Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was only just a coincidence that you had tagged along.

The fact that you even knew an Avenger was itself a coincidence.

With a Snap, came a Blip, and heroes were needed more than ever. You were only a teenager, but you couldn't stand idly by when you knew that you could help. You were a shape shifter - limited to the limits of what a human-being can be.

You could be eight feet tall with a glandular problem, or as small as a two year old. You could look like anybody, no tech required. Granted, you couldn't change your clothes, them being inorganic material and all. This led to your very distinct outfit: an extra large t-shirt tucked into jeans with an extra long inseam rolled up and cuffed, a belt holding it up, black boots that hid fun socks, and a large leather jacket covering it all - it was your father's before he was dusted.

As long as you kept in mind the size of your waist and shoe size, there would be no problem in staying dressed. Sometimes the shirt became a dress with your belt cinching around it when you had to be young and sometimes you tied the jacket around your waist as your shirt looked to be a crop top.

You had a few preferred forms, but you could technically look like anyone. The world barely knew you, but the few that did largely believed that you were actually a small team of heroes. You doubted that there was anyone that suspected the truth.

Why would anyone have any reason to suspect that the man who helped evacuate a burning building was the same person as the woman that saved an old man from a violent mugging? As far as anyone was concerned, the only things you shared were your fashion sense and a kind heart.

You were just doing what you could at the time. By night you stalked the streets to put a stop to anyone looking to prey upon the vulnerable. By day you lent a helping hand to anyone that needed it - whether it was helping someone move out of a too big and too empty home, or just being there to talk.

It wasn't too long before you stumbled upon an old diner. You were there as yourself, off to buy a slice of pie for an elderly neighbor who disliked leaving her home, but had a hell of a sweet tooth. Her wife had blipped, and had apparently adored baking, and you figured that even if it wasn't homemade, some pie might make her smile again - or start crying. Which, you really didn't want to happen, but were prepared for nonetheless, a pack of tissues in the jacket's inner pocket. It was a risk worth taking.

When you pushed open the door, you saw a man hunched over the front counter, a baseball cap and sunglasses set aside. You recognized him.

Of course you did, how could you not? His exploits were always on the news, his origins in your history books, and his face plastered across your tumblr dashboard from those that you followed: It was Steve Rogers.

Captain America.

To be completely honest, if it wasn't for the fact that when you pushed the door open a bell chimed, you would have booked it all the way to Hell's Kitchen - quite a feat, considering you were in Brooklyn and that was on the opposite side of the river. As it was, you steeled your gaze to the cash register, and entered.

You were a vigilante, technically. Not a hero. And you were a teen - and you definitely looked like it. You were fully prepared to ignore him, partly for your safety and partly to give him some semblance of normalcy, if it wasn't for one simple thing that you couldn't ignore:

He looked as sad as your neighbor.

So. You swallowed the ball of anxiety down, pushing it as far down as it could go, and you took a risk. You asked him a simple question: do you like apple pie or cherry pie?

And he tilted his head. And he thought about it. And he told you he liked pecan pie.

Which, wow, Captain America answered your question. But also, forcing your anxiety down just caused it to shoot back up and make your mouth start running, which is how you ended up explaining why you even asked that question in the first place, your neighbor, her baker wife, you wanting to surprise her, and how you wished his answer was more useful because this diner didn't sell pecan pie, only cherry and apple.

Which... hm. Way to make a good first impression. Word vomiting all over him. Good going.

But, it turns out it was a good first impression, because he laughed. And then he apologized for laughing. You just caught him off guard is all.

One thing led to another, and he ended up helping you carry six different pies from three different bakeries to your building. You certainly weren't going to tell him that you could probably do it yourself, powers not even needed.

And well, when you saw him there the next week, you only hesitated a second before running up to him to tell him about how your neighbor loved the gesture and knitted you a beanie - and when you told her that you had help, made him a beanie too. And you carried it in one of your jacket's many pockets the whole week just in case, so you handed it over. And he smiled, and put it on, and then invited you to sit with him. And he asked about you, which, wow. And you told him about high school and tests and homework and anything you could think of that you told others when you knew that what they really wanted was a small distraction from their life by peeking into yours.

You talked and he listened. You knew that he's probably been forced to speak for a while, and you didn't want to add to that.

And that's how it went for the next two months, once a week every week. You got fries, he got a senior combo. It seemed like it was perfect for a super soldier's appetite, even if he didn't even look older than your mom. And slowly, he started sharing some stories from his life too. How he was going to set up meetings for people who lost everyone when... you know. Which pop culture staple he finally watched that week. He even told you some stories from his youth, how he and his partner in crime were able to sneak into almost any establishment because there wasn't much else to do.

On the third month, as you were making your way to the diner, you heard a yelp get cut short from down an alley. And you stopped walking. And you heard a growly voice commanding someone to stay quiet. And you turned and ran towards the alley.

That split second before you entered the alley, you had wondered if you should change your face. But then you remembered that just outside it was a security camera, and you didn't want to risk being thrown out while wearing a different face but the same clothes. It wouldn't take a genius to see the security tapes and know that something was wrong with that.

So you entered and saw that there were actually four people there, not two, which wasn’t ideal. You had only ever taken people out one on one when you were in your normal form, always being bigger and stronger when you had multiple people to stop.

But someone needed your help, so you had to try.

And you didn’t do too bad, if you say so yourself. You had shifted just your fist to be more bigger than normal, severely disorienting the man closest to the would-be victim. You yelled at them to run, and they did, but that just left you alone with three angry men. And you tried your hardest, got some real good hits in, but they were bigger than you. And they had multiple fists to hit with and you only had two.

And so you got cornered.

That was when you started reconsidering on whether or not they would be able to find out who you were if you were to turn into your strongest form when you heard your friend's voice shout from the opening of the alley. Something about bullies?

You can't really remember, a side effect of the minor concussion you had just received.

And sitting there in a corner of the alley you saw Captain America beat some serious ass. It was awesome, even if the effect was slightly lessened by the fact he was wearing his "old man" clothes. And your developing black eye.

After the criminals ran away, or stumbled more like, Steve helped you up and took you to his apartment. You didn't know what you were expecting, but it was nice and homely. He gave you some frozen peas for your eye. He let you have some ice cream from his freezer. You sat on the counter and he pulled out an amazingly well-stocked first aid kit. He cleaned the blood from your knuckles. He didn't ask any questions.

Which might be why you immediately told him everything.

Everything everything.

Your powers. What you did everyday after school. What you did when you were supposed to be sleeping.

And he was quiet. And he ate some ice cream.

And he let out a chuckle. He said that this was his karma finally catching up to him.

And then you laughed. And he joined in.

It's a good memory, if a bit spotty.

Things changed after that, but they also didn't. You still mostly only saw each other once a week. You still shared what happened that week. He still told stories from better times.

You both just so happened to be in a local gym instead. You wearing different faces so you could get actual practice in them, him telling you how to move in them. You told him of your whole day, not just cherry picked parts. He shared what he called "classified stories" - stories of his time as Captain America and of his team.

It was awesome.

That was how it was for a couple years.

He was there for you when you finally got around to getting your license. You were there for him when he watched tear-jerking movies. You threw him his hundredth birthday party. He threw your classification party. You were there when he needed a shoulder to cry on when it would've been his best-friend's hundred-and-second birthday party. He was there when you expressed your fears of being classified as a toddler in a world that wasn't very kind to young regressors.

Hell, he was there for your very first regression. He babysat you. On multiple occasions. He was a baseline, but nonetheless he was there. For you. For four years.

And then he wasn't.

You remember it exactly.

It was the day before everything changed for everyone else.

He told you of Ant-Man and his plan. How Dr. Banner had done a lot of work, and how Mr. Stark did the rest. How it was going to involve time travel.

And, well, that was it wasn't it. The start of the end.

Twenty-four hours later, you had your dad back. Steve got his old friends back. Your neighbors got their loved ones. The world's population doubled- no, restored in an instant.

It was insane.

Despite that though, the next week, you and Steve met back up at the gym, just like always. You had him tell you everything. The mission, the time travel, the alien invasion. He told you as much as he could, and how Mr. Stark and Ms. Romanoff sacrificed themselves just so everyone could be safe.

At the next meeting, you met Steve's friends. James Barnes and Sam Wilson. They met you! Steve had told them all about you, and Steve had told you all about them. You all devoured several pies. It was one of many parties thrown that week, a speck in the universe. But you'll never forget it.

You told them about how Steve fared these past couple of years. They told you some of Steve's embarrassing stories. You gave them even more. Steve tried to tell everyone else’s embarrassing stories in retaliation, but with three against one, he didn’t stand a chance.

You showed off your powers. Bucky let you look at his arm. Sam bristled that he could literally fly, but it wasn't like he could show that off when he wanted. 

You got their phone numbers. They got yours.

At the end of the night, Steve walked you home. He didn't always do it, but it wasn't out of the ordinary. You were a little after all. 

When you both approached the stairway to your building, your idle chatter died down. He got quiet. 

He told you that he didn't think he could make it your next meeting.

He explained his plan.

Tears were shed by both of you. You both stood there for what felt like hours, holding one another, but it was probably only a couple minutes. And you said your goodbyes.

He promised to never forget you. He had you promise to keep his friends company if they needed it - you suspected that you weren't the only one who made that promise. 

And just like that, he walked away.

And then you went upstairs and cried some more.

It was fine. You didn't know what you were expecting. Just... four years of weekly meetings? Only a handful missed due to some kind of mission he had to go on? He seemed mostly okay, but... you could see the sadness that lingered. So, you pulled yourself together, and did your best to move on.

Two days later, your phone buzzed.

It was a message from Bucky.

He wanted to know if you had anything planned next week, as he had found that he was pardoned and didn't know who to celebrate with.

It looked like maybe you weren't the only one to lose a friend when it seemed like almost everyone got theirs back.

You took him to one of the many fun fairs that were set up in celebration of everyone's return. You both shared Steve stories. You avoided a pie booth in favor of getting some cotton candy. You got him to join you on the hastily constructed roller coaster. It was fun.

Honest.

Five days after that, it wasn't until you reached the bottom stair of your building that you remembered that you didn't have anywhere to be.

And, rather than turning back, you decided to head where it had all begun: the diner.

On your way there, you caught sight of a pigeon with a partially eaten bagel around its neck and managed to snap a picture of it.

When you got to the diner, sat in your seat, and ordered your plate of fries, you pulled your phone out again.

You made a promise after all.

Pulling up Sam Wilson's contact info, you sent him the image, along with a text reading: this u?

Nailed it.

After shoving a handful of fries into your mouth, your phone pinged.

Oh my god.

The Falcon responded to your dumb text.

It was a photo of his hand holding a bagel covered with salmon. Accompanying it was a text reading: ????? How did you know??

You almost choked.

Typing quickly, you sent: a little bird told me

Wait, shit, he probably got that alot. Oh god, was it too late to unsend it-

He replied with: Damn, first you spy on me and then you steal my jokes??? You don't see me making shifter jokes

Which, fair, but also you couldn't let him off that easy: that's because all shifter jokes are just visual gags. im sorry that all your bird jokes are in my 101 fun jokes for kids books

When he sent back a large assortment of laughing emojis, you figured you were in the clear.

And that was the beginning of yours and Sam's text-based friendship. Unlike Steve, Sam actually routinely went on missions, which paired with the fact that he didn't live nearby, was going to be the best you two could do.

You sent him funny Avengers memes and any bird images and videos you came across. He sent you cool photos from, quite frankly, dizzying heights and the types of memes which were just screenshots of funny posts. It definitely wasn't like what you and Steve had going on, but that was okay. It was nice, even if it meant you couldn't be completely sure on whether or not you could classify him as a friend.

However, that might be the reason you reached out to Bucky a month later.

He didn't reach out to you after the fun fair, which made you a bit worried. Did he not like you? Or maybe he just didn't like texting?

So, after you left your government subsidized daycare session, when you were the most relaxed after being little with others for four hours straight, you took a chance and called him.

And he picked up.

You invited him to the science center, where there was a new exhibition, and you had an extra ticket. Did he want to go?

And, well, he did.

You didn't know whether Steve would be proud or disappointed that you used the knowledge he gave you to get things in your favor, but. He wasn't there. You couldn't be blamed for knowing that Bucky had always loved a good science exhibition, dragging Steve with him whether he wanted to go or not.

You both had a really good time. There was just so much cool stuff there, and even some interactive sections in various exhibits! If you hadn't just been regressed and expertly pulled back to your big headspace, you knew that you would've regressed not even ten minutes after arriving there. But, as it was, you were big the whole time and had a wonderful time.

It seemed that Bucky did too. His eyes were always focused on one thing or another, examining some cool tech or reading some plaque. He whispered to you some of the tech he had witnessed from his time in Wakanda, while you eagerly listened. By the end of it, he was even smiling, which definitely counts as a big win in your book.

And that was the start of your tentative "friendship" with Bucky - if it could even be called that. You weren't sure if you were close enough yet. Besides, you were always the one to initiate a meet-up, and you had only done that three more times afterwards. Was that enough to consider someone a friend? You weren't sure.

Which is definitely why when you were watching the news and witnessed another interview of a stranger wearing your friend's name, holding a shield he had given your other friend, you were surprised to see the caller ID of your phone light up to helpfully inform you that Bucky was calling.

And when you answered and immediately had to pull the phone farther away from your ear, you felt vindicated in your emotions because you knew that you weren't alone.

After twenty minutes of just absolutely tearing this John Walker fella apart, making fun of everything about him, could you really be blamed that when Bucky asked you if you wanted to join him on a mission, you didn't even falter before agreeing? You didn't think so.

But, maybe you could be blamed for what happened next - at least partly.

Bare minimum, you think Steve should hold some fault in it.

Because, how could you know that Steve didn't tell his friends that you were a little?

Chapter Text

As you stand in your bedroom, clutching your old high school backpack, you realize that you probably should have asked more questions about the mission you had just agreed to join.

Bucky hadn’t been very forthcoming on what the mission even was, but, in the heat of the moment, you accepted the few details he gave as good enough.

He told you two things, really: that the mission shouldn't last longer than a day, and the location you should be headed to very shortly.

You were dressed in your trademark outfit already, leaving you here, wondering what you should pack and if you should even pack anything in the first place.

If you've learned anything in the past four years of vigilantism, it's that it never hurts to be prepared. If you've learned anything from Steve's stories, it's that when you're on a mission, things tend to go wrong very quickly.

So you supposed that if your mission shouldn't last longer than a day, then you should be prepared for it to last longer than that. Would a full week's worth of clothes be overkill? Or would it be completely reasonable?

Well, if things went south, it would be nice to have clean clothes. You were a shapeshifter, after all. You might shift too big and rip something. Or maybe you'd need to be young? It's better to be prepared for anything and everything. A week's worth of clothes, then. Just to be safe.

You gather some shirts of varying sizes, some t-shirts and some button-ups, to better fit whatever form you needed. As for your pants, you grab three different pairs of jeans... if you really need to, you can turn a pair into shorts, which should be fine if you need to be shorter or younger. You also grab a pair of sweats, which could be used as pajamas if need be.

As you go to your underwear drawer, you hesitate; sometimes, but especially if you were regressed, you had trouble knowing whether or not you had to use the restroom. If it was just a day, you should be safe, but if you slept? You might need some protection. Your gaze lands on your packs of pull-ups and diapers.

You don't think you could handle it if an Avenger saw you with wet pants.

So, you decide to play it safe. Normal underwear for the main mission, but if it went longer you would change into a pull-up at night. Just for nights. Five pull-ups should be enough, right? You hoped so. Nonetheless, you grab an assortment of briefs and boxer briefs as well. You throw in several pairs of socks too, for good measure.

That just led to you looking at your collection of little gear though. It was just a day, you shouldn't need anything. But... a week? Doctors said that people should be in headspace for at least ten hours a week minimum. Anything less would be unhealthy and would come with consequences. If you were on a mission, you weren't sure you could make it happen. Maybe sleeping with a pacifier would count? Grabbing a travel case, you place a black paci in it - perfect for stealth.

Everything you needed gathered, you roll everything up and shove it all into your old beaten up backpack, with some room to spare. Your little stuff was at the bottom, there as a precautionary measure more than anything.

You shove a small sketchbook and a multicolored pen into the bag as well, so you had the option to either write or draw to pass the time.

It really was a good thing you were self-employed, as you didn't think any employer would take too kindly on your sudden trip. As it was, you only had your family to deal with.

It wasn't all too unusual for littles to remain at home, even as they matured into adults. Legally, if you even wanted to move away, you'd need a roommate, either a baseline or a caregiver. Just one of the many restrictions the government thought littles needed.

Speaking of the government, you should probably call your daycare to let them know that you would be missing your session later that day. Technically, you didn't even need to go at all, but it was free, and it allowed you to have scheduled little time with others in your age range, so you didn't mind.

Mind made, you call the center and let them know you were going on a small vacation and wouldn't be there for the next two weeks. You didn't have superhealing, and if you got hurt, you didn't want any questions to arise from a misplaced bruise. An extra week to recover should be enough. You'll just regress at home, no problem.

Exiting your room, backpack over your shoulder, you make your way over to your family. It's been years since you've discovered you could shapeshift, and they figured it out not too long after you did. Things were cool, so you didn't have any reason to not tell them that you were going on a mission with Bucky. They trusted you to make good decisions, so the only reassurance they needed were goodbye kisses and then you were out the door.

As you get off a bus, you look around. It had dropped you off in front of a local air force base, which is where Bucky told you to meet him at. You had been tempted to be shifted when you arrived, but had thought better of it: Bucky probably wouldn't be able to recognize you if you had.

It turns out he had been there waiting for you, as when you turn to watch the bus drive away, his voice calls your name.

Directing your head towards where his voice called you, you see him. He was wearing sunglasses, had a particularly nice jacket on, and was walking towards you.

"Hey Bucky! It's been awhile!" You say, a smile gracing your face.

"Hi, squirt. Thanks for coming on short notice." The corners of Bucky's lips tilt upwards, not enough to be considered a full smile, but enough that it eased some tension off your shoulders.

"It's no problem. I didn't have anything else going on today," you easily lie. He didn't need to know that you were missing your daycare session. Other classifications got so tetchy when it came to littles and the time they spent regressing, and you didn't care to find his reaction to you skipping your little time.

Besides, you spent four hours regressed at your last session barely two days ago. You had regressed for about an hour yesterday. You were perfectly fine.

He nods absentmindedly, eyeing a hanger not too far off into the horizon, past the front gate. He briefly makes eye contact with you before gesturing towards it.

"See that?"

"Uh-huh." It looked like a standard military hanger.

"That's where our mission is," is all he says before stalking towards the entrance.

