Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He knows it’s stupid.

The thought loops like a broken record, jagged and relentless. Stupid. Reckless. A rookie mistake that a man with his history with his training, should never make. He can almost hear the echo of his handler's voice buried in his head: hesitation kills. Instinct saves. The Soldier does not hesitate.

The Soldier—

No.

Not “The Soldier.” Not “Asset.”

Bucky.

That’s his name. That was always his name. Even when he forgot it, even when they tried to burn it out of him, even when they drowned him in ice and blood and commands.

Somewhere beneath all of it, James Buchanan Barnes existed. Still exists. Steve’s voice, ragged and earnest, pulled Bucky back to the surface.

But names don’t matter much when survival is screaming through every nerve, when his body is nothing but instinct and muscle memory telling him to move or die.

Walking away from Steve’s broken body in D.C. should have been the end of it. The end of Hydra’s nightmare project. The end of decades of blood on his hands that isn't really his fault but will always feel like it is.

Instead, he’s still just walking.

And walking slowly still means risk. Risk means capture. Capture means—

He shoves the thought away before it can complete itself. He doesn’t need the images: restraints cutting into raw skin, the cold bite of steel tables, the sound of a Russian voice ordering a wipe.

He doesn’t need to imagine the cage of the cryochamber, the burn of liquid nitrogen seeping into his marrow, the oblivion that swallows him whole until someone decides he’s useful enough to thaw him out again.

Not again.

Never again.

The city feels hostile around him. Too loud, too bright, too exposed. Every flicker of emergency vehicle light (going towards the broken SHIELD base no doubt), every shouted voice, everything screams danger.

The serum amplifies everything, turning the ordinary chaos of D.C. into a minefield of potential threats. His pulse thrums sharp and erratic.

He needs to disappear. He knows how to disappear; he's been doing it for seventy years. Stay in the shadows. Move at odd intervals. Keep your head down. Switch safehouses. Erase yourself. Ghost through the cracks until no one remembers you were ever there.

He should be halfway across the city already.

But he isn’t, he can't.

Because his arm, his ruined, human arm is shattered. The same arm that once helped him tear through reinforced steel and rip men in half now hangs useless at his side, a mangled mess of flesh and bone.

Steve did that.

Every movement is agony. The break grinds against itself under skin that feels too tight, stretched and swollen, every twitch of muscle sending shocks of pain down his ribs. His enhanced body is already trying to repair the damage. He can feel the serum working, tugging at sinew and knitting bone together but if he lets it set wrong, the consequences will be annoying and painful.

Hydra would have set it for him. Hydra would have strapped him to a table, shoved a mouth guard in, forced the bones into place, bound him with metal rods, reset every joint without hesitation. Efficient. Brutal. But effective.

He doesn’t have that luxury anymore.

And the thought of walking into a hospital? Laughable. Impossible. A man with a technologically advanced prosthetic arm, covered in fresh wounds scars, soaking wet and limping in at five in the afternoon.

It wouldn’t take thirty seconds for someone to realize this wasn’t normal. Maybe someone would even recognize him. A ghost from a history textbook that came back to life.

A shadow from old war stories. He can see the headline: Captain America’s Best fFriend, Who Was Presumed Dead Has Walked Into Local Hospital Looking Like Hell.

In a matter of minutes people would be swarming like vultures. Hydra, S.H.I.E.L.D. (Did they even exist anymore?) the Avengers, Steve. Someone would claim him.

Someone always does.

No, a hospital isn’t an option.

But he needs supplies. A splint. Bandages. Painkillers God, anything to dull the white-hot fire running up his shoulder. He can practically taste the metallic tang of blood in his mouth just from clenching his jaw against the pain. The serum is already stitching him back together. Even time is against him. Because if he doesn’t set the arm right… it’ll heal wrong. And wrong is something he can’t afford.

Not now.

Not ever.

His injury isn’t the only problem in his escape plan. He’s also completely broke. Bucky contemplates what to do. Each idea that pops into his head has its own new set of flaws.

First he thinks he could hit a convenience store but that’s a nervous, clumsy job. It showed more desperation than skill. He debated finding a small neighborhood, picking a lock and taking what lay in some families drawers: loose bills, maybe a credit card he could try to pawn. Lastly he debates just reaching into coat pockets on a bus or a city bench.

But all of those things would result in basically nothing. Perhaps enough for a few nights at a shitty motel, maybe enough for a train ticket, but not enough to buy the kind of vanishing act he needed: a name, a history, clothes, a life.

He mentally ran the calculation again, slower this time. Food, clothing, a cheap apartment, bandages for his wounds, equipment in case his prosthetic malfunctions, possibly a burner phone. And he’d definitely need more weapons.

All those items added up faster than he wanted to admit. Almost no way to get it….

But deep down, the thought seeps into his brain like poison.

There is one place that answers everything, but the mere thought of returning literally minutes after escaping makes something in his chest close like a trap.

But he has nothing else Bucky kept to the shadows along the buildings’ undersides, letting the darkness of stoops and fire escapes carve out blind spots for him to move through. Every step is measured; every glance was a quick, practiced scan for faces that might be watching.

The hidden Hydra facility didn’t announce itself. From the street it looked like something the city had given up on years ago: Langley Fabric & Supply Company, a squat brick building with a faded painted sign and a row of opaque windows.

The building was able to pass for a wholesale textile. It was boring that no one would care but not odd enough for people to question.

He knew to keep away from the main entrance, avoiding the secret Hydra agents who were stationed there. The alley around the back was a corridor of litter: discarded pallets, a mound of soggy cardboard, an overturned shopping cart hiding a nest of pigeons.

On the far side, half-hidden by a dented dumpster, was a service door painted off white. Bucky’s hand hovered over the door handle. For a moment, he almost turned back. Almost. The idea of stepping inside again made his ribs tighten, his pulse hammer against old scars. But he forced himself forward, slipping through the threshold like a shadow.

The air inside hit him at once. Stale, metallic, laced with the faint sting of disinfectant. The kind of smell that screamed Hydra. He shut the door behind him quietly and pressed his back to the wall, waiting, listening.

Nothing.

The corridors feel hollow without the steady thrum of activity. Usually, Hydra bases buzz with movement. Footsteps hammering across concrete, radios crackling, clipped orders barked in half a dozen languages. But now? Silence. The kind of silence that makes his ears ring, that leaves too much space for the ghosts in his head to breathe.

Hydra had emptied most of its ranks to keep the helicarrier project afloat. Every few hallways, he might glimpse a stray tech in a lab coat, hunched over a datapad and mumbling to themselves, or a low-level agent trying to look busy. None of them matter. They don’t see him, and if they did, they wouldn’t stop him. They aren’t fighters. And even broken, drenched from the water he pulled Steve from, his body bruised and unsteady, he’s still the Winter Soldier.

His boots slap against the concrete, leaving faint wet marks behind him. His left arm feels heavier than usual, water dripping from the seams where metal meets flesh. It doesn’t matter. He pushes forward, each step deliberate.

“Tactical room. Tactical room…” He repeats it in his mind like a mantra, the way handlers used to drill orders into him, keep the mind focused, the body moving, no hesitation. The tactical room will have weapons. Gear. Equipment. Everything he needs to cut Hydra out of his veins and start again. That’s where his new life waits, locked behind steel cases and keypads.

He turns a corner, scanning without thought, instinct guiding him. His left hand twitches near his side like it wants a weapon, though he hasn’t picked one up yet. Empty corridors stretch ahead, fluorescent lights flickering overhead. He forces his legs to keep moving, ignoring the ache in his ribs, ignoring the blood that sticks cold against his shirt.

