Chapter Text
Bucky Barnes had managed to have a reasonably normal day.
He had woken like clockwork at 6 am, rolling out of bed into his morning workout routine—sixty minutes that he pushed himself through before checking the burner phone by his bedside table. There was nothing, but that was good news. T’Challa or Steve would only call if it was an emergency. Still, it had been four days, and he already found himself missing their voices.
But it had been necessary. Stark had been coming to visit—something about bringing an intern to work with Shuri for a week. T’Challa had assured Bucky that Stark wouldn’t find him, but Bucky didn’t want to compromise the king’s position more than he already had.
So he had moved out here, to a small industrial city that’s biggest accomplishment was being 'Home of the Largest Teapot Collection in the Southwest.'
The city’s only saving grace was that it was known to have a pretty decent farmer’s market. Bucky was returning to one of the small apartments Wakanda kept as safehouses in the States, when he was greeted by a tied-up teenager in the middle of his living room, staring at him with wide, panicked, deep brown eyes.
Bucky immediately went into defense mode, dropping his groceries and scanning the apartment for enemies. Only after he was sure it was clear did he make his way back to the living room, being sure to approach from where the teenager could see him. The kid's hands were bound behind him, with a thick metal wrapped around his ankles and mouth.
Bucky held up his hand, showing he wasn’t holding a weapon. “Okay, kid,” he said slowly. “l don’t know what’s going on, but if you try anything when I get close to you, if this is a trap…”
Confusion filled the huge brown eyes, and the teenager struggled to move back as Bucky started to make his way toward him. “Hey, calm down,” Bucky said, keeping his voice low. “Whoever did this to you, it wasn’t me. I’m just as lost as you are. So why don’t I get that thing off your mouth and we can talk?”
There was a pause, and then the teenager nodded.
“Good. I’m going to come over now." Keeping one eye on the doors and windows, Bucky made his way over to the boy, kneeling at his side. Now he was closer, he could see that the kid’s hands weren’t just bound—they were encased in a thick silver metal that started at his wrists and covered his fingers.
Bucky decided to start with the metal fixed around the captive’s mouth—at least he could get some answers. On closer inspection, he could see that the gag was at least an inch thick, with no discernible lock or clasp.
“Alright. This might hurt a bit." Bucky gripped the gag the best he could and pulled. Nothing happened.
What the hell? Even without the metal arm, he should be strong enough to break it. He tried the metal on the kid’s arms and legs as well. Nothing.
Shuri. Shuri would know. “I can’t break the restraints,” Bucky told the teenager. He saw the panic flare in the large eyes, and quickly added, “But I know someone who can. I need to go to the bedroom to call her, then I’m going to come straight back. Nod if you understand.”
The teenager nodded. Bucky squeezed his shoulder in what he hoped was a reassuring way before he hurried to the bedroom, grabbing the burner phone. He had gotten as far as pulling up Shuri’s number before a gunshot was followed by the sound of breaking glass.
The kid. Bucky dashed back to the living room to see the teenager attempting to worm his way along the carpet, away from the smoking hole an inch from his head.
A second shot rang out and Bucky was moving, dragging the bound teen into the kitchen, giving them shelter behind the kitchen counter as more shots rang out. He saw where the teenager’s t-shirt had ridden up in the process, leaving a nasty carpet burn up his side.
“Sorry.” Bucky tugged the shirt back down. “Better than a bullet wound.”
He still had his arm around the teenager’s chest, hugging him to his side as he reached into the cupboard under the sink and grabbed a gun and spare rounds, tucking ammunition into his pockets as he prepared the weapon. The teenager started to squirm in his grasp, but Bucky tightened his grip, stopping him from slipping into the gunmen’s view again.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Bucky insisted. “Same side, remember?”
The words made the teenager still. Bucky exhaled, calculating what to do. One thing was obvious—they couldn’t stay where they were. Bucky looked down at the kid’s securely bound feet. “We have to move,” he told him.
The teenager looked up at him in horror. “I know,” Bucky said quickly. “I’m going to carry you.”
He saw the teenager looking at Bucky’s missing arm. “I’ll be fine,” Bucky continued. “I’m strong.” Carrying the kid meant that he wouldn’t be able to use the gun, but there was not a lot he could do about that. He tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans, then gathered the teenager over his shoulder and ran.
Tony Stark had managed to have a reasonably bearable day.