It takes a moment for your brain to tell you to follow him, causing you to be a few steps behind him as he approaches the guards stationed at the front gate.

It looks like they've already been talked to before you had arrived, as they let Bucky and you walk in no problem. Which is a relief. Technically you're just a civilian, and while you're not entirely opposed to being an Avenger, as of right now you definitely didn't have any kind of clearance to enter.

Technically, you suppose, they should be arresting you for the crime of being an unregistered super. Or for vigilantism. But, well, they didn't need to know that.

As you near the hanger, you speak up. "Bucky? Why exactly are we here?"

Not even slowing his stride, he leads you to a side door. "Easy. Wilson is supposed to be here." He holds it open for you.

"Sam?" You enter and wait for Bucky to be in front of you again.

"Yup. And we're here to guilt trip him." He walks in, surveys the area, then starts walking again.

Oh. You numbly follow him.

This isn't a real mission.

Of course not. You've barely even talked, why would he invite you to a mission? You weren't an Avenger. You were just some kid that Steve befriended.

Suddenly self-conscious, one of your hands grip the strap of the backpack you're wearing. Bucky can't know. You let go, and quite literally force blood flow away from your cheeks.

He won't know.

Forcing a smile on your face, and keeping your voice light, you ask, "We are?"

"Yeah. If he hadn't given the shield to the Smithsonian, then that bootleg blonde wouldn't be pretending to be Steve. Look-! There he is." Seemingly finding Sam, Bucky jogs further ahead. "You shouldn't have given up the shield!"

"Good to see you too, Buck." Now that he's spoken, you can see that Sam is walking down some stairs, carrying a duffle bag. Evidently, he is not pleased to see Bucky.

You jog forward. "Hi, Sam!" You wave and smile at him.

Thankfully, it seems that Sam is pleased to see you, if a bit confused by your presence. He greets you by name, a hesitant smile gracing his face.

Bucky ignores this and continues straight to the point. "This is wrong."

Sam's smile drops, annoyance replacing it. "Hey, hey, look. I'm working. So all this outrage? Is going to have to wait."

"You didn't know this was going to happen?" Bucky gestures to one of the many posters featuring the 'New Cap' that seem to be plastered all over the place. You hate these posters. 'Cap is back'? No he isn't.

"No, of course I didn't know that was going to happen. You think it didn't break my heart to see them march him out there and call him the new Captain America?"

"This isn't what Steve wanted."

"Huh, so what do you want me to do? Call America and tell them I changed my mind? Huh?" He chuckles, pats Bucky on the arm, and picks up his pace. "Great reunion, buddy, be well."

"You had no right to give up the shield, Sam." Bucky catches up to him.

Sam immediately stops walking. Turning around to look Bucky in the eyes, he says, "Alright, here's what we're not going to do: You're not going to come here in your over extended life and tell me about my rights. It's over, Bucky."

You stay where you are, a few steps away.

"Besides," Sam continues, "I have bigger things to deal with now."

"What could be bigger than this?"

Sam sighs and pulls out his phone. "This guy."

You step closer to get a better look. Not too close, because you're kind of uncomfortable with the energy that Bucky is giving off, but Sam notices and tilts the screen so you can better see it.

It appears to be a man wearing a black mask with a red handprint painted on it.

"He has connections with rebel organizations all over Eastern and Central Europe. He's strong. Too strong."

Bucky doesn't seem all too impressed. "And?"

"Well, he's been connected to this online group called the Flag Smashers."

Bucky sighs and looks away.

"Now, Redwing traced them to a building somewhere outside of Munich. So that's where I'm going."

"Well, I don't trust Redwing."

"You don't have to trust Redwing. But I'm going to go check if he's right. 'Cause I have a feeling they're part of the Big Three."

Bucky pauses before asking, "What 'Big Three'?"

"You know," Sam looks to you, as if you have any idea what he's talking about, and continues, " the Big Three: Androids, Aliens, and Wizards."

Bucky squints his eyes in judgement and shakes his head. "That's not a thing."

"That's definitely a thing."

"No, it's not ."

You tilt your head, eyes looking upward as you think. Was it a thing?

"Every time we fight, it's one of the three!"

You tilt your head in the opposite direction. That sounded wrong.

"Who are you fighting now, Gandalf?"

Looking downward, you begin counting on your fingers.

"A- How do you know about Gandalf?"

"I read The Hobbit. In 1937. When it first came out."

Okay, bragging much? Anyways... the Vulture, that guy with a thick, janky Iron Man suit all those years ago - Stane?

"There are no wizards!"

"Dr. Strange."

"Is a sorcerer!"

"Ah-! A sorcerer is a wizard without a hat. Think about it."

You distantly register saying that that sounds right, and that Sam gives Bucky some grief over it, but you continue counting. Whiplash… That Yellowjacket guy all the way over in California... Speaking of, was that lady on the west coast really a Ghost? Or was it tech?

You interrupt Sam patting himself on the back. "Shouldn't it be the Big Four? Or Five?"

It's Sam's turn to tilt his head, his eyes landing on you.

You continue, "Like, I'm not sure about all your fights, obviously, but the ones that hit the news? Isn't it usually, like... some guy with technology? Like... just some normal person. But they have some advanced tech? Unless it's all alien technology I guess..."

Bucky's squinting eyes look off into the distance, thinking about it.

"And I mean... does the time you guys took down a government organization down count? Wasn't that like... fascists? Or how about when you all fought each other? Unless the conspiracy theorists are right, and everyone was mind controlled to do that, but Steve told me that wasn't true... "

Sam huffs. "I mean, if you put it like that, I guess we do just fight normal people a lot."

Bucky acquiesces by tilting his head toward you.

"But!" Sam continues, "These guys sure as hell don't look like they're hiding any tech under their hoodies nor do they seem to be magical. So, if you two don't mind, I've got a lead to follow."

Sam turns around and starts walking. You and Bucky quickly follow.

Bucky yells, "I'm coming with." His eyes dart over to you.

Oh shit, maybe you were going on a mission after all.

"I'm in!" you shout. Sam turns his head to face you. When you see a shimmer of hesitation in his eyes, you're quick to add, "You said these guys might be the real deal. If that's the case, you'll need all the help you can get."

Sam faces forward again, looks up to the sky, and sighs. "Okay... Okay! You guys can join me."

You can hardly believe it. You were actually going on an actual, real mission.

On the plane, you meet Sam's friend, Joaquin Torres. You exchange formalities and are pleased to find that you're both texting buddies with Sam.

You decide to stay next to him as the plane takes off, and when you hear Bucky and Sam continue to bicker, you're happy with the decision.

The last time you saw them together, was at the... at the diner. At the time they seemed to be on good terms, but looking back on it, they were probably on their best behavior because Steve was there. Looking at them now, it looked like they were more frenemies than friends.

Thankfully, their bickering dies off after about an hour. That's great, because it turns out that this is a nine hour flight. Which... hm. You're glad you used the restroom before you got on the bus. If you had known though, you would have put on a pull-up.

Aw well. If public school taught you anything, it was how to not need the bathroom for the same amount of time.

You ask Torres when you all should be arriving, and he tells you that it's going to be dawn in Munich.

Considering the time difference, such as how it was barely sunset when the plane took off, you decide it's probably best to take a short nap. Not too long, because you don't want to embarrass yourself by having to put on a pull-up in the close-quarters of the plane. Just... long enough that you won't be exhausted when you land. Two hours should be fine.

You decide that you'll take it halfway through the flight. You're not really tired right now, nor do you want to be so tired that it's hard to wake up if you wait even longer.

You pass the time by making conversation with Torres. You talk about video games mostly, along with some ice breakers. He seems to be a cool dude! It turns out that he's been the one tracking the Flag Smashers. He met one face to face, and got his facial injury as a present to remember them by.

Your guys' chatter helps fill the silence of the plane. Earlier, Sam had been on his laptop while Bucky kind of just... glowered at him.

Now, when you glance over at them, Sam is laying down on one of the bench cots and Bucky had pulled out wired earbuds and... an actual MP3 player? Not a smartphone, but a dedicated device exclusively made just for listening to music.

Did Bucky... not have a smartphone? That might explain why he preferred phone calls over texting...

Deciding that this was something that you can ask when you two were alone, you check your own phone to check the time. Yeah, it wasn't too long after your bedtime, so it was probably time for the nap.

You stand, stretch, and pull your oversized leather jacket off. Walking to the back of the plane, you pull down one of the unused cot-bench things. "I don't want the time zone difference to mess with me too much, so I'm taking a nap right now. Just... continue doing what you're doing, I suppose." You explain when Bucky's eyes follow you.

You lay down and place your jacket over you. It makes for a pretty cozy blanket. Curling up, you look back at Bucky, and are slightly surprised to see him still staring.

Steve had told you that he didn't need as much sleep as a normal human. The same probably applied to Bucky.

Clearing your throat, you say, "Goodnight, Bucky." You close your eyes.

A few moments later, before you drift off, you hear Bucky tell you the same.

Sam is suiting up by the time you wake up. It turns out that the duffle bag he was carrying was holding the entirety of his uniform - including the wings. Obviously, he doesn't extend them on the plane. But, you know that when he straps the backpack on, that the Falcon has his wings.

Looking back down at yourself, you hope that your get-up doesn't look too ridiculous. Your powers weren't too flashy, and it wasn't like you were a super hero. You pull your leather jacket back on, hiding the oversized t-shirt that was tucked into your rolled up jeans. You hoped it was good enough.

Looking down at your backpack, you place it next to Sam's duffle bag. It now held his normal clothes, so you assumed that he would get it back eventually. Hopefully it would be kept safe.

You resume your position next to Torres. Your chatter is more idle than before, as he has to monitor various things. He is on the job, after all.

As the plane approaches your destination, Sam starts pacing the plane. When he stops and then walks directly towards you, you hope that you don't look too panicked.

"Hey, kid. You're ready for what's coming?"

You're about to reply 'Of course,’ when you realize that, no. You barely even know what's at Munich. "Um... I think I will once I know the plan?"

He chuckles. "Yeah, I should probably tell you what's up." Looking back towards Bucky, he raises his voice slightly. "Besides, you're not the one giving me shit when I didn't ask for it."

Okay this was definitely awkward. Ignoring the glare that Bucky was now directing at Sam, you tilt your head down.

Raising his arm, Sam directs your attention to the screen on it. After swiping a bit, he pulls up a satellite map. "Here is where we are," he points to the red moving triangle superimposed on the screen. "Here is where the Flag Smashers are supposed to be at," he points to a seemingly abandoned building not too far away. "And here is where we'll be departing the plane." he points to a small forest near the building, which is very close to your red triangle.

Which... hm. That wasn't... That wasn't enough space for the plane to land.

"D-Departing the plane?" is what comes out of your mouth.

He nods.

Uh... what? You can feel your face go through a range of emotions. He wasn't implying what you thought he was implying... was he?

"Are we..." You have to force yourself to say it. "Are we jumping from the plane?"

He looks out the open door of the plane that Torres was currently looking out of. "Uh huh."

Your brain stops for a moment.

Once it reboots, you stage whisper, "Sam! I don't have wings. I can't fly like you can!" Your eyes lock onto the scenery that is whizzing by outside.

He laughs.

How dare he laugh at your misfortune.

"Sorry, sorry. Don't worry, I'll be flying you down."

Okay... well. That was... reassuring? It was definitely still terrifying. But, Sam flew people around all the time, right?

You swallow a lump in your throat. In an actual whisper, you ask, "You haven't dropped anyone... right?"

In lieu of an answer, he just laughs again. This time, he ruffles your hair.

You whine his name "Saaaaaaaaaaam. Don't make fun of me."

"Alright, I haven't dropped anyone. Is that what you want to hear?" He's still looking out below, but he has a smile plastered on his face.

"As long as you're not lying... " You cross your arms.

"I wouldn't lie to you. C'mere." He holds his arms open.

It looks like a trick.

It probably is a trick.

But, you wanted to go on a mission and this was the only way.

With a sigh, you drop your arms down, and walk into his arms.

The fact that he picks you up rather than just holds you is slightly surprising. He puts an arm under your thighs and lifts you onto his hip. You squeak and throw your arms around his neck at your sudden boost in elevation. You can feel a chuckle vibrate from his chest to yours. You're tempted to wrap your legs around him for added stability, but realize that you don't want them to get burned from the thrusters, so you let them dangle.

You turn your head to the side and see Sam putting his goggles in place. Past him, and past the assorted random cargo, you can see Bucky, still looking moody.

"Enjoy your ride, Buck," is the only warning you get before you realize that Sam has jumped from the plane.

With a gasp, you immediately tuck your face into Sam's shoulder, holding onto him tighter. You feel his other arm come up to your back, holding you in place. 

You're falling.

You're flying.

You attempt to open your eyes, but the best you can do is squint, on account of the high winds. You didn't have any goggles, but as long as you don't turn to look forward, you think you'll be alright.

You can just barely see behind the wings. They're preventing you from seeing how high up you are, at least. If you focus though, even though you're rapidly flying away from it, you can see the plane you just technically jumped out of.

And it might just be a bug, or even some of your hair being blown into your eyes, but you can swear that you see a spot jump out of the plane.

And, like, that couldn't be Bucky.

Right?

It is then that you remember the time Steve told you he jumped out of an elevator several hundred feet in the air.

And that Bucky has already survived falling from a train in the Alps.

When you can hear Sam laughing over the noise of the wind rushing past your ears, you think you know the answer.

That is also when you realize that Sam has glided you two into the building.

He leans down, and when your feet touch the floor, you remove your arms from around his shoulders. Releasing you, you can now see that Sam was watching his arm display.

As you regain your bearings, you distantly register that Sam is making fun of Bucky, but also directing him to your location.

That was... alot.

You've never jumped from a plane before.

You've also wondered how it felt like to actually fly before.

Well. You can say with certainty that it was something that you'll never wonder about again.

You take a deep breath, and slowly release it.

"You good?"

Taking and releasing another breath, you nod. " Y-Yeah. I'm okay. I've never... jumped from a high distance before. Or flew. Best I've done is ride a rollercoaster. And one of those drop rides, that go straight up and then drop?"

Sam places a hand on your shoulder. "Yeah?"

Your heart rate finally settles. "Uh-huh. Those... aren't really comparable."

A huff of a laugh comes from Sam. "They really aren't, huh." His hand pats you before he pulls it away. He starts tapping at his arm display, presumably controlling Redwing.

You look around the building you're now in. It's definitely abandoned. High ceilings. Lots of support beams. Was it a factory? Or just a warehouse?

"Why'd you tag along?"

"Huh?" You look back at Sam and see that he continues to tap away, eyes diverted downward and away from you.

"Back at the air base, you looked just as surprised as I felt to have Bucky start nagging me. Yet, you were there. And now you're here."

You turned your head down and shrugged. "I mean... Bucky asked if I wanted to help him." You kicked a stray pebble. "And it sounded like you needed help." You swallowed. "It isn't like I have anything better to do, and if anyone wants my help, I'm happy to give it." You raise your head. "I have powers. So... I might as well use them for good whenever I can."

Sam smiles. "Hey, I’m not arguing with that." He starts walking toward one of the many open doorways in the room. "C'mon. My goggles say it's clear over here."

And with that, you follow Sam throughout the large building. Just because Bucky was paranoid about tech, didn't mean you were. If Sam said it was safe, you trusted him.

After traversing through a couple empty rooms, it seems that Bucky has finally made his way out of the woods when Sam laughs, "Don't hurt him."

Holding his arm slightly out so you can see the display, it looks like Bucky definitely isn't a Redwing fan, as he's glowering at the camera.

Sam is able to guide Bucky through the building and to your current location.

"How nice of you to join us," is Sam's greeting when you see Bucky.

Instead of a verbal answer, Bucky just grunts in reply. He... doesn't look too bad for having just jumped out of a plane without a parachute. You pointedly don't acknowledge the fact that it looks like he tore his sleeve off his jacket. That being said...

"You have a little something..." You reach out and pull a small leaf from his hair. "Here." You let it go and watch as it flutters to the ground.

Bucky flatly says, "Thanks."

Not one to be discouraged easily, you say, "You're welcome!" Let it never be said that you don't have manners.

Sam continues to focus on his display, but nonetheless grins at this exchange. Now that Redwing doesn't have to play escort, he can investigate the next room. “They’re in there,” is the explanation Sam gives Bucky when Redwing flies off.

Everyone crowded around Sam’s arm display, you all watch Redwing’s camera feed. There’s at least two suspected Flag Smashers, both of them carrying a large crate outside.

Brows furrowed, Bucky asks, “Where’s the guy?”

“Maybe outside?” you suggest.

Sam interrupts, “Looks like these guys are smuggling weapons.”

You nod and Bucky agrees with this assumption. However, tearing his eyes off the display and towards the room Redwing is in, he adds, “There’s only one way to know for sure, though. I see a clear path, and I say we take it.”

Bucky starts toward the other room, but Sam holds his arm out, stopping him. “We’re not assassins.”

“I’ll see you inside or not.” Bucky pushes Sam’s hand away and stalks into the other room. Which… hm. That’s a concerning response.

“Hey man-! I was just messing with you! Come back!” Sam whisper shouts, a smile pulling his lips upward. While Sam might have been joking, you’re pretty sure Bucky wasn’t.

You stay quiet as you watch Bucky leave the room. When he leaves your sight, your eyes snap back to Sam.

He’s rolling his eyes at Bucky’s dramatics. “That man, I swear…” He waves you closer to him. “C’mon, let’s follow him.” He leaves his arm sticking out a bit, so that way you can continue watching Redwing’s feed.

You and Sam walk down the same exact path that Bucky is taking. Looking up, from behind a pillar, you both can make out Bucky carefully making his way forward.

“Look at you, all stealthy. A little time in Wakanda and you come out White Panther.” You have to stifle your laugh. Okay, that was a pretty good one.

Bucky throws you both a curveball, you only barely being able to hear it from Sam’s comm. “It’s actually White Wolf.”

“What?” Sam and you have the same response. What did that mean?

Bucky walks ahead and continues talking. “Alright, I’m inside. Therefore, way ahead of you.”

You and Sam make it around the pillar and see Bucky hiding behind a large metal shelf, looking at the suspected Flag Smashers. Bucky continues, “It’s not great, but very doable.”

Did he… not notice you guys following him? As you go to stand right beside him, Sam following closely behind, you look directly at Bucky and wait, a smile plastered on your face.

Sure enough, when he turns to assess the area, he immediately sees you and Sam standing there. He looks at you both, at the path you all just took, and back at Sam, frustration growing as he went on. “Hello? How are you?”