Then—

A sound.

His entire body freezes, muscles coiled like a sprung trap. He pivots just slightly, his breathing shallow. Every nerve sharpens. It’s not boots. Not the steady, deliberate thud of a patrol. Not the crackle of radio chatter or the scrape of equipment. No. This sound is different. Small. Almost fragile. A voice.

He narrows his eyes, listening harder. It’s too soft for a Hydra commander. Too unguarded, too human. Hydra voices are clipped, professional, laced with venom or obedience. This one… it doesn’t fit. But that doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter at all.

He should end it. Whatever it is. End the threat before it can even take shape.

The corridor hums faintly with the ever-present vibration of pipes in the walls, fans whirring somewhere far above, and the occasional metallic clank that echoes too loud in the emptiness. Bucky’s breath is shallow, each inhale scraping his throat raw.

Bucky freezes outside the door making the soft noise. His gaze snags on the plaque beside the door: 0172.

Something about it digs into him like a hook. He doesn’t know why, doesn’t remember why, but the numbers thrum in his chest like a second heartbeat, impossible to ignore.

His hand, the metal one, rests against the door handle before he finally shoves it open, the hinges screeching loud enough to set every nerve in his body on edge.

The room is almost identical to the one he’d once been held in at every Hydra base. There's a handler's post at the threshold, then the iron bars, the cell tucked just beyond. He knows this setup too well, too intimately, his skin crawling with the memory of the chill of restraint, the taste of metal and silence.

And then he sees the boy.

The sight punches air from his lungs.

Not a hardened operative. Not a fellow ghost of war.

A kid.

Maybe thirteen, no older. Dressed in clothes that are neither civilian nor full uniform. Just a plain black shirt, black tactical pants, boots that are a size too big and scuffed at the toes. Clothes meant for utility, not comfort.

The boy sits cross-legged on a narrow cot shoved into the back corner. A book lies open across his lap, its spine cracked, the pages ragged like it’s been read too many times. His lips move as he whispers the words, the syllables falling into the thick silence of the cell. That’s the voice Bucky heard through the door. Not someone reporting, not an enemy agent waiting in ambush. Just a kid mouthing borrowed lines off paper.

Bucky’s gut twists.

The boy stirs when the door screeches open, glancing up. He’s not startled, not panicked. Just aware.

But then his eyes land on Bucky, and everything changes.

His eyes soft brown, impossibly open, impossibly young, widen like he’s staring at a miracle. The book drops, forgotten, onto the cot. The boy scrambles to his feet, his movements quick but clumsy, the kind of graceless speed only a kid could have.

He rushes to the bars, gripping them tight, his small fingers white-knuckled around cold steel. His face lights up like he’s seen the sun for the first time in years, every trace of this place’s gray misery erased in an instant.

“Oh my God!” the boy blurts out, his voice bubbling with shock and even worse—joy.

He leans closer, beaming up at Bucky through the barrier, unguarded in a way that makes something deep in Bucky ache.

“Hi! How did you…?”

The question trails off, but the boy doesn’t care. He just looks at him like the world has shifted. Like Bucky’s presence means something.

Bucky doesn’t answer. Every muscle locks tight, every trained instinct screaming at him to back out, to shut the door, to move before someone sees.

But he doesn’t. He just stands there.

Studying the boy.

Slim. Underfed, though not skeletal. Hydra’s not starving him, at least. But he’s small for his age, too pale, his wrists too sharp, collarbone pressing against the thin fabric of his shirt. His hair’s a mop of brown curls, messy and uneven like someone cut it without care. Strands keep falling into his face, and he doesn’t bother to push them away.

And his eyes… those wide, brown eyes. Too innocent. Too soft. They don’t belong in a place like this.

Bucky’s chest tightens, throat closing like a fist around his breath. He doesn’t know what he’s looking at, doesn’t know why the numbers on the plaque burned through his mind like a brand, doesn’t know why the kid looks at him like he’s something to cling to in a storm.

The kid scans Bucky’s face, and Bucky watches, helpless, as the boy’s expression shifts like a slow eclipse. The glow of joy drains into something flatter, smaller. Neutral. It’s the kind of neutrality that isn’t natural for a child, the kind that has been beaten into someone until hope feels like a luxury.

The boy swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing against the pale, thin skin of his throat. His voice comes out as fragile as paper.

“Mr… Soldier, sir?” he whispers. “Am I needed?”

Bucky’s chest goes tight. He could walk away. Right now. Slam the door, forget this room exists. Pretend he never saw cell 0172, never saw the boy inside. He could turn his back, tell himself that Hydra always had their claws in too deep for one man to make a difference. He could bury it like he buried so many other things.

But he knows better.

He knows exactly what Hydra does to people they “need.”

And there’s no way in hell he’s leaving a kid to that.

His metal fingers curl around the bars. They’re too thick. Designed for strength, for permanence, not for someone small and breakable to slip free. His arm tenses, servos whirring low. He pulls, veins standing out in his neck…nothing. The bars don’t budge.

“It doesn’t open with force… sir,” the boy murmurs, almost apologetically. His voice snags on the word sir, like the syllable is caught between obedience and fear.

Bucky huffs, a sharp exhale through his nose. His jaw ticks. “You push. I’ll pull.”

For the first time, the boy blinks with something like surprise. He slips one small hand through the gap in the bars, palm bracing the inside of the mechanism. Too delicate, too thin, Bucky can see each bone flex beneath the skin. Together, with the faintest click, the lock shifts. The bar shudders, and then—

The door screeches as Bucky wrenches it open, metal groaning in his grip. He rips it free, shoves it aside with a clang that echoes down the corridor.

It’s done.

He turns his back, already moving. His boots scrape on the concrete. His breath feels too loud in the silence.

“What are we doing?” the boy calls softly after him.

Bucky doesn’t stop, but his shoulders stiffen. He doesn’t look back.

“I’m leaving,” he mutters, voice flat, defensive. “You should too. Do whatever you want. Or don’t. Doesn’t matter to me.”

The boy doesn’t answer with words. Instead, his footsteps, light, almost inaudible, fall in behind him. He follows like a shadow. Too soundless, too precise. Bucky’s instincts prickle, the fine hairs at the back of his neck rising. This isn’t how a child walks. This is how an operative stalks prey. The kind of silence Hydra trained into people. The kind Bucky knows in his bones.

“The handlers will come back soon, correct?” the boy whispers. His voice is steady, but there’s something under it. Not fear, just expectation.

“Yes,” Bucky says, low and grim.

The tactical room is exactly as he remembers.

The air feels different in here. It’s colder, thinner, as though Hydra’s efficiency has stripped even oxygen down to its barest necessity. Everything is lined up in clinical rows, duffels packed and stacked in duplicate sets, ready for deployment. Shelves of vacuum-sealed food, cartons of water purifiers, boxes of ammunition, folded clothes bundled by size and purpose. Orderly. Predictable. A machine’s nest.

He moves quickly through it. Muscle memory carries him, hands darting for what he needs before his mind can even form the list. A duffel unzipped, cash bundles shoved inside, sealed meals and ration bars following. Spare clothing, the kind that will let him blend in, not stand out. A tactical knife slips between layers of fabric, his fingers tightening instinctively around its hilt before he lets go. He works fast. The Soldier’s rule still burns in his head: If you linger, you die. If you linger, you’re caught. If you linger, you go back in the chair.

