zetkov glance up from his desk and give him a look that he might call concern on a more familiar face. On Zetkov’s, it’s pure calculation.

“Good morning, Mr. American,” he says. His eyes trail over Bucky’s form.  “Though it does not appear to be a good morning for you.”

He stiffens his spine under Zetkov’s probing stare. “Yeah, whatever,” he murmurs back in a hoarse voice.

Zetkov quirks a brow. “Truly, my friend. You do not look at all well.”

That’s because his back is burnt to a crisp, his hand’s still killing him, and every bruise on his body is competing in an overwhelming cacophony for his immediate attention. “I’m fine,” is what he growls out. “What the fuck was that place you sent me to yesterday?”

Zetkov frowns. “The station? I gather it did not meet your expectations.”  

“Not exactly,” Bucky snarls. “You said your customer was supposed to be there.”

“I take it they were not,” Zetkov drawls. “Then I apologize that you did not find what you were looking for.”

Oh, he found it alright. Or it found him. Clearly waiting for him. But how did they learn he was going there? Was that trap for him, or Zetkov? Or Lulu? And how…

“Hello?” Zetkov tries.

Bucky blinks furiously, dragging his wandering brain back to here, and now. “I…” he swallows. “They seemed to know I was going to be there. How?”  

He watches Zetkov’s face for any twitch, listens for a sharper twinge to his breathing. Zetkov does look a little perturbed. That might have something to do with the incredibly dangerous, pissed off man standing in his office, though. “I assure you, my friend. I did not know I was sending you into a trap.”

He can’t tell if Zetkov’s lying. The other man is probably pretty practiced at it by now. Bucky’s not exactly on his A-game, either. “Well,” he decides, “I wouldn’t recommend any more meetings there. It’s not exactly in working condition at the moment.”

Zetkov nods, a thin line of tension dripping away from his shoulders. “I thank you for that information. And I am,” that lingering look across Bucky’s body again, and he suppresses a grimace, “relieved to see that you survived your encounter. Although…what sort of encounter was it?”

Bucky’s turn to school his face flat. “Nothing I couldn’t handle. Now. I’m gonna need another meeting with your customer.”

“It appears they do not want to meet with you.” Zetkov tugs on his beard. “Or perhaps they do. But I wonder what else they’ll do if they suspect you are coming.”

“Don’t wonder about me,” he advises. “Or do. Wonder what I’ll do to you if I go to another one of these places and find an ambush waiting for me.”

Zetkov’s mouth forms an O. “Now, my friend. There is no need to be so combative.”

He hums in prevarication. “Fine. Set up another meeting. I’d prefer something with fewer explosives this time.”

“Ah,” a voice hisses behind him. He wrenches around to face it and bites back a yelp. He blinks a few times until Maksim’s multiple faces resolve into one. One that is way too close to his, and he steps back involuntarily. Shit again. He didn’t even hear the door open behind him. “I hear there was fire yesterday. Did little bird get his wings singed?”

“Maksim,” Zetkov chides. “You’ve returned early.”

Maksim’s gaze doesn’t shift from Bucky’s face. “I am efficient man.” He grins, showing Bucky all of his yellowing teeth. “When I set out to do something, I do it. No hesitation.”

Bucky leans toward Maksim, just to see how the man reacts. He’s got the look on his face that usually makes people shrink back. Maksim’s lip just twitches under his absurd little mustache. Bucky might be losing his touch. Or it might be the sweat he can feel beading on his clammy skin, along his hairline. Hard to say.

“Good,” Zetkov intones evenly. “We will need to set up another meeting for our American friend here. Though I am not certain if our customer will answer our calls, now.”

Maksim grins. “Ah. Bridge burned, perhaps?” He tilts his head. “I’m sure we can do something to get back in good graces.” He tuts at Bucky. “But, perhaps you not like what we offer.”

Yeah, Bucky’s gonna smash that smug face in. He might wait until standing on his own two feet is less of a challenge, though. “Just try it,” he says, gritting his teeth.

“Now, now,” Zetkov intones. “No need for this. Give us time, my friend. We will think of something.”

“Yes,” Maksim purrs. “Something.”

Bucky locks his knees against the trembling that’s threatening to set up shop there. He ought to start throwing shit around. Breaking things. Breaking bones. Then he might get some results. Maksim’s giving him that look, though, that smirk as his icy eyes clock Bucky’s form, ferret out every injury. The smile keeps getting bigger. He must like what he sees.

Maksim shifts on his feet, takes half a step closer, and Bucky can’t hide the unease that skitters down his spine. “Alright,” he says at last, confidence ringing hollow. “I’ll be back.”

Zetkov nods. “We will see you soon. Take care until then, Mr. American.”

“Take care,” Maksim echoes caustically as Bucky walks by him. He tries for one more glare. Maksim almost laughs. Right. Like a field mouse trying to stare down an owl right now.

He doesn’t peek over his shoulder as he walks away, mostly because he thinks that movement might send him down to the ground once and for all. He tries his best to listen for footfalls behind him, but it’s too hard to hear over the blood pounding in his ears.

Lulu’s behind the bar, stacking glasses on the shelves, when he walks through. She waves him over again and peers closely at his face.

“Some fucking meeting,” he snarls at her.

She shrugs. “I tell you, maybe you not like what you find.”

“Yeah,” he snorts. “Can’t say it was great.”

She sets two glasses down on the bar and pulls a bottle off the top shelf. He waves her off, but she pours him a drink anyway. She pushes the glass toward him with two fingers. “Drink,” she says. “You need one.”

Hard to argue with the lady. He clinks his glass against hers and downs it in one gulp, prepared for a new burn. It goes down smooth and smoky though. He meets her eyes when she’s finished. “Tell me why I should believe you didn’t set me up at that last place.”

She matches his gaze evenly. “Believe what you like. But I tell you. I want these dolls gone. The people that create them, I want them gone. Most of all, I want you gone.”

He sees nothing in her face that suggests otherwise. There’s a comfort in that blunt honesty. “Fine,” he accepts. “What about Zetkov, though?”

“Would he set-up trap, you mean?” He nods. She hums. “No. I do not think so. Zetkov does not care for these dolls. And as I say,” she motions at the bruises marching down the side of Bucky’s face, “Zetkov does not like to see beautiful things damaged.”

He takes considerably less comfort in that thought, though he believes it too. “Okay,” he decides. “So now what?”

She taps her fingers on the bar. “Now what? Now you go home. I think you are done with fighting, for now.”

“I’m not done,” he snarls. “They have my friend. I’m going to get him back. I need another chance.”

She looks at him for too long. “I see. Then we set up another meeting with customer.”

He would laugh if he had the energy. “Yeah. Didn’t quite go as planned before. And I’m not sure they’re going to take your calls anymore.”

“True. But,” she sucks at a tooth. “We tell them we make mistake. Offer to restore trust. Tell them we give them something to make amends. Tell them we give them something they want.”

“What’s that?” he asks.

Her lips twitch. “You.”  

Chapter Text

At least he’s in some familiar haunts this time. The address Lulu gave him is down the street from Al’s guesthouse. He ogles the blown out window on the upper floor, left open to the world, when he gets close. He peers through the darkened windows, too. He hopes Al landed on her feet. Metaphorically speaking. He knows she landed on her ass, he saw that. She’ll probably have words for him, if they ever see each other again.

The place he’s supposed to go is on the ground floor of this building. At least that’s where Lulu told Zetkov’s customer he’d be. He heads up the decrepit stairwell instead. Finds a spot in the shadow cast by a defunct air conditioner where he can sit himself down, wrap his arms loosely around his legs and rest his throbbing head on his knees.  

He watches the sun go down over the rooftops of Madripoor. It’s a lot quieter up here, doppler of the scooters and street stalls and hustlers distorted by several stories. There’s a perfect moment of suspension, with the light slanting low and golden, when all he can see are the silhouettes of Madripoor’s towers against the distant mountains, limned pink by the fading sun.

He wonders how many of these rooftops not-Sam has stood on. Wonders why he was there, what cruel tasks the people at the other end of his leash sent him on. Wonders what flavor of nightmare Sam will have from here on out, if Bucky can ever get him back. Will they be like his, vivid and visceral, every detail too incandescent to ignore? Or will they be somber and shadowy, subtle as sin, faint impressions of a terrible truth?

He wonders, too, what he’s doing here alone. He should have told Rhodes to come out here days ago. Hell, he should have asked anyone…the Wakandans, Barton, Banner, even Lang for Christ’s sake. He comforts himself with the thought that if Rhodes doesn’t hear from him for a few more days, he’ll probably come here himself. Hopefully he brings the calvary. Maybe they can succeed where Bucky failed.

It would be one thing if his failures only blew back on him. He could deal with that. He’s dealt with it before. But it’s Sam out there, on his own, suffering for every mistake the both of them made during the past few weeks. He wants to see Sam again, the real Sam, for a thousand reasons. To ask what happened, to ask where he’s been, to ask how he’s feeling. Mostly, though, he just wants to tell Sam he’s sorry. 

It’s a struggle to keep his eyes open. His body should be thrumming with adrenaline for the coming fight. All he wants to do is curl up onto the rooftop though, press his forehead into the gravel and close his gritty eyes for a week or so, fall asleep to the steady rumble of traffic down below. Slumber until the bones in his hand knit together, the bruises along his body fade, the gouge in his side mends itself, the skin on his back grows whole again, shiny and pink and new. Until Sam comes back to him, snarks at him in that tone they both pretend isn’t overly indulgent, you been enjoying your little tropical getaway while I was out doing real work?

He'd glare, snark back, you call that work? Or maybe he’d want to tell Sam everything he’s seen and done here, all the things that kept him up the few nights he even bothered trying to sleep. Or maybe he wouldn’t want to say anything at all. Maybe he’d just drop his head to Sam’s shoulder, let Sam wrap an arm around him, let Sam carry some of his load for a while.

Bucky’s not accustomed to getting what he wants, so he stays awake, watching the sky hue red, then purple, then the inky blue that’s as close as nights here get to black. The lights of Madripoor flicker on, glimmer like a second sunrise, spiraling upward in a hundred distant galaxies. He could drown in the void between those seas of stars. Plenty of other people have.

The arsenic white of a low, hungry moon winks in the hollow shaped by two buildings. A shadow flits across its gaping maw and he straightens up. Something flutters to the far corner of the rooftop from him. Perches on the edge and stares out in the distance. So damn moody, when someone stares like that. Maybe Sam has a point.

He slinks out of his hiding place, padding silently across the roof. His body screams back at the tension he’s putting it through, forcing it into quiet movement, but he ignores it. One step, then another. He pauses just out of arm’s reach. Readies himself.

And then hits the deck with a grunt when not-Sam’s wing comes flying through the space his head just occupied. He bounces back upright just in time to take a tremendous blow from the shield on his vibranium arm. His other arm comes up to intercept a punch from not-Sam’s free hand. He ducks under a high kick and jukes back to avoid another swipe of the shield.

Not-Sam is caught in the emerald burn of a nearby sign, taking Bucky’s measure, for a moment. Bucky drops his arms by his sides. “Hey,” he says. “Come and fucking get it.”

He dances away from another strike and snaps a kick into not-Sam’s leg. Not-Sam grunts and brings the shield around again. Bucky takes that hit on his vibranium arm, impact igniting waves along his blistered back. He brings his bandaged hand down on not-Sam’s arm. Not-Sam rolls with the blow, whipping a wing around to clock Bucky alongside the head.

The hit sends Bucky reeling for a moment, down to his hands and knees. Not-Sam leaps closer, bringing the shield down. Bucky rolls at the last second and hobbles a dozen feet away. He stops by the stairwell, one hand braced on the concrete structure, the other wrapped around his stomach. He drops his head, panting. “Come on,” he gasps. “You can do better than that.”

Not-Sam flings the shield at his face. Bucky straightens in an instant and snatches it on the edge in midair with his vibranium hand. Guess that move still works. Not-Sam flits back and forth like a wary mayfly, ready for the return volley. Bucky doesn’t launch it back, though, takes a moment to study the shield’s scratched paint. “You inherit this thing, and I’m the one who has to keep taking care of it. Doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

Not-Sam rushes him, throws a punch at his head. He brings the shield up to catch it. Not-Sam darts back with a yelp, shaking out his hand. Then he swoops up, diving down past the building’s edge, out of sight. “Shit,” Bucky hisses. He takes a few tentative steps, shield on his arm, head swiveling. It would be just like not-Sam to try to sneak up behind him and —

Not-Sam’s boots catch him right in the middle of his raw back. He pitches forward onto the roof with a scream. He flips over and brings the shield in front of his chest to take another blow from one of those wings. A blink, and not-Sam’s gone again.

“Mother fucker,” he snarls this time, levering himself up to a knee. A blitz comes from his right side, and he catches it just in time, a vibranium wing screeching across the shield instead of his face. Then another from the left, a white shadow in his vision he reacts to on instinct. Again from behind, then the right again. He lurches to his feet, gasping. Fuck, has Sam always been this fast? Or is it his battered body, his abused muscles moving far slower than they should?

The next time not-Sam dashes by he drops the shield at the last second and grabs the edge of one vibranium wing, spinning and using not-Sam’s own momentum to slam him into the rooftop. Not-Sam’s up a moment later, crashing into Bucky’s chest and taking them both to the ground. They grapple on the roof, an ugly tangle of black and white fabric and opposing vibranium. They roll towards the shield.

Bucky reaches his right hand out, closest to the metal. Not-Sam smashes a wing down across his wrist and Bucky snatches it back with a howl. Not-Sam gets a few fingers around the shield and swipes it across Bucky’s face.       

A yelp tears out of Bucky’s throat as he hits the ground on his chest, sending gravel skittering. Not-Sam stumbles to his feet and brings the shield down again, right in the middle of Bucky’s back. Bucky’s air bursts from his lungs in something like a sob. Not-Sam raises the shield above his head in both hands, teeth bared in a feral grimace. Bucky peeks up at him from the corner of his eye.

The red visor gleams in the light. Not-Sam holds his position, shield trembling in his upraised arms. He opens his mouth, lips forming silent words, before he closes it again. Bucky sneaks a hand under him, into his jacket. Not-Sam brings the shield down, destined for the back of his skull. Bucky flips onto his back and his vibranium arm shoots up to take the blow. His bandaged right hand flies out, fist clenched.

Shuri designed the suit for any fight she could imagine Sam might find himself in. Reinforced every panel, every joint, with fabric ten times stronger than Kevlar. Everything’s toughened material. The cowl, the torso, the gloves, the boots.

Course, one of those reinforced boots is sitting in the closet of Bucky’s apartment. The other is on not-Sam’s left foot. Whatever the assholes who took Sam gave to not-Sam to replace that lost right boot, it sure as hell isn’t reinforced Wakandan polymer that can absorb most impacts beyond a point-blank round.

It’s shiny leather, tough enough for Madripoor’s streets, but not tough enough to withstand the syringe he picked up from that back alley clinic, wielded by a super soldier. He jabs the needle straight through the boot, into the top of not-Sam’s foot. Depresses the plunger before the other man even knows what’s happening.

Not-Sam’s face appears around the edge of the shield, staring at him in disbelief. Bucky grins up. “Got ya’.” Not-Sam responds by kicking him straight in the face with that tan boot. Thing still packs a punch. He rolls away, clutching his jaw. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he hisses around the taste of copper.

Not-Sam takes a step toward him. Another. Brings the shield up over his head. Stands there, blinking. Unfurls the wings as if he’s about to take flight. Staggers a step forward before he sinks to his knees, wings draped limply on the ground beside him. Bucky’s up then, snatching the shield away again. He watches not-Sam struggle up to one foot before he topples over to his side. Bucky clutches the shield, holding his breath, until not-Sam’s flat on the rooftop. Stares into not-Sam’s red tinted eyes until the lids finally close. Listens to not-Sam’s breathing slow into an unnatural slumber. Gapes at not-Sam’s body, until the last line of awareness bleeds out of it.

Then he drops to his knees, then his hip, on the roof, head pounding, blood roiling, every inch of his skin screaming. He sucks at the fetid air until his lungs stop rattling and his heart stops hammering. He curls up, fingers spasming around the shield, until he can rest his head against the sun-bleached gravel rooftop, still radiating the day’s warmth. He lets the blood in his mouth dribble past his lips, too exhausted to spit.

Maybe he closes his eyes for a bit, or maybe he’s watching the cosmos twirl above him. That can’t be, though. He’s barely seen a solitary star up above since he’s been here. That distant light can’t compete with Madripoor’s glow down below.

His lashes flutter back open eventually. Sam’s form is still draped across the rooftop a few feet away. He’s caught in the glare of a cycling neon advertisement, painting him blue, then green, then red, then back again. Bucky’s probably in the glow of all those colors too. They reflect off Sam, but Bucky thinks he must be absorbing them, not letting a hint of light escape. The only color he can comprehend right now is a burning, flaring white, haloing outward from his back to trip down his skin and through his bones.

He closes his eyes again and presses his forehead into the rooftop. The scent of baked dirt and sharp stone fills his nose. It’s the cleanest thing he’s smelled in Madripoor. How long’s he been here, anyway? A year? Two? Has he slept at all since he got here, or has he just been living in this fugue the whole time? Wretched place, this. Why would anyone choose to come here?

They don’t. He wrenches his eyelids open and blinks at the sky. Is it growing lighter, paler, or is that just his vision? How long has he been here, on this rooftop, out in the open, Sam’s insensate body next to him where anyone could find them? There are plenty of people who might be looking.

Bucky lets out one last, deep, exhausted sigh before he presses up on a palm. Gets his legs, then his feet, beneath him. He staggers when he tries to stand up, landing hard on his hands and knees. He drags himself upright again. His night’s not over.

It’s going to be a feat of human endurance, getting Sam to the apartment in hightown. His first challenge is the wings, draped haphazardly across the roof top like a drunken pigeon. He gingerly grabs the edge of one – shit is sharp – and tries to maneuver it. It flops around in his grip, dead weight, in a manner that feels uncomfortably personal. “Sorry,” he mutters to the nonresponsive metal.

He casts a dubious glance at the pack on Sam’s back. How the hell do these things fit? He works the wing back and forth, trying to bend in towards itself. It would be hilarious, if he weren’t worried about not-Sam waking up, or any of not-Sam’s not-friends showing up here any minute. When he gets the wing close enough at the correct angle, it retracts into the pack with an automatic snick. Bucky jolts backwards with a gasp, hands still outstretched, carrying the phantom feather weight. “Okay then.” He shakes his head and goes to the other wing.

That one’s a quicker process, now that he has some idea what he’s doing. He looks between the shield and Sam’s body when that’s done. Shield’s got a perfect slot, right along the back of the suit. Still, he thinks putting the shield in not-Sam’s ready reach, even when he’s unconscious, is not a good strategic move.

The shield goes around his right forearm. The straps aren’t quite right. It wasn’t made for him. He makes it work anyways. Not-Sam’s not-inconsiderable weight goes over his left shoulder. Christ, how much muscle has the guy put on? It’s still way too much contact with Bucky’s burned back, and keeping his arm up to hold Sam steady tugs at that bullet wound, but he makes that work too.

Then it’s down the stairwell, one lurching, agonizing step at a time, to the street. He lets himself into a nearby sedan and tries to stuff Sam in the backseat. The man’s just as obstinate unconscious as he is when he’s awake, every one of his limbs managing to get caught on the door before Bucky can shove him in with a last huffing curse. He limps to the driver’s seat and needs a few tries to get the ignition going, exposed wires shaking in his hands.

He hunches over the steering wheel like a man his age would, just trying to keep his back off the fabric seat. His borrowed motorcycle would be easier for him, but it is not a bicycle built for two. He casts leery glances into the rearview mirror every few seconds to watch Sam’s body, silent and still.

The apartment building is blessedly empty when he gets there at this late hour. He wonders, riding the empty elevator to the top floor, if anyone else actually lives in this place, or if it’s just a tax write-off for some wealthy investor. He’s not complaining, if it is. His ragged breath and uneven footsteps echo back at him in the hallway to the apartment. No neighbors peek out to see what’s happening. Probably a good thing. Even in Madripoor, carrying an unconscious Captain America to your place would raise a few eyebrows. 

He dumps Sam in one of the extra bedrooms, praying his shaky legs make it there. They do, barely. He scans Sam in the garish neon light, fractured across the room. Watches the subtle rise and fall of Sam’s chest for a moment. Okay. He’s here. They’re here. Now what?

Bucky starts by prying the boots off Sam’s feet, one pristine white and red, the other a wonderful, worn, hideous dun color. Twice as heavy and half as good as the one Shuri made. He could almost kiss that lousy, flimsy boot right now. He tugs the gloves off Sam’s hands next. He takes Sam’s hand in both of his to inspect the abraded knuckles from where not-Sam gave the shield his best right cross. That’ll sting, come morning. Maybe not as much as Bucky’s hand next to it, badly in need of a new bandage. Still. “Sorry,” he says.

Next is the visor. He pulls it off Sam’s face and stares at Sam’s closed eyelids. How long’s it been since he’s seen Sam’s eyes, anyway, not covered by the goggles, that warm and worried glare that makes him want to do a little better next time? He shakes that thought off. Too long. The cowl comes off next. Then he pauses, taking in a breath. “Sam, you better not be going commando under there.”

Sam isn’t, thank heavens, he’s got the normal base layer on under the suit. Bucky hauls all the pieces and the shield to a closet in the room he’s been using to hang them up, figuring it’s probably better if the perfect getaway vehicle is out of Sam’s reach, at least for a little while. He puts Sam’s boot on the floor next to its partner. Looks better, that way.   

He hauls a pair of handcuffs out of his duffel – the things those come in handy for – and heads back to the other room to secure Sam’s ankle to one of the posts at the foot of the bed. Someday this’ll be funny. Hey, remember that fun little escapade in Madripoor where you kept trying to kill me, and I kept escaping, then you blew up a building while I was in it, and then I drugged you before I undressed you and handcuffed you to a bed? That was hilarious. Not that he’s ever telling anyone about this. Ever. 

He shuffles to the closed door when he’s done and slides down to the floor, not bothering to bite back his groan. His least injured shoulder and his less bruised temple fall against the painted wood. He pulls his legs up loosely and wraps his arms around his battered body. Lets the shaking in his limbs, and the aching beat of his heart carry him to the dawn.

Chapter Text

He opens his eyes to a ceiling that is not his own. It’s streaked with slanting sunlight like the one he is familiar with, true, but there’s an airiness to the space that sits foreign on his senses. The room is sleek, sharp, modern, devoid of the heavy curtains and lush fabrics of the place he is accustomed to.

He’d woken up there, after he fought the stranger again, for what he feared…believed…was the last time. He’d stared up at the ceiling for some time, watching the fight play out against that lofty white backdrop. He had more visions then – seeing the stranger in impossible places. Places far from Madripoor. A field of flowers surrounded by distant, snow-capped mountains. In the shadows of a busy street, the reflection of red and blue lights cast across the stranger’s face. A sun-soaked dock, the tang of charcoal smoke hovering in the air around them. 

His eyes stung at that memory. Maybe from the phantom impression of that smoke, drifting into his face. Maybe from something else.

Then another impossible vision – the stranger on a rooftop again at night. The woman told him to kill whoever he found at that building, her face twisted with a fury when he entered that room that he wasn’t accustomed to seeing. She offered no explanation, simply insisted he get the job done this time. This time? he’d wondered but didn’t ask.

She hadn’t told him the stranger would be there. He obeyed her directive, but all he felt was doubt, instead of his previous conviction. All he’d thought about, in that moment he held the shield above the stranger’s head, was how much he wanted to let that shield slide from his grasp. How much he wanted to follow it to the ground, next to the stranger. How much he’d wanted to…he’s not sure, exactly.

But the stranger made that decision for him. He thinks, of all the decisions others have made for him since he has been here, he does not mind that one. He blinks his eyes at this new ceiling again. He does not know where this ceiling is. But he believes it is a much better place than where he has been.

He tips his head to take in grey walls, largely bare. In a far corner of the bedroom is a paneled white door, next to a dresser in raffia tones. A man sits in front of that door in a sliver of shadow cast by the bed, pale face patched with blue and black splotches. The stranger’s eyes are dark as coal when they gaze back at him, unblinking.

Hey. You’re awake.

He eases himself up to a seat and realizes he’s atop a plush duvet. A hollow feeling strikes his chest when he sees that his suit is gone, leaving only a tight grey shirt and shorts covering him. There’s metal around his ankle, too, binding him to the bedpost. Peculiar.

How are you feeling?

He turns to regard the voice. The stranger hasn’t moved from his spot, curled up against the door in the corner. He thinks the stranger looks much smaller here in this room that he did out there, running and jumping and fighting. He thinks the stranger, with his head tipped back against the wood, body unmoving, looks almost frail, too. He does not know why that fact concerns him so.

Silent treatment, huh? Fine. Guess maybe I deserve that. The stranger looks at his ankle, attached to the bed, with a frown. Sorry about that. Kinda think you might be a flight risk, though.

He shifts his foot, listens to the accompanying jingle of metal on metal. He thinks this should bother him more than it is.

Hey, the stranger says. Do you…do you know who I am?

He tilts his head. This is the stranger. This is the man he was sent to kill. Several times. The man he failed to eliminate. This, too, does not bother him as he believes it should.

My name, I mean. Do you know my name?

He thinks. This is the stranger. Other than that…he shakes his head. The stranger huddles deeper in his jacket.

Ah. Well. Maybe it’ll come back to you. Actually…do you know your name?

He’s about to shake his head. What need does he have of a name? Then he thinks of that word, the one the stranger kept yelling. Remembers that word settling off a rattling in his chest, a knowing. He nods instead.

Sam, the stranger says. Okay. That’s something. The stranger studies him. Hey. Do you still want to kill me? The tone is light, there’s even a hint of a smile on the stranger’s face, but he can see the heaviness in the stranger’s eyes.

His lips tilt down. It was never a matter of wanting. He simply had a task set for him. He ponders the question, though. Locates that place in him where the imperative to follow the woman’s direction sat, where the drive to fight the stranger came from. He searches that area and finds only an absence, like the impression of a heavy coat, cast off when the spring sun arrived. He shakes his head.

Something plays around the stranger’s lips. Huh. Guess that stuff must be wearing off faster than I thought.

He knows the stranger is referring to the vial he takes every night. Took every night, until the last, when he sought to deceive that woman. He does not know why that impulse took him so suddenly. He does not tell the stranger this.

Tell me something else. If I ditch those cuffs, are you going to tear out of here? Go back to…wherever it is they were keeping you?

He glances at the metal around his foot. The woman directed him to kill the stranger and return to her afterwards. Then she directed him to kill whoever he found at that building. But if he does not complete the first phase of these tasks, has no desire to do so, is he compelled to obey with the second command? He shakes his head. No, he decides. He is not.

Okay. Okay, then I’ll let you out of them. Just…don’t kick me in the face again, alright? Not sure how much more of that I can take.

He nods. The stranger pushes himself up to standing with a groan. Wavers and leans against the door for a moment, blinking his eyes at empty space, the unblemished parts of his face pale as gnawed bone. The image fills him with a quiet unease. The stranger hobbles to the bed and looks at him with a piercing stare for a moment. The stranger does not drop his eyes as he reaches down. The metal cuff around his ankle unlocks with a quiet snick. 