“Good. What did I miss? Nothing,” is Sam’s response. You all look over towards the two individuals and the cargo they were currently loading.

“All right, let’s go.” Bucky attempts to move forward, but you and Sam place a hand on him, forcing him to stop moving.

“Wait.”

“I got a vibranium arm, I can take them.”

“They can shapeshift and I can fly, who gives a shit? Wait. I want to see where they’re going.”

“I can see two people.” Bucky agitation grows, pointing at each person. The implication being that, what? They were outnumbered and you can all take them?

“You only see two?” Oh, Bucky’s agitation is rubbing off on Sam, ever so slightly.

“That’s what I saw.”

“Let’s see what Redwing sees.” Sam taps a button and Redwing’s thermal camera is activated. Now, you can effectively see through the wall.

“Let me see,” Bucky says, evidently thinking that he’ll be vindicated.

“Let’s see what Redwing…” Sam raises the arm display, and you can immediately see that there are several people outside. “Oh, look at that. How many people you see now?”

Bucky sighs.

“One, two…? Oh, here it comes again!” Oh, Sam is riling Bucky up.

“Four… Five…” Two people enter and lift a very large crate. “So they’re strong, so what?” Bucky is exasperated. “All right, let’s go.” He tries to take off again, this time only Sam grabbing him in time.

They both fumble, causing the shelving that is concealing you all to shake and make noise. You all freeze.

The four supposedly-enhanced individuals pause and look your way, but they apparently can’t make you guys out in the partial darkness, as they shrug it off and move towards the trucks.

From the distance, you can make out one of them saying that they should leave now, and that someone starts the trucks. They pull themselves into the back of a truck, closing the doors behind them.

Beside you, Sam taps at his display, eyes switching from it to the exit. “There’s an eighth person,” he reveals, “I think they have a hostage.”

It is at that moment that Bucky takes off in a dead sprint.

Sam sighs, but follows suit, quickly extending his wings and sprinting after them. It's not too long until he's taking off in flight.

Oh.

Oh!

You start running, but by the time you exit the building, you realize a very important fact.

You are not as fast as a super soldier.

Bucky is nearly already at the back of the first truck. Sam is circling above.

Okay, don't panic, what can you do?

You look around and assess your surroundings. You are... still outside an abandoned building. There's foliage, there's- Oh!

It looks like the suspected terrorists didn't all arrive by truck, as there are two abandoned vehicles, both black.

You run towards the one nearest to you, and are pleased to find the door unlocked, so you slide in, closing the door behind you. Unfortunately, it seems that they took the keys with them, as the ignition is empty, as well as the sunshade, and the glove box.

Fortunately, you know how to hotwire a car.

Steve had taught you how. He told you that it was sometimes necessary to borrow a vehicle for the ‘greater good.' Looks like it was paying off, as it took almost no time at all before the car roared to life.

You quickly buckle up, pull onto the road, and hit the gas.

Shit. It looks like while you were busy, a few cars had passed by, meaning that they were now in your way.

Well.

You knew how to maneuver through New York City traffic. This should be a breeze.

Tailgate, signal, turn. Tailgate, signal, turn. Tailgate, signal, turn, and you were now behind the two trucks. They were still in the same lane, Bucky nowhere to be seen. Did he get into one?

Oh god, there were now two individuals on the top of the truck in front of you. No- three.

They had Bucky.

You ease up on the gas to place some distance between you and the trucks, when the truck in front of you swerves into the right lane. It gives way to the leading truck, the back wide open, presumably opened by Bucky.

Hm.

Looks like the hostage... isn't. You figure when they jump onto the top of the second truck.

That's... not good.

Shit, they're all beating Bucky.

Is there anything you can do to help? It's not like you can get out of the car, you had no way to get to the top of the truck. Can't slam into one, it'll hurt you way more than them. 

Redwing flies above you, activating his automatic weapon and firing when he gets in range. Thank god, where there's Redwing, the Falcon follows.

Except, oh no. The not-actually-a-hostage jumps up, grabs him, and breaks him.

Your eyes flick up to register Sam incoming. He gets a good kick in before he lands atop the truck.

To your left, you see two more people in masks crawling out of the other truck. You hit the gas again, hoping to maybe hit one before they can make it to the roof. Unfortunately, it looks like the driver sees you, as it swerves closer to the left of the road, preventing your approach.

As you avoid getting crushed or ran off the road, another person crawls up. You see Sam being thrown to that truck.

They were outnumbered and definitely were overpowered. You can only helplessly watch from your vehicle.

But, what was that noise? Turning your head, you see a helicopter approach the trucks.

A projectile is thrown from it, aimed at a Flag Smasher that was approaching Sam.

You recognize it.

It's Captain America's shield.

You look up and see a man wearing red, white, and blue jump from the helicopter to fend against Redwing's killer.

John Walker, your mind helpfully supplies.

As the helicopter circles the trucks, you're only slightly surprised that a second man descends from it, this one using a rope and momentum to kick a Flag Smasher off the truck.

God you wish you had a helicopter.

It continues to hover for a bit, before taking off in the direction it came from.

Eyes back on everyone on the roofs, you watch as your... friends? get assistance from the two newcomers.

One, two, three people are knocked over the side, by Sam’s wings, you think. Was... was one of those people Bucky?

Checking your rearview mirrors, you are suddenly hyper aware of all the other cars on the road. You weren't sure about Bucky, but if you were at risk of falling into a busy road, you would prefer to not be ran over.

Easing up on the gas, you wait until you're a good several hundred feet away from the trucks before you start gently swerving from lane to lane.

Predictably, all the cars behind you do not want to be near you. They all start breaking and easing up on their gas.

At least you were doing something useful. Preventing roadkill and helping to reduce the chance of a civilian coming to harm was more in your wheelhouse anyways.

Continuing to block the road, you keep your eyes on Bucky. He is perilously close to the wheels, and if he falls… you're hoping that he doesn't.

You're caught off guard when a human shape blurs past the left of the car. As your head snaps to look at the side door mirror, you're relieved to see Sam extend his wings and launch forward.

The driver of the truck attempts to stop him from approaching, causing Sam to almost crash into a civilian car in the process. Yikes.

On the other truck, it appears that Bucky isn't faring much better. A Flag Smasher looks to be attempting to get him to let go of whatever he's holding onto and might be succeeding, considering that it looks like Bucky's metal hand is causing sparks on the road. Double yikes.

Above him, it looks like... Mr. Walker is nearly kicked off the truck completely, grabbing onto some railing in the nick of time. Triple yikes.

Okay, okay.

If anyone falls, they're going to need some room.

So, you ease on the gas and swerve even more. Some cars that can't even see the trucks start honking way behind you, but that's fine. They need a wide berth.

Eyes focused on the chaos ahead, you gasp when you see Sam zoom under the trucks. One second Bucky is hanging for dear life there, the next you think Sam has him and they're tumbling in a field beside the road.

Should...

Should you... pull over?

You're tempted to, but looking back at the truck, it seems that Walker and his friend aren't doing too good. One of the Flag Smashers has gotten a hold on the friend and Walker is still dangling from the back, shield in full view on his back.

Now, to give them an empty, but safe road to land on or to drive closer to see if you can catch one of them? If you drive close enough, Walker could safely land on the hood of the car and get back into the fight, so maybe you should do that?

Decision made, you stop swerving and gently push on the gas to start catching up with the trucks. You don't want to go too fast too soon, and just end up running someone over.

It looks like that was a good decision, because when the friend is kicked off the truck, there's ample space to land between your car and the truck. It looks like the interviews haven't exaggerated Walker's reaction time after all, because he manages to throw the shield underneath his friend before he makes contact with the road.

Which is... a great move, actually. Saved his friend from some serious road rash. It does, however, mean he is now without defence. Against, at minimum, two super soldiers.

You're partially tempted to pull over for the friend, but looking at Walker, now sans shield, it's probably best to stick to your decision to try to catch him.

You carefully avoid the friend still sitting on the road, and try to put as little distance between the bumpers as possible. As you do this, however, it seems Walker has got a grip and has pulled himself back atop of the truck on his own.

You're too close behind to see what's happening on the roof, so you pull ever so slightly back. There's barely ten feet between the bumpers, when you see a Flag Smasher pull their fist back and punch Walker.

He goes flying and lands directly on your windshield.

As soon as he makes impact, a small part of you panics and tells you to hit the brakes. A more calm and rational part of you tells you to not do that, as it will send him flying forward onto the road.

What does it say about you when despite knowing the second fact, you still want to indulge in the first act?

Obviously, you don't. You slowly ease off the gas and onto the breaks to drift to a smooth and complete stop. Walker seems okay, groaning and moving a bit on the hood of the car, when it hits you that you have to decide how you want to look now.

The glass on the windshield is intact but shattered above you, so it's not like he'll notice.

You don't really want him to see the real you. It's probably best to be in your mid-twenties, strong white guy form - the action movie hero type. So you shift. Quickly, while Walker is still regaining his bearings, you bring a leg up to roll the cuff on your pants down, then do the same to your other pant leg. This form is taller and leaner than you normally are. You would add even more muscle, but you need to be mindful of your waist ratio. Can't exactly easily adjust your belt right now.

With everything as good as you can get it, you unbuckle your seatbelt, and you step out of the car.

"Are you... okay?" is the first thing that comes out of your mouth. You did just witness him get super-punched. And he had just landed onto a moving car. He probably wasn't feeling fantastic, but you'd call him an ambulance if he needed it.

You get a groan of pain in response, which is more or less what you expected. He sits on the hood, quickly unbuckles his helmet, taking it off completely before he turns to face you. He... looks pretty much exactly like how he does on tv.

Except, right now, he looks pissed.

Your hands immediately raise up, showing that they're empty and that you are not a threat.

He takes some deep breaths in and out through his nose, then turns his head to look up the road. Yeah, they were long gone. He releases one last, long breath through his nose before he slides off the car and turns to face you. He isn't exactly happy, but he looks calmer.

"Hi. John Walker, Captain America. And you are?" He reaches out for a handshake.

"Jack," you easily lie, "Jack Connor." You meet his grip in equal force, and you get a small smile out of him.

"American?" He asks, brow raised, finger gunning you.

You give a breath-y laugh. "Yup," you pop the p. "It looks like you've met two of my friends already." You gesture to the road behind you with your thumb.

Oh, that gets him perked up. "You know the Falcon and Sergeant Barnes?"

"Haha, yeah... I almost pulled over when they left the fight, but I figured that I should probably trail the trucks."

His hand went to rub the back of his neck. He turned to look at the destroyed windshield and dented hood, and he winced. "That... isn't your car, right?"

"No worries," you assure him. "It was abandoned by the people you just went off against. It's... probably stolen, honestly."

He nods very seriously. "My friend- my partner," he corrects himself, "should be here shortly with a vehicle."

You nod and lean against the busted car. He awkwardly remains standing where he is, turning his helmet around in his hands.

Cars start passing you two by. 

"Man, I'm glad they kept their distance. I was told civilians would try to get close to the action."

You laugh. "Yeah, no, they definitely tried to."

He looks surprised. "Oh, you kept them back?"

"Yeah. I didn't have a way to get to the top of a truck, so I did the next best thing: made sure that if anyone fell off, they wouldn't immediately run someone over. Or, you know, have some debris fall off and hurt them. They... definitely didn't like that, if their honking is any indication."

"Oh." He looks at the road behind you. "Thanks for that."

You hum in reply.

It turns out that Walker was right about his friend arriving shortly, as it was only two more minutes before an army Jeep pulls up beside you.

“What happened?” is the first thing you hear from Walker’s partner. He jumps out of the Jeep, shield in his hands.

“They managed to get a good hit on me and got away.” Walker stalks toward the back of the Jeep.

“Damn.” The partner looks over at you, who is still sitting on the hood. “Who’s he?”

“My name’s Jack Connor.” You stood up and jerked your head up in greeting. “I cushioned your friend’s fall from the truck...  with a car. No worries, it’s not mine.”

Walker helpfully adds, “He’s with the Falcon and Sergeant Barnes. He kept the civilians from getting too close.” It seems like this is great news, because the friend throws an approving smile your way.

Before Walker can hoist himself into the Jeep, his friend hands him the shield. Walker turns it over in his hands, before sitting down. He slides a bit to make room for his friend. As he settles, he places the shield in front of his knees. Your eyes follow it throughout the whole exchange.

It would be so easy to just take it and run…

Ugh. Too bad that you were outnumbered.

You follow and hoist yourself into the Jeep, sitting across from him and his friend.

“I’m Lemar Hoskins.” He shakes your hand. When you release, he jerks a thumb at Walker. “I’m John’s partner. How’d you get to know Wilson and Barnes?”

You oh so casually run a hand through your hair. "Oh, we have a mutual friend." Quickly, to change the subject, you ask, “Did you see them back there?”

Lemar shakes his head. “No, sorry.”

You lean forward toward where the driver is sitting, “How about you… uh, what’s your name?”

"Gary," he answers, before quickly shaking his head. “No, sorry."

You nod. “I’m Jack.” Ugh, where were they? “Well... I guess they went pretty far into a field. Is there a back street?” You sit back down.

Lemar pulls out a GPS. “Looks like it. There should be an exit leading to it straight ahead.”

You nod, and the driver, Gary, starts driving.

To your utter dismay, it seems that this ride will not be taken in silence.

“So…” Walker starts, “are you, like, an Avenger?”

Oh my god, Walker, you can’t just ask people if they’re an Avenger…

You force a chuckle. “No, I’m just a friend. Sam needed backup, so I came along.”

Walker nods. “Oh, so you don’t have any, uh, powers or anything?”

You smile and shake your head in what you hope is a reasonable speed. “No, what you see is what you get.”

Lemar laughs. “Hey, you don’t look too bad yourself. I’m not sure if you had been able to turn the tides of the fight if you had joined in, but you look like you can handle yourself.”

“Hey, thanks man. I saw how you managed to knock down some people when you swung from the helicopter. Pretty impressive.”

He smiles at the compliment and gives a, “Thanks,” in return. You all sit in silence for a few moments.

You lean back and your knee brushes against the shield. Your eyes flicker down at it, before settling back at Walker. “John, I also saw the way you were able to save Lemar here from some serious damage when you threw the shield. Pretty heroic move!” Your voice is carefully kept light.

He smiles and glances at Lemar, before looking down at the shield in question. “Oh, well, it was nothing. I saw him fall and instinctively acted.”

“Oh yeah? You got a lot of experience with the shield?”

“Uh, not really. I’ve had it for… almost two weeks?” He looks at Lemar for confirmation. “Yeah, two weeks. It’s been… pretty hectic. Lots of training intermingled with interviews and photoshoots. Wish I had more experience with it, but, hey, what can you do?” He smiles and shrugs.

You halfheartedly nod. “Yeah, they sure made you do a lot of promos huh? Seems like no matter where I look, there’s some new interview or promo shot or something.” You straighten up, your knee no longer making contact with the shield. “Hey, you see that you have an action figure? That must be crazy.”

You’ve had the 'pleasure' of seeing it in-person at your daycare. It was one of the big ones, twelve inches tall, perfect for littles that couldn’t quite be trusted with toys with small parts. Your playmates seemed to like it, if the amount of times they pressed a button that activated a whopping total of three catchphrases was anything to go by.

You’d stick with the well-worn and well-loved original Captain America figure, thank you very much. Besides, that one didn’t have stupid catchphrases that don’t even make any sense because he’s not some cartoon character, he’s a real person-

Walker laughs. “Yeah, I have actually! That was one of the first things they had me sign off on, something about the sales of it helping the troops? It’s, um,” he squints as he thinks, “it’s pretty cool actually.”

You smile and nod, turning your head ever so slightly to the left to look at the road ahead. “Oh, look!”

Thank god, Sam and Bucky were there. Considering that it looked like they were walking without a problem, you assumed they were just fine.

The driver honks twice right as the Jeep passes by them. Pulling ahead of them, the car stops. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Walker open his mouth as if to start speaking, so you beat him to the punch, standing up so Sam and Bucky could better see your clothes.

"Sam, Bucky, it's me, your dear old pal Jack!" Real smooth. "You kind of... left me at the building, but it's fine, look who I ran into!" You jerk your thumb towards Walker. "That's... a joke, by the way. He, uh, fell onto the car I commandeered. So, technically speaking, I did, in fact, run into him. With a car." You smile, purposefully not letting it reach your eyes. You hope it conveys the fact that the last five minutes you've spent with Walker has pushed you to your limit.

The corners of Bucky’s eyes crinkle. “Wish I could’ve been there.” Both him and Sam very hesitantly approach the back of the Jeep.

Walker takes this opportunity to speak. “Well, now we know what we’re up against, huh?”

Both Sam and Bucky silently look him over, as now that they’re no longer in the midst of getting their asses handed to them, they can take a good long look at him. They don’t seem very impressed. Despite that though, Sam looks at you, sighs, and starts to pull himself into the jeep.

Even though he got no response, Walker continues talking. “And we’re pretty sure they’re one of the Big Three, so…”

Sam sits beside you, you having slid over to make room.

Bucky looks at Sam as he pulls himself in, closing the small door behind him. "He doesn't even know about the Big Four." He leans back to make eye contact with the driver and the car starts moving again.

That gets a chuckle out of you and Sam. Lemar and Walker look a little lost, however. Glancing between you all, Walker hesitantly asks, "Four? What's the... fourth one?"

Sam shrugs it off. “Doesn’t matter. They’re super soldiers.”

“Shit. Super soldiers, for real?” Lemar asks.

“Yeah.”

“Wow…” Walker breathes out incredulously more than says. “Alright, well, then we gotta work together.”

You just barely manage to stifle a snort. You look at your left, towards the driver so as to not give your feelings away. You’re sure that Walker is a mostly okay guy… but that didn’t mean you’d like to work with him.

“That’s not happening.” Bucky’s bluntness comes to the rescue.

“I just think that we stand a much better chance if we all just-”

“Just ‘cause you carry that shield, it doesn't mean you’re Captain America.”

Walker pauses. “Look, I’ve done the work, okay?”

“You ever jump on top of a grenade?”

“Yeah. Actually, I have!” He sounds excited about it. “Four times. I have a thing I do with my helmet, it’s a reinforced helmet, long story, but-” It seems like he realizes that this isn’t the answer Bucky wanted because he cuts himself off. Maybe Bucky is glaring at him?

It’s a long pause before Walker starts talking again. “Okay, so we’ve got eight super soldiers on a bulk supply run. Why?” You turn back to face everyone.

Sam goes first. “They say their mission is to get things back the way it was during The Blip. Maybe they’re just trying to help?”

Bucky scoffs. “They’ve had a funny way of showing it.” They sure did. The scuffed skin on Bucky’s face said more than enough.