His breath comes steady, controlled. But his chest feels tight anyway .

And then…his eyes snag.

Not on the gear. Not on the shelves. On the wall at the far side of the room.

Filing cabinets.

Steel-grey, lined up like soldiers. Each drawer labeled in stark black print, block letters stamped across neat white cards. ’Agents.’

The word doesn’t just stand out; it practically screams at him.

He stops moving. Just for a second. Long enough for the air to press in on him. He knows better. He knows better than this. Don’t stop. Don’t look back. Don’t dig. Hydra taught him that too, in its own way. Curiosity wasn’t a survival skill, it was a liability. Curiosity got you punished. Curiosity got you wiped.

But his feet don’t move. His chest doesn’t move. His hand is already halfway to the metal drawer before he can stop it.

He hesitates, his palm resting against the cool steel. For a heartbeat he sees his reflection in the cabinet’s dull sheen. His hair plastered damp against his temples, eyes hollow, this isn’t the ruthless Winter Soldier. This just feels like a stranger’s face staring back at him.

And then he pulls.

The drawer slides open with a squeak of oiled hinges. Files. Thin, neat folders, stacked tight. Each marked with a number. Cold. Unpersonal. Meant to reduce a human being to a sequence in Hydra’s catalog of weapons.

His hand trembles as he flips through them, not because of fear but because his body already knows what he’ll find.

Folder 0001.

He freezes. His jaw locks, teeth grinding together as he pulls it free.

Winter Soldier.

His.

Buckys.

His chest constricts, pulse flaring hot in his throat. He doesn’t open it. He can’t. Just shoves it into the duffel like he’s stuffing down bile, like he can’t bear to feel the weight of it in his hands for more than a second.

He was ready to slam the drawer shut only to see another one, slightly ajar, the card label jutting out just enough to catch his eye.

Folder 0172.

The print beside it reads: W.E.B.

The air in his lungs feels suddenly heavy. Too heavy. He doesn’t even think about it; he just rips the drawer wide and snatches the file free.

W.E.B.? He doesn’t know what that means, honestly doesn’t even care.

A curse hisses past his teeth, barely a sound, swallowed by the silence of the room. As both files are shoved into the duffel, the zipper dragged closed in a single, angry motion. Hydra doesn’t get to keep this. Not anymore. If there’s anything of him in there,anything of that kid, Hydra doesn’t deserve to hold it.

He swings the bag up over his shoulder, his breath hard in his chest, his nerves alight with urgency. Too long. He’s been here too long. The rule beats in his skull. If you linger, you die.

He turns—

—and freezes.

The boy stands in the doorway.

Steady eyes fix on him, wide but not fearful. Watching. Silent. The kid’s small frame is outlined by the cold light of the hall, shoulders squared even though his posture is too thin, too frail to carry such weight. He doesn’t flinch under Bucky’s stare.

“Sir?”

The word is quiet. Careful. Like he doesn’t want to break something fragile between them.

Bucky’s throat tightens. His fingers curl around the strap of the duffel until the leather creaks.

“Leaving,” he growls, the word gravel in his chest. Too long. He’s stayed too long.

He storms out the side door of the Hydra facility, the metal frame groaning as it slams shut behind him. The late afternoon air hits him like a shock, much warmer than the stale, cold, recycled atmosphere inside.

His boots crunch against the cracked pavement, each step sharp and hurried, but he doesn’t look back.

He doesn’t need to.

The kid trails after him, silent as a mouse, moving almost automatically. There’s a hesitance in his small steps, a subtle lag that gives him away. Like he’s not sure if he’s really supposed to follow or if he’s about to be abandoned. But he sticks close anyway, the way a stray dog would to the only person who hasn’t kicked it.

The lot outside Hydra’s side entrance is dim, covered in shadows. Across the road looms an office building, all sharp lines and reflective glass, like a giant mirror in the busy day.

Its walls are littered with security cameras, blinking little red eyes sweeping over empty asphalt. Most people would be intimated, hesitate, and search for another route. But not him.

Within a minute Bucky knows the blind spots, the rhythm of their rotations, the holes in the system. Hydra trained him, after all taught him how to slip past walls, traps, and locks like water through cracks. The irony isn’t lost on him: the skills they forced into him are now the very tools he uses to escape.

He doesn’t stop to think. Thinking leaves room for doubt, for error and he can’t afford that. His pace is clipped, purposeful, and the kid has to practically jog to keep up with Bucky's long strides.

At the curb, he checks the road once, just a flick of his eyes, and then crosses. Moving low, shoulders hunched, body language screaming practiced stealth. The kid imitates him almost perfectly, just a half-second delayed, but it’s enough. They make it across without a sound except for the low hum of distant traffic.

The office lot is a graveyard of parked cars, rows of silent metal shells under the blazing sun. Bucky scans the line, calculating. He doesn’t bother with newer models too much of a risk, too many bells and whistles. Instead, his scans for some plain enough to be overlooked but not too old to be useless.

He yanks on the first door handle. Locked. Of course. He grits his teeth, tries the second car down. Also locked. Typical. His irritation simmers, but he keeps moving, fingers curling around the next handle. This time it gives with a soft click. A small, humorless laugh escapes him, sharp and bitter. “Idiot,” he mutters under his breath, feeling little guilt for the car’s owner when they get out of their nine to five with no way home.

He doesn’t waste another second. Sliding into the driver’s seat like it’s muscle memory. The interior smells faintly of old coffee and air freshener, but he ignores it, before slamming the door shut. The cab muffles the day outside, cocooning him in silence.

His hands move fast, almost mechanical. He strips back the plastic casing beneath the steering column with practiced efficiency, exposing the tangle of wires hidden within. The shadows in the compartment barely let him see the mess, but his fingers don’t falter.

Hydra taught him well, and this… this is second nature. A twist here, a spark there, and the car shudders awake, the dashboard lights flaring to life. The low rumble of the engine follows, vibrating through the seat into his chest. It’s a sound full of escape, motion, without being caught.

He exhales, and without ceremony, he grabs the duffel bag that was laid on his lap and hurls it into the back seat. It lands with a dull thud, the weight of it echoing louder in the confined space than it should.

The boy stood outside the passenger door, his small shoulders hunched beneath the shirt Hydra had given him. His small hand hovered near the door handle, though the locked mechanism kept it sealed tight.

Bucky gripped the steering wheel hard enough that the leather creaked. He could just reach into his bag and throw the kids folder out the window. He could shove it into the boy’s arms, tell him to run, slam the accelerator, and never look back. He could be free. Finally, mercifully free of this problem…this weight.

But when his eyes flicked up, to the window they caught on the boy’s face. Those eyes. They weren’t the eyes of someone hardened, someone Hydra had broken in fully. They were too soft, too curious. The sort of eyes Bucky hadn’t seen in decades—at least not without seeing them destroyed later.

Damn it.

His chest tightened, and with a weary sigh, Bucky reached over and unlocked the passenger door.

The boy reacted instantly, tugging it open with a care that seemed almost rehearsed. He slid inside without a sound, his knees bent at perfect ninety-degree angles, hands folding neatly on top of them. The posture of a soldier in miniature, back straight, gaze forward. Hydra had already taught him the shape of obedience.

Bucky hated it.

He pulled out of the parking lot and into the busy road. The low growl of the engine filled the silence between them, but not for long.

“What’s that?” the boy asked suddenly, pointing at the console. His voice was tentative but bright, like he couldn’t help but be curious.

