Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The last five cops who tried to infiltrate Alexander Pierce’s establishment were all found dead.

Two in the Hudson river, and the other three in back-alleys around the city. They’d all been beaten to death. No real effort had been made to hide evidence on the bodies - even the two in the river had been dumped in the shallows, where they would soon be found - and the FBI had known exactly what that meant: they were supposed to find them. Pierce knew that the men had been cops, and he was sending them a message.

Nobody knew how he found out.

-

‘Me?’ Steve stares at Coulson. ‘Are you sure?’

It should be one of the others. Clint, who can walk into any room and fit in - or Natasha, who can slip into a new persona the way other people put on a coat. But Coulson’s giving him that look - the one that says stop avoiding the point - and all he can do is stare at his boss, wide-eyed.

‘We’re all that’s left,’ Coulson replies, voice deceptively mild. ‘Apparently it’s literally impossible to find a branch of the FBI or NYPD which doesn’t have someone in Pierce’s pocket. SHIELD needs to act.’

‘That doesn’t explain why it’s me.’ Steve isn’t usually this argumentative, but desperate times call for desperate measures. ‘It should be Natasha, surely. Or Clint.’

Coulson sighs, leans back in his chair. ‘Five cops have tried, Steve. Two were pretending to be customers. Two tried to go in as slave stock.’ Steve blanches at the idea, but Coulson’s expression doesn’t change. ‘One tried to go in as a bartender. All of them were discovered.’

‘A mole?’

‘Maybe. All we know is, we need to try something new. The only position left is security guard - and they’re looking for someone now. We have our ‘in’, through a guy who knows a guy, and we have to make our move.’

‘But - ’

Coulson cuts him off. ‘Pierce is an old guard misogynist - he’ll never hire Natasha.’ He’s leaning forward now, and under his intent gaze Steve feels like a mouse transfixed by an owl. ‘Clint looks exactly like the kind of guy we would send. You, on the other hand...’

‘...Look like a cop.’ Is it madness, or genius? Steve can’t work it out. ‘You mean, it’s a double-bluff? Send them someone who looks just what they think a cop would look like?’

‘You’ll present as ex-military - which you are, so it shouldn’t be a stretch. We’ve got a fake profile all lined up: Jake Robins, honourably discharged after serving two tours. A few fake tattoos and you’re ready to go.’ Coulson slides a file over the desk and Steve leafs through it, reading the records of the man he will become for the next few months. ‘And - Steve,’ he looks up to see Coulson’s expression change: he’s closer to showing emotion than he’s ever been before. ‘With Natasha out of the running, there’s nobody I trust to fight his way out of a corner better than you. You can come back to us.’

Steve wants to do something, say something, to let Coulson know how much this rare praise means to him. In the end he settles on: ‘Thank you, sir,’ and ducks his head.

‘I mean it.’ There’s a small pause, a slight warming of the older man’s expression, and he moves on: ‘So, your duties.’ Steve looks up. ‘One - Pierce has shrugged off every charge anyone has ever tried to bring against him. If you find anything - anything - that can be used as evidence, including people willing to testify, bring it to us.’

Coulson settles back again, mouth set in a thin line. ‘The second job is less vague, and more important. We know Pierce is working to smuggle a convicted terrorist, Dr Arnim Zola, out of prison. We know he plans to bring him here, to New York. What we don’t know is where.

‘Find him, and we’ve got Pierce.’

Steve nods, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Attempt to work for a man who’s killed five cops in three years. Go undercover in the seediest building in the city. Find a criminal in a city full of criminals.

Simple.

-

Pierce’s base is a hotel and club, the Milestone. It’s a huge old building, really beautiful, and the police have been trying to get in since Pierce first bought it. A few managed to get in, but those who weren’t bribed to turn their coats were frozen out when something changed, three years ago, and cops became distinctly unwelcome.

Steve steps through the doors with not a little apprehension, doing his best to look as if he’s completely at ease in the place. The foyer is elegantly done up, a small, intimate space with a concierge desk set before two pairs of doors.

It’s deserted. Steve approaches the left hand set of doors, but as soon as he reaches for them, it happens, and he has to stop. He traces the edge of the curved metal handles once, twice, three times. That seems to be enough, but then he needs to do the other door as well, and he bites the inside of his mouth until he can taste blood. No, no, not here…

‘Looking for someone?’

It startles him out of the loop, and Steve gives an undignified yelp before he turns, looking straight into a pair of blue eyes.

The kid is gorgeous. There’s no other way to say it. Fair skin, dark hair, and those eyes; a skinny slip of a thing, really, but there’s no denying how attractive he is. Steve blinks at him for a moment, then holds out a hand. ‘Jake Robins,’ he says.

The guy’s head is tilted to one side, and there’s something suspiciously like amusement in his expression. He raises an eyebrow at Steve’s proffered hand, then eventually takes it. ‘Jamie,’ he replies, and it’s then that Steve notices the collar around his neck. He glances down to their joined hands and sees a slave’s barcode on the guy’s right wrist.

He knew there would be slaves. Of course he did, Coulson warned him - but he’s never met one before, and anything he would have said somehow catches in his throat.

Jamie is watching him, the amusement more evident now. ‘You’re Mr Pierce’s new recruit?'

‘That obvious, huh?’ Steve offers him a shy smile, and is rewarded when the kid flashes him a quick grin. ‘Do you know where I’m supposed to go? ‘Cause I...’

‘Follow me.’ Jamie takes him through the foyer, has a quick word with the guy on the door, and then they’re inside, the music pulsing so loudly that Steve can feel it in his chest.  The club lights turn everything golden and ghostly; when Jamie turns his head to check that Steve is still following, the warm light slides along the kid’s cheekbones, the sharp line of his jaw.

They cross the dancefloor and walk along the wall, Steve casting curious glances as they go.  It’s early, so the place isn’t too full - but wherever Steve looks, he can see more people with collars around their necks. The thought makes his stomach twist, but before he has a chance to do anything colossally stupid, like ask Jamie any questions that could raise suspicion, the kid turns and crowds him against the wall.

‘What - ?’ He manages to grunt in surprise, but Jamie shakes his head abruptly, blue eyes intense, and Steve closes his mouth.

‘This is a camera blindspot,’ the younger man is pressed against him, mouth against Steve’s ear so he can be heard over the music, and Steve really, really shouldn’t be noticing the warmth of his breath against his neck. He forces himself to concentrate on Jamie’s words. ‘They can’t see us right now.’

‘Look, it’s not that I’m not flattered, but - ’

Jamie shakes his head again, moving closer so Steve is trapped against the wall. ‘You think I’m attractive, right?’

‘Uh...’

‘Look.’ Steve forces himself to meet Jamie’s gaze, and it’s like looking into a lake of ice. The slave’s expression is deadly serious. ‘Whatever they ask you to do, you do it. OK? Whatever they ask.’

Steve frowns: ‘I don’t - ’

Jamie leans in again, lips against Steve’s ear. ‘They’ll ask you to do things a cop would never do,’ he murmurs, and Steve’s blood freezes for a moment. ‘So you have to do them.’ He pulls away, blue eyes boring into Steve’s. ‘You got me?’

‘I - I got you,’ Steve stammers out, and Jamie steps away, moving off as if they hadn’t spoken.

He walks fast, but Steve matches his strides - across the dancefloor and through some darkened corridors until they get to a door. Jamie hesitates for a moment, hand raised to knock, and glances back at Steve. There’s something in his expression that Steve just can’t read, something between worry and excitement. But he clearly doesn’t feel about to say anything; he just knocks on the door, and opens it when a call comes from within.

It’s a security room, monitors everywhere, and two uniformed guys eye Steve for a second before turning their attention to Jamie. ‘Who’s this?’ the shorter one asks, and Jamie shrugs.

‘Pierce’s new guy,’ he replies, already stepping back, out of the door. ‘Gotta go, fellas - the boss’ll be expecting me.’ And then he’s gone, disappearing down the long corridor.

Steve turns back to the men in front of them, offering a nervous smile. ‘Jake Robins. Justin sent me for the security job.’

That earns him instant friendliness from the men, who stand to shake his hand. ‘Jonno,’ the taller one says. ‘And lemme tell you, we need more hands on deck. Good to meet you.’

‘Carlos,’ the other guy says, smiling warmly.

They exchange pleasantries for a while, and Steve’s grateful that Coulson didn’t try to talk him into inventing some kind of character. Clint or Natasha could become anyone with a turn of their heads, but Steve is made of simpler stuff. He chatters with the guys, and it’s like talking to any new teammates at the station. Then something seems to occur to Carlos, and he asks: ‘You met the boss, yet?’

‘Not yet,’ Steve replies, and the guards share a look. ‘Is...is everything OK?

‘You don’t get hired until the boss has met you,’ Jonno tells him.

‘Really?’

‘He won’t have anyone working here that he hasn’t met.’ Jonno shrugs. ‘Even the cleaners.’

There’s slight pause, and Steve realises Carlos is looking at him. ‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ The other man shakes his head, then sighs. ‘It’s just - you do know what kind of place this is, right?’

‘Sure.’ Somehow, Steve manages to muster a grin. ‘But work is work, right?’

‘Right.’ Something is tone is unconvincing, and Steve has the feeling the Carlos is not a huge fan of the Milestone. ‘C’mon,’ he says, and they head off to meet the boss.

-

There are three men in the room when Steve walks in. He sees Pierce first, recognises him from his mugshots - he’s sitting on one of the sofas in the plush hotel room, talking with a guy Steve clocks as his right-hand man, Rumlow. Pierce is smoking, an ashtray on the cushion beside him, and his left hand is buried in the hair of a young man sprawled on the floor.

Jamie.

‘Jake!’ Pierce puts his cigarette down to shake Steve’s hand. There’s no space on either of the two couches, and he doesn’t feel comfortable perching on the end of the double bed - so he remains standing, and gives his new boss the easiest smile he can manage. ‘Good to meet you. Smith tells me you come highly recommended.’

‘Ex-army, sir,’ Steve replies, noting the way Pierce gives a small nod at the title. He does his best not to look at Jamie. ‘I like to think I know my way around security.’

‘I’m sure you do.’ Pierce is still smiling. It’s a little unnerving, really. He never smiled in any of the pictures Steve has ever seen of him. The expression is unexpected, out of place. ‘This is Mr Rumlow,’ Steve shakes hands with the other man, who gives him a smile and a nod. ‘And you’ve already met Jamie,’ Pierce says, his smile twisting into more of a smirk.

‘Captain,’ Jamie murmurs, throwing him a faintly mocking salute.

Steve can’t help himself: ‘I was a Sergeant, actually,’ he says. He flushes red as soon as he’s closed his mouth, but Pierce just chuckles.

‘I rather like Captain,’ the older man replies. ‘It suits you.’ He still looks genial, but his tone makes it clear that that particular avenue of conversation is closed. He fixes Steve with dark eyes and Steve unconsciously straightens his shoulders, as you would in the presence of a commanding officer.

‘Jamie here has cop sense,’ Pierce begins, head tilted slightly to one side as he considers Steve. His hand in Jamie’s hair moves slightly, as if shaking a dog by the scruff of the neck. Steve risks a glance at the slave, who’s watching him with hooded eyes, his expression unreadable. ‘He’s never been wrong yet. He says you’re not in law enforcement.’

So that’s how they do it. Steve looks at Pierce with what Clint calls his ‘apple pie’ expression, as warm and sweet as any mom’s dessert. He tries to look confused by the question, and a little awkward. ‘I guess that’s...’cause I’m not,’ he replies.

Is that approval, in Jamie’s eyes? Pierce looks amused at his awkwardness - evidently it was the right tack. ‘If you’re lying to me, I’ll have you killed,’ he tells Steve, almost conversationally. ‘Do you understand?’

Steve gulps, dips his head. ‘Yessir.’

‘Good.’ Pierce nods.

Steve knows a dismissal when he hears it. He nods in reply and turns to leave, when -

‘Robins.’ He looks back, and Pierce is smiling again. ‘Jamie also said you’re interested in him.’

‘I...’ Steve knows he’s blushing. He doesn’t dare look at Jamie or Pierce, but he’s saved by the older man:

‘Go on, have a freebie.’ He releases Jamie and the younger man gets gracefully to his feet. ‘From now on, we’ll take anything like this out of your pay, but consider this my way of saying ‘welcome’.’

‘Really?’ Steve does his best to look as if all his Christmases have come at once, as if the thought of forcing someone to do something doesn’t make him feel sick to his stomach.

Pierce chuckles, raises a hand to wave them away, and Jamie puts a hand on Steve’s arm. ‘This way, Captain.’ He’s smirking, and as they leave he throws a glance back at Pierce, blue eyes smouldering.

Steve waits for the door to close behind them:‘I don’t - ’

‘Shut up.’ Jamie’s leading him through corridors again, up a flight of stairs and to a room, which he opens with a keycard.

It’s nice. Not as nice as Pierce’s suite, but the carpet is plush and the bed is huge, and Steve wonders how much a night in this place would cost. The door clicks shut and Jamie’s in front of him, hands on his shoulders and a smirk on his face.

‘I don’t want to - ’ Steve begins, but Jamie shakes his head.

‘They can’t hear us, but they can see us.’ He slides a hand under Steve’s shirt, and it’s been so long since he’s felt another person’s warm touch against his skin that Steve is almost giddy for a moment. ‘They’re watching to make sure you go through with it,’ he says, voice quiet. ‘It’s a test. Pretty much everything here is, OK?’

There’s more light in this room than there has been before, and Jamie looks very young under it, blue eyes big in his angular face. ‘How old are you, anyway?’ Steve asks.

Jamie chuckles. ‘How old do you want me to be?’ he asks, fingers sliding under the waistband of Steve’s jeans.

Steve gasps, reaches  up to wrap his fingers around Jamie’s bony wrist. ‘I’m not sure - ’

‘Fuck you.’ Jamie steps closer until they’re nose-to-nose, close enough to kiss. ‘I’m putting my ass on the line, here. If I say you’re not a cop and then you refuse a freebie, what do you think happens to me?’

Steve hesitates a moment, torn. Trusting Jamie is a risk - but he could have given Steve up before, and didn’t. He could have turned him in as soon as he stepped through the door. He takes a breath, then nods.

It’s like a pact, a promise.

Jamie gives him a jagged smile, and his hand resumes its progress, slipping downwards to brush teasingly against the hem of his boxers.

It should be a turn-off. Jamie’s a slave, has no legal right of consent to give in the first place. Steve’s in a hotel room owned by the most dangerous man in New York, with the one person who knows he’s a cop, and if he doesn’t go through with this, he’ll end up face down in the nearest body of water.

And yet, miraculously, it isn’t. Steve can’t help his gasp at the touch, and flushes in embarrassment when he sees the kid looking at him. ‘It’s...ah...been a while.’

‘Huh.’ Jamie leans in, starts kissing a path down Steve’s neck while undoing his belt and fly one-handed.

‘Huh?’ It’s difficult to think while his jeans are being pulled down. Christ, he’s already getting hard, how is just being touched that erotic?

‘I usually get that line from fifty-year-old businessmen, not guys like you.’ Jamie grins, clever fingers brushing against Steve’s growing erection, and Steve loses any desire to reply when the other man’s hand wraps around his cock.

He moans, fully hard now, and Jamie backs him against the wall. ‘I was thinking blowjob,’ the slave whispers in his ear (even thinking that word makes Steve’s erection wilt a little, but Jamie’s breath against his neck makes his traitor dick twitch). ‘Less messy than a handjob, and I don’t give fucks away.’

His tone is almost clinical, and there’s something cold in his eyes, but then he bends at the waist to lick the head of Steve’s cock, and Steve has to close his eyes before he comes at the very sight. He looks up with a smile when Steve moans again. ‘You like that, huh?’ he asks, but it’s not a question which requires an answer - he sinks to his knees and pulls Steve’s boxers down, pausing for a moment to say: ‘No touching, OK?’ before taking half of Steve’s length in his mouth.

It feels... ‘Fuck,’ Steve says, gasping as wet heat envelopes him. Jamie’s tongue swirls and there’s another thing in his mouth, a piercing or something, which runs along the side of Steve’s cock and then dips into the slit, making him cry out and reach for Jamie’s shoulder. The younger man tenses, and Steve’s about to try and get his thoughts together enough to apologise, but then Jamie continues, one hand coming up to cup Steve balls as the other starts to slowly jack him off.

And then Steve’s lost, because it’s been fucking years since this last happened, and Jamie is so good at it that he wants to scream. The kid’s tongue is moving, the metal in it sliding around the head of his cock and practically fucking the slit, Jamie’s lips keeping up the perfect amount of suction and his hand building Steve up and up until he can’t take it, tightens his hand on Jamie’s shoulder and gasps out: ‘I’m gonna - ’

When he comes it’s like lightning, like a thunderbolt right through him, and he moans helplessly as Jamie keeps sucking him gently, tongue stroking until Steve’s knees buckle, the aftershocks running through him and his spent cock falling from Jamie’s mouth.

He slides to the floor, opens his eyes to find Jamie smirking at him. ‘Never done it with a professional before, huh?’ the kid asks, and Steve can only give a soft moan in reply, his nerve endings still on fire. Jamie chuckles, then gets up - a moment later he’s crouching in front of Steve, a wad of tissue in his hand. ‘Here go you.’

‘T-thanks.’

Steve cleans himself up, dares a glance over at the kid. ‘Sorry,’ he says after a moment, and Jamie looks at him with a slight frown.

‘What for?’

‘I shouldn’t have...’ he’s blushing again. ‘...you know.’ He swallows. ‘In your mouth.’ Jamie blinks at him for a moment, then laughs. ‘What?’ Steve asks, stung by the reaction.

Jamie shakes his head, a strange smile on his face. ‘You are literally the first person to say sorry to me for that.’ He offers Steve a hand up.

Steve doesn’t know what to say to that, just stands and pulls up his trousers - and he’s still blushing, his face hot. ‘Hey,’ he begins, looking up at the other man. ‘You know that I’m - ’

‘I gotta get back to the floor,’ Jamie interrupts him, reaching for the doorknob, but Steve catches his shoulder before he can get to it.

He has a million questions, but only one will come to his dry mouth: ‘Why?’ he asks, releasing Jamie’s shoulder when he realises he can still feel the younger man’s warmth under his hand.

There’s a slight pause where they look at each other, and Steve feels like the kid is trying to look right into the back of his head. Then Jamie gives him a smile that isn’t a smile at all, and leans in to whisper in his ear: ‘Because I fucking hate this place.’

Then he’s gone, and Steve stands there stupidly, watching the door close behind him.

Chapter Text

They all have private names.

He stopped being Bucky when he was sold off by his mother to pay the rent. The one thing she did for him, the one useful thing, was to neglect to put his middle name on the bill of sale. She’d never liked it, anyway - his father had chosen it, and that was reason enough for her to hate it - and to her, he’d always been James.

So no owner ever saw the ‘Buchanan’ in his name, never thought to give him the nickname Bucky, and as a result it was just his, the only thing he owned, a playground name he could hold close to his chest like a jewel and only give away to people who earned it. He’s been Jamie since he first got bought, a name he now answers to as naturally as breathing, but inside he’s still Bucky.

Desiree is Desi to him, a gorgeous fifteen-year-old he adopted as soon as she came through the door. Her father sold them both into slavery to prevent them from starving, and Bucky has to wonder just how ridiculously naive the man must have been. This is her first establishment, and it shows - she’s shy, nervous, totally out of place. They get a young one every so often (Bucky’s twenty-two, but much, much older) and the ones who’ve been around for longer take turns looking after them.

‘How old were you, when…?’ she’d asked him on her first night, and he’d grinned.

‘Never ask that question, doll,’ he told her gently. ‘Nobody likes hearing it, and nobody likes saying it.’

‘Oh.’ She’d looked crestfallen, upset at asking the wrong question, and Jamie had taken her hand.

‘You ever done it before?’ he asked, voice soft, and she’d blushed crimson against her caramel skin, eyes squeezed shut in embarrassment as she shook her head. Bucky nodded. ‘Do they know that?’

A pause, and she’d nodded. It broke Bucky’s heart.

‘Why?’ she asked.

Jamie looked at her for a long moment before deciding he had nothing to lose by telling the truth. ‘If they didn’t know you were a virgin, I’d have found someone for you.’ He shrugs. ‘Someone to make it good.’

A quick glance from dark eyes. ‘Not you?’

He’d grinned. ‘Not me, doll. Women aren’t my forte.’

He’d passed her off to one of the other girls, who gave her some tips, taught her how to use the numbing cream all the women use to make themselves a bit more comfortable.

Now they’re on shift, and it’s been three hours since he saw her last, and he ambles over to the concierge desk with his heart in his throat. He’s hiding a limp from the night before, and it’s a little hard for him to draw breath with the bruise that guest left on his ribs, but he still manages a shit-eating grin. ‘Hey, Cora.’

She’s wearing a slinky dress, holding a StarkPad in her hand. Her eyes flick over to him as he approaches. ‘Jamie.’

Of all the ‘assets’ (Pierce’s preferred term to describe the slaves) in the place, Bucky has the most complicated relationship with the paid staff. He’s the boss’s favourite - as far as they’re concerned, he’s ready to report on them for the smallest mistake. He’s possibly the most experienced person here, which also irritates them: he has a sixth sense for trouble, always knows when someone should be refused entry.

The guards, he doesn’t have a problem with - they’re happy to have another pair of eyes, someone who can warn them of impending trouble. But it’s a concierge’s job to match a guest with an asset, and they hate the fact that Bucky pokes his nose into their business.

So he just gives Cora a sunny grin, leaning over the desk. ‘Where did you put Desiree?’ he asks, and the woman narrows her eyes before consulting the tablet in her hand.

‘Room 405,’ she says after a moment. ‘Two guests were with her - they left a half-hour ago.’

‘Two?’ Bucky asks, frowning. ‘Did you know that this is her first time?’

Cora nods, looking bored, and Bucky wants to pull her hair, slap the expression from her face. ‘They paid,’ she tells him, and Bucky balls his hands into fists.

‘She’s fifteen.’ It comes out flat and hard. Cora just looks at him as if he’s a moron.

‘Like I said,’ she replies, speaking slowly. ‘They paid a lot.’

So she knew. They wanted a first-timer, they wanted someone underage, and they were in luck. ‘Fuck you,’ Bucky pushes himself away from the desk before he does something he’ll regret. ‘It was her first time, Cora! Don’t you have any...’ he strains for a word, ‘...decency? Humanity? The kid’s fucking terrified.’

She doesn’t say anything to that, just looks at him, and Bucky has to turn and walk away before he does something really stupid.

-

Pierce hires cleaners to come in once a week and make sure everything is spotless, but the slaves do everything else. They clean the rooms, do the laundry, cook their own large group meals, and make sure the place runs smoothly before being on shift every weeknight at 6pm, and every Saturday at 12pm.

Bucky cleans and cooks with the rest of them, but he’s also at Pierce’s beck and call. Their owner conducts his business in the bar during the day, and Bucky has to be available at all times, just happening to walk past when Pierce is by himself, or dropping in to charm a business contact when Rumlow needs to distract them. Ideally he appears before he’s even sent for.

The others cover for him, tell him who’s arrived, do his chores so that he can keep Pierce sweet.

This is his fifth place since the age of six. Three years of long shifts followed by nights spent in Pierce’s bed, the threat of violence always around the corner. He never sleeps when he stays in the boss’s room. He’s the last into the dorm every night, and the first up in the morning. He hasn’t slept a full seven-hour stretch since be became the favourite.

He’s worried it’s beginning to show in his temper.

-

‘Captain!’ Bucky greets the newest security guard with a cheerful grin, trying to ignore the shadow that passes over the older man’s face as he sees him. Jake (and somehow it’s almost nice that this cop has a private name as well, Jake Robins obviously can’t be his real one) has been avoiding him studiously for the two weeks since he joined, presumably terrified that Bucky will ‘out’ him to the staff.

‘Oh, uh...’

When you’re a slave, looks are all that matter - by now, Bucky has a connoisseur's eye, and he has to admit that this guy is damn near perfect. He even manages to look adorable when flustered, and Bucky reaches up a hand to stop him from walking away.

‘I need a favour,’ he says softly, steering Jake towards the elevator. ‘Trade you for it.’

Jake frowns. ‘Trade?’

Bucky rolls his eyes. In his lexicon, ‘trade’ only means one thing, and as they wait for the elevator to arrive, his hand slides down from Jake’s shoulder so that he can swipe a finger under the waistband of his pants. ‘Oh,’ Jake says softly. ‘You don’t need to - ’

The elevator opens and they step in. ‘Don’t be naive,’ Bucky tells him. Nothing comes for free.

The set of Jake’s mouth implies that he isn’t happy, but he doesn’t press. ‘What do you need?’ he asks, as Bucky presses the button for level four and the doors slide closed.

‘I’m worried about one of the girls.’ The elevator starts to move. ‘You can open doors - I can’t.’

-

She’s lying on the floor - from her position, Bucky thinks he was trying to reach the bathroom when she passed out.

‘Desiree?’ He drops to his knees beside her and realises Jake’s done the same, is checking her breathing and airways and all that shit. ‘She’s breathing,’ the cop says tightly, and Bucky didn’t realise he’d been holding his own breath until he hears the words.

‘They must have given her something.’ He closes his eyes for a moment, thinking sorry, sorry, sorry to Desi’s prone form, before he lifts her skirt.