He looks down at his freed foot and resolutely does not twitch his leg or reach to rub the now exposed skin. Not when the stranger is still holding himself like a coiled spring. He is filled with a sudden urge to reassure the stranger that he has no ill intentions. Yet he cannot find the words, and he is certain if he moves the stranger will pounce. Instead, he raises his eyes to the stranger’s own.

The stranger sucks in a breath and blinks. Oh...okay then. The stranger shuffles backwards toward his perch in front of the door. A soft hiss comes out of the stranger’s mouth when he settles himself down again, dropping the final foot with a graceless grunt.  

His fingers twitch in his lap, aching to reach out. He understands this is not the moment for that, however. Not when the stranger is still regarding him with that clenched jaw, eyes dark hollows in a bramble of bruises. He has another flash then, of his own hand, much smaller, setting out a plate of leftover fish. Waiting, patiently, until a mutt with a scarred face paced out of the tree line to sniff at the food and gobble it down, leery gaze pinning him in place.  

The stranger sits, staring at him, for a long time. You hungry?

He frowns. Has anyone asked him this? When the woman directed him to eat, he ate. He focuses on the sensation of his own stomach. He thinks it is empty. At last, he nods.

Yeah? Alright. Sure we can find something. The stranger pulls a phone out of his pocket. Madripoor’s got this app, right? You pay enough, someone will deliver anything to your door. Drugs, guns, a car, whatever. I’m sure we can manage some food too. What do you want?

He frowns. Previously, he ate whatever was in the kitchen. He does not know where that food came from. He had forgotten food was something one could choose.

Right. Tough decision. Wait. The stranger’s face turns fierce. Did they even feed you, while you were…when you…umm…before?

He nods. He would be hard pressed to identify the food, though he found it satisfactory.

Oh. They did? That’s good. Because when I was…well what they gave me it wasn’t… The stranger shakes his head. Lets out a sigh and closes his eyes. Opens them with a jolt. Anyways. He turns his head to his phone. Okay. Lotta choices, here. Noodles. Rice. Frog legs? Nah. You still like mapo tofu? Huh. Maybe pork? Guessing ribs might be a stretch. Lots of fish, too. That what most people eat around here.

His head pops up at that. He has another flash – sitting around a table with three others who share his cheekbones. A young woman sneaking bites off his plate while he jabs at her questing hand with his fork. Matching smiles, all around.

The stranger watches him. Fish, huh? Of course. Kinda your thing, isn’t it? So, that what you want? Fish?

He nods. Yes, he decides. That is what he wants.

The stranger’s lips twitch. Alright. Fish. You know they serve them with the eyes, here. Hope that doesn’t bother you.

No, he thinks. It doesn’t bother him. Not at all.

Maybe it’s too much of a risk, letting not-Sam…Sam…whatever in-between person he is right now…go like that. But Bucky doesn’t have a whole lot left in his tank, and somehow the idea of Sam being trapped in the bedroom in the event Bucky passes out before he can do anything about it is strangely worse than the idea of not-Sam getting loose and trying to bash Bucky’s ribcage in. Again.    

If it’s a gamble, it appears to pay off. Sam doesn’t try anything when Bucky unlocks the cuffs. He stays sitting on his bed, placid and still, in a way that rankles Bucky to the core. He doesn’t move when Bucky goes to fetch their delivery, casting one eye back down the hallway during the short time he’s gone.

He’s still in the same place when Bucky comes back in the room with the bag of food. He barely twitches when Bucky pulls his dish out of the bag, sets him up with a styrofoam container and a set of wooden chopsticks. He waits for Bucky to set down in front of the door again, pull out his own food, before he starts digging in. So polite. Shit, maybe he does prefer Sam fighting to this silent and tranquil specter in his apartment, doing whatever anyone tells him to.

And there’s a thought that puts him off the food he’s barely touched. He still has no idea what all they’ve done to Sam. How the fuck he’s even going to figure it out, until Sam remembers how his vocal cords work. He steals a glance at Sam, sitting on the bed, going to town on the food Bucky placed in front of him. If nothing else, Bucky can make sure he’s well fed.

He tips his head back against the door, closing his eyes for a long moment. Sure, Sam said he wasn’t planning on hightailing it out of there. And that girl he talked to at the Green Gazelle said it didn’t take long before the effects of the drug wore off. Of course, she ended up right back where he found her. He doesn’t know if that’s due to something in the drug they gave her, or just to the general desperation of addiction. He’s not taking any more chances, though. He’ll stay right here until Sam seems more…Samish.

Maybe he could use a little back-up. Rhodey could be here in a few hours. Hell, Sarah would find a way to get here in even less time, if she knew she should. Shit, he hasn’t even called either of them since that explosion by the bay. He owes them both an update. An explanation. And he should probably call Shuri, or Banner, anyone that knows a bit more about advanced pharmaceuticals than he does, which is just about everyone he knows.

He should…he should do a lot of things. Get Sam to a better place than Bucky himself was a decade ago, right after he dragged Steve out of the Potomac. Damn. Steve. How much easier would Bucky’s life have been had he just stuck around after that instead of going to ground for two years? How much suffering could he have prevented? How much death? How much—

He jerks his head up when his chin bobs down to his chest and blinks furiously. His eyes flit around the room until they fall on Sam. Sam, who looks like he finished his meal in the time Bucky was…wherever he was. Sam, who is looking back at Bucky, body still but eyes flashing in that pattern Bucky knows means he owes the other man an explanation.

“Sorry,” he says. He looks at the empty container. “Guess you were hungry, huh?”

Sam doesn’t answer, just keeps up with that steady gaze that makes Bucky squirm. And Sam complains about his staring problem. “What?” he snarls.

Sam’s eyes go wide before they drop to the bed spread. Bucky sighs and lets his head thump against the door. “Sorry. I’m just…”

When he opens his eyes again, Sam’s looking at him again. Lips pulled down a bit at the corners, eyes narrowed. Shit. Bucky knows that expression, too. “I’m fine,” he says, a Pavlovian response. Sam’s face doesn’t change, so looks like he’s buying it just as much as every other time Bucky says it.

“Okay. Little tired, is all.” Sam’s still scowling, but at least he draws his eyes away from Bucky’s face. He looks pointedly at the door handle next to Bucky’s head. Bucky turns to regard it too.

“What? You want to go out?” He chews on his lip. Well, if Sam wanted to, he could have gotten the drop on Bucky pretty easily while he was off daydreaming. Probably still could. Not like Bucky’s in much condition to put up another fight. He frowns. “Jesus, I’m not your fucking jailor. You can leave.”

Sam eases up from the bed, hands held up in a placating gesture. Like Bucky’s the one who needs reassurance here. Like Bucky’s the one who tensed up as soon as Sam moved, who’s curled his one good hand into a fist, whose wide eyes are watching Sam like…

Yeah. Okay. Maybe Sam’s reading the room just fine. “Sorry,” he says as he shuffles to the wall next to the door, dragging his food over to clear the exit.

Sam pads slowly toward the door, palms still held upright. Bucky waves him through the door. Does his best not to stare at him as he passes by. Darts his head around the doorway once he’s through. Sam walks down the hall to the other open door, leading to the bathroom. He glances over his shoulder at Bucky when he gets there and raises his eyebrow meaningfully.     

“Sorry,” Bucky repeats as he snatches his head back in the room. Man’s got a right to some privacy. Even if he did try to flambe Bucky a few days ago. He frowns at the light outside the window. A few days ago? No, maybe thirty six hours, tops. Which means he’s been in Madripoor for, what, a week and change?

He hasn’t been clocking time by the days. He’s had other yardsticks. Every fight with Sam. Every missed opportunity. Every accumulated injury. His face, his hand, his side, his back…is that everything? He closes his eyes and swallows against his dry throat. Surely, he’s forgetting something, because he can barely remember the last time he felt like this, an exposed nerve that shrivels away, shrieking, from anything that so much as brushes up against it. If he could just do that, find some underground warren to hide in, dark dirt all around him and –

A shuffling sound, bare feet rubbing against a wool rug and he bolts back to this room. He jolts a little and hisses when that movement skitters across all those hurts he was just tallying.

Sam stands over him, giving him that face, that questioning brow, those open, appeasing hands. “Yeah, yeah,” Bucky mutters. “I know, okay?”

Sam huffs out a little sigh of his own – how a man can have that much sass without using a word is beyond Bucky’s capabilities to calculate at the moment – then goes back to the bed. Bucky watches him clean the containers off the duvet, place everything in the bag it came in. He glances at Bucky’s nearly-full containers with what can only be disapproval.

Bucky casts a hand over the food. “I’m still working on it, alright?” He should, too. The thought of choking down another bite’s making him a little queasy, though. Sam lets him be with another huff and stuffs the bag into the plastic trash bin in the other corner. He pads back to the bed and looks at Bucky expectantly.

“Yeah. Just…just get some sleep, alright? You look tired.” Maybe Sam does, a little. Maybe Bucky’s just projecting his own crushing exhaustion. Either way, if Sam sleeps for a bit, maybe he can rest his own gritty eyes.  

Sam obliges him, lies down on the bed. Even turns his back toward Bucky, like he’s saying he doesn’t need to keep an eye on him. Like he’s saying he trusts him. Maybe he does.

Maybe he shouldn’t. Bucky lost him at the museum. Lost him again on that first rooftop. Lost him outside his room in lowtown. Lost him when he ran away from that flaming train depot. It’s supposed to be his goddamn job to watch Sam’s back. Some friend…partner…guy with a mutual friend he ended up being.

He opens eyes he can’t recall closing. Takes in Sam’s dark silhouette against the bright window. He wraps a chilled arm around himself. AC must be in overdrive. Okay. Focus. Time enough for bitter recriminations later. He’s got another chance now to watch Sam’s back. Literally. And he’ll do it. He will. He just…needs to close his eyes. Just for another minute. 

It’s late, or early, when Bucky’s serum-enhanced hearing alerts him that someone is yakking their guts out. He jerks his head up from the hardwood floor. Shit. When did he fall asleep? He squints through the darkness. When did the sun go down? He listens, ears keen. And where the fuck is Sam?

He pushes up on his elbows, sucking in a breath when all his injuries loudly remind him of their presence. He gets to his hands and knees and scans the bedroom. Just the rumpled, empty duvet, and the stale container of food next to his head.

He claws himself to his feet, clinging to the door frame for support when his vision goes a little wobbly around the edges. He shakes his head and peers down the hallway. A sliver of light peeks out from under the bathroom door. He takes a step forward, and those injuries start clamoring in unison for his attention. His back is an aching sore, his ribs are complaining, his right hand is throbbing, fuck did he stub his toes because those hurt too. He’s never giving Sam grief about his training regimen again. Clearly, it’s working for the other man.

He waits another moment for his head to stop spinning before he stumbles to the bathroom. “Sam? You good?” He raps on the door. More retching is the only reply. “Taking that as a no.”

The door isn’t even latched, so he doesn’t feel too bad about edging it open. Plus, it sounds like Sam is a little busy to throw any more punches. Thank God. Bucky’s not sure there’s a square inch of him that doesn’t hurt right now.

He watches Sam gag over the toilet bowl for a moment. “That doesn’t sound good,” he mutters. Sam pauses for a moment to give him a glare that’s so painfully close to Sam Bucky can’t pull in another breath. Then Sam’s back to gagging, and Bucky’s lungs resume their normally scheduled program. He blinks his eyes a few times before he notices the tremble in Sam’s fingers, wrapped around the porcelain.

Duh. He’s a fucking idiot. Who gives a man recovering from involuntary drug use fried fish, for god’s sake? “Right,” he says out loud. “That must be the withdrawal kicking in. I know how much that sucks. Had to try the cold turkey approach myself when you all interrupted my supply of Hydra cocktails.”

Actually, he was in much worse shape than Sam is now. Got as far as Philly before he crashed, spent a week on the streets there, shaking and sweating and mewling so much even an old man with no legs and a half-broken wheelchair was giving him sad eyes. He can only hope Sam won’t have it as bad, but at least he’ll have a roof over his head while it works its way out of his system.

He could leave Sam here, try to catch a few more minutes of desperately needed sleep. But Bucky would have probably choked on his own vomit in the City of Brotherly Love if that man in the filthy Army cap hadn’t warned him not to sleep on his back. Wouldn’t that have been something. The Winter Soldier, fist of Hydra, terror from the taiga, scourge of the free world, surviving everything the world’s governments could throw at him, only to drown on his own sick.

So, he sighs instead, waits for a break in the action to ask, “Mind if I take a seat?”  

Sam gives him a little head tilt that reminds Bucky to a perilous degree of Zemo. The kind of tilt that could mean please, by all means, or make another move and I’ll knock out your front teeth.

Bucky doesn’t wait for clarification before he eases himself down. At least he plans on doing that, until his shaking legs decide they’ve done enough work for one lifetime and put him ass-first onto the tile without warning. He winces. Yup, sore there too.

Sam gives Bucky another look at the curse he lets out, that raised eyebrow that is so, wretchedly, painfully close again to Sam that this time it’s Bucky’s heart that decides to go on lunch break for a bit.

“I’m fine,” he answers that look by sheer habit, then he realizes this Sam didn’t ask the question that has invariably accompanied that look every other time. “Right,” he sighs. “Never mind.”

Sam’s back at the bowl before Bucky can finish speaking, though. Bucky watches him, wincing at the hunch of Sam’s shoulders over the porcelain. Eventually the retching starts to space out, and it doesn’t sound like Sam’s bringing much up. Probably the first decent meal Sam’s had in Madripoor, and the poor bastard can’t even keep it down. God, the things Bucky will do if he finds the people responsible for this mess.

Besides the point right now, he decides, as Sam leans forward for another bout. “This won’t last forever, I can tell you that much at least,” he mutters. Hard to tell through the retching, but he doesn’t think Sam is convinced. “Alright,” he adds. “If you need anything, I’ll…” he waves at the little corner of the bathroom, between the vanity and the door, that he’s found himself wedged in, “just…be here.”

He leans his head against the tiles, deliciously cold against his skin. God, if he could just get a few hours of rest, or if he could shake this chill that’s settled into his bones, or if the exhaustion mauling his muscles would let up for a second, or if he could get one damn word out of Sam, not those damn empty stares every time he tries to find his friend in those blank eyes he…

He has to close his own eyes against the sting that’s setting up shop there. No time for that now. Maybe he can let that wave crash over him sometime later, when Sam’s…Sam. Speaking of. Sounds like the throwing up has stopped. But he’ll give Sam a few more minutes, to make sure whatever is in his stomach is out of it. Just a few more seconds for Bucky to rest his eyes, too, let the cool tile seep into his surprisingly warm skin. Just another minute, and he’ll open his eyes, get back to it, force his brutalized body into motion, help Sam up and to his bed, pray against hope for some faint flicker of recognition in those brown eyes.

He’ll get up. Just…one more minute. Really, this time.  

It’s not that he doesn’t remember enough. It’s that he remembers far, far too much, all at once, no context or nuance. Like taking a salty wave right in the face, sputtering and blinking against the burn and trying to identify individual droplets.

He knows this stranger, who’s lurked like an unwelcome shadow since he woke up. Rather, he knows these strangers — one with long hair and an angry scowl that sends an indescribable bolt of fear arcing across his skin. Another with the same hair but sad, forlorn eyes, trailing after him and another man with sandy hair like a dejected puppy. Still another, shorter hair this time, eyes desolate, arguing with him about…something.

And one more iteration, same hair, sharp blue eyes. Laughing at him. Laughing with him. Guarding his back. Pulling him out of the figurative fire, over and over. Pulling him out of an actual fire, once or twice. Scowling and snarking and sniping. But there, always, whenever he needed it.

It’s that last that makes him pause in the hall right outside the bathroom, after he’s stepped over the stranger’s outstretched legs. He looks down one end of the hallway, away from the room he woke up in. He pads down it, until he reaches another room, with a couch and chairs, and wooden floors that stretch to expansive windows. He ignores that room in favor of a door down a smaller hallway in one corner, a small mat in front of it, a skinny table along the wall beside it.

Beyond that door is the rest of the building, and beyond that building is Madripoor. Somewhere out there is the building he is used to, the room with the couch, the woman. The place he is meant to return to. The place he belongs.

He pauses when he gets to that door, fingertips resting on the cool of the doorknob. He frowns. Didn’t he say no when the stranger asked if he would do this, if he would seek to return to the woman, as he was directed?

He twists the metal in his hand. But he is not required to speak truth to the stranger. The stranger did not tell him to do so, has no authority to command that of him. All the stranger did was fight him, bring him here against his will. Chain him.

Then the stranger freed him. Asked him what he remembered. Asked him what he wanted – wanted – to eat. Even after he tried to kill the stranger, dropped him from seven stories up, smashed his hand, ignited that trap at the station.

And hadn’t he remained, for a long moment, after each encounter? Ignoring what the woman told him, to return immediately after? Hadn’t he…hadn’t he…worried? About this man he does not know?

His pulls his fingers back an inch, hovering above the knob. Someone knows the stranger, though. Someone wanted to dive out that room after the stranger, someone wanted to keep watch every time he saw him, make sure he wasn’t a threat.

He casts a glance over his shoulder into the darkened apartment, the light from the bathroom all but invisible from this angle. The stranger certainly is not a threat now. And yet…

He did not linger, in each of those moments, to ensure the stranger was no longer a threat. He stayed, heart in his throat, pulse racing because…he wanted to make sure the stranger was okay.

He walks back to the tiled room and crouches in front of the stranger’s still form. He knows this man? The stranger has told him that, at least. Has he ever seen the stranger like this, though? Huddled in the corner of a bathroom, eyes closed, face creased in pain? Not there for his own sake. There for…someone else’s.

Yes. He has seen this. Hasn’t he?

Try to remember. Remember what?

The ghost of a voice echoes in his head. He’s young, just out of…college? Clad in olive, hair cropped down to his skull. There’s a short man in front on him, funny hat tilted on his head, yelling at him, so close he feels warm spittle on his cheeks. The world swirls, and he’s in a hanger, crouched over a body. No, not a body, molded plastic and rubber instead, with a few dozen other figures wearing the same clothes he’s wearing.

A new person is barking at him, a woman in the same clothes, black hair tied back. Her dark fingers prod at the body..figure…mannequin! At its throat, its wrist, its chest. She’s showing them how to find…something? Proof. Proof of…a pulse. That’s it.

He reaches his own fingers forward, curls them around the stranger’s neck. Works his way under the stubbled jaw until he gets to the right spot, presses against the skin….there. Waits. One, two, three. A pulse. Steady.

He leaves his hand there, though, against the warm skin. Something’s…not right. It’s…warm. Wait. It should be. Not like that mannequin in the hanger, dull and lifeless, but…it just seems too warm. What is he supposed to do now?

Then the hanger’s gone, and the woman with the dark hands is too. Now bright sunlight glares down on him instead of fluorescent lights. Then it’s a person, a real one, in front of him, grey eyes wide open, breath wheezing, terrified, red splattered the camouflage print on the front of his vest. It’s alright, someone says. We’re gonna get you out of here. Not someone. Him.

He’s saying that. And then…he does that. But it’s not in a car or a Humvee or even a helo it’s…he’s flying, carrying this person away from whistling mortars and pinging bullets to…somewhere safe. A tent? Other people appear, bark things at him. He barks things back, but it’s not anger that’s making them terse, it’s…urgency.

He’s gonna be fine, one of those figures tells him a few hours later. You got to him right in time. Thank God. He’s lucky you were there.

So he’s…he’s done this before. Helped people. Saved them.

He blinks, and he’s back in this eerily lit room. This bathroom. And the stranger – with the blue eyes and the changing hair – is still in front of him. On the floor, bright eyes closed, head still against the wall.

And he’s…worried?

That emotion explodes like one of those mortars inside his skull, sends shrapnel loaded with memory tearing through his mind. A phrase springs up, over and over, echoing like a mantra, in his own voice. He says it out loud, to drown out all the other words he’s said since he got here, to that woman, to the people he hurt. He speaks to the man in front of him for the first time in what feels like years, runs words he’s said a thousand times through his throat, over his tongue and past his lips.

“Goddamnit, Bucky.”

The stranger – the man – blue eyes – Bucky – doesn’t flinch. Should he? He should, right? He should move, come alive, come up spitting and snarling at his name.

He’s getting nothing, though. It’s a familiar sensation, laden with distress. His fingers twitch open, until his palm is flush with the stranger’s – Bucky’s – face. His thumb taps a cheekbone, thirsty for a response. The small but blooming part of him that knows things speaks with a weary familiarity that this is unsurprising.

Does he…leave him – Bucky – here? No, that doesn’t seem correct, even if a snarky voice that sounds suspiciously like his own says it would serve the man right. But, he thinks, that voice would never leave someone like this. It would gripe and moan for hours about it, especially when it came to the...Bucky…but it wouldn’t leave him here. 

He’s done this before.

A part of his brain, honed by practice long past the point of instinct, to muscle memory, clear and undeniable, tells him what to do. He shifts his hands to Bucky’s shoulders. Tugs him gently out of the corner to pry his jacket off and maneuver him flat on the bathroom tiles. He stares at Bucky for a moment, casts his mind back. Remembers.

Bashing the shield into Bucky’s face, swinging it at him, over and over.

Slamming the shield into Bucky’s hand, again and again, until he feels bone splinter.

Launching the shield at that trigger, watching the whole place go up in flames, so bright he has to look away, and when he turns back Bucky is nowhere, gone, incinerated and—

He dives back for the toilet, yaks up more bile. He spits one last time into the bowl, jaw and stomach aching. He looks over the countertop at his own reflection after. That brown hair, brown skin. Dark eyes, white teeth.

Sam stares at himself in the mirror, unblinking. “Enough,” he says.

He turns back to Bucky’s supine figure. He starts from the top, palpates the contusions on Bucky’s face. It’s bruised and swollen, but he doesn’t feel any breaks. He pushes up Bucky’s shirt next, frowns at the battered torso. A long red gash threads just above Bucky’s hipbone. Gunshot, Sam surmises from the way the skin’s started to pucker. Shit, he’s way too good at this game. He frowns. He doesn’t remember that one.

There’s something white, just peeking out around the curve of Bucky’s other side. He tugs Bucky over get a better look. The white is a bandage, tracing along his ribs, covering the right half of his back, patched with red and brown. Lint and dirt dust the edges of the worn tape around the bandage. When’s the last time someone changed this? Sam works an edge of the tape loose and eases it up. He stares.

He did this. He set off that blaze, watched it burn, thought Bucky was in it, reduced to a smoldering cinder, and he made it but this—

Sam closes his eyes for a moment. Swallows hard at the bile that climbs up his throat. Sucks in a deep breath. Get your shit together, Wilson.

He studies the wound closer, detached. Deep burns, the kind that hurt to look at. Starting to scab around the edges, but blisters and weeping sores pock the center. It’s red, inflamed, infected, no doubt, probably rubbed raw in their last fight, too. He wonders who put the bandages on in the first place. Surely not Bucky – there’s no way even he could have managed some of those angles by himself.

Then he wonders why Bucky didn’t tell him. He’s stuck on that thought for a while, a broken record, until he shakes himself loose. Because you were a fucking American Girl doll, Captain edition. You wouldn’t have done anything about it, asshole. So, deal with it now.

Sam leaves the burn be, works his way across the rest of Bucky’s body. Mostly bruises, until he gets to Bucky’s right hand. He pries that dirty bandage loose too. The top of Bucky’s hand is swollen and gashed raw, surrounded by mottled greens and blues. From where Sam tried to sever it, when Bucky was holding on for dear life. Not just his own, either. Sam acknowledges that memory before shoving it deep in the suitcase of his back-brain to deal with later.

Sam goes back to Bucky’s face, swipes a thumb across his cheek. “Hey,” he murmurs. “You still in there?”

Bucky’s brow crinkles and he parts his eyes a sliver. “Hey. Hey Sam. Jus’, jus’ gimmie minute, kay?” His eyes drift closed “Jus’...a minute.”

“Sure,” Sam answers. “Okay.” He gets to a crouch in front of Bucky and pulls the other man to a seat by his arms. Then he tugs Bucky over his shoulders, stabilizes him with one hand on a dangling arm and another on a limp leg. He pushes to his feet with a sharp exhale. “All those squats, really paying off,” he tells Bucky, voice strained.

He steps out into the hallway and pauses. He remembers walking down this hall, to the door, moments away from slipping out into the night and leaving Bucky passed out on the bathroom floor. His fingers tighten on Bucky’s arm, dangling down his chest. A different version of him, who would have left Bucky here. Fuck that guy.

Sam sets off for the bedroom he knows, down the hall. The door is still ajar from when he threw it open in his haste to expel the contents of his stomach. He bumps it open wider with his hip and shuffles to the bed. He eases Bucky down to the bed as best he can, taking care to keep one hand around the other man’s arm so he doesn’t tumble back on that burn.

He turns Bucky onto his stomach as he lays him down on the mattress. He goes to the wall and paws at it until he finds a light switch. The overhead light flares on and he winces before he moves back to the bed and tugs Bucky’s shirt over the other man’s head. He frowns as he pulls back the loose tape again and lifts the bandage.

Okay, Wilson. What do you need? The wound looks clear of debris. Somehow Bucky got what must have been left of his clothing out of the burnt skin. Sam tries not to think about how that would have felt. So that’s taken care of at least, but there’s plenty more work to be done. He needs some sort of antiseptic, maybe a spray, anything. Antibiotics would be good too. More gauze and bandages, at least.

That’s the burn. Not much he can do for the bullet wound anymore. The broken bones and torn flesh of Bucky’s hand…well, the serum will probably take care of that better than Sam could. Still, something to keep the hand mostly immobile until the bones mend, that would be good. Some ice too, to reduce the swelling. Jesus, some fucking pain killers, for all the other bumps and bruises Bucky’s covered in.

“How the hell did you stay on your feet, man?” It’s a dumb question. He knows the answer. It’s the same thing that would keep him on his.  

Still, Bucky’s not on his feet now, so Sam’s gonna have to run this show for a bit. Bucky must have something he can use around here. He scopes out this room, but only encounters empty drawers and a barren closet. Right. Bucky’s probably not going to leave too much lying around the guy who very recently tried to build him a custom funeral pyre.

He heads down the hallway to the next doorway. Another bedroom, sheets pristine and shelves barren. He finds what he’s looking for in the room closest to the entry door, of course. Bucky’s battered duffel atop the bed. Those sheets are also pristine, still turned down in that way that you only see in hotels and magazines. Where the hell has Bucky been sleeping, then?

Sam paws through the bag, frowning when his search only turns up a few pairs of jeans, an extra jacket, and not much else. He spins, hands on hips, sighing, and steps over to the closet. He slides open the door. And stares.

There’s the suit, limp white and blue filaments dangling from the lone hanger on the rod.

The first time he saw it, his heart skipped a beat, in anticipation, in joy, in grim determination. In wonder, shock, that someone would put so much effort into crafting it solely for him, not just a prototype for the military to learn from, hand out to a hundred flyboys. In utter confusion, that the person who brought it to him was Bucky. Bucky, whose own rage and grief at losing Steve’s shield crashed over the both of them, threatened to drag them under. Bucky, who had smiled in surprised wonder at Sam’s family in Delacroix on that gift-giving assignment with a shy joy that made Sam do a double take.

His heart does that again here, seeing it now. This time in panic, in sorrow, in crushing anguish that wrings any ounce of that joy from of his body. He trails a finger down a sleek sliver of blue, royal against snowy white.