Bucky followed the finger, saw the cracked plastic buttons and battered dials. “Stereo,” he muttered, keeping his eyes on the road ahead.

“What does it do?”

“Songs. News. Other stuff.” His voice was flat, dismissive, but he could feel the boy studying him, hanging on the words like they were something important.

The kid tilted his head, studying the dashboard as though it was some alien device. Then, without warning, he leaned close to Bucky, eyes narrowing. “Is your arm hurt? The real one, I mean. I don’t think the metal one can get hurt, unless it shorts out—”

“Stop talking,” Bucky snapped. The words came harsher than he intended, slicing through the small space of the car like a whip.

The boy flinched, his mouth clamping shut instantly. He ducked his chin, his voice soft and apologetic. “Sorry, sir.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. That word hit him like a blow. Sir. That was Hydra’s word. That was their leash.

“Don’t call me sir,” he growled, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror, scanning the rows of cars behind them as though enemies might materialize out of the shadows.

The silence stretched. The boy’s lips parted, trembled on the edge of a word, then pressed shut again. Finally, he whispered, so quiet it was almost lost under the rumble of the engine.

“…Soldat?”

The word froze the air.

Bucky’s knuckles went white around the wheel. His stomach dropped like a stone. His voice came out sharp, fierce, almost desperate. “No!”

The boy’s eyes widened, startled.

“My name… my name… is Bucky.” His grip didn’t loosen. He forced the words out, as though speaking them might anchor him, might stop the creeping tide of the past from swallowing him whole.

“Oh. Okay…” the boy said softly. He hesitated, testing the name on his tongue like it was something fragile, something forbidden. Then, quieter still: “Bucky.”

Silence fell again for about half an hour; it was thick and uneasy. The kind of silence that doesn’t rest but coils, pressing against their ribs, leaving both of them aware of the other’s breathing in the cramped space of the car.

Then, quietly, the boy speaks.

“My name is Peter.”

Bucky’s grip on the wheel stills for a fraction of a second. The words slip into him sharper than he expects. A name. Not a number, not a title. A name. His gaze flicks sideways, just long enough to see the boy’s hands folded neatly in his lap, posture straight like someone still waiting for inspection.

Bucky thinks for a second then talks, his voice edged with disbelief.

“They gave you an actual name?”

Peter nods, a small, jerky motion. “Technically it’s… Petya, but since I got moved from Russia to America the handlers wanted it more… adapted to here.” His voice falters over the word “adapted,” like he’s repeating something he once overheard, something drilled in but never fully understood.

Russia. The word scrapes old scars raw. Bucky’s jaw tightens, and his hand flexes on the wheel. “You’re from Russia?”

Peter’s eyes darted to the window, his reflection barely visible in the dark glass. “I dunno…” he says softly. “I just know I was there as a kid.”

That answer sits heavy in the space between them. Bucky doesn’t push. He knows too well how little the past gives back once Hydra’s had its claws in it. The boy doesn’t look at him again, and Bucky doesn’t ask the hundred questions rattling inside his skull.

Silence reclaims the car, longer this time, stretching mile after mile. The road dips and winds, and still Bucky drives. He tells himself it’s because he needs distance between them and Hydra’s ruins, but the truth is murkier. He doesn’t know where he’s going, not really. Just away.

Once again the boy breaks the quiet, his voice so small Bucky almost misses it.

“Where are we going?”

Bucky swallows. His throat feels raw, his chest tight. He has no answer. No map, no plan, no safety net waiting at the end of this drive. All he has is a half-broken car, a half-broken arm, and some random kid.

Where are we going?

Bucky’s hands clench against the wheel. He stares at the empty stretch of highway, at the dark creeping in from either side as the sun starts to set. The truth burns bitter in his mouth, but he can’t swallow it back.

He has absolutely no fucking idea.

Chapter Text

The gas needle was flirting with empty.

Bucky glanced down at it again, jaw tightening as if glaring at the dial could force it to move. The faint orange light of the warning symbol blinked like an accusation, pulsing in rhythm with the engine’s low growl. The sound was steady but strained every mile felt like one more the car wasn’t built to handle. They’d been driving for hours, maybe more than half a day now, through a maze of backroads and nameless highways that didn’t exist on most maps.

His internal clock, once precise, reliable, was shot to hell. The lines between dusk and dawn blurred behind the windshield.

The radio was dead, the heater barely working, and the dashboard lights cast the cabin in a dim red haze.

Outside, the world was all shadows and motion trees leaning too close, endless fields broken only by the occasional rusting mailbox or forgotten sign.

Every once in a while, a car passed in the opposite lane, its headlights slicing through the darkness like a knife. Each time, Bucky’s muscles tensed before he even realized it, his grip tightening around the steering wheel until the worn leather creaked under his palm.

The boy in the passenger seat, Peter, sat curled against the door, his small frame pressed so tightly into the corner it looked like he was trying to disappear. His knees were drawn up to his chest, one hand fisted in the hem of his shirt, the other resting near the window as if to anchor himself.

He wasn’t asleep. Not really. Bucky could tell by the way his breathing changed with every bump in the road, every flicker of passing light. His eyelids fluttered when the car swerved even slightly or when the glare of oncoming headlights flashed too bright through the windshield. Conditioned reflexes. Too sharp, too fast, for a kid who should’ve been dead to the world.

The silence between them stretched long and thin, broken only by the sound of tires humming over asphalt and the faint rattle from the glove compartment. It wasn’t peaceful, just heavy. The kind of silence that left Bucky too aware of everything: the faint tremor in his left hand, the ache in his shoulder, the cold weight of the metal arm against the steering wheel.

He could still feel the sting of adrenaline in his veins, the leftover static from the escape. Hydra’s outposts didn’t go down cleanly, and neither did the memories that came with them.

Peter stirred, shifting in the seat. The movement was small but restless. He finally lowered his legs, setting his feet flat on the floor like he was trying to look composed. It didn’t hide the exhaustion in his face. The kid’s skin was pale in the glow of the dashboard, freckles standing out stark against the bruises fading along his jaw.

His eyes darted toward Bucky’s hands which were white-knuckled, the veins standing out under the glove and then flicked up to his face.

“Almost out?” Peter’s voice was quiet, hesitant. He sounded like someone afraid of breaking the silence too loud.

Bucky grunted, eyes still on the road. “Yeah.” His voice came out rough, rasped raw from hours without rest or water. He tried to clear his throat but gave up halfway through.

They drove another minute before the dim light ahead broke the monotony—a flickering sign with half its letters missing. The kind that had once been bright and welcoming, now just a ghost of itself. It buzzed faintly in the dark, advertising GAS • SNACKS • COFFEE in half-dead neon. Below, another hand-painted sign promised “24 HOURS” in letters so faded the paint was peeling.

The car rolled off the exit ramp, headlights sweeping across the empty stretch of asphalt. The sign overhead squeaked in the wind, one flickering bulb stuttering weakly against the dark. The station sat alone at the edge of the road like a forgotten relic

Through the glass doors, Bucky could see the cashier: young, probably early twenties, with a tired slump to their shoulders. They leaned against the counter, face lit in blue from the glow of their phone, earbuds dangling.

Oblivious.

Good.

Bucky pulled into the farthest pump, cutting the engine. His hands stayed locked around the steering wheel for a long moment before he forced them to unclench. He could feel the ache in every joint.

“Stay here,” he said automatically, voice low, roughened by fatigue. His body had already started to move on instinct, reach for the door, keep his head down, get in and out fast. Don’t draw eyes. Don’t linger.