Blood. Bruises are already coming up on her thighs, and it looks like the pair of johns took both entrances. He wants to be sick, wants to scream and punch something - but instead he just lowers her skirt carefully, smoothing it down, and looks up at Jake with what he knows must be hollow eyes. ‘We need to get her to the nurse,’ he says, and Jake - bless him - asks no questions, just picks Desiree up in his arms and gets to his feet.

Bucky keeps one hand on her as they walk, twisting one of her tiny braids in his fingers. ‘Jamie,’ the cop asks him after a few minutes of silence, wending their way through utility corridors as they head down to the basement. ‘Are you - ’

‘She’s fifteen. It’s her first time. There were two guys.’ If he says anything more, he’s going to cry - his voice is hoarse. He glances up at Jake, meets his eyes, and wishes he could say it: You better burn this place to the ground. Because maybe his first master was worse, the smiling monster with a penchant for six-year-olds, but he was just one man - this building takes a hundred clients a night, and somehow Bucky views the concierge’s cold complicity as worse than one man’s fantasies.

Jake is silent for the rest of the journey, and they leave Desi on one of the beds in the nurse’s room, a place most of the people here are intimately familiar with. The nurse is a slave herself, older and wearier than the rest of them are, and Bucky knows her expression matches his when she sees what he’s brought for her. He feels numb, drained.

The cop leaves the room during Bucky’s explanation, but he’s waiting outside when Bucky emerges, and allows himself to be drawn into the disabled toilet next door. ‘Jamie, are you OK?’ he asks, reaching up a hand, but Bucky shrugs him off - he doesn’t do sympathy, least of all from people who aren’t slaves.

‘Thanks for helping,’ Bucky says. For a moment he thinks he’s forgotten how to smile, but then he remembers, and offers Jake a lascivious grin. ‘I owe you, remember?’ he tells the older man, but there’s something in Jake’s expression that makes him wonder if his smile is broken.

‘Jamie - ’

‘C’mon,’ he’s warming up now, pushing Desi out of his mind, and he behaves as he would for Pierce, slipping the taunting brattiness on like a coat as he smirks. ‘They won’t take it out of your pay if it’s our secret.’

Our secret, his second master whispers in his mind, and sometimes Bucky thinks he’s going insane.

‘No, really - ’ Jake shakes his head, but Bucky’s never been refused yet.

‘What do you want?’ he asks, soft and low. ‘I could suck you off again,’ he offers, and the older man makes a small noise in the back of his throat. He reaches for Jake’s belt, but then the older man’s hands are on his, stilling them. Bucky looks up in irritation: ‘What do you want?’

There’s a pause, Jake’s blue eyes boring into his, and then the cop finally says: ‘Your name.’

‘What?’

‘Your last name.’

Bucky frowns at him, pulls his hands out of Jake’s grip. ‘Why?’

Jake shrugs. ‘I don’t want - that.’ He’s blushing. ‘I’d like to know more about you.’

This is dangerous. Bucky can feel it, the same way he always knows when a fight’s going to break out. But he can’t see any way out of it, so he looks away. ‘Barnes,’ he murmurs, and walks out the door before he can give any more of himself away.

-

There are slaves of all ages from 15 to 40, of all races - ‘Something for everyone,’ as Rumlow likes to say - and none of them last more than four years before Pierce ‘refreshes the workforce’ by replacing them.

Three years and counting. Bucky knows he’s living on borrowed time.

-

That night, Pierce fucks him so hard he thinks he’s ruptured something, presses a knife against the back of his neck as Bucky sucks him off, and pulls on his collar until he passes out.

Still smelling of his master’s bed, he breaks into the medical room and pushes one of the other beds up against Desi’s. He crawls in next to her, the way Reggie did for him all those years ago, and takes one of her hands in his.

When she wakes up in the morning, she rolls over, buries her face in his shoulder, and cries.

Chapter Text

‘I know how they do it.’

‘Oh?’ Coulson sounds cool and disinterested on the phone, but Steve knows him too well - he only sounds that bored when he’s really, really listening.

‘There’s a - slave,’ it’s still hard to say the word, and he’s glad he’s not in front of his boss right now - he’s already blushing. ‘His name’s Jamie. Pierce said he has ‘cop sense’.’

There’s a slight pause - Steve can almost hear the gears turning in Coulson’s head. ‘So he doesn’t know what you are?’

‘No, he does - that’s the thing.’ Steve bites his lip. ‘He warned me. Told me what to do, and then lied to Pierce and said I’m not in law enforcement. He’s outed five guys, but decides he’s going to help me. I don’t get it.’

‘Maybe he’s been playing the long game,’ Coulson replies thoughtfully. ‘If he sacrifices enough people, he can establish himself as trustworthy - then he can let someone through without Pierce suspecting, and the place gets shut down.’ It makes sense. ‘What did you say his name was?’

‘Jamie.’ Steve closes his eyes for a moment. ‘Barnes.’

He hears the soft scrape of pencil on paper as Coulson notes the name. ‘I’ll do some digging, see what I can find on him. Just...be careful, OK?’

‘You don’t need to tell me twice.’

Perhaps he sounds a bit too vehement, because Coulson chuckles before terminating the call.

-

It isn’t the most thrilling job. Walk the building, break up any fights, stop the guests from damaging any ‘assets’ when they’re out on the floor (in the hotel rooms, the guests can do what they like, but they’re expected to behave in public).

Pierce seems to have taken a liking to him. Maybe it’s the ex-military thing, the way Steve behaves towards him with as much deference as if he were a commander. Maybe his clear admiration of attractive men means he likes even his security team to be good-looking. Or maybe, Steve wonders, it’s Jamie’s doing.

Certainly the kid seems to be everywhere. He knows the names of all the bar staff and cleaners, and the other security guards seem to hold him in esteem. He’s in and out of Pierce’s office and - as Steve discovered on more than one night shift - his bedroom, all the time. It would be easy for him to influence the other man into picking Steve to be his personal guard, and he has to wonder if it’s the case.

Whatever the cause, it’s certainly useful. Pierce and Rumlow become more loose-tongued around him every day, and he knows he’s fading into the background, as a good guard should. He doesn’t dare a wire, that would be suicide, but he knows he’s close to overhearing things, close to being able to take a crucial piece of paper or scan something to a flash drive.

That is, when he can tear his eyes away from Jamie.

-

He rounds a corner one day and finds Pierce fucking Jamie hard up against the wall. The older man has his eyes closed and is pulling on Jamie’s hair painfully, yanking his head back as he thrusts - but Jamie’s eyes are open, and his gaze locks onto Steve as he backs away, those eyes following him as he creeps around the corner, praying that Pierce never knew he was there.

Later, he’s out on the floor when a girl approaches him. She’s absolutely, stunningly beautiful, and it takes him a moment to realise who she is: the girl he and Jamie found the other day on the floor of room 405. ‘Hey,’ he greets her, and she returns his smile with a shy one of her own. ‘How are you doing?’

‘All better, thanks,’ she tells him, and as soon as her smile broadens, he recognises it. It’s Jamie’s smile, sleek and confident, and he knows she’s been practising it in front of a mirror all day. It doesn’t look quite right on her face. ‘Jamie said you helped him carry me.’

‘It’s no trouble,’ Steve tells her. ‘You have any more trouble, just come and find me.’ He wishes he could say everything he wants to - wishes he could put her in a taxi straight to Coulson, ask SHIELD to take care of her, but that isn’t possible. So instead he just watches her give a small shrug.

‘Thanks,’ she replies, clearly not believing him, and then she melts into the crowd.

He feels a touch at his elbow and it’s Jamie, of course it’s Jamie: ‘Hey, Captain.’

‘Hey.’

‘Sorry you had to get an eyeful, back there,’ Jamie says, and he’s grinning impudently when Steve looks over at him. ‘What can I say? I’m so fucking hot that sometimes we don’t even make it to the bedroom.’

Steve laughs at that, trying to ignore the blush he can feel rising to his cheeks. ‘Modest, too.’

‘I just tell the truth.’

‘Is that what they call it?’

‘Jerk.’ Jamie shoots him a sidelong smirk, and Steve just keeps on chuckling, shakes his head. There’s something about his eyes that Steve can’t quite work out - he leans closer, sees the telltale glassiness, and frowns.

‘Are you high?’

‘Yeah,’ the kid says, as if it’s obvious, as if Steve is a moron for even asking.

‘What on?’

A shrug. ‘I dunno,’ he’s beginning to frown. ‘We all take it. Keeps us...’ He moves his hand, palm down, in a straight line through the air. ‘...even.’ His eyes flick up to Steve’s face, to his frowning mouth, and Jamie scowls. ‘What?’

‘I...’

‘You would, too,’ Jamie’s fierce now, a hard twist to his mouth, voice low and angry. ‘You’d take it, too. Fuck you, Jake.’

He walks off. Steve can’t follow him without raising suspicion, so he doesn’t.

-

Two months in, a new cleaner starts in the hotel. Steve’s on duty when the woman arrives, middle-aged and clearly a little nervous. He smiles at her, takes her up to Pierce’s office.

Jamie’s sitting on the floor, as ever. His gaze flicks over the woman and, without any intonation, he says: ‘Cop.’

Rumlow doesn’t even look at Pierce for confirmation - he jumps straight to his feet and has the woman by the shoulders before she’s even worked out what’s going on. ‘Are you?’ he grabs her hair, neatly twisted into a bun, and yanks her head back. When she tries to stammer out a denial he hits her, an open-handed slap which forces her neck to twist to the right. She lets out a cry of pain.

‘Are. You. A. Cop?’ Rumlow asks, each word punctuated by a tug on her hair. ‘Hold her,’ he says to Steve, and the words break the strange paralysis he’d been stuck in. Reluctantly he reaches for the woman, pinning her arms to her sides while Rumlow searches her roughly. He looks over the woman’s head at Jamie, who’s keeping his eyes firmly on the floor, his face perfectly blank.

Rumlow makes an interested noise and pulls a phone from an inner pocket of her shirt. It’s a plain, cheap model, and Steve’s heart sinks when he realises what it is: a burner phone.

Just like the one in his own locker.

Rumlow flips it open. There’s only one number programmed - a dead giveaway - and he presses the ‘call’ button, bringing the phone to his ear and smiling at the woman, whose breath is coming in tight, panicked gasps.

Someone obviously answers the phone, because Rumlow says: ‘Big mistake, sending someone to us,’ and then hangs up, tossing the phone onto the floor and crushing it beneath the heel of his boot.

After that, Steve’s job is to hold her while Rumlow beats her up. He forces himself to show no emotion, and only after he’s tossed the woman’s battered, bloody body into a dumpster does he throw up, well out of sight of Rumlow.

-

It is getting worse. He can’t leave the house without locking the door twelve times. He spends twenty minutes washing his face in the morning, fingers dry and cracked from all the soap and water. Sometimes at work he has to stop and do whatever it is he needs to do, feet rooted to the spot.

-

It takes him a little while to come to the serious conclusion that the kid has a deathwish, but once he has, he can’t shake the feeling.

It starts one night in Pierce’s office, when Rumlow makes some remark about ‘Dumb fucking slaves,’ and Jamie looks up from his position at Pierce’s feet.

‘I don’t seem to remember you complaining about any fucking,’ he remarks, a smirk on his lips. It’s flirtatious, casual, but there’s a hint of steel underneath it. Pierce notices and reaches for him, lightning-quick, gripping his wrist tightly. Jamie’s blue eyes snap to the older man’s face, but his expression doesn’t change.

‘Always did have an attitude problem,’ Pierce tells Steve, eyes on Jamie as he gives a thin smile. ‘Been with us three years now, and he’s still got a smart mouth.’

The hand on Jamie’s wrist is white-knuckled, it has to be hurting him, but the kid just gives an easy grin. ‘Thought you liked my mouth, sir?’

Pierce’s other hand comes up and twists sharply in the dark hair. Jamie doesn’t even flinch as his head is pulled closer to his master’s, and Steve shares a quick glance with Rumlow - the other man looks as uncertain as he feels. They watch for a tense moment as Jamie meets Pierce’s gaze, showing none of the discomfort he has to be feeling. Pierce is wearing an indulgent smile, but the ice in his voice belies his expression when he says: ‘If you’re not careful, Jamie, I’ll cut your tongue out.’

Jamie just smiles, a reckless gambler’s smile. ‘Aw, come on, sir...’ His voice is a low and husky drawl, for all the world as if they were flirting. It’s pitched for Pierce’s ears, Steve almost feels guilty for listening. Jamie’s eyes are fixed on the older man’s, the smirk on his face and low tone of his voice making the moment somehow...intimate. As if this is an exchange between two lovers, one he shouldn’t be eavesdropping on.

Jamie’s silky smooth, licking his lips with a deliberately provocative expression. ‘...and take away the best part of me?’ he asks Pierce softly, and Steve isn’t sure whether or not Jamie intended to deliberately position his head so that the light catches a glint of silver on his tongue, but the sight brings back such strong memories of the incident in the hotel room that he can feel the blood rushing to his cheeks.

There’s another pause, but Jamie holds his nerve - and sure enough, Pierce cracks into a smile. He chuckles, shaking Jamie by the hair before pushing him roughly away. ‘Get out of here,’ he says lazily. ‘Make sure you’re back here at eleven. I’m going to have to teach you a lesson.’

One hand on the door, Jamie turns with a smirk. ‘Promises, promises,’ he replies, and then he’s gone.

-

After that, Steve sees it all the time. Jamie steps into fights and manages to diffuse them. He pisses off Rumlow and Pierce to the point where it’s like he wants to get beaten up, and more than once Steve catches him taking a guest meant for one of the other slaves.

‘You don’t want to send Jensen,’ he’ll say to the concierge (or Maria, or Desiree, or Corey, and now Steve thinks of it, it’s always the young ones that Jamie seems to be deflecting from). ‘This guy needs someone more experienced.’

-

‘Sick bay?’ Steve asks, standing in the doorway and looking down at the kid lying on the bed. ‘Again?

Jamie is very still, obviously trying not to hurt himself by moving. ‘What can I say?’ he asks. ‘I like the scenery.’

The room is empty but for the two of them - the nurse has disappeared for lunch, and given Steve strict instructions not to let Jamie out of his sight while she’s gone. Steve sighs. ‘At least he hasn’t cut your tongue out, yet.’

‘Oh, you heard that one, huh?’ Jamie gives a tiny shrug. ‘He’d never actually do it. A finger, maybe, but I wasn’t lying - he really does like my tongue too much to get rid of it.’ His smile is lascivious, and Steve rolls his eyes. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ the kid asks, turning his head a fraction so he can see Steve more easily. ‘Don’t worry, you can tell the boss I’ll be back on my feet by this evening.’

Steve can’t help it - he gives a short bark of laughter. ‘As if,’ he replies. ‘You look like death warmed up.’

‘Abby’ll give me some pain meds, and I’ll be fine.’

‘Yeah, right.’ Steve steps into the room and sits down on the nurse’s chair, so that his head is level with Jamie’s. He has to trace the edges of the armrests with his fingertips six times, but he doesn’t think Jamie notices. ‘You need to stay here, man.’

Jamie gives a thin smile. ‘How long have you been here, Captain?’

‘Two months.’

‘And you still don’t get it, do you?’ He stretches out his left leg and gives a slight hiss of discomfort. ‘I’m on duty twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. That’s what being the favourite means. And if I want to keep being the favourite, I have to keep working.’

Steve frowns. ‘Why be the favourite, then?’ As far as he can tell, it doesn’t bring Jamie any joy. He gets the run of the place, and more freedom to talk back than the rest, but Steve has the feeling that Jamie would do that anyway, status or not. ‘If it’s so much work?’

Jamie settles back, closes his eyes. ‘I’ve been in this game since I was six,’ he remarks, saying the words as if they’re nothing more than a quip. Steve freezes, something cold beginning to gather in the pit of his stomach as the slave continues: ‘When I was ten, this guy bought me, and I heard him say once that he had slaves because it stopped him from touching real children.’ His voice is calm, but his hands are clenched fists. ‘And you know what? I got it. I got that we’re here to take it so that other people don’t have to.’

‘Jamie - ’

‘The boss likes ‘em young. I saw the kid who was the favourite before me, and you know what he looked like?’ Jamie opens his eyes again, turns his head to meet Steve’s gaze. ‘It was eating him up. He killed himself six months after I got here. The boss is a demanding guy.’ He looks away. ‘That kid couldn’t handle it. But I knew I could.’

Steve doesn’t know he’s been biting his lip until he tastes blood. ‘So you - you set out to be the favourite...what? So nobody else has to?’

The slave gives a tired nod. ‘Got it in one, Captain,’ he replies quietly, then turns with a grunt of pain, rolling over onto his side, and pulls his t-shirt up until half is back is exposed. The skin is covered in fresh welts, deep bruised belt-marks, which look raw and painful. Steve stifles a gasp at the sight, and Jamie throws a look over his shoulder. ‘This was after the little incident the other day,’ he says. ‘And then last night I had a guest who - it turns out - really gets off on this shit. So at least it was good for something.’

The casual humour in his tone is almost too much for Steve, who’s struck dumb for a moment. Then he gets to his feet, roots through a nearby cabinet until he’s found what he’s looking for - and sits down on the side of Jamie’s bed with a bottle of antiseptic and some cotton in his hands, while the kid gapes at him.

‘Can I?’ he asks, and Jamie gives a wordless, wary nod.

Steve gets to work, gently wiping each wound with the antiseptic. He finishes the lower back and then Jamie shifts, moving onto his front and pulling his shirt up to his shoulders so Steve can do the rest. His face is buried in a pillow to hide any expressions of pain, the muscles in his arms tense, and eventually Steve moves back, suddenly embarrassed by the silence between them.

Jamie pulls himself up onto his elbows, rubbing his face with one hand, and yanks the t-shirt down to cover himself. ‘Thanks.’ His voice is hoarse. ‘Do you, uh - I could - ’

‘No.’ Steve knows what he’s offering, and shakes his head. Don’t be naive, the kid said to him a few weeks ago, but he can’t bring himself to accept any kind of payment for this. ‘This one’s a freebie,’ he says after a moment, and Jamie has a look on his face that he just can’t decipher.

He has to wash his hands that evening until the skin between his fingers starts to peel and bleed, but it’s worth it.

-

Later that night he sees Jamie out in the bar, pupils blown from the pain medication, but still with that alluring smile, the half-turn of the head which manages to engage Pierce from across the room. He walks with a swagger, flirts with the guests, and spends the evening draped over his owner like a scarf as Pierce conducts business deals: the perfect slave.

Steve feels sick.

Chapter Text

Three months, and the cop hasn’t made any moves.

Its really beginning to get on Bucky’s nerves, actually. He didn’t let the guy in here so that he could just do nothing, be a security guard like all the others - but of course he can’t talk about it, can’t ask what ‘Jake Robins’ wants, and as a result, he can’t do anything to help.

The guy’s obviously waiting for something - something specific. He’s here for a reason, and sometimes Bucky worries that the reason has nothing to do with closing this place down or putting Pierce away. He worries that he did this for nothing. Maybe he should have just outed Jake like he had all the others, fixed him with blue eyes and said ‘cop’ as soon as the other man walked through the door.

But then the guy looks at him sometimes in a way nobody’s ever looked at him before, and Bucky feels something constrict in his chest. He knows that he made the right decision. He wouldn’t be able to watch them take him away.

When his chance to help does come, he almost misses it.

-

They’re in the boss’s room, Jake standing in the doorway to prevent interruptions. Pierce and Rumlow are talking about a ‘package’ (read: ‘person’. Bucky has never been very impressed by their code words) that is currently en route to a safe place, and Bucky sees something change in the way the cop is standing. It’s just a little thing, a slight tensing of the shoulders, but Bucky sees it and realises that this is it, this is the thing Jake has been waiting for.

Someone knocks at the door, and Jake opens it for one of Pierce’s guys, a nervous-looking man who clears his throat and stands by the door as if he’d much rather be somewhere else.

‘Well?’ Pierce asks, and the guy takes a breath.

‘Our - friend - ’ Bucky wants to roll his eyes at this attempt at secrecy, but manages to stop himself. ‘ - has requested someone to keep him company.’ The guy looks at the floor. ‘A boy.’

Pierce laughs. ‘What do you know?’ he asks Rumlow. ‘I didn’t think he swung that way.’ He turns back to the man in front of him. ‘Tell him we’ll send someone over.’

The guy disappears, and Bucky can feel Pierce’s eyes on him - he looks up, one eyebrow raised.

‘Any suggestions?’ Pierce is smiling, and Bucky knows exactly what’s coming.

‘What for?’ Bucky asks, smiling his sleek smile and putting on just that hint of rebellious teenager that he knows Pierce really likes.

‘Looking after a high-profile client.’

‘Well,’ Bucky’s on the floor, as ever, and he runs a finger lightly up Pierce’s leg. ‘You know I’m the guy for that.’

‘Exactly what I was hoping you’d say.’

Some people think that being the favourite means exclusivity. Bucky knows better: with Pierce, it means being the one who’s trusted to do the difficult jobs.

He’s done this before. Pierce needs someone buttered up, he sends in Bucky - or, if their inclinations lie another way, one of the girls Bucky has hand-picked. The catch is that it usually happens on-site; this job obviously means going somewhere else, and that makes him wary.

‘I’ll go and freshen up,’ he says, studiously avoiding Jake’s gaze as he leaves the room.

-

He showers, pulls on some jeans and a blue jersey which matches his eyes, and shoves a change of clothes into his satchel. Condoms, lube, a few extras just in case, and then he locks himself in the bathroom to slick himself up. It’s almost a soothing ritual by now, something he’s been doing every night for what seems like his whole life.

He makes sure to be thorough - most guys aren’t interested in undertaking any preparation, so it’s up to him to make his own life easier.

Back in the dorm, Bucky hesitates for a moment over the bag of pills in his pants pocket, and regretfully replaces it in his drawer. On a normal night in the Milestone he’d take one, no question, feel the gentle buzz smoothing away the edges of whatever he had to do, but he wants his wits about him when it comes to a new client.

‘Jamie.’

He whips around, surprised to see Jake standing behind him, panic writ large on his handsome face. ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ Bucky asks, voice a low whisper.

Jake pulls out his cellphone, presses it into Bucky’s hand. ‘There’s one number on this,’ he says urgently. ‘Ring it, and my team can track where you are.’

For a moment, all Bucky can do is gape at him. This is suicide, it’s ridiculous - but isn’t this what he wants? He bites his lip and looks down at the phone for a second, before stuffing it into the bottom of his bag. He doesn’t reply, just gives a tight nod, and flinches slightly when Jake pats him awkwardly on the shoulder.

-

Brock Rumlow, as far as Bucky can tell, doesn’t like slaves. Certainly, he does everything he can to avoid looking at or touching Bucky, and even when he has a freebie with one of the girls, they say he’s disinterested, gets off and then leaves. Something about them turns him off.

Still, none of them have reported any mistreatment, and that’s enough to make Bucky respect him. He also never lies. So on the way over, Bucky in the passenger seat and Rumlow at the wheel, he ventures: ‘Do you know this guy?’

‘Zola? Met him a few times. Why?’

‘Anything to help smooth things along,’ Bucky tells him. ‘Think he wants me on my knees from the get-go, or does he want a chase?’

Rumlow sighs, casts Bucky a glance full of disgust. ‘Fucking hell, Jamie. Why even bother asking me that?’

He can’t help his smile, and even allows himself a chuckle. ‘Just messing with you, sir,’ he says. Rumlow gives a thin smile and they drive on in silence, finally stopping outside a huge apartment building.

Bucky tries to remember the last time he was outside like this, not in a garden or on a roof. It’s nice, for all of the thirty seconds it takes them to reach the door, and then they’re in an elevator and he watches the sky disappear from view. They go to the 14th floor, and Rumlow opens the door of one of the apartments, shouting ‘It’s Rumlow!’ as they go inside.

It’s pitch black - as the door closes behind them Bucky feels blind. All the curtains are closed, no lights on, and as his eyes adjust to the gloom, he realises it’s also very small indeed.

‘Who is this?’ a voice asks from the corner, and Bucky turns, dropping down to his knees as he strains to see the person speaking.

‘I’m Jamie, sir,’ he replies softly.

‘We heard you wanted some company,’ Rumlow says, and Jamie thinks he can see the man nod in the darkness, the dim light reflecting dully from his glasses.

‘Thank you, Rumlow.’ The man has an accent Bucky can’t place, rolling the ‘r’ in the back of his throat. ‘You can go.’

Rumlow spreads his arms slightly. ‘Afraid I’m here for the duration,’ he says, sounding about as thrilled as Bucky feels. ‘Protection.’

Interesting. They’d never send Rumlow for something as lowly as protection, he’s way above that. He’s here because Pierce doesn’t trust this guy, wants someone keeping an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t run. The same thought has obviously occurred to Zola, who lets out a dissatisfied sigh.

He doesn’t argue, though. ‘Fine,’ he says, then gets to his feet and shuffles over to Bucky, squinting down at him. ‘You. The bedroom is - over there...’ he waves a small, pudgy hand towards the right. ‘...let us go.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Bucky leaves the room, back straight and deliberately not looking at Rumlow, who must be cursing his bad luck.

Good, he thinks. Let him listen.