His eyes catch on the flash of metal propped against the wall at the back. The shield is pristine, gleaming in the light. Trust Bucky to take better care of the damn thing than himself. Then Sam’s gaze falls to the floor, and his breath hisses out of his lungs like he’s in a vice.

The boots. His boots. Aligned next to each other, scrubbed clean of Madripoor’s grit and grime. Leaning together at the top, the collars just brushing each other. A perfect pair.

Sam stumbles back until his shoulders smack into the wall behind him. He slides down to his backside, closing his eyes tightly. He drops his forehead to his knees and brings his arms around his shins.

He stays there, breath shuddering into the hollow his body made, for too long. Until the first blush of dawn creeps over the island’s distant hills. He lifts his head at last, gazes back at those fucking boots. So, Bucky dragged that damn thing over Madripoor, must have gone back to his trashed room to get it, brought it all the way here, all in the hopes it might be reunited someday. And now it’s…

Sam shakes his head with a derisive snort. “Christ, Wilson,” he hisses at himself. “Bucky.” His friend is passed out in another room, and Sam’s in here losing his shit over a goddamn boot. He tears his gaze away and pushes himself up to stalk back into the other bedroom.

Bucky’s where he left him, face slack and clammy, bandage gleaming like a beacon in the waxing light. Sam slides a hand over the back of Bucky’s neck, feels the heat curling into his palm.

“Okay,” he sighs, coming to a seat on the mattress. “Sorry. Don’t suppose there’s a field hospital tucked away behind one of these doors, huh?” He crinkles his nose when the odor of foul fish hits him, makes his stomach twist in all kinds of knots. He looks over at Bucky’s lunch, abandoned on the floor. Jackass wasn’t still working on it, no matter what he told Sam. He should have just let Sam put it in the fridge. Would save them having to order out for their next meal too on that app.

You pay enough, someone will deliver anything to your door.

He spies Bucky’s phone on the ground next to the takeout. Anything, huh? Time to see what Madripoor has to offer.

Chapter Text

Sam’s gone when he wakes up.

It takes him a minute to realize that. First, he has to wake up, a process that feels like swimming to a murky surface in a sea of black tar. He forces bone dry eyes open to a bedroom wall in the apartment he’s renting. He realizes he’s only managed to open one eye, then discovers that his other is smushed into a pillow. A pillow on a bed in a room he doesn’t remember falling asleep in.

He pushes himself up on his elbows with a groan, blinking his vision back into focus. He squints at the creased pillow beneath him. How did that happen? Last thing he remembers he was camped out next to the door of this bedroom, right? Wait, then he woke up. Something woke him up. A sound. Sam?

Sam.

He scans the bedroom frantically. Nothing. Just the bed, the dresser, that white five-paneled door he was sitting next to, cracked open a few inches. He turns to the full length windows along the opposite wall. Chalky light spills through the glass, painting the room in muted greys and misty blues. Madripoor’s peaks loom in the distance, cloaked in watery clouds. Absent touchpoints, his brain scrambles to decide what time it is. Other than day, he has no idea.  

He lurches upright and nearly falls to the floor when sheets he doesn’t remember slipping into tangle around his waist and snag at his ankles. He staggers to the door, bracing himself on the frame. He shuffles down the hall, one hand on the wall for support, until he gets to the living area. A figure stands on the other side of the kitchen island, back to him, shoulders beating a peculiar pattern.

Bucky totters forward another few feet until he gets to the back of a leather couch he can lean against. He stands, breathing hard. The figure turns around, and now Bucky can see it has a metal bowl in one hand, a wire whisk in the other.

Sam hums, staring down at the mixing bowl. He lets the edge of the whisk drop against the bowl’s rim and sets the dish down on the kitchen island. He reaches for a paper sack sitting on the counter. The humming grows to a whistle, the rhythmic tones of What’s Going On. He snags a cutting board from behind the sink and brings it over. Then it’s to the knife block, where he examines the offerings before settling on a small paring knife.

He sets the knife down on the board and reaches into the paper bag. Drops that with a start when he sees Bucky standing in the living room. He blinks at Bucky a few times before he walks around the island. “Hey,” he says, shoving batter-spackled hands into the pockets of a lime green hoodie Bucky’s never seen before. “Making some breakfast. You want any?”

Bucky gapes. “The fuck?” His voice pitches an octave higher than he planned.

Sam grimaces. “Uh. Taking that as a no, then.”

The leather of the couch creaks in his grip. “What…” he gulps. “You’re…you’re…” he traces Sam’s outline in the air with his other hand.

“Yeah,” Sam answers. “I am. Still a little…” he flutters his fingers next to his head, “scrambled, but I think I’m mostly here.”

“H…how?”

“Guess that stuff must have worn off. Mostly, at least. You said it would.”

“I did?” Bucky sputters.

“Yeah. You did. I think you were…” Sam frowns. “Man, how much of the past few days do you remember?”

How much does he remember? How much does Sam remember, of the past two weeks, of his whole goddamn life, of the times long ago Bucky wasn’t himself and tried to kill Sam, of the times just behind them Sam wasn’t himself and tried to kill Bucky, good thing they both suck at it, and those are the questions that need to be answered. What Bucky remembers isn’t important, he remembers everything, even the things he prays he’ll forget and is that what it’s like for Sam what it will be like for him and if that’s the case how can he be sure that Sam– 

“Bucky?” Sam’s sharp voice snaps him back. He’s regarding Bucky with that pinched expression that is clearly, unmistakably Sam.

“Huh?”

“What do you remember? From the past few days? Since we both were here, I mean?”

His brow furrows. “In…in Madripoor?”

“No. Yes,” Sam sighs. “I mean, since we were here.” He waves at the room around them. “In this apartment.”

“Oh,” he mutters. “I…uh…I brought you back here last night…then…then…” All he can grasp is a swirling, fetid morass.

Something catches at Sam’s face before he smooths it out. “Yeah. Uh. No. We’ve been here for a few days.”

“A few days?” That can’t be right. Can it? He only got Sam back hours ago. Fought him on that rooftop, dragged him up here. Stayed up til Sam woke up. Then…oh. Then he got them some food. Then, then…someone was sick? Sam? And then…then it all gets a little mushy, a patchwork of erratic movement and sound.  

“Two nights, at least,” Sam confirms. “You were…you were a little out of it yesterday.”

“No,” he shakes his head. “No, I was here. To…” To look out for Sam, keep him here until he no longer wanted to go back to…wherever it was. Until he lost the urge to drop Bucky off another building. To be there through the worst of it, to get Sam back to himself. Kinda looks like Sam figured that part out on his own. “And you…”

“Hey,” Sam says. “Maybe you should sit down, Buck. You don’t look so good.”

Buck. When’s the last time he heard that word coming out of the other man’s mouth? Wait. When’s the last time he heard any words coming out of the man’s mouth? He didn’t say a damn thing during any of their fights, just came after Bucky with that dead-eyed stare, dragged him through a window, almost severed his hand, almost turned him into a smoldering twisted corpse and—

“Bucky!” Again. It’s really something. “Hey, man, it’s alright.”

What? He shakes himself back to the present. He’s still in the living room of this absurdly expensive apartment. Sam’s next to the couch, where Bucky was a moment ago, and somehow Bucky’s now several steps away, in the middle of the room, left arm up to ward off any blows and… “Oh.” He huffs out a breath and lowers his hand. “S...sorry.”

“Nah, man, it’s cool.” The expression on Sam’s face suggests it’s anything but. “I…I can stay over here. If you want. I’d just…I’d really like it if you sat down, though.”

Why? He doesn’t need to sit. Other than that low buzzing in his head, he’s fine. Just the minute tremor in his legs, too, but that’s nothing. And the pulsing sore that is his back, and his aching side, and his heart that feels like it’s trying to carve a path out of his chest and…oh. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Sorry. I didn’t…sorry. You don’t have to…”

“Really, Bucky, it’s fine,” Sam murmurs. “But I’d rather you didn’t pass out on the floor again.”

He takes a shaky breath. “Again?”

“Again,” Sam confirms. “You…uh…I hate to break it to you, but you’ve had a rough go of it. You’re a little banged up right now.”

He looks down at himself. Sees a bare torso, mottled with bruises fading to yellow and green. A pink gash above one hip. Well, that’s not so bad, but…wasn’t he wearing a shirt earlier? Then he spies the bright white wrap around his right hand. He brings it to his face for a closer look. That…that can’t be the bandage he put around it while he was talking to Rhodey. That thing was all torn up and dirty and he knows he should have replaced it earlier but he just…didn’t. Something tugs across his back when he moves his hand. He cranes his head to get a look. He can’t see the whole thing, but there’s a bright white bandage covering a good swath of his back and that’s…yeah. That’s where this body-quaking sense of malaise is coming from, isn’t it?

Goosebumps prickle along his exposed flesh, reminding him he still doesn’t know how it is he’s wearing a pair of sweatpants and nothing else. And when did it get cold in here? He never gets cold. Sam’s the one who’s always bitching about the temperature. Madripoor’s normal weather should be right up his alley. Usually too warm for Bucky, though it’s been alright since he got here, except for right now, there really is a chill in the air. Isn’t there?

“Okay,” Sam murmurs, tiptoeing closer. He shrugs out of the hoodie he’s wearing – seriously where did that hideous thing come from – and holds it out toward Bucky. Bucky scrutinizes it blankly. “Let’s just…” Sam jiggles it in his direction, “get this on you, alright?” Sam stops, peering at Bucky. Bucky peers back. “Is that alright?” Sam asks again.

Oh. It’s an actual question. Bucky licks his dry lips and nods. “Yeah. Yeah. It’s…yeah.”

“Okay,” Sam repeats, reaching for Bucky with deliberate slowness. He tugs one stretchy cuff wide to get it around the bandage on Bucky’s right hand without jostling it. Then the other goes over Bucky’s vibranium arm. Sam draws the soft fabric up over Bucky’s shoulders before he goes to the front and works the zipper up to Bucky’s chest. “There,” he says, hands falling away. “All good, right?”

The cotton sits warm and heavy around his aching form. Some of that fuzzy heat sinks into his skin, cools the rattling in his brain. Sam’s giving him an expectant look. Right. He should answer. “Where the hell did this come from?” is what he says instead.

Sam’s lips twitch. “That app, man. The one you told me about?” Bucky stares back, puzzled. Sam’s mouth tics downward. “Right. You did. Said you could buy anything on it? Well,” he waves at the hoodie, back toward the mass of ingredients splayed across the marble countertop behind them in the kitchen, “you sure can.” He points at Bucky again. “Medicine, bandages, supplies, all sorts of shit. It’s something.”

Bucky frowns. “You used my phone? How?”

Sam snorts. “Yeah. Fingerprint ID, man.”

Sensation scratches at the back of Bucky’s brain. A warm hand lifting his, tentative around the bandage, a soft voice, something cool and hard under his finger, hey, can I borrow this for a sec? Great. Thanks, man. He blinks. “You used my money?”

Sam shrugs. “Sure. But I think I got a good deal. 20 bitcoin, ain’t too much, right?” Bucky works his mouth. Sam holds a hand up. “Kidding, okay? It wasn’t much. And I’ll get you back, promise.”

Bucky shakes his head. “I…I don’t…” he stammers. Is he actually arguing about crypto with Sam right now, or is this a blessed fever dream? “I’m not…I’m not worried about the money.”

“Right. Sorry,” Sam sighs, “that’s…that wasn’t really fair, was it? So how about we sit down for a minute, huh?”

He nods, glancing at the sprawling leather couch that might as well be leagues away. “Ye…yeah.”

Sam snags his elbow and steers him to the sofa. Bucky’s never bothered to sit on it before. Never had time to. Shit, he barely realized this place had a kitchen. He lurches down when the backs of his knees hit the cushions. Sam grabs his shoulder before he can slump backward. Bucky quirks a brow. “Dude,” Sam sighs. “Stay off your back.”

Ah. Yeah. That’s…good advice. “Okay,” Sam says, squeezing Bucky’s shoulder before dropping his hand. “Just sit tight. Gonna finish making breakfast. Pancakes. You want banana in yours?”

“Pancakes?”

“Yeah. Flat round things? You cover ‘em in maple syrup?”

“How…what…” he shakes his head. “Sam. Sam.”

“Yeah,” Sam lifts his gaze to stare at the kitchen behind Bucky’s head. “Shoulda’ gotten bacon too.”

“Sam,” he snaps, insistent.

Sam pins him with a stare, eyes flashing like a tumbling coin. “I know. I know. We’ve got a lot to…a lot of things…look. I just. I just need a little bit to process everything, okay? So let me make you some damn pancakes.”

“I…” He fixates on Sam’s smile, brittle as an ancient windowpane. “Right. Okay. Sure. And…I do.”

“Huh?”

“Bananas. I want bananas in mine.” He doesn’t, really.

“Right.” Sam nods, determined. “Good call. Coming right up. Sit tight.”

Like he’s about to go anywhere. He eases back into the couch cushions before he recalls Sam’s advice. Even the soft leather feels like he’s dragging a box grater across his skin. He lurches forward with a hiss.

“Lay on your stomach. Or your side,” Sam admonishes from somewhere behind the couch.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, curling up on his side, dropping his aching head to the curved couch arm. His face feels too hot against the cool leather. The rest of him feels too cold under Sam’s warm hoodie. He listens idly to the sounds of Sam bustling in the kitchen – the wire whisk scraping against the bowl, the clatter of steel dropping on the stove grates, the sizzle of batter hitting a hot pan.

He shouldn’t be surprised when it’s the clunk of a plate on the coffee table in front of him that jolts him out of a doze. “Sorry,” Sam winces.

Bucky levers himself upright. “S’fine.”

Sam settles on the couch next to him and pushes the other plate, laden high with pancakes and syrup, into Bucky’s lap. He eats as much of the pancakes as he can manage – the bananas aren’t so bad after all – before he dumps the dish on the coffee table. He can tell from Sam’s face that it isn’t enough. “Sorry.”

Sam chortles. “How ‘bout a moratorium on the apologies for a little while, huh?”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Deal.”

“So,” Sam starts after a minute. “I’m still…trying to figure out everything that happened. I think I remember everything.” He searches Bucky’s battered form. “I think I remember fighting you. A bunch of times. But…how…how the hell did we get here?”

“Here? This apartment, you mean?”

Sam shakes his head. “No. The whole…the whole thing. How’d you know I was here in Madripoor? How’d you find me all those times? How’d you know about the drugs? How did you know I’d be okay after a day or two? How…” Sam works his mouth. “Right. Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

Bucky does. Tells him about the Smithsonian, about Shuri locating the suit in Madripoor. Charting a path through Madripoor’s lowlifes until he got to the Green Gazelle. Meeting Zetkov, and Maksim, and Lulu. Getting their help to locate who might be behind the dolls.

“Wait,” Sam holds up a hand. “A bunch of thugs at a Madripoori nightclub decided to help you out of the goodness of their hearts?”

“Not…exactly,” he mutters. “I had to do them a favor or two.”

“Bucky.”     

“Nothing too terrible. Not what you’re thinking, at least.”

“What am I thinking?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. “Right. I didn’t…I didn’t hurt any…well, okay, I did hurt some people, but only because they came for me, and I’m pretty sure they had it coming anyways.”

Sam carefully places his mostly empty plate on the coffee table next to Bucky’s mostly full one. He tilts his head, eyes flickering across Bucky’s form. That look from Zetkov, and Maksim, and even Lulu, made the hair on the back of Bucky’s neck stand up. He just feels laid bare under Sam’s regard, though. “That where you took all the hits that didn’t come from me?” Sam asks.

Bucky studies the plates on the table beside them. “I…maybe? I kinda lost count after a while.”

Sam sighs. “Okay. So, you did a little favor for Madripoor’s version of Tony Soprano. Great.”

His eyes flash to Sam’s. “Well, what the fuck was I supposed to do? Sharon’s not here anymore, and it’s not like I have a whole lot of friends in this city so – “

Sam holds up a hand. “No, I’m not…I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just…trying to understand everything that’s gone on.”

“Oh.” He deflates a bit at that. “Okay.”

“But what the hell kinda’ name is the Green Gazelle?”

“Right? Place is weird. I dunno. Maybe you’d like it.” He grins at Sam’s scowl. “I’ll have to take you sometime. Once we’re done…” His voice stalls. Right. There’s a world beyond this apartment, and Sam, and Sam’s banana pancakes, and they’re still lost in the belly of the whale here and he  –

“Bucky,” Sam pulls him back again. “Alright. Let’s take a break from story time. You look beat.”

“But…”

“Anything we need to deal with now? Like, right this very minute or we’re gonna be in some serious shit?” Sam asks. Bucky closes his eyes to think for a minute. For too long, because there’s Sam’s hand on his arm again. “Bucky?”

“I don’t think so.” He blinks tiredly at Sam’s face. “Plenty of people who are probably still out for us, but I don’t think they’ll know where we are.” His face twists. “Shit. Unless they put something in your suit, or you, or…”

“They didn’t,” Sam says. “Believe me. I checked. Not my first time trying to get off the grid, remember?”

He stares. Sometimes Sam’s a little too good at hiding that hard-earned street sense. “No, but…right. Good. Okay.” He nibbles on his lip. “I know you don’t wanna…talk about everything that happened yet. But can you at least give me the highlights? In case there’s something we’re missing.”

“Yeah,” Sam drawls, looking at his hands. “So, I think I got nabbed by some…I don’t know, drug…queenpin, I guess, out here. She had me running around like her errand boy. Dosed me with that drug every night.”

“Errands?” Bucky asks as evenly as he can.

“Errands,” Sam nods. “Picking something up, delivering something else. Threatening to break a few kneecaps, that sort of thing. Though honestly, most of the time I was hunting for you.”

“Who was she?”

“Who was who?”

“This…queenpin, you said?”

“Not sure. No one I recognized.” Sam gives him a look. “You seem surprised by that.”

He shrugs. “Maybe. I dunno what to think about this city, anymore.”

“Yeah. Same here,” Sam sighs, and Bucky sees a reflection of his own exhaustion in Sam’s face.

“Okay. We don’t have to figure it all out now.” He tugs at the cuff of his…Sam’s hoodie. “But, so you know…I’ve been trying to keep Rhodes and Sarah in the loop. Haven’t been doing a very good job at it, lately. You should…did you already talk to them?”

Sam’s face contorts until it finally settles on a smile. “No. I saw your calls on your phone. I know I should. I…I don’t know where to start with them.”

Bucky swallows. “Okay. Well. That’s…that’s probably the thing we should do next.”

Sam nods. “I will. I’ll call them.” He waves a hand. “Later. It’s…complicated.”

“Yeah,” Bucky mutters. “I get that.”

“Hey,” Sam starts. “I don’t think I’ve said it yet…but thanks. For coming after me.”

Bucky shakes his head. “No.”

“No?”

“No,” he hisses again. “For finding you? Now? After all this shit went down? Not before, when I was supposed to?”

“Bucky.”

“No. No. I was supposed to be there. And I should have gotten you the first time I saw you so you didn’t have to deal with any of this shit and…”

“Oh,” Sam snaps, “so I didn’t have to deal with any of this shit? You mean the dropping you from eight stories up and the chasing you down and almost slicing your hand in half and then the blowing up Grand Central fucking Station while you were still hanging out there and – “

“Sam,” he hisses.

Sam sucks in a rough breath and drags a trembling hand across his face. “Yeah. Still…still got some stuff to work out.”

“Sam.” He worries at the bandage around his hand. “Did they…did they…do anything to you? While you were there?”

“Do anything?” Sam asks, uncertain. “Oh,” he breaths. “Like what Hydra did to you, you mean.”

Bucky shrugs. “Yeah, like they…umm…did they…they didn’t...”

Sam fixes him with a stare that cycles from confusion to revelation to horror. “No,” Sam says at last, and Bucky sags in on himself. “Nothing like that. They were…I don’t know. Not nice to me, exactly. But they pretty much left me alone when I wasn’t out…doing what they wanted me to do.”

“Okay,” he breathes, voice in vibrato. God, what would he have even done if Sam said yes? Other than eviscerate everyone who’s responsible for this mess. But he was going to do that anyway. As soon as he can stand on his own two feet for more than a minute again. “That’s…good.” He winces. “Not good, I mean. It’s…”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “I know. Coulda been worse, right?”

“No,” Bucky rasps. “That’s not…it’s…” He closes his eyes against the pounding in his temples. It could have been worse, though. If Sam’s captors had done a fraction of the things to him that Hydra did to Bucky. If Sam actually had to live with the blood that could have been his hands, had to walk forward with that chain around his neck pulling him back.

“Buck,” Sam interrupts his ruminations, “how ‘bout you get some rest?”

He opens his eyes with a sigh. Blinks at Sam’s sock-clad foot next to his bare one. “Your boot.”

“Uh. What?”

“I just got your boot. After that first fight. Only thing I could hold on to.” He clutched that thing, grey and white and red, a feather weight in his hands, to his chest the whole way back to his room in lowtown. “And I went back for it, after my first room got trashed, because it was the only thing I had and I just wanted to get it back to you.” He’d pawed frantically through the wreckage one handed, actually, bleeding all over the place, holding his breath until he found it. “Think I’d have been better off if I managed to get the shield from you, but beggars can’t be choosers, right?”

“Bucky.”

“It’s with the other one, now. In one of the closets. Didn’t feel right keeping them apart. Dumb, I know.” His left hand is steady in his lap. The fingers of his right are quaking like soft leaves in a stiff breeze.

“Bucky.”

“And I put it there because I was worried you’d find it and I’d wake up and you’d just be…gone…again, and I was trying to figure out when I could give the whole suit back to you, when I’d know you were you again, but turns out I didn’t have to worry about that because there I was all but useless when you were trying to come back to yourself and–”

“Bucky.” A warm hand loops around the back of his neck and pulls his head to Sam’s shoulder. “Hey. You did get it back to me. Alright?”

He swallows in a few ragged breaths. “I…”

Sam’s other hand comes up around his arm, fingers digging into his elbow. “We’re okay,” Sam murmurs in his ear. “We’re okay.”

He presses his forehead to Sam’s shirt. “We’re okay,” he whispers back. “We’re okay.”

Chapter Text

Sam’s past few days have been…confusing doesn’t quite capture it. Earth-shatteringly bizarre, vacillating wildly between heartbreaking and triumphant, clouded by a sense of soul-crushing guilt he knows is misplaced but can’t shake…maybe that’s closer. He’s been alright when he’s too busy worrying about Bucky to have time to think about anything else. He’s pretty good at that.

He’s keeping everything that happened before he woke up in this apartment tucked behind a nice, high wall. He’ll drag it out when he’s in a place and time to do so. Madripoor is not that place. These few days, with Bucky half delirious from infection and exhaustion and the metric ton of hurt Sam and the rest of Madripoor laid down on him, has not been the time.

A selfish part of him might be relieved Bucky’s in such bad shape. It gives him an excuse not to worry about other things, like that strange woman in the strange house with the strange drug that turned him into, as Sharon once so charmingly said, someone’s pet psychopath. And damn doesn’t that phrase cut a little deeper than it did before.

Speaking of Sharon, he needs to ask Bucky if she can do anything to help. If she hasn’t already. If she even knows. Shit, he needs to ask Bucky who does know, other than Rhodey and Sarah, about all of this. He needs to ask Bucky a lot of things. Bucky’s conked out on the couch in the living room right now, though, so that’ll have to wait.

Sam glances up from his seat in a chair across from that couch. Yup, Bucky’s still there, face smushed into the armrest, wearing Sam’s new hoodie that only makes the bruises on his face starker. Sam’s got a few to match, mostly across his back from when Bucky smashed him into that rooftop. Bucky doesn’t need to know about those.

He taps a finger against Bucky’s phone. He’s racking up quite the bill on this thing. He’s good for it, though. He scrolls to the recent calls list again, a record of all the conversation’s Bucky’s had about him lately. There’re a few calls to Sarah, a few more to Rhodey. About seven missed calls from the latter. Nice to know Bucky doesn’t ignore just Sam.

He needs to call Sarah, feels it like a thorn in his heel. He tells himself he needs to talk to Bucky first, to figure out what she already knows. It’s only half a lie. And who the hell knows what time it is on the east coast. She can get pretty cranky if someone wakes her up too early.

So, he heads for one of the bedrooms and calls Rhodey first. He doesn’t care if he pisses the Colonel off.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Do you know how many times I’ve called you, Barnes? Swear to God I’m about five minutes from putting on the suit and coming over there just so I can add one more black eye to your collection,” Rhodey answers after the third ring.

Sam’s mouth freezes half-way open, words dying on his tongue.

“Barnes?” Rhodey asks after a moment. “Barnes? You there?”

“Hey,” he says at last. Silence crackles down the line. “It’s me. Sam.”

“Sam,” Rhodey breaths. “Holy shit. What…what?”

“Yeah. Some kinda week, huh.”

“Are you okay? Is…did…is Barnes okay? Brother, what…what the hell’s going on out there?”

“I’m okay. I’m okay. Bucky is…he’s gonna be alright.”

“What…where are you? Where is he? Gimmie something here, Sam.”

“Yeah. I’m…we’re at his place. That he’s renting, I guess. He’s uh…” his voice catches, “he’s not in great shape. He’s gonna be fine, though.”

“He was supposed to…I haven’t talked to him in…shit. Sam. How are you?”

“I…”

“Sam?”

“I’m alright. Back to…me, I guess. Still trying to figure out everything that’s happened so far. A lot has happened.”

“No shit. How the hell did you end up in Madripoor, man?”

He snorts. “Some things I still don’t remember. We have a lot of pieces to put together. Why don’t we start with what you know? Maybe you can fill in some of my blanks.”  

Rhodey gives him the rundown – the search at the Smithsonian, the suit pinging in Madripoor, what he knows of Bucky’s adventures. Which isn’t a lot, Sam’s gathering. Sam tells him what he knows. Mostly. About the woman, and the drug, and the trying to club Bucky senseless half a dozen times.

“Last time I talked to him, you two had just had a little spat in his hotel room.”

Sam snorts. “That’s one way to put it. We met up a few times since then.”

“So why didn’t the asshole fill me in again?”

“Well.” Sam rubs a hand across the back of his head. “Communication isn’t exactly his strong suit. In his defense, he had some other shit to deal with.” Like Sam trying to sear half his skin off, for instance.

“So I’m gathering. He said he didn’t want me out there either. Thought it would cause too much of a commotion. Me. Can you imagine?”

Sam blinks. “Uh. Yeah. I can.”

“Well, who asked you anyway?” Rhodey scoffs. “Now come on, he found you, there’s no reason for me not to come out there and help you guys out.”

“Yeah,” Sam drawls. “I don’t think we’re sticking around here for much longer, though.” Rhodey’s silent for a long moment. “What?” Sam asks.

“Really? Some bitch kidnapped you, made you do her dirty work, and you’re telling me getting back at her isn’t at the top of your list?”

“I…” What does he say to that? That the thought of her face fills him with a blind, consuming rage? That the thought of confronting her is terrifying, but the idea of confronting what she made him do and what she could have made him do is far worse, fills him with a devastating, paralyzing shame?

“Oh. I mean, if you’re not sure who she is, I guess that makes sense.”

“I know who she is.”

“You…really? You know where she is?”

“I know where she is.”

“And you wanna…no…I…sorry. You do what’s best for you, man.”

“Thanks. We’re getting out of here as soon as we can.”