There hadn’t been many of those in the past year. Between Stark Industries stocks falling after Ultron, after the numerous press releases where he heard the name of a certain blue-eyed soldier he’d rather forget, and with every night filled with nightmares of wormholes and flying cities and a red, white, and blue shield smashing into an arc reactor, Tony had felt like he was drifting from one calamity to another, with only brief gaps filled with overwhelming self-doubt and endless cups of coffee.
Only two things had kept him going. Pepper had moved back in, giving him another chance he was sure he didn’t deserve—with conditions.
The other was the puppy of a teenager that had started dropping by Tony’s labs every Friday afternoon.
At first, Tony felt he owed it to the kid. After the Homecoming fiasco and dragging him into a Civil War the kid had no business being in, the least Tony could do was actually make sure Peter was learning something from his ‘internship’. He had suggested Peter drop by to work on the Spider-Man suit, and that had led to them to work on various other projects Peter had thought of, which somehow (and Tony had no idea how this had happened) had led to them eating takeout from Peter’s favorite Mexican place, watching Star Wars and swapping theories.
Tony was in his suite of rooms in Wakanda when the phone call came.
Tony had found that he liked Wakanda. A lot. He had never been to Disneyland, but he imagined this was what it must feel like. The technology alone was enough to send him straight to heaven. He admitted he was met with a fair bit of distrust by the Wakandan court when he first arrived, but he had been careful to be on his best behavior, and in a few days, some of the air of suspicion around him had cleared. He sensed that the wide-eyed, enthusiastic teenager that accompanied him may have had a lot to do with that.
Tony had also found that he liked T’Challa. There had been an alliance between the two men ever since they had found themselves fighting on the same side during the Accords, but their relationship had since progressed further than that.
There were very few people that Tony automatically liked. Bruce Banner had been one—Pepper another. His other relationships were earned only after the other party had proved themselves worthy of Tony’s time and attention, and that they were willing to put up with the snark and the ego and the nicknames in return for the billionaire’s friendship.
Tony and T’Challa had worked side-by-side to restore some faith in what remained of the Avengers after the Accords, and Tony had offered him rooms in the Compound for his use whenever he was in town. About a fortnight after Tony had returned from Siberia, T’Challa had paid a visit to Tony’s workshop, only to find Tony leaned over his workbench with his head in his arms.
“I apologize if I am interrupting,” T’Challa had said, making Tony’s head shoot up. Usually, anyone who caught him in such a state would be greeted with a barrage of snarky comments about privacy and respect, but T’Challa’s easy posture made Tony pause.
“Not at all,” Tony said quickly, reassembling his features into what he hoped with a casual smile. “What do you need?”
“I will need to return to my people soon,” T’Challa said, taking a seat by Tony’s side.
“Oh.” Of course, that made sense. T’Challa was a king, after all, now that his father had passed.
“I had intended to already be gone,” T’Challa admitted. “There are duties that cannot wait much longer.”
“I understand.”
“But they can wait a short while.”
Tony’s eyes narrowed, trying to decipher T’Challa’s meaning. “If you need to go, go,” he said, not unkindly. “I’m not sure what you can do here that you can’t do from Wakanda.”
“It seems as though the press has not yet relented on the Accords,” T’Challa continued. “I was thinking perhaps that is a war one needs allies for.” When Tony still didn’t follow, T’Challa added, “I could take a number of the upcoming press conferences on the subject off your hands.”
Tony stared at him in disbelief, automatically scanning for the ulterior motive, and saw none. The offer was tempting. Tony felt worn down to the bone, still not fully recovered from his injuries from Siberia, and the constant press banging on his door demanding answers to questions he’d rather not think about hadn’t helped.
“You don’t have to do that,” he told T’Challa.
T’Challa bridged the gap between them and grasped Tony’s hand. “It is already done. Ms. Potts has made the arrangements.”
Relief crashed over Tony, a small piece of the burden on his shoulders lifting. “Thank you,” he said, and meant it.
After Wakanda had opened itself up to the world, Tony had been invited to visit T’Challa in return. T’Challa had mentioned a younger sister he thought Tony would have “some interesting conversations with”, and Tony asked in response if the invitation extended to a young and promising intern he had taken under his wing. Peter hadn't needed to be asked twice, and the two had traveled to the African kingdom together.
Tony answered the phone from his Wakandan suite. “Did I mess up the time difference again, Pep? Because I know I promised to check in twice a day, but jetlag’s a bitch and— ”
The person on the other end hung up.
Tony looked back at his phone, checking the number. Blocked. Then he froze, the phone call bringing to his attention the photos that had been texted to him.
Peter.
Peter, bound and gagged in an apartment he didn’t recognize. Peter, eyes wide and terrified, the Winter Soldier standing over him.