But then Peter spoke.

“You can’t go in there.”

The boy’s voice was soft, but there was something underneath it. An edge Bucky didn’t expect. Not defiance exactly. More like a warning.

Bucky froze, hand still on the handle. He turned, brows knitting. “What?”

Peter’s gaze flicked up from his lap. His brown eyes looked darker in the dim cabin light, reflecting the faint orange glow from the station sign. “You can’t go in there. Not looking like…” He hesitated, but only for a second. “Like that.”

Bucky stared at him, half-ready to bite out a response but the words caught somewhere in his throat. The kid wasn’t wrong.

He definitely looked like shit.

The mirror on the visor didn’t lie. His face was a patchwork of bruises and half-healed cuts, stubble shadowing his jaw, his hair a mess of sweat and dried blood at the temple. His shirt was torn at the shoulder, the left sleeve ripped open, and the jacket he’d thrown over it was crusted with mud and road dust. He looked like a corpse that hadn’t gotten the message to stay buried.

And his arm…

Bucky glanced down at it, the breath leaving him slow through his nose. His flesh arm hung stiff against his side, useless. He hadn’t had time to set it and the swelling had worsened since the afternoon, climbing from elbow to shoulder in deep, he couldn’t see but he guessed it was littered with uglly shades of violet.

Every bump in the road had sent a flare of pain through him that he’d swallowed down out of habit, gritting his teeth and keeping his face blank. But now, sitting still, it pulsed with every heartbeat: heavy, hot, wrong.

Peter’s eyes followed his. The boy studied the arm, brow furrowing. His voice came quiet. “It’s broken.”

Bucky didn’t bother denying it. “Yeah.”

“You can’t pump gas like that.”

The line should’ve been funny. Almost was. The corner of Bucky’s mouth twitched, something between a grimace and a laugh, but what came out instead was a rough sound, a short exhale that scraped his throat raw.

He shoved the seat back, metal joints whining. “Yeah, well,” he muttered. “We don’t have much of a choice.”

He pulled at the torn sleeve with his good hand, the motion awkward. The fabric clung to the swelling until he yanked it loose, and the sight that greeted him made his stomach twist.

In the harsh light spilling from the gas station sign, his arm looked worse than he’d imagined the skin stretched taut over dark bruises, mottled purple and blue, the bone beneath clearly shifted out of place. He could see the faint unnatural slope where it had given.

Peter didn’t flinch. Didn’t recoil. He just watched, eyes narrowing in faint concentration like he was cataloging details, memorizing them. The kid leaned a little closer, unbothered by the sight.

“You should set it,” Peter said finally, tone almost clinical. “Before it swells more.”

“You think?” The words came out sharper than intended, half-snarled. The pain and exhaustion turned everything bitter in his throat.

He flexed his metal fingers, curling them around his own forearm just below the break. The pressure sent a fresh burst of agony up his arm, white-hot and dizzying. He gritted his teeth, breath coming short.

Fuck, this is gonna hurt.

“I can do it,” Peter said suddenly.

Bucky’s head snapped toward him. “You know how?”

Peter blinked once, slow, steady. “I learned first aid.” His tone was quiet but sure. “Field stuff. Setting breaks. Patching holes. Sometimes on each other.” His voice softened, barely. “I’m not squeamish.”

The words shouldn’t have hit as hard as they did, but they did.

Bucky stared at him. The kid’s face was pale but composed, his jaw set in that stubborn way only someone who’s been taught pain is normal can manage. His hands,small, steady,rested on his knees, ready but not shaking.

He’d seen that look before. Too many times.

Finally, Bucky gave a short nod, leaning back against the seat, forcing himself to relax. His voice came out low. “Bottom of the duffel bag. Med kit. There should be tape.”

Peter reached back immediately, rummaging through the bag on the backseat. The sound of shifting fabric filled the silence, zippers, clinking metal, the faint crinkle of plastic wrap. He found what he needed fast: a roll of athletic tape, a towel stiff with dried blood from some previous night.

When he turned back, he paused, just for a second, waiting for Bucky’s permission.

Bucky gave a single nod.

Then Peter moved closer, close enough that Bucky could see the freckles across his nose, the faint tremor in his lashes when he blinked. The kid’s hands were small but precise. He pressed gently along the break, fingers probing the skin with careful pressure, testing the alignment. His touch was firm but not cruel.

“On three,” Peter murmured, meeting his eyes. For the first time, there was something almost kind in his tone, soft but certain. “One… two—”

He pulled

HARD.

The bone shifted back with a nauseating, meaty crunch that echoed in the stillness of the car. The sound was wrong too loud in the confined space, too alive.

For a split second, the world went white at the edges of Bucky’s vision. His lungs seized, and he had to fight to breathe, dragging air in through clenched teeth. The pain burned sharp and deep, radiating all the way to his shoulder until his fingertips went numb. His breath tore out in a ragged hiss that fogged the window beside him. Sweat prickled cold along his temples and spine, his heart hammering like it was trying to punch its way out of his ribs.

He didn’t scream. Wouldn’t. Pain was familiar it was something you learned to bite down on, something that didn’t get to own you. He’d learned that lesson a long time ago.

Peter didn’t stop moving. His hands were quick, steady in a way that made Bucky’s chest ache for reasons that had nothing to do with the pain. The kid’s face was blank, mechanical almost, eyes dark and focused as he wrapped the arm with the towel. The fabric turned darker where it met blood, but Peter didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate.

The movements were practiced too practiced. He wound the towel tighter, binding it with strips of tape scavenged from the glove compartment until the limb was rigid and still. Every tug made the edges of Bucky’s vision pulse again, but Peter’s touch was sure. Clinical.

Hydra had done that to him too.

When it was finally over, Bucky let his head fall back against the seat. His breath came hard, chest rising and falling once, twice, before he forced it under control. The car reeked faintly of oil and iron, sweat and damp fabric. His arm still throbbed with each heartbeat, like hellfire under the skin, but it was straight now. Functional enough. The serum would handle the rest eventually. It always did.

“Thanks, kid.” His voice came out rough, low. He flexed his fingers once, testing. They moved…barely. That was good enough. He reached for the door handle, ready to get in and out as fast as he could.

Then Peter’s voice soft, but unshakably firm. “You still can’t go in there. Not looking like… that.”

Bucky stilled, hand on the handle. The kid’s tone wasn’t defiant; it was factual. He blinked once, then sighed through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. “Yeah,” he muttered, voice tired. “Guess you’re right.”

He leaned back, rummaging under the seat until his fingers brushed against the corner of a crumpled duffel bag. He dragged it close, the zipper rasping open loud in the quiet. Inside were a handful of worn clothes, nothing special. A plain black hoodie, a pair of jeans that had seen better days. The kind of outfit that didn’t make people look twice.

“Don’t look,” he grumbled, glancing over his shoulder. He didn’t really think Peter would, but the words came out anyway, a reflexive bit of dignity.

Peter, to his credit, obediently turned toward the window, his reflection ghosted by the passing light from the gas station sign.

Bucky changed quickly, every movement stiff. The hoodie tugged awkwardly over the brace on his arm, and the jeans stuck where his skin was damp with sweat. He caught a glimpse of himself in the cracked side mirror shadows under his eyes, face drawn tight with exhaustion. He looked like hell. But at least he didn’t look like the Winter Soldier.

Better. Not perfect, but better.