“We are?” A new voice. Sam snaps his head up to see Bucky, one hand on the doorframe, glaring at him with narrowed eyes.

“Hey, Rhodey. Lemme call you back.” He ends the call before Rhodey has a chance to reply.

“You know who did this to you, where she is, and we’re just leaving?” Bucky asks, harsh and hoarse.

He gives Bucky a glare back. “Jesus. Eavesdrop much?”

“Yes,” Bucky answers. “So she’s…you know who she is? Where she is?”

“Yeah,” Sam drawls cautiously.

Bucky stares. “Then what…Sam. She’s here.” He waves his bandaged hand for emphasis. “We’re here.”

“I am aware of that,” he responds. To a painful degree.

“So,” Bucky stares, utterly befuddled. “So. What are we going to do about it?”

“World’s got like a hundred heroes, Bucky. Who says we have to be the ones to solve this?”

Bucky’s mouth parts in confusion. “But we…none of those people give a shit about this place. Maybe that’s the problem. And we’re here. We’ve seen what’s happening. I’ve seen what’s happening. Do you know what they’ve been doing with that drug? What they’ve been making people do?”

“Yeah,” Sam twists his fingers into the bedspread beneath him. “As a matter of fact, I’ve got a pretty good fucking idea.”

Bucky flinches a bit at that. “Then…then…then how can you not want to…”

Sam sighs. “It doesn’t have to be us. And it doesn’t have to be us right now.”

“But if we wait…” Bucky gnaws on his lip before pinning Sam with a glare. “They could go to ground. Pop up somewhere else. This is our chance to stop all this.” The door frame creaks in Bucky’s grip. “We have to stop all this.”

“Of course we do. I’m saying doing it right now…not the best plan, Buck. Look at us.” Sam waves a dismissive hand at Bucky. “Now we can get on a flight tomorrow, or we can ask Rhodey if he can send—”

“No.”

“No?”

“I’m staying. Til this is done.”

Sam laughs, harsh and bitter. “Really? Man, look in the mirror. You’re beat to shit. I beat you to shit. My head’s jacked up seven ways from Sunday. We’re a mess. No way are we putting up a good fight against these people right now.”

Bucky pushes off the door frame, like Sam’s not going to see the way his knees tremble. “I’m not leaving.”

“Oh really?” Sam shakes his head. “You gonna take on everything Madripoor has to offer, all by your little own self?”

“Yes,” Bucky hisses. “In case you missed it, that’s what I’ve been doing this whole damn time.”

“Yeah,” Sam ponders. “About that.” He shoves himself up from his seat on the edge of the bed to stalk towards Bucky. He paints a thin grin across his face at the way Bucky shuts down the flinch that sparks across his shoulders. “So, you wanna share with the class everything you’ve been up to? All the favors you’ve been doing for Madripoor’s assorted scum bags?”

“I told you what I did,” Bucky says to the floor between their feet in a low tone.

“No,” Sam insists. “You didn’t. You dropped a few hints. And somehow I’m thinking the things you did to get into their good graces weren’t strictly above board.”

Bucky’s eyes flash up to his, pale smoke around burnt-out cinders. “I did what I had to do. What more do you need to know?”

Sam sputters. “Yeah, I’ve seen you and your necessary means, Bucky. And you not telling me shit just makes me think you’re hiding something. Again.”

“Fine,” Bucky snarls. “I shot at some people. Missed on purpose. Beat up some other people up when they tried to shoot me. Beat up some more people up when they tried to rob the truck I was guarding. Ended up in a drug warehouse again, and left a few dolls there because I figured I’d have a better chance of…of stopping all this if I could find you and the people who did this to you. Any other questions?”

“Yeah. How sure are you that you were beating up the bad guys?” Sam asks pointedly. Bucky tucks his chin, uncertainty dancing across his lips. “Right. That’s what I thought. And how many of them were still breathing by the time you were done with them?”

Sam can hear Bucky’s teeth grinding together. “All of them. And fuck you.”

“Fuck me? What are you, twelve?” He stalks over another few feet until he’s toe-to-toe with Bucky. Not even a whisper of a flinch this time, just that cold glare. “Okay. Fine. Be an idiot. Stay here. See if you can find some other Manchurian asshole who wants to break the rest of your bones.”

“I…” Bucky’s right hand curls into his stomach. Sam resolutely ignores it.

“Now. I’ve got another call to make. You wanna stand here and listen to that one too, or you wanna give a guy a little damn privacy?”

Bucky’s eyes flash and his jaw clenches around whatever retort he’s thinking of making.

“Great. Good talk.” Sam all but hustles Bucky out of the way to shut the door on that glowering visage and goes back to the bed before he changes his mind. Scrolls to the second name on the outgoing calls list of Bucky’s phone. Seriously, the asshole didn’t talk to anyone else?

Sarah picks up on the first ring. “Bucky. Please tell me you guys are okay.”

His breath hitches. His eyes water. He works words out around a suddenly constricted throat. “Sarah. Sarah. It’s me.”

“Sam,” she cries. “Oh God. Are you…Sam. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m…yeah.” He swallows a few times and closes his eyes. “Sarah. I’m okay.”

“Sam.” Her voice wavers. “It’s…it’s good to hear your voice. I…”

He drops his elbows to his knees, half curling in on himself. “It’s good to hear yours.” It’s beyond good. It’s a balm on the frayed nerve his mind has become.  

“Sam. Sam,” she whispers, almost to herself. “What the hell happened?”

“It’s…Sarah, I don’t even know where to start.”

“Start wherever. You don’t have to tell me everything now.  I just…wait.” Her voice grows high and sharp. “Where’s Bucky?”

Seriously, is that the only question people can ask him? “He’s…here.” Unless he’s pulled a runner already. Sam wouldn’t put it past him.

“Is he alright? Are you alright? Shit, Sam.”

“I...yeah.” His voice softens. Right. Everyone’s been asking him that question because he spent the last week and change trying to kill the man. It’s a reasonable thing to wonder. “He’s alright. I’m alright. Everyone’s alright.”

“Oh, thank God,” Sarah sighs. “Sam…what…he wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“Bucky?” Trust the little shit to be less than forthcoming on…well…everything.

“Yeah. I mean he told me what happened, the basics. But he didn’t…well, I didn’t even know what to ask.”

The basics. Like that word applies to anything that’s happened here. He frowns at the closed door. Doesn’t sound like Bucky told anyone much of anything. At least Rhodey knew Sam almost sliced Bucky’s hand in half to drop him a few stories. “What did he tell you?” he asks at length, uncertain what answer he wants.

“You got taken, right? And then they did…something to you. Did you fight each other?”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Not much of a fight but…yeah.”

“What does that mean? Did he hurt you?” She takes a long breath into the phone. “Oh. You hurt him.”

“Yeah,” he replies, voice cracking. “I...I did. Pretty badly, too. I almost…I could have…” His voice leaves him, flits out the window into that grey sky.  

“But…but you didn’t. You said he’s okay.”

He’s shuffling around like a man his age, barely standing on his own two feet. A walking wound. If it weren’t for the serum, he’d be dead several times over. “He’s…okay.”

“Sam,” she sniffles. “Sam, I’m so sorry.”

He scrubs a hand across his damp face. “I’m sorry too. I’m so, so sorry. For all of this. I just…”

“Sam,” Sarah interrupts him. “No. No. Just…tell me that you’re okay. That you’re both okay. Swear to me you are.”  

“I…we are. I mean we’re not…he’s pretty banged up. And I’m a little messed up. But we’re good enough, for now.”

“Are you…are you guys coming back here?”

He flops back on the bed with a groan. “Yes. We are. We…we gotta talk a little bit. And it will take us some time to get there. Maybe a couple of days. But we’ll get there.”

“Damn right you will,” she says with a final sniffle. “Good,” she affirms, stronger. “You’ll be here in a couple days. And I’ll see about getting that pull-out sofa for the office, like we talked about. Guessing the couch in the living room isn’t going to cut it.”

“That couch is the most damn uncomfortable piece of furniture any Wilson has ever owned,” he snipes back.

“It was on sale, alright? And you’re paying for half of the new one.”

The corners of his mouth float up. “Oh I am, huh?”

“Fine,” she sighs. “You want to pay for the whole thing, I ain’t gonna stop you.”

He laughs out the lump in his throat. “You drive a hard bargain, Sarah Wilson.”

“Mmhmm,” she confirms. The sass bleeds out of her voice. “Just come home soon as you can, you hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” he answers. He tilts his head to regard the door once more. “Alright. I gotta go do some more negotiating.”

“Hope you do better with whoever it is than you did with me.”

“No shit,” he groans. “Thanks for the practice, though. I’ll keep you updated, okay?”

“Okay,” she agrees. Sam can hear her tapping her nails on the phone case. “Sam?”

“Yeah.”

“Take care of yourself. I love you.”

He closes his eyes again and takes a deep breath before he replies. “I love you too, Sarah. I’ll see you soon.”  

Bucky’s off sulking like a hormonal teenager when he hangs up the phone. At least that’s what he assumes the other man is doing, behind one of those other bedroom doors. Sam pads back over to the armchair in the living room, the one right in front of a picture window affording views of hightown’s skyline all the way to distant green peaks, exotic bird eggs against the grey-blue sky.

He dumps his phone on a nearby end table as he sits. Scratch that, not his phone. Bucky’s. He needs to pick up one of his own. Or he doesn’t, since they’ll be leaving here so soon. It’s the right thing to do, getting out of dodge as soon as they can.

And it is going to be them, not him. Bucky can get as pissy and bitchy as he wants. Guy would get murdered in a middle school wrestling match right now, for Christ’s sake. No way is Sam leaving him here to his own devices, even if he has to frog march the moron onto a plane. Right now, he could probably do it.

Sam’s in no shape for a fight, either. Just the thought of pulling on the suit makes his stomach flip. He sure as hell isn’t about to put it on at someone else’s behest, either. Even if it is to take out the bitch who did this to him. Who did this to other people, spread this poison all over Madripoor, turning people into these mindless puppets, god knows how many there are or how far this drug has gotten and what they’re making those people do. Bucky sure seemed to think that they might…ah. Shit.   

Alright. Jerk has a point. This stuff is bad. Sam sure as hell knows that. He also knows that being prepared for a fight is more important than being righteous about it. Taking a step back to actually think about what they’re gonna do before they do it, for once, is the right play. Bucky should be happy he’s trying to come up with a real plan, anyway.

That’s it. They’re not running away. They’re beating a tactical retreat, until they’ve got a better handle on things. Until they’ve brought in the calvary. Until Bucky’s able to walk in a straight line unassisted. Until the thought of picking up the shield doesn’t make Sam’s hands tremble.

He sits in front of the window for a long time, watches shadows run black across the green hills and light creep up from the neon canyons of hightown. This far up, behind a thick pane of glass, the city looks clean, quiet, peaceful. Most places look nicer from above, where you just see the graceful sweep of streetlights, not the dirt gritted into every street corner.

That’s one of the reasons he always liked flying. Just to get up and above and away from his worries, if only for a moment’s grace. He’s flown over this city a number of times now, though he can’t say the experience brought him any peace. Just pain, and heartache, and the indelible images of trying to murder his friend, tattooed on the backs of his eyelids.

He groans. Bucky came halfway around the world. For him. And kept coming, for blow after blow. Least he can do is level with the guy.

He pushes out of the chair to trod through the darkened apartment. Seriously, how much is this place costing Bucky? That view alone is worth some solid bank. He pauses outside the door to Bucky’s room. The door’s cracked, but he doesn’t see any lights on.

It’s a momentary flash of opening the door to find the room empty, Bucky long gone, that prompts him to ease open the door without knocking or calling out. He sighs when he marks Bucky’s outline atop the bed. He’s on his stomach, not his back, so maybe he’s listening to Sam. Bruised face toward the door, but his eyes are closed. Bandaged hand curled up near his chin. Exhausted enough he doesn’t even twitch when Sam steps in the room. Still wearing Sam’s new hoodie. The color really is terrible on him.

Yeah. Looks like he’s about to go out and take Madripoor by storm, alright. Shit, Sam should get a picture, send it to Sarah, and Rhodey. His mouth twitches up in a smile before it fades. Right, because then everyone else would see what Bucky looks like, would see the brutal evidence of everything Sam subjected him to during the past few weeks.

And God, he hasn’t even really apologized for it. Not that Bucky would let him. Not that it’s Sam’s fault, he knows that, but knowing and believing are two entirely different things. Christ, he just about tore Bucky a new one too, when the man had the gall to suggest they might want to stick around and do the right thing.

His fingers flex forward in a sudden urge to rush to the bed, shake Bucky awake, scream and shout his sorrys loud enough that Bucky will have no choice but to hear them. To beg for forgiveness, or plead with him to at least forget. To grab the man by his arms, demand to know how if he’s half as scared of Sam as Sam thinks he should be. To bury his head in Bucky’s shoulder and weep bitterly until he’s run dry. To pull him in for a bone-cracking hug, babble that he’s so, so glad Bucky’s okay. Alive, at least.

He draws a hand across his damp eyes instead, draws in one shuddering breath after another until his lungs stop seizing. He casts a last glance at Bucky’s still form before he quietly closes the door. They’ll both sleep on this. Talk about it tomorrow after they’ve had some time to cool down. Any discussions about their next steps can wait ‘til the sun comes up. Everything will be clearer then. Yeah. It’s a decent plan. It’s a great plan.

He’s a fucking idiot. And an asshole. Seriously, who picks a fight with the guy who just got over being brainwashed, who’s trying to come to terms with the sickening knowledge that he was completely at the mercy of some sick fuck, that he hurt people, nearly killed them, could have been trapped for years doing worse?

Bucky Barnes, that’s who. Because he’s a fucking idiot. And an asshole.

Maybe it’s just the darkness making him contemplative. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep the second he stormed into his room —which was supposed to be Sam’s room, before the guy dumped Bucky’s fever-ridden body here — like a petulant child and flopped down on the bed, but clearly it happened. And who the fuck is he kidding? He can’t even sigh without every bone in his body lodging a vociferous complaint. How the hell is he going to take on Madripoor’s worst and darkest by his lonesome right now?

And how the hell could he even think about leaving Sam alone, with all the demons he knows are lurking around every corner? When he knows it’s Sam who’s going to be jolting awake in the middle of the night, heart hammering in his throat and the taste of blood on his tongue?

He’ll go to Sam, hat in hand, when dawn bleeds into Madripoor’s neon haze. Tell Sam he’s right, they don’t really stand a fighting chance the way they are now. Bucky can barely navigate a room, and Sam can barely look at Bucky without his face morphing into a morass of guilt and regret and sorrow. Bucky knows better than anyone how that can turn a person’s days to mourning, how it can leave a night empty.

He blinks at the luminous spires outside his window. Shit, maybe he should do it now, barge into Sam’s room and bellow his apologies. He knows Sam’s probably still awake. Hard to fall asleep when you know you’ll find no respite in slumber. Bucky blinks again, and his eyes stay closed. Maybe he’ll talk to Sam in the morning, then. After he’s had a chance to sink into this mattress and not get up for a week.

Bucky’s close to asleep, exhaustion and his mending body tugging him under, when he hears it. A whisper of leather on tile, the susurration of fabric. He picks his head up off the pillow, eyes still closed. There – boots crunching in the gravel on the rooftop just above his head.

He slides out of his bed silently, pads to the door. Another sound, a low murmuring voice. Something scratching in the front door’s lock. He bolts out of his room to Sam’s, shoving the door open. “We’ve got company,” he tells the man he knows is already awake.

Sam swings his legs over the side of the bed. “What’s up?”

“I hear a few in the hallway outside. More on the roof, too. Don’t know how many.” He pauses, listening. “At least four,” he amends. “Put on the suit. I’ll buy us some time.” He’s away from the room, stalking toward the front door before Sam can reply.

He passes into the kitchen, registering the low hum of the refrigerator. His eyes have already adjusted, and in the ambient glow from the outside lights he catches a silhouette padding in front of the wine rack. A man, by the size of him, kitted up in a tack vest, holding something long and matte in one hand.

Bucky pounces across the kitchen island. The man lets out a strangled shout as he gets a face full of pissed-off super soldier. Bucky yanks the object out of his hands —a crowbar, turns out—and brings it back down across the man’s face.

He doesn’t have any time to celebrate before something lands across his back, smack in the middle of that white bandage underneath Sam’s garish hoodie. Christ, this thing probably stands out like a signal flare in the apartment’s darkness. Trust Sam to buy something in the least subtle color possible. Bucky spins with a snarl and another figure dances out of the way. She’s holding something too, long, and the light dances across thin strips sticking out of it.

“That’s cute,” he comments on the nail-studded bat in her hands.  

She swings it at his head with a roar. He snaps up his vibranium arm and the bat skids off it with a screech. She brings it back around from the other side and he dives under the swing into her midsection, taking her straight into the counters. He bounces her head off the marble while she’s still fumbling, staring at the strange apparatus over her face and mouth.

He scans the empty room. Too easy. “Jesus, Sam,” he calls out. “How long does it take you to —”

He jerks around at a sharp ping. He eyes the floor, the walls, the windows, doesn’t see anything. Then the room fills with a hissing sound and a white cloud of smoke. He waves a hand in front of him, coughing. Takes a breath through his nose and recognizes the smell. It’s the one he followed to the women’s bathroom at the Smithsonian. Gas, his mind screams, and then Sam. He bolts across the kitchen, toward the living room and the hallway leading to the bedrooms.

He doesn’t get far before someone leaps out of the smoke and takes him into the island countertop. His burned back slams into the marble and roars like wildfire. He sucks in a mouthful of air to shout and get a lungful of gas instead.

He clamps his teeth against a sputtering cough and brings an elbow down on the head of the man who’s trying to hold him down. His arm bounces off something metallic. A helmet. Guess someone came prepared. He aims his next blow a little lower, to the spot where the guy’s neck and shoulder meet.

The guy slumps to the side after Bucky lands that hit. In a flash of light from the windows Bucky catches the impression of something strapped over his face, too. Gas mask. Duh. He pushes off from the island, stumbling over the limp body in his haste to get the fuck out of here and find Sam. He hears the crackle behind him a split second too late to do anything about it.

Something jabs into the middle of his burned back, then electricity flares and snaps across his skin. He arcs away, or he tries to, but his muscles have gone rigid with current and his jaw is clenched down too hard to let out the scream bubbling in his chest.

Fuck fuck fuck pathways in his brain start burning. An image flashes before his eyes – him slumping to the ground, dazed by gas and stunned by electricity. More men with their faces covered, crowding the apartment to drag him away. Other men tackling Sam, beating him senseless, hauling him away too. Waking up again to see that expression, that not-expression, on Sam’s face. Knowing his friend is gone again. Knowing he failed, again.

He twists with a roar and brings a hand down through the smoke where he thinks the wrist holding the stun gun should be. He doesn’t hear the gun clatter across the floor before the figure behind it lurches out of the gloom and takes him down to the floor. They land heavy on his chest, driving what little air he has left out of his lungs. A hand tangles in his hair and snaps his head into the tile with a crack.

He wrenches an elbow out and up until it connects with something, and he’s rewarded with a muffled curse. He’s also rewarded with another smash of his head into the floor, and he sucks in an ill-advised breath. White stars dance in front of his vision. He pushes himself up and bucks his opponent off him.

He shoves up to his knees, ready for one last move before the gas takes him. He brings his vibranium arm around, trembling with exertion. The figure snags it in one hand and holds it out like a doll’s arm. A hand lunges forward and snakes around Bucky’s throat. He bats at that arm with his free hand, though he might as well be a mouse trying to push away a snake’s jaws. The figure hauls Bucky’s head forward a few inches and slams it back into the island hard enough to splinter the wood.

He gasps, once more, and knows he’s done. The hand falls away from his throat, though he hardly feels it. Then the hand’s back, something long and shiny clenched in gloved fingers. He blinks at the silhouette of a thin tube, a sharp needle, twice before his brain links the two and names it a syringe.

Well, he thinks as the white spots crowd the rest of his vision and shade to black, at least Sam won’t have to go far to find me.    

Chapter Text

He’s in that odd liminal space, hovering above sleep but still caught in a deepening spiral of regret and guilt, of what could have been if Bucky had moved a second slower so many times, when Bucky charges through his door.

Of course they have company. And the ass doesn’t even have the decency to let him ask another question before he’s gone. Just gives Sam that clear admonition. Put the suit on.

Sam’s in front of the closet before he can think about it. The suit’s still dangling there, where Bucky stashed it. Light and empty, a limp marionette. Or maybe he was the marionette, strings tugged by an irresistible master. He’s staring blankly at the fabric, catching ambient light from the window, when he hears a crash, a curse, something smashing to the ground.

“Come on,” he hisses at himself as he yanks the suit off the hanger. He ditches his shirt and tugs the top on before he can think too much about it. No time for his normal base layer – briefs will have to do, chafing be damned – under the trousers. The cowl and visor go on in a hurry, and he reaches for the boots. And freezes.

There’s Bucky, shaking beside him on the couch. Then there’s Bucky, plummeting from his guestroom to the pavement below, bouncing off ledges on the way down. And Bucky, falling away, down, out of the sky towards Madripoor below. Tumbling down through a canyon of steel and concrete, past windows that gleam like a broken smile.  

Past the windows. He jerks his head as a sliver of rope drops down past his window.

More on the roof. Shit.

He hauls the boots on – right then left, like he always does – then the gloves – left then right, like he always does. He snatches the shield up off the floor just as a black-clad figure smashes through the bedroom window.

He launches the shield at the figure’s head and watches it collapse in a heap. A second figure, darkly attired, follows the first. He doesn’t give them time to make their feet before he tosses the shield again and watches that silhouette crumple. Okay, that wasn’t so —

A too-familiar clink, and he spots the gas grenade tumbling across the wood floor. He jukes out the window before the hiss hits. He hovers in the air and watches white smoke fill his bedroom. His eyes dart to the building’s roof and the outline of several more figures. Sent by that woman to bring him back, presumably. Fuck that.

He’s eyeing the people on the building, calculating his best approach, when he hears a roar from somewhere beyond that white smoke. Bucky.

He fills his lungs as full as he can, turns on the visor now that he remembers what it’s for, before he dives back in the room. He flies straight through the smoke down the hallway, where he pulls up before another cloud of vapor. The visor slices through it, paints him an image in crimson of motionless shapes draped across the floor, two more huddled together against the island.

He sucks in another clean breath and charges forward, shield first. It smashes into the face of the man crouched above Bucky, sending him flying. Sam would like to land a few more blows there, just to be sure, but he’s got bigger concerns. He slams the shield into its spot on his back with one hand while he hauls Bucky towards him with the other. He drags Bucky’s arm around his shoulder, wraps his free hand around Bucky’s waist, and shoots back the way he came.

There are two more figures lurking in the bedroom when he gets there. He bowls them right over with the wings and bursts out the broken window, into what passes for fresh air in Madripoor. He dekes and jukes as he flies, bullets sailing harmlessly into the night beyond him.

He sets down on a rooftop several blocks away, one that’s hemmed in on three sides by even taller buildings, and eases Bucky to the ground on his side. Light tumbles from the building behind him over Bucky’s placid face, the bruises dark against his hollow cheeks, his lashes still. 

“Hey.” Sam traces the shadow of a contusion with his thumb. “Come on. Brought you all the way up here for the view. Least you could do is take a look.” He settles himself down on the rooftop next to Bucky when he gets no response, rests a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. Sam turns his head to regard the exposed air conditioner units, the empty bottles, and the plastic bags caught on odd angles, fluttering in the wind. “Okay,” he grumbles. “So, I could have taken you somewhere nicer. Really wowed you. This was the best I could do on short notice.”

At least he can feel the rise and fall of the other man’s shoulder, so he knows he’s still breathing. He’d be a lot happier if Bucky was doing his usual, complaining about Sam’s terrible jokes. And his voice, and his laugh, and his personality, and…everything else under the sun, really.

“Come on,” he cajoles. “Where’s the shot at my flying? I’ll even give you that one for free.” Bucky sucks in a haltering breath and tilts his head up. He blinks his eyes blearily at Sam. “Hey,” Sam says. “Nice of you to join the party here.” A hacking cough forestalls whatever comment Bucky might have come back with. “Okay, man, just try to breathe,” Sam advises him. “That stuff packs a punch, believe me, I know.”

“What,” Bucky wheezes. “How?”

“Hey,” Sam tuts. “Take it easy. We’ve got a minute so just…catch your breath.” Bucky closes his eyes and drops his head to the ground, drawing in long shaky breaths. “You’re alright,” Sam mutters. “You’re good man, you’re good.”

“What,” Bucky hacks one last cough out, “took you so long?”

Sam snorts. “You ever try to wiggle into a skintight body suit under duress? Besides, my dance card was a little full with the dudes who came in through my bedroom window.”

“You…okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good. Can’t say the same for them. Saw they brought friends and I came to find you. Looked like you were having a lot of fun there.” Sam cranes his neck and tips Bucky forward a few inches. There’s a dark spot on the fabric across his back, and a smell he does not want to identify. “The hell happened to your back, man?”

“Stun gun,” Bucky groans.

“Shit,” Sam winces. “Hope that was the asshole I conked on the head.”

“I'm sure it was,” Bucky reassures him.  

“Good,” Sam grunts. “Should have hit him harder. That’s my new hoodie he ruined.”

“Your hoodie?” Bucky gasps. “I paid for it.”

“Whatever.” Sam glances around. “You good to go, man? Don’t want to rush you here, but I think we’d better be getting gone.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. He pushes up to his elbows, then a hand. Stops there, squinting and blinking at the air. “Maybe.”

“No,” Sam answers for him, chest tight. “Alright. We’ll give it another minute.”

Bucky stares hard at the gravel beneath his fingers. “Sam,” he asks, “how’d they find us?”

Sam curses. “Madripoor has eyes everywhere, right? Maybe they figured it out from all those special deliveries I ordered.”

“App is supposed to be anonymous,” Bucky points out. “And if that’s how they figured it out, coulda been the stuff I was doing, too.”

Sam shrugs. “So maybe someone else dimed us out. Could be any number of things, right?”

“Right,” Bucky agrees.

“Anyways, think that place is burned,” Sam states. “Don’t suppose you’ve got another safe house lying around somewhere?”

Bucky snorts. “At this rate, Motel 6 wouldn’t even give me a room.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “Sarah’s gonna ask for a security deposit next time we visit.”  

Bucky sucks in a sharp breath. “Shit. We should have left Madripoor in the rearview mirror the second you remembered who you were.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know what I was thinking, saying we should stay here. You’re right. I should have listened to you. We should—”

“Shut up,” Sam hisses. He rolls his eyes skyward. “So. Look. I uh…I said some stuff. Earlier today. Yesterday, whenever it was. And I wasn’t…”

“Sam,” Bucky offers.

“Thought I told you to shut up?” he counters. “Anyway. I said a few things, about what you had to do here. And it…” He drags a hand through the loose gravel on the rooftop. “I don’t know everything that happened here. I can tell it wasn’t exactly a picnic. And I shouldn’t be judging you for the things you did to…save me. What I should have been saying was thank you, and I’m sorry for what you’ve been through.” He swallows. “And I’m sorry for what I said to you.”

“Sam…” Bucky starts again.

“No,” he interrupts. “Nope. Don’t even go there. You did what you had to, alright? And I get where you’re coming from. Or at least I think I do.”