The phone is burning a hole in his bag, but there’s nothing he can do about it - he just leads the way to the room and (since he wasn’t told to get up last time) sinks back down to his knees. A switch flicks and a side-light is turned on - Bucky fixes his gaze on the floor in front of himself as Zola walks a circle around him, eventually coming back to stand in front.

‘I’ve been in prison,’ the older man remarks.

‘Sir,’ Bucky murmurs softly in acknowledgement after a slight pause, because some people get upset if they think they aren't being listened to.

‘This means it has been some time,’ Zola tells him, mouth clearly uncomfortable with the English words. Bucky almost smiles - the last person who said that to him was Jake - but he keeps his eyes on the floor, looking down at Zola’s shoes. ‘I have many things I would like to do,’ the man continues, then leans down to speak into Bucky’s ear. ‘I think we will become great friends.’

-

‘Prepare yourself,’ Zola says. ‘I want to watch.’

Bucky’s naked, still kneeling on the floor. His throat is raw from Zola’s cock, and when he swallows he can taste blood. He reaches for the lube, slicks up his fingers.

One. He breathes slowly. This isn’t the worst he’s had, not yet, but the man’s rough treatment so far makes him nervous - the ones that want his pain are always the worst. Two fingers, three, and it’s almost like meditation, he knows this, he can do it. Easiest thing in the world.

‘On the bed,’ comes the command, and Bucky obeys instantly, kneeling on the sheets and letting Zola push him until he’s up against the wall, face pressed against the dirty paint. He spreads his legs, relaxes, and when Zola enters him it’s fine, it’s the usual. Hands grip his hips hard enough to bruise, and Zola starts to bite his neck - a sharp sting and then a trickle of blood. Bucky gives a small gasp, experimenting to see if that’s what the older man wants - and it turns out it is, because his noise of discomfort makes Zola moan, and when he bites again Bucky’s sure to give a hiss of pain.

Then Zola pulls a knife from his abandoned clothing, and Bucky thanks a god he doesn’t believe in that he didn’t give this job to one of the others.

-

Bucky learned a long time ago that he can switch himself off. It was a skill he developed pretty quickly, shutting part of himself away so that he can go through the motions, keep his eyes open and a smile on his face but not be present - not entirely.

He does it every time something like this happens, dives into a lake of ice and freezes some of his soul.

Sometimes he worries that if he does it one more time, he’ll be frozen forever.

-

Eventually, Zola falls asleep. Bucky crawls out of the room, pulling his jeans and satchel with him, and makes it to the bathroom before his knees give way. He vomits into the toilet and is relieved not to see any blood, pulls his jeans on and reaches into his bag to get the phone.

His hands are shaking as he presses a button. He’s never had a phone, isn’t familiar with the way this one works - but then he finds the number Jake talked about, and presses a green button. He can hear the dial tone, and reaches frantically for the volume on the side, turning it down before Rumlow can catch on.

He doesn’t dare say anything, just leaves it on and stows it as carefully as he can underneath the U-bend of the toilet. Then he crawls out of the bathroom (why aren’t his legs working properly?) and into the living room.

‘Fuck,’ Rumlow curses softly, and Bucky feels warm hands pick him up underneath the arms, hauling him onto the couch. ‘You OK, kid?’ the other man asks gruffly, and Bucky thinks for a moment before deciding not to answer that.

‘How long?’ he asks, the words painful in his throat.

‘Five hours,’ Rumlow tells him. Bucky nods wearily, head falling back. He jumps when he feels the other man move, but then feels a coat being placed over his chest. I think we’re past the point of modesty, don’t you? he wants to say, but his mouth won’t work properly. He hears a bottle-cap unscrewed, feels the rim placed to his lips, and takes a deep swallow of what he’s relieved to discover is whiskey.

He grabs the bottle, upends it, and he knows he must look like hell because Rumlow doesn’t move to stop him, lets him drink the whole thing.

‘Fuck,’ he echoes softly, hands dropping to his sides. Everything goes soft and quiet for a while, he must have gone to sleep - then he wakes up because he can’t breathe properly, and makes a small noise of confusion.

The couch shifts, and Bucky opens his eyes to see Rumlow closer, peering at him with a face full of concern.

‘You’ve got a nosebleed,’ he says, and Bucky raises his hand to discover that Rumlow’s telling the truth - his fingers come away dark and wet, and he can hear the other man in the bathroom, rattling in the cupboards to find something to stop the blood.

The bathroom. Shit. Bucky closes his eyes, presses his hand to his nose to help staunch the flow of red liquid, and tries to work out if he can make it to the door in the time it would take to...

‘Hey, what - ?’

Bucky’s heart stops for a second at the sound of Rumlow’s voice, and when he opens his eyes the other man is standing in front of him, Jake’s cellphone in his hand.

‘What the fuck?’ Bucky asks, and he’s the best liar around, he can do this - but as soon as Rumlow opens his mouth to reply, the window shatters.

He throws himself to the floor as glass rains down, curling up into the smallest ball he can make of himself. Then the one in the kitchen goes, and Bucky can hear the muffled crash of the bedroom window, as well. People are shouting, Rumlow’s being thrown to the floor next to him, and when Bucky dares a look up, Jake Robins is standing above him.

He lets the darkness take him, and slips into unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

Jamie looks very small in the hospital bed. Steve doesn’t know how long he’s been watching him through the window. The nurses have cleaned away most of the blood from his face and neck, revealing plenty of bites and bruises, and the dark patches make his skin shine very pale - too pale.

‘How is he?’ Coulson asks, standing at Steve’s elbow, and Steve wonders for the hundredth time why his boss has never gone into stealth operations - the man can sneak up better than anyone he’s ever met.

‘Just out of surgery,’ Steve replies, and his voice sounds strange to his own ears. Tight and hoarse. ‘He was damaged...inside. Broken nose, broken collarbone, a few broken ribs. And fingers.’ And plenty of cuts, a few old scars, and badly-healed breaks.

‘All from Zola?’

Steve shakes his head. ‘Probably not. He has a habit of taking on the most dangerous guests.’ Is that affection he can hear in his tone? The thought makes his stomach clench, and he turns to Coulson, his throat threatening to constrict: ‘I should never have let him go.’

Coulson is as impassive as ever, one eyebrow slightly raised. ‘Could you have stopped it?’

‘I guess not.’ His nails bite into his palms. ‘Not without breaking my cover.’

Coulson nods. ‘And you gave him the phone. Without that, he’d still be there.’

Steve had run to SHIELD HQ as soon as his shift had finished, gathered the team and waited for Jamie to call. When he’d told them what he’d done, Natasha had looked at him like he was insane: ‘You trust him not to give the phone straight to Rumlow?’ She’d asked, incredulous, and when the call had come in, Steve hadn’t been able to quell the rush of pride which had run through his chest. Pride in Jamie.

‘I’m going to buy him,’ Steve says, the words taking him by surprise - he hadn’t meant to say them, but now they are out there, he knows they’re true.

There’s a long pause, and Coulson breaks the silence: ‘I think that’s a very generous thing to do.’

He glances over at the older man. ‘Aren’t you afraid I’ll...’ he trails off, waves a hand to indicate Jamie’s many injuries. Coulson gives him the barest hint of a smile.

‘Steve, I can’t think of anyone less likely to harm him than you.’

Steve can feel himself flushing. ‘Thank you, sir.’

‘What do you plan to do?’ Coulson asks, and Steve realises he has given this no thought at all, doesn’t have any idea what to do with a slave.

‘I...’ he stammers, but Coulson turns to look at him, expression gentle.

‘You could think about giving him an education,’ he says mildly. ‘Make sure he can stand on his own two feet. Then think about freeing him.’ Steve nods, watches as Coulson turns back to look at the young man in the hospital bed. ‘When he’s settled in, you might bring him to SHIELD,’ Coulson tells him, and the suggestion makes Steve blink. ‘He has potential, don’t you think?’

‘I didn’t...’

Coulson’s expression remains implacable: ‘He spotted every cop who was sent into that place. He helped our investigation. And I’ve read his file. If you come through what he has and you’re still willing to ‘take on dangerous guests’? You’re the kind of person we need.’

‘You’ve read his file?’

‘Of course.’ Coulson smiles thinly and reaches into his bag, pulls out a thick manilla folder and a sheaf of papers. ‘As soon as you told us his name, we found out as much as we could.’ He holds it out to Steve, who, reluctantly, takes it.

He traces the edge of the file with his fingertips, then notices the neatly stapled document sitting atop it. ‘This is a bill of sale,’ he says stupidly.

‘Is it?’ Coulson looks like butter wouldn’t melt.

Steve’s name is there, and Jamie’s as well. All he has to do is sign it, and the purchase is official. It’s all made out, Steve’s bank details included, as if he’d already asked for it. He looks over at Coulson, eyes narrowed.

His handler just smiles. ‘I had the feeling you might want to help him out,’ the older man tells him. ‘So I thought I’d make the process easier.’

‘Coulson - ’

‘He deserves this.’ Coulson is suddenly intent in a way Steve has never seen before. ‘I know you’ll give him a chance, and he deserves that. One chance is all it takes,’ he says, and then he holds up his right hand, palm towards Steve, pulls down the sleeve. There’s an old scar on his wrist, a wide, neat burn scar, and Steve realises that it’s over the exact spot where a slave’s barcode would be. ‘I know you’ll do the right thing,’ Coulson says, quietly.

Steve is, quite honestly, struck dumb.

There’s another pause, and Coulson checks his watch. ‘I should go,’ he says, zipping up his bag and turning to Steve. ‘Well done on this, Agent Rogers,’ his smile is warmer now. ‘You’re on leave until further notice. The psychs will want to debrief you after three months of cover.’

Steve sighs, but he can’t escape the truth. ‘Thank you, sir.’

Coulson just smiles, and walks away.

-

He sits by Jamie’s bed all day, the file in his lap. He worries at the edge of the cardboard folder, twisting it in his fingertips, but he can’t quite bring himself to open it. It feels like a betrayal of trust, as if he’d be finding out secrets without asking. Eventually, he puts it at the foot of Jamie’s bed, and allows the nurse to usher him out when visiting hours are over.

He looks around his apartment, remembers Coulson’s words, tries to imagine Jamie living there.

The next day, Jamie’s sitting up, the file in his hands. He looks up briefly when Steve enters, and without a word of greeting asks: ‘Did you read it?’

His voice is tight, tense. It sounds raw, as if it’s painful to speak. Steve shakes his head. ‘No.’

‘It’s got a lot of stuff on me,’ Jamie remarks, leafing through loose papers. ‘I guess this was why you wanted my last name, huh. So they could look me up.’

‘Jamie - ’

‘Hey, look,’ Jamie pulls out a photo. It’s a child - naked, scared, standing in front of a much larger naked man. The child can’t be more than seven or eight, and he has Jamie’s blue, blue eyes. Steve recoils. ‘This is me with owner number one,’ the kid continues, looking thoughtfully at the picture. ‘Let’s play a game, Jamie. He liked to take photos.’

‘Jamie - ’ the kid sounds so brittle he might break. Steve reaches over and takes the photo from his hand, stuffs it into the file. ‘Are you OK?’

That question gets him a short laugh, quickly followed by a hiss of pain. ‘As well as can be expected,’ Jamie says, still looking through the file. ‘Kinda feels like I’m floating. I dunno what they got me on, but it must be the good stuff.’

‘Have the doctors said anything?’

‘No.’ Then something seems to dawn on him, and he looks up at Steve with wide, panicked eyes. ‘Fuck. Did you guys just bring me here without asking Pierce? Does he know where I am?’

Steve gives a grim smile. ‘Pierce is already in custody. His estate’s being divided up.’ If someone was taken in and they had nobody willing or able to look after their slaves, sales started after 48 hours.

‘Then who’s paying?’ Jamie asks, and Steve hesitates. He doesn’t even know how to have this conversation. Eventually he reaches over to the side table where Jamie’s bill of sale rests, unnoticed, and hands it to him.

‘I am,’ Steve says gently.

There’s a very long pause while Jamie stares at the paper, then at him, a slow frown beginning to cross his face. ‘You bought me.’ Steve nods. Jamie regards him for another moment, and Steve can practically see the cogs whirring in his head. Then the kid’s mouth twists into a small smirk. ‘You liked that freebie, then, Steven Rogers?’

‘No.’ The word comes out more forcefully than he meant it to, but Steve doesn’t care. Jamie actually flinches back, though, the frown returning. ‘I didn’t buy you for that.’

Jamie raises an eyebrow. ‘Then what did you buy me for?’

Steve shrugs, then remembers what he said to Coulson: ‘To give you a chance, I guess.’ It’s amazing to see the play of expressions over Jamie’s face, usually so guarded. He looks like he doesn’t know what to do - or what to believe. ‘I thought you could go to school,’ Steve offers, feeling suddenly helpless. ‘Get a job, if you want. Then you could buy your freedom.’

The kid sits back against his pillows, regarding Steve for a long moment. Then Jamie holds up the folder, his face suddenly had and unreadable. ‘No,’ he says. ‘Not me.’

Steve frowns. ‘What do you mean?’

‘It should be someone else. Desiree - you should take Desiree. Not me.’

This is not how Steve imagined this conversation going. ‘Why?’

Jamie tips the folder and papers spill out over the bedclothes. Forms, reports and photographs. He picks one up. ‘This is me at eight.’ It’s a pornographic image. Steve blanches, but Jamie’s already rooting through the others. ‘Twelve,’ he says, holding up another. ‘Thirteen, fifteen - ’ more pictures, and finally he shoves one into Steve’s hands, saying: ‘Ten.’

It’s the same child from the other images, the one with Jamie’s eyes. He’s on his knees, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and looking directly into the camera. But it’s no come-hither gaze - it’s accusatory, defiant. I see you looking at me, the child seems to be saying, and I hate you for it. Steve stares at the picture for a moment, then looks back at Jamie. ‘So what?’ he manages, although his voice sounds oddly constricted, and Jamie makes a frustrated noise.

‘I’ve been a slave since I was six,’ Jamie hisses. ‘I’ve been through everything you can imagine, OK?’ He swallows hard, voice even rougher than it was a few moments ago. ‘It’s not fair. Someone like Desiree, they could make a clean break. But me?’ he shrugs. ‘I’m fucking broken, sir. There’s no point.’

There’s a moment of silence. Jamie’s breathing hard, staring fiercely at him, clearly expecting him to agree, but Steve just shakes his head and slowly says: ‘I don’t believe that.’

‘You don’t understand,’ Jamie begins, but Steve cuts him off:

‘Jamie, you helped me out. You stepped into rooms with dangerous guests every day so that the others didn’t have to. Hell, you found Zola for us.’ He leans closer, reaches to put one hand on Jamie’s arm. ‘I owe you. This is the least I can do.'

Jamie bows his head, but doesn’t pull away from Steve’s hand.

-

He brings Jamie some magazines, and a StarkPad with Netflix installed. ‘So you don’t die of boredom,’ he says, and Jamie looks at him in frank amazement.

‘Really?’ he asks, holding the tablet as if even breathing too close to it will break the thing. ‘Are you serious?’

‘Well, sure.’ Steve shrugs, not sure what it is he’s meant to be serious about.

Jamie’s eyes narrow. ‘Aren’t you afraid I’ll...’ he looks down at the tablet, them up with a quick, mischievous grin. ‘You know, I never knew exactly why they didn’t want us to have the internet. I guess they thought we’d try and escape, or something.’

That makes Steve laugh. ‘What could you do from here?’ he asks, a wave of his hand taking in the hospital ward and the variety of tubes stuck into Jamie’s arm.

‘Good point.’ Jamie’s smiling, but then he tilts his head to one side and regards Steve with curiosity. ‘So...can we talk about ground rules?’

‘Uh...’

‘Have you ever owned a slave before?’ Steve shakes his head. ‘Why not?’

‘It was never on my radar,’ he admits. ‘We were too poor when I was growing up - just me and my Mom. Nobody we knew had slaves. Then I went into the army, and then I joined SHIELD. You’re actually the first slave I ever spoke to.’

Jamie looks oddly pleased by this, but then he puts the tablet down carefully on the bedside table and turns to face Steve. ‘OK, so the first thing we need is ground rules, to make sure we know what’s going on.’

‘Rules...like what?’

Jamie shrugs. ‘What should I call you?’

‘Uh, ‘Steve’…?’ Steve says, losing confidence and turning the name into a question when Jamie starts to frown.

‘Not ‘sir’?’

Steve grins. ‘Do I look like a 'sir' to you?’

That gets a small smile. ‘OK. What else?’

Steve holds up his hands. ‘I don’t know - you’re the expert, here.’

A slightly bigger smile, and Jamie gives a mock-sigh. ‘Fine. Uh...duties. What do you want me to do?’

He can’t help the flush that starts to creep up his neck at that question. ‘Study,’ he says firmly, as much to himself as to Jamie. ‘Get better. Work out what kind of job you’d like to do.’ He hadn’t brought up Coulson’s offer yet - one step at a time.

‘Nothing else?’ Jamie’s smile has turned sly, his gaze dipping down to Steve’s groin for a moment before he meets his eyes again.

‘No,’ Steve reiterates. ‘Not with me.’

A slight frown. ‘With someone else?’

‘No - God...’ Steve shakes his head vehemently. ‘Not with anyone. Unless you want to. You don’t have to do that with anybody.’

Jamie looks as if this is a little hard to swallow, and there’s something vaguely humouring in his tone as he nods and says: ‘OK.’

It’s not a battle Steve has the energy to fight right now. ‘What about you?’ he asks. ‘Any ground rules for me?’

Jamie looks at him sharply, plainly suspicious. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Seems a little unfair, is all,’ Steve replies. ‘You’re going to be living with me, but I make all the rules. Is there anything you want?’

As soon as he’s said it, he knows it’s a stupid question. It looks like he’s trying to find weak spots - if Jamie acknowledges that there’s something he doesn’t like, that would make it very easy for Steve to make his life hell.

So Jamie just smiles at him, shakes his head. ‘I’m all good, s - Steve.’

-

‘Take off your collar.’

He says it as soon as he’s stepped through the door, before either of them can say anything else. The doctors had taken it off when Jamie was first admitted, but he’s obviously put it back on again - presumably because he thinks Steve will want him to wear it.

Collars are an affectation. The microchip at the back of Jamie’s neck is what really makes him a slave, Steve’s name written in unhackable code underneath his skin. The idea that Jamie thinks Steve would want him to wear a collar is sickening.

Jamie’s watching him warily, clearly unable to work out if he’s angry or not. His hands go to his throat and he undoes the catch at the back, pulls the collar off.

There’s a neat ring of bruises underneath it, and Steve had never realised before that they were directly related to the collar. Jamie’s hand goes self-consciously to cover them. ‘Zola,’ he explains. Then, with a small, dry smile: ‘And Pierce.’

‘Fuck.’ Steve wants to punch something, but that isn’t an option right now, so he settles for clenching his fists so tightly he almost draws blood. He sees Jamie glance nervously at the door, and takes a few deep breaths before turning to the kid. ‘I’m not angry with you,’ he says. ‘Just at...that.’ He gestures to the collar, and to Jamie’s neck.

Jamie holds his gaze and lifts the collar in his hand. He leans over the bed, and drops the strip of black leather into the trash can.

Steve grins at him, and Jamie smiles back.

Chapter Text

Living with Steve Rogers is...not what Bucky expected.

In truth, he’s not sure exactly what he had expected - it’s not like he has any normal frame of reference for this shit, after all. He studies, cleans the apartment (Steve is insistent that they share the chores, but Bucky always tries to do more than he should), and in the evenings they watch movies together in the living room, each on a separate couch. His injuries start to heal

Reading isn’t the easiest thing in the world, but he has an aptitude for math and there’s nothing else to do, really, so his studies come on in leaps and bounds.

Steve watches him when he doesn’t think Bucky is looking. He hasn’t made a move yet, but Bucky knows it’s only a matter of time.

-

A week and a half in, he wakes in a cold sweat, the words let’s play a game still ringing in his ears. ‘Fuck’ he breathes softly, and slips out silently into the empty living room.

He’s always had the nightmares, ever since he was small, but over the last year or so he was so tired that when he caught short snatches of sleep, it was dreamless. Pierce did me a fucking favour there, he thinks dryly, even though he knows it’s stupid, knows that sleep with nightmares is better than hardly any sleep without. He wakes every morning at 2am, has to pace the dark living room for a while before he can bring himself to go back to bed.

But tonight, as he walks his fifth circle around the coffee table and between the couches, he hears Steve’s door open.

He’s jittery from the nightmare, heart still racing, and it’s a reflex action: as soon as Steve enters the room Bucky drops to his knees, head down. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, because Christ, Steve is twice his size and could probably fell him with one punch. ‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’

There’s a long pause. ‘You didn’t,’ Steve says gently. Bucky hears clothing rustle and Steve is kneeling next to him, reaching out a hand to gently nudge his knee. ‘It’s OK, Jamie.’

He lifts his head slightly to meet Steve’s eyes. The other man has a reassuring smile on his face, and when he leans back to sit with his back against one of the couches, Bucky does the same. ‘Are you OK?’ Steve asks

‘I get nightmares,’ Bucky tells him. ‘It helps to...walk them off.’

Steve nods. ‘Every night?’

‘Yeah.’ Bucky looks down at his feet.

‘You want to talk about it?’

He shakes his head, and is relieved to see that Steve just nods, that he doesn’t try to press the issue.

‘I get nightmares, too,’ Steve says after a moment. Bucky keeps looking at the floor, unsure of what to say. ‘My unit was captured in Afghanistan, two years ago. I still dream about it.’ He sighs, shifts position slightly. ‘In the dream I’m in a garrison hospital. I know I’m back with US troops, but my mouth won’t work, I keep shouting that they’re Taliban assholes, that I won’t give in, and in the end they just...toss me out.’ He sounds hoarse, like he’s going to cry.

(Bucky hasn’t cried since he was six.)

Steve’s words hang in the air between them for a few minutes, and Bucky doesn’t know what comes over him - but it’s 2am and the world doesn’t feel real at this hour, in the false twilight thrown by the street lamps, and he finds himself talking: ‘Mine’s a memory,’ he says eventually. Steve doesn’t say anything. ‘I’m on my knees in front of this guy who worked for my third master. He’s got a gun to my head and says if I don’t - do what he wants - he’ll shoot me. I keep saying no, no no no, and in the end he pulls the trigger. Then I wake up.’

Another pause, then Steve asks quietly: ‘What happened?’

‘Huh?’

‘You said it was a memory. What happened?’

Bucky laughs (or would you call that a laugh?). ‘Bastard hadn’t loaded the gun,’ he says. Then, with some pride, he offers: ‘I didn’t do it.’

Steve’s head moves, he’s probably frowning. ‘Do what?’

‘What he wanted.’ He doesn’t know why he’s saying any of this, it feels like a huge mistake, but for some reason he wants Steve to know. ‘They - made films. They wanted me and...and one of the littles.’ He rubs a hand over his face. ‘I wouldn’t do it. Not to a kid.’

A small silence, then: ‘That was brave.’

Bucky just shrugs, deflects: ‘How long were you…?’

‘A couple of weeks.’ A note of pride creeps into his voice. ‘I didn’t tell them anything.’

‘That was brave.’ Bucky’s impressed, can’t imagine that kind of circumstance at all. Steve lifts his head, his eyes no more than dark pools in the darkness, and Bucky can hear the smile in his voice when he speaks.

‘I reckon we’re even.’ He reaches over and after a moment Bucky realises what he’s supposed to do - he shakes Steve’s hand.

‘Two bravest guys in New York,’ he says with a grin, and Steve laughs.

The next morning they both wake up in the living room, each on their own couch. They share shy smiles, and move on with the day.

-

The apartment block has a small gym, which Bucky uses on a daily basis, building his strength back up. It has a pool as well, which he sometimes casts a longing glance at, but he’s too self-conscious of his scars to attempt using it. The bruises from his collar have healed: when he wears long sleeves, he can hide his barcode and nobody knows what he is. In the water, he wouldn’t be able to hide anything.

Steve never exercises at the same time as him, though Bucky knows he uses the gym as well. He never strays into the hallway when he knows Bucky is using the shower, never emerges from his room anything less than fully dressed.

Bucky’s file is on top of the chest of drawers in his own room. Steve still hasn’t read it.

-

He knows how it would happen. It would be late at night, maybe they would have had a few beers, and Steve would sit on Bucky’s couch, next to him. He’d turn his head and in the light of the TV Bucky would be able to see his smile, shy and awkward.

No, they would have had more than a few beers - Steve would be mostly drunk, and he’d lean over and say something like ‘I can’t stop thinking about…’ and he’d trail off, cheeks flushed red because he can’t quite get over that apple-pie upbringing of his and actually talk about sex.

And Bucky would smirk, one of his sleek, confident smiles, and he’d lower his voice, lean forward until their noses were almost touching. ‘All you gotta do is ask,’ he’d murmur, and Steve would reach up tentatively, touch his cheek, and he wouldn’t even be able to get the words out. He’d just close the distance between them.

It would probably be the sweetest kiss Bucky’s ever had. Steve would be gentle, everything would be soft and easy. He’d thank him, after. Maybe Bucky would start sleeping in his bed. maybe Steve would press a kiss to the back of his head as they lay there, warm and sleepy.

He thinks about offering. Every time they sit together he’s on the verge of offering. ‘I could suck you off,’ he could say, and maybe if he pushed, Steve would do it.

But Steve never touches him. Never sits on the couch with him. Never so much as brushes against him in the hall.