He shoved his old shirt into the duffel, zipped it shut, and dragged a hand down his face, scraping at the stubble along his jaw. His palm came away clammy. He took a deep breath, steadying himself. “Stay in the car,” he said finally, tone brooking no argument.

Peter didn’t answer at first. His hands fidgeted in his lap, twisting the edge of his sleeve. Bucky watched the movement from the corner of his eye, the way the kid’s leg bounced once, then stopped like he caught himself doing it.

Bucky frowned. “Something wrong?”

The boy hesitated, eyes still fixed on his hands. “…I need the bathroom.”

Bucky cursed under his breath, a low, rasping noise. “Course you do.”

He leaned back against the headrest, glaring out through the windshield at the dark, mostly empty lot. The fluorescent light above the gas station door buzzed and flickered, casting the cracked asphalt in a sickly glow. A single truck idled at the far pump, the driver inside scrolling on his phone.

He should make the kid hold it. Should fill the tank, grab supplies, and be gone before anyone had time to notice the beat-up car or the strangers inside it. But Peter wasn’t whining. Wasn’t pleading. Just waiting, quiet and patient, gaze steady. There was something unsettling about that calm too disciplined for someone his age. Like waiting for permission was something baked into his bones.

Bucky dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “Keep close,” he muttered finally, pushing his door open. The hinges creaked in protest. “And don’t talk to anyone.”

The night air hit him cold, carrying the faint smell of gasoline and rain. He heard Peter’s door open behind him, light and quick, and for a moment the sound of two pairs of footsteps echoed across the cracked pavement.

The store was a hollow echo of late-night America. Buzzing refrigerators, harsh fluorescent lights, and the sharp, artificial tang of cleaner that tried and failed to mask the underlying staleness. The air felt too dry, too cold. A faint hum filled the silence, the low, constant vibration of machines that never slept. Rows of snack foods stretched in narrow aisles, colors too bright under the flickering bulbs.

The clerk barely looked up from behind the counter, a young guy with half-lidded eyes and a nametag that read Dylan. He was clearly counting down the hours till his shift ended.

Bucky didn’t mind. He preferred it that way.

He walked up to the counter, boots silent on the linoleum. “Pump three. Sixty dollars… please.”

His voice was low, even habitually careful. The clerk blinked, nodded once, and took the bills without a word. The register chimed. The drawer clacked shut. No questions asked. Good.

Behind him, Peter had already slipped toward the back of the store, quiet as a shadow. There was a narrow hallway past the ice machine and the soda coolers, a flickering “Restroom” sign half-lit above it. The boy hesitated at the doorway, glancing back once.

For a moment, Bucky caught the look. It was fleeting, barely there but it said more than words ever could. Suspicion. Uncertainty. Expectation.

He expected to come back and find the car gone.

And honestly… Bucky couldn’t even blame him.

That kind of distrust wasn’t paranoia; it was survival. Hydra had taught that lesson to both of them, in different ways. People leave. People lie. Safety was an illusion, and mercy wasn’t something you counted on.

Bucky’s jaw tightened. He didn’t move, didn’t call after him. Just stood there, waiting. The hum of the refrigerators filled the silence again.

While he waited, his eyes wandered an old habit he couldn’t shake. Every corner catalogued, every possible exit mapped out. Two doors: one by the bathrooms, one behind the counter, probably for employees. One camera above the register, another pointed toward the door. No one else in sight.

Then his gaze snagged on a rack of candy bars and small bags of chips beside the counter. Bright packaging, cheap, meaningless. His first instinct was to look away. Stay focused. Get the gas, get out.

But then his mind flickered back to the boy.

To the way Peter’s frame seemed too slight under the oversized hoodie, how his collarbones pressed sharp under the fabric. The way his eyes seemed a little too big for his face, hollow in the fluorescent light.

Hydra didn’t feed people they fed soldiers.

Meals were pills and IV bags, synthetic sustenance that filled the body but starved everything else. The taste of chalk, the burn of saline. Food wasn’t for enjoyment; it was maintenance. Efficiency. Even when they gave Bucky real food, it had been gray, overcooked, lifeless. Everything was stripped of color and texture, as though flavor was some kind of weakness.

He didn’t want to imagine what they gave the kids.

His hand twitched. Before he could think too hard about it, he reached out and grabbed a small bag of chips from the rack. Then a candy bar just plain chocolate. Something sweet, something simple. He tossed both onto the counter and slid another bill toward the clerk.

The kid behind the counter barely looked up again, just rang it through and mumbled, “Have a good night.”

“Yeah,” Bucky muttered. “Sure.”

He waited near the door, scanning the lot outside through the clear glass. A car passed on the highway, distant, the sound trailing like a ghost.

When Peter came back down the narrow hall, his hands were shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders drawn in like he was trying to take up less space. His steps were quiet, uncertain, the kind of careful that only came from being punished for making noise.

Bucky didn’t say anything. He just turned, shoved the bag of chips and the candy bar into Peter’s hands without looking at him.

The boy froze mid-step, staring down at what he’d been given like it was something foreign. “For me?” he asked quietly, voice caught between disbelief and something rawer.

Bucky’s mouth twisted, somewhere between irritation and something he didn’t want to name. “Just eat in the car,” he said gruffly, already heading toward the door.

For a beat, there was silence. Then, so small Bucky almost missed it, Peter smiled.

Not wide, not bright. Just the faintest curl of his mouth, soft and fragile. But it was enough to light something in the dullness of his face, enough to scrape at something raw in Bucky’s chest.

It hit him harder than it should have.

He looked away before it could show.

They passed a rusted sign half-buried in overgrown weeds, its neon letters sputtering weakly against the dark. “OTEL — LOW RATES, CABLE.” The missing M blinked in and out like it was gasping its last breath. A single buzzing light fought the night above the peeling sign, casting a pale halo over a cracked driveway.

It wasn’t much, but it didn’t need to be.

Bucky eased off the gas, the tires crunching over loose gravel as the car rolled into the lot. The sound was harsh in the silence, echoing off the row of sagging doors and fading stucco. The building looked like it hadn’t seen a coat of paint in years. Window curtains hung crooked or missing entirely, revealing flashes of flickering TV light.

He killed the headlights but left the engine running. His eyes scanned the place automatically doors, exits, shadows, anyone loitering. Two floors, all outside access. The layout made him tense; too many open angles, too few blind spots he could use to his advantage.

But there were no cars he recognized, no glint of a camera lens, no signs of company except for a half-drunk man leaning against the railing on the second floor, smoking and watching the road.

It would have to do.

“Stay here,” he muttered, already reaching for the door handle.

Peter looked up from where he sat curled in the passenger seat, the dim glow from the dashboard lighting his face. “Why?” he asked, wary.

Bucky glanced over at him. “So they don’t think I kidnapped you or some shit,” he said flatly.

There was a pause. Peter’s expression didn’t change much, but his voice was a bit smug when he said, “…You kinda did.”

Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, the ghost of something like a laugh.

“Yeah. Not helping.” He grabbed his wallet, pushed the door open, and stepped out into the cold.

The air smelled like rain that never came, thick and heavy. Gravel crunched under his boots as he crossed the lot toward the small, flickering “Office” sign above the front door.

The soda machine beside it buzzed and clicked, half the buttons missing, the glass streaked with grime. A moth banged helplessly against the fluorescent bulb overhead.

He pushed the door open. The bell above it gave a dull ring that barely sounded.