Bucky lets out a loud sigh but doesn’t offer a response one way or the other. Sam will take that, at least for now. He thinks for a beat. “So, I’m guessing those guys were there to grab me. Take me back. Like they thought that little gas trick would work a second time.”

Bucky’s brow furrows. “Almost did. Well. One of ‘em, I think he had a syringe.”

Sam’s heart catches. “Who?” he growls.

“Charlie cattle prod. Who else?”

“They were…shit.” He tugs too hard at the collar of his…Bucky’s…hoodie, frantically hunting for a mark on Bucky’s skin he knows he won’t be able to see. He leaves his fingers there afterward, trying to scry out Bucky’s pulse through his gloves. Would the drug make that faster or slower? “Did they get you?”

“No, they…” Bucky’s own hand comes up to poke at his skin. Sam does not miss the tremble in those fingers when Bucky pulls them away from his neck. And he doesn’t move his hand, either. “I don’t think so, at least. I saw the needle, then…I think you were there? And anyways, then we were here.”

Sam listens to Bucky’s breathing, too hard. Those guys were there. Right there. And if he’d been a few seconds too late, and they got that shit into Bucky? Bucky, who has spent years trying to climb out of the hole that living at the beck and call of a bunch of sociopaths put him in? And how many more are out there, like Sam was, wiped of everything that made him him, nothing more than the impulses other people put in them? How many of those people have someone who would risk everything to drag them out of that hell?

“Sam?” Bucky asks, and Sam realizes his own breath is hitching. “You alright?”

“We’re staying,” he decides, drawing his hand back at last. “Here. We’re gonna finish this. Make sure they don’t have the chance to do this to anyone else.”

Bucky twists his lips. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “’Sides, since when do I back down from a fight?”

“Depends,” Bucky mutters. “Is Sarah giving you that look she knows will break you every time? Or A.J.? Or Cass? Or–”

“Stuff it,” Sam growls. “You must be in worse shape than I thought. You’re clearly delusional.”

Bucky chuffs out a laugh. “I’ve…felt better.”

“Yeah,” Sam murmurs, suddenly soft. He reaches out one last time to inspect Bucky’s neck, ghosts his hand over the welt under Bucky’s eye. “I know, man. I think this city is bad for your health.”

“You think it’s the city?” Bucky asks.

Sam sighs. “Fine. Point taken.” He shifts to get a better look at the eastern horizon. “Gonna be light soon. Be a little harder to hide on rooftops when that happens. You got an idea where we can hole up?”

Bucky gives him one more side eye. “Hole up, or split?”

He takes a deep breath of his own. “These assholes…” He closes his eyes. Opens them to the outline of Madripoor’s neon horizon, the shining arc of the bridge into lowtown. “We’re gonna get ‘em. But we gotta be smart about this. Feel like we’ve been a step behind them the whole time. Would be nice to get ahead of the pace, for once.”

Bucky nods. “Yeah.” He sucks at a tooth.

“What is it, Bucky?”

“They knew where we were. I don’t think it was the app. So maybe…” He gaze drifts until it settles on the long steel arch of the bridge. “Huh.”

“Bucky?”

“Those guys. I wonder.”

The guys Sam hopes he gave subdermal hematomas to, those guys. “Wonder what? You think you know where they’re coming from?”

“No. But I think I know where we can get some answers.”  

“Alright. You gonna be good to go?

“Yeah,” Bucky says. A shudder runs across his shoulders. “Just…maybe need a couple more minutes.”

Sam looks at Bucky’s bare feet pointedly. “Maybe some shoes, too.”

Bucky sighs. "You and the fucking shoes, man."

“When you said you were taking me out, this wasn’t what I had in mind,” Sam says, staring at a stuffed gazelle dyed St. Patrick’s Day green that is surveying the bustling lounge from its perch above the bar.

“What?” Bucky asks by his side. “Come on. Play your cards right and I might even buy you dinner too.”

“God,” Sam moans, “the things I would do to a good old fashioned cheeseburger right now.”

“Not in public,” Bucky warns him. “It’s unseemly.”

“Fine,” Sam responds, casting a searching glance down one of the bar’s hallways, praying to see the swinging doors of a kitchen. Nothing. Just more smokey haze and a guy mumbling to himself outside the bathroom. “Well, let’s take care of whatever it is we’re here to take care of, then.”

He stuffs his hands into the pocket of his jacket, feeling oddly bereft outside of his Captain suit. Couldn’t stomach the idea of putting it on for a few days, now he can’t bear to be without it. At least most of his newly-purchased clothes were intact when he went back to Bucky’s apartment after the sun came up. Bucky’s clothes were there too, thoroughly ransacked. The phones and the gun were gone. And someone smashed the bananas Sam bought into that expensive travertine tile too. What kind of asshole would do a thing like that? 

He and Bucky stashed the suit and the gear Sam could salvage in a rundown sedan Bucky assured him no one would be looking for. Sam would be happier if he could stash his battered, limping partner there too. Or, better yet, a few thousand miles away from here. But, as Meemaw Wilson liked to say, needs must when the devil drives. Madripoor’s full of devils, as it turns out.

“Sam?” Bucky asks, waving a hand in front of Sam’s face. “Man, if you’re really that hungry we can get you some fried noodles next door or something.”

Sam looks back at him. At least Bucky doesn’t look any worse than everyone else in here does in the bar’s sickly green glow. Hard to pick out the bruises when everything is the shade of an avocado. Damn. He really must be hungry. He shakes his head.

“I’m good. Lead on.” He positions himself at Bucky’s injured back, glaring at anyone who dares to broach a four foot radius around them. Bucky shoots an aggrieved glance over one shoulder. Sam shrugs. “Deal with it.”    

Bucky sighs and leads him through a miasma of cigarette smoke, spilled liquor, and a thousand nights of bad decisions to a hallway along the opposite wall. He pushes through a door into a small back office. There are a few predictable goons stationed along the perimeter. Sam watches Bucky scan all of them and tilt his head a little after.

There’s a gaudy glass desk at the far end of the room, and a chubby man sitting behind it. He meets Sam’s stare with beady eyes. The man’s gaze turns toward Bucky, lingering on the mass of bruises on his face, the bandage around his hand. His lips twitch, and so do Sam’s fingers.

“Ah. Mr. American.” He grins, bright teeth flashing in the tangle of his beard. “Good to see you again. And you brought a friend. Though I think you are still looking a bit worse for wear, hmm?” 

Sam paints a smile of his own across his face, all teeth, and steps to Bucky’s side before the other man can respond. “Zetkov, right?” He points. “Man, I have heard so much about you. This is your place, right? Really love what you’re doing with it. Way to stay on theme, brother.”

Zetkov’s smile narrows, turns shrewd. Sam’s flesh crawls at the way Zetkov’s eyes skim across his face, his body. “Ah. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. Mr…?”

“I think you know who he is, Zetkov,” Bucky growls. “He’s kind of a big deal. And I’m thinking that means you know who I am too.”

Zetkov holds his hands out to shrug. “In Madripoor, a man can be whoever he chooses to be. I choose to be successful businessman. Who you both choose to be is none of my concern.”

“Except maybe it is,” Bucky snarls. "We had a little visit last night. Some fellas who certainly seemed to know us. Where we were, at least. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Zetkov’s face remains passive, at least as far as Sam can tell. “I cannot claim to know anything about this. I assure you, I have no intention of causing you harm.” He waves at the goons around the room. “If I did, I surely had the opportunity to do so the last time you were here.”

Sam’s turn to try out his poker face. Sounds like Bucky hasn’t been sharing everything. Shocker. “So, random guys turn up out of the blue at our place, and the guy who’s been in this mess from the beginning doesn’t know anything about it?” Bucky asks.

Zetkov smirks. “Truly, I am flattered that you think I am so aware of everything that goes on in Madripoor. But, as I say. If I intended to cause you further injury, I would have done so. I certainly could have.”

Bucky’s face stays flat. Sam’s face twists enough for the both of them. Screw the poker face. He was never any good at that anyway. “Alright,” Sam takes another step forward. “We get the tough guy routine. You say you didn’t have anything to do with what went down last night. Fine. Let’s hope not. Because here’s the thing.” He lets his gaze linger on the goons in turn before turning back to Zetkov. “If it ends up you did have something to do with it, you get to deal with me. And if you try anything else in the future, you get to deal with me. And all my other friends. So. Don’t do anything stupid.”   

“Ah. Of course.” Zetkov nods. “Working with you was quite advantageous for me, Mr. American. I have no interest in upsetting that partnership. Now,” he tilts his head at Sam, “anything else you require?”

Bucky’s eyes flash at him in the dimly lit room. Sam ignores him for a moment. “Nah, man. You know I love a good partnership.” Zetkov’s lips twitch. “So, we’re good,” Sam continues. “Let’s keep it that way, huh?”

Zetkov’s eyes flit to Bucky before they come back to Sam. “I see. I believe this arrangement is acceptable.”

“Good.” Sam finally looks back at Bucky. “What do you say we get out of here?”

“Fine by me,” Bucky grumbles. He shoots one last stare at Zetkov. “See you around.”

The goons leave them be as they walk out of the backroom. Sam snags Bucky’s elbow when they get to the main lounge. “Dude,” he hisses. “What the fuck was he talking about? When he said you were –”

“Not here,” Bucky murmurs. His eyes alight on something and he nods at a distant figure. “Got someone else for you to meet.” Bucky leads him again, to the far end of the L-shaped bar. An older woman in a skintight dress is perched on a barstool, drinking something clear out of a low glass. She smirks when they get closer.

“Ah.” She takes a long sip of her drink, eyes not dropping from Sam’s. “I see you found what you were looking for.”

“Something like that,” Bucky says. He waves at the woman. “This is Lulu.” He looks between Lulu and Sam for a moment, waiting for something.

“What?” Sam asks.

“Just…” Bucky shakes his head, a soft smile on his lips. “Just making sure.”

Lulu laughs. “Suspicious to the last. This is why I like you, Mr. American.”

Sam’s turn to glance between the two of them. “Yeah. He’s something, huh?”   

Lulu raises an overplucked brow while Bucky ducks his chin. “He is,” she purrs. “As are you. And I know who you are. What I do not know is why you are both still here.”

Bucky gives him a squint, his eyes dark and shuttered. “Yeah. We’re getting out of here as soon as we can. But someone figured out where we were staying, ambushed us last night. Whoever did all of this is still out there.”

“I see.” Lulu taps a long fingernail against her glass. “And you come here?”

Bucky shrugs. “Covering my bases. Wanted to make sure Zetkov didn’t have anything to do with it.”

Lulu laughs. “If Zetty wanted to hurt you, he would do it in person. Here.” She points at the gazelle, its endless beady-eyed stare surveying the lounge. “He is not subtle man. And, as I tell you. He has taste for pretty things. He does not like to damage these things.”

Sam stares hard at Lulu before casting a glance at the hallway leading to the backroom. Yeah, he and Bucky have some shit to talk about, for sure. Bucky’s right, though. This isn’t the place. “Okay, so not Zetkov.” He’s inordinately pleased at how evenly his voice comes out when all he wants to do is scream. At Lulu, at Bucky, at Zetkov, at this whole sordid city. “But someone came after us. Sure seemed like they were the same people who took me. And we’d like to find those people.”

Lulu sighs. “Of course. But, always bad people in Madripoor. This will never change. Why try?”

“We need to find where they’re making that drug. And put a stop to it,” Sam says.

She peers closer at him. “I think you know who is doing this, yes? So, you go fight them there?”

He trades a look with Bucky. Waits for that tacit tilt of Bucky’s head that means go ahead. “That’s not where they’re making the drug. We could go there, sure, but they’d know we were coming. Good chance they’ve cleared it out anyways, left a trap for us. We want to find their safehouse. Hit them there.”

“And you think I know this place?” Lulu frowns. “Is bad business, to share information between customers and suppliers. We use go-betweens, yes?”

“Yes,” Bucky drawls. “I don’t expect you to know where they’re hiding. But I think you know someone who might.”     

They make it several blocks from the Green Gazelle through the Madripoori night until Bucky stops them with an exasperated sigh. “Okay. Out with it.”

“Out with what?”

That earns him a glare. “Whatever it is you want to say. Just say it.”

“Well,” Sam mutters. “That place was…interesting.”

“Not a fan of the Gazelle, I take it?” Bucky Barnes, master of understatement.

“Not a fan of the way that skeevy mob boss was eyeing you like a fucking BLT, Bucky,” Sam bites out between clenched teeth.

“You really are hungry,” Bucky retorts, studiedly casual. Sam knows a dodge when he sees one, though. 

“Hey.” He snags Bucky’s elbow. “I’m serious, man. That was some next level creepy shit. So, what the hell happened in there before?”

Bucky shrugs. “I told you. I did him a favor.” He shakes his arm in Sam’s tightening grip. “Not the kind you’re thinking.”

“I wasn’t…okay. Maybe that is what I was thinking. That’s…” A relief isn’t quite the right expression. It does mean he doesn’t have to go back there when this is all over and punch out everyone’s teeth with his bare knuckles, though, so he settles on, “That’s good. But it’s still…” The hunger in his stomach grows sour. “You went in there. A whole bunch of times. By yourself, and you were, you were,” he clears his tightening throat. “Not doing great. And he saw that. So even if nothing…happened…” He scowls. “I do not feel good about that situation.”

“Yeah, well.” Bucky scuffs at a crushed aluminum can with his boot. “I didn’t feel great about the situation you were in, either.” He snorts. “And trust me, Zetkov’s not the one we need to worry about.”

“That supposed to make me feel better? Seriously, I think you need to start making some nicer friends.”

“Wasn’t like I had a whole lot of options,” Bucky mumbles.

Sam frowns. “Yeah, I…I know that. That place…you went back there a bunch of times. For me. I just…” He just…really does want to go back there, torch the whole fetid building to the ground, because the people there used Bucky, because they had something he wanted, because they had a way for him to get to Sam, who was the whole damn reason Bucky was rattling around that place, bruises and bandages on full display for any conniving asshole who wanted to take advantage. The bruises that Sam put on him.

Maybe he doesn’t want to torch that place. Maybe he wants to ship Bucky back to Delacroix and then find a dark hole to curl up in and sob until he’s shriveled and dry. 

“Sam?” Bucky asks. Sam blinks himself back to here and now. Bucky’s staring back at him, a pinched line between his brows. “Don’t.”

“Don’t?” He clears his throat to cover the crack in his voice. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t,” Bucky waggles his hand. “I know you’d have done the same for me, so you don’t have to…”

“To what? Thank you?” Sam licks dry lips. “Hell no, I wasn’t going to do that. I was just gonna tell you, anyone else gives you the ogley eyes, I’ll go beat ‘em up for you.”

Bucky stares at him, mouth wide. “Oh, Jesus,” he whines.

“Hey man, someone’s gotta defend your honor.” He lets go of Bucky’s elbow to clap him on the shoulder, harder than he should. “And that’s the kinda thing I’d do for you, okay?”

Bucky tips his head back to the heavens and closes his eyes. “I get it, now.”

“Get what?”

“All the shit I did as the Winter Soldier. You’re my punishment. The universe is punishing me.”

Sam grins and jostles Bucky’s shoulder. “I sure am. Lucky you, huh?”

“Lucky me.” Sam’s smile flattens. His fingers curl into Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky looks at him with a raised brow. “What?”

He lets out a long breath. “We’re laughing but…this shit really isn’t that funny. And what I said. That wasn’t really a joke.”

Bucky dips his head, eyes eagerly searching for a place to land that isn’t Sam’s face. “Yeah.”

“Because…because…” Sam works his jaw. “I think if it had come to it, you’d have done that, if it meant a chance to save me.”

Bucky stares at the asphalt between them. At some length, he replies. “I’d have done just about anything.”

“I know.” Sam studies his own boots, shiny and pristine, against Bucky’s, battered and worn. “And it does go both ways. You get that, right?”

“Sam,” Bucky sighs.

“You get that?” Sam growls. He lifts his gaze to Bucky’s downturned face. “Tell me.”

“I do,” Bucky whispers eventually, eyes flitting up to meet Sam’s. “I get it.”

Chapter Text

Bucky tilts his head back to take in the sweep of an abandoned office building ahead of him, all steely greys and gleaming glass basking in hightown’s neon night. He heads for the front door, boarded up and dark. He tugs one of the metal door handles out of its lock and slips into the building’s foyer. Shafts of light in a kaleidoscope of colors cut across the lobby at sharp angles. He works his way around them, through the blackness, until he gets to the stairwell.

A quick sweep on the second floor reveals much the same as the first. Darkened hallways, cavernous offices empty of any furniture. The third is similar, though the rooms in each floor are growing bigger the higher he gets. Must be where the bigwigs used to sit.

Back up the stairs, and he comes out on the fourth floor. This one is different – a few traces of furniture, a light or two peeking out around closed doors. He smiles to himself. Now he’s getting somewhere. A heavyset man turns the corner, head buried in his phone. Bucky makes quick work of him. He follows the lights to an office and lets himself in the room. There are two more thugs there, boots kicked up on a battered desk, watching a Turkish game show on someone’s tablet.

He knocks the first one over the head. The second one wildly swings a nightstick at him. It breaks easy enough on his vibranium forearm. He snakes that hand forward and snaps the guard’s face into the desk. The tablet rattles and falls flat while a woman on the screen leaps up and down with joy. He leaves the show playing when he departs.

He heads for the next room, levering the door off its hinges with his shoulder. He stalks in, scanning the corners. There’s a long conference table in here, scattered with a few chairs. A whiteboard broken off its supports leans against one wall. No guards, though.

He’s frowning at the white board when he hears the click of a safety flipping off. A glance over his shoulder reveals a troupe of armed men pouring in the conference room’s double doors. One, two, three, he could probably take them. By the time they’ve fanned out and he can count all eight of them, he’s revising that assessment. That’s a lot of automatic weapons pointed at his head, after all.

“So,” he drawls, “who brought the donuts?”

One of the men takes a step forward with his gun pointed at Bucky’s face. “On your knees.”

“Yeah, you know my hip’s kinda bothering me, so if I could just stand for this part—”

The crack of a round firing and splintering off a chunk of the conference table right next to that hip interrupts whatever else he might say. “Right,” he says, raising his hands and dropping to his knees. “Message received.”

The man steps around behind him, out of his vision. He hears the clatter of a gun being holstered. Then hands are wrenching his arms behind him. He winces when the man grabs his bandaged hand harder than he has to and binds his wrists behind his back.

“Seems unnecessary,” he advises. The man responds by stalking in front of Bucky and pistol whipping him across the jaw. Bucky coughs and runs a tongue across his split lip. “Strong, silent type, huh?”

The man smiles this time. Then he brings the butt of the gun across Bucky’s opposite temple. Bucky’s a little busy blinking blood out of his eyes and getting up close and personal with the floor after that to comment. The man fists a hand in the collar of Bucky’s jacket and hauls him up. Bucky stumbles when he reaches his feet, world going a little soft around the edges until he pulls himself back together. Then it’s the predictable march up the stairs, the man behind him shoving him a few times for good measure. His knees crack into the edge of a stair after a particularly aggressive push.

“Just gonna go slower up the steps if you break my kneecaps, you know,” he calls over a shoulder. The man shoves him again until his chin bonks against the stairs this time. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters under his breath. He can’t get his feet back under him before a hand in his hair hauls him to his feet. “Okay, okay,” he hisses. “I’m moving.”

The stairwell finally ends about a dozen stories up. Bucky hears some of the goons behind him panting. He’d grin if he wasn’t short of breath himself, sweat beading along his hairline. A few of the men peel off from the group, presumably to stand sentry at the doors and corners. “Where all you guys going?” His response is a metal barrel jabbing between his shoulder blades. He grits his teeth around a curse. “Fine. Forget I asked.”

The offices up here are spacious, plush carpet and wood paneling instead of the thin carpet tiles and unadorned drywall down below. All the lights up here are on too, soft sconces that bath the hallway in warm light.

The thugs prod him into an office with lofty windows, leather chairs, and a desk the size of a mattress. “Nice,” he comments. “Corner office. You can see straight to lowtown from here, huh?” No one in here, but there’s a door off to one side, so he’s sure they’re going to have company soon. Something heavy and solid smashes into the backs of his legs. His knees thump into the carpet a moment later. “You could have just asked,” he mutters.

He hears the muted snick of that door opening, the whisper of footfalls in the carpet behind him. Someone laughs. A hand curls in his hair again and yanks his head back at a harsh angle. He’s left staring up at the ceiling tiles. The owner of that hand floats into his vision, smiles at him with crooked teeth below that fucking terrible pencil mustache. “Hey,” Bucky grits out of his stretched throat. “Good to see you again.”

Maksim’s grin grows larger, tugging at the bruise along his eye. He pats the side of Bucky’s face. “Ah. Little bird comes back to the nest, eh?”

Bucky frowns. “That doesn’t even make any…because this isn’t my…” He sighs. “Never mind.”

Maksim tilts his head. “You seem…not surprised to see me.”

Bucky snorts. “Yeah, well. The whole breaking into my apartment in the middle of the night was kinda a give-away.”

“Ah.” Maksim chuckles. “Did you enjoy my toy?” He makes a buzzing sound and mimes poking Bucky.  

“Can’t say it was my favorite. Sorry I broke it. Seemed like you were having fun.” He hums. “So, was it the bike?”

Maksim’s lips curl into a smile. “Yes. Simple tracker. I figure you find it easy but…” He shrugs. “I guess you never look.”

“Yeah, well,” Bucky mutters, “had some other things to worry about.”

“Of course,” Maksim agrees. “Now, how is it you are here?”

Bucky tuts. “Followed your car. Simple tracker. I figure you find it easy, but…” He shrugs. “I guess you never look.”

Maksim’s smile grows tight, his eyes cold as glacial water. “What hurt more? When your boyfriend hit you? Or when you hit him?” 

Bucky grins. “How’s the face, by the way? Hope it isn’t bothering you.”

Maksim’s lips drop. “Oh, is fine. I am feeling better than you. Explosive surprise not so good for you, I think. Quite the lover’s spat, no? Good thing your friend is a bit slow. Very obedient, though.”

Bucky clenches his jaw. “Sure. Didn’t seem to have any issue giving you that shiner, though. Tell you what, I’ve gotten smacked around with that shield a few times lately, too. Packs a punch, doesn’t it?”

Maksim releases Bucky’s hair to slide his fingers around Bucky’s throat. He lowers his head to mutter directly into Bucky’s ear. “Pity you left party that night so soon. We were just getting to good part.”

Bucky snorts. “I think you and I have a different definition of good, pal.”

Something wet and rough flicks out across the blood running down Bucky’s cheek. A tongue. He flinches away as much as the grip on his throat will allow. “Fucking Christ,” he hisses, stomach falling down all the floors he just climbed. “You are that fucked up.”

Maksim traces a thumb along Bucky’s jugular before it presses down, hard enough that Bucky can feel his blood pulsing. The man hums, considering. “What?” he chuckles. “American tough guy is nervous? Scared of little old me?”

Whatever retort Bucky might summon is cut short when Maksim squeezes his hand. Bucky sputters for long seconds, hands flexing against his binds. Maksim releases him at last, before bringing a closed fist down across the back of Bucky’s neck, knocking him onto the floor. He tips his head to the side and draws in an aching breath. Well, Sam would be happy he wasn’t lying on his back. Predictably, as soon as he thinks that a boot stomps down between his shoulder blades. He muffles a ragged curse into the dusty carpet.  

“Maksim.” A woman’s voice, cultured as a pearl, rings out. “We do not have time for this.”

Bucky lifts his head until he can rest his chin on the floor. An older woman, grey-streaked black hair coiffed impeccably atop her head, scowls back at him. She’s wearing tailored slacks and a navy sweater that perfectly complements her coffee complexion. Painted fingernails tap impatiently at the phone in her left hand. “If this one is here, the other will not be far behind.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “Kinda a matching pair, Sam and me.”

Maksim grinds his boot down into Bucky’s back, and it’s like that gun is there again, voltage arcing across frayed nerves. He stifles another curse in the carpet.

“I preferred your partner,” the woman sighs. “He did not say much.”

Bucky forgets whatever the pulsing, pounding feeling in his back is. He glowers at her. “Sure. But he said plenty about you. Nice to finally have a face to put to the name.” Her lips twist. “Oh. Yeah. You’re Dewi, right? Dewi Iskander?” He takes a perverse pleasure in the uncertainty that flickers across her face.

Her face is placid and flat an instant later. “How did you learn that?”

“You know.” He smirks. “People in this town, they like to talk. When did you come over here from Kuala Lumpur, now? Ten years ago? Long time in a place like this.” She doesn’t reply, though Bucky sees a muscle in her jaw twitch. “Working for the Broker for a while, right? Sounds like you did alright during the Blip, making whatever people were buying. Little more competition now though, isn’t there?”

She grins, displaying perfect teeth. “Aren’t you well informed.”

“Yeah,” he drawls. “Should thank you for most of that. You didn’t do a great job at hiding your secrets from Sam when he was hanging around your place. You’d think a criminal mastermind would know to compartmentalize that sort of stuff around Captain America of all people. I guess you figured he was there for the long haul, but –”

“Shut up,” Iskander snaps.

His turn to grin. “So. Dewi. Can I call you Dewi? Nice name. Anyways, I guess you fancy yourself the heir apparent to the Broker, huh? Though right now you’re hiding out in an abandoned office building. Seems like not everything is going according to plan for you.”

Something flits across her face at that. “Perhaps not. I wouldn’t say you’re in a position to cast stones, however.”

Bucky grins. “Hey, I’ve been in rougher places. So, tell me. Sounds like you’ve got some strong feelings about the Broker. He do you wrong or something?”

She sighs. “The Broker, as ever, developed a tool, only to discover he couldn’t control how it was used.”

“A tool.” Bucky blinks. “Right. First the serum. Then this doll drug, too. Why?”

She grants him another shark-toothed smile. “What good is an army you cannot control?”

Nagel mentioned something about that, about what the Broker would do to Karli if he found her. But Sharon got there first. Bucky blinks at that thought before he shakes himself back to the present. “Let me guess,” he tells Iskander. “You were in charge of developing the doll drug? But once you got it working, you didn’t want to share anymore.”

Her eyes flash. “I brought this project to completion. Me. Not the Broker. Wherever he is now. If he’s not dead. I rather hope he is.”

Bucky snorts. “Getting the feeling a lot of people on this island feel like that. And if not dead, he’s at least AWOL. So, you thought this was your chance for a shot at the title. Build up your army. Force anyone who was gonna stand in your way to do whatever you told them. You think you’re pretty fucking clever, don’t you?”

She tilts her head. “I managed to leash Captain America. Used him however I saw fit. Had him flash that shield around some particularly recalcitrant business associates. So yes. I would say I have been quite clever.”

“Yeah. Sam said you were a crafty one. Now, me, personally,” Bucky smirks, “I think you’re a vile, revolting, egotistical bitch. But what do I know?” 

Iskander frowns at him, a shroud dropping in front of her eyes before they flicker to Maksim. “Why is he still alive?” 

The foot on his jacket shifts. Maksim’s heel drags along a ragged sore in the middle of Bucky’s back and a short gasp leaps out of his mouth before he can swallow it. The foot pauses thoughtfully. “Well,” Bucky starts, then the heel comes crashing down in that spot again, and his world howls into red and white for a moment and he’s got no chance of quashing the shriek that darts out of his lips. He presses his forehead into the floor, gasping, while Maksim natters above him. 