It’s starting to drive Bucky mad.

-

When he meets Sam, he’s worried that the other man is a cop as well (Steve’s tried to explain SHIELD, but Bucky doesn’t quite get it yet, how it’s different from the NYPD or FBI), that those dark eyes will look into his and see a cop-killer.

But instead he smiles warmly, reaches out a hand. ‘Sam Wilson,’ he says. ‘You must be Jamie. Steve says you helped him out on a mission.’

Bucky shakes his hand briefly, trying to work out if there’s any double meaning in Sam’s words. Steve must have told this guy everything, he must know exactly what kind of background Bucky has, but he’s still willing to shake hands. ‘It’s - good to meet you,’ he says, because he’s not sure what else to say.

What the fuck? He thinks after a moment. You don’t know what to say? Because he always knows what to say - he’s Jamie, for fuck’s sake, the guy who charms his ways into everyone’s bed, who has more regulars than anyone else, who can make small-talk with a mobster for a whole evening while Pierce breaks a deal.

Steve’s had him so much on the back foot that he’s forgotten who he is.

‘How do you and Steve know each other?’ he asks, and they’ve hit the ground running, talking about the VA and oh, Sam, you were in the forces too? and the two ex-soldiers are sharing stories all afternoon, Bucky/Jamie asking all the right questions, nudging the conversation along when it seems to be slowing.

They reach the restaurant and Bucky doesn’t know what to do - he’s never been to one before, has seen them in movies but never visited one. There’s a whole menu full of food when he’s used to eating what he’s given - he orders what Steve orders, then hates himself for it - and when it arrives the portions are more than twice the size he’s used to.

When Steve goes to the bathroom, Sam turns to him.

‘Seriously, though - Steve told me what you did,’ Sam says. He looks serious but sad, so Bucky figures he means the Steve part, not the cop-killing part, and relaxes slightly. ‘You looked after Steve in there. Thank you.’

Bucky shrugs. ‘I’m just glad it worked,’ he admits. ‘Glad I didn’t get him killed.’

‘He’s a good guy,’ Sam tells him softly, and Bucky’s mouth goes dry. ‘He won’t hurt you.’

And suddenly he’s thrown again, because he doesn’t know what to say to that. ‘Thanks,’ he says briefly, unable to think of an appropriate reply, and Sam gives him a small smile.

‘A friend of mine runs a support group for ex-slaves,’ Sam tells him, and Bucky stares at him in something close to disbelief.

‘Really?’ he asks, and doesn’t care if it’s rude - Sam wouldn’t strike him for impudence with Steve about to come back at any minute.

But Sam just nods. ‘She rents a room at the VA. You should come.’

Bucky just nods, dumbly.

-

He’s just in from the gym, his still-tender ribs protesting at their harsh treatment, when he hears a choked-off sob coming from the bathroom.

The door is a little ajar - he can hear running water and then a soft, muffled curse - and Bucky hesitates for a moment, unsure of what to do. No owner he’s ever had before would thank him for walking in on their moment of weakness: they hate to remind the slaves that they’re human. But Bucky’s surprised to realise that he wants to go in, that this is Steve and he actually wants to see if the other man is alright.

So he tentatively pushes the door open, pokes his head around. Steve is standing at the sink, the smell of antiseptic in the air and a bloodied cotton pad in his hand. He turns when he hears the door and Bucky sees tears in his eyes. His mouth is flushed red, and his right hand is still wiping the cotton against a gash on his left, almost as if it has a mind of its’ own.

‘Hey,’ Bucky says softly, walking into the room the same slow way he would move if he was trying not to startle an animal. He’s completely out of his depth - this is not something he has any practise in. He’s found other slaves in worse states, sure, but this is an owner, and he doesn’t quite know what to do.

Steve swallows hard, his hands still moving, and Bucky wants to turn away because the expression on his face is almost too much to bear. It’s anger and frustration and huge sadness all rolled into one, and when Steve speaks his voice is hoarse with tears: ‘I cut myself in the kitchen.’ He swallows again. ‘I had to treat it, and now I can’t…’

He trails off, and Bucky knows that crack in his voice, has heard it a thousand times from other people: if he keeps talking, he’ll cry.

‘It’s OK,’ Bucky tells him, voice still quiet. He approaches Steve slowly, carefully, and hesitates again. He owns you, a voice says in the back of his mind, and he can hear his third owner in there too, the one time he’d ever tried to offer comfort: You’re not a person, Jamie. You can’t make me feel better.

But then Steve looks at him with those tear-filled eyes and any hesitation melts away. Bucky reaches over and gently plucks the cotton pad from his fingers. ‘You’re doing good,’ he says, the way he’d speak to one of the kids at the Milestone, the way Reggie spoke to him when he was first taken on and needed patching up. ‘Just need to find something to put on that.’

He rifles through the medicine cabinet for some gauze and tape. Steve has wiped the cut so much that there’s no blood left, just a raw-looking rent in the skin. Bucky keeps talking as he works, assuring Steve that it’s fine, it’s not deep, he’s cleaned it well so there won’t be any problems. Then he washes antiseptic off his own hands and pulls a wad of tissue from the roll, reaches up and wipes away the tears on Steve’s cheeks. ‘You wanna wash your face?’ he asks, and the way Steve shakes his head tells him that the other man doesn’t dare, that he’ll - that whatever is wrong will get worse if he does. ‘No worries,’ Bucky tells him.

Then he wets a flannel and brings it up to Steve’s face, wipes the cold cloth over it, trying to soothe his reddened skin. ‘There you go,’ he murmurs, and Steve bites his lip.

Bucky knows what he would do if this were Desiree, or Corey, or any of the others he’s ever looked after. He doesn’t touch anyone, as a rule, not unless they really need it, but he knows without asking that Steve is the kind of guy who loves physical contact. So Bucky reaches up a hand to the other man’s shoulder and pulls him into an embrace.

Steve buries his head in Bucky’s neck and shudders. Bucky holds him tight, the way he’d hold any of the others if they asked for it, the way he held Rhian after her last suicide attempt, and closes his eyes.

He can’t tell how long they stay there, Steve’s damp face against his neck, but eventually the other man takes a deep breath and pulls away, offering Bucky what he evidently thinks is a smile. ‘Thanks,’ he says, and he really seems to mean it.

‘No problem.’

‘It’s…’ Steve reaches up to rub a hand through his hair. ‘It started after I got back from Afghanistan.’ He starts to busy himself with putting everything back in the cabinet, carefully avoiding Bucky’s gaze.

Bucky puts a hand on his wrist. ‘Hey,’ he ducks his head to catch Steve’s eye. ‘If it gets bad again, let me know.’

How had he never noticed just how blue Steve’s eyes are, before?

‘Thanks,’ Steve says, and his smile does something to Bucky’s chest that he can’t quite name.

Chapter Text

The room smells of old wood and coffee. Bucky pauses in the doorway as the other people stand around, talking softly to one another and sipping from cardboard cups. He knows his eyes must be wide - he wants to shrink in on himself, or better still, run away - but then a woman catches his eye and smiles, and he relaxes very slightly. She detaches herself from the group she’s with, and approaches him.

‘I haven’t seen you here before,’ she says quietly, a warm smile still on her lips. ‘I’m May.’

She’s the first person he’s met on the outside who hasn’t tried to shake his hand, so he knows she must be like him, and it’s that which makes him use his real name: ‘Bucky,’ he tells her, and she nods.

‘Good to meet you. How long have you been out?’

She says ‘out’ like they’re talking about prison, and Bucky swallows nervously. ‘It’s...kinda complicated,’ he says, and for a moment he wonders if he’ll be asked to leave. ‘I’m not. Yet. My owner says he’s gonna free me, so...’ He trails off, all eloquence lost.

May tilts her head to one side. ‘Do you believe him?’

Bucky thinks of Steve. Thinks of a cellphone which did bring help, thinks of the removal of his collar, thinks of Sam’s words and the way his smile makes Bucky feel. ‘I guess so,’ he replies slowly, and May nods.

‘I’m glad you could make it.’ There are no recriminations, no hints that he doesn’t belong here if he’s not free, and Bucky can breathe again.

May calls them into a circle and they sit, everyone introducing themselves by first name only, and saying how long they’ve been free. Bucky’s relieved to discover he’s not the only one in limbo, and steals glances around the circle at every opportunity. When it comes to his turn he says his name, and repeats what he said to May. But then she looks at him, dark eyes intent in her heart-shaped face, and says:

‘The Discretion Laws which prevent you mentioning the name of any past owners are still in force in this room.’ Bucky nods to show he understands. It’s the first lesson they learn - never name an owner to anyone else. ‘But we ask newcomers to share a little of their background with us. You don’t have to today, but we can help you better if we know.’

Bucky finds himself nodding again. ‘That’s fair,’ he says, but then realises he has to speak, and his throat almost closes up.

He closes his eyes, folds his hands in his lap. ‘I was sold when I was six.’ A rustle goes around the room, and he glances up to realise that the others are shocked. ‘Is that young?’

‘Most of the people here were over the age of ten when they were sold,’ May tells him, and he shrugs.

‘I’m in my sixth place. I, uh...’ he swallows, steals a look at the others. ‘I went to a restaurant for the first time, last week, and I didn’t know what to do. We caught the subway here and it was...’ He trails off, remembering the press of people, the feeling of other bodies up close against his, how he’d wanted to scream but didn’t want to show his discomfort to Steve.

‘The first time I caught the subway, I had a panic attack,’ the man next to him (Luke, free for two years, Bucky remembers) says. ‘It reminded me too much of the market pens.’

A chorus of agreement goes around the group, and Bucky feels something inside his chest unknot. The discussion moves on and Bucky just listens as people share their fears and hopes. Someone feels guilty about the people left behind, someone can’t handle sleeping without the curtains open, and Bucky suddenly understands why they hold these meetings at the Veterans’ Association. They’re all as messed up as any ex-squaddie with PTSD, and they know it.

They’re about half an hour in when the door opens, admitting a tall man who murmurs ‘sorry’ and makes towards the circle.

Bucky goes very, very still.

He knows that face, the angle of the shoulders. Gabe has dreadlocks now rather than close-cropped hair, as he did when they were children, but Bucky knows him on sight - and all he can do is stare. As if sensing it, Gabe looks towards him and they just gape at one another, both tensed for fight or flight, until Bucky gets to his feet.

‘I’ll be here next week,’ he tells May, giving her what he hopes is a reassuring smile before he heads out into the corridor. The spell is broken and he can look away from Gabe, keeping his eyes on the ground until he hears  footsteps behind him. ‘Bucky,’ Gabe calls. It’s strange to hear him again, his voice broken now, much deeper than it was when they were ten. He slows to a halt and turns.

They regard one another for a moment. Gabe’s tall, a head taller than Bucky, who has to lift his chin to meet the other man’s eyes. He’s big, too, muscular in contrast to Bucky’s skinny frame, hard edges where Bucky’s all angles. Still a pair, he thinks. Pierce would have wanted to watch us fuck.

Bucky wants to throw up.

It’s Gabe who breaks the silence: ‘You’re taller.’

Bucky smirks. ‘Look who’s talking.’

There’s another pause, and Gabe says: ‘Should we go outside?’

There’s a small park nearby, fenced off. They buy coffee from a stall and sit on one of the benches, Bucky pulling his leather jacket tight around himself to keep the warmth in.

‘You ever see any of the others?’ Gabe asks, and Bucky shakes his head.

‘You’re the first. You?’

‘Saw Mo, a while back.’ He shrugs. ‘He’s doing OK for himself.’ Bucky nods, hands wrapped around his cup of coffee. He looks down at his feet, jumping when Gabe touches him gently on the shoulder. ‘Hey,’ the other man asks. ‘You OK?’

Bucky shrugs. ‘Are you free now?’ he asks, to change the subject, and Gabe nods.

‘Six months,’ he replies. ‘I got lucky.’ At Bucky’s questioning look, he explains: ‘You know how I was always good at fixing stuff? Got bought by a guy who owns a chain of garages. They trained me up, and I bought my freedom.’ There’s a slight pause. ‘How about you?’

‘My last place was...bad.’ He hesitates, but then figures Gabe will know what he means - for a while, anyway, they were both in the same position. ‘But then this guy bought me. Says he’s gonna free me, and I - I think he will.’ He wishes he could sound more confident of that fact, but each time he says it his belief in the idea wanes a little more, as if having an audience shines a light on just how ridiculous it is.

There’s a long silence then, and they sit wordlessly for a few minutes before Bucky dares a look at Gabe: ‘I’m sorry.’

A frown. ‘What for?’

‘What for?’ Bucky echoes in disbelief. Their eyes meet for a brief moment, before Bucky drops his gaze back down to his coffee and murmurs quietly: ‘First you kiss me, then you touch me, then we fuck.’

They’re words from a long time ago, he hasn’t said them in years. Just saying them aloud makes him remember -

‘No.’ Gabe’s voice is forceful and Bucky looks up at him again, surprised to see a fierce expression on the other man’s face. ‘You don’t need to apologise for that. Buck.’

‘What the hell?’ he asks. ‘Gabe, I - ’ he can’t even say it. ‘I made you - ’

‘You didn’t make me do anything,’ Gabe says, and when Bucky tries to protest he grabs him by the arm. ‘He made us do that stuff. It was just his sick idea of fun to make you have to explain things to me.’

‘I - ’

‘We were ten, Bucky.’ Gabe’s eyes bore into his and Bucky almost forgets to breathe. ‘You didn’t know what you were doing.’

‘I knew exactly what I was doing,’ Bucky fires back. ‘I’d been in the business for two fucking years, by that point.’

‘You were a child,’ Gabe says simply, and there’s something about the way he says them, with a world of sorrow and forgiveness in the words, which almost undoes Bucky’s careful resolve. ‘You had no choice.’

‘Jamie?’ Bucky jumps at the voice, turning to see Steve at the edge of the park. He nods to his owner, who crosses the grass to join them. ‘The lady at the VA said you’d gone for a walk,’ he says, looking so statuesque in the evening light that Bucky has to fight to remember that he’s a real person. ‘Everything OK?’ He looks at Gabe with a friendly expression, but there’s an underlying hint of steel, and Bucky tries his best to plaster on one of his Jamie smiles.

‘Steve, this is Gabe,’ he says, and the two shake hands. What is it with free people and shaking hands? he thinks, and then he catches Gabe’s eye and realises that they’re both thinking the same thing. Gabe smiles, and Bucky tries to smile back. ‘Gabe and I...know each other.’

It takes Steve a moment to get what he means - when he does, he just gives a slow nod. ‘I see. Do you want me to...’ he jerks a thumb at the park gates, but Bucky feels too wrung out to carry on with this, and shakes his head.

‘No. We should go.’

‘Good to meet you, Steve,’ Gabe says, seemingly unfazed by all this. ‘See you next week,’ he says to Bucky, then reaches out to squeeze his arm, once. ‘Think about it, OK?’

Bucky just nods, draining the last of his coffee as he gets to his feet.

Steve doesn’t ask him anything as they walk away, and Bucky is surprised to find that the other man’s warm presence at his side soothes his raw nerves. When they come to the subway entrance he hesitates, remembers his cold sweat on the way here and what the guy in the circle said - like the market pens - and asks: ‘Do we have to take the subway?’

That gets him a curious look, but then Steve just shrugs. ‘No, we can walk.’

And it’s as easy as that. They keep walking, and Bucky knows he doesn’t have to explain, but he finds that he wants to. ‘There are so many people down there,’ he says. ‘It...have you ever been to a slave market?’ he knows the answer before the question is out of his mouth, and is unsurprised when Steve shakes his head. ‘They keep you in holding pens. Being down there, it…’

‘Too many memories?’

Bucky nods. He looks up at the buildings, the sky, and can’t keep back a smile. ‘I think this is the longest I’ve ever walked in a straight line, outside,’ he says, and immediately regrets it when Steve’s face falls. ‘Sorry.’’

‘What for?’

‘That made you angry.’

‘Not with you,’ Steve says instantly, and Bucky finds himself nodding.

He believes it as soon as Steve says it, and that fact scares him more than anything has in a while.

-

‘How do you want me to introduce you?’ Steve asks on the drive in to SHIELD HQ, and the question is so unexpected that Bucky narrows his eyes.

‘How do you mean?’

It’s not a question anyone has asked him before. What did your last master call you? springs to mind. The closest thing slaves have to a sacred question, one you should never, ever ask, is What’s your name? You’re just supposed to tell the other person yours, and let them introduce themselves if they want to. Bucky has never once been asked what he wants to be called, and he feels that hot rush in his chest again, the one he can’t decipher.

Steve shrugs, clearly not having anticipated Bucky’s reaction. ‘Well...do you want to be Jamie? Or James? Or something else?’

‘Can you use Barnes?’ he asks before he can stop himself. And then, because he feels like he owes an explanation: ‘Jamie’s more of a…’ he sighs. ‘It’s what owners call me.’

‘Sure,’ Steve says, and something in his tone makes Bucky’s head snap up: he’s offended.

‘Shit, I didn’t mean it like that.’ There’s a moment of panic, but then he forces himself to remember that Steve has never hit him, that he said he would never hurt him and to this day has kept his promise. ‘I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. But you’re right, it’s nice to have a - clean break.’

Steve gives a slow nod, and Bucky hadn’t realised he was holding his breath until he sees it.

As they pull into the carpark, Steve asks: ‘What do you call yourself? In your head?’

Bucky looks over and gives him a small, world-weary smile. ‘Lesson one, Steve. Never ask a slave their private name.’

-

Natasha is gorgeous, and glacially confident, and Bucky likes her as soon as he meets her. She makes him nervous, though, and it takes him a little while to work out that it’s because there’s something so familiar in her gaze. When he looks in the mirror, he sees that expression looking back at him. There’s something in her past she’s not letting on, and somehow she knows exactly what he’s going through.

She leads him to an empty office and lifts her hands, gesturing to the desks and computers that surround them.

‘I don’t believe in training people in empty gyms,’ she says by way of explanation. ‘Coulson lets me borrow an empty office now and then.’

‘By ‘lets you’, do you mean you don’t tell him?’ Steve asks from the doorway, and Nat raises an eyebrow at him.

‘I thought you were watching quietly?’ Steve holds his hand up in surrender, and her smile broadens infinitesimally. ‘Good,’ she tells him, and Bucky’s heart sinks as she turns her attention back to him. ‘Now, come at me.’

Bucky can’t help it: he blanches ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Come at me.’ Natasha spreads her arms slightly in invitation. When he doesn’t move, she sighs. ‘Come on, Barnes, you aren’t going to hurt me.’

‘Oh, don’t worry - I know I won’t.’ he can’t resist a grin, and she makes a face at him in reply. With Steve in the doorway he feels protected, emboldened. ‘I’m just saying, I’m not a ‘come at you’ kinda guy. I’m more of a ‘run away’ kinda guy.’

Natasha narrows her eyes, slightly, and then without warning she lashes out with a kick.

He lets out a yelp of surprise, but he’s has enough experience in dodging kicks in his life that he leaps backwards, away from her booted foot, narrowly avoiding a hit to the chest. Never taking his eyes off her, he backs again, dropping to the floor and rolling under a desk away from her.

She vaults over it to catch him on the other side, but he moves back the way he had come and then rolls again, to another desk. His heart is pounding, his breath coming in gasps, and this all feels a little too familiar - memories of Zola and Pierce come crashing over him like a wave; it’s dark under the desk, and as Natasha approaches him again he’s frozen in blind panic.

‘N-no,’ he manages to expel, because for a moment he’s forgotten where he is, and who’s coming for him - all he knows is that another beating might kill him, he’s got to stop it from happening. ‘Please stop, I’ll - ’

He hears the footsteps halt and dares to lift his head from where he’s curled it into folded arms. Natasha is looking at him, red hair framing her face, and suddenly he can breathe again and he hears a sob in his voice: ‘Shit, shit.’

Natasha kneels next to him. ‘Hey,’ her voice is low and gentle. ‘Barnes, it’s OK.’

He breaks away, crawls out into the light and he’s shivering, freezing cold. ‘S-sorry,’ he manages to say through chattering teeth. He’s on all fours, trying to get to his feet, and then Steve is there, solid and warm next to him. ‘It was like Zola,’ he mumbles, the terror still running through him. He’s failed, he’ll be sold, he’s worthless. ‘In the dark, with him coming for me.’

Steve has one big hand on his shoulder, one arm held out, and Bucky feels himself crumble. For the first time ever he allows himself to lean on someone who isn’t a slave, rests against Steve and lets his forehead fall forward against Steve’s chest.

‘I’m sorry,’ Natasha murmurs. ‘I should have thought.’

‘Not your fault.’ Bucky lifts his head and looks at her, the shivering slowly ceasing as Steve’s warmth seeps into him. ‘I’m sorry - I didn’t know that was going to happen - I’ll be better next time, I swear.’

‘You don’t need to be,’ Steve tells him. ‘There doesn’t have to be a next time.’

Steve’s explained it before. This is just an idea of Coulson’s, it doesn’t have to mean anything - Bucky’s under no pressure to become part of SHIELD. But if he’s honest with himself, he wants it. He wants to show Steve that he was a worthwhile investment, that he’s not broken like he said he was.

So he shakes his head. ‘I want to.’ He pulls away from Steve, casting him a grateful look, and turns to Natasha. ‘I want to go again.’

She looks him over, sizing him up, then gives a small nod. ‘C’mon,’ she tells him. ‘Let’s go find a gym to wreck.’

-

Steve needs to lock the door five times before he can leave the house. He has to lay and re-lay the table a few times before they eat every every evening, shifting plates and cutlery around until he gets it just right. He’s teaching Bucky to cook, and sometimes when they’re washing up he gets stuck, needing to go over one particular knife for a few minutes until it’s perfect.

Bucky knows he should do something. Say something. He’s seen this before - hell, it probably has a name, but he doesn’t know how to look it up, doesn’t know what to search for.

It doesn’t occur to him that he should tell anyone, bring his troubles to Natasha or Sam. Slaves don’t tell on each other, they sort it out and survive. It’s a lesson that’s been drummed into him, time and again.

You survive.

-

‘Do you know what day it is?’ Steve asks one night. It’s one of their 2am sessions, the streetlights outside casting a frosty, twilight glow. ‘Four months since you came to live with me.’

There’s a smile in his voice, and Bucky can’t help smiling back, glad that he darkness hides it. ‘I don’t know if I ever thanked you for bringing me here,’ he says after a moment’s pause. ‘So...thanks.’

They’re sitting on the floor. Bucky’s in his fifth week of coming to SHIELD every couple of days between studying, working his way through the departments to see where he might fit. Natasha had another session with him yesterday and he’s exhausted, but sleep doesn’t seem to be getting any easier - they still have their midnight meetings, neither of them able to sleep for a full night.

‘You’re welcome,’ Steve replies, warmth in his voice.

It’s dark, and they’re sitting next to each other, and Bucky can feel the heat of Steve’s body next to him. It surprises him to realise he likes it, and then he looks within himself a little more closely and understands with a little amazement that he has that hot pull in his stomach, the feeling he’s not accustomed to. He’s felt it before, he knows what it is.

The pause is too long. He should have said something. Now there’s just silence between them, and a tension he’s not sure of, and Bucky’s mouth is suddenly very dry. His chest feels tight and his heart is beating fast, fast, and he knows exactly what this is: he has a fucking crush on his fucking owner, how sad and sick is that?

Fuck.

He turns his head and sees Steve hurriedly look away. Steve wants him, he’s known that from the start. It’s the idea of him wanting Steve that he isn’t quite prepared for.

‘Hey, Steve?’ he asks. His bones feel very light, and he knows his hands are shaking.

‘Yeah?’

‘Will…’ he swallows nervously, twists his hands in his lap. This is ridiculous, he can’t believe he’s even going to say it. ‘Will you call me Bucky?’

There’s a slight pause. ‘Bucky?’ Steve asks, clearly not sure what he’s really being asked to do.

‘Yeah.’ Bucky tries to focus on the light outside, on the patterns on the ceiling, on anything but the colossal mistake he’s about to make. ‘Buchanan. Bucky. It was my middle name. It’s…’ he remembers Steve’s question of two weeks ago. ‘It’s what I call myself in my head.’

There’s a very long pause. Then Steve turns to him, shifting so that he’s fully facing Bucky. ‘Thank you,’ he says softly, and the emotion in his voice is audible. ‘Thank you for - trusting me. With that.’

If you still have your name, Reggie said to him once, you still have something.

Now Bucky doesn’t even have that.

Chapter Text

Discretion keeps anyone from talking about Pierce in front of him. They aren’t allowed to say anything, but Bucky’s grateful for the small ways they manage to keep him in the loop. He’ll walk into the break room to find coverage of the trial on the TV, or a newspaper open at the right page will just happen to be lying around in the canteen.

On the day Pierce gets sent to prison, along with Zola and Rumlow, Bucky finds a bottle of champagne in his locker.

-

He starts talking to more people at the support group, There’s a shabby, skinny guy called Lee with the most blinding smile Bucky has ever seen. He doesn’t say much, but then again, neither does Bucky - so they sit next to each other in the circle, and exchange the odd word before the session begins. Then fortyish, plump Dionne starts coming over to join them, bringing in her wake a gorgeous redheaded girl who doesn’t say anything. The girl won’t tell anyone her name, and nobody asks.