Inside, the lobby was even worse. The air stank faintly of cigarettes and old carpet. A dusty rack of faded travel brochures stood by the wall: “See the Canyon!”, “Historic Route 66!” their corners curling from moisture. A plastic plant slumped in the corner, its leaves coated in gray.

Behind the counter sat a woman in her fifties, her hair piled up in a messy bun and her reading glasses perched low on her nose. She didn’t look surprised to see him, probably didn’t care either way. This place likely saw worse than him on a weekly basis.

She squinted at him over the rim of her glasses. “Need a room?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, voice low. “One night. Two beds.”

Her gaze flicked over him. His hoodie, the faint swelling along his jaw, the stiffness in how he moved his arm. She didn’t ask questions. Just reached for a ledger and a pen, pushing it toward him. “That’ll be sixty-two.”

Cheap, even for a dump like this Bucky thought as he dug into his pocket and pulled out a small wad of cash.

“Do you want the room up top or on the ground floor?”

“Ground,” he said automatically. Less exposure. Faster exit.

She nodded, tearing off a paper key envelope and scribbling a number on it in faded blue ink. “Room twelve. End of the row. The ice machine’s busted, the vending machine eats dollars, and if the TV doesn’t work, don’t come back in here yellin’. It hasn’t worked right since March.”

He slid the money across the counter. “Got it.”

She counted quickly, lips moving faintly, then shoved the cash into the drawer and handed him the key. “Checkouts at ten.”

“Won’t be here that long,” Bucky muttered, turning to leave.

The woman didn’t respond, she was already back to her crossword, pen tapping against the counter.

Outside, the night felt colder now. The car’s headlights were still dimmed, engine still idling. Peter sat just as Bucky left him, chin propped on his knees, eyes darting toward the office door every so often. When Bucky stepped back into view, the kid straightened, relief flickering across his face so quickly it almost looked unintentional.

Bucky climbed in, tossed the key envelope onto the dashboard. “Room twelve. End of the row.”

Peter nodded, quiet. His fingers toyed with the edge of the candy wrapper, fidgeting more out of nerves than energy.

Bucky put the car in gear and drove the short stretch down the row of doors, each one identical except for the fading gold numbers screwed to their centers. Twelve sat at the far corner, under a flickering bulb that buzzed like a trapped hornet.

The room reeked of mildew and cigarette smoke. The air was thick and stale, like the room hadn’t been aired out in a decade. Peeling wallpaper curled away from the corners in yellowed sheets, revealing darker stains beneath. Water damage, maybe, or something worse.

The carpet was a patchwork of faded colors, worn flat in some places, mottled with old stains in others that Bucky didn’t want to think about too closely. The single overhead bulb flickered weakly, buzzing like a dying fly.

He stood in the doorway for a beat, scanning everything in a single practiced sweep. His shoulder ached from the drive, the dull throb of a bone still knitting itself together beneath the skin.

“Get in,” he told Peter as soon as the door shut behind them.

The room was small, barely big enough for the two of them to stand without feeling cramped. The furniture looked like it had been scavenged from a junkyard: two sagging beds with faded floral spread, a chipped dresser was bolted to the wall, a lamp that tilted on its base, and a television (that might’ve been old then Bucky) was screwed into the top of the dresser to keep guests from stealing it.

But it had four walls, a ceiling that didn’t leak and a door with a lock that worked. For tonight, that was enough.

Peter stepped in behind him, hovering by the doorway like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed. His eyes darted across the room, taking it all in with quiet, unguarded curiosity. It wasn’t wonder, exactly.

But it was close.

And that hit harder than it should have.

Bucky realized, uncomfortably, that the kid probably thought this was luxury compared to whatever Hydra called “housing.” A room that wasn’t metal. A mattress, even a bad one. Air that didn’t smell like antiseptic and fear.

“Don’t touch anything,” Bucky muttered. His voice came out gruffer than intended.

He crossed the room in quick strides, scanning the blinds and tugging them shut. The fabric left streaks of dust on his fingers. He checked the window locks; they were rusted, but functional and he pushed the bathroom door open with his foot. The shower curtain hung half-off its rings, and the mirror above the sink was cracked through the middle. The air vent rattled faintly but didn’t hide the hum of cameras or mics, which he half-expected even now.

He circled back, eyes sharp, tracing the walls automatically. Escape routes. Sightlines. Points of cover. His hands moved without hesitation, muscle memory more than thought.

By the time he was satisfied, Peter had settled on the edge of the bed, small hands knotted together in his lap, but his eyes scan just as Bucky's had done. The springs creaked under his light weight. He was sitting perfectly straight, shoulders drawn in, like he wasn’t sure if the bed would hold him or if he was allowed to make himself comfortable on it.

His eyes landed and watched Bucky the way someone might watch a storm cloud: expecting thunder, but not knowing when it would come.

Bucky finally dropped into the single chair beside the window, metal groaning beneath him. He leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, rubbing a hand over his face. The silence between them stretched.

He didn’t mean to speak. The words just clawed their way out, raw and unfiltered.

“How’d you recognize me?”

Peter’s head snapped up. “What?”

“Back there,” Bucky said, lifting his gaze to meet the boy’s. “When I first saw you, you didn’t even hesitate to jump up. You knew who I was.”

Peter blinked at him, caught off guard. His teeth worried at his lip as he looked down at the bedspread. A loose thread stuck out near the edge, and he picked at it absently, winding it around his finger as if the motion could stall the question.

“They…” He faltered, searching for words. “They told me.”

Bucky frowned, the word grinding through his chest. “Told you what?”

Peter swallowed. “That one day- one day, if I was good enough, I’d get to be with you.” His voice trembled just slightly at the end. “The Winter Soldier.”

For a heartbeat, everything in Bucky went still. The air in the room seemed to thin, pressing in around him.

The words hit like a blow.

He leaned back in the chair, chest tight, the ache behind his ribs pulsing hard. He’d expected something briefing photos, reports, propaganda reels, maybe even whispers in training rooms. But not this. Not that.

“They used me as a…what?” He couldn’t keep the crack out of his voice. It came sharp, almost a growl. “A reward?”

Peter’s eyes widened slightly, and he shook his head, shrinking back a little. “Not like that,” he said quickly. “It wasn’t like that. It was more like a goal. They said you were the best. The perfect soldier. If I trained hard enough, if I didn’t mess up, I’d get to serve beside you. I’d be chosen.”

Bucky stared at him, unable to hide the disgust twisting deep in his gut. Not at the kid but at himself, at what Hydra had turned his name into.

He pictured it: handlers using his image to keep children obedient, to make them dream of becoming perfect killers. The Winter Soldier, a ghost story turned into gospel.

A promise.

A threat.

His face, his legacy, warped into propaganda to keep them in line.

It made his skin crawl.

He ran a hand down his jaw, fingers pressing into the stubble there, grounding himself in the physical ache of it. “They told you lies,” he said finally, voice low and hard. “Whatever they said about me… isn’t something to look up to.”

Peter hesitated, searching his face with quiet confusion. His voice was soft when he finally spoke.

“You don’t seem too bad.”

Bucky didn’t respond, his mind spinning so fast it made him feel lightheaded. What else had Hydra done to Peter? To make him like Bucky? The thought twisted in his chest, heavy and sick. The room felt smaller all of a sudden, the walls too close, his lungs fighting for space.

“You had code words?” he asked at last, his voice low and uncertain. It scraped against his throat, thick with the kind of dread that came from memory. “Like me?”

Peter didn’t move and Bucky realized maybe he should explain more.