“Could be useful. We give him drug next, send him after his friend. Would be…what? Elegant symmetry, I think.” Bucky tilts his head to the side and his eyes fly across the room, looking for that metal gleam of a syringe. Maksim moves above him again. Bucky bites his tongue hard enough to draw blood, but the foot doesn’t dig down this time. Not that it feels great where it is, wrenching against Bucky’s ruined skin every time he breathes. He hears the rustle of fabric. “Drug is meant for super soldiers anyway. You like that idea, little bird?”

Right. Trust the asshole to keep something like that on his person. “Not sure,” he groans. “Why don’t,” he sucks in a ragged breath, “why don’t you try it first and tell me how it goes?”

“Maksim,” the woman says again in a whip-crack tone. “Drug him or kill him. I do not have a preference. It is past time for us to depart, however.” She frowns, gaze dropping to Bucky. “I do not understand why you came here. What were you hoping to accomplish?”

“Oh,” he grouses. “The usual. Infiltrate the bad guy’s hideout. Foil the dastardly plan. Destroy the lab where you’re making that drug.”

Her sculpted eyebrows curve. “Ah. Like you destroyed the lab where the Broker was making the serum, too?” She tuts. “Unfortunately, as you have probably realized, you have come to the wrong place. This is not where we are manufacturing the drug. You will die for nothing.”

“So, you do have a preference,” he counters. He shrugs as best he can, prone on the floor with his arms bound behind his back. It’s a dumb move that does his aching body no favors. “‘Sides, I know this isn’t where you’re making the drug.”

She frowns. “Then why are you here?”

He grins bloody teeth at her. “Well, we had to give you all something bright and shiny to look at while we were taking care of the important bit.”

Light bursts through the window, followed by a boom that rattles the glass. The night fog flares bright with a second sun for a few moments. Iskander rushes over to the window, peering through the glowing gloom, painted lips agape.

“You were making it at the old sugar mill a few blocks away,” Bucky declares. “Or you had the dolls making it there, right? Don’t worry, they’ll be just fine. But that building,” he tsks. “Ammonia? Red phosphorus? You know how dangerous that stuff can be? Don’t worry, we took care of it for you. Place will be perfectly safe. Once it stops burning, that is.”

Iskander turns back to him, fury twisting her delicate features. She snaps her fingers at the goons around the room. “Go,” she yells pointing out the window. They storm out of the room and her gaze shifts to Maksim. “Kill him,” she barks. “Now.”

Bucky twists under Maksim’s foot—fuck that hurts, but anything to get that asshole’s boot off his back— and sends his heel into the other man’s stomach. He snaps the binds around his wrists with a twitch of his shoulders as he rolls to his feet. He sucks in a ragged breath and glances between Iskander and Maksim. “Oh, come on. You must have seen that coming.”      

Iskander dashes toward the desk. Bucky leaps to intercept her when something crashes into his side. Maksim. Of course. They tumble over one of those leather chairs. Bucky lands on his back, Maksim sprawled atop him, with a yelp. Something flashes in Maksim’s hand and Bucky brings his own bandaged arm up to block it before it can sink into his neck. He goes a little cross-eyed trying to see it. A syringe. Right.

“I think I watch you kill your friend,” Maksim grunts as he puts his full weight on Bucky’s broken hand. “Maybe get it on camera. Make you watch it too, over and over.”

Bucky roars and his other hand darts up to rip the tube out of Maksim’s hand. He pitches it into the windows where it splatters the glass with clear fluid. He smirks at Maksim’s shocked face. “Oops.” Maksim’s face twists and he brings his now free fist into Bucky’s side, where that wound he almost forgot makes itself forcefully known with a sharp crackle. He plants a hand on Maksim’s chest to push him away when a round roars into the floor next to them. They both freeze and look over.

Iskander stares at him down the barrel of a Sig Sauer that looks enormous in her small hands. Her fingers are steady, though. “That is quite enough from you. Maksim. Time to go.”

Maksim scrambles off him. He sneers down at Bucky when he’s standing. Kicks him in the ribs, too. Bucky’s breath hitches around a “Fuck you.”

Maksim staggers next to Iskander. They’re an odd pair. Him – fair, baggy, misfitting clothes draped around his tall, long-limbed body. Her – short and stout, eyes and hair dark, outfit cut at a perfect angle on her figure. She sighs at Bucky, still sprawled on the floor, and waves the gun in his direction. “I would have expected you to at least try to die on your feet. You are something of a disappointment, after all this.”

“It’s fine.” Bucky grins widely. “I’ll have a great view from down here.”

Her eyes narrow. “What are you—”

A spinning disc shatters one of those picture windows and sails straight into the gun in her hands. The gun goes sprawling across the carpet, and the shield bounces back out of sight through the now shattered window. 

Bucky tilts his head as he sits up. “Man, that trick never gets old.”

Iskander gapes out the window. Maksim, to his credit, dives for the gun. He’s knocked off track by Sam’s matching boots crashing right into his head.

Sam sets down on the carpet with a whisper of his wings. He waggles the shield at Iskander’s shocked face and Maksim’s flat form before he casts a glance over at Bucky. He grins. “That trick never gets old.”  

“So. This is it?” Sam asks, half an hour before he makes a dramatic entrance through the picture window of a Madripoori office building. He slides his gaze over toward Bucky.

“This is it,” Bucky answers.

“It’s just that I was expecting something a little more…” Sam flaps his hands “Ominous? I don’t even see any guards, man.”

“You know,” Bucky says, “if the goal is to stay hidden, maybe the really obvious criminal hideout swarming with armed men in balaclavas is not the way to go.”

“Thanks, jackass.” Sam frowns. “You sure this is the right place? You think we can totally trust Lulu?”

“Absolutely not. Her information, though…” he quirks a brow at Sam. “Well, she’s been solid for me so far.”

“Okay,” Sam says. “We trust the crusty Russian lounge lizard lady who likes her powder to help us find the bad guy’s hideout and not betray us.”

“Yeah.” Bucky nods. “You ready?”

Sam cracks his neck a few times, pumps his arms. “Sure. I go high, you go low. Easy.”

“Sam.”

Sam sighs. “Fine. Not loving this plan.”

Bucky blinks. “It’s your fucking plan.”

“Yeah. Still don’t love it.”

“It’s a good plan,” Bucky counters.

Sam shoots him a glare. “It’s a shit plan, and you know it. Spare me the platitudes. You’re not very good at it, anyway.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Okay. It’s a shit plan. But it’s the best one we got. You know it has to go down this way.”

Sam scowls. “I know.” He levels Bucky with an assessing stare, the kind that brokers no bullshit. “You sure you’re up for this?”

“I’m fine,” he insists.

Sam sees how those creases at the corners of his eyes have deepened into canyons, though. “Bucky,” he snaps.

“Alright,” Bucky relents, shifting his weight between his feet. “Not fine.” Bucky doesn’t tell Sam his back is a pulsing sore, that his head feels like it’s stuffed with steel wool, that every time he so much at twitches his fingers the dull throb in his hand morphs into a prickling ache that marches up his arm to his jaw. Sam can read it on him in oversize font. “But I can do this.” Sam says nothing, jaw tight. “Trust me,” Bucky pleads.

Sam’s shoulders tic down an inch. “I do.” He tilts his head back to regard the building, red visor flashing in the light. “So, I’ll –”

Bucky lurches forward to snatch at Sam’s elbow. “Hey.” He works his mouth for a moment. “I’m okay. I am. But are you…are you sure you’re…”

“Okay?” Sam forces steel into his voice. “No. I’m fucking terrified. But when have I ever let that stop me? And I want this one. Bad.”

“Yeah.” Bucky’s fingers fall. “Me too.”

“Okay then. You go in here.” Sam bumps his fist against Bucky’s vibranium arm. “I’ll be up top.”

“See ya in a bit,” Bucky calls out as Sam unfurls his wings and flies off. Sam steals one last glance down through the damp air, until the low, grey fog obscures his view. He’d rather be watching Bucky’s back down there. But he has work to do.

Bucky’s got his comm open the whole way through, so at least Sam knows he’s alive. Knows he’s alive and getting the shit beat out of him, again. He almost folds a dozen times, listening to the other man grunt with what Sam assumes are punches and not anything worse. Up the stairs, to the top floor. To a corner office with a view of lowtown, apparently, so Sam knows it’s on the southwest side.

Then he gets really damn close to losing his nerve. Something about knowing Bucky’s in there with this guy Maksim, who he had a whole thing with while Sam was otherwise engaged being someone’s errand boy. Who apparently was the guy who broke into the apartment and tried to shove a syringe of that fucking drug into Bucky’s neck. Who, based on what Sam can hear, is ten kinds of the kind of creepy he does not want a front row seat for. Who is going to give Sam a chance to make good on that promise he gave Bucky outside the Green Gazelle, just this morning.

Whatever Maksim is doing draws a sharp cry from Bucky and Sam’s an inch away from saying fuck it and charging in there, plan be damned. He keeps it together though, because if they’re going through all this, if Bucky is going through all this, they’re gonna damn well make sure it’s worth it. Bucky’s holding up his end of the bargain. Sam holds his up too, through every floor of this damned building.

He hears the building a few blocks south of him going up in flames and takes care of his remaining tasks. There’s the retort of a gunshot through Bucky’s comm shortly after, so he heads for his mark.

Part of him is worried he’ll freeze when he sees the woman. It’s the easiest thing in the world to knock the gun from her hands with the shield though, a move easy as tying a shoe for him now. Easier still when he sees who she’s pointing that gun at. Flying feet first into Maksim is just as simple, and maybe even a hair more satisfying.    

Bucky flashes bloody teeth at Sam once he’s in the office. Sam would feel a lot better if Bucky were giving him that grin on his feet and not sprawled out on the plush carpet with a fresh crop of bruises on his face, but Sam will take what he can get at this point. His gaze flits around the room, marking Bucky, Maksim, the desk, the overturned chairs, the shattered glass, the abandoned gun, the impression of the woman across from him.

He makes a show of tossing the gun toward Bucky. Bucky catches it in his left hand with nothing approaching his usual grace. At least he’s got it, though. Only takes a working finger to fire it. Sam’s confident Bucky still has one of those.

Sam takes a deep breath before he turns his full attention to the woman. He expects a quake in his knees, a tremble in his fingers, acid in the back of his throat. He expects dread, and terror, and shame.

He feels all those things. But what he feels strongest, when he finally meets her dark eyes, is a slow, simmering rage. Now that, that he can work with. He shakes the rust off his voice. “Sorry, did I interrupt something?”

Iskander gives him a long, lingering look. Her eyes flicker with disappointment. “Ah. I imagine you’re enjoying yourself right now.”

The corner of Sam’s mouth twists up. “Little bit, yeah.” 

She scoffs. “Are you so sure the compulsion is gone? I’m told that drug can have some lingering side effects.” She waves at Bucky, still sitting on the floor. “If I told you to hurt him now, I wonder if you’d do it.”

Bucky finally levers himself up at that, free hand resting on the wall. “He won’t,” he says, face perfectly composed. Sam wonders if he’s the only one who hears the tremolo note in Bucky’s voice, though.

“Truly?” The woman turns to Sam, eyebrow arched. “Let’s see.” She points at Bucky. “Kill him.”

Sam takes a step forward. Another, then another. He stops a few feet in front of the woman, glaring down at her. “Kiss my ass, lady.”

Bucky chuffs out a laugh behind him. “You coulda just said no.”

“Coulda,” he agrees. “Didn’t.”

“Guess this isn’t playing out quite like you planned, huh?” Bucky asks the woman. “Gotta say, your new attack dog is a definite downgrade.”

Sam eyes Maksim, snarling and sputtering in the corner. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I’m much better looking.”

“Don’t be so smug,” Iskander snarls. She waves at Bucky. “You’d have killed him in an instant, if you could have. It was nothing you did that kept him alive.”

“Wrong again,” Bucky drawls.

She blinks in confusion. “What?”

“He had his opportunities. But he stopped. Gave me a chance to get away a few times. And maybe you figured out who I am, but he sure as hell didn’t tell you.”

Iskander’s eyes skim Bucky in a way that makes Sam lean forward a few inches. “Still,” she says snidely, “seems like he managed to do plenty of damage.” She glares at Maksim. “More than you could, to be certain.”

Maksim’s face twists in rage. “Had drug when you came into Gazelle last time,” he tells Bucky. “Could have used it then. You would not have had chance to stop me.”

“Enough,” Sam roars. He shifts his shield in warning. “So, what was the plan here, lady? Just have Captain America running your errands forever? I can’t imagine that was all you had in store.”

She frowns. “What? You expect me to reveal my dastardly plan simply because you asked?”

“No,” Bucky says. “We expect you to reveal your dastardly plan or one of us is going to throw you out the fucking window.”

She blinks, gaze flitting to the dark sky framed by shattered glass. She looks back at Sam. “No, I don’t believe you would.”

“He won’t,” Bucky growls, stepping to Sam’s shoulder. “But I sure as hell will.”

“Oh really?” She gives Bucky a smile, all sharp edges. “I’m not confident in your ability to walk in a straight line right now.”

Bucky shrugs. “Don’t need to walk.”

“What my colleague means to say,” Sam intercedes, “is that he highly recommends you just tell us.”

She sniffs imperiously. “The Power Broker had his stable of super soldiers. Until, of course, he didn’t.”

“And what, you got jealous and wanted one of your own?” Sam shakes his head in disgust. “Maybe you missed the memo, but I’m not a super solider.”

She grins. “No. You are something far better. A symbol. One that could be corrupted.” She tilts her head. “One that was corrupted.”

He shakes his head. “So all this. Everything. Kidnapping me, drugging me, setting this drug loose on the island. Was because, what? You felt slighted? Wanted to throw your weight around, get ahead a little?” He steps forward. “Was it fucking worth it?” He’d take another step, but Bucky’s hand is at his elbow, a feather touch.

Iskander gives him a tired smile, and he finally sees the way her makeup collects in the hollows around her eyes, the crinkled lines at the corners of her lips. The collar of her sweater hangs crooked across her shoulders, showing the strap of a camisole. There’s blood on her fingers, where the shield scraped them raw. “Not every fight means what you want it to mean.”

“Sam,” Bucky murmurs beside him, and he hears the weight of decades in the other man’s voice.

He gives Bucky a terse nod before setting his sights on Iskander again. “You coulda gone another way. Blip’s over. Power Broker’s gone, at least that’s what everyone’s saying. And here you are, stuck in the same gravity.”

“The world didn’t change, when everyone was gone.” She sneers. “It never will.”

“You know what?” Sam sighs. “Doesn’t matter what your plan is. Was. Because your factory is in flames, your twisted empire is in ruins, and those goons you’ve been waiting on while you were stalling? The ones you had posted at the corners? And on the roof? And on the floor below? Yeah, hate to break it to you. They ain’t coming.”  

Her face twists. “I see. Your little…” she waves at Bucky, “distraction. Gave you time to take out my men?” She gazes at the window. “Though when did you set the charges in the factory?”

Sam grins. “I didn’t.”

They shift at the sound of repulsors hovering outside the window. War Machine’s silver shape glimmers golden in the glow from the fire down below “Hey,” Rhodey says. “Thanks for spoiling the surprise. Here I was going to make a grand entrance and everything.”

“Diva,” Bucky mutters under his breath.

Rhodey frowns. “Heard that.”

Bucky pads closer to the window and peers at the glow of the smoldering sugar mill. Sam’s jaw clenches before he tells himself if the other man passes out and pitches face first toward the street, Rhodey would probably catch him. “I dunno,” Bucky says. “You think you used enough explosives down there? Think I see a pylon that’s still intact.”

Rhodey sighs. His expression turns stern when he studies Iskander and Maksim. “So, these are the two asshats you guys told me about? They don’t look like much.”

“They aren’t,” Sam confirms, following Rhodey’s stare. Iskander is glaring at War Machine. Maksim is doing the same, though he looks like he’s closer to pissing himself.

Rhodey lands on the carpet with a puff of dust. “I’d say it’s a pleasure to meet you two but…yeah, not so much.” He smirks at Sam. “And next time you two end up in a bind, could it be somewhere nice? Tahiti, maybe?”

“We’ll do our best,” Bucky drawls. Rhodey’s eyes meet Sam’s after they’ve flitted to Bucky, and Sam knows he’s not the only one who can see the hunch in Bucky’s shoulders, the shiver in his knees. Means Iskander and Maksim can probably see it too.  

“Alright then,” Rhodey starts. “If this little love fest is over, how about we get a move on?”

“Sounds good to me,” Sam answers. Time to wrap this shit up.

“So now what?” Iskander asks. “You take me back to face whatever you call justice in your country?” She rolls her eyes. “Please. I’d rather you just kill me now and spare me the agony.”

“No,” Sam says. “We’re not taking you anywhere.”

She glares. “So, you are going to kill me?”

“No,” Bucky says. “We’re not killing you.”

She throws up her hands, exasperated. “Then what, pray tell?”

Sam pulls a phone from one of the many compartments Shuri squirreled away in the suit. “So. Madripoor, it’s got this great app.” He waves the phone. “You can buy anything on this thing, right? Drugs, guns, clothes, houses.” His voice drops. “People.”

“You’re…selling me?” she asks in disbelief.

“You? No. See I’m not like you. But.” Sam grins. “What I did put on this app was a little advertisement. Told people they could buy the location of one of Madripoor’s least loved drug lords. The one who’s been seeding this new concoction across the island that turns people into mindless slaves. And I offered this information for the low, low price of…well…” he shrugs. “Nothing.”

“What?”

He looks down at a ping from his phone. Then another one, and another one, another one before he switches it to silent. “Yeah. Looks like we got some buyers already.”

“You…you…” she sputters. “Do you know what they’ll do to me?”

“Yeah,” Sam nods. “I got some idea. Enjoy thinking about the possibilities until everyone gets here.”

“You…you can’t…”

“Sure can,” Bucky counters, tossing the gun out the shattered window on his way to the door. He pauses to regard Maksim, huddled in a corner. He smiles wolfishly. “I’m sure you’ll have lots of fun with them. That’s what you wanted, right? Some fun?” He doesn’t wait for a retort before he heads to the hallway.

Sam makes a loop around the room to pass by Maksim. “For the record, you ever end up on the same continent as either of us, and I’ll drop you from a hundred feet off the ground. No. Two hundred. See if you can stick that landing.” Maksim’s eyes widen, but he keeps his lips pressed together.

Sam stops in front of Iskander, too, air around them crackling. Bucky’s up ahead, a posted watchman. Rhodey’s behind his back, at the ready. Sam stares at her for a long minute. “Hey. Pro tip. You want to get people to fight for you? Maybe you should have tried fighting beside them, first. Might have ended better.”

Sam doesn’t stick around for whatever reply she can summon. He doesn’t need to hear anything else from her. He steps into the hall beside Bucky instead. Rhodey follows and pulls the doors shut behind him. He welds the frame shut with a gauntlet and nods in satisfaction. “That should hold ‘til my guys get here. She’ll be on an express flight to the Raft in no time. I’m sure she’ll make lots of new friends there.”

“Still say we should have just gone ahead and put her up on that app,” Bucky grumbles.

Sam chuckles. “Can’t say I’m not tempted. But the thing about being the good guys is we actually have to act like good guys sometimes.”

Bucky sighs. “Says you. You could have made enough from that to buy a fleet of fishing boats, you know?”

“I know.” He smiles. “But one is plenty for me.”  

“Alright,” Rhodey interjects. “Well, that was fun. Now, I got that C-130 illegally parked on an airstrip just outta town. Field trip’s over, so get your assess on that plane before I put your assess on that plane.”

Sam snorts. “Good to see you too, brother. That sounds like a great plan to me.” He turns toward Bucky. “How ‘bout you?”

Bucky nods, blinking glassy eyes. Sam’s grin tempers. “Alright. Guess we better get out of here first.”

Rhodey gives Bucky a pointed stare. “You need a lift?”

Bucky’s scowls. “No fucking way. I’ll take the stairs. I know where they are.” He turns on his heel and pads down the hallway.

Rhodey shoots Sam a glance once Bucky’s back is turned and gestures at the other man with his eyebrows. Sam shakes his head. He knows Rhodey is debating the merits of snagging Bucky by the collar of his jacket and hauling him out to the runway. He knows this because he’s debating it, too. He certainly didn’t miss the sweat beading on Bucky’s hairline and upper lip, the garish path of blood down the front of his shirt, the way he’s been trailing a hand along the walls for balance.

Sam’s also debating going back in that room and smashing every one of Maksim’s teeth out of his mouth, then doing the same to Iskander. He’s guessing Rhodey has had that thought, too.      

“I’ll meet you outside,” is what he says, though. Rhodey rolls his eyes before the face panels slide up and he punches out of the window down the hall. Sam frowns at the shattering glass. That looks much cooler when he does it. He shakes his head and turns to jog toward the stairwell.

Sam trots down the stairs until he catches up to Bucky, who’s made it down a few flights. Based on the pallor of his chalky skin and the way he’s leaning on the railing, though, Sam’s a little worried he’s going to end up rolling down the rest of them.  

“Hey,” he says, snatching Bucky’s arm. Bucky gives him a glare, unimpressed. Sam frowns back. “Always gotta do things the hard way, huh?” Bucky replies with an indignant twist of his lips. “Alright then,” Sam sighs. “The hard way.” Bucky doesn’t even bother trying to free his arm, so that’s something. They make the slow descent together.

“So,” Bucky pants while they’re taking a short break on a landing. “Finally got to meet Iskander. Gotta say, Sam, not too impressed with the company you’ve been keeping.”

“Funny,” Sam counters. “I was about to tell you the same thing. Not sure Maksim’s a good influence on you, man.”

Bucky laughs coldly. “You can say that again.”

Sam holds him fast when he makes to move again. “Seriously, though. Square with me. Nothing happened, right? With him? Or anyone. When I was…you know.”

“Not like that, no,” Bucky replies softly. “I thought he was mostly bluster. After that,” he waves back up the way they came, “maybe he wasn’t. I don’t know. Maybe he would have tried something, if he got half a chance. It’s a good thing…”

“What?”

Bucky’s eyes widen. “He didn’t…he wasn’t…you didn’t run into him? When you were…”

“This is the first time I’ve ever seen him.” Bucky sags a little next to him. “And hopefully the last."

"Here's hoping," Bucky grumbles.

"No shit." Sam nudges Bucky forward. "Now come on. Rhodey’s probably losing his shit down there.”  

Chapter Text

Rhodey does feign impatience when they reach the street. “Got any more sightseeing to do, or can we please get off this damn rock now?” Sam knows it’s something else casting shadows across the Colonel’s dark face, though.

“Sure you don’t want to hit a noodle bowl place on the way out of town?” Sam asks. Bucky snorts before he sways. “Maybe a raincheck on that one,” Sam mutters. He frowns, considering the sedan across the street that brought them here. “How far is that C-130, again?”

“Far enough,” Rhodey says. “Seriously, you sure you don’t want a –”

“No,” Bucky growls.

Sam and Rhodey exchange a glance. Sam tilts his head toward the car. “We’ll drive. Shoot me the directions. We’ll meet you there.” He lingers when Bucky pulls his arm free and plods away, gait deliberately steady. “You got a medical kit on that bird, Rhodey?”

Rhodey shakes his head. “Knowing you two? Always.” His smile flattens. “I should start bringing a spare, though.”

“Thanks,” Sam murmurs. “We’ll see you there.”

“You know I’m going to be on that car like white on rice, right?” Rhodey asks, firing up his repulsors.

“Yeah,” Sam mutters at his retreating figure. “I do.”  

Bucky’s got a hand braced on the roof of the car when Sam gets there. He’s breathing like he just sprinted up those stairs, rather than staggered down them, and is staring at the door handle like it’s got all the secrets of the universe. He straightens up when he sees Sam.

Sam eyes the passenger door dubiously. “Hey, maybe you should lay down in the back.”

Bucky scowls. “I’m not gonna –”

“Your back is torn to shit.” Burned for sure, and now maybe worse. Sam doesn’t need three tries to guess what Maksim was doing to get Bucky to holler like that. “No way are you gonna be able to sit in a seat.”

“It’ll be –”

“Backseat, Bucky,” Sam grits between clenched teeth. He snags Bucky’s elbow again and hauls him over rougher than he should. It's a lot easier to do that than it should be, too. “Not having this argument right now.” Bucky’s got that look on his face that says he would like nothing more than to have this argument right now. “Please,” Sam begs, letting a fraction of his weariness color his words.

That rips the wind right out of Bucky’s sails. He ducks his chin in a little nod and crawls across the bench seat in back with a muffled groan. Sam goes around front and crams himself into the driver’s seat. Seriously, these things were not designed for a man of his size wearing an armored suit. He shoots a look in the rearview mirror to see Bucky doing his best to get comfortable on a backseat that was also not designed for a brutally wounded super solider. They’ll both make do.

It's a quiet ride to the airstrip. The best chance he’s probably going to have to talk to Bucky for a while, and he can’t think of anything to say. Rather, he can think of a million things to say. All those demons are starting to scrabble over that wall he crafted in his head when he woke up. He can’t bring himself to name any of them, though. Just as well. Doesn’t look like Bucky’s going to be a great conversationalist.

The C-130 is right where Rhodey promised it would be. Rhodey’s right where he promised he’d be too, settling down soundlessly beside the car when Sam cuts the engine. Sam tugs Bucky out of the backseat, looping an arm around the other man when he almost topples to the pavement. “Easy,” he mutters. “Don’t think your face needs any more decoration.”

Bucky huffs out a breath in reply but offers no other observations. Sam turns to Rhodey, lingering in his shadow. “Any chance you can bring our stuff in? Kinda got my hands full here.” Rhodey gives him a twisted smile and a nod.

Sam drags Bucky across the tarmac and up the open ramp, then maneuvers him to one of the benches bolted to the hull. “Lay down, alright?” Bucky all but flops face first onto the seats without so much as a complaint or a retort or even an exasperated glare, and the wrenching feeling in Sam’s stomach climbs into his chest. “Okay,” Sam breathes. “I’ll be right back. Gonna change real quick.” Bucky pillows his head on his crossed arms in response.    

Rhodey’s at the front of the bay, holding the duffels like children’s lunchboxes in his oversized gauntlets. “You guys travel light, huh?”

Sam sighs. “Well, Bucky does. You know I don’t like to go anywhere without my Yeezys.”

“Right. Guess you didn’t have much choice in the matter.” Rhodey glances down at the bags. “I got some spare clothes if you don’t have anything. Might be a little tight since you started up with the WWE workout routine, but…”

“I got a few things here. Wasn’t kidding when I said you could buy anything in Madripoor,” Sam says, taking the duffels. “How long we got ‘til wheels up?”

“Soon as I let the guys up front know. I’d prefer sooner rather than later, what with that whole violating sovereign airspace and all.”

“Yeah,” Sam mutters. “Thanks for that.”

“Anytime, man. You good to go?”

Sam nods. “Can do what I need to do in the air. The farther Madripoor is behind us, the better I’ll feel.”

“Alright,” Rhodey taps Sam’s shoulder lightly. “I’ll get us in the air.” He turns back halfway to the cockpit. “Oh, and you left something in the corner over there.”     