‘We should meet,’ Dionne says one day. ‘For coffee.’ When Bucky raises his eyebrows at her, she shrugs a little defensively. ‘It’s what people do, apparently.’ Free people, she means.

Lee, to Bucky’s surprise, nods. ‘Let’s do it,’ he says. ‘People keep telling me I should get out more.’

‘Are you in on this too, Red?’ Bucky asks the girl, who just shrugs her shoulders. He pretends to have been outvoted, but he can’t hide the excitement he feels when he leaves the house to meet them on a Sunday morning, heading out with a purpose the way he’s watched people in movies.

Dionne is a school receptionist. Lee waits tables in a restaurant. Bucky does his best to explain what he does at SHIELD. The redhead sips her coffee and stirs it in a way that reminds Bucky of the way Steve touches the chopping board when he washes it up after dinner.

They talk. About catching the subway, about going to new places for the first time, about learning what they like. They make a rule: they have to go to a new place every Sunday, and they each have to try one new thing when they order food or drink. Even the redhead goes along with it, pointing mutely at a different item on each menu.

‘I like someone,’ Dionne says one day, cheeks bright red, eyes fixed on the coffee cup in front of her. ‘And...I think he likes me back.’

Bucky and Lee share a grin. ‘Go on,’ Bucky leans forward, a teasing glint in his eyes.

‘He’s the handyman at the school,’ she tells them, still blushing hotly. ‘His name’s Greg.’

‘...And?’

‘And, I wanted your advice.’ Dionne sighs, looks up at them helplessly. ‘I don’t...I don’t know what to do.’

Bucky frowns, suddenly aware that he has no words of wisdom to offer on this particular issue. There were no relationships in his life - nobody worth getting close to, with the spectre of being sold hanging over both of them. With another slave, it would be easy. Eye contact, a whispered exchange, then sex. Free people? Who knows.

‘How do you know he likes you?’ Leo asks Dionne, snapping Bucky out of his reverie.

‘Oh, little things.’ She shrugs, embarrassed. ‘He smiles at me all the time. And he’s always so careful. Always asks me how I am. Brings me something - like a chocolate bar, or something.’

‘Sure he isn’t just trying to feed you up?’ Bucky asks with a smirk, and he finds he ducks his head instinctively, as if she’s going to aim a blow at him for that. Instead, she just rolls her eyes.

‘He likes me,’ she tells them firmly, and Bucky is astounded by her certainty. He’s never seen anyone so unshakeably sure of someone’s affection, and it makes it hard to breathe for a moment.

‘Dionne,’ he says, and she looks up at him. She’s proud and nervous, her hands wrapped around her cup of coffee as if it’s an anchor.

Bucky grins, one of his trademark smiles, the ones he reserves for clients. ‘Have you just tried kissing him?’ he asks, and he watches her smile slowly blossom.

-

As soon as he steps through the door, Clint claps a hand on his shoulder and grins: ‘Barnes, you and I are going on a date.’

He manages not to flinch at the contact, and meets Clint’s gaze with a raised eyebrow. ‘Barton, I didn’t know you cared.’

That kind of lip would have gotten him a slap, before, but he’s started to realise that the others here don’t see him as a slave - they just see him as another teammate. So Clint just laughs at him, starts leading him in the direction of the elevator. ‘You know me - hidden depths,’ he says, and presses the button for the basement.

Bucky knows what’s down there. ‘The firing range?’ he asks, aware that his voice doesn’t sound quite right.

‘Is that OK?’ Clint’s frowning at him, brow creased with concern, and Bucky takes a few breaths before giving a tight nod.

‘Just…’ he shrugs, trying to work out how much he should say. Steve told him he should let people know when something was difficult, but that’s easier said than done: Bucky’s trying his level best to come across as a normal person when the rest of the team are around, and admitting he has a gun-related nightmare almost every night isn’t going to reassure them. ‘I’ve had some bad experiences with guns,’ he says eventually, and Clint gives him an appraising look.

‘It’s up to you, Barnes,’ he says, as the elevator comes to a smooth halt. The doors slide open, revealing the small locker-room which leads into the range, and Bucky knows he could leave. He could turn away, press the button for any other floor, and Clint probably wouldn’t even think less of him for it. He could play the traumatised slave card and they would all be sympathetic, and that could be the end of it.

But Steve said he wasn’t broken, and Bucky still wants to prove him right.

So he steps out of the elevator. ‘Let’s do it,’ he says, and Clint bounds ahead with no attempt to hide his enthusiasm for what they’re about to do.

The other man talks him through it, shows him how the gun works, how it fits together, and then they’re on the range, Bucky wearing a pair of ear-defenders and pointing the barrel of a killing machine at a human-shaped paper target.

And it’s like coming home.

Math, he can do if he concentrates. Reading comes hard. Sparring with Natasha is difficult. This, though...this is easy. It takes him a few shots to work out what he’s doing, and then he empties the clip into the target’s head, turning around to see Clint’s arms raised as he whoops his approval. He tries a dozen kinds of pistol, a few different rifles, and after each initial beginning stage of getting used to the weight of the gun, he’s good again - after the fourth firearm he has a crowd of admiring staff watching him.

It’s terrifying. He’s seen people shot, slaves who didn’t obey, and he never realised how easy it is to fire a gun. Someone’s life could be in his hands, and if this session is anything to go by, he could kill them instantly.

His hands are shaking, and he’s drenched in nervous sweat. Bucky stops what he’s doing, unloads the gun and rips off the ear defenders, and Clint must see something in his face because he nods like he understands. He doesn’t try to touch Bucky, just leads him out of the firing range, and tells him to go and have a break in the cafeteria.

He sits in a corner with a cup of coffee and tries not to think about the way his spine is crawling.

-

They all go out to a bar one evening after work, Clint pulling Steve by one arm and Natasha walking alongside Bucky. It’s a small place just around the corner, cosy and bright with a babble of voices washing over them as soon as they get in.

‘Clint says you’re good with a gun,’ Nat remarks as they stand waiting to get drinks. Bucky just gives an awkward shrug.

‘Not something I was aware of, trust me.’

She tilts her head to one side, and Bucky can’t help remembering his fourth owner, the one who would do a head-tilt just like that when he was about to get nasty. ‘There are lots of ways to incapacitate someone without killing them,’ she tells him, breaking the spell, and he can hear the sympathy in her voice. ‘Clint can teach you.’

‘Thanks, Nat.’ He hopes his gratitude shows on his face. She just smiles.

‘And - Barnes,’ she sighs, turns away from trying to catch the bartender’s eye so that she’s facing Bucky. ‘You know you don’t have to be part of SHIELD, don’t you?’

He looks down at the bartop, runs his fingertips along the grain of the wood. ‘I’m qualified to do exactly one thing,’ he says carefully. ‘I think we both know what that is.’ He lifts his head to meet her eyes. She must know the circumstances of his previous place - she knew exactly what Pierce did in the Milestone. She inclines her head ever so slightly, and Bucky’s grateful that she offers no platitudes, doesn’t try to correct him the way Steve would do. ‘SHIELD is willing to give me a chance. How many other places would be?’

‘And what do you want to do?’ she asks, reaching up to tap a finger against his chest. ‘You, James Barnes?’

He gives a short laugh. ‘Make sure no kid ever gets sold again,’ he says frankly, and she nods.

‘You looked after the others, right?’ at his quizzical frown she gives him a small smile. ‘Steve told me.’

Bucky nods. Thinks of Desiree, of Rhian, of being locked in a room with a little boy and a man with a gun. ‘Yeah.’

‘Maybe you should think about support work,’ Nat tells him. ‘Social work, or working with a specialised police unit.’

He blinks at her in surprise. ‘You really think I could?’

‘Stay with SHIELD for a year or so, and you’ll get a reference. Then you can use it to get a job somewhere else.’ Nat smiles at him, and turns back to the queue, waving to attract the server’s attention.

Bucky’s quiet for a while, listening in as the others have a lively conversation. He smiles at their jokes and watches the people in the bar, watches how they interact with each other. Talking, laughing, kissing. he catches the eye of a guy standing by the corner - when he smiles, Bucky smiles back. The man holds his gaze for a moment before looking back at his friends, and Bucky looks down at his drink and reminds himself that this is a bar full of free people, that he doesn’t have to do anything, that Pierce isn’t watching over a camera and expecting him to do anything.

They run into each other in the bathroom, and the guy bites his lip, smiles at Bucky and says: ‘Hey...can I...uh... can I ask for your number?’

And it’s his choice.

He can do what he wants, because there’s no Pierce. There’s nobody watching, no reason he’ll be beaten for doing something wrong, and he hasn’t had sex with someone he actually wanted in three years.

‘I can do one better than that,’ he says, and leans in to kiss the guy. Their lips part, tongues sliding and the man tastes like beer, smells like sweat and cigarettes, and Bucky inhales him like a drug. There’s no one else in the bathroom and Bucky presses the guy up against the door, slips his hands underneath his shirt. The man smiles at his touch, pulls away and looks up at Bucky with a grin.

‘C’mon,’ he says, grabs Bucky by the hand and pulls him outside, through the bar’s beer garden and out the back, round a corner between some bins and a fence. Then they’re kissing again, the guy reaching down to pull Bucky’s belt open and side a warm hand into his boxers.

Bucky gasps, more from shock than arousal, because he’s getting hard - and it’s been a damn long time since that happened without chemical inducement. He moans as the guy strokes him, reaches over to return the favour. It’s like an encounter with a fellow slave, hasty and furtive, but the guy’s smiling like he’s having fun, and Bucky grins back, shoves the guy up against the wall and gives him what - in Bucky’s professional opinion - is probably the best blowjob of his life. The guy moans and arches under him, grips Bucky’s shoulders tightly and comes with a muffled shout - and then, to Bucky’s surprise, he pulls Bucky to his feet and gets to his own knees, slides his cock into his mouth.

He’s never been one for making much noise during sex, but this feels so good that Bucky can’t help it: he gives a gasping moan, clutches at the brickwork behind him and tries to remember the last time someone did this to him, moved their tongue against the head of his cock and sucked hard enough to make him have to muffle his cries against his hand.

At the last moment he imagines that it’s Steve with him, Steve kneeling in front of him, and he comes so hard his knees turn to jelly and he has to hold himself up.

They lean on each other for a moment, laughing, and Bucky looks over at the guy with a grin. ‘Thanks,’ he says, and the guy smiles back.

‘You too,’ he replies, and they wait for their breathing to even out before heading back in. They don’t say anything more to one another, just nod, smile and part ways.

When Bucky slides into his chair next to Steve, he gets a curious look from the other man, but nothing more.

He spends the rest of the night unable to take his eyes off Steve, unable to stop thinking about what it would be like to do those things with him.

-

The next day, he opens his locker to find a stash of leaflets and flyers, all about jobs that involve working with vulnerable people. There’s a note on top: The sky’s the limit. N.

Chapter Text

‘He’s in prison,’ Steve says one evening over dinner, and Jamie (no, Bucky - the name was given to him like a gift, he mustn’t forget to use it) looks up at him with something that could be a small smile.

‘I heard,’ he says, triumph gleaming in his eyes for a brief moment. ‘Someone left a newspaper out.’

Steve nods, looks down at his pasta. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.’

‘Discretion, remember?’ Bucky replies with a shrug. ‘I knew not to ask.’

‘Why do they even have Discretion, anyway?’

Bucky huffs a laugh around a mouthful of food, swallows, and grins. ‘OK, Steve, riddle me this: if I told you the name of the guy who first bought me, would you or wouldn’t you want to go and run him over with your motorcycle?’

He has to admit, Bucky has a point. ‘Cheap trick, Barnes.’

Bucky laughs. ‘It’s true though, right?’ When Steve eventually gives him a grudging nod, he smiles and turns back to his dinner. ‘That’s why Discretion is so important. So that when you meet someone nice, you don’t wind them up in prison for Actual Bodily Harm.’

Steve shakes his head. ‘You’ve been spending too much time with Clint. Snark suits you, Buck.’

Because Bucky was sarcastic before, but this isn’t the same gallows humour Steve is used to hearing from him. Over the last few months he’s become lighter, somehow. Freer with his real smiles (Steve isn’t sure he’s seen a false one for a few weeks, actually) and more able to hold a full conversation with a stranger while maintaining eye contact.

When he makes jokes, they aren’t tinged with the same desperation he exhibited at the Milestone.

Bucky just smirks, pauses with a forkful of pasta halfway to his mouth. ‘Don’t pretend you don’t love it,’ he replies, and for a moment Steve has a hot drop in his stomach - is Bucky flirting with him? - before the guy looks away, a small smile still on his lips.

-

‘Oh, Steve.’ Natasha’s looking at him with sympathy, her mouth drawn into a sad line. ‘You have feelings for him.’

He should never have brought it up. All he did was mention that he’s planning to free Bucky, and Natasha read his fucking mind, the way she always does. Steve opens his mouth to deny her charges, then closes it again when he realises there’s absolutely no point.

He thinks of Bucky’s resilience. Of how far he’s come, of how well he’s driven his own recovery. Thinks of his beauty, of the way he smiles when Steve makes him laugh, how it’s a smile that could have been invented just for him. Thinks of the way his pulse quickens when the other man is around, of the way even the sight of him can make his chest feel full of light. After a moment, he nods.

‘I won’t do anything about it,’ he says instantly, defensive, and Natasha sighs.

‘Steve…it could be a very long time before he’s ready for that sort of thing.’

‘I just said I wouldn’t - ’

Nat gives him a crooked smile. ‘That’s one thing Barnes and I have in common. We never listen to someone’s words, we listen to their voice instead.’

He leans over his drink, rests his head in his hands. ‘That obvious, huh?’

‘You got it bad, friend,’ she tells him, and reaches over to rub his shoulder. ‘Just - I'm not saying he wouldn't like you back, but...be careful, alright?'

‘I will,’ he promises.

-

Bucky starts smelling of sex.

Steve notices it for the first time in a bar, when they’re out with Clint and Natasha. Bucky disappears for fifteen minutes and returns flushed, hair slightly mussed - and when he sits down next to him, Steve has to fight to hide his reaction.

It happens again a few nights later - Bucky comes home from work and heads straight for the shower, and Steve would have to be an idiot not to realise what he’s been doing. Then one day he comes back from support group with a bruise on his neck, and Steve feels something hot and tight start to grow in his stomach.

‘Are you alright?’ Bucky asks, and Steve just nods.

-

Steve never goes into the training gyms with Bucky. It would have been inappropriate for him to train the other man, and he’s glad he isn’t: Natasha and Bucky are a perfect fit. She’s as hard on him as she would be with anyone else, but Steve has the feeling that she understands. She never pushes harder than Bucky can bear, and she seems to know when he’s about to come to the edge of his limits.

He watches with approval as the younger man fights his way out of one of her choke-holds, even landing a punch before he runs to the other side of the room.

It doesn’t last - she’s got him down on the mat within minutes - but it’s a vast improvement on a month ago, and Steve can’t quell the feeling of pride which wells up in him when Natasha shakes Bucky’s hand.

Later, he’s pulling on his spare shirt in the locker room when Bucky emerges from the shower, clad only in jeans.

He offers Steve a shy smile as he rubs a towel through damp hair, and Steve feels like he’s been punched in the sternum. Four months of good meals and regular exercise, and Bucky’s beginning to fill out - the lean planes of his chest are smooth with muscle. Steve’s been studiously working to avoid this kind of situation ever since the guy moved in. The hot twist of arousal in his stomach is too much to ignore, as he knew it would be - something about Bucky drives him crazy.

As if on cue, Bucky stops in front of him, head tilted to one side. ‘Hey,’ he says softly, still smiling, and Steve tries to smile back.

‘Everything okay?’ he asks, and Steve sees Bucky’s throat work as he swallows. It makes him flush, and he curses himself silently as he feels his cheeks redden.

Bucky clearly wants to say something - but then he seems to think better of it and turns away, opens his locker and starts pulling on a shirt. He would taste of water and smell like soap, and Steve feels like a teenager for even thinking about that.

He has to trace the sides of his locker three times before he can leave the room. Once again, Bucky pretends not to notice.

-

It’s 2.30am and he’s trapped in his room, kneeling on the floor by the small bookcase, unable to leave until he’s counted every single book just right. Except that he doesn’t know what ‘just right’ is, and every time he finishes he has to go back and start again. He’s burning, simmering with rage at himself, but he can’t stop - it’s like he’s watching from a distance as someone else does this, counts thirty books over and over and over again.

Tears are prickling behind his eyelids, and he reaches up to wipe them away with an angry dash of his sleeve. He will not cry. This is ridiculous. Just one more time, and he’ll be able to go out of the room.

But he gets to the end and has to start from the beginning again, and a choked noise escapes him, the kind of sound a trapped animal would make in a cage.

‘Steve?’ comes a quiet call from behind the door, and he doesn’t trust himself to speak without crying, so he doesn’t say anything: just keeps on counting and hopes that Bucky will go away.

He should have known better. Bucky pushes the door open and steps in. He flicks on the light and crouches next to Steve and forcibly pulling him away from the bookshelf. Steve yelps, something cold and painful twisting inside of him because he has to do this, doesn’t Bucky understand? ‘Let me finish!’ He hisses, trying to push the younger man away. but Bucky has him firmly by the shoulders.

‘How long have you been doing this?’ Bucky asks levelly, and it’s ridiculous, really - Steve could take him out with one punch, could twist him up like a pretzel. He doesn’t know why he’s allowing himself to be restrained.

‘Half an hour,’ he manages to say, and then he really does start crying, tears rolling down his cheeks as Bucky manhandles him until they’re both sitting on the edge of the bed.

They sit in silence for a moment, before Bucky reaches over a slow, tentative hand and starts to brush Steve’s tears away with his hand, thumb stroking gently over his cheek. The touch makes Steve gasp for breath, and he shouldn’t lean in but he does, can’t help it. ‘Natasha was talking to me about therapy,’ Bucky tells him softly. ‘For myself. She said SHIELD would pay. Steve, I - I think you should talk to someone about this.’ He sounds upset, his voice hoarse. ‘I’m sorry - I’m sorry I can’t help more, but - ’

‘You don’t need to be sorry,’ Steve forces out. ‘I’m the one who…’ he swallows, looks away from Bucky as he gnaws on his lip. ‘What if I’m going crazy?’ he asks, voice little more than a whisper. ‘What if I get stuck doing something and I can’t stop? What if - what if I have to do it forever?’

‘I won’t let that happen,’ Bucky says, and his forceful tone makes Steve lift his head. The other man’s thumb is still stroking his cheek, a soft caress. His blue eyes are fierce. ‘Whatever happens, Steve - you’ve got me. You’re not going crazy.’

Steve doesn’t know who moves first, but then they’re kissing, and he closes his eyes as Bucky’s lips brush against his. He reaches for Bucky’s shoulder, means to push him away and say that this is a bad idea, but instead he runs his hand down the other man’s back and pulls him closer. Everything about him is intoxicating - the smell of him, the weight of him on the mattress, the slight scrape of his stubble against Steve’s cheek - and soon they’re devouring each other, the silky swipe of their tongues making Steve moan into Bucky’s mouth.

He slides a hand into Bucky’s soft dark hair, rubs the nape of his neck. Bucky gives a pleased hum, arching like a cat under his touch, and Steve can’t help but smile. ‘You’re not - ’ somehow he manages to talk between kisses. ‘You’re not doing this because you think you have to, right? Because you don’t.’

Bucky grins under his mouth. ‘I know I don’t,’ he says, fingertips scratching into Steve’s hair until Steve groans. ‘Yesterday in the locker room, remember?’ He’s good at talking and kissing, Steve will give him that. ‘You had your chance, but you didn’t take it. So I knew you wouldn’t force me.’

‘Wait,’ Steve tries to pull away but Bucky follows him, lips moving along his jaw. ‘You wanted to see if I - ’

A shrug. ‘I knew you wanted me. Just had to see if you wanted to take.’

Steve reaches up, cups Bucky’s face in both his hands. ‘I would never take anything from you,’ he says, watching the blue eyes darken. ‘If you don’t want to - ’

Bucky gives a huff of laughter. ‘Oh, I want to,’ he replies wickedly. ‘Just had to get used to the idea, is all.’ And then his mouth is on Steve’s again, and his tongue piercing sliding against Steve’s lips steals all the breath from his lungs.

A warm hand slips under Steve’s shirt, smoothing over his stomach and up his chest - he should see it coming, really, but he gasps when Bucky’s fingers run over his nipples and then sweep down to the waistband of his pants. This time he does manage to pull away, hands on Bucky’s shoulders to prevent him from leaning in again, and the guy is frowning at him, mouth set in a line.

‘What’s wrong?’ Bucky asks, and Steve shakes his head in an attempt to clear it.

‘Nothing - just moving a little fast.’ He’s almost embarrassed to say it. Aren’t guys supposed to be up for this, all the time?

Bucky looks worried. ‘Sorry, I’m not sure - ’

‘It’s OK.’ Steve lets go of his shoulders, rubs his thumb gently along Jamie’s collarbone over his t-shirt, wanting to touch him as much as possible, now that he has permission. ‘I just - can we go slow?’

Bucky’s silent for a few seconds, and Steve realises he looks more than worried. His frown has deepened, his mouth pulled down at the corners, and he’s fiddling with the hem of his shirt. He’s looking away - Steve has to duck his head to catch Bucky’s eye, offering a small smile. ‘You OK?’

For a moment he thinks Bucky’s going to say yes, that everything’s absolutely fine - a Jamie reply. But then he shrugs, looks down at the space between them. ‘I fucked up.’

‘No, not at all.’ Steve cups his face again, forces him to meet his gaze. ‘I’m just not that kind of guy - I prefer to take my time on...this kind of thing.’

Bucky bites his lip. ‘I don’t really know how to take it slow,’ he says carefully, plainly uncomfortable. ‘I’m pretty new to - ’ He gives an awkward, self-deprecating smile. ‘I know it sounds ridiculous. I’ve done - I mean, you know, you saw how many people - ’

Steve closes his eyes, leans forward until their foreheads are pressed together. ‘It’s OK, Buck,’ he murmurs, leaning in to steal a soft kiss. ‘I haven’t…’ he blushes. ‘I haven’t done anything since I was discharged two years ago. So…’

‘The blind leading the blind, huh?’ Bucky’s smiling.

‘Something like that.’

‘I’m not doing this because you’re my…’ Bucky must see something in Steve’s face, because he stops short of saying the word ‘owner’. ‘I’m doing it because I want to. You know that, right?’

And Steve does. There’s none of the artful seduction which has dogged their previous encounters. The smirking confidence is gone. This is Bucky, not Jamie, and Steve kisses him again. ‘I know.’

They kiss for a while, Bucky’s hands firmly at Steve’s sides as if he’s scared to touch. Soon they’re both breathing raggedly, a hot, pleased mess, and tiredness is beginning to tug at Steve’s limbs. He pulls away from the kiss but doesn’t move, just breathing Bucky in. ‘You want to sleep?’

Bucky tenses a little. ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to…’ he waves a hand in the direction of Steve’s crotch, and of course he would know that Steve is hard, he probably has a sixth sense by now. Suddenly Steve is desperate to know if Bucky is in the same condition, but he can’t quite bring himself to risk a glance.

‘Not tonight,’ Steve shakes his head. A frown creases Bucky’s forehead, and he reaches up to smooth it away with his thumb. ‘Do you - want to sleep in here?’

There’s a long pause.

‘Not tonight,’ Bucky echoes. There’s a faraway look on his face, and Steve wants to reach for him, but figures that wouldn’t be wanted right now. After a moment Bucky shakes his head, looks over at Steve with one of his unreadable smiles. ‘Might take some getting used to.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘No.’ The younger man turns to him, blue eyes fierce. ‘You have nothing to apologise for.’

He feels like Bucky is trying to tell him something, as if there are words hovering just out of reach, something he should be able to hear in Bucky’s voice, or read on his face. ‘I am sorry, though,’ he says eventually, voice soft. ‘Don’t - don’t let me rush you. If I do anything you don’t like - ’

‘Steve - ’

‘No.’ Steve holds up a hand. ‘You know what, this was a bad idea. I’m taking advantage of you.’ He doesn’t know when he stood up, but now he’s on his feet. ‘I was going to tell you tomorrow - I’m freeing you. By next week, you’re free. So you don’t need to do this.’

‘I don’t need to?’ Bucky’s frowning at him. ‘You think I did this because I thought I should?’

‘Maybe not consciously, but…’

‘Bullshit.’ Bucky’s standing, now, and he steps right up to Steve, pushes up against him. ‘I’m not a child, Steve. I want you - is that so hard to believe?’

Steve looks into his eyes, reaches up to touch his cheek, trace his fingers into Bucky’s hair. ‘Not sure I’m your best bet, Buck,’ he admits eventually, shrugging his shoulders. ‘This whole thing…’ he gestures to the bookshelf, and Bucky snorts.

‘And I’m any better?’ Bucky asks, incredulous. ‘I’m all kinds of fucked up, Steve. But I like you, and…’ he shrugs, eyes sliding away from Steve’s gaze. ‘...that doesn’t happen very often.’

Steve takes a breath. Maybe Natasha’s right - but maybe Bucky’s right, too. He needs to be given the credit to make his own decisions. If Steve chooses for him, he might as well not free him.

‘Okay,’ he says finally, and takes a step back. An idea occurs to him: ‘But none of this for a few months, alright? We’re going to date.’