“It’s a way they can keep you in line,” he said, his tone rougher now. “A trigger. A sequence of random words that makes you…” he broke off, jaw clenching hard enough to hurt. “ makes you stop being you.”

Peter shook his head quickly, curls bouncing. “No. Nothing like that.”

But then he hesitated. His teeth caught on his lower lip, chewing at it, and his gaze dropped to the floor. The silence stretched long enough that Bucky could feel the tension in it, like a cable pulled taut and ready to snap.

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “But there was something.”

Peter’s shoulders hunched in, his hands curling slightly in his lap. He looked like a kid caught with a secret he didn’t want to tell. “If I obeyed,” he said finally, voice small, “then I was told I’d get- they said I’d get to see my dad again. If I was good enough. If I proved myself.”

Bucky felt something in his chest crack. Not physically, not yet but he could feel the old wound tearing open all the same. He knew Hydra’s methods. The manipulation, the promises, the way they could take someone’s deepest need and twist it into a leash. They’d done it to him with guilt, with duty, with fear. But with Peter… they’d used love.

Peter’s voice thinned until it was barely more than a whisper. “Hydra told me if I worked hard, if I didn’t fight back, I’d get him back. So I listened. I tried. I was good. I was almost perfect.”

Bucky stared at him, heart hammering, every nerve raw and exposed. There was nothing in the world Hydra couldn’t corrupt, he realized not even hope. They hadn’t needed code words for this kid. They hadn’t needed electric shocks or needles or mind wipes. All they’d needed was one impossible promise.

He swallowed hard, the taste of metal on his tongue. “Does your dad work for Hydra?” he asked quietly. “Or is he a prisoner?”

Peter hesitated, his eyes darting toward the floor again. “Umm… well like… he’s not a bad person, Hydra just—”

Bucky cut him off with a harsh scoff. It wasn’t anger, not really more like bitterness, something deep and ugly that clawed its way up his throat. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Sure. Hydra just.”

He could picture it too easily. A man signing papers, shaking hands, maybe even smiling while his kid was led away. This kid’s shithole ”dad” probably gave him up willingly, Bucky thought, the words curdling in his mind. Happy to have given Hydra a new, fresh toy.”

And the thought made him sick.

The change in Peter was instant. His shoulders went rigid, his whole frame locking up like a wire drawn too tight. When he lifted his head, his eyes weren’t wide or uncertain anymore they were sharp, blazing with something raw and dangerous.

“Don’t talk about him like that,” Peter said, his voice shaking but it wasn’t fear anymore. It was fury. The kind that comes from somewhere deep, the kind that burns through the cracks before you can stop it. “You don’t know what happened.”

Bucky blinked, thrown by the sudden fire in his tone. “I know Hydra,” he said slowly, each word measured, heavy. “I know the kind of people they use. And I know that if your old man was really a good man, he wouldn’t have let you anywhere near them.”

Peter shot to his feet so fast his chair scraped the floor behind him. “You don’t get it,” he snapped. “You don't, you don’t know him.”

Bucky frowned, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “Then tell me. What makes him so different?”

For a second, Peter looked like he might explode. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white, his chest heaving with the effort of keeping something down. Words hovered at the edge of his tongue, words that could ruin everything, words that would shatter whatever fragile thing they’d built between them.

But he didn’t say them.

He swallowed hard, forcing his voice to steady. “He didn’t want to be there,” Peter said finally. “He didn’t have a choice.”

Bucky’s expression softened barely. His voice dropped low, quieter but still rough around the edges. “Look, kid… not having a choice? That’s my specialty.” He let out a humorless huff, shaking his head. “But if he gave you up, then yeah he’s a bad person. Okay?”

Peter’s head snapped up, eyes flashing. “He’s not a bad person!”

The words tore out of him before he could stop them. His voice cracked with emotion, the sound slicing through the room. His face flushed red, his chest rose and fell too fast, and the tears that burned behind his eyes threatened to spill over but he refused to let them.

“He saved me,” Peter ground out, teeth clenched. “He did everything he could to protect me. You don’t know what he sacrificed.”

Bucky stared, momentarily disarmed by the intensity in the boy’s voice. There was something in it, something aching and desperate, that tugged at a place in his memory that felt almost familiar. A time long ago… when he himself had to stand up for someone.

“Protect you?” Bucky repeated, his tone shifting, souring. “By letting them turn you into this?” His voice went sharp, mean. The words came out colder than he intended, but he didn’t pull them back.

Peter flinched. It was small, barely there, but Bucky saw it. The kid’s breath hitched, his mouth parted like he wanted to answer, but the sound didn’t come.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Peter looked down at the floor, his voice dropping to a whisper so quiet it almost broke apart. “You don’t know anything.” His hands trembled at his sides. “You don’t know him. I bet you don’t even remember half the things you’ve done so maybe don’t act like you’re better than anyone else.”

The words hung in the air, sharp as glass.

They hit Bucky hard. Way too hard. His jaw tightened, and his breath caught somewhere between anger and shame. The kid didn’t know what he was saying, didn’t understand the weight of those words, but somehow, they still found their mark. Because Peter wasn’t wrong. Bucky didn’t remember. Half the blood on his hands didn’t even have names attached to it.

And Peter knew it. He knew it the second the silence fell, thick and suffocating. The second he saw Bucky’s expression harden not with rage, but with something worse. Hurt.

Peter wished he could take it back. He hadn’t meant it, not like that. But a small, cruel part of him ,the same part Hydra had trained to survive by lashing out first, was glad it had landed. Maybe if he made Bucky angry enough, he’d stop digging. Stop asking questions. Stop getting too close.

The silence stretched until it hurt to breathe.

Peter looked away first, his jaw set, eyes burning. “Go to sleep,” Bucky muttered, his voice flat, clipped.

That was it. No apology. No softening. Just the sound of something breaking between them.

Peter nodded once, wordless, and turned toward the cot. The mattress was thin and musty, the blanket rough against his skin, but he didn’t care. He crawled under it, curling tight on his side, facing the wall. He didn’t want Bucky to see his face didn’t want him to see the tears that finally slipped free, quiet and angry.

Behind him, Bucky sat still for a long time. The light flickered weakly overhead, casting shifting shadows across the room. He could hear the boy’s breathing; it was uneven at first, then deliberately steady, like he was pretending to be asleep.

Bucky exhaled slowly, the sound ragged. His own words still echoed in his skull, sharp and cruel. He hadn’t meant to say them not like that. But Hydra’s ghosts had a way of using his mouth when he wasn’t careful.

He dragged a hand over his face, flesh and metal both, pressing his palms into his eyes until stars bloomed in the dark. He didn’t understand why this kid could get under his skin like this, why every word from him cut deeper than it should.

Why it mattered.

He leaned back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. The air felt colder now, heavier. Bucky tried to ignore the dull ache building in his chest.

He told himself it was guilt. Just guilt.

But deep down, he saw it. The pattern, the echo. Another scrawny kid who’d needed someone to be there. Someone to protect him.

He’d failed before. Failed that first kid—the one who’d followed him into a war they never should’ve fought, the one he couldn’t save no matter how hard he tried. It didn’t matter that the boy had grown into a man, into Captain America. In Bucky’s mind, Steve would always be that skinny kid from Brooklyn who needed looking after—and Bucky had still lost him, again and again.

And now, looking over at Peter—curled small on the cot, shoulders drawn tight—he felt that same sick weight pressing down on him. Like history was repeating itself.

Somehow, he was failing all over again.