“That serum doesn’t exactly have a great track record- No, offense.”  Walker hastens to add. Your eyes flick back to Bucky and it looks like offense was taken.

“We need to figure out where they’re going. How’d you track ‘em here? The Flag Smashers?” Sam asks.

Lemar jumps in. “Uh, no, we didn’t track them. We tracked you, uh, through Redwing.” He has the decency to look like he feels bad about it.

“You hacked my tech?” Oh, now Sam is getting annoyed.

Walker doesn’t help matters by chuckling. “Sorry, it’s not exactly ‘hacking.’ It’s government property.” He gestures to himself. “Kind of the government.” You want to knock the smile off his face...

It looks like Bucky does too, if the glare he’s giving Walker is any inclination.

A bit nervous, Walker asks you and Sam, “Does he always just stare like that?”

Lying, you shake your head. At the same time though, Sam tells him, “You get used to it.”

“Okay look,” Walker clears his throat. “You know, things have gotten kinda, uh…” He looks at Lemar.

“Chaotic,” is the word he supplies.

Walker nods. “Yeah. Look, the GRC has been doing the best they can to get things up and running smoothly post-Blip.”

Lemar continues. “Reactivating citizenship, social security, healthcare… Basically just managing resources for the refugees that were replaced by the return.”

Sam gives a sharp nod. “The Global Reparations Council does all that, I get that. So why exactly are you two here?”

It takes a moment before they respond. Lemar offers, “Well, they provide the resources and we keep things stable.”

“Yeah, violent revolutionaries aren’t usually good for anyone’s cause,” Walker agrees and smiles, evidently expecting you all to agree.

Sam is quick to point out, “Usually said by the people with the resources.”

“Well, we got a lot of resources.” Walker looks at all of you. “If you guys, if you joined up with us, we could-”

“No.” Thanks Bucky.

“I got mad respect for all of y’all.” You hope that the next words out of Lemar’s mouth are ‘so I respect your decision’, but regretfully he keeps going. “But you kinda were getting your asses kicked till we showed up.” He looks over at you. “This one here wasn’t even in the fight itself.”

Oh my god, you were going to hurt him.

Bucky has a much better response, considering it doesn’t involve bodily harm of a government agent. He asks, “Who are you?”

“Lemar Hoskins.”

Sam continues, “Look, I see a guy hanging out of a helicopter, decked out in tactical gear, I need a lot more than ‘Lemar Hoskins’.”

“I’m Battlestar. John’s partner.” Bro, what?

“‘Battlestar?’” Bucky is incredulous as you are. He leans back, looks to the front of the Jeep, and shouts, “Stop the car!”

Gary pulls to a complete stop. Bucky immediately pulls the back open and leaves the Jeep.

“Look, I… I get it, okay. I get the attitude, I do.” Walker doesn’t know when to stop talking does he? Sam remains sitting, so you raise your arms and hoist yourself through the frame of the Jeep, exiting the vehicle from the side. “You didn’t think that the shield was going to end up here! I get it, Bucky!”

Bucky starts walking away and you quickly follow. You can hear that Walker is trying to tell Sam something, but you’ve heard enough of his voice. From the constant bombardment of interviews, from the advertisements, from the dumb action figure your daycare got last week, and from the actual man himself for the past ten minutes. You never wanted to hear it again.

Sam rejoins you both not too long afterwards. He huffs, but doesn’t say anything.

Looking behind you, you can see that the Jeep and its occupants are long gone. You sigh, and shift back to normal. Your pants bunch up, suddenly too long, and your shirt is now extra loose.

As you start to try to re-tuck your shirt without having to undo your belt, you take a deep breath and let it out slowly. On either side of you, you can make out both Sam and Bucky staring at you out the corners of their eyes.

They slow their pace, quickly coming to a complete stop. You immediately kneel down and start to re-roll your pants back up.

As you do so, Sam clears his throat. “Hey, about what Lemar said…”

You switch legs and huff some air out of your nose. “It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. You did good.”

You snort as you stand back up. “Sure, Sam. Besides, I know that he doesn’t know anything, I was stuck with them before we found you. I lied and told them I didn’t have powers.” You shove your hands into your jacket’s pockets and start walking.

Sam and Bucky walk on either side of you.

“You know what I mean.” He sighs. “Look, I’m sorry for leaving you behind, I was caught up in making sure that this one,” he nods his head toward Bucky, “didn’t do anything stupid. But-! After the beatdown we all got, it was probably for the best.”

You hum in response.

Sam gently knocks his body into your side. “No, really . I saw what you were doing back there, you, honest to god, did good. You kept innocents away from the danger and kept the road clear in case anyone fell. I saw that.”

You half-heartedly shrug. “I guess…”

On your opposite side, Bucky gives two solid pats on your back. “You did good.”

Well, if you couldn’t listen to two superheroes, who could you listen to? You finally crack a smile. “Yeah, okay.”

You all walk in silence for the next half-hour. When you check your phone, opening the GPS app, you groan when you realize that it’s another twelve miles to the airport. At the rate you’re all walking, it’ll be another two hours until you arrive. Under your breath, you say, “We should’ve just stolen the car from them…”

Bucky sighs. “Yeah, we probably should’ve.”

Sam looks at both of you a moment before saying, “No. No we shouldn’t have. That would be a crime.”

You make eye-contact with Bucky and you both shrug.

You didn’t have a record, and you’d love for them to try to catch you… What would they do if you change your fingerprints to match whoever it was that arrested you? It was an amusing thought to entertain you as you continued walking.

After an hour passes, you start dragging your feet, just a bit. It wasn’t like you had breakfast. Or… Or dinner, really. Was your last meal your lunch yesterday? That was probably why you weren’t feeling the top of your game. You’re suddenly a bit thankful for the fact that you didn’t join the actual hand-to-hand combat. You would have gone big and tall, which always left you feeling a bit drained.

You wondered if Bucky or Sam ate anything on the plane. They could’ve while you were sleeping. A protein bar or something.

It didn’t really matter, you suppose. There weren't any dining establishments along the path you all were taking. You would all have to wait until you reached the airport. You’d get something from a café or something inside. Maybe some pastries? Oh, you’d love a muffin-

“Heads up,” is all the warning you got before Bucky wraps his metal arm around you and hoists you onto his hip. He doesn’t even stop walking.

Uh?

“Uh? Excuse me?” Your head darts from looking at him to looking at Sam. Sam looks a bit confused, raising a single eyebrow, but doesn’t intervene.

“You were dragging your feet and slowing us down. We’ll get to the airport quicker this way.”

Oh. Well… you couldn’t really argue with that. Bucky didn’t even look to be breaking a sweat, as if holding you was no more difficult than holding a bag of grapes. Even caregivers tended to take a moment while they got you settled, but Bucky just… Lifted you up. While walking even. You supposed it was the serum. Super soldiers were just stronger than the limits a normal human had. The metal arm probably helped, considering that was the only arm he was using to hold you.

True to his word, both him and Sam had even picked up the pace a bit.

Still, you furrow your brow. You weren’t little right now and you weren’t sure if you appreciated being held like this while big. Being held like this, close to his body, it wasn’t not comfortable. But… you were big right now. You squirm a bit.

“Hey, stop. I don’t want to drop you.” He barely has to twist his head to be squinting directly into your eyes.

“Sorry for dragging my feet, I can pick up the pace.” You squirm a bit more, incentive for him to put you down.

“Not going to happen.” He tightens his hold on you, bringing you closer. “You’re tired and last ate yesterday. Just let me carry you. Don’t make this weird.”

You huff.

Behind you, Sam says, “Man, I wish you’d pick me up.”

Bucky snorts. “I said don’t make this weird. That included you.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

Sam and Bucky continue walking for another twenty minutes, you begrudgingly along for the ride.

Even though it doesn’t look like Bucky is struggling with carrying you, like at all, you can’t help but want to make this easier for him.

“Hey, you know that I can be, like, physically smaller… right?”

Bucky nods. “Yeah, but then your clothes and boots will be too big, right?”

“... You may have a point.”

He rolls his shoulders. “It’s fine. You weigh practically nothing to me.”

“Yeah but… I don’t know… If I’m not allowed to walk, can I pick the way you’re carrying me then?”

Bucky looks at you out the corner of his eyes, raising an eyebrow. “Something wrong with the way I’m carrying you?”

“Um… well, not really. But! Can’t I, I dunno, ride on your shoulders or something?”

He sighs. A moment later, you’re surprised when he puts you down. “Fine.”

Oh, cool! Bucky kneels down just enough for you to get on his shoulders, and you have to stifle a squeal when he suddenly stands up, hands going up to grip your ankles as he walks.

Now this is much better.

You look down at Sam with a smile. He smiles back.

Now content, you rest your hands on top of Bucky’s head.

It’s only another twenty minutes until your group finally reaches the airport.

Before you enter the premises, Bucky kindly lets you down, and you all rush to a food counter. It’s a small airport with not much options, but it’s enough. You completely ignore what Sam and Bucky get, in favor of scarfing down a muffin. You also order an actual meal, but the muffin truly was perfect.

You’re still finishing your meal when Bucky and Sam finish. Sam goes ahead to make sure the plane is ready for take-off, while Bucky heads to the restroom to clean up.

When you finish, you swing by the plane to grab your backpack, then head to the restroom. By the time you make it there, Bucky is leaving. You point out where the plane is and he leaves you to it.

You change into a clean t-shirt - after using the restroom, of course. You had gone in the woods, near the start of your over two hour walk, but it was good practice to go before a flight. While you debated changing your jeans, a wave of exhaustion washed over you.

Your previous nap may have given you enough energy for the mission, but those agonizing ten minutes spent with Walker had drained you of any remaining energy you had left. The adrenaline surge from driving like crazy probably didn’t help either. And the aforementioned two hour walk.

You should probably change into a pull-up this time. That way if you leaked while you slept, everyone there would be none the wiser. And, more pressingly, if you did manage to wake up in time, you wouldn’t have to worry about using one of the plastic travel urinals that were on board. The flight back should take the same amount of time to get here, nine hours, and you were planning on sleeping for the entirety of this one.

Decision made, you put a pull-up on. You hesitate a moment before pulling some underwear over them. After you pull your jeans back up, making sure to tuck in your oversized shirt, you look over yourself in the mirror. You looked… completely normal.

There wasn’t even a noticeable bulge from the padding. Which made sense, because these weren’t even your normal pull-ups. You had only grabbed the ones intended for littles that were out of headspace. They were designed to be discrete, capable of containing a single, small accident. Which was perfect, because you hardly ever had accidents when you were big. These were for peace of mind over anything else.

The only reason you even had them in the first place was for when you wanted to go on a patrol immediately after regressing. Just in case.

Exiting the bathroom and entering the plane, you can see that Sam changed as well, his duffle bag having a spare outfit. Poor Bucky was stuck with the clothes he departed in. At least these still had their sleeves attached.

You give a brief greeting to Torres, then proceed to curl up on a bench-cot and immediately pass out.

Just as planned, you sleep through the entirety of the flight.

You’re awoken by a hand gently shaking your shoulder.

“Wake up, small fry. We’ve landed, but there’s been a change of destination.”

You crack your eyes open, blearily making out that it’s Bucky standing over you. “W-Where are we, then?” you yawn. You sit up and Bucky removes his hand.

“Baltimore.”

You start rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “Baltimore? Isn’t that in… Maryland? Why are we in Baltimore?”

“Sam and I have some… business to attend to.” He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

Fully awake, you remove your hands. “Am… Am I included in that business?”

“...No.” Sensing your confusion, he continues, “It’s classified information.”

“Oh.” Diverting your eyes, you pull out your phone. Apparently, it’s five pm. You slept for about... eight hours, accounting for the time change.

“If you could keep yourself busy for an hour or two, that would be great. Afterwards, we’ll head back here and head to our next location.”

“Do I… have to stay at the airport? Or can I, like, leave?” Having to spend the foreseeable future in an airport wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, but you’ve just spent a collective total of about seventeen hours in a small plane. It would be nice to do something for a bit before going on another flight.

Bucky immediately nods. “‘Course you can.” He holds his right hand out to you. You take it, and he pulls you up. “C’mon. We won’t be taking this plane.”

You nod. “Oh, okay.” You look around and spot Torres looking at a tablet near the back of the cabin. You let go of Bucky’s hand and wave at him. “Bye Torres! It was nice meeting you!”

Torres smiles and waves back. “Likewise!” He pulls his phone out. “Got your number, so expect to be sent some goofy photos!”

You laugh. “Looking forward to them!” And with that, you and Bucky depart the plane.

You stop by the bathrooms, where Sam meets you both. You quickly excuse yourself though, because you did just have an eight hour flight.

Just in time, it seems, if the amount you pee is anything to go by. When you go to pull your pull-up back up, however, it seems like maybe you were a tad late. It’s slightly damp.

Well... that’s why you wore it in the first place. Your cheeks still burned as you took it off though. You didn’t want Sam or Bucky to think that just because you were little meant that you were a baby. You could handle a few days of being big. This was your first mission, and first impressions were everything.

Thank god for the privacy afforded to you by being the only person in the restroom. You shove the rolled up pull-up into the trash can, everyone outside being none the wiser. You wash your hands, splash some cold water on your face, and exit.

You are greeted by both Sam and Bucky, both of them apparently waiting for you.

“Bucky tell you what was up?” Sam asks as you all navigate your way out of the airport.

You nod. “Uh-huh. You guys have something to do, and I’ll… be getting some food, honestly.”

He looks back at Bucky. “Are we getting some food?”

Bucky can only roll his eyes in response. Ignoring Sam completely, he addresses you, “Okay, we shouldn’t take long. I’ll call you when we’re ready.”

You nod and go your separate ways as you exit the airport. It looks like they’re going to be walking to their destination. You shrug and hail a taxi. Once you get one, you ask to be dropped off at the nearest fast food establishment.

It’s only a short drive and you’re sure to give the driver a good tip.

You waste absolutely no time ordering. You get your usual - a Little Meal, a standard adult-sized combo but with a toy. You take the bag it comes in, fill up your provided cup with soda, and sit in the establishment’s 'fun zone' - the room designed to house a giant play structure designed for both kids and littles alike, along with seating for anyone looking to eat while keeping an eye on their little ones.

You devour your meal. You absolutely savor your fries and, after checking to confirm that there’s free refills, happily sip your soft drink. Unwrapping your toy, you’re pleased to find a little astronaut figure! It’s as big as your hand and feels very comfortable as you hold it. You can have them go on happy little space adventures!

But… that’ll have to wait. You have a mission to complete. You zip open your backpack and drop it in. You’ll play with it later.

Finished with your food, you eye the play structure. You are so tempted to take your shoes off, shove them in a cubby, and start playing. But you can’t. Firstly, unsupervised littles weren’t allowed for liability reasons. Secondly, you would have to pull yourself out of headspace in order to meet back up with Bucky and Sam, and with such a short timespan, you didn’t want to bother.

You check the time and sigh when you see that it hasn't even been more than half an hour since you departed the airport. Well, you have to do something. You pull out your phone and earbuds and pull up Youtube. Might as well catch up on your subscriptions. Besides, it’ll help distract you from the happy chatter of regressed littles.

You spend the next hour sitting in your booth, happily sipping your soda all the while. When you catch up on your subscriptions for the day, you pull up the recommended tab and watch some of those. Outside, you distantly notice that the sun is setting.

It’s another thirty minutes when an interesting video pops into the recommendations. Huh. You click on it.

As soon as the video finished, you swing your backpack back on, get a refill on your drink, and leave. It’s dark as you exit the restaurant. You pull up your GPS app, locate the nearest police station, and decide to use a ridesharing app to get there.

In hardly any time at all, they drop you off a block away from the building. You give them five stars, a tip, and a thanks. As they drive away, you stifle an annoyed sigh.

Since you watched the video, Sam has not contacted you. It’s not like he got arrested.

You take a deep breath and try to let the anger go. He’s probably panicking and doing all he can to get Bucky out of the slammer. On his list of priorities, letting you know what’s happening probably isn’t very high for good reason.

You turn the corner and almost freeze.

Almost. You know better than to do something that would draw people’s attention to you.

So, when you see John Walker and Lemar Hoskins leaning on the side of a police cruiser, you don’t even glance their way as you walk towards and past them. You keep walking and sip your drink, and when they don’t even pause their conversation, you know that they don’t recognize you. Or, well, they don’t recognize your jacket. They’ve only met Jack Connor, not you. Looks like you made a good choice earlier.

When you turn the corner, you slump against the wall of the precinct. Shit. What were they doing here? You’re about to pull your phone out to text Sam when a police cruiser’s siren goes off. It startles you and you almost drop your phone. As you stumble to catch it, you have an inkling of a clue of who turned it on.

Sure enough, when you peak around the corner, your suspicions are confirmed. It looks like Walker flicked it on to get Sam and Bucky’s attention, as they were walking down the steps toward him. Ugh.

You were not going to head over there. You decide to just wait it out. You figured that Bucky and Sam wouldn’t take too kindly to being followed and hoped that they would turn around and head towards you to avoid Walker.

It doesn't take long until your prediction comes true. Straining to hear their conversation, you can barely tell it’s ended when you hear footsteps approach. You start walking away from the corner, to the right, if only to not startle them within view of Walker.

It looks like your instincts are right when only a couple seconds after you know they’ve turned the corner, you hear Sam cautiously call your name.

Turning your head, you slow your pace until they catch up, in which case you continue walking. “The one and only!” You quip.

Sam is bewildered. “How’d you find us here?”

"I saw this and was able to go from there." You hold up your phone, which is displaying a Youtube video titled Shocking!!! The Falcon gets Racially Profiled!! Police Arrest WWII Vet Bucky Barnes!!! It currently has a hundred thousand views, despite being posted a little more than an hour and a half ago.

You see Sam’s eyes scan the screen before they roll. “Oh, that.”

When Bucky’s eyes dart away from the screen to the streets ahead, you pocket your phone. You huff a laugh. “Yeah, that. Gotta say, would have appreciated a text or something.”

Sam drags a hand over his face. He looks overwhelmed. “Sorry. It all happened so fast-” He sighs. “I had to trail him, and then while I was trying to see if I could pull any strings to get him out, someone else sprung him. You might guess who.”

You squint and tilt your head. “It can’t be the two people who were hanging in the parking lot, could it?” You laugh. “What am I saying, of course it was them. Did it come with any strings attached?” You lean forward and look at Bucky.

He grunts. “They just wanted us to join them. Same thing as the Jeep.”

“Well, did he tell you guys anything useful, at least?” Walker wouldn’t just beg for help without having anything to offer, would he?

Sam huffs some air out of his nose. “Yeah, barely. He told us that the leader of the Flag Smashers is Karli Morganthau.”