‘Date?’ Bucky raises one eyebrow.

‘Yeah,’ Steve warms to his theme. ‘We’re going to go out. Do things together. And after that, if you still want to, we can take it further.’

Bucky tilts his head to one side, frowning and smiling at the same time. ‘I’ve never been on a date before.’

‘It’s easy.’

Bucky purses his lips, but then gives a slow and careful nod. 

‘Okay.’

Steve feels something light up inside himself.

Chapter Text

Bucky was never the kind of person who allowed himself daydreams. A lot of the others thought about being free, but he never did. While he was living with Pierce, he never thought he’d make it out of the Milestone alive, let alone be freed - he’d resigned himself to a short lifetime of slavery, probably being killed when Pierce went too far with his belt.

Now, with freedom three days away, he’s drifting. He gets through, but somehow it doesn’t feel like it’s actually going to happen. Steve treats him with such care, as friendly as he ever has been, and sometimes Bucky sees him looking and knows that Steve is thinking ahead, to a time when they’ll be doing whatever the fuck it is that free people do when they’re on dates.

Sometimes it feels like he’s drowning, and he doesn’t know how to stay afloat.

-

‘How am I even supposed to date?’ Bucky asks his Sunday-morning coffee group, looking imploringly at each face. ‘Dionne, help me out, here - what do you do?’

The relationship with her handyman is going from strength to strength. She flushes a little, but offers: ‘Go out, I suppose. To movies, to eat, to a nice place for the day.’

‘Are you still…’ Lee looks a little uncomfortable. ‘...doing what you were doing?’

The other man had walked in on him during one assignation in an unused room at the VA, after a support group meeting. It had been awkward for all concerned, but Lee hadn’t been judgemental - just asked Bucky if it was what he wanted, and Bucky had been forced to admit that he hadn’t been enjoying himself all that much.

It’s probably his subconscious trying to make things go back to normal. Jamie Barnes gets fucked. Ergo, to keep being Jamie Barnes in the absence of Pierce, he needs to find someone to fuck him.

This whole freedom business is getting complicated.

Bucky shakes his head, scratches the back of his neck ruefully. Lee looks relieved.

‘Are you sure you don’t just like him because…’ Dionne starts to ask, and Bucky silences her with a vehement shake of his head.

‘I like him because I like him,’ he tells her, and something in his voice must convince her, because she smiles.

The redhead watches their conversation, head tilted slightly to one side as if she’s trying to work out what on earth they’re talking about. Which she may well be, Bucky reminds himself - it’s not as if they even know which language is her first.

‘You okay, Red?’ he asks her, and she gives a small nod. ‘Any dating tips?’ he asks, and she shakes her head. Bucky gives a theatrical sigh, to make her smile.

‘Lee? A little help?’

‘Fucked if I know,’ Lee replies with a smirk, sipping his coffee. ‘Just do what Dionne said.’

‘But how do I know he likes me if he won’t - ’ Bucky stops himself at the last moment (Dionne hates bad language), ‘Uh - be intimate with me?’

‘That’s not all it’s about,’ Dionne tells him, shaking her head. ‘You have to be friends, first.’

‘Friends?’

‘Yeah.’ She fidgets under his scrutiny. ‘Do things he likes. go places he likes. Find out what you like.’

Bucky nods slowly, and tries desperately to think of anything he likes doing. ‘But how should I act?’

Lee snorts. ‘Just be yourself,’ he says, and Bucky rolls his eyes.

‘Says the fount of all dating wisdom.’

Dionne rolls her eyes. ‘Why don’t you try something new?’ she asks, and the others look at her curiously. ‘That’s what we’re doing here, right? Trying new things?’ they all nod. ‘Well - do that. Try something you’ve never done before.’

Bucky finishes his coffee thoughtfully, and nods.

-

They end up at the Museum Of Modern Art, because Bucky wants to see the brightest colours he possibly can. They wander past paintings and sculptures of things he can’t identify, but which he likes nonetheless.

‘What do you think?’ Steve asks as they pause in front of a giant, wall-sized canvas, full of shapes and scribbles that fill up Bucky’s eyes.

‘It’s like they’re all speaking a language I don’t understand,’ he says with a shrug. ‘But I like it anyway.’ He catches Steve glancing at him, and frowns. ‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ Steve smiles. ‘I just...like what you said.’

Bucky pauses, trying to read into Steve’s words, but he’s forced to admit that the other man really does sound genuine - so he gives a shy smile, and turns back to his guidebook.

When they’re standing in an empty room, surrounded by blue, Bucky blurts out: ‘I’m not fucking around any more.’

Steve goes very still. He doesn’t seem to know what to say.

‘I just...thought you should know,’ Bucky tells him softly, and in that moment he regrets saying anything. Maybe he’s not supposed to talk about that kind of thing, maybe he’s completely screwed up this whole dating thing and Steve is going to -

‘Thanks for telling me,’ Steve says, voice low and gentle, and Bucky just about dares to look back up at him. ‘Are you...okay? Did anyone - ’

Bucky shakes his head. ‘No, I’m fine. I just…’ he looks away, suddenly bashful. ‘It’s just...this...you know?’ He gestures between them.

He’s still keeping his eyes on the paintings, but he hears Steve come over, and turns his head when the other man touches his shoulder. Steve leans in with a smile, and presses a soft kiss to his lips. ‘Thank you,’ Steve whispers, and Bucky spends the rest of the afternoon feeling like he’s floating.

-

The cops knock on the door just as they’re finishing breakfast. ‘We need to talk to your slave,’ they tells Steve as Bucky is in the kitchen, washing up. He can’t see the exchange, but he imagines Steve bristling when they call him that, and it almost makes him smile.

‘Here, ma’am,’ he says, stepping out into the hall, tone respectful and eyes lowered.

‘I’m Detective Hansen.’ She’s young, pretty. She doesn’t try and shake his hand. She looks back at Steve. ‘We need to talk to James about something, and we’d like to do it at the station. Is that OK?’

‘What’s it about?’ Steve asks, frowning, and the woman sighs. It’s her partner - an older man - who answers.

‘We’re close to netting a child abuser.’ Bucky feels the world start to contract around him. ‘We want to establish his background.’

‘What about Discretion?’ Bucky asks, can’t help himself - the woman looks into his eyes.

‘Jasper Sitwell,’ she says, and Bucky wants to throw up.

He wants to leave, wants to hide under the bed until this is all over, but years of training keep him rooted to the spot. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out, and the next thing he knows Steve is there, supporting him, glaring at the officers. ‘What’s going on?’ he asks, voice tight with rage, and Bucky tries to catch his breath.

‘Sitwell never owned James,’ Hansen explains. ‘So he’s not protected by Discretion.’

‘But you think he…’

‘He did,’ Bucky manages to choke out, hands balled into fists. He forces himself to stand up to his full height, walks over to the detective. ‘Did he hurt a free kid?’ She nods, and he can’t look at her any more. ‘Should have fucking known.’

‘Barnes?’ Steve asks softly, and Bucky could kiss him for not using his private name in front of the cops.

He looks over at Steve, smiles a bitter smile. ‘Nobody gives a fuck, Steve. I told you. That bastard - ’ he breaks off, shakes his head. ‘ - and nobody fucking cares what he does to slaves. Now he’s hurt a citizen, so they’re out in force.’ He glances back at the detective, stares her down. ‘This is evil, Detective. It’s a fucking sin. You should be ashamed of yourselves.’

‘Do you think it’s easy?’ she asks, squaring up to him, fixing him with brown eyes. ‘We’ve known what he’s been doing for years. Do you think it’s been easy to sit back and have to let him abuse children because the law says we can’t intervene?’

She means it. The set of her shoulders, the grim line of her mouth: she’s telling the truth. That makes him relax a little, and he looks at her through narrowed eyes. ‘I’ll help,’ he says eventually. ‘Because it’ll help a kid. But I want it on the record that this fucking sucks.’

Hansen gives him just the hint of a wry smile. ‘Join the queue, Barnes.’

-

He tells them everything.

He refuses to let Steve into the room, refuses to let him anywhere where he could overhear the conversation. There are things that Steve does not need to know.

Bucky tries to switch himself off, the way he used to be able to. He tries to freeze himself, but finds he’s lost the ability - so instead he has to feel everything as he says it, emotions coming back as if he were still that scared, confused child.

When they’re in the car, he starts crying. It’s been so long since he did it that he’s taken by surprise at first - but soon he’s overtaken by deep, wracking sobs, and Steve pulls the car over so that he can pull him into an awkward, gentle hug.

‘What am I doing?’ Bucky asks eventually, pulling away from Steve and scrubbing his face with his sleeve. ‘There are kids out there - people I knew are still being hurt, and I’ve just been fucking enjoying myself.’ The guilt is too much to bear. Suddenly it weighs on him like a pile of stones, crushing the breath out of him and grinding his bones.

Steve doesn’t say anything, just puts a hand on his knee, and Bucky has to pause for a moment and wonder at the fact that Steve’s just touching him - he doesn’t want anything in return for it. Eventually, Steve looks at him and asks quietly: ‘What do you want to do?’

It’s the same question Natasha asked him in the bar. Bucky’s fists unclench. ‘I want to change the law,’ he says finally. ‘I want to make it impossible for someone to sell anyone else into slavery.’

Steve pauses for a moment, then draws him in for a firm kiss. ‘OK, Bucky Barnes,’ he says, when Bucky’s still reeling a little because he hadn’t realised you could just kiss someone for no reason. ‘Let’s go save people.'

-

Lee calls him a few days later, asks to meet for lunch, and they sit in a tiny sandwich place picking at their food.

‘Are you alright?’

Bucky shrugs. There’s no point in even asking what makes Lee think he isn’t alright - the guy can read him like a book. ‘I feel like I’m floating. Nothing seems…’

‘...Real?’ Bucky looks up, and Lee’s smiling. ‘I felt the same way. Couldn’t sleep for weeks, I was so scared.’

‘What did you do?’

It’s Lee’s turn to shrug. ‘Got used to it, I suppose.’

‘Keep on going.’

‘Exactly.’

There’s a slight pause, and then Lee glances up at him. ‘Look, I - I wanted to see you because my housemate has just told me she’s moving out soon. And I wondered if you...had found a place yet.’

Bucky stares at him, dumbfounded. SHIELD has an apartment on the books that they’re happy for him to use for a while, but the thought of living alone makes him break out in a cold sweat. He’s spent his life in dormitories and close quarters, even living with just Steve has been an education. ‘That - would be amazing,’ he manages to say, and Lee smiles.

‘Great - I’ll text you the address, you can come round and have a look tomorrow night.’

They sit in a silence for a while, Bucky feeling as if a weight he didn’t even know was there has been lifted from his shoulders.

When they’re just finishing their food, Lee clears his throat softly and says: ‘I was born a girl.’

Bucky glances at him, sees that his hazel eyes are fixed determinedly on his plate. ‘Oh,’ Bucky says, notes that Lee’s shoulders are hunched and tense, his hands clenched. ‘That’s cool.’

His mind teems with questions, confusions, a mad scramble for information. He thinks about everything he could ask, and settles for: ‘Do you want to help me change the slavery laws?’

Lee gives him a sideways glance, then, slowly, he smiles.

-

‘That’s great news,’ Steve says at 2am, sitting next to him on the floor as Bucky tells him about Lee. ‘He sounds like a good guy.’

Bucky smiles to himself. ‘He is.’

‘You know you can come over anytime, right?’ Steve asks, and Bucky wishes he could turn the light on to see if he’s blushing. He certainly sounds like he is, voice tight with tension, and Bucky smiles in the darkness. ‘If you - if you need anything.’

‘In case I get lonely, you mean?’ Bucky asks with a smirk, turning to lean into Steve’s personal space. His voice is low, and while it’s too dark to see Steve shudder, Bucky knows it’s happening - he didn’t spend all those years with clients for nothing. He inches closer until their bodies are touching, his lips brushing Steve’s neck as he asks: ‘And what would suggest I do, if I get lonely?’

It’s almost freeing, really. This is something he knows like the back of his hand, something he could do in his sleep. He’s almost doing it without realising - sure, they talked about not taking things physically further for a few months, but Steve doesn’t really mean that, right?

Steve’s breathing fast, and he’s very warm - he turns his head slowly, as if he can’t quite work out what’s going on. ‘Bucky…’

‘Mm?’ Bucky moves up so they’re nose-to-nose, and the space between them is electric - he’s finally starting to understand all those books he’s been reading. He leans in, and as their mouths touch he gasps, reaching up to pull Steve in closer and part his lips with his tongue.

Bucky has never looked forward to sex. With clients it’s uncomfortable at best, painful at worst. With other slaves it’s different, but not really much better - hard and fierce, not gentle at all, and half the time he didn’t get off on it. But for some reason he finds that he doesn’t mind the thought of doing it with Steve.

He figures this is how it must be when you really like someone.

The kiss deepens, and Bucky’s practically on auto-pilot - he slides one leg over Steve and in one graceful movement he’s sitting in the other man’s lap, giving a hum of pleasure when he feels Steve’s erection pressing against his stomach. He moves experimentally and Steve gives a choked-off moan, reaches up to clutch at his shoulder, so he carries on - keeps the kiss open-mouthed and intense, and moves his hips lazily against the Steve’s.

‘We should stop,’ Steve manages to mumble, but Bucky cuts him off with a swipe of his tongue, because this is all he knows how to do.

One of Steve’s hands rubs down his back and Bucky smiles against his mouth, leaning into the touch. But then the hand slides between them, and Bucky knows he’s in trouble - he does his best to shift away, but Steve keeps going, and in a moment the guy’s broken the kiss. It’s too dark to see his expression, but Bucky doesn’t need to.

‘Bucky - ’ Steve starts, but Bucky shakes his head, leans in to kiss him again.

‘It’ll get there,’ he says against Steve’s mouth, but the other man pulls away once more.

‘Wait,’ Steve says, and Bucky feels a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Steve reaches up to stroke a thumb against his cheek. ‘Bucky - be honest, OK? Are you into this?’

Bucky opens his mouth to say of course I am, gorgeous, or just shut up and fuck me already, and closes it with a snap. ‘Shit,’ he says eventually, pushing himself off Steve’s lap and lunging for the light switch.

Illuminated, Steve looks as gorgeous as ever, slightly dishevelled, the outline of his hard-on visible through his track pants. But he’s frowning, and Bucky knows that he must be cowering a little, because Steve suddenly sits up and holds out his hands, as if gentling a frightened animal.

‘Sorry,’ Bucky says before he can help it, shaking his head. ‘I know we agreed - ’

‘You don’t have to say sorry,’ Steve tells him, and when Bucky listens hard, he realises he’s telling the truth.

‘I think it was the dark, or - I dunno, I just…’

‘Bucky, it’s okay - it’s fine.’ Steve looks so earnest, so serious, that Bucky feels something tug in his chest. ‘I get it: this isn’t going to be plain sailing. That’s fine.’

Bucky realises he’s crouching on the other side of the room, and forces himself to relax. He moves slowly, creeps back to the couch and sits next to Steve, careful not to touch him. ‘Maybe I should talk to that therapist,’ he murmurs, and Steve smiles at him.

‘Maybe you should,’ he says, but there’s no judgement in his voice, no hint that he thinks Bucky is crazy. Steve reaches over very slowly, and takes one of Bucky’s hands in his, twining their fingers together. ‘Is this okay?’ he asks.

‘I’m not made of glass, Steve.’

Steve just smiles. ‘Maybe it’s time someone treated you that way.’

-

The next day, Steve leaves a note in the kitchen. I've made a therapist appointment, it reads. Your turn.

Chapter Text

Mom,

How kind of you to write.

Never contact me again.

Your son,

James

-

The slave registry needs two witnesses to Bucky’s freedom - his owner, and one other.

‘I’m going to ask Coulson,’ he tells Steve, and tries to hide his smile when the other man gapes at him in surprise. ‘What?’

‘Nothing - I just...’

‘I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for him,’ he replies, and Steve gives a slow nod of understanding. Because it’s true - Coulson is the reason for all of this. He picked Steve for the Milestone mission. He’s kind, and patient, and Bucky hasn’t even spent all that much time with him, but he has so much respect for the man that it almost scares him.

Coulson agrees instantly, looks a little overwhelmed and says that he’s honoured. ‘Pictures, or it didn’t happen,’ Natasha says when Bucky tells her, and since he has no photographic proof of the look on Coulson’s face, she waves him off. But Bucky knows, and for reasons he can’t quite explain, he treasures it.

The registry is a squat, grey building on the outskirts of town. He expects to feel something when he gets here, a pang or a jolt - after all, this is where his mother sold him - but nothing happens: they walk through the door and go through to the waiting room.

‘I feel like this is all a joke,’ he blurts out, unable to look at Steve as he says it. ‘Like I’m actually going to be sold again.’

Steve reaches for him, holds his shoulders and looks into his eyes with an intensity that makes Bucky breathless. ‘ Never ,’ he says, and Bucky’s hands start to shake.

The door opens, and Steve lets him go - they turn to see Coulson enter, a small smile on his face. ‘Good morning,’ he murmurs, and takes a seat. They do the same, and suddenly Bucky can’t think of anything to say.

He doesn’t need to, though, because the door opens again - and it’s Natasha , with Clint behind her, both looking like cats who got the cream. They make their way over to the grey, featureless chairs, and the five of them sit in silence until Bucky manages to relax his throat enough to say: ‘I didn’t ask…’

Natasha just looks at him. ‘You think we wouldn’t want to be here?’ she asks, and Bucky feels a prickle behind his eyelids.

-

Mom,

I’m in something like 100 films. Not bad for 23, eh? What can I say - I started young. You’ll never see them (I hope). I wouldn’t call myself a star, but I am really, really, really good at being fucked on camera, so at least you can be proud of me for something.

Jamie

-

In the end, it’s startlingly quick. Steve and Coulson sign a few forms, then Bucky signs one, and then that’s it: he’s free. They remove his microchip, give him a framed copy of his certificate of freedom, and practically throw the whole lot of them out of the door.

Steve’s made him an appointment at a clinic to have his barcode laser-removed, and the others join him for that as well, sitting in the waiting area until Bucky comes back out to join them, a raw, itching spot on his right wrist.

‘Pancakes,’ Clint says decisively, and so they end up in a breakfast place, eating in companionable silence because somehow these people seem to understand that he doesn’t want to talk.

He wants to cry, scream, dance - anything . His heart is racing, his hands are shaking, but… ‘I don’t feel any different.’

Steve’s smoothing out his napkin in a way that’s starting to make Bucky worry, but then Clint distracts him:

‘There’s this Zen thing,' he says, leaning forward in his chair. 'The world doesn’t change, only your perception of it does.’ Clint shrugs. ‘The world hasn’t changed, man - just your position in it.’

They all turn and stare at him - even Coulson.

Clint rolls his eyes, crosses his arms defensively. ‘What? So Natasha’s the only one who’s allowed to say deep and meaningful shit?’

Natasha snorts, and then they’re all laughing. Bucky looks at them all, and feels his chest slowly start to unclench.

-

Mom,

Google the recent charges brought against Alexander Pierce and Jasper Sitwell, and tell me you thought you were doing the right thing.

James

-

Her name is Dr Montez. Bucky asks around at the support group and May recommends her - and since Bucky is rapidly realising that most people there would trust May with their lives, he takes her at her word.

‘I’m not used to talking about things,’ he says to the doctor, cautiously, and she smiles.

‘Freedmen and women never are,’ she tells him, and he likes the way she says freedman instead of ex-slave . ‘You can talk about as much as you want to. But the more you talk, the more I can help.’

He looks down at his lap for a moment, then remembers the pile of letters on his bed at home. ‘My mom got in touch with me,’ he says, fists clenched. He can’t look at her as he speaks. ‘She’s the one who sold me. When I was a kid. She sent all these letters to the record office, they sent them through after I got freed.’

The doctor looks at him with warm brown eyes. ‘Have you read the letters?’

Bucky nods. ‘She says she was a drug addict. She says she went through rehab a few years after she sold me, that it was the worst thing she ever did, and she’s regretted it ever since.’ He can feel something building in his throat, feel a block of ice in his chest. ‘She just wants me to make her feel better.’

‘Do you want to see her?’

‘No.’ The answer is instant. Bucky shakes his head. ‘I have all these photos, ones my owners took.’ He sneaks a look at her out of the corner of his eye and he can tell that she knows what kind of pictures he’s talking about. ‘I wanted to send her a load of them. Show her what happened to me, because of her.’

‘But you didn’t?’

A fond smile flickers for a moment. ‘My friend Lee made me sleep on it before I sent them,’ he tells her. ‘The next day, I wasn’t so angry - but I still don’t want to see her.’ He glances up at Dr Montez, knows he probably looks like a kicked puppy. His stomach is churning, and he can feel sweat on his brow. Just talking about this shit is like running a marathon, but he already understands why therapy can be more helpful than talking to friends. He couldn’t say this to Steve or Lee. ‘She wants...forgiveness. Absolution. I can’t forgive her.’

‘Why don’t you try writing to her?’ Montez asks, voice gentle. ‘You don’t have to see her. Nobody can make you do anything you don’t want to do.’

Bucky has to smile. ‘I guess you spend a lot of time saying that to people like me.’

‘Yes,’ she replies bluntly, and he has to return her smile. ‘But I’m going to keep saying it until you believe it.’

-

Mom,

I was the favourite in three places. I hope you know how rare that is. But you know me - I only know how to be the best. It worked pretty well the first two times, but there’s an argument that it wasn’t my wisest career choice for the third place.

I have a lot of scars from that last place. Wish you could see them.

James

-

Detective Hansen calls him in again to talk about Sitwell. He has to go into more detail, and at the end she pulls out a sheaf of photos, goes through them with him to see if he can identify any other children.

He recognises a few, but it’s a frustrating exercise for both of them, and he’s glad to be out of the small, stuffy room as soon as they’re done.

‘Jamie?’ A quiet voice asks as he walks through reception, and he turns to see a young man behind him. For a moment he tenses, ready for fight or flight, but then he realises the kid looking at him can’t be older than sixteen, skinny and scared.

He knows that face. Bucky looks him over carefully for a moment. A mop of brown hair falls over big, dark eyes. ‘I know you,’ Bucky says softly, frowning in concentration, and the kid gives a nervous nod.

‘We were at the same place.’ He’s looking at the floor now. ‘Joseph.’

His features slot into place in Bucky’s memory. ‘ Jos,’ he says, remembering the kid’s private name, and Jos looks up at him for a moment with a hesitant smile.

‘Yeah,’ he says shyly, and Bucky remembers the last time they saw one another. It was at his last place before Pierce, a filmmaker with a type - pretty, coltish boys who looked good in bed together. He’d been elevenish to Bucky’s eighteen, beautiful in a way that even then had been completely arresting.

In Bucky’s dream, the one he’d told Steve about, it’s Jos’s face he sees.

‘Fuck, man.’ He’s not the huggy type, he doesn’t know what to do. They aren’t friends , they were never close - Bucky just looked out for the littles, and Jos had been one of them. They stare at each other for a moment, and the silence is full of a gun barrel being pressed to Bucky’s head, full of Jos’s sobs and a grown man’s insistent demands. There are some things too big to talk about.

How are you doing? He could ask. But he learned not to ask that question a long time ago - the same rules he gave to Desiree all those months ago apply to this: nobody likes hearing it, and nobody likes saying it . So Bucky looks closely at Jos’s face in an attempt to scry what’s going on in the kid’s head.

‘You OK?’ he asks, and the kid nods.

‘My new owner’s nice,’ he says quietly. ‘I’m just a house slave. She let me come here by myself.’ Bucky raises an eyebrow, impressed. It’s rare to find an owner who will allow their property out unguarded.

‘You’re here to talk about Sitwell,’ Bucky says after a moment. It’s not a question - there’s only one reason Jos would be here. The kid nods, and Bucky gives him what he hopes is a smile. ‘The detective’s nice,’ he offers. ‘She’s going to put him away.’

Their eyes meet for a moment, and they smile.

‘I never did it with a little,’ Jos murmurs, and Bucky’s brow creases in a frown.

‘Huh?’

‘I wouldn’t do it with a kid, in front of the cameras.’ Jos lifts his head, and Bucky sees pride in the set of his jaw, the light in his eyes. ‘After - what you did. For me.’

It takes a moment, but Bucky gets there. Because now he thinks about it, Jos is young to be let go - Bucky wasn’t sold until he was a few years older than Jos is now. They must have had a reason to get rid of him, and what better reason than that he wouldn’t obey orders? ‘That why they sold you?’ he asks, already knowing the answer, and Jos nods.

‘I wouldn’t do it.’ He scuffs his foot, looks embarrassed. ‘I wanted to be like you,’ he says, and the words are like a confession.

A smile starts somewhere in Bucky’s chest, and he pulls the kid into a hug before he can stop himself. ‘You’re a hero,’ he whispers into the boy’s hair, holding him tight for a moment. ‘A real-life superhero.’ He releases Jos, brings his face close and presses their foreheads together. ‘You got that?’

Jos nods shyly, cheeks red, and Bucky pulls away. Detective Hansen has emerged. She’s looking at them with an unreadable expression, and Bucky glances back to Jos. ‘Do you want me to come in with you?’ he asks. Jos nods again, relief in every line of his body.

He sits next to Jos all the way through the kid’s interview, a reassuring presence at his side.