Sam pads to the corner Rhodey indicated with a frown. He lets out a sigh when he sees the custom case for the suit. Of course. Wasn’t like Rhodey was going to drop it off at Goodwill or something. He removes the suit like he always does. Gloves first, right then left, go into the case. Boots next – left then right. He sets them down with a fond pat. And here he thought he’d always be sentimental about the shield.

He shucks out of the rest of his gear, pulls on some sweats and a t-shirt from his duffel while they’re taxiing. Slides his feet into some sneakers once they’ve leveled out a bit from take-off, though he wouldn’t mind wearing those boots for a little longer. He rests his hands on the closed case and shuts his eyes for a moment, swaying with the plane’s movement. Takes a long breath in through his nose. Holds it, and exhales through his mouth, listening as the roar of the engines fades to a low drone.     

Sam circles back to Bucky after he’s done. The other man is still stretched out on the bench, face burrowed into his arms. “Alright, man, let me check out that bandage on your back.” Bucky doesn’t blink. “Bucky?” Sam asks. His hand creeps forward.

“Feel like there’s something I should say about letting sleeping super soldiers lie,” Rhodey calls out from behind him, and Sam swears he jumps high enough to hit his head on the ceiling.

“Jesus,” he hisses, turning around. Rhodey shrugs, hands in the pockets of the jacket he also changed into while Sam was having a moment with his footwear. “Two minutes in Madripoor, and you get all cloak and dagger?”

Rhodey smirks. “Thinking it might have more to do with how exhausted you are.” He tilts his head. “When’s the last time you slept, man? You look like shit.”

Sam snorts. “Thanks.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Yeah. I’m tired. Gonna take care of this,” he points over his shoulder, “then I’ll grab some shut eye.”

Rhodey peers around Sam. “Maybe you both just oughtta get some sleep.”

“No,” he sighs. “That burn was pretty bad before, and I haven’t had a chance to take a look at it since this morning.” Since this morning, when Bucky almost got shot up with the same shit that burned a scorched path of sorrow through Sam’s existence. Since they went to the Green Gazelle, and Lulu helped them find Maksim, and the whole damn place helped Sam understand the gnarled thicket Bucky navigated to find Sam. Since –

“Sam?” Rhodey leans in to meet his eyes. “Hey, I’ve had some first aid training too, alright? Why don’t you let me –”

“My responsibility,” Sam growls. “‘Cuz you’re not the one who broke his hand in half, or smashed his face to a pulp, or fucking burnt him to a crisp, or –”

“Sam,” Rhodey barks, and Sam isn’t sure when the other man got close enough to grab his shoulder. “Sam. Look at me.” Sam blinks furiously until he can focus on Rhodey’s face, the dark eyes creased at the corners. “Hey. You’re okay.” His thumb digs deeper into Sam’s shoulder. “Take a breath.”

He does. Then another. Then another. “Yeah…I…sorry.”

“No,” Rhodey shakes his head. “You’re good. And look. All this stuff that happened…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam mutters, waving his hand dismissively. “Wasn’t my fault, I know.”

“It wasn’t,” Rhodey repeats, firm. “Whatever you gotta do to start believing that, do it.”

Sam snorts. “You sound like me.”

Rhodey grins back. “I know. It’s terrible.” He drops his hand with a final squeeze. “Alright. You want to take care of it. I get it. I do. So, what do you need for him?”

Sam looks over his shoulder. Bucky’s still got his eyes closed. Must be trying to give Sam and Rhodey a moment, here. Sam sucks at a tooth. “Gauze. Lot of it. Tape, bandages, any kinda antiseptic spray you got. Maybe some Advil, too.”

Rhodey quirks a brow “That stuff works on him?”

“No.” Sam smiles. “Shit’s for me, brother.”

Rhodey turns away with a chortle and a shake of his head. Sam pads over to the bench and crouches next to Bucky. “Alright, you can stop faking it now.” Bucky’s eyes stay closed. “Bucky?” Still nothing. “Shit,” Sam sighs. “How the hell did you sleep through that?” He frowns when he doesn’t get a reply.

He rests a hand on top of Bucky’s head, about the only place he doesn’t think is bruised or shredded. “Bucky.” Not so much as a twitch. “Bucky,” he tries one more time with a few pats. Bucky’s lashes finally flutter, and Sam gets a sliver of blue eyes.

“Sam?” Bucky mumbles.

“The one and only,” Sam answers. Bucky grunts in response and closes his eyes again. “Nope, nope,” Sam gently shakes Bucky’s arm with his other hand. “Need you to stay awake for me, just for a minute.”

“Why?” Bucky whines.

Sam almost grins. “Gotta check on your back, okay? Just need to get you outta your jacket and shirt. Maybe burn them when we’re done. Seriously, where do you go shopping?”

“Jesus,” Bucky groans, burying his face in his forearms.

“Yeah, okay, sorry,” Sam says softly. “That shirt’s toast though. We’ll see about the jacket. Now come on.” He tugs Bucky up to a seat long enough to slide the jacket off his shoulders. He frowns at the splotches of red on the back of Bucky’s shirt. “You messing up my handiwork here?” he asks as he eases the cotton hem over Bucky’s head. He tosses the stained garment to the floor. “Yup. Right to the incinerator with that one.”

“Fine,” Bucky hisses. “Not wearing one of your dumb hoodies, though.”

Sam casts a glance at Bucky’s deflated duffel across the way. “Yeah, looks like you did a number on most of your clothes, though. Not sure you’re gonna have a choice. ‘sides, you look great in green.”

“I look terrible in green,” Bucky protests, sliding back down to lie on his stomach.

“You look terrible in green,” Sam concedes. “Now, let’s see what your Madripoori friends did back here, huh?”

It’s worse than Sam hoped, but not as bad as he feared. Blood and torn blisters, and an ugly dark splotch where the voltage from that stun gun went into Bucky. Burns on top of burns. Maybe it’s not too late for Sam to put on the suit, fly back over the Pacific to that empty office building in hightown, and break every bone in Maksim’s face. Of course, if he needs a closer target for his rage and sorrow, all he needs to do is look in a mirror.   

Rhodey appears at his side just as Sam casts around for that vaunted medical kit, handing Sam a small bottle of antiseptic. Sam takes it with a grateful nod and goes to work. If Bucky has thoughts on the issue, or on Rhodey’s sudden appearance, he keeps them to himself. All Sam gets it a few stifled gasps when a short bout of turbulence drags his hand along the edges of the burn. He doesn’t think Bucky’s stoicism is for Rhodey’s benefit, though.   

Rhodey doesn’t pry either, doesn’t gape at the wound or ask Bucky how he’s doing, or worse, ask Sam how he’s doing about how Bucky is doing. Instead, Rhodey has the next item Sam needs ready before he can even ask for it, stands silent sentinel by Sam’s side. Sam diligently fixes the tape to Bucky’s skin when he’s finished repairing what he can on Bucky’s back.

His knees are killing him, but he shuffles forward a few feet and wraps his fingers around Bucky’s elbow. “Hey. Let me check this one too.” Bucky blinks at him, then unwinds the arm from under his head. Sam takes the limb in both hands and studies the bandage. Peppered with red spots too, though not nearly as bad as the other one. He unwinds the wrap until he exposes Bucky’s right hand in the cool light of the cargo bay. It’s mottled yellow and green, the brutal gash in the middle a dark red line. 

“Anything in here still broken, you think?” He trails his fingers across the worst of the bruising.

“Was, but…” Bucky mumbles. He casts a furtive glance past Sam.

“What?” Sam asks.

“I, uh…”

“He had to set the bones himself,” Rhodey provides in a low tone at his shoulder. “He did a good job, though.”

Bucky’s brow furrows, though he keeps his silence when his gaze drops to Sam. “Okay,” Sam says, forcing his voice even. What else has he missed? How many times did Bucky have to lean on someone else, when the person he should have been leaning on was the one trying to put him six feet under? He shakes himself when he realizes Bucky is still staring at him with unsettled eyes. “If you think it’s alright, we’ll just clean it out and wrap it back up.”

Bucky nods his assent, and Sam does exactly that, spritzing the wound with antiseptic. He pinches a wad of gauze to the skin and loops a piece of white tape around Bucky’s hand. Sure doesn’t look like that hand could crush bone with a simple squeeze right now. He nestles Bucky’s newly bandaged hand back down on the bench when he’s finished. “All done,” he announces. He’d tell Bucky to get some sleep, but looks like the man is well on his way. Sam’s got an overwhelming desire to do the same. He needs one more thing first, though.

He turns his head, and Rhodey’s holding out the blanket he was about to ask for. He snorts a bit. “James Rhodes. Mother fucking hen.” Rhodey scowls back.

Bucky doesn’t give him a scowl when he drapes the blanket over him, though. Doesn’t give him a sigh or a snide comment either. Doesn’t even move when Sam pulls the thing up over him and leaves a hand on the back of his neck for a bit. Doesn’t open his eyes as Sam lets the warmth of his skin thaw some of the frost that’s slithered around Sam’s spine, down to the tips of his fingers.

Sam pushes himself up after a while and startles when Rhodey catches his arm. “You been here the whole time?”

“Yup,” Rhodey answers. He tugs at Sam’s elbow. “Come over here for a second.” He pulls Sam to the far corner of the bay and points at a seat. “Take a load off. And let me take a look at you.”

Sam eyes him warily. “I’m fine.”

“Bullshit,” Rhodey snorts. “My Aunt Delia moves better than you now, and she had her hip replaced a few months ago. So what?” He points at the seat again. “You take a hit in that last fight?”

Sam eases himself down with the groan he’s been holding in for hours. “Not that last one.”

Rhodey’s eyes widen. “Ah. When you were tangoing with Barnes, then?”  

“When I was trying to bash his skull in with the shield for the dozenth time, and he tranq-ed me so I could sleep off the other drug that was making me a mindless murder puppet? Yes,” Sam corrects.

Rhodey shakes his head. “Wasn’t you doing those things. I’ll tell you that every time you need to hear it.”

Sam bites back the retort on the tip of his tongue. “Right,” he concedes.

Rhodey lets it go with an admonishing look. “So what are we talking about, here?”

“Nothing that bad. Really,” he emphasizes at the disbelieving expression on Rhodey’s face. “Got up close and personal with the ground when he swung me into a rooftop, that’s all.”

Rhodey winces. “Where did you hit?”

“Just my shoulders. A little stiff and bruised, but no real damage.” He tilts his head. “Surprised you even noticed.”

“Yeah,” Rhodey sighs, “guy with a history of mobility issues here, if you recall.”

Sam grimaces. “Right.”

Rhodey shakes his head again. “Also not your fault, so don’t even go there.”

Sam holds a hand up. “I know, I know. Had plenty of time to come to terms with that one.”

“And you’ll come to terms with this one,” Rhodey says, steadfast. “Now, what about your shoulders?”

Sam rubs one of those shoulders, considering. “Really, it’s not that bad. That Advil and an icepack or two, and I’ll be fine.”

“We can make that happen. But what, all the drugs floating around that island and you couldn’t get your hands on some ibuprofen?”

“Good point.” Sam shrugs. “Guess I didn’t want to make it a big deal. Kinda…kinda didn’t want Bucky to notice.”

“Well.” Rhodey goes to his bag, comes back with a rattling bottle. “He’s not exactly on his A-game right now.”

“I’ve noticed,” Sam drawls. “Think he’s kinda concerned about…about the other stuff I’ve been through lately.”

Rhodey fingers linger on the bottle for a few seconds after Sam reaches for it. “Kinda don’t blame him. Kinda don’t think he’s the only one.”

“I know.” Sam scrubs a hand over his burning eyes. He drops his arm with a sigh. “So we got, what…twenty hours in flight? Stopping for fuel in Hawaii, I’m guessing?” He leans back in his seat. “Man, coupla drinks outta some coconuts on a beach? Sounds pretty good right now.”

Rhodey laughs, shaking his head. “‘Fraid I’m going to have to scuttle your tropical vacation plans. Spec-ed this baby out with some of Tony’s designs. Not as fast as the suits…suit…but hell of a lot quicker than the standard issue. More efficient too, so no fuel stops.”

Sam snorts. “Fine. Guess I’ve had enough of the tropics for a little while, anyways.” He casts a speculative glance at Bucky. “I’ll settle for a few hours shut eye, though. Unless you got anything else.”

Rhodey shakes his head with a frown, then stops with a jolt. “Oh. One thing. I was looking into something for Barnes.”

“What was it?”

A smile flits across the other man’s face. “So. I heard you tangled with a grandma back in New Orleans a few weeks ago.”

Sam stares, brain blank. “A grandma…oh!” He works his mouth. “Oh right. That woman in the robe.” His brow furrows. “But why would…oh. Shit. The drug? Damn. It got off Madripoor? I thought it was only here. How did – ”

Rhodey holds up a hand. “Slow down. Yeah, that’s what Bucky was thinking. That lady was in the wind for a while. Local law enforcement finally wrapped her up.”

“How’s she feeling now? Is she…” Sam waggles his hand at his head. “You know.”

Rhodey snorts. “Oh, she’s…” he waggles his own hand. “Not like you’re thinking, though. No drug.”

“No drug?”

“No drug. Just grandma.”

“But why did she…”

“Guess she didn’t like you, brother.” Rhodey laughs. “Said she wanted to stick it to,” he clears his throat, “the crass representation of a flawed, imperialist, late-stage capitalist system.”

“She…” Sam works his mouth. “She just didn’t like me?”

Rhodey shrugs. “Grandma wasn’t possessed. Just political.”

“I’ll be damned,” Sam marvels.

“Oh, I think she’d like that. But also, can we talk about how you almost got skewered by Rita Horne?”

“Shut up,” Sam grouses.

“So, the feds got a flag when she booked a flight under an alias to Texas. Followed her for a bit, until she met up with some Smasher sympathizers. Whole group got wrapped up when they tried to take over the Alamo.”

Sam blinks. “The Alamo? Don’t they know how that ended the first time?”

“The criminal mind is a twisted and unknowable thing, Sam.”

A smile tugs Sam’s lips up. “Twisted, for sure.” His smile falls. Some are far more twisted than others.

Rhodey catches his changing expression. “Right. Yeah, I…right.” He drops his eyes, skitters them across the hold. “Hey, I should go check in with the pilot. Make sure she’s treating my baby right, here. Why don’t you get some sleep, huh?”

“Yeah.” Sam claps him on the shoulder on his way by. “Thanks, Rhodey.” He scrubs a hand over his gritty eyes again as he crosses the bay. What he wouldn’t give for a few hours of blissful oblivion. He has a feeling nothing like that is waiting for him anytime soon, though.

He settles down to the floor, back braced on the bench near Bucky. He stares at the crown of Bucky’s head, the dark hair glinting in the harsh light of the bay. He reaches for that shimmering mirage, wondering if his hand will slip through it like smoke. It’s solid under his fingers, though. He presses his palm flat on top of Bucky’s head, too warm, weary, and wounded.

He should be counting his blessings that there’s any warmth in Bucky’s skin at all. That his friend’s body isn’t cold as the grave or, worse, a smoldering, charred mass, warped in a rictus curl. He pulls his hand back and stares at it, draped across his lap.    

He's never raised his hand against anyone in anger. He’s wanted to, more times than he can count. Against school yard bullies, calling Sarah and him names. Against other, older bullies everywhere else, calling them things much worse. Against the pastors at the pulpit, preaching God’s grace and wisdom while he put his parents in the ground. Against the first Taliban fighter he found after he watched Riley’s flag-draped coffin vanish into the hold of a C-17 at Bagram, some smirking kid with more teeth in his jaw than winters under his belt. Oh, how he’d wanted to do it then, curl his fist and bring his knuckles down, over and over into that ugly sneer, until they came up bloody and broken.

He wanted to raise his hand against Steve when he saw that wrinkled face and realized what the man had gone and done, the path he’d set Sam and everyone else on. He settled for white knuckling the shield instead, letting the metal hide his trembling fingers.

Against Bucky, too, when he realized that Bucky knew about it, hadn’t said a damn thing. Again, when Bucky showed up in that hanger, howling to the four winds about what Sam had the nerve to do when Bucky couldn’t be bothered to pick up a damn phone. Again, when the dumbass jumped out of a plane after him. Again, when Zemo pushed through that vinyl curtain below a German prison. Again, when Bucky let Walker past him, when Sam was so damn close to getting through to Karli. Again, when he threw the shield down next to Sam’s head and walked away. Again, again, again.

Well, he got his wish here, didn’t he? Got to sink his fist into Bucky’s face, got to bash the shield across Bucky’s head, got to break Bucky’s bones and shred his skin and burn his body.

But, so many missed opportunities, too. Where was that rage earlier tonight, when both Iskander’s shadowed gaze and Maksim’s watery one were burning into him? Why hadn’t Sam brought the shield down over her small back to hear the bones in her short spine splinter apart? Why hadn’t Sam brought the shield down into his pale face to watch skin and cartilage and membranes collapse in on each other? Why hadn’t Sam done one damn thing to even the score, to burn that path of ruin wide enough to encompass the ones who deserved to be engulfed by it? 

He should have let himself be what they tried to make him.

He wraps his sullied hands around his legs and tucks his forehead to his knees, water pooling along his eyelashes and in the hollows of his cheeks, leans into the sensation of frigid air prickling at the bare skin of his arms, the floor’s hum rattling his bones, the engines’ drone squeezing his eardrums.

It takes him some time to feel the solid warmth at one shoulder. He blinks his eyes open and tips his head to make out the pale fingers, poking out of a paler bandage, wrapped around his shoulder. He follows the fingers to a pale arm, veins cast harshly in the cargo bay’s lights. On the other end of that arm a shoulder, too, then a face, staring back at him. Bucky’s eyes are a thin blue flame holding his own.

Sam licks salt from his lips, opens his mouth, closes it. Bucky doesn’t blink, hand heavy on Sam’s shoulder. Sam lets his own eyes close and leans his head back against the bench. Finds a moment of grace, gliding tens of thousands of feet above the planet, to let its burdens slide from his bruised shoulders onto someone else’s, for a little while.   

Chapter Text

He’s not even tired anymore.

Tired implies an exceptional status, suggests there was a time when he was something else. Tired is all he has been for so long he cannot recall a time he was anything but.

He thinks this is not a terrible thing. The overwhelming, crushing exhaustion blunts the razor edge of his split skin and battered body. It does nothing for that glacial, spiny, gnawing worry in his belly that he will wake up anywhere other than here, this floating sanctuary, ensconced in tons of steel, the space between his bandaged hand and Sam’s broken shoulders his sole lodestar.

Except right now his hand feels strangely cold and detached, strikingly bereft. And the droning roar he could lose himself in is gone as well. Instead, he gathers the faint notes of a dim and distant conversation.

…still asleep…

…not great…

…to a hospital?

He’s not sure what they’re talking about. He’s not entirely sure who they are. This doesn’t worry him as much as he thinks it should.

…back…you sure?

…sleep it off…serum will…

Serum? Not much of that left in the world, just two people that he knows of. Huh. What’s Walker been up to since the last time they saw him?

…back to your place…

…help me…need to get him up for a sec…

There are some hands on him then, tugging him upright. He would startle away from those hands, but his body seems to be untethered from his brain. Something slips over his arms, then up around his shoulders, warm and heavy, then the sound of a zipper. This…this has happened before, right? But who…

He tries to crack his eyes open. It’s too hard. “Sam?” he slurs.

“Yeah, Bucky. It’s me.” A cool palm on the side of his face, and if he could rest his aching head, just for a minute…

The hand vanishes, and he lists sideways before more hands grab for his arms. “Got him, we’re good,” another voice announces. He knows that voice too, doesn’t he? Hasn’t he heard it before? He wrenches his protesting eyelids open at last. “Rhodes?” he croaks.

Rhodey gazes back at him, lips a flat gash across his face. “Yeah, it’s me. How you feeling?”

His eyes tumble across the hold. “Sam?” he asks again.

Rhodey’s lips twist. “Nice to see you too. Don’t thank the guy who kept you from knocking out all your teeth on the floor or anything.”

“Okay,” he mumbles. Rhodey’s got his mouth open, but Sam’s reappearance cuts him off.

“Hey,” Sam says, reaching for Bucky’s arm. “Rhodey’s giving us a lift. Whaddya say we get out of here?”

If it’s a question, Sam doesn’t wait for a response. He levers Bucky up instead, drags Bucky’s good arm across his shoulders. Their footsteps echo down the bay, Sam’s light and even, Bucky’s plodding and ragged. More behind them, overly deliberate, someone painfully aware of how their feet are falling. Rhodes. Right.

He stumbles along next to Sam until they reach a dark SUV parked on the tarmac. Bucky blinks at the sunlight glimmering off the metallic paint and realizes it’s daylight. Real daylight, blue skies and feathered clouds overhead, not the neon blooms of Madripoor, clawing upward through the ashy air.

“Where?” he marvels, squinting in the brilliant light, eyes grown accustomed to Madripoor’s murk.

“Louisiana,” Sam supplies, guiding him into the backseat. He doesn’t even ask Bucky to get in there this time, just maneuvers him in. Not that Bucky’s got it in him to protest anymore. The stiff fabric beneath his cheek smells new. At this point he’d settle for anything, if it means he gets to put his head down for a bit.

More hushed tones from the front, Sam and Rhodey continuing a conversation. Something about what fish are biting this time of year, the chances the Nationals will make it to the postseason, if Lemonade is really Beyonce’s best album. Bucky has an opinion on one of those topics. He doesn’t care to share it right now.

The SUV’s back tires rumbling through a rough patch of road draws a low groan from him. A hand settles on his shoulder. “You good, Buck?”

He pries his eyes open to Sam, twisted in his seat and leaning over the console to get a closer look. “Yeah,” he whispers, eyes drooping closed again.

“Alright.” Sam’s hand squeezes before it departs, and Bucky’s wakefulness tumbles away with it, until he’s floating in that smoke between asleep and dreams. The gentle sway of the car ends eventually, but he thinks his body might still be moving forward though time and space, toward a date he can’t escape. Or maybe it’s backwards, the memory of every blow he took in Madripoor pulling him down in a riptide.

Or maybe it’s here, when that palm flutters onto his cheek once more. “Hey,” a voice says. “We’re here. Door’s right there. Think you can make it?”

Yes, he tells his lips. Open, he tells his eyes. Move, he tells his body. For far from the first time, they don’t listen to him. More muffled voices, a third in the mix, higher than the others. Then those hands on him again, someone tugging, someone pushing. He’s off whatever he was on, light shading his eyelids red. Something solid under his arm, a hand around his back, a voice in his ear, “making me do all the damn work, huh?” Rocking of a different sort, his feet dragging themselves across an uneven surface, then something under him. A softness his aching body sinks into.

That hand one last time, across the back of his neck. That voice again, next to his head. “Alright, Bucky. We’re here. We’re safe. We made it. We can get some honest-to-God rest, finally. So just…rest.”

Sam doesn’t have to tell him twice.

Sam closes the door to the office behind him with a sigh. Not really an office, now. More of a guest room. He wonders what Bucky will think of the new pull-out bed. Once he’s cognizant enough to realize he’s on a bed.

Sarah and Rhodey are having a conversation in hushed tones at the kitchen counter that peters out when he enters the room. “Hey, don’t stop on my account.” He gives them a weak smile.

Sarah doesn’t roll her eyes or let out an exasperated sigh, tell him she’ll say everything she’s been saying to his damn fool face, too, if she wants. Instead, she crosses the kitchen towards him, wraps her arms around him now that he’s not hauling an insensate super soldier around.

He stands stock still for a moment until he remembers how to breath, until he remembers there are arms attached to his body that he can bring up around her too. He buries his face in her hair. It still smells like honeysuckle.

He’s not sure how long he stands there, in his sister’s kitchen, in his sister’s arms. He’s not sure when her tears stop pooling into the fabric of his shirt, or when his stop dripping onto her shoulder. All he knows is the sun is still shining, bathing the kitchen in a glorious yellow light. And Rhodey is still there, leaning against one of the cabinets, as close to not being in the room as he can be while still being in the room.

Sam lets Sarah go at last, swiping at his eyes. Or maybe she lets him go and swipes at her eyes. It doesn’t much matter. Rhodey ends his in-depth study of Cass’s artwork on the fridge to glance at Sam. “Hey,” he says in just about the softest tone Sam’s ever heard him use. “I should be getting back to base. Wanted to make sure you were…settled, first.”

“Yeah,” he nods, blinking the last dampness from his eyes. “Thanks for everything, man. You know you’re welcome to stay here, right?”

Rhodey’s eyes meet Sarah’s and they share a small smile. “Right. I know. Appreciate it, but there’s a jet on its way to this little place in the middle of the Atlantic, and I’d really like to make sure its cargo gets there.”

Cargo. That’s a nice way to put it. He’s not sure how extraordinary rendition from Madripoor works. He decides to let Rhodey worry about that part. “Well, let me know when it does, alright?”

“Will do,” Rhodey answers.

Sam reaches out a hand to shake Rhodey’s and is less than surprised when the other man bats it away and comes in for a hug. “Thanks again,” Sam says.

Rhodey leaves a hand on his arm when they pull away. “Anytime. And all that stuff we talked about on the plane. Just…try to remember all that, right?”

Try to remember. His lips twist at that. “I won’t forget,” he promises.

Rhodey bids his goodbyes to Sarah, tells Sam to give the same to Bucky. He takes his leave and drives off, tires crunching in the gravel driveway, the leaves framing the path starting to shade to rust. Sam stares at their dancing forms. Right. It’s fall here, or getting there. It was hard to tell it was spring in Madripoor. He’s not sure that place has seasons. The metal spires and neon lights seemed impervious to the march of time.

Sarah’s hand sets itself on his elbow, interrupting his musings. “Hey,” she says. “How you doing?”

He lets out a sigh that travels all the way up from his toes. “I…I don’t know how to answer that question,” he decides.

Her grip grows firmer. “Well, I don’t know how to fix that yet. I can make you some food, though, if you’re hungry.”

Right. When in doubt, or dealing with uncertain emotions, the Wilsons default to making the largest meal they can. Sam supposes there are worse strategies. He went with pancakes. Sarah’s more about cheese and carbs for comfort. Can’t fault her there. He frowns at the blue sky. Is it lunch time? Dinner? All his fuzzy brain can comprehend is that it’s daylight. “I…uh…”

“Could fix up something quick. One of Daddy’s recipes, maybe? Catfish?”

His stomach sours, thinking of that meal he had on his first night of relative freedom in Madripoor. “Nah,” he says. “Thanks. Think I’m just…tired.”

She hums sympathetically. “Okay. Well, A.J. and Cass’ll be home in a few hours. Maybe you wanna catch some sleep before then. God knows they’re gonna wanna talk to you.”

“A.J. and Cass,” he mutters. “What did you tell them?”

“That you were off on a mission. Overseas.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Figured anything else you wanted to tell them…you could tell them when you got back.”

He snorts. “How’d you know I’d be coming back?”

Her gaze grows sharp. “Because that was the only option. I wasn’t going through all that again.”

“Sarah…” He swallows, watching the leaves sway in the breeze. “What happened over there was…I know you have questions. I got ‘em too. But I don’t…”  

“I never asked you to tell me everything you were doing,” she asserts. Her voice grows mellower. “Maybe I shoulda. Maybe I will. But the only thing I ever needed from you was for you to come home at the end of the day.”

He works his mouth for a while. “Well…I’m home.”

She nods, eyes bright. “Yeah. You are.”