You hum and take another sip of your drink. A name would be useful if you didn’t already know that Flag Smashers wiped any traces of themselves from the internet.

“So, what are you thinking?” Sam asks the group at large.

You shrug and take another sip, only succeeding to start sucking up air, having reached the bottom. With a grimace, you pull it away, resolving to throw it away the first chance you get.

“I know what I have to do,” is Bucky’s cryptic response. “When,” his eyes flicker to you before returning forward, “he said, ‘your people’.”

“Oh, don’t take that to heart, that’s not what he meant.”

Were they talking about Walker? No, Sam sounded sympathetic…

“No, he meant Hydra. Hydra used to be my people.”

Oh, they were talking about where they were when they told you to get lost.

Sam scoffs. “Not a chance.”

Wait, who were they talking about now?

“Walker doesn’t have any leads.”

Bucky seems a bit resigned...

“I know where you’re going with this, no.”

Oh, Sam doesn’t seem happy either.

“He knows all of Hydra’s secrets. Don’t you remember Siberia?”

Siberia? Oh, Bucky wasn’t talking about him, was he?

“So you're just gonna go sit in a room with this guy?

Bucky hesitates. ”Y-yes.”

You all walk in silence for a moment.

“Okay then.” Sam looks at you. “We’re gonna go see Zemo.”

And with that, you all make your way back to the airport.

When your group arrives, before you make it to the ticket counter, Sam slows down. He stops walking and looks at you, so you stop too. Bucky, meanwhile, joins the line.

“Hey, you don’t have to join us on this, you know that, right? We can buy you a plane ticket home.” Sam looks concerned.

“Do you… not want me to join?”

He looks away. “I’m not sure. This mission is looking to get more and more dangerous. You’re used to street-level stuff, right?”

You nod.

“Right. So, I don’t want you to feel compelled to continue if everything is more than you bargained for. Right here, this is a perfect time to turn around.”

You shake your head. “Sam, I understand where you’re coming from, I do. But… I can handle myself. I may mostly deal with the small stuff, but I have dealt with some dark underbellies. I can help. If you don’t think you need the extra help, then feel free to send me off on my own merry little way. But, if you do think you’re gonna need it… well, I’m still here, aren’t I?” Ending with a small smile, you tilt your head.

Sam sighs, but the ends of his mouth upturn. “You’re right. I just needed to check in. You’re good?”

“I’m good. You?”

He laughs. “Yeah, I’m good.”

You smile and look at Bucky, who’s in the middle of the line. “Think he’s good?”

“Oh, I know he’s not. He’s not leaving though.”

You laugh. “Yeah, we’re stuck with each other for a bit. I think you can handle it though.” You pat his arm and rush off to join Bucky, leaving Sam to chuckle alone.

Bucky buys three tickets, all coach. Which is kinda unfortunate, because you were kind of hoping for first class, business class possibly, but you could deal with it. It seems like the destination is Berlin, which if you remembered correctly, was in fact where the trial was held.

After a brief talk with TSA concerning all of Sam's gear, you all board the plane.

Bucky takes the window seat and Sam takes the aisle seat, leaving you to take the seat between them. Well, if you had to be the buffer between them, then so be it.

You tap the screen embedded into the seat in front of you, pull your earbuds out, and select a random family movie.

Your mind couldn’t stop itself from wandering though.

Zemo.

That was the man's name. The man you were all going to pay a visit to. You knew what he looked like, in an abstract sense. He had framed Bucky for blowing up the United Nations and killing a king. He apparently then managed to control Bucky, which at the time, seemed like something ridiculous. That was before the Jones V. Kilgrave case, and the details of how Bucky was even alive and young after seventy years weren't made public yet.

He was the man that managed to tear apart the Avengers right before the world needed them the most - although you had to admit, that security footage from the airport was insane.

The news didn't get all the details right away, with the majority of it being classified, but eventually they did release photos of the man behind it all. It was pictures of him serving in his nation's military, you think. You vaguely remember keeping up with his trial, where he was found guilty to all charges.

Steve gave you the full story. Zemo was a man who lost his family when Sokovia fell. He blamed the Avengers and wanted them to suffer like he did, so, to avenge his family, he became a terrorist. He used Bucky as a pawn to draw them out, killed others that were like him, then revealed a big secret to Iron Man.

Steve didn't tell you what the secret was. He implied that he had known what it was before it was revealed, but kept it a secret for the good of the Avengers.

You wondered what would have happened if Steve had never kept it a secret.

Whatever it was, it was enough for Mr. Stark to never want to talk to Steve ever again. There were only two instances of Captain America and Iron Man fighting together after that: Right before and right after the Blip.

With both of them gone, you supposed that they would never have to work together again.

Black Panther had been able to catch Zemo and arrest him. It was crazy because he was the son of the king that died. If you were in his place, you weren't sure what you’d do with your father’s murderer.

He wasn't an alien, he wasn't an android, and he wasn't a wizard. You weren't even sure if he had any tech. He was just a man.

A very dedicated man.

And you were going to visit him the next day.

Well... you had an eight hour flight between the visit and now. It was best to not stress about it.

Rolling your shoulders, you settle into your seat and try to figure out what was happening in your movie.

Chapter Text

Your fingers dance across your knee caps as you wait for the cab you were in to reach its destination. You had no idea where you were even headed, Bucky having given a seemingly random address to the cab driver after you all left the maximum security prison. 

The plane ride had been spent in comfortable silence. You passed the time by watching animated movies, Sam spent it working on his laptop, and Bucky seemed content to look out the window and listen to his music player.

When the plane landed, you all took a cab directly to Berlin's highest security prison, the paperwork having been processed on the flight.

You had made yourself look taller and older, hoping that age would give you an air of respect that your youth couldn't provide you. It appeared to be for naught though, as you weren't even allowed past the front desk. As a security measure, they didn't want too many outsiders to be allowed within the prison itself, which you could understand. At least your actual face wasn't captured on any of the security cameras.

Not that it really mattered, you supposed. You just sat in the lobby the whole time, watching Sam's gear and waiting for them to return.

It did make you feel better that even Sam didn't talk to the guy, though. Apparently, Bucky had insisted on talking to the prisoner alone, leaving Sam to wait in the hallway outside.

Immediately after the meeting, Bucky, Sam, and you all immediately left, taking another cab. This cab. When pressed about if he got any information during the brief moment when you were outside the prison waiting for the cab to arrive, Bucky only cryptically told you all that he knew where to go next. He gave the cab driver a location, and hasn’t said a single word since.

Thankfully, the address doesn’t seem to be too far from the prison, as it’s only a few minutes until the driver pulls over.

Bucky immediately exits and strolls right to the front door, leaving Sam and you behind. Sam pays while you wait for him, you changing back to normal as soon as the cab turns the corner.

“Okay, now can you tell us what’s going on?” you ask.

Bucky huffs, “Give me a sec.” He has a lock pick in his hands and is working on the door. Almost instantly it clicks open.

From your vantage point outside the doorway, it looks like the power is out, as the interior is pitch black.

Bucky squints before turning to Sam. “You got any flashlights in that bag of yours?”

Sam rolls his eyes and obligingly pulls out two flashlights from his duffle bag. “Only two. You and the kid are gonna have to fight for my spare.”

Bucky’s eyes dart over to you. You immediately raise one hand in surrender, the other pulling your phone out. “Hey, hey, hey. No need. I’m good.”

This time, Bucky rolls his eyes. He takes the second flashlight, switches it on, and strolls in.

You turn your phone’s flashlight on and enter right behind him, Sam following suit. He closes the door behind him, engulfing you all in darkness.

You swing your light across the ground. Concrete floor, some oil stains on the ground. Auto shop?

Ahead of you, you see Bucky’s flashlight darting around. It looks like there’s a lot of car stuff around. What did this place have to do with the Flag Smashers? Right as you’re about to ask, Bucky finally starts talking.

“I want to break Zemo out of jail.”

“Excuse me?” You had to have heard wrong... right?

Behind you, Sam seems equally bewildered. He asks, “What are you talking about? You wanna break Zemo out of jail? Where the hell are we, Buck? Have you lost your mind?”

“We have no leads, no moves, nothing.” Bucky continues walking as if what he said wasn’t insane.

“What we have is one of the most dangerous men in the world behind bars.”

“And we also have eight super soldiers that are loose!” Bucky takes this moment to flash the light into both your and Sam’s eyes. Ugh.

When your vision clears, you can see that Bucky is pointing his light directly to a pillar with a yellow explanation mark on it. A breaker box?

“Zemo’s going to mess with our minds. Especially yours.” Sam pauses. “No offense.”

You and Sam both aim your lights directly at the box, while Bucky flicks the switches inside. After a moment, lights start turning on.

As everyone takes the moment to turn off their lights, Bucky says, “Offense.”

Drama king. You look around, and see that your conclusions were correct: This is definitely an auto shop. However, unlike the auto shops you frequented, this one held some nice cars. Vintage.

Bucky continues, “Super soldiers go against everything that he believes in.” He walks right up to Sam. “He is crazy, but he still has a code.” He walks away.

“And I’ve been on the wrong side of that code, Buck, and so have you.” Sam gestures over to you. “What, do you think he’s going to be okay with them? After everything he’s done?” He looks back at Bucky, not even giving him a chance to respond. “He blew up the UN, he killed King T’Chaka and framed you for it. Did you forget that? Do you think the Wakandans forgot about it? It’s a rhetorical question, they didn’t.”

You and Bucky take a moment to absorb Sam’s words. Bucky’s eyes dart over to you for a moment, and you can see him thinking things over.

Sam takes a breath and continues, a bit calmer this time, “I know why this matters to you... but, c’mon, it’s pushing you off the deep end.”

Bucky closes his eyes for just a moment, frustration washing over him. He opens them and you can see how torn up he looks inside. Exasperated, he says, “Sam, we don’t know how they’re getting the serum. We don’t even know how many of them there are!”

Sam just turns away, his frustration also clearly evident. Bucky looks to you, and all you can do is furrow your brows and drop your gaze to the ground. 

You weren’t sure if breaking Zemo out was such a good idea. Like… from what Steve told you about him? What Sam just reiterated? He didn’t like people with powers. And, well, you had powers. Were the differences between a shapeshifter and a super soldier really enough for him to think that you had any value in staying alive? And, there definitely were differences… but were they enough?

“Look, let me just walk you guys through a hypothetical. Can I walk you through a hypothetical?”

You and Sam slowly return your gaze to Bucky.

“What did you do?” Sam growls.

“I… didn’t do anything.”

Oh, you absolutely hate the way he said that. He said it in the exact same tone of voice you used at daycare when you technically didn’t do anything wrong… but you absolutely did. The tone of voice that implies that, sure, you didn’t draw on the walls… but it didn’t mean that you didn’t convince one of the other littles to do so.

“What did you do?” you reiterate.

Bucky just averts his eyes to the left, avoiding eye contact with either you or Sam. “The weakest point of any system isn’t the software, the hardware, it’s the meatware. The human element. Now in this lockup, it’s nine to one, the prisoners to guards. Now, if two prisoners start fighting, the protocol says four guards are to respond.”

Sam interrupts, “Why would two prisoners randomly start fighting at that moment?”

“Who knows...” Bucky, not even a bit convincingly, says, “There could be many reasons. But the point is, these things escalate. Lockdown procedures would have to be initiated, and with all those bodies flying around left and right, it wouldn’t be hard to slip down a hallway or two.”

You can only sigh in response. It’s obvious that Bucky has spent probably the entirety of time since leaving Zemo’s cell coming up with this plan, and that probably meant that you were going to have to help this prison break.

Undeterred, Bucky continues, “And if the fire alarm got tripped while the prisoners were being separated… someone could use the chaos to their advantage.”

“I don’t like how casual you’re bein’ about this, it’s unnatural. Isn’t it unnatural?” Sam looks to you, and you nod in agreement. “And-! Where are we, man?”

Bucky squints a bit, eyes darting around, and right when he’s about to answer, you hear a noise.

Turning to your right, you can hear the distinct sound of shoes squeaking against concrete. You can see a shadow cast upon some plastic tarps separating this room from another. Before you can even think to change how your face looks, the figure reveals itself.

It’s Zemo.

Immediately, Sam starts yelling. “Whoa, woah, woah! What are you doing here!” He tries to get closer to Zemo, but Bucky immediately moves his right arm in front of Sam, attempting to stop his approach.

"Buckyyy..." You whine and grab Bucky's left arm, ignoring the Sokovian man completely, "did you just make me an accessory to a prison break?"

Bucky only grimaces at your words and gently tries to shake you off his arm while trying to deal with Sam. “No listen, I didn’t want to tell you, Sam, ‘cause I knew that you wouldn’t let this happen!”

You can’t stop the whine that goes with your words, wanting Bucky to pay attention to you, "Why didn't you tell me to have a... different face on... when we entered this place?"

Bucky’s eyes quickly dart over to you. "I mean... I didn't tell you to change back."

“Bucky-!” Sam sounds so disappointed and angry.

You throw your hands up. "I literally asked you if I should ‘change’ when we were in the cab, and you gave me a noncommittal noise! That noise? Meant nothing. I took it as an affirmative, and that's on you!"

Sam interjects, "That’s true. They have a point. I, for one, would have appreciated more of a heads up that you were leading us to a rendezvous point with him!" He throws an arm out to gesture to Zemo.

“We need him, guys.” Bucky’s arms drop.

Sam is very obviously done with this. “You’re going back to prison!” His outstretched hand sternly points at Zemo.

Stopping several feet away, said escaped prisoner chimes in with a slight tilt of his head, "If I may-"

"No!" is Sam and Bucky's immediate reply. You simply turn your head to him and narrow your eyes, actually looking at him for the first time.

He looked pretty much as you remembered from the news reports all those years ago. The only noticeable differences being that he was no longer clean-shaven and he was currently dressed in a prison guard’s uniform. He looked a bit older, you think, so you can only assume that he didn’t Blip.

Zemo shuts his mouth with a slight nod of the head, perhaps grasping that his input wasn’t valued at the moment. More seen than heard, you can make out an, “Apologies…” from him.

Bucky huddles you and Sam closer, breaking your line of sight to Zemo. Looking directly into Sam’s eyes, Bucky says, “When Steve refused to sign the Sokovia Accords, you backed him. You broke the law, and you struck out your neck for me. I’m asking you to do it again.”

Sam, eyebrows still furrowed, exhales some air out his nose, looks down, at Zemo, then back to Bucky, thinking things through.

Bucky looks into your eyes then, a hand resting on your shoulder. “I’m… sorry that I didn’t give you a heads up. You’re doing a lot, being here for us, and I’m thankful for it. You still with me?”

Tension leaves your shoulders, a silent sigh escaping you. You nod.

Behind Bucky, you hear, “I really think I’m invaluable…”

Huh. You weren’t sure what you were expecting Zemo to sound like, but you’re not sure you would have put that voice to that face.

Everyone leans back, and you can see that Zemo had raised a finger up for emphasis.

“Shut up,” is Sam’s simple response.

It looks like Zemo may be partially offended, if the slight squint of the eyes is anything to go off of.

Sam ignores this, looking back at Bucky. After a moment, he deflates just a bit, having come to a conclusion that he probably isn’t too happy about. Aloud, he says, “Okay.”

Bucky stops staring, turning his head to the right, but not at Zemo. It’s hard to tell, but so close, you can make out the smallest bit of tension leaving him.

Looking back at Zemo, Sam continues, “If we do this, you don’t make a move without our permission.”

“Fair,” Zemo accepts with a tilt of his head and a raise of his brows. There’s something about it that rubs you the wrong way, but you can’t put your finger on it.

“Okay, Zemo,” Sam looks to you all before returning his gaze to him, “where do we start?”

Zemo smiles, a grin stretching across his face. He reminds you of the Cheshire Cat.

That is, seemingly helpful… but mostly tricky.

He points to his right, at a wide doorway leading to a darkened room, and starts walking towards it.

Everyone in your little group squints at him. After a moment, Bucky follows, you and Sam not too far behind.

Right before the entryway, Zemo stops and fiddles with something on the wall. A small click is heard, followed closely by the sounds of several old lights switching on.

As a group, everyone enters. You’re greeted by several rows of very nice cars. Vintage. No... antiques. Definitely a rare sight to behold. You can’t help but to let out a low whistle, walking further in to get a better look.

Sam, on the other hand, is less in awe. “So what, our first move is grand theft auto?”

Amused, Zemo says, “These are mine.” He opens the trunk of a random black car. “Collected by family over the generations.” You can’t see what he’s doing, the roof of the trunk blocking your view, so you just take the opportunity to look over the cars.

Around you, you can see Bucky and Sam doing the same. Bucky goes so far as to open the door of one to look inside. You don’t dare to go that far. It kind of feels like you’re in a museum and that you aren’t allowed to touch anything, but you don’t really want to. Everything here looks so shiny and polished, you wouldn’t want to get any fingerprints or smudges on anything.

You’re happy to just look.

“I spent years hunting people Hydra recruited to recreate the serum.” Turning your head, you see that Zemo has approached another car, this one bright yellow. It reminds you of The Great Gatsby.

You hoped no one would be run over.

It looks like Sam and Bucky are done exploring, because they start making their way towards Zemo. So, you do too.

He’s currently leaning into the back of the vehicle, gathering something. “Someone can create an army of people…” He pulls out a coat and makes eye contact with Sam, “like the Avengers.”

Bucky leans against the car next to him, but you’re much too nervous to do that. You simply stand next to Bucky and shove your hands into your jacket’s pockets. Sam stands closest to Zemo, next to the front tire. It’s white-walled, you distantly notice.

Zemo looks back at the car, hesitates, then goes back in. “I ended the Winter Soldier program once before.” He pulls out a duffle bag. “I have no intention of leaving my work unfinished.” Coat over his arm, duffle bag in hand, Zemo makes his way back to the main building. Everyone moves to follow. “To do this, we have to scale a ladder of lowlifes.”

“Well, join the party, we’ve already started,” Sam quips.

Zemo continues as if he didn’t hear Sam. “First stop is a woman named Selby. Mid-level fence I still have a line on. From there, we climb.”

The group enters the main building, the entrance separated by yet another tarp of plastic in the entryway. When you slip past them, you see that Zemo has made his way to an actual door within the room.

Zemo takes a second to twist the doorknob open, allowing Bucky to catch up with him. When Bucky moves to enter the room, Zemo stays standing in place, blocking the doorway.

You can see that the room in question is a bathroom.

Hand still holding the door, Zemo only says, “Please, James, I would like some semblance of privacy. Besides, I don't think this,” he gestures to the prison uniform he was wearing, “would be helpful in getting us to where you want to go, no?”