After hearing what the kid has to say, he throws up in the station’s bathroom until he feels empty and numb.

-

Mom,

Technically, I killed five cops. Does that make me a serial killer? I didn’t do any of the actual murder, but I’d say that they were 100% killed because of me.

I’m still not sure why I picked Steve.

James

-

Steve’s been seeing his doctor for a few weeks, now, and when they go out to dinner Bucky notes with delight that there are no nervously-smoothed napkins, no tracing the edge of the plate. He doesn’t comment on it, doesn’t want to draw attention to it - but Steve sees him looking, and when he smiles he looks happier than Bucky’s ever seen him in the last year.

‘It’s not over,’ Steve says with a self-conscious shrug. ‘I don’t think it’ll e ver be over. But he’s given me something to take, and CBT, and...it’s getting better.’

Bucky wants to kiss him, then - so he does, getting to his feet and leaning over the table so he can press their lips softly together. Steve looks up at him in surprise and delight, and Bucky feels something light up in his stomach.

Suddenly it’s like a fever, his breath coming fast and shallow, and he’s hyper-aware of everywhere they’re touching - their knees under the table, the brush of their hands as they both reach for the salt, and he shoots Steve a hot look. ‘Skip dessert?’ he asks, and Steve’s eyes go wide as he nods, a shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

They pay as quickly as they can, and do their best to leave the restaurant without running. Steve’s place is closer, so they go there, Bucky idly running his fingers over Steve’s knee while they’re sitting next to each other in the subway.

They’re barely through the door when Bucky turns around, pushes Steve up against the wall and starts exploring his mouth with his tongue. He’s breathing hard, hands tingling - Steve moves against him and they’re both hard, the feeling drawing a moan from Bucky’s lips even as worry starts to pool in his stomach.

Steve brings a hand up to cup his cheek, draws away from the kiss to ask: ‘Are you with me?’

‘Yeah,’ Bucky replies hoarsely, twisting his fingers in Steve’s hair in an effort to anchor himself. ‘I…’ I’m not sure how to do this , he wants to say, because this isn’t a back-room screw and it isn’t client-pleasing duty, but then he feels himself drifting into Steve’s blue eyes and he just smiles, slides his hands underneath Steve’s shirt and traces his spine.

Steve grins, and as if they’re dancing, he pulls them around so that Bucky’s back is against the wall and Steve’s pressed up against him. His kisses are deep and hot, and every time his tongue flicks against Bucky’s, he moves lazily and the friction makes Bucky gasp..

And maybe this is what scares him. With clients, with Pierce, in the movies, he knew where he was. He knew what he had to do. Get them off how they wanted to be got off, then leave - it was easy. But here , with Steve making him feel good, touching him like he’s something precious, he’s at a loss.

Stop worrying , he tells himself firmly. Stop over-thinking it . He takes a deep breath, and - hands shaking a little - he steps back from Steve to pull his shirt off over his head.

It’s worth it for the change in Steve’s expression: awe and lust combined in a way that makes his stomach jolt. Then Steve strips off his own shirt and steps closer to him - they’re skin to skin, and the feeling is so intoxicating that Bucky moans again, head tipping back as Steve starts mouthing along his collarbone. Steve’s hands come to rest on his belt buckle, and when the other man pulls away a little, Bucky opens his eyes to look at him curiously.

‘Is this okay?’ Steve asks, a frown of concern starting between his eyes. ‘I don’t want to rush anything - ’

Bucky considers remarking on how ridiculous Steve’s worry is, given his circumstances - but he knows this isn’t the time or place, and instead he just reaches for one of Steve’s hands, moves it down to press against his erection. ‘I want you,’ he says simply, mouth dry. ‘It’s scary - scary as shit - but I want you .’

Steve stares at him for a long moment, as if trying to read his face - then he smiles. ‘I want you, too,’ he replies, and leans in for a hungry kiss.

They move to the bedroom, Bucky unsure which of them is doing the leading - and then Steve sits down on the bed, pulling Bucky down so that he’s straddling Steve’s lap. It’s the same position they were in the other night, which almost makes him balk, but this time the lights are on and Steve is smiling, and he can’t forget where he is. He pushes Steve pack until they’re lying down, kissing him fast and wet and dirty, and starts working on the other man’s zipper.

Soon they’re both naked, and for a moment Bucky’s self-conscious - he’s covered in scars, and Steve is so ridiculously perfect that he feels inadequate next to him. But Steve’s looking at him as if he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and when he pulls their hips together and their cocks brush, Bucky forgets to be nervous.

It feels amazing, the warm slickness of precome between them as they move together, unhurried and smiling, and Bucky’s never done anything like this before. Steve is moaning into his neck, one hand between them to stroke their cocks together and Bucky cries out, tries to explore every inch of Steve with his hands and lips and tongue as intense pleasure starts to build at the base of his spine.

‘Oh - oh fuck,’ he manages to say before he comes, clutching at Steve’s hair and clinging onto him as he gasps and shudders. Then Steve gives a hoarse shout and comes between them, hot and wet, and they hold each other for a long moment, panting and sheened with sweat.

Is that what it’s supposed to be like? Bucky wonders, but he doesn’t quite dare to say it. Instead he kisses Steve like a drowning man desperate for air, and Steve seems to understand that he needs this, needs the silence between them, because it’s too much to deal with at the moment.

Eventually he looks up at Steve, feels his throat constrict. Because this was stolen from him, and all the might-have-beens threaten to rise up and overwhelm him for a moment.

But Bucky hasn’t cried since he was six, and he doesn’t plan to start now that he’s in Steve’s bed. ‘I hope you realise we’re going to have to do this a lot,’ he says with a smile, and if his voice sounds a little like he’s on the verge of tears, Steve is too polite to say anything.

Instead, the other man just returns his grin, and reaches up to stroke his cheek. ‘I’m counting on it.’

-

Nat finds him in the break room, poring over his tablet and making notes. ‘What’s up?’ she asks, which is how he tells her about his quest. He worries she’ll laugh at him, but she doesn’t - she just calmly gives him the name of a lawyer she’s been recommended, and when he mentions that his and Lee’s current plan is to offer a share of their pay every month to whoever they get to help them on this, she offers to match their contributions.

‘I can’t let you do that,’ he tells her, and she just raises her eyebrows.

‘Why not?’ she asks. ‘I want to help, just as much as you do.’

Which is how he find himself in the slightly shabby office of Nelson and Murdock, fidgeting with his second-hand clothes and trying to look like he should be here.

Nelson introduces himself with a grin, shaking Bucky’s hand (and it’s so hard not to call him sir , which Bucky has been calling free men all his life). Murdock doesn’t reach out to him, and as he touches the wall on the way into their office, Bucky realises it’s because he’s blind.

‘What can we help you with?’ Nelson asks, once they’re sitting at a desk with cups of coffee in front of them.

Bucky swallows hard, tries to stop himself fidgeting. He probably looks like a junkie, or something. ‘I’m a freedman,’ he tells them, ducking his head so that he doesn’t have to see the expressions on their faces. ‘Got freed last week. I…’ He knows he’s supposed to be grateful that he doesn’t have to be Jamie any more, but at least Jamie always knew what to say. Bucky is nervous, awkward.

He glances up and sees sympathy in Nelson’s eyes, sees Murdock’s mouth twisted in concern. They’re listening, he realises. They actually seem to be listening to what he has to say.

He tells them everything. Briefly, but it’s all the truth - and at the end, he tells them what he wants to do.

Murdock frowns, leans back a little in his chair. ‘No minors or dependents?’ he asks. ‘Why not try and change more?’

‘This’ll be hard enough,’ Bucky says with a shrug. ‘First things first, you know?’

The two men nod slowly. ‘It’s a good starting point,’ Nelson remarks, looking over at his partner. ‘Start small, then go big.’

‘You think we could?’ Bucky asks. ‘Go big, I mean?’

Murdock gives a wolfish grin, and Nelson smirks. ‘You don’t know him when he gets a cause,’ Nelson says with a smile, jerking his thumb at his partner. ‘He’s like a dog with a bone.’

‘We’ll take your case,’ Murdock tells him, the small smirk on his face implying that he chooses to rise above Nelson’s comments. ‘I can’t promise it’ll be quick…’

‘However long it takes.’ Bucky knows he’s smiling like a lunatic, and when he looks back at Nelson, the other man is grinning as well.

-

Mom,

I appreciate that you have taken the time to write to me. It’s good that you’re not on drugs any more. I’m glad that your life is better.

My life is better too. I’ve been freed.

I am angry with you. I have been angry with you since I was six. You have to understand that I have had a very bad time. I won’t tell you any details because it won’t help me or you, but if you think about the kind of man who would buy a little boy, you have an idea of the kind of person who owned me.

I know you want to see me, but I cannot see you. You did a very bad thing to me, and I’m not sure that right now I could cope with seeing you. I need to get better before I help you.

Maybe one day we will see each other.

James.

Chapter Text

Bucky still can’t fire a gun without that sick, nervous feeling shuddering through him, so he has to admit defeat.

He expects Clint to be disappointed, imagines Coulson re-thinking his contract with SHIELD, but instead the older man just gives him a nod. ‘We’ll put you in as a junior agent,’ he says calmly. ‘You can be on cleanup.’

So he doesn’t go in the first wave of people, with Steve and Natasha and Clint, who break into buildings and save the day. Instead he follows behind with the others, cleaning up the mess that heroes make when they take on bad guys. He comforts children, talks to neighbours, helps with insurance claims on damaged property. He offers a smile, puts on the human face of SHIELD, and people seem to respond.

Bucky has to admit - he enjoys it. He likes being there for people, reassuring them after their building has been raided, or an unidentifiable thing has been found in their basement.

He’s begun to get a reputation among the others as the go-to person where civilians are involved - the one who knows just waht to say, and who knows when to get the hell out before a fractious person gets mad.

He isn’t sure it’s what he wants to do for the rest of his life, but just being able to even say that, to think about his future, is so alien that it paralyses him. He’ll stay with SHIELD for now. He owes them that much.

-

‘I wouldn’t usually do this,’ Detective Hansen tells him over the phone. ‘But a kid’s turned up, a slave, and the officer who specialises in working with children is away…’

‘You want me to help?’ He can’t keep the surprise from his voice, and she sighs.

‘We’re stuck,’ she says bluntly. ‘He won’t talk to anyone. At all. And since you’re a SHIELD agent, I can officially request your services.’

‘I’ll need to ask my supervisor.’

‘Agent Coulson? He’s already given his permission.’

He has to smile - her efficiency is startling. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour,’ he tells her, and says his goodbyes.

-

‘I really am grateful for this,’ she says when he gets there, offering him a genuine smile. ‘We’re pretty much at a loss. The kid’s been here four hours and he hasn’t said a word to anyone. He won’t eat, won’t drink anything...’

They start walking. ‘Where did you find him?’

‘He was picked up by a patrol car, sleeping rough.’ the detective leads him through a maze of interrogation rooms, finally stopping outside one of them. ‘He’s got a slave’s barcode, but we haven’t been able to get close enough to take down the numbers.’

‘You want me to find out what’s going on?’

‘If you can.’ Hansen shrugs. ‘You were so good with Joseph, last week - I thought you might be able to work your magic again.’

‘That wasn’t magic,’ he says. ‘We knew each other.’

‘You got him to talk,’ she replies, and her tone tells him that she’ll brook no argument.

Bucky looks through the one-way glass. A boy, maybe 12 or so, is sitting curled in the corner of a bare interrogation room, hugging his knees to his chest. He has a shock of dark, red-brown hair, and his face is buried in his arms. The familiarity of the boy’s posture makes his chest ache - he’s seen it a hundred times before.

‘He won’t take food from you unless he knows what you want from him,’ Bucky tells her absently as he studies the boy. ‘You have to make it a trade. Otherwise he’ll think it’s a trap.’

‘You see?’ Hansen says with a half-smile. ‘This is what I meant. You know this shit, Barnes.'

So Bucky shrugs, buys a bottle of water from the nearest vending machine, and steps into the room.

The boy flinches as Bucky enters, but doesn’t move except to lift his head slightly, regarding him with nervous eyes. Bucky smiles at him, and Hansen follows him inside - when the door closes, he turns to her. ‘Detective Hansen, could you sit in the other corner, please?’ he asks, indicating the place in the room opposite where the child is attempting to hide. She nods her assent and pulls a chair over, while Bucky approaches the boy as slowly as he can.

‘I’m James,’ he says, and sits down cross-legged against the same wall as the boy, about a metre away from him. The boy watches his every move, and Bucky doesn’t miss the way he shifts, just slightly, when Bucky pulls out the bottle of water.

He twists the cap, sees the boy register the snap of the seal being broken. ‘It’s just water,’ Bucky tells him, and takes a swig to prove it’s safe before he places the bottle between them. The kid watches him for a long moment before reaching out a tentative hand. He picks the bottle up slowly and pulls it closer, watching Bucky the whole time in case the older man moves to take it from him.

He drinks quickly, some of it spilling out of the corners of his mouth, and that tells Bucky everything he needs to know about when the boy last ate and drank.

Slowly, careful not to make the boy panic, Bucky extends his right hand and turns it over, pulling up the sleeve of his jacket to show the barcode-scar on his wrist.

The boy’s eyes widen, and he looks up at Bucky with a mute question written on his face. Bucky nods. ‘I was a slave since I was six,’ Bucky tells him, and the boy relaxes ever so slightly. His eyes flick from the empty water bottle in his hand to Bucky’s face, and Bucky shrugs in answer to his unspoken query. ‘The water’s a freebie,’ he says. ‘We can get you some food, but we’ll need to ask you some questions before we do.’

A pause, then: ‘How many questions?’ the boy asks, voice hoarse.

‘Six,’ Bucky replies, pulling the number out of the air. ‘Six, and you get half a sandwich. Six more, and you get the other half. Does that sound OK?’

Nothing ever comes for free. He remembers saying it to Steve, all those months ago, and his gut twists when the boy finally nods.

Bucky fishes in his pocket and pulls out some small change, lining up six nickels on the floor in front of him. ‘Six questions,’ he repeats, and pushes the first coin forward. ‘What’s your full name and serial number?’

The boy bites his lip. ‘Pietro Maximoff,’ he murmurs, and in the corner of his eye Bucky sees Hansen scribble down the number he reels off. She lets herself out of the room for a moment, and a different female detective comes in to take her place. Bucky’s gaze never leaves the boy’s.

He moves the second coin, keeps his tone gentle as his asks: ‘Tell me why you were out on the street instead of at your master’s house.’

‘I was lent out,’ Pietro tells him, looking down at the floor. ‘They left me at his house. After, he rang but they wouldn’t come and get me. They told him to let me go, that I’d go back to them. But I don’t know the way back.’

Bucky frowns. ‘They knew that you don’t know how to get back?’ he asks, pushing another coin into the line. Pietro nods, and Bucky studies him for a moment. ‘And your master hasn’t come looking for you?’

The boy shakes his head.

‘How long ago was this?’

‘Two nights ago. Tuesday afternoon.’

Bucky pushes the last three coins into place. ‘Tell me the name of the man you were lent to,’ he says. When the boy hesitates, Bucky offers an encouraging smile. ‘If he doesn’t own you, Discretion doesn’t apply.’

Pietro looks back down at the floor, and whispers: ‘Jasper Sitwell.’

-

While Pietro eats his first half of sandwich, Bucky and Hansen pace the halls outside his room.

‘It’s too much of a coincidence,’ Hansen says flatly, casting an uneasy look through the glass. ‘We’re getting ready to make our move on Sitwell - we’ve got ten testimonies from previous enslaved victims, and one free child. This kid arrives practically on our doorstep, and he’s been with Sitwell recently? It’s too weird.’

‘Who owns him?’

‘We’re just getting his record now.’ She pauses, looks over at him with a frown. ‘What was thing with the water, by the way?’

Bucky shrugs. ‘When we were kids they’d drug us all the time, put something in our drink. He wouldn’t have taken it unless he knew it was safe.’

‘Huh.’ He can’t quite work out what she’s thinking, but she looks a little impressed.

‘Look - Sitwell’s a powerful guy, right?’

She gives a huff of laughter. ‘And then some. The guy runs half the gangs in the city, he's bribed half the politicians. With Alexander Pierce out of the way, he’s making a killing.’ Hansen grimaces. ‘Sorry - “killing” - poor choice of word. Anyway...that’s why we’re taking so long. Everything has to be watertight.’

Bucky nods, a wry smile coming to his lips. ‘So he has enemies, right?’

‘Must have.’ Her eyes narrow. ‘Why?’

‘Just a hunch. I’ll need to see his file before I know if I’m right.’ Bucky sighs, runs a hand through his hair. ‘Just - it’s funny you should mention Alexander Pierce. He pulled a trick like this once.’

Discretion is so ingrained that it’s actually hard for him to say that, to speak the man’s name, and he can feel his heart rate pick up as his flight reaction kicks in. But Hansen’s steady and forthright, and she really seems to care - about the victims, about slaves, about him. Her expression changes, and she tilts her head to look at him with something like suspicion. ‘You knew him, huh?’

‘Discretion is the better part of valour, ma’am,’ he tells her with a Jamie grin, and she actually chuckles.

‘Say no more - I don’t want either of us to get in trouble,’ she replies, but there’s a smile in her eyes.

They both look in at Pietro, who’s eating his sandwich with the slow, deliberate care of someone who doesn’t know where their next meal is coming from. ‘Poor kid,’ Hansen murmurs. She looks sidelong at Bucky. ‘Please tell me that “lent out” doesn’t mean what I think it means.’

He swallows. ‘It means exactly what you think it means,’ he tells her, and she gives a sad nod.

‘Bastards,’ she says with venom, mouth flattening into a line. Bucky opens his mouth to tell her about his case, the idea which the lawyer Nelson says has actually started gaining some traction - but then a junior officer appears, file in hand, and Hansen doesn’t even look at it. She passes it straight to Bucky, and that gesture of trust makes something stir in his chest.

Pride.

A quick skim of the document is all it takes - Bucky looks up at her with a grin. ‘We’ve got him,’ he says. He pulls open the door to the interrogation room, and Hansen follows with a frown.

Pietro looks up, picking the crumbs from his clothes, and nods in wary acceptance when Bucky sits down next to him again. Hansen takes her seat, brow still furrowed. ‘Barnes, what’s this about?’

Bucky just holds up a hand for her to wait, and turns to Pietro. He pulls the coins closer, and then pushes one back into the former line - a tacit reminder of their bargain. ‘Pietro, are you completely certain you’ve been out on the street for two nights?’ The boy nods. Bucky moves another coin, and asks: ‘Can you show me the back of your neck? I promise not to touch.’

The kid clearly isn’t keen, but he does as asked, leaning forward and pulling down the collar of his t-shirt.

‘Hansen,’ Bucky waves her over, and points to a small, red mark on the boy’s neck. ‘See that? Microchip removal mark.’ He pulls down his own collar and shows her the almost-healed welt just right of his spine, then holds up the file for both of them to see. ‘Pietro, your owner freed you on Monday morning.’

The boy goes completely still. Hansen’s frown deepens. ‘Freed him?’

‘Yeah.’ He turns his head to glance at her. ‘Pierce did exactly the same thing once - you can find the case file.’ His heart is racing, elation running through him in a hot wave. ‘He freed this girl, but didn’t tell her, didn’t tell anyone at all. Just ran the paperwork, and took out her microchip. Then he sent her to someone who crossed him on a deal. The guy beat her up real bad, then sent her back. But Pierce doesn’t take her back - he takes her to the police.’ He meets Hansen’s eyes, tries to make her understand. ‘And because she was free, what the guy did to her was illegal.’

Dawn breaks on Hansen’s face, and an incredulous smile starts at the corners of her mouth. ‘So Pietro’s owner did the same thing?’

‘Look - ‘ Bucky points at the relevant entry on the file. ‘He was free when he was sent to Sitwell. It was a trap.’

Her frown returns. ‘But his owner must have known - that we’re going after Sitwell.’

Bucky shrugs. ‘Pierce had people in the police,’ he says. ‘Everyone knew. Makes sense this guy would have a contact or two.’

Hansen sits down on the chair, mouth slightly open. ‘So my department has been compromised.’

‘By someone who gifted you a Sitwell victim.’ Bucky looks back at Pietro, pushes another coin from the pile. ‘Pietro, have you washed since then?’ The boy shakes his head, and Bucky turns to Hansen in triumph. ‘DNA evidence.’

She looks overwhelmed - by the news that she has even more concrete evidence, or the news that she has a mole, he can’t guess. Maybe both.

‘Look, kid,’ Bucky smiles at Pietro. ‘You’re free. Says so right here.’ He holds the paper out, and the boy snatches it from him, running his finger down the columns until he finds the confirmation. When Pietro looks back up at him, his eyes are huge with amazement. ‘Do you have any family?’ Bucky asks, and the boy bites his lip.

‘My sister. Wanda.’

‘We’ll see if we can find her,’ Bucky tells him. ‘What can you tell me about her?’

The boy shrugs, looks at the floor, and Bucky wonders when they were separated. ‘She’s older than me. She has red hair.’

Wanda Maximoff. They should be able to find out what happened to her - and what the circumstances of their enslavement were. If they were sold by their parents, returning Pietro would hardly be a good deed.

Bucky retrieves the second half of the sandwich from the table, and offers it to the boy. ‘You can eat this. Then we need to get a doctor to look at you, okay?’

Pietro gives a reluctant nod, and begins to eat.

Hansen looks down at him, up at Bucky, and offers a grim smile.

-

He manages to get in touch with May, who recommends a group home. Bucky shepherds Pietro through a battery of tests, watching like a hawk as the doctors poke and prod him, before he lets social services take the boy away.

Then he goes to the slavery record office and finds their file on Wanda Maximoff. The siblings were sold four years ago, but according to Wanda’s notes, she was freed last year - no circumstances are listed as to why. Bucky and she actually have one owner in common, one of the film-makers, but he doesn’t recognise her name. Then again, he thinks, I never had much to do with the girls, anyway.

But then he turns the page and sees her photo, taken when she was first sold as a child, and he realises that he does know her, after all.

Chapter Text

He can’t keep still, all the next day. He’s distracted at work, nervous and jumpy. ‘What’s up with you?’ Clint asks as they’re filling out paperwork after a raid, and Bucky feels his cheeks warm - he hadn’t realised he was so obvious.

Support group starts at 7.30, and Bucky gets there for 7, hanging around the VA while everyone else arrives in dribs and drabs.

The redhead gets there at the last minute, and he takes a step towards her - but then May is at his elbow, asking if things worked out with the group home she recommended, and he’s trapped in conversation until the session begins.

They still don’t know her name. She never says it when they go around the circle - just looks at the floor until the person on her other side realises she isn’t going to speak. She has no phone, no e-mail that they know of. Bucky has been seeing her twice a week for the past few months, and he doesn’t know the faintest thing about her.

He glances at her occasionally, during the session. She appears to be listening, even if she doesn’t always look at whoever’s speaking. During their coffee meetings, she joins in as much as she can, with a glance or a smile.

Bucky’s met silent people before. Some slaves decided that the punishment for not speaking was better than the punishment for talking back, or better than being forced to say something they didn’t believe. Bucky’s pretended to beg, pretended to laugh, pretended to be interested in someone who made his skin crawl. He’s spent so much of his life pretending that sometimes he’s not quite sure if he’s being Bucky or Jamie - and in some moments it takes Steve or Natasha giving him a significant look to realise that he isn’t being sincere.

Maybe not talking was the best way. Maybe it helped the redhead keep more of herself than the rest of them had, locked away where nobody could find it.

The session drags, so focused is he on getting to the end of it. ‘I’ll catch up,’ he says to Lee at the end, glancing around for her - but she’s already slipped out of the door, and he jogs out into the street, heart pounding. He’ll see her on Sunday for coffee with the others, but he can’t wait that long - Pietro can’t wait that long - and he casts about in the crowd, muttering a curse when he can’t see her.

Then red hair glints in a street light and she’s walking away from him, head down, arms crossed.

‘Wanda!’ he shouts, and maybe her head moves a little, but she doesn’t react. ‘Wanda,’ he calls again, and is struck with a sudden, paralysing fear.

It has to be her. There’s a little boy who needs help, and if his sister isn’t here, he’ll be lost in the system. But maybe Bucky made a mistake when he looked at that photo. Maybe it isn’t her at all, maybe he just saw a resemblance that doesn’t exist.

Rain begins to fall, a fine mist, and Bucky knows he has to reach her before she ducks out of the bad weather and he loses her. He starts to run.

He’s breathless by the time he reaches her, coming up behind her within arm’s reach. ‘Wanda,’ he says urgently, and she finally stops in her tracks. She turns her head, looks at him with narrowed eyes. ‘Wanda Maximoff?’ he asks, uncertain again, and her lips flatten into a thin line. She frowns at him, and her question is clear: how did you know?

‘It’s about Pietro,’ he tells her, and she freezes in place. Her eyes snap to his face, distrust in the set of her jaw, and Bucky offers her a small smile. ‘Are you Wanda Maximoff?’ he asks, and slowly, cautiously, she nods.

Bucky’s chest lightens. ‘Do you have a brother called Pietro?’

Another nod.

He tries and fails to keep his smile in check. ‘This is going to sound unbelievable,’ he tells her, and he sees a flicker of something in her eyes, something like hope. ‘But I can take you to him tomorrow morning.’