He does let her heat up some food for him. Nothing fancy – some leftover lasagna she pulls out of the freezer. It’s still a little icy on the inside when it comes out of the microwave. He thinks it deserves a Michelin star or two. Then it’s back to the office, to check on Bucky.

Bucky is, once again, right where Sam left him. Sam’s used to Bucky always being up and ready to go, bolting to awareness at the faintest sign of movement. Coming into rooms and getting nothing other than Bucky’s soft, drained breathing a handful of times makes his own breath catch. It’s a new thing for him. Of course, this is also the first time he’s spent a week trying to kill the guy, so it’s new experiences all the way round.

Bucky doesn’t even twitch when Sam sits down on the pull-out mattress beside him. Sam frowns, gazing at the still form. The visor gives him reading of vitals, so he at least had some idea how hard Bucky was working to stay upright during that last mad dash in Madripoor. He could probably use a thermometer here. He settles instead for a hand across the back of Bucky’s neck, just about the only few square inches of exposed flesh that aren’t bruised or battered. Still warm under his palm, but not like that unquenched fire a few nights ago in Madripoor.

His eyes flit to the calendar on the wall. A few nights ago? He works his way backwards through the days, trying to reconcile the impossible math. He gives up when the numbers blur in his vision and sighs, looking at the door. He really should try to get a little bit of shut-eye, at least. Before the boys get home. He should figure out what to tell the boys about where he’s been. How much to tell them. How he’ll deal with all their probing, excited, innocent questions.

His gaze falls back to the figure on the bed. He doesn’t want anyone asking him questions, innocent or otherwise. He wants to shove everything that happened in the past few weeks in the back of a closet, under some old, mothballed sweaters, and not look at it for years. He wants to get as far away from the people who know what happened in those past few weeks as possible, wants to make tracks toward the setting sun, only return when all these familiar faces have forgotten what his looks like.

He wants to start again, anew, afresh, wipe his whole ledger clean. If not that, maybe he can pull a page out of Steve’s book, go back to a time when things were simpler, easier, an era before he would have to live with the consequences of his decisions. He stares at the pale face beyond his hand, the dark lashes across a bruised cheek.

“Huh,” he murmurs. “Think maybe I’m getting it, a little bit. Where you were coming from.” He shakes his head. “Scary thought, right?”

What would Bucky do, if he woke up and Sam was gone again? Would he do what Sam did when both the super soldiers in his life up and vanished on him? Send out a searching text or make a dutiful call, every once in a while? Return to his familiar haunts, catch up with old friends? Bury himself in the life that was, hoping a little distance could help him see the life that is?

He shifts his hand to Bucky’s, smoothing down the edges of the bandage. No. Bucky would bolt out of here like a bat out of hell, way before his failing body should let him, would scour every town and city and country he could think of. Would find some other gangster to get all chummy with, would lay whatever he had on the line, even if it was nothing more than a crop of broken bones and a give ‘em hell attitude. Would find Sam again. Even if it killed him. Even if Sam asked him not to. Especially if Sam asked him not to. Guy’s a stubborn bastard.

So, Sam doesn’t creep down the hallway to the back door, strap on the wings and get as far away from the places he knows as he can. Doesn’t take a page out of Bucky’s book, or Steve’s. Flips to a new page in his own, to write a new story, though he’s a bit scared where it will end.

He takes Bucky’s hand in both of his instead, settles it down on the covers. Leans a little closer. “Alright, jackass,” he tells that slack face. “You made your point.” He drops his own aching body into the armchair next to the bed. Props his feet up against the mattress. And lets himself get a little rest, finally.    

He doesn’t know where Sam is when he wakes up, again. Shit, he doesn’t know where he is.

He doesn’t see the watery light in Al’s guesthouse, the dingy wallpaper and polished tile. Or the sharp, cold lines of the apartment in hightown, gleaming surfaces and pale colors.

No. He’s on something soft. Yellow paint on the far wall, crisp white curtains framing a view of tree limbs bowing under golden leaves. It’s…simple. Cozy. When was the last time he felt…cozy? Maybe for a brief moment in Madripoor, on that leather couch, wrapped up in a hoodie still holding someone else’s warmth? Or was that some fever dream?

Or is this the dream? Is he going to wake up back on that rooftop, not-Sam’s blank face staring down at him, Sam’s shield raised over his head, ready to give him that oblivion that seems too appealing, some days?

Sam. Right.

“Hey,” a voice calls out behind him. He jolts in place, makes to flip over onto his back. A hand on his shoulder stops him. “Come on. Just patched all that up. Don’t think you want to do that.”

Patched what up? A moment of stillness, before his aches make themselves loudly known, his blistered back most of all. Yeah. That. He drags his face across the pillow instead, until he’s looking at the other side of the room. More warm, yellow paint, old bookshelves, and a worn chair. And in that chair, a figure in a t-shirt and jeans. A weary smile on its face.

“Sam,” he croaks.

“In the flesh,” Sam says, splaying his hand wide on Bucky’s shoulder, fingers stopping short of where the bandage, concealed by the blanket Bucky is apparently under, begins. “How you feeling?”

“Sam,” he repeats. He makes to get his elbows under him so he can push himself up. Sam’s firm hand keeps him in place, though. “Sam?”

“That’s my name.” That faint smile flickers. “Don’t wear it out, now.”

“Sam,” he tries to get up once more, that syllable the sole thing he’s capable of uttering right now.

“Hey, hey,” Sam soothes. “Take it easy. Relax, okay?”

Relax? How is he supposed to do that? “Need to…need to…”

“Need to what?”

He needs to…wake up. Get up. Get out of here. Get out there. Keep moving so he doesn’t sink. Push forward, no matter how much he wants to stop. Because he needs to go, needs to fight, needs to tear his way through every scumbag Madripoor has to offer. Needs to find…needs to save…needs to see…oh.

“Sam,” he whispers one more time, slumping down into the pillow.

“Yeah,” Sam answers. “I get it. But we’re all good, okay?”

“All good?” Bucky asks, words feeling false on his tongue.

“All good. We’re back. In Delacroix, I mean. You were a little out of it for that part. At Sarah’s. Man, she is ready to have some words with you.”

“Sarah,” he mutters, turning his face into the pillow. It muffles his muttered curse.

Sam barks out a light laugh. “Yeah. No kidding. Don’t worry. I think she’ll go easy on you, this one time. Extenuating circumstances and all.”

“I didn’t…” He tilts his head free of the pillowcase. “I didn’t mean to ignore her. And Rhodey. I was trying to let them know what was going on. It was just…so…”

“Bucky,” Sam sighs. “I get it, okay? They get it too. Wasn’t exactly a picnic for any of us. Wasn’t…” Sam drags his free hand across his mouth. “I get it. No one’s gonna hold anything that happened out there against you. Least of all me.”

He should say something to that. Say something to chase away the shadows dancing across Sam’s dark features. Say something about that cold, dark hollow he can see lurking under Sam’s skin. “Not gonna hold it against you, either,” he finally gets out.

Sam gives him a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I know. I know. I still…”

“Sam?”

Sam shakes his head. “Right. I know. Let’s just leave it there for now, okay? Think that’s about all I got in me. Think that’s about all you got in you.”

It’s more than Bucky has in him. That didn’t stop him in Madripoor. “Sam.” He tries to put all the meaning he can into that word, all the things he wanted to say when Sam wasn’t himself. All the things he wanted to say when he got Sam back. All the things he still needs to say, needs to feel, needs Sam to feel too.

“I hear you,” Sam replies. He bites his lip, blinks damp lashes. “How ‘bout you get some rest, huh?”

Like he hasn’t been doing enough of that in the past…whatever. “You first,” he croaks. 

“Go to sleep, Bucky,” Sam says in that tone of voice that brokers no argument.

It’s the tone of Sam’s voice Bucky likes nothing more than to argue with. Not today, though. Maybe tomorrow. “Kay,” he says, or maybe that’s just the rustling leaves outside the window he’s hearing as he trips back into sleep.

Sam doesn’t say much, those next few days. Doesn’t do much, either. Waits for the boys to come home from school. Helps Sarah around the house. Makes everyone too much food at dinner time. Checks out the burn on Bucky’s back and the gash on his hand, healing rapidly, now that the other man is actually getting a chance to recover instead of running himself ragged down Madripoor’s back alleys.  

Nobody asks him for much, either. The boys are content to know he was away and now is back, and someday will leave again, but until then they get to play too many video games and eat too much junk food. Sarah tuts at him as he’s cooking, tells him to add more salt or go lighter on the oil, but she never complains about the results. Bucky says the least of all, in those long afternoons when they’re in the house by themselves, but he’s looking at Sam with that dark, hooded gaze every time Sam turns around quick enough to catch it.

It's fine, he figures. What else is there to say? He spent a week and change as some lady’s puppet, tore a strip out of Madripoor’s lowlifes, nearly put his friend in the morgue a couple of times, but who’s counting, right?

He wants a reaction. From Sarah, from Bucky, from anyone. Wants someone to take him to task. Wants to see the bitter recriminations echoing in his head reflected in the ravines around Sarah’s mouth, or in the deep empty of Bucky’s irises. Wants the promise of ruin for all the things he’s done. Want to bury his fist into someone’s skin, just to feel the return blow.

He doesn’t get any of that. He gets the boys’ exuberant, exhausting enthusiasm for every new thing. Gets Sarah’s patient smiles and soft words. Gets Bucky’s silence, the crinkled brow that speaks volumes when its owner won’t say a word.

Say something, he wants to scream into that placid face. Say anything. Say that it hurt, when I hit you. Say that it didn’t. Say that you’re pissed, that you’re sad, that you’re worried. Say that you’re scared of me, and you don’t know if it will ever go away. Say that you know what this is like. Say that you don’t. Say that it’s not my fault. Say that it is. Say it.

He knows what to call the things he’s feeling. That doesn’t make them any easier to feel.

He wants to ask Bucky what he’s feeling, too. He wants to ask Bucky anything, poke and prod until he gets something other than that infuriating silent stare. He can’t go right for what he wants to know, though. It’s too much, too bright, a burning nova, and looking at it directly would only leave him blinded.

He sidesteps up to it one night when Bucky — Bucky, of all people — is making them dinner. Sam lurks suspiciously in the kitchen, peering around shoulders and under spoons and into pots with skepticism. Bucky gives him an unimpressed look every time he catches Sam staring.

Sam gives up, finally. “What is it?” he asks, the hoarseness of his own voice taking him by surprise.

Bucky looks up, startled, before he forces his face flat. “Chicken tagine,” he says simply.

Sam steals another glance into the pan. “Are those…olives?”

“Maybe,” Bucky grumbles.

“And,” he sniffs dubiously, “apricots?”

Bucky shifts protectively over the pot. “Aren’t you supposed to be setting the table or something?”

He quirks a brow. “Takes like two seconds to set the table. I think I can handle it.”

“If you say so,” Bucky says with a doubtful frown.

Sam sneaks around Bucky’s right side to tip the cover on a separate pan back. Through the billowing steam he thinks he makes out golden pellets. “Couscous?”

Bucky slams the lid back in place. “It needs to sit,” he snarls.

“Okay, okay,” Sam allows, holding up his hands and stepping out of Bucky’s space. He takes a moment to watch the former Winter Soldier, bustling around in the kitchen of his family home. Cooking. For him. The incredulous smile drops from his face when he remembers why Bucky’s here. Why he’s here.

“Hey,” he says after a long minute, scraping a spare dribble of some sauce off the countertop. “Can I ask you something?”

Sam’s not sure if it’s the pan or Bucky’s laser stare that’s cooking the chicken now. “Uh. Yes?”

He watches the tight line of Bucky’s shoulders, his jaw. “So. Obviously you let Rhodey know what was going on. And you told Sarah.”

“Yeah?” Bucky asks, tipping back the lid that he insisted needed to stay shut.

“And. I mean…” he swallows. “We’re both here, so you made it work. But why…why didn’t you tell anyone else?”  

Bucky stares at the sizzling chicken for long enough Sam’s about to ask if it’s about to burn. Bucky flips the meat before he can, though. “I wanted you to get to choose who knew about what you’d been through,” he mutters, just loud enough for Sam to hear him over the bubbling pot. “I didn’t get that choice.”

“I get that,” Sam responds, working a dish towel through his hands. “Not everyone needs to know everything…we…went through. But the people you…we’re close to, the people we care about…” Bucky watches him from behind lowered eyelids. “It’s alright if they know what you’ve…we…I’ve been through. The fights we’ve had to fight. If they care about us, they’ll understand. Or at least they’ll try to.”

Bucky prods the chicken one more time and turns the burner off with a flick of his fingers. “Yeah,” he drawls. “Can be hard to figure out who those people are sometimes, though. I think you’re a lot better at that than I am.”

“You’re getting there,” Sam mutters, watching the last of the bubbles in the simmering sauce pop away. “Can I ask you something else?”

Bucky shrugs, non-committal. “Your house.”

Sam works his tongue over his lips. “Hey.” He waits a long moment until Bucky tips his head to meet his eyes. “You know, everyone else…well, Sarah and Rhodey. They keep saying the same thing. That everything that happened wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t, I know that. Even if I don’t always believe it. But I think you know that better than anyone. I think you believe it. So why…why haven’t you told me that too?”

Bucky’s jaw twitches as he looks away, toward the table, toward the living room, toward the door that would let him escape into a mild Louisiana night.

Sam’s heart hammers. “Know what, never mind. You don’t have to tell me any of that, I get it, I know you’ve been through – ”

“I heard that too,” Bucky interrupts, turning back to him. “From a dozen people, a hundred times. Steve, you, Shuri, Ayo, T’Challa, Raynor. Doesn’t mean I ever believed it. And eventually I got tired enough of hearing it that I tried to avoid all the people who were telling me that, because I didn’t want to hear it one more time. So, you know it’s true, that it isn’t your fault. And you believe it, or you don’t. But I’m not gonna stand here and tell you what you need to believe. You’ve had enough of that. You get to decide what to believe. No one else. You.”

“Yeah,” Sam says once he’s found his voice, once his eyes have cleared. “I guess I do. We do.”

Chapter Text

Tooling around the Wilson home is…nice. For a while. Not like Bucky has a choice. Even if he could summon up the effort to get himself somewhere, Sam would just harry him until he came back. So, it’s fine. Gives him the chance to get two separate tongue-lashings from both Sarah in person and Shuri over the phone. He takes them like a champ. At least he thinks he does, but the first thing Sarah does when she’s done is pull him in for a delicate hug and ask him if he wants another slice of pie.

Shuri doesn’t have any pie to offer, and it’s hard to get a hug through the phone, but she does ask if there’s any damage to Sam’s suit that she needs to take a look at, or if there’s any more damage to Bucky’s brain that she also needs to look at. He tells her no on both counts, though he suspects she only believes one. He does promise to do a better job at keeping in touch, and he thinks she appreciates that at least. He doesn’t exactly get the feeling he’s welcome on the next flight to Wakanda, but maybe he’ll get there, eventually.

He hears from Sharon, too, finally, full of questions, wanting every detail of his and Sam’s time in Madripoor. He promises to fill her in at some point, though he can’t quite decide why he feels no eagerness to do so. Maybe he’s just realizing being on the other side of ignored calls and texts isn’t a great feeling either. Maybe it’s something else.

It’s fine, being here in Delacroix. He’ll stay for as long as Sam needs. And he’ll stay until he can move around without feeling every one of his hundred plus years. He's pretty close to that now, some time into this impromptu Louisiana retreat.

Sam, on the other hand. Bucky’s not so sure there. He doesn’t know what to do with that considering stare, every time he turns around. He’s not sure how to answer those questions. But he figures if he can just get Sam to do the opposite of what he himself did, years ago, that’ll probably solve a few things.

Sam hasn’t brought up what’s supposed to happen next. Kinda figures. He’s probably a little busy processing everything that’s already happened. Means Bucky’s the one who has to figure it out. Come up with a plan. God help them.

He finds Sam down by the dock, of course, on an evening when the air carries the first bite of what passes for cool weather in Louisiana. Sam’s got two rods on stands next to the water, is tapping on one of them, looking for a nibble, when Bucky walks over.

“Anything biting?” he asks.

Sam shrugs. “Nah. Little late in the season for largemouth bass. They don’t like the cold, you know.”

Bucky stares pointedly at his own t-shirt and bare arms, then the jacket Sam’s bundled up in. “If you say so.”

Sam grins. “When you gonna let me teach you how to fish?”

Bucky scowls. “You know you can buy this now, right? In like any store. There were decades, centuries, when people fished because that was the only way they were gonna eat. Now you don’t need to, could spend your time doing anything else, and you do this?”

That smile only grows brighter. “Ain’t about the results, man, it’s about the process.”

Bucky peers down into the water dubiously. “Good. Because your results are terrible.”   

A snort from Sam, though he lets it go. They watch the lines, bobbing in the waves for a bit, before Bucky clears his throat. “So.”

“So,” Sam answers. 

“Heard there was a showdown with some Smashers after they tried to take over the Alamo a few weeks back.”

“Heard that too.”

“Do they not remember how that went the last time?”

Sam points at him, nodding. “Right? Exactly what I said.” His hand falls to his side. “Though I guess that was a case of lose the battle, win the war. So that’s…” He meets Bucky’s frown with one of his own. “Right. Not great.”  

Bucky sighs. “And it means they’re still out there. The Smashers. Guess they didn’t all get the memo that they’re supposed to be fighting it out in a conference room at GRC headquarters, not a tourist trap in San Antonio.”  

“Death of a charismatic leader doesn’t always mean the death of the movement,” Sam grumbles.

“Right. So, we’re gonna be tangling with them again before we know it.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “Suppose we are.”

“So are you…” Bucky scuffs his boot on the warped wood of the dock. “You good?”

“I’m good. I mean, still a little,” Sam waves a hand beside his temple, “you know. But I’m ready to go.”

“So why are we still here?”

Sam tilts his head with a frown. “Are you?”

“Am I…” he blinks. “What?”

“Good. Are you good?”

“Oh. Yeah. I’m good.”

“Sure?”

“Uh. Yeah. Look, mostly healed and all.” He waves his now bandage-free hand. “Right?”

“Right.” Sam nods. “Not exactly what I’m talking about here, though.”

“I…” he stares, brows furrowed. “What exactly are we talking about here?”

Sam gives him a small smile. “I just spent spring break in Madripoor trying to kill you. And I get it,” he holds up a hand to forestall Bucky, “not my fault. I know that. You know that. Doesn’t mean it can’t still sting a little, though.”

“I did a lot worse,” Bucky says quietly. “To a lot more people.”

“I know. Wasn’t your fault, either. You know that. I know that.”

“Doesn’t mean it can’t still sting a little, though,” Bucky sighs, corner of his lip twitching.

“Something like that,” Sam answers. “So I’m asking you, and don’t bullshit me on this one. We good? ‘Cuz I’ll get it, if we aren’t. If you need more time to think through everything that happened. But if we’re going out there again, I need to know we’re square.”

He doesn’t answer right away, though he wants to. He thinks of everything, really, letting it play like a horror show in front of him. Of chasing Sam halfway across the world. Of that knife in the gut when he realized what had happened to Sam. Getting punched, and thrown off buildings, and nearly blown up, by the guy who’s supposed to have his back.

And he thinks of waking up one morning to that miracle Raynor talked about in a Baltimore jail so long ago. Sam, making him pancakes. Sam, dragging him out of that apartment before the worst could happen. Sam, making a fucking entrance like he always does, into that office in hightown. Sam, letting himself lean on Bucky when he needed to, for a little while.

“When did you stop being scared of me?” he asks Sam.

Sam looks at him for a while, then out over the water. A smile dances across his lips. “You helped me fix up my parent’s boat. Didn’t have to. Didn’t have to come down here to give me the suit, didn’t have to stick around after. Wasn’t exactly a world-ending crisis, you know. But you stayed. Helped me out, with something that shouldn’t have mattered to you in the slightest. And I think you kinda enjoyed it, too.”

He turns his gaze back to Bucky. “So that’s it. I trusted you before that. But that’s when I stopped being scared of you.” A smirk. “Hard to be scared of a guy when he’s sanding down a deck, you know.” A long silence, the breeze sighing through the dying leaves. “You scared of me, Buck?”

He stares at the winding river over Sam’s shoulder for a while before he answers. “You could hurt me,” he says, close to a whisper. “If you wanted to. Not like in Madripoor, I mean. But, if you decided to. You could. And…I’d…” He blinks up at the dimming sky.

“Yeah,” Sam drawls. “I know what you mean. And I could. You could hurt me too. A lot. But that’s what trust is, right? Knowing that, and being okay with it. I’m okay with it.”

Bucky wasn’t really all that scared in Madripoor. Not for himself, anyway. Hardly had time to be. And even if he does still tense up when he catches Sam’s figure in the corner of his eye, before he really sees the other man, that’s just a learned response. He can unlearn it. If he tries. He’s unlearned plenty.

“I’m okay too,” he decides. Sam beams then, that gap toothed smile Bucky chased across Madripoor even though he never saw it, because he’s a sentimental wreck. “Hey,” he adds. “Can I tell you something else?”

“Shoot.”

“I know you’re still gonna be…dealing with this for a while. And I can’t really tell you the best way to do that. I can tell you what you shouldn’t do, though.”

Sam gives him a look, ready to stop him there, but he must see something in Bucky’s eyes. “Okay. What?”

“Don’t cut out the people who are trying to make sure you’re okay, and ignore all their calls, and only show up unannounced to berate them about making a decision you didn’t agree with when you have no idea what they’re going through, or what they’ve been through,” he starts.

“And then don’t withhold illegal activities from them just hoping they’ll go along with your plan. And then when they do back you, don’t continue to give them shit about the same stuff that you didn’t really understand in the first place.” A short breath, and he pushes through before his throat can stop him. “And then don’t walk away from them when they’re all banged up and bloody after a fight in a warehouse just to make the same stupid point you’ve been trying to make for months.”

Sam works his lips between his teeth, blinking, for a few seconds. “Yeah,” he answers, hoarse. “Get that. And I guess you gotta deal with the flip side of this now too. So, here’s my advice. Don’t take cheap shots at the person who had no choice in what they were doing. Don’t suggest they’re somehow not human because of everything they’ve survived. And definitely don’t just stand there when other people try to dredge up the worst days of their lives. And you really, really, shouldn’t go around suggesting they need to do right by the people they wronged when they had no choice, without making it damn clear to them that they’ve been wronged too.” 

“That’s all?” Bucky asks, voice a tremor. “Sounds so easy.”

“Ass,” Sam grumbles as he reaches out and drags Bucky forward, wrapping his arms tight across Bucky’s now-healed back.

He dips his chin to Sam’s shoulder. “This the part where you get all…” a hitching inhale, “counselor-y?”

Sam snorts next to his ear. “No. This is the part where I tell you thank you. For pulling me out of the fire. For getting up every time you got knocked down. For finding me. For bringing me home. I know you think it’s not enough, that you should have done more. I’m still thinking that about me too. But it is. It is enough.”

“It is enough,” Bucky repeats, and for the first time he thinks he believes it.

Sam lets him go after a while, claps a hand to his shoulder again. He turns back to the fishing rods, runs a finger down a taut line. “So, the trick with bass is to –”

“No,” Bucky growls. Sam laughs.  

So, he lingers while Sam works the lines until he finally gets a bite. Sam fights like he’s got Ahab’s white whale on the other end, but it ends up being a guppy about the size of Bucky’s palm. And they end up going to the store anyway to buy the largest fish they can because of course they do. And if Sam unveils it on the dinner table with a flourish, telling Cass and A.J. some tall tale about how he caught it just down the way, had the fight of his life on his hands, maybe Bucky shares a knowing look with Sarah but otherwise lets it go.

All about the process anyway, isn’t it?  

She’s ready for the woman, when she arrives.

She meets the woman at the bar, studies her dark features for a moment, before she leads her down the dimly lit hallway to the back office, her heels silent on the green carpet underfoot. She opens the door and motions the woman through.

Zetkov looks up from his computer when they enter. His cousin, their newly arrived lieutenant, stands sentinel in one corner of the office. She thinks this one, brown hair and matching eyes, a pink scar crossing one eyebrow, is a marked improvement from his predecessor. Less likely to sell them out, at least. Families can be good for some things. Some families.

Zetkov smiles as they walk closer. “Ah. Lulu. And I see we have a guest.”

The woman stalks forward, her dark hair reflecting the hazy light, her houndstooth coat swinging around her hips. She places a black case on the desk in front of Zetkov and retreats a few paces. “I’m here on the broker’s behalf,” she announces.

The cousin shifts on his feet and Lulu scowls at him. He’s young. He’ll learn. He stills under her gaze. Zetkov lets that slow, sinuous smile cross his face. “Of course. We assumed. Tell me.” He leans back, steepling his fingers. “What would the broker want with us?”

The woman smirks back. “The broker was very impressed with how you handled the situation on the island. That sort of thing could have had…” She runs a tongue over her teeth. “Repercussions. Yet you managed to resolve it quietly. Cleanly.”

Zetkov snorts. “They almost blew up half this city. But I suppose that is a quiet thing, for Madripoor.”

The woman nods. “Indeed. And you managed to eliminate the drug, find the mole in your operation, and get what’s left of the Avengers out of the city in one fell swoop.” She grins again. “Quite impressive, really.”

“I thank you,” Zetkov murmurs. “But I think, perhaps, you are not here simply to pay us a compliment.”

“No. I am not.” The woman steps forward again, slowly, and unlatches the clasps on the case. She pops the lid and spins it toward Zetkov. “As I said, the broker is impressed. And as you know, the broker likes to reward ingenuity. Given your newfound…influence, the broker is interested in a partnership of sorts.”

Zetkov raises a brow as he stares into the case. “I see. And what is this?”

“A token of the broker’s admiration,” the woman says. “Straight from what’s left of SHIELD’s research and development division. A small sample of what the broker can offer you.”

“Humph,” Lulu mutters as she stalks closer. The woman casts a quick glance at her before turning back to Zetkov. Lulu comes around toward the desk and draws one painted fingernail along the lid of the case. “We eliminate drug, you say. This pleased the broker, yes?” she asks.

The woman frowns at Lulu before directing her answer at Zetkov. “Of course. Who knows what could have happened had that drug become more widespread here.”

“I am thinking I know what could have happened,” Lulu croons, reaching into the case. “I am thinking you know, too.” She plucks the gun, shiny and white and odd, from the plush lining. “I am thinking the Broker knows, too.” She turns the gun this way and that in the light, admiring the hints of emerald in the pearl sheen.

“Well, of course the Broker is aware, which is why the Broker is so pleased that the situation has been resolved. As such, the Broker would like to work with you, Mr. Zetkov, to –”

“Ah,” Lulu tuts. “I am thinking the Broker always intended this drug to get out. I am thinking the Broker thought to control this island, one way or another.” She holds the gun out and sights atop the barrel. “I am thinking perhaps the Broker intends to buy silence. One way or another. I am thinking I am not selling.”

A short puff, a sigh, emanates from the gun. The woman in the coat looks at Lulu for a long moment, blinking at the blood that dribbles into her eye from the newly-formed, tiny hole in her forehead. She sinks to the floor and tips to the side, her expression suggesting her last thought was to marvel at this turn of events.

“I am also thinking,” Lulu drawls at the woman’s still corpse, “if that blonde tramp wishes to rule Madripoor again, she will have to come back and take it from us.”

Lulu returns the gun, still smoking, to its case, and meets Zetkov’s impassive state. “Come. We have work to do.”