Bucky rolls his eyes but, after looking the room over, takes a few steps back, crossing his arms in the process.

Smirking, Zemo closes the door, leaving you, Sam, and Bucky alone. You look around, and see that the room you were left in appeared to be something resembling a break room. In the corner, there were some chairs scattered around a small table. On the opposite side of the room were a counter, cabinets, the works. 

Sam sighs and grabs one of the chairs, spinning it around and sitting on it backwards. Bucky leans against the counter top, glaring daggers at the closed door. You take in their nonchalant cool poses, and do one of your own, leaning against the empty wall next to the bathroom and popping your knee out.

Sam looks at you before settling his eyes on Bucky. He snorts, “If you weren’t ready to deal with him, you shouldn’t have broken him out of prison.”

Bucky huffs and looks back at Sam, his glare softening. “Technically, he did most of the work. I just tossed a note to start the fight.”

“That’s real reassuring, Buck,” Sam deadpans.

Bucky squints his eyes. “I don’t like your attitude.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t like yours. You don’t see me complaining about it.”

“What are you talking about? You literally complain about me whenever you get the chance to.”

You slowly start to tune out their conversation- banter? Whatever it was, at least they weren’t yelling at each other like they were on the way to Munich. Now, their voices were kept low, something to fill the silence as you waited for Zemo to change. You let it wash over you, letting your mind wander.

You were still a little mad at Bucky, to be completely honest. When you agreed to go on this mission, you thought that it meant that you guys were becoming a team. Or, bare minimum, that he trusted you. Shouldn't that mean no keeping secrets? At least secrets about the mission. Especially something as big as breaking someone from a prison. Even if it was only the length of the car ride, it didn't sit right with you.

Speaking of secrets, you would have really appreciated it if the man who was currently changing out of a stolen uniform didn't see your face. Or rather, your normal face. Maybe if it was you aged up, that ‘Jack Connor’ form, or literally anyone else, you would be more comfortable.

But he saw the real you.

He's a terrorist. He literally bombed the UN, killing the Wakandan king and hurting several others in the process. He framed Bucky for it. Tried to use Bucky as a tool, not a person. He was the man who tore apart the Avengers, even if it wasn’t immediately apparent.

He hated super soldiers, but to what extent? Did he only leave Bucky alive because he didn’t think of him as a person? Because he thought that Mr. Stark was going to kill him for whatever The Secret was? You weren’t sure, and that made you nervous.

If you weren’t sure, then how would you be able to know if he would think you should be ‘allowed’ to live?

You knew the differences between the powers you had and the powers that Steve had intimately. You knew exactly how big you would have to be to even stand a chance in comparable strength. You knew how your metabolism would react to you shifting larger, and how a super soldier’s metabolism would just be constantly working. How you didn’t have any super healing, sure, but you did heal in a way that you would consider abnormal. No scars, just wounds healing perfectly as if there was nothing wrong in the first place - but still taking time to heal, nonetheless.

Did the fact that you weren’t even sure how you got these powers make any difference at all?

Would Zemo consider any of that? Or, would he see you as a liability to keep alive? Someone- no, something that went against his code?

Lost in your thoughts, you're startled when the door next to you swung open, revealing the very man plaguing your thoughts. Too close for comfort, you instinctively jump back, an embarrassing squeak erupting from you.

Oh no.

Everyone in the room turns to stare at you, Bucky and Sam immediately stopping their chatter.

The man that caused the squeak in the first place takes a step back, the hand not holding his duffle bag raised in a placating manner. You can see that he has changed into a purple turtleneck, some black pants and boots, and that black coat with a fur-lined collar. It also appeared that he had access to a razor in that bathroom, because he no longer had stubble adorning his face.

"Apologies. I did not mean to startle you."

Thoroughly embarrassed, you don't make eye contact when you say, "It's... fine." Raising your voice, you repeat, more sure of yourself, "It's fine," as you do make eye contact.

He looks... curious. Like he's trying to figure everything he could about you in a single look.

It's unnerving.

Nodding, as if to either agree with your statement or to agree with his thoughts, he holds his hand out towards you.

"I don't believe we've had the pleasure of meeting. My name is Helmut Zemo. Please, feel free to call me Zemo."

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see your teammates walking towards you.

Reaching out, you accept the handshake. You've consumed enough media as a kid to have practiced to have a good handshake. You're not too firm, and not too weak. When he grips your hand, you return the grip in equal force. You're both surprised and not when he doesn't grip further in the way some do to intimidate. It's just a very normal handshake.

You give a single nod and give him your first name. Only your first name.

Your hands release one another just as Bucky pulls you behind him and Sam pushes Zemo further away from you, partially back into the bathroom.

"Hey! I'm barely tolerating your presence as it is, I don't need you to be acting creepy on top of everything else." Sam steps closer to Zemo, who looks up at him, but doesn't move besides that.

"Sorry. I was merely introducing myself to..." Zemo's eyes flicker towards you, "your new friend. I assume they'll be joining us?" He looks back up at Sam, an innocent smile plastered on his face.

Sam huffs in annoyance. He looks back at Bucky, then at you, trying to discern whether or not he should back off. When you release a small breath and give him a small nod to convey that you’re okay, he takes a step back, dropping his shoulders a bit.

Zemo’s head drops down, no longer tilted upwards to stare directly in Sam’s eyes. Looking at everyone, he readjusts his grip on the duffle bag. “Now that we’re all acquainted with one another, shall we get a move on? I assume that it will be quite some time before the authorities notice my absence and I would like to be gone well before then.”

“Yeah, yeah, let’s go before I drag your ass back to prison…” is Sam’s less than pleased response.

Seemingly satisfied with that answer, Zemo strolls towards a small entryway leading to the rest of the main building. “I have more... subtle vehicles we can use over here. It’ll take us where we need to go.”

Sam rolls his eyes but follows nonetheless. When you go to follow, a hand on your shoulder stops you. Looking up, you see how Bucky’s looking at Zemo’s retreating form. When Zemo turns the corner, Bucky, in a low voice, asks, “You okay?”

Slightly embarrassed, you nod your head. “Yeah, I’m okay. I was just… startled is all.” You crack a smile. “I was too caught up in yours and Sam’s poor attempts at flirting.” At that, you let out a small laugh and duck under Bucky’s arm, taking off after the others.

From the hallway, you can make out Bucky shouting after you, “Brat!”

That only makes your smile bigger.

You catch up with Sam not a moment later, and at your cheeky expression he quirks an eyebrow. “What are you up to?”

Zemo briefly twists his head back to see what’s happening before returning forward.

You hum. “Just riling Bucky up.”

Sam chuckles. “Yeah, that brings me joy too.”

A moment later, Bucky, who evidently did not give chase, gives you a much milder form of his glare. When you catch it from over your shoulder, you shrug with a smile and casually place your hands back in your pockets.

It takes a minute until Zemo directs your group to a second garage, this one filled with much more modest vehicles. These were decidedly not vintage, although you supposed that some of them may have been older than you. You would say that these were more mid-level vehicles, and if you had to guess, you would say that Zemo had these for the express reason of blending in.

Zemo takes a few quick steps ahead, placing his duffle bag in the trunk of one of the many black cars that filled this place. He wastes no time heading to the driver’s seat, leaving your group awkwardly standing around.

Sam makes the first move, reopening the trunk to place his duffle bag in it. Your hand goes up to grab a shoulder strap of your backpack, and you slide it off. Rather than place it in the trunk, you decide that you want to keep it close. As Sam moves to the opposite side of the car, you grab the trunk and bring it down. Meanwhile, Sam takes one for the team and takes the passenger seat beside Zemo.

Bucky sits behind Zemo, leaving you to sit behind Sam. Unlike Bucky, your short legs give you enough leg room that you have space to place your backpack at.

Everyone settled in their seats, you're slightly surprised when the car starts and you're the only one reaching for a seatbelt. Clicking it properly in place, you turn your head, and raise an eyebrow at Bucky.

He furrows his brows. "What?"

The car is moving out of the garage, and you're still the only one properly buckled in. Your head twists to look at everyone, hands raising in befuddlement. Zemo's eyes remain on the road, but Sam twists his head toward him, ostensibly to look at Bucky out of the corner of his eye.

"The... seatbelt?" You feel like you're going insane. "Buckle up?"

Sam gives a single cough, but buckles up. Zemo follows suit, the gentlest of sighs escaping from him, seen more than heard - despite it, the ends of his lips curl upward. Bucky just continues staring at you, the sounds of buckling only serving to make his brow furrow further. Nonetheless, he buckles his seatbelt.

That... is a troubling response. It raises many questions.

You look directly at the back of Sam's seat, and press your hands together. You're not looking at Bucky, because you need to know the truth, and you don't want him to look into your eyes and refuse to answer you.

"Bucky, you've been living life normally for the past six months. It is very important to me that you answer my next question truthfully: Did no one tell you about seatbelt laws?"

He blinks. His head twitches to look out his window, before returning to looking at you. "Seatbelt... laws?"

It looks like everyone is listening in, because everyone reacts. You slowly release the breath you didn't know you were holding, Zemo starts chuckling, and Sam lets out a breathless, "Oh my god."

You don't even know where to start. "Okay... okay. First, I need to get this out of the way: You don't have a license... right?"

He stays quiet. He looks out the window.

"Did... Did the US government just reinstate your license without giving you a driving test?"

"... Yes?"

You were going to scream. Taking and releasing a deep breath, you continue. "Please tell me that you haven't been on a public road. Please."

You can see him roll his eyes, head following the movement. "I haven't been driving on public roads. I've been mostly taking cabs. The subway. Buses too. I don't have a car."

You drop your head onto the headrest behind you. "Thank god for small miracles."

Bucky doesn't look impressed by your display of dramatics.

Okay, now to explain to a hundred-something year old man about seat belt safety and laws.

"Okay, so, seatbelts. Seatbelts... are to prevent you from flying skull first through a windshield.”

He nods, presumably already aware of this.

“Or to prevent your skull from crashing into the seat in front of you at speeds of fifty miles per hour. "

He raises a hand.

"Uh... yeah?"

"My skull can absolutely survive that."

You sigh and close your eyes. "Yeah, well, then, it's to prevent your body from launching through the window and becoming a projectile. Or from sliding out of your seat during an accident, which if you're driving, would prevent you from regaining control."

"That... makes sense. So, the laws?"

"Like... almost all countries require the driver to definitely be strapped in. So," your eyes dart over to Zemo, "someone definitely got distracted."

You see him casually shrug. "Slipped the mind. If it makes you feel any better, my license has most certainly expired, what with my imprisonment and all."

Even though he isn't looking at you, him being busy driving, you squint at him. "Yeah, all the more reason for you to have immediately buckled up." You laugh, "Admittedly, it would be pretty funny for you to escape from prison and immediately get caught because some cop noticed you driving without a seatbelt."

Sam and Bucky must appreciate the visual, because they snort.

"Anyways. I think most first world countries require those in the front seats to be buckled up? Definitely New York, and I'm pretty sure Germany is the same. Lots of states and countries need everyone to be buckled up. I think the only punishment is a ticket and fine though. And, you know, the chance of an accident that you would be able to walk off if you had buckled up, requiring an ambulance."

Bucky pats your knee. "Thanks for the info."

You shrug and go to look out your window. With a start, you remember something else and turn back around. "Oh! I hope no one ever entrusts a child in your care, but if they do and you're driving them around, they need a car seat or booster seat."

"What's the difference?"

"Car seats are for babies. They have a bunch of straps and buckles to keep them safe, and if it's a little baby, they have to sit backward. Booster seats are when they're too big for a car seat, but too short for the normal belt to not hurt 'em. Once they're... " You move your hand to the top of your head and lower it until you hit the right spot. "about this tall, they're good."

He nods. "How about littles?"

"Well, technically, it's not legally required for them to have a special seat, because they're already tall enough for normal ones to work fine. Some people get seats for littles that like to unbuckle themselves though. But, it's cheaper to just get a plastic thing that clips over the release button, so only a person with a tab/key thing can unlock it."

You unbuckle yourself on a daycare field trip one time...

"Huh. Good to know." He hums and turns back to his window.

Though Bucky is no longer looking at you, you nod and look out your own window.

For a few minutes, the car is quiet, the only sound within being the car radio. You can’t make out the words being said, partly because the volume is set low and partly because you don’t know German, but you get the impression that it’s probably news or a traffic report.

It’s Sam that breaks the silence, head turned towards Zemo. “So, are you going to tell us where you’re taking us?”

Zemo smirks, eyes focused on the road. “What would you do if I don’t?”

Sam only glares in response.

With a small sigh, Zemo answers, ”I’m taking us to a local airfield. I’ve arranged a flight to take us where Selby should be.”

Sam’s eyes narrow. “How’d you manage that?”

“While I was in the bathroom, I took the liberty of using my phone. Really, Samuel, I would think you’d be familiar with how air travel works, especially after our last encounter.” Zemo’s lips curl upward at his ‘joke.’

“Where’s the flight headed, then?” Bucky speaks up, glaring at the back of the seat in front of him.

Zemo tilts his chin up and says, “Madripoor.” His eyes lock onto the rearview mirror, and it is at that moment that you realize that he has adjusted it to look directly at Bucky.

“Madripoor?” Bucky tenses up, his eyes flicking over to the mirror, scowling.

“Ah. You’ve visited?” Zemo smiles, his eyes returning to the road.

Eyes locked onto the mirror, Bucky’s hands tighten into fists.

Thinking fast, you ask, “How long ‘til we get there?”

Zemo hums, thinking it over. Fingers tapping on the steering wheel, Zemo answers, “Fifteen minutes until we arrive at the airfield. From there, it shouldn’t be longer than eighteen hours.”

You can’t stop your voice from getting high pitched. “...Eighteen hours?” 

Zemo tilts his head enough to glance at you from the front seat. “Well, Madripoor is on a different continent.”

You swallow a lump in your throat and start nodding your head. “Yeah, no, that’s fine. It’s fine. It’s not like I just spent, like, an entire day in a plane in the past seventy-two hours or anything…” You drop your head back onto the headrest and gaze wistfully at the scenery passing by.

The ten miles you walked seemed so long ago and you hated every step, but the knowledge that you were going to be trapped in a small confined space made you just a tad bit wistful.

Unfortunately, it seems that no one here cares about your plight, because Sam only huffs a laugh. 

True to his word, it only takes fifteen minutes until Zemo pulls up to a small airfield.

As the car approaches the front gate’s security booth, Zemo lowers his window to speak to the security guard. They exchange rapid paced German, until the guard nods and opens the gate. 

After no one in the car questions Zemo, you realize that you might be the only person there that isn’t multilingual. You aren’t too sure what languages Sam speaks, but you do know that Zemo knows at least five, while Bucky definitely knows way more than that.

Briefly biting your lower lip as you contemplate this, you release it when you ask, “So, what’s happening?”

Zemo answers, directing the car to a small hanger. “My jet is up already on the runway. We’re leaving the car here, where it should remain undiscovered from the authorities for the time being.” And with that, he pulls the key from the ignition and steps out of the car.

Everyone quickly follows, both Zemo and Sam gathering their bags from the trunk. Zemo leads you all back outside to the runway, making you brutally aware of just what time it is. The sun has just started to settle, currently located in the perfect place in the sky to assault your retinas.

All the Americans present immediately reach into their jackets and pull out their own pair of sunglasses. At the shuffling, Zemo turns to look at everyone, huffs, then continues walking.

He’s just mad because his jacket didn’t have an emergency pair of shades.

Now that the brightness is at a much more manageable level, you can see where Zemo is leading everyone. Straight ahead is a private jet - at least, you think it’s a private jet. You’ve never seen one in person before, but from a distance, you think it’s safe to make this assumption. It’s smaller than the commercial plane you departed not even eight hours previous, but sleeker than the military plane you were on yesterday.

This certainly explains why Zemo didn’t seem all too concerned with how he was going to make the flight, considering that he certainly did not have a valid passport. You were all flying private.

As you get closer, an attendant runs up to Zemo, and after exchanging a few more words of German, they take his duffle bag and run to the back of the jet. Ah, storage.

You can see even more people gathered around the jet as well. There’s someone checking the landing gear, but more interestingly, there’s an old man standing near the stairway near the entrance. He’s dressed in a suit, and he distinctly reminds you of a stereotypical image of a butler.

“So all this time you’ve been rich?” Sam sounds pretty accusatory considering the last location had literally so many antique and vintage cars. You figure that maybe Sam thought Zemo was bluffing when he said that they were his.

“I’m a Baron, Sam. My family was royalty before your friends destroyed my country.” He says it so matter-of-factly that no one has anything to say to it. However… were barons royalty, though? You weren’t sure. You resigned yourself with the fact that you would have to Google it later.

It is then that Zemo greets the old man standing next to the jet in a foreign language. You assumed that it was Sokovian, all things considered. The way the second word sounded, though, maybe it was a name? Oeznik…

Zemo gives the man, Oeznik you’re assuming, a hug and cheek kisses. Was he a butler? An old friend? A loyal follower? All of the above? Whoever he is, Zemo turns to the rest of you, and with a “Please,” gestures to everyone to enter the jet, taking the lead.

Sam mumbles something to the old man and follows. Bucky makes no such attempt at greeting, although you’re pretty sure that Bucky knows enough languages that he could at least try. To make up for this, when you pass him, you give him a smile and a wave. He looks a bit confused, but appreciates the gesture nonetheless.

Everyone removes their sunglasses as they go up the steps, with you being no exception.

As you enter, to your left is the pilot in the cockpit, and before you continue to the rest of the jet, you give him a small nod of acknowledgement and greeting. He doesn’t react.

You continue your way to the main cabin and pass by a counter and several cabinets. Sam is shoving his duffle bag into one, so you stand there and look around. What did the others contain? You had no frame of reference for what a private jet held, so unless you asked or snooped it would remain a mystery. Still looking at them as you continue forth when Sam is finished, you can see that a screen is embedded on each cabinet. Presumably it would function the same as one on a normal plane and display both altitude and the estimated time of arrival.

When you turn around, you find that the rest of your party had chosen their seats - at least, for the time being. Bucky sat to your immediate right, next to the cabinets. Also to the right, sat Sam. Across from him, on the left, sat Zemo sans coat. That left two, technically maybe four, seats available, and that was if you were counting a small couch as viable options.

One was to the right, behind Sam. If you took it, it ensured that you were keeping your distance from Zemo, but at the expense of also keeping your distance from everyone else, as it was all the way against the bathroom wall.

Which left the seat directly to your left. Across from Bucky, but next to Zemo.

Ah well.