Her cheeks are wet, and it’s hard to tell if it’s tears or the rain. She’s never touched him before, has never touched anyone that he’s ever seen - not even an accidental brush. But now she reaches out, touches his hands lightly for a fleeting moment.

There’s a smile trembling on her face, clouded by the tears.

-

‘Did she talk?’ Lee asks the next evening, when Bucky flops on the couch at their shared apartment and tells him Pietro’s story.

Bucky shakes his head. ‘Not to me. I don’t know if she spoke to her brother - I left the room.’

Lee nods slowly, and Bucky knows that the two of them are thinking the same thing: maybe she never will. ‘I knew a girl who never said anything,’ Lee tells him softly, looking down into his mug of tea. ‘At my last place. Something happened, with the master’s son - she never spoke again.’

There’s a pause, and Bucky thinks about a girl who Rumlow stabbed in the throat, once. She lived, but her voice was gone – because of the injury or because she didn’t want to talk, nobody ever knew. His expression must change, because Lee frowns in question at him, but Bucky just shakes his head. ‘Sob story,’ he says, and Lee nods.

It’s easy, between them. Easy to live with someone who knows but doesn’t know, who’s been through similar things but never asks what actually happened. Bucky’s looked after other people. supported them, but he’s never actually had a friend before now, and he finds that with Lee and the others on his side, it feels like he can face the world.

Lee asks how Steve is (Bucky had confided in him about Steve’s problems) every now and again, but he never brings it up in front of Steve. That alone makes Bucky’s heart swell – Lee never treats Steve differently because of what they now know is OCD, which is what Steve was scared would happen if people found out.

Natasha has taken to Lee’s brand of quiet sarcasm - they met when the SHIELD gang descended on the flat for Bucky’s first-ever housewarming, and now Lee is routinely invited for a drink when they venture out. She’s offered to give him self-defence lessons: and if that isn’t a sign of respect, Bucky doesn’t know what is.

‘My private name is Bucky,’ he says to Lee one evening at home, when they’re nursing beers and watching one of the godawful kung-fu movies that they’ve both discovered a passion for.

Lee looks at him sidelong, and gives a small smile. ‘Mine’s Gray,’ he replies softly.

On the screen, Jackie Chan punches through a door. They smile at each other.

-

‘Do you want to fuck me?’

It comes out more blunt and bald than he intended, and he hopes that Steve can’t pick up on the hint of anxiety in his voice. He’d intended to ask the question simply, as if he were just curious - instead he sounds defensive.

They’re sprawled on the couch watching a movie, legs touching (Bucky hasn’t quite reached the stage where he can lean on Steve without feeling trapped and smothered). Steve has gone very still, and turns his head slowly to fix Bucky with his blue eyes. ‘Uh…’ he looks at a loss, a frown beginning to pinch between his eyes. ‘Bucky, what - ’

‘Do you want to?’ Bucky cuts him off, shifting in his seat so that he’s sitting up straight. He can feel the prickle of sweat under his arms, feel his hands start shaking. ‘’Cause I - ’ he swallows, mouth dry. ‘I don’t mind if you do. Want to.’

Steve is looking at him with the focused intensity he usually reserves for missions. ‘You don’t mind?’ he repeats, and Bucky gives a shrug, tries to sound nonchalant.

‘If you want.’

Now it’s Steve’s turn to move - he turns down the volume on the TV, and faces Bucky. He’s still frowning, and Bucky suddenly starts to worry that he’s made a huge mistake. ‘I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking me,’ Steve says quietly, head tilted slightly to one side. ‘We’ve been...going slow. Is that OK?’

Bucky nods. They’ve got off together a few times, even graduated to blowjobs, and each time Steve looks at him like he’s some kind of miracle. It’s...nice. It’s great, actually. But it’s not like anything he’s used to - and with the Sitwell case bringing up more memories than he wants to cope with, he feels like he’s lost his footing.

He’s been thinking about this for a week, now. Steve’s what Dionne would call ‘the perfect gentleman’ - he gives as much as he receives in bed, and never tries to spur things on too fast. He seems to like Bucky’s ass, but he never asks him to slick up, never tries to turn him around when they’re face-to-face.

Bucky has never been with anyone for whom a fuck wasn’t the ultimate goal in sex. It’s unnerving.

‘So…’ Steve’s gaze hasn’t moved from Bucky’s face. ‘Do - do you want me to...fuck you?’ It almost seems hard for him to say, and for a moment Bucky wants to smile - he’d known that Steve would be easy to shock, the moment he met him.

Bucky shrugs again. ‘We’ve been doing this for a month,’ he says. ‘Don’t you want to?’

‘That’s not what I asked,’ Steve says, and Bucky feels his stomach drop. Steve frowns. ‘Are you OK?’ he asks, leaning forward. ‘You look…’

‘I should go.’ This is stupid. He shouldn’t have said anything - and now he can tell from the look on Steve’s face that he’s ruined it. Bucky gets to his feet. ‘Sorry, I - ’

‘Bucky.’ A warm hand closes around his wrist, not enough to make him panic, but enough to make him freeze. Steve steps closer, cups Bucky’s cheek and lifts his head until their eyes meet. ‘What’s this about?’

He can’t avoid Steve’s gaze when they’re this close. ‘I just…’ he sighs. He can feel the warmth of Steve, see the pulse in his throat, and his own hands really are shaking now - he rests them on Steve’s hips, tries to keep them still. ‘I just wanted to know, OK? So I can…’ he shrugs, finally manages to look away. ‘...just so I have warning, I guess,’ he finishes lamely.

‘Buck - ‘ Steve strokes his thumb along the line of Bucky’s jaw. ‘Do you - be honest - do you like it?’

That startles a bark of laughter out of him. ‘Does anyone?’ he asks with a half-smile, and Steve frowns at him.

‘Well, sure,’ he replies, clearly confused. ‘I do, for one.’

‘Really?’ Bucky pulls back with a frown of his own, staring at Steve - who looks back with a puzzled smile.

‘Yeah.’

Bucky’s lost for words - he struggles for a moment with what to say, mouth suddenly dry, when Steve leans forward and pulls him in for a kiss. He makes a small noise of surprise, but then Steve’s tongue is coaxing his lips open, and he finds himself melting into the other man’s embrace.

‘Can we try something?’ Steve murmurs into his ear, and something about his tone makes Bucky shiver, his stomach swirling in equal parts nervousness and anticipation. He nods. ‘Is that a yes?’ Steve asks, lips grazing his neck.

‘Yes,’ Bucky manages to say, voice hoarse, and Steve pulls back a little to smile at him. Then he realises that he forgot to ask what Steve wants to try, and even though he knows Steve wouldn’t hurt him, knows that he isn’t planning anything sinister, old habit makes him curse his own stupidity. ‘What…?’ he asks, and Steve just gives him another one of those smiles, the ones he can’t resist.

Then his mouth is caught in a kiss again, and Steve slides a hand between them - and when he squeezes Bucky through his jeans, even the butterflies in his stomach aren’t enough to stop him starting to get hard.

Steve manoeuvres them to the bedroom and pulls Bucky down on top of him, and Bucky thrills at the feeling of Steve underneath him, his hands sliding under Bucky’s shirt, their cocks brushing through the denim. But he’s jangling with nerves, even as Steve eases their shirts off and runs his tongue over a nipple - there’s a jolt of pleasure, but his hands are still shaking, and eventually he has to sit back and ask: ‘Steve - are you going to...?’

Steve’s hands are on his waist, one creeping down to the fly of Bucky’s jeans, and he grins. ‘No,’ he says. ‘You are.’

A hundred questions start to build up in Bucky’s throat, but Steve pulls him down for a kiss and starts working on both their pants. Bucky wants to help, but his fingers don’t seem to work properly - all he can do is moan when his erection is finally freed from his boxers, and when Steve draws his hand away, he actually whimpers.

He’s still tense, though. Steve must be able to see it - he presses a kiss to Bucky’s shoulder as he leans over him to the bedside table, and then Bucky feels the weight of a bottle in his hands.

It’s lube. He thumbs the cap off easily and squirts some into his hand, reaches backwards to start slicking himself up, but Steve catches his wrist for a second time. ‘I want you to do it to me,’ the other man breathes, and Bucky can hear the arousal in his voice.

‘Are - ’ the words catch in his throat. ‘Are you sure?’

Steve nods. ‘Yes.’

‘I haven’t…’

‘Not ever?’ Steve asks, looking incredulous, and Bucky summons a smirk.

‘I’m not that kind of performer,’ he says with a shrug. In the films, he was always on the receiving end - and at the Milestone, they only ever paired him with clients who wanted to be on top, or for him to use his mouth. Bucky takes advantage of Steve’s confusion to pull his hand away. He gets gracefully to his knees, and before Steve can say anything, he reaches back and slides a finger into himself.

Steve makes a hoarse, quiet sound, and Bucky grins. Steve is so hard it almost looks painful - he’s flushed, eyes wide and pupils blown, unable to tear his gaze away. ‘Like a show, huh?’ he murmurs, running his free hand over his chest as he adds a second finger - but it seems to break the spell and Steve moves forward, catches him by the shoulders and his eyes bore into Bucky’s, so intense that it’s like staring into the sun.

‘You never have to perform for me,’ Steve says, and Bucky can hear so much emotion in his voice that it takes his breath away. ‘Not ever. OK?’

Bucky can only nod, mutely, in the face of such vehemence. Then Steve’s kissing him again, pulling them flush against each other, and pulling Bucky’s still-slick hand around until his fingers are resting at the cleft of Steve’s buttocks.

He strokes experimentally, rubbing his fingers down over Steve’s hole, and Steve thrusts back against him with a moan, his breath hitching as Bucky circles the tight ring. ‘Please,’ he whispers after a couple of minutes, and Bucky gives a nervous swallow.

‘How do you want to do it?’ he asks, and Steve doesn’t even answer - just lies down until he’s on his back, legs spread, with Bucky between his thighs.

The sheer trust this evidences is enough to make Bucky’s throat close up. He doesn’t speak, just leans down to press his lips to Steve’s, and fumbles with the lube again before sliding his hand between Steve’s legs. The other man gasps and arches when Bucky brushes his hole, and when Bucky slowly eases a finger inside, he lets out a long, breathy moan.

Bucky moves his hand slowly, and when he adds a second finger, Steve starts to move his hips. He’s gasping and smiling, and Bucky can’t help but remember all the times he pretended to enjoy this - he looks down at the other man with a slight frown. ‘You don’t have to perform, either,’ he says, and Steve gives a chuckle which quickly turns into a moan when the angle of Bucky’s wrist changes.

‘I’m not performing,’ he says with a grin, and spreads his legs wider. ‘It feels good.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh yeah.’ Steve shifts slightly, one hand on Bucky’s shoulder and the other fisted in the covers, white knuckled. ‘Can you - can you move your fingers? Kind of - ah - stroke them?’ Bucky frowns, but does as he’s told - and when he hits a certain angle, Steve cries out, clutching so hard at him that he knows it’s going to leave a bruise later.

Bucky isn’t quite sure what he did, but he’s now more turned on than he’s ever been in his life. He adds a third finger and moves them again and again in that beckoning motion until Steve is moving helplessly, moaning and sobbing and cursing, an endless litany of fuck, fuck, fuck - ohmygod, fuck , and it feels so unbearably intimate that he wants to run and hide.

But he’s powerless to leave Steve when he looks like this, naked and flushed and practically fucking himself on Bucky’s fingers. Bucky reaches for the lube and coats his other hand, slides it over Steve’s cock - and that tips the other man over the edge. Steve gives a choked moan, half gasp, half scream, and spills over Bucky’s hand.

Bucky can’t help himself - he heard what Steve said earlier, but surely performance when he wants to do it is OK, right? So when Steve opens his eyes, Bucky is touching himself slow and lazy with his right hand, and licking Steve’s come from his left.

Steve moans and lunges for him, kissing him so hard Bucky has to gasp for breath, laughing. But then Steve’s hand is on him, and it only takes a few strokes before pleasure rips through him and he shouts, white light overtaking his vision for a moment before he slumps back.

They curl together on the bed, Steve wrapped around him like a blanket. Bucky doesn’t know what to do or say, doesn’t know how to handle the emotions running through him like water – so he picks up Steve’s hand and kisses it. Steve hugs him closer, kisses his hair, his cheeks, his lips, and Bucky has never felt so safe in his life before.

-

Hansen arrests Sitwell. Goes up to him in one of his restaurants, bold as brass, and arrests him in public. He spits fire, brings in an army of lawyers, but the papers are full of her triumphant smiles: she has him.

As the details of the case are revealed, public outrage begins, and Nelson and Murdock go public. Soon the two things are intertwined in the public consciousness – the fact that the accused had been molesting children for years, unpunished because they were slaves, and the fact that people can now do something about it.

There are op-ed pieces in the national media, the lawyers are called onto every talk show they can name. Petitions are signed, demonstrations are organised.

Bucky and Steve can’t stop smiling.

-

‘I think I wanted to die,’ Bucky says one day, at therapy. He usually finds it hard to talk, but something about meeting Pietro has broken a dam in him, and he looks at the floor as he speaks. ‘Ever since I was ten, and I realised that being a slave was forever. Not so much that I would ever have ended it - ’ he’d seen too many failed attempts to want to risk it himself: the punishments for a slave caught trying to self-harm were brutal. ‘ - But enough that I didn’t care.’

Every time he’d spoken with Pierce, he’d been walking on a knife-edge. And he’d wanted to fall.

He lifts his head, licks dry lips. ‘I spent the whole time trying to get killed. Pissing people off. Taking the dangerous clients. I just...didn’t care.’

Bucky closes his eyes, and thinks of Steve. The smell of him when they’re close, the look in his eyes when they glance at each other, the almost-reverent way he touches him. He thinks of Natasha, of Lee, of Coulson and Clint.

When he opens his eyes, Dr Montez is looking at him, expression warm. ‘And now?’

Bucky smiles. ‘Now, I care.’

Chapter Text

Sometimes he worries that Steve is about to get stuck in a loop - when washing up, or doing something else repetitive - but he doesn’t. A look crosses his face, and he manages to free himself: to walk away, and do something else. He doesn’t need to touch the edges of things any more, doesn’t need to lock the door when he leaves the house.

Bucky stays over a night or so every week. Mostly, they sleep apart. He still has nightmares, still wakes to a familiar whisper in his mind or a gun-barrel pressed against his temple, but these days he’s finding it easier to get back to sleep.

There’s a word that they never use. Bucky’s never said it before, not to anyone, and he’s afraid of using it now in case it brings everything down on top of him.

Sometimes, when they look at each other, he knows they’re both thinking it. Every time Steve kisses him, cooks for him, looks at him in that awe-struck way he has, Bucky knows what he’s really trying to say.

-

One night, when he’s brushing his teeth, the silver in his tongue catches the light in the mirror - and that blink, that small flash, makes him freeze.

With Pierce, it had been a seduction.

It seems an odd word to use, in retrospect - seduction implies romance, and temptation, and neither of those things apply when the other party owns you outright. But Bucky set his eyes on his goal, and won it through careful action. He decided he wanted to be in Pierce’s bed, and he made sure he got there. If that wasn’t a seduction, what the fuck was?

Pierce had given the order about his tongue. Bucky had been there been there a month when they’d been lined up, inspected by their master while one of the concierges took notes and answered questions. Pierce had paused by him, lingering for a moment, and Bucky had tilted his head slightly, looked up from his position on his knees and allowed his mouth to quirk very slightly in a smirk.

Becoming the favourite either made you, or it broke you. Bucky had looked up at Pierce, noticed the way the older man responded to the smile on his face, and he’d realised that he could come to the fore.

‘This one,’ Pierce had said, eyes never leaving Bucky’s. ‘Tongue piercing.’

Bucky had allowed his smirk to widen, just a touch, and Pierce had raised one eloquent eyebrow.

‘Not the reaction I was expecting,’ he’d remarked, and Bucky had flashed a grin

‘I just like having things in my mouth, sir, ’ he’d replied, and when Pierce had chuckled - half in surprise, half in amusement - he’d known he was in.

-

‘The New York Times wants to interview you,’ the lawyer Murdock tells him, and Bucky blinks at him.

‘They can’t,’ he blurts out, and the man’s right eyebrow raises, ever so slightly. ‘What about Discretion?’

‘No person who is now, or has ever been, enslaved, is permitted to talk to any other person about any legal owner or owners in their present or past, when such discussion would reveal the identity of their owner or owners.’  Nelson looks him right in the eye as he speaks the words Bucky has known off by heart since childhood: the legal rule of Discretion.

‘Exactly,’ he replies, nodding, and Nelson grins.

‘When such discussion would reveal the identity of their owner or owners,’  Murdock echoes with a smile, and the penny drops.

‘Anonymously?’ Bucky asks, and they both nod.

Nelson sits back in his chair. ‘They know we didn’t come up with this by ourselves. They want to know more about the person who’s behind it - you.’

‘Do you think I should do it?’

‘Yes,’ Murdock says instantly, voice low and intense, and for a moment Bucky sees a glimpse of something on his face, hard and angry. ‘We need to make this right. An interview with the press will give us even more public support.’

‘We’ll read every word before it’s printed,’ Nelson tells him. ‘If you do accidentally give something away, we’ll catch it.’

Bucky looks between them, from one excited face to the other, and gives a decisive nod. ‘Okay.’

-

After the piercing, it had been about careful study. The favourite at the time had been very like him, skinny and dark-haired, seventeen to Bucky’s eighteen. He introduced himself as Matt, and had a way of looking at someone as if they were the only person in the room. ‘How long’s he been number one?’ Bucky had asked Luiza, a woman who had been there a year when he’d arrived.

She’d raised her eyebrows, shaken her head. ‘You don’t want to go there.’

‘How long?’

‘Two months,’ she’d told him eventually. ‘It’s a hard road, Jamie. Keep your head down.’

He’d given her his best cocky grin. ‘I only know how to be the best.’

She’d given him this look, a look that said: kid, you don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for .

But the thing was, Bucky had known. He’d done it all before, and maybe the Milestone was different from working in the movies, but the end result was the same: become invisible, and you’d keep going. Become the favourite, and you’d run so hot that you’d burn out. He had fuck all to live for. If he tried really hard, he could take the heat from someone else for a few months and end up in a shallow grave by the time he was twenty-five.

Not the world’s best life plan, but Bucky had been running out of options.

So he’d watched Pierce like a hawk. There were a lot of slaves, constantly changing, and Pierce’s time had been limited - he couldn’t rely on one short encounter to fix himself in the older man’s mind.

He’d made it his business to be just in view. Always going around a corner at just the right time, always emerging from a room looking freshly-fucked just as Pierce was walking past. Meeting his master’s gaze with his sea-glass eyes for just a moment, just a split second - but it was a second longer than any of the other slaves, who kept their eyes studiously on the floor whenever Pierce was around. It drew attention to him. It made him memorable.

-

‘Your hair’s getting long,’ Natasha remarks, and her expression is fond.

‘I like it,’ he tells her, and she smiles.

‘Me, too.’

-

Three months in, a man had walked through the door dressed in a suit that didn’t quite fit him right. There had been something about him - some uncanny valley thing that had made Bucky’s eyes narrow. The guy’s eyes had lingered just too long on the table of Russians in the corner of the club, and he’d given a small, polite smile to the girl who brought him his drink.

Businessmen at the Milestone never smiled at slaves. Bucky had gone straight to the security detail, and told them the man needed to be taken outside.

Rumlow had come up to him the next day, mouth drawn into a line. ‘That guy was a cop,’ he’d said without preamble, and Bucky’s gut had started to twist because when Brock Rumlow paid attention to you, it wasn’t usually a good thing. ‘How did you know?’

Under Rumlow’s gaze he’d been like a rabbit in the headlights, pinned helplessly in place - because he knew what Pierce wanted, could see it in his face, but Rumlow was damn near unreadable. ‘Just got a feeling about him, sir,’ he’d managed to say.

Rumlow had given him a thoughtful nod, then walked away.

Shortly afterwards, the cracks in Matt started to show. They all popped pills before (and during a shift), but Matt’s quantity doubled. He sported bruises on his neck, cuts on his ribs. He got thinner. Bucky watched him sink into himself, turn inward, drink more and eat less.

Bucky had stepped up his campaign. When he was in the nightclub with a client, he’d flick his gaze over to Pierce when he could feel the older man’s eyes on him. He’d smile and look away at the last possible moment - Bucky wondered if any slave had ever made eye contact with Pierce before - flirting with him as he would with any other guest.

‘I can see what you’re doing,’ Matt had said to him one morning, in the shower room. ‘You don’t want to go there, man.’

Bucky had looked him up and down - the cuts, the bruises, the carpet burn - and shrugged one shoulder. ‘I can take it.’

Five months in, another cop had walked through the door. He was wearing a better suit than the last one, but the signs were there. Bucky had looked over the bar at Rumlow, and the man had disappeared five minutes later.

Bucky knows what they had to do to get the cops to confess. He’s seen it happen.

But he’d known it was the only way for him to get on top before someone else like Matt got hurt.

-

In the interests of the Discretion laws, I will refer to him only as A.

A is in his early twenties and attractive, tall and defined. His shirtsleeves are rolled up, and on the skin of his forearms there’s a pattern of scars: long, thin scratches, dots of cigarette burns, and a neat burn mark where his barcode used to be. He sees me looking and smiles, holds out his arms for inspection. ‘That’s my life,’ he says. ‘Right there.’ He pulls up his shirt and shows me more - whip scars (‘Master number five’), a faded hot-water burn (‘Master number two’), and a hairline knife scar on the back of his neck (‘Five, again’).

It’s hard to remember just how young he is.

-

‘Why?’ Matt had asked him, a few weeks later. ‘Why do you want it so much?’

‘Because there’s no way out,’ Bucky had replied. ‘We’re doing this forever. And I can take a lot more than most people.’

-

One night, in bed with Steve, he wants to say the word so badly it almost hurts. He buries his face in Steve’s shoulder and tries not to think about it.

-

He’d learned later that Matt had only been a slave for a year - this was his first place, and it was his naivety that had attracted Pierce to him so much. Sometimes Bucky wonders if his words were the tipping point - if being reminded that there was no escape was the thing that had pushed Matt over the edge. A week or so after that, when they discovered Matt in the shower room after he’d used a smuggled kitchen knife to open his wrists, Bucky had spent hours cleaning every last drop of the kid’s blood from the walls. In horror or penitence, he’s not sure which.

‘Boss asked for ‘the one with the eyes’,’ Rumlow had said to Bucky that evening, a faint smile on his face. ‘I’m guessing that’s you.’ Bucky had grinned at him, and Brock had shaken his head: ‘Doesn’t work on me, kid,’ he’d said, and Bucky had gone next door to wash Matt’s blood out of his hair.

After one night, he was being called to Pierce's room every day.

After three weeks, he knew he was the favourite.

The memory prickles at the back of his neck, and Bucky spits out his toothpaste with venom. He swills out his mouth with water and then reaches in, unscrews the piece of metal. It had gone in with a sharp sting, and his tongue had ached for days - but now it comes out easily, and he regards it for a long moment as it glints in his palm.

He throws it in the bin, and smiles at his reflection in the mirror.

-

The article is read more times than anything else ever written about slavery in any national paper. Nelson and Murdock are inundated with pledges of support, promises of votes and funding. Bucky’s story is enough to turn powerful heads, and after Sitwell’s arrest nobody wants to be seen to be opposing a bill which could help children.

‘We could win this,’ Nelson tells him, and something in his voice makes Bucky’s throat constrict: he really means it.

-

The redhead - Wanda - starts bringing her little brother to the support group, and out with them for coffee at the weekends.

‘How did you tell him you love him?’ Bucky asks Dionne, who’s still seeing her school handyman. She gives him an odd look.

‘I just told him.’

‘But wasn’t it hard?’ he knows he sounds desperate, feels Lee’s hand on his arm. The little boy next to him (Max, now, as he’s heard the name Pietro in so many mouths he can’t stand to be called it any more) looks up at Bucky with a frown.

‘You should tell him,’ the child says succinctly, and Bucky has to smile.

-

That night, when Steve is asleep, Bucky watches the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest and murmurs in his ear: ‘I love you.’

The next morning, when they’re sleepy-eyed over breakfast, Steve stands next to him at the kitchen counter and doesn’t look at him. ‘I love you too,’ he says quietly, and Bucky almost drops his cup of coffee.

His head is filled up with light.

-

‘They want me to speak to the government,’ Bucky had said, dazed, holding out the letter for Steve and Natasha to read. Nat whooped in joy and pride, and Steve hasn’t been able to stop smiling since that moment, Bucky looking like the world was about to open up.

Now they’re in Washington, Steve, Nat and Clint waiting in the audience with Lee as Bucky prepares to give a speech. They’ve all coached him, all worked on it with him, and Steve thinks he knows it as well as Bucky does at this point - but his heart feels as if it’s about to burst with pride, and Lee looks to be on the verge of tears.

It’s a small group of politicians and advisors, all people who can help their cause. Bucky steps out, looking nervous but proud, head held high, blue eyes scanning the audience until he sees their little group, and the smallest of smiles crosses his face.

Years of silence, Steve thinks. Years of having no control, of being told he’s nothing, of not being allowed to say anything. It was always his words that got him in trouble with Pierce, not his actions. He hasn’t been allowed to really talk since he was six.

Bucky steps up to the microphone, opens his mouth -

And speaks.