Swinging your backpack off your shoulders, you slide it in the small space between your seat and the wall of the plane, dropping into the seat at the same time. You didn’t want your stuff to be too far from you, so shoving it into a closet wasn’t an option.

Settled, you look around at the rest of the cabin. There wasn’t much to it. To your left was a thin wooden counter, cup holders embedded into it. Below the counter was a little flap that covered what you could only assume was a power outlet, perfect for charging your phone. Above the window, there was a light and air vent. It looked like they continued throughout the whole cabin.

The past couple days have had you go on basically a full day of flight, twenty-five full hours. You’ve had to spend that time in the cargo hold of a military plane and in coach of a normal plane from a public airline, shoved between your two teammates.

You weren’t entirely sure if this was an upgrade.

Here, you were technically not shoved between your two teammates, but if you were to extend your right arm fully, you’d be able to touch Bucky. If you were to turn diagonally, you’d be able to extend your leg and make contact with Sam. And, of course, directly in front of you sat Zemo, which meant that you could easily remain in your seat and both touch or kick his legs. Which meant that he could also do the same.

Yeah, you weren’t sure if this was an improvement. Especially considering that here, you didn’t have a device preloaded with movies.

Well, at least you had your phone.

At the moment, however, you buckle up for take-off. At the old man’s absence, you lean your head towards the aisle and look at the cockpit. You’re caught slightly off guard when your seat rotates a bit, but you let the movement help your field of vision. You see that both Oeznik and the pilot are settled in the cockpit’s seats. Huh. It appeared that he might double as a co-pilot.

You lean back, but don’t rotate your seat back. At the moment, you’d much rather your legs be closer to Bucky than Zemo. Around you, everyone else is buckled up, awaiting for take-off.

It doesn’t take too long. The whole time, your eyes remain locked onto the screen above Bucky’s head, a great excuse to not make eye contact with anyone else in the cabin.

As soon as the overhead light switches to display that it’s safe to unbuckle your seatbelts, everyone does so. You can hear movement in the small aisle next to you, where the cabinets are all at, but before you can lean forward to see what’s happening, your view is obstructed by the return of Oeznik.

He’s carrying a single flute of a sparkling beverage - champagne. When Zemo sees him approaching, he lets out a small chuckle, eyes shining in delight. Sam’s eyes, meanwhile, are following the flute the whole time.

“Apologies if that’s a little warm,” Oeznik opens with. “The fridge is out, but I will see if there’s some good food in the galley.” At this, Sam’s shoulders slump, and he looks outside the window.

Oeznik goes to turn back to the counters and cabinets - the galley, your mind corrects - when Zemo takes a moment to stop him, speaking to him in Sokovian.

Whatever he says, it elicits a laugh from the man. “Oh, it’s good to have you back, sir!”

All polite, Zemo offers a smile and nod to you and your friends before taking a sip of his drink.

Something tells you that what he said might not have been the nicest thing…

“You don’t know what it’s like to be locked in a cell,” Zemo offers to the room at large, placing his drink in the cupholder with one hand and removing a paperback book from his back pocket with the other. After a moment, however, he turns to Sam. “Oh.” He smiles. “That’s right, you do.” He then flips through the pages of his book until he reaches the middle.

Rude.

“Why don’t you tell us about where we’re going?” Sam asks instead of taking the bait.

Zemo takes a moment to look over the pages of his book. His hand moves from the front cover to, presumably, point at a passage. Your eyes flicker down to the words adorning the front cover, but to your dismay it’s in a language that you can’t read. It might be German, but you can’t be positive.

Finally, Zemo speaks. “I’m sorry. I was just fascinated by this.” His eyes dance across the pages.

Fascinated? How can he be fascinated by something he literally just pulled out? It seems that the other occupants of the cabin are thinking the same thing, because everyone looks at Zemo with distrust.

“I don’t know what to call it, but this part seems to be important.” It is then that Zemo reveals his hand, quite literally. He holds up a small, red book - Steve’s old notebook? “Who is 'Nakajima?’”

Bucky is instantly out of his seat, wrapping his metal hand around Zemo’s throat.

“If you touch that again, I’ll kill you,” Bucky tells Zemo, their faces inches apart.

Zemo gives a single curt nod, and Bucky releases his grip, moving back into his seat. He shoves his notebook into one of his jacket’s inner pockets, not once removing his gaze from Zemo.

Zemo returns the gaze. “I’m sorry.” Bucky huffs out of his nose and turns to look out his window. Undeterred, Zemo continues, “I understand that list of names… people you’ve wronged as the Winter Soldier.”

“Don’t push it,” is all Bucky says about that, head barely tilting to look Zemo in the eyes.

You and Sam share a look.

He goes first. Looking at Bucky, Sam says, “I’ve seen that book.” As an explanation to Zemo, he offers, “It was Steve’s when he came out of the ice.” Back to Bucky, Sam continues, “I told him about Trouble Man, he wrote it in that book.” He smiles. “You hear it? What’d you think?”

Bucky takes a second to respond, mumbling out, “I like forties’ music, so...”

“You didn’t like it?” Sam seems to take this as a personal affront. Uh oh…

Defensive, Bucky says, ”I liked it.”

Zemo takes this moment to give his own opinion, despite no one asking him. “It’s a masterpiece, James. Complete. Comprehensive.” He unclasps his hands to briefly throw them in the air to gesture. “It captures the African-American experience.” He settles back, his hands clasping back together and resting on his stomach.

Sam looks like he doesn’t know whether to hit him or agree with him. Head turning quickly between Zemo and Bucky, he says, “He’s out of line… but he’s right. It’s great! Everybody loves Marvin Gaye.” His eyes flick toward you. “Like, even you must know who he is!”

Oh shit.

Listen… you are in your early twenties, and there is only so much media you can consume. It’s entirely possible that you do know his songs, but as the pressure falls to you, that knowledge is flung out the window that is your brain. Surrounded by three men that are decades older than you, you know that this is something they can’t know.

So, you plaster on a smile that you hope is self-assured and you say, “Of course!”

Please don’t follow up, please don’t follow up…

Thankfully, Sam does not follow up. His head snaps back to Bucky with an ‘I told you so’ expression. “See!”

Bucky looks so tired. “I like Marvin Gaye.”

“Steve adored Marvin Gaye!” Sam counters.

Bucky takes a deep breath, looking like more than anything that he wished that he did not agree to board this jet.

Zemo takes a sip of his drink before interjecting, “You must have really looked up to Steve.” Zemo swirls the liquid in his glass. “But I realized something about him. The danger of people like him, America’s Super Soldiers, is that we put them up on pedestals.” 

“Watch your step, Zemo,” Sam warns.

Zemo takes no heed of the warning. “They become symbols. Icons.” He shakes his head. “And then we start to forget about their flaws. From there…” He raises his unoccupied hand up. “Cities fly,” He lets it fall back to the arm rest. “Innocent people die. Movements are formed. Wars are fought.” His eyes remained unfocused on anything particular until they snap back at Bucky, narrowing. “You remember that, right? As a young soldier sent to Germany to stop a mad icon.”

Bucky doesn’t respond, only turning his head just enough to look at the clouds passing by.

Zemo isn’t done talking. “Do we want to live in a world full of people like the Red Skull?” He shakes his head, an answer to his own question. “That is why we are heading to Madripoor.”

Sam had a question of his own. “What’s up with Madripoor? You guys,” his eyes flick between Zemo and Bucky, “talk about it like it’s Skull Island.”

Bucky speaks up. “It’s an island nation in the Indonesian archipelago. It was a pirate sanctuary back in the eighteen hundreds.”

“It’s kept its lawless ways,” Zemo continues, “But we cannot exactly walk in as ourselves.” He looks at everyone in the cabin, but he settles back to Bucky. “James, you will have to become someone you claim is gone.”

The Winter Soldier, your mind supplies.

Oh, that’s messed up.

Bucky silently glares back.

Wanting to break the tension before it can settle, you clear your throat, gaining everyone’s attention. Looking directly at Zemo, you ask, “So… you said outside that you were a baron. What... is that exactly?” If it came out more petulant than curious, then Zemo had no one to blame but himself.

Zemo just tilts his head and squints his eyes at you.

You plow ahead. “Is it like… a level of a monarchy? Or, like, a title you get from being in a level of government...? Is it something you become... by being elected? Or is it… something you’re born with...? Or… is it… something that involves land… or… something...?” You trail off, losing steam as you continued.

Zemo just continues to stare. Just when you’re about to wither under his gaze and avert your eyes, he closes his eyes with a small sigh before they return to you. “... My title has been passed down to me through generations.” You nod. “My forebears had sworn loyalty to the Sokovain empire in exchange for land centuries ago.” His eyes harden. “Land that is now little more than a pile of rubble.”

That is when you avert your eyes. “Oh.” You lightly grip your opposite arm, your thumb making small circles. “...Thanks for explaining it to me?”

He hums and presumably returns to his book.

Well… you had asked.

Dry swallowing, you lean back and pull your phone out. It seemed like it was the perfect moment to check out Tumblr and ignore everything that was going on around you.

It works.

After a half-hour, as you come out of a reblogging frenzy, you hazard a glance around the cabin. Everyone is doing exactly as you expect: Sam is on his phone, Bucky is listening to his music player and looking out the window, and Zemo is reading his book.

It’s not exactly a comfortable silence, but it was leagues better than it was earlier. So, rolling your shoulders and stretching your arms, you stand up, drawing the attention of everyone. Ignoring them, you shrug your jacket off and throw it on your seat. It wasn’t exactly cold in the jet, so you might as well take it off. You turn your head and lock eyes with Zemo and with a quick tilt of your head toward the door in the back of the cabin, you ask, “I’m assuming that’s the bathroom?”

His nods and his eyes return to his book.

“Cool.” You waste no time strolling to the back and locking the door behind you. As expected, everything looks perfectly clean and sanitary, so at least this was an improvement. There was a toilet, sink, mirror, and trashcan in the small room, and there was slightly more elbow room than a commercial plane, so, it was amazing in your book.

You quickly use the facilities and, as you wash your hands, your eyes drift up towards the mirror.

It’s been… roughly three days since your last shower. You can’t be held responsible for it, considering that most of the time had been spent several miles in the air. You would have loved a hotel room, even a motel room, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. You had the restroom to yourself for the moment, so you might as well take full advantage of it.

Pumping more soap into your hand, you watch as your hair shifts to be a clean buzz cut. You bring your hands up to the top of your head and lather it up. Once your head is covered in bubbles, you lean your head down and shove it underneath the running water. There’s just enough space to fit comfortably, and you twist your head to-and-fro until the water runs clear. Grabbing one of the two towels hanging next to the sink, you quickly pat your hair as dry as it could be. Looking back up, you run the towel around your neck and chin to catch some stray water strands from dripping onto your shirt.

Hair taken care of, you quickly wash your face as well. Hand soap was not the ideal soap you would be using for any of this, but it was what you got. You had kinda assumed that you’d be able to wash up in an actual shower back when you packed your bag, which was a mistake you wouldn’t be making again.

That is, if there was an again.

Shaking that thought away, some water and soap droplets staining your collar from the movement, you bring the towel back to your face. When you remove it, you look back into your eyes and let your hair return to its normal length. It was damp, but not as bad as it would have been if you didn’t shift it before washing.

There, that was much better.

It wasn’t as good as an actual shower, as you had only really cleaned your head, but it made you feel cleaner, which counted.

With an actual smile on your face, you put the towel back on its hanger and exit the restroom.

This time, no one pays you any mind. You move your jacket to the corner of your seat and you sit down. Before you can pick your phone back up from where you left it, you realize that your eyes are actually a bit tired from spending so much of your free time lately staring at the bright screen.

You spin the seat around, and when it goes as far to the left as it can, you lean down and unzip your backpack. Moving aside some clothing, you pull out your sketchbook and multicolored pen. Zipping your backpack closed, you shove it back into the little impromptu cubby.

Sketchbook and pen in hand, you lean all the way back to your seat and place a foot onto the edge. Flipping to a blank page, you hold your sketchbook to your thigh and hold the pen with your other hand. Now, what should you draw? Someone in the cabin? You immediately dismiss that thought, not wanting anyone here to see your interpretation of them.

Your thoughts are interrupted with a clearing of a throat.

Moving your head ever so slightly up, you see that Zemo is narrowing his eyes at you from behind his book.

You raise an eyebrow. “Yes?”

Zemo tilts his head ever so slightly to the side. “What are you doing?”

You casually shrug. “Oh, I’m just drawing.” You had an inkling of a clue of what was bothering him, but unless he came right out and said it, you were happy to play this game. Your eyes drift back to the blank pages, but from your peripheral vision you can still see Zemo. Maybe you should draw an animal?

He closes his book and holds it in his right hand. You click one of the many sliders on the pen and bring it to the page, drawing a small, purple circle.

The fingers on his left hand rhythmically tap against the armrest, his eyes focused on you. You draw two small dots within the circle.

“Perhaps, this would be more conducive to the task.” Zemo reaches over to the thin wooden counter that stretched between you two, his fingers finding a small crack on the edge. He lifts it up, revealing that it is a flap. On the space underneath, he presses down on it, and within a moment, a thin wooden tray pops straight up, reminiscent of a Nintendo DS cartridge.

Startled, your raised foot drops off the seat and onto the ground, your sketchbook dropping onto your lap.

Zemo only smirks as he takes the wooden tray and unfolds it, revealing it to be a much classier version of a plane tray. As he fully unfolds it, he reaches underneath it to bring a stabilizing leg down, the space between you two now filled with a sturdy table.

You stare at it in silence for a moment, before looking around the cabin. It seems that Bucky was doing his best to ignore everything around him, because he was in the exact same position he was when you last looked at him. Sam, however, was sitting up and looking at the counter next to him with renewed interest, his hand searching for the small seam. Across from you, Zemo leaned back and brought his ankle to rest on his knee cap. He flips through his book, an entirely too smug smirk on his face.

Brows furrowing, you look between the table and Zemo. You weren’t expecting for there to be an entire hidden table stashed away. You pretty much expected that Zemo would tell you off for bringing your dirty boots onto his upholstery, and that you would argue that you had no choice in the matter if you wanted to draw.

Well, you guessed that he won this round.

“Thanks,” you mutter, as you set your sketchbook on the table and scoot forward.

“You’re welcome,” Zemo says, eyes focused on the words in his book but smile curling.

Well, bare minimum, this was a much nicer way to draw. You slide down the orange ink and draw a small oval between the two dots you drew previous. There, a little doodle of a penguin. You smile and decide that right now, you were going to fill the two pages with various penguins in various styles.

That’s how you pass the time for the next hour or so. Bucky listens to his music and Zemo reads his book. Sam, meanwhile, has found out how to expand the side table, and has pulled his laptop from his duffle bag to do whatever he does on it. He’s probably working, answering emails and the like, but you’d like to think he’s goofing off and looking at memes and stuff. With the way he was sitting, the laptop screen facing away from all other occupants in the cabin, there was no evidence to say otherwise. Occasionally, each of the other occupants make their way to the restroom, but other than that, that’s how the time is passed.

Outside, the sun is setting, and after some mental math, you think that by the time you’ll land, the sun will probably be down.

The cabin is filled with the noises of the scratching of your pen against paper, Zemo’s flipping of pages, and Sam’s fingers tapping his keyboard.

This quasi-silence is only interrupted when you hear shuffling in the galley beside you. You pause, halfway through your semi-realistic illustration of a blue fairy penguin. Across from you, Sam glances up but returns his gaze to his laptop screen. You conclude that that means that it’s probably only Oeznik, and resume your shading.

Not more than a minute later, Oeznik emerges from the galley with a tray of four sparkling drinks.

He offers Zemo a flute before anyone else, trading his empty flute for a full one. Oeznik then swings the tray around to Sam and Bucky. Although they look hesitant, they take the drink offered to them.

As he approaches you, however, you raise a hand and shake your head, declining the bubbling drink. “N-No, thank you… I’d rather a water? Or… a juice, I guess? Not a big alcohol fan, sorry…” You avert your eyes back to your drawings, suddenly bashful. Everyone else accepted their drinks without complaint...

It wasn’t like you weren’t allowed to drink alcohol. As you were of legal age, and not in headspace, there wasn’t any legal or moral consequence of accepting the drink. It didn’t even look to be a strong drink, which as a little, you did have to watch out for. A reduced alcohol tolerance was a double-edged sword of not having to spend much to get a good buzz going on and it not taking much for that buzz to turn into something worse.

You just… weren’t in the mood for any alcohol. You were thirsty, but you didn’t care for the bitter aftertaste it tended to leave.

As you busied yourself by overthinking things, you failed to notice Oeznik’s and Zemo’s silent conversation, ending with Zemo nodding his chin towards where Oeznik came from.

You did, however, notice when the platter returned into your field of vision - this time, it held a single plastic bottle of apple juice. At least, you assumed it was apple juice, as the words on it were in a language you didn’t recognize. The giant apple graphic on it is kind of a giveaway though. You grab it, and raising your head to make eye contact, tell Oeznik, “Thank you!”

He gives a curt nod and returns to the galley.

Huh. That was nice of him. You twist the lid open, breaking the anti-tamper seal, and take a hesitant first sip. As expected, it’s apple juice, and it’s delicious. It might have been room-temperature, but it was good.

It turns out that you’re really thirsty. As you start glugging it down, your eyes drift to the other occupants in the cabin. None of them are staring at you, but they all have a small smile on their lips for some odd reason... Shrugging your shoulders, you bring your gaze back to the bottle. It’s partially empty by the time you stop drinking, only a third of the juice remaining. You barely manage to stop yourself from giving a relieved sigh as you set it down in the cup holder.

On the last flight, you had only accepted a single water bottle, stretching it to last the whole flight. As you were sat between both Bucky and Sam, you didn’t want to disturb them too much by taking too many bathroom breaks - though, it was for naught, considering you had to ask Sam to stand up three times so you could visit the restroom. It turns out that your free refills from the fast food joint might have been a bad idea. Embarrassing.

At least here, you had the restroom all to yourself - well, yourself and five other people. Bare minimum, if your bare flesh touched any part of the restroom here, you wouldn’t feel compelled to immediately sanitize it with your travel sanitizer.

Thirst quenched, you return to your drawing.

It’s less than ten minutes later when Oeznik returns, the tray now filled with two white bowls.

“Your dinner, Master. For you and your guests.” He places a bowl on the table in front of Zemo, along with utensils wrapped in a napkin. “Pasta al pomodoro.”

“Thank you, Oeznik,” Zemo says with a smile. He places his book to the side, and unwraps the utensils, placing the napkin on his lap. “It looks delicious.”

Oeznik, stands straight and looks at you. With a start, you shut your sketchbook closed and slide it all the way to the left. With no change in expression, he places a bowl in front of you, along with your utensils.

“Thank you…”

He nods and goes back to the galley, returning a moment later with two additional dishes, this time placing one in front of Bucky, then Sam, who had put his laptop away when he saw you get served.

Looking down at the bowl, you can see that it looks like normal spaghetti pasta. Red sauce, long pasta strands. If anything, the flecks of green stuff and other seasonings atop of it is what made it look fancier.

With a shrug, you unwrap your utensils, place the napkin on your lap, spin your fork in the middle of the dish, and dig in.

It was delicious.

Like, ignoring the fact that this was the only thing you’ve eaten since the onboard meal of the last flight, it was just plain good.

You clean your plate in no time at all, only getting some of the sauce on your face. And maybe only a speck or two on your shirt. Who can say.

You can’t be blamed for that; though, Zemo and Oeznik can’t really be blamed either. It wasn’t like you were going to tell them that you were a little and probably needed a second napkin as a bib.

Wiping your hands, then your face, clean, you check the time on your phone. There was still plenty of time until the jet touched down in Madripoor. It was probably a good time to catch up on sleep, really. All this flying and time zone jumping was starting to get to you, your head feeling a bit fuzzy and off.

Oeznik returns then, gathering everyone’s empty dishes. You and Sam murmur expressions of gratitude, while Zemo and Bucky just give nods of acknowledgment. 

Everyone looks set to continue where they left off, so nodding to yourself, you grab your backpack and head to the restroom.

You place the backpack on the counter, and glance at the mirror. With a small grimace, you wet some toilet paper and wipe your face again, as it appears that you didn’t clean up as well as you thought. There were still random splatterings of red sauce and some seasonings, mostly underneath your chin. As you cleaned that, your eyes drifted down to your shirt.

It wasn’t… the worst you’ve stained a shirt, but it still wasn’t very good. Specks and splatters were all down the front. If you had been little, it would definitely be worse, so small miracles.

Unzipping your backpack, you rifle around until you feel it - your sweatshirt and sweatpants, rolled together. You strip your shirt off and ball it up, placing it on the counter. After a moment, your clean and comfortable sweatshirt is covering your torso. Now, about your pants…

You debate on whether or not you should fully change into your sweatpants or if it would be better to remain in your jeans. After a moment of deliberation, you decide that it would be nice to wear something that isn’t excessively large and requires a belt.

As you unbuckle your belt and shove your pants off, however, you’re confronted with another conundrum: should you wear a pull-up or not?

You bite your lip and look at the bathroom door next to you.

On one hand, you really didn’t want Zemo to know that you were a little. You knew how he managed to tear apart the Avengers with information that he sought out. If he knew you were a little, he'd probably be able to play you like a kazoo - that is, with very little effort.

On the other hand, if you had a teeny-tiny accident, then wouldn’t he be able to see it plain as day on your sweats?

Releasing a small sigh, you drop your pants and underwear and reach into the very bottom of your bag. You pull the thin padded material over your bottom, the sweatpants quickly following.

Just like your silhouette wasn’t altered when you wore one with your jeans, looking in the mirror, you couldn’t tell that you had protection on. Raising your arms, you checked to see if the waistband would give anything away.

Nope. They looked like standard briefs from the top, just like they were designed to.

Fully changed, you roll up your dirty shirt and pants together. All the better to take up less space in your bag.

Opening up a different pocket in the bag, you root around for your travel toothbrush and toothpaste. Once found, you brush your teeth until they sparkle. You floss too, trying not to think about the ramifications of what happened to your teeth when you shifted them to match another person’s.

Sometimes the less you knew about your powers, the better.

Dental hygiene taken care of, you use the toilet too.

Drying your hands on your pants instead of any of the towels, you grab your backpack, and you exit the restroom.

This time, some eyes do snap to you. Specifically, Bucky’s eyes. They glaze over to you, back to the window, before they snap back to you, his head turning at the movement.

His head follows you as you walk down the aisle back to your seat. Sam notices and when he turns to see what he’s staring at, you settle back into your seat, quirking an eyebrow at them. Zemo is still holding his book up, but is obviously looking at Sam and Bucky with curiosity.

Sam speaks first, smiling. “So, you have clothes that actually fit you in there?” He gestures to your backpack.

You hum. “I mean… technically? Everything fits me so…” You crack a smile. “But yeah, I do. I got lots of clothes in here.” You drag the backpack back to its corner.

Sam chuckles, but Bucky is still staring. 

“... You bring a lot of clothes with you, when you go places?”

Ah. It looked like Bucky might have caught on to the fact that when he called you, you had gotten ready ready.

“Sometimes I do…” Your eyes flick over to Zemo. He was very obviously listening in, even if he was currently looking at the pages of his book. Should he know that you were a shapeshifter? He was getting you all to Madripoor, so shouldn’t he know that you could blend in literally anywhere? You look back at Bucky.

It looks like he’s thinking something over. After a moment, he nods, saying, “Guess I should’ve brought something. Didn’t expect to get roped into this.”

Sam scoffs. “‘Didn’t expect to get roped into this.’ Buck, you literally invited yourself. It’s your own damn fault that you left with only the clothes on your back.”

Bucky narrows his eyes and shakes his head a bit. “Doesn’t mean that I expected it.”

Rolling his eyes, Sam says, “Should’ve asked around the base for something besides a spare jacket before we took off.”

You huff a laugh out, and turn to reach for your sketchbook. You stop.

It’s gone.

Head jerking up, you glare at Zemo. 

He casually flips through another page of his ‘book’ - that is, you can see that he is obviously not flipping one of the book pages and is instead flipping through your sketchbook.

You extend your hand out palm up, annoyance making your actions sharp and jerky.

Zemo only smiles before closing your sketchbook and placing it in your hand.

“You know, it’s polite to ask before you take something that isn’t yours.” You grab your multicolored pen as well, shoving the two items back in your backpack with a huff.

He tilts his head and narrows his eyes a bit. Still smiling, voice staying light, he asks, “Would you have let me take a look if I had?”

You finish zipping your bag closed and think, hand still gripping the zipper pull. After a moment, you say, “Well… yes. Probably.” You roll your eyes and release your backpack, scooting back into the seat. “The only reason I would say no would be if I thought you’d destroy it or something. Which, if you did, they would probably beat you up for me.” You jerk your head to the right, referring to Bucky and Sam.

Zemo looks amused at your conclusions. “Would they?”

Sam interrupts, “I mean, I would. Don’t know if he would though.” He idly kicks his foot out, knocking his shoe against Bucky’s.

Bucky immediately withdraws his feet closer to his seat. “I’d never give up an opportunity to beat up Zemo.” He continues looking out the window, earbud cords hanging from his ears.

You laugh while Zemo looks slightly less amused. With a shrug and a smile, you look to your right and rifle through your jacket’s pockets. “I don’t think you’d do that though. Ruin my sketchbook.”

He hums and his eyebrows raise. “I wouldn’t?”

You pull out your own pair of earbuds, wrapped up in a neat little bundle of cords. Unwrapping it, you say, “Nah. You may be a manipulative murderer, but you’re not a monster.”

“... I’m honored you think so highly of me,” Zemo deadpans.

You place an earbud in an ear, smirking. “Yeah, yeah, don’t let it get to your head. Besides, lots of people have seen that sketchbook.” Grabbing your phone, you twist it so you can insert your earbuds into its headphone jack.

“Oh?” He looks curious.

Your fingers drum on your phone case. What would the harm be in telling Zemo your occupation? You lived in New York, there were probably hundreds of people there with your name and occupation. Besides, as evidenced by his actions from seven years ago, he was a dedicated man. If he really wanted to find out who you were, he would find out, regardless of how little information you gave him.

“I’m a freelance artist. I do graphic design, like logos and stuff? But I also take commissions for illustrations.” You knock the back of your heel into your backpack. “Some of the sketches in there are from jobs I took.”

Zemo looks intrigued and thoughtful.

Sam, meanwhile, also looks interested. He asks, “How’d you get into that?”

The hand not holding your phone goes to scratch your neck. “I started back in highschool, after The Blip… Something I was able to do to help the household.” You shrug. “Posted my work on various platforms online, linking back to a page with my rates. Plenty of people like my stuff, so I have some nice clients.” You smile. “It’s real useful, too. I get to set my own hours!”

Sam chuckles. “That’s pretty great. Glad to hear we’re not getting you fired or anything by dragging you with us on such short notice.”

“No worries. Although,” you tilt your head and squint at the ceiling, “I guess I’m technically losing money right now, not having taken a job these past few days.” You shrug once again. “I’ll live.”

“Yeah?” Sam looks thoughtful. “What’re your rates?”

You grin, knowing what his response probably will be. “Hmm, about fifty bucks for a pen sketch.”

“Oof.” Sam dramatically clutches his chest. “Any chance there’s a friends and family discount?”

“The ‘friends and family discount,’” you do finger quotations, “is an additional ten bucks on top of normal rates, so…”

He laughs. “Yeah, no, that’s fair. I get it. Maybe some other time.”

“Maybe so,” you amicably agree. You look down at your phone and power it on.

Zemo speaks up. “For what it’s worth, your illustrations are very pleasant to look at.”

A smile spreads across your face. “Thanks for thinking so. Still would’ve liked to be asked - but, thanks.”

Scrolling through your music playlists, you settle on one that has a fair amount of energy. It doesn’t look like anyone else is ready to sleep, so you’ll just pass the time until then by daydreaming. Hopefully, your music will keep you awake.

You pop in the second earbud and focus your gaze on the window next to you, allowing your mind to wander.

It works for a bit, your music keeping you awake.

Unfortunately, your mind soon filters the noise out as you get lost in your daydreams. Not even fully being aware of it, your eyes slowly start drifting shut and your daydreaming shifts into actual dreaming.

You come to slowly.

You rapidly blink your eyes, and bring both your fists to them to rub the sleep from them. The weight of your head had caused your neck to slump, so when you roll your head around, you’re unsurprised to hear it crack. Arching your back and stretching your legs causes more cracks to emanate from your body and when you settle back down, you feel much better.

Looking around the cabin, the first thing you notice is that it’s dark. Glancing at the windows, you see that all the blinds are drawn. Looking up, you see a faint light emanating from a small nook near the ceiling. To your left, there’s a few rays of sunlight coming through from the cockpit. It’s… cozy. It would’ve been nice if this was how it was when you fell asleep earlier, but whatever.

Your eyes sweep the rest of the cabin. It… oh.

Well, it appeared that the seats were all reclinable, which would have been very nice to know earlier. Both Sam and Bucky were laying on their seats, peacefully asleep. But… where was Zemo? Turning your head around, you still can’t spot him. Maybe he was in the bathroom? You pull out the earbuds from your ears as you stand, dropping them on your seat.

Standing up, you notice three things:

The bathroom door was open and as such Zemo wasn’t there.

Zemo was, in fact, laying on the couch, sleeping.

And that your pull-up was heavy.

Blood rushing to your cheeks, you grab your backpack and rush into the bathroom.

You were big. You hardly ever had accidents when you were big! It was only when… Only when you were sick. Or you had a nightmare. Or if you forgot to use the restroom before you fell asleep.

Absolutely none of those things applied! You pull everything below your waist off, leaving it all on the bathroom floor. You felt fine, if a bit tired, but that happened to you sometimes immediately after waking up. You gather some toilet paper, turn the tap on, and shove it under the water. You had a perfectly pleasant dream, something about some kind of futuristic toy? The details of it were fuzzy, but it definitely wasn’t a nightmare. With the wad of damp toilet paper, you clean everywhere the pull-up had touched your skin, wiping all the urine away. You literally used the restroom right before you fell asleep. This made no sense.

You drop the paper into the toilet with a sigh. Looking at the pull-up on the floor, you hesitate before grabbing it. You didn’t want to leave it here, because then Zemo would definitely know that you were a little. You didn’t trust Oeznik to not tell him, as you assumed that he’d be the one to change the bag in the trash can. Maybe they would assume that it was Bucky…?

Yeah, no. Bucky wasn’t a little. He was probably a baseline - scratch that, he was definitely a baseline, because you figured that Steve would have told you if he was anything else. The same went for Sam…

Well, it wasn’t like you had a choice. You ball up the pull-up and shove it to the bottom of the trashcan. It had a lid, but still.

Even though you doubted there was anything left in your bladder, you use the toilet. Your hunch was mostly correct and you sigh as you flush. You proceed to wash and dry your hands.

While you were here, you might as well change out of your pajamas. You grab some clean underwear at random. You tug on the pair of jeans you hadn’t worn yet, cuffing the legs and lacing your belt through the loops. You look over the remaining amount of clean shirts you had, and select a plain short-sleeve button-up - oversized, of course. As for socks… you pull on a pair that have little avocados over them. They were fun and made you smile, and it wasn’t like anyone was going to see them when you pulled your boots on.

You grab your backpack and leave the bathroom. The cabin was just as quiet as you left it. Walking back to your seat, you drop the bag next to it, and you grab your phone and the pile of cords that were your earbuds.

It looks like you were asleep for… six hours. You usually slept for more, but you shrug it off. It just meant that there was still about eight hours left until you arrived at Madripoor.

You were a bit hungry. Thirsty too. You grab and shake the apple juice bottle, the remaining liquid sloshing within.

With a small sigh, you drop into your seat, twisting the lid off. You quickly finish the remaining juice, placing the empty bottle back in the cup holder.

You internally debate whether or not you should scavenge around the galley, but the thought of either the pilot or Oeznik telling you off makes you dismiss the thought. It wasn’t worth it.

You would just wait until it was ‘breakfast.’

Looking around the quiet cabin, you decide to just quietly use your phone until either Sam or Bucky woke up.

It takes you some time before you can fully untangle your earbuds, but when you do, you pop them back into your ears.

Leaning back into your seat, your eyes flick towards how both Sam’s and Bucky’s seats were reclined. Squinting your eyes, you see that below the left armrest, there appears to be a small lever that was lowered on theirs, but raised on yours.

Tentatively, you lean forward and push the lever down.

Nothing happens.

With a huff, you throw yourself back into your seat, annoyance turning to surprise as the force pushes the seat into a reclining position.

Yeah, this was pretty comfy.

Although… you lean over towards the aisle, looking at Zemo’s sleeping form on the couch. It looked like he slipped his shoes off.

Mind made, you bring your legs up one after the other to untie your laces. Bringing them down, you toe them off.

Now that there’s no chance of ruining the upholstery, you bring your legs up and curl comfortably.

This was much more comfortable.

You scroll through your preferred social medias for a bit, popping into some group chats as well. You shoot your family and friends some memes, because even though you think it might be somewhere in the morning or afternoon for you, they were probably asleep right now. They’ll see them eventually.

You think that was probably why your head felt so off. Even though it’s been some time since you awoke, it still felt a bit fuzzy on the edges, aching just a tad. Nothing to be concerned about, you shrug it off as just jetlag.

It’s a little more than an hour until you see movement out of your peripheral vision. Glancing up from a Youtube video, you see that it’s only Zemo. Unconcerned, you bring your attention back to the video. You distantly register the restroom door opening and closing.

When your video ends a couple minutes later, you check back in. There’s no light seeping through the crack underneath the restroom door, so crane your head to look around Zemo’s unoccupied seat. Sure enough, you can barely make out Zemo on the couch, tugging his shoes back on.

Curiosity satisfied, you close Youtube, preparing for the possibility that he might try to make conversation. You leave your earbuds in though, just in case he doesn’t. You check back to Tumblr, hoping that your mutuals are keeping things relatively clean in case anyone peaks over your shoulder.

As expected, out of your peripheral vision, you can see that Zemo starts making his way towards you. However, instead of stopping once he reaches his seat, he continues past you to the galley.

Immediately curious, you roll onto your knees and peer around the corner, yanking the earbuds out of your ears by the cord and dropping your phone on the empty space in your seat.

He starts opening cabinets and drawers and, not even turning to acknowledge you, voice still gruff from sleep, quietly says, “Good morning.”

Attempting to see what’s in the cabinets without leaving your seat, you brace your arms against the armrest and lean forward as far as you can. Despite the effort, you can’t see anything worthwhile from your vantage point, your only reward being sunlight in your face. Mindful of the sleeping occupants, voice low, you ask, “Is it morning?”

Zemo squints his eyes and stops moving things around in the cabinets. He takes a step closer to the cockpit and, in murmured Sokovian, exchanges words with Oeznik, who is apparently the person piloting right now. 

As he resumes whatever he’s doing, Zemo says, “It’s six pm in Madripoor at the moment, although we are technically in another timezone. It might be two or three pm.”

You lean back with a small hum. “Oh. Well, in that case... good afternoon.”

The ends of his lips curl up. “Good afternoon.” He pulls a drawer open and proceeds to pull out two bowls, setting them on the counter. From the cabinet that he was previously shuffling around in, he pulls out a medium box that clearly contains oatmeal. He pours some in one bowl, but before he can move onto the other bowl, you interrupt.

“Is… is that bowl mine?” You don’t want to be presumptuous, after all. The second bowl could very well be for Oeznik.

Box in hand and poised for pouring, he says, “Yes. Is there a problem…?”

“Not to be rude or anything… but is there anything other than oatmeal?” You’d eat it if you had to, but it definitely wasn’t your first choice in a breakfast.

He hums and closes the box’s lid. His eyes scan the contents of the open cabinet. “There’s two boxes of cereal… though there’s no milk.”

“That’s fine. I… I like eating my cereal dry.” Some friends may tease you for this, but they can sue you. Dry cereal was delicious, regardless of whether or not you were regressed. It also happened to be a perfect snack, and was, in your opinion, leagues ahead of plain, soggy oatmeal.

With a small shrug, he switches out the oatmeal box with a cereal box. “Is ‘Cheerios’ fine?”

“Uh-huh,” you nod.

He pours some into the bowl and places the box back, closing the cabinet door. Opening a second drawer, he pulls out two spoons, placing one in each bowl. He hands you your bowl as he takes his bowl in his other hand. 

You gratefully accept, leaning back. Remembering that the seat rotates, you push off against the wall so the seat is now, technically, facing Bucky. You re-adjust, bringing your legs out from under you in the process. Shoving a spoonful of cereal into your mouth, you watch as Zemo turns a faucet and steam fills the air in front of him as hot water fills his bowl. You chew and are pleasantly surprised to find that it’s Honey-Nut Cheerios.

Zemo places the steaming bowl on the counter and opens another drawer. He pulls out a ceramic mug and asks you, “Would you like coffee? Or a tea, perhaps?”

You shake your head, swallowing the food in your mouth before answering, “No thank you.” You bring another spoon to your mouth, but before eating it, ask, “... Can I have a water though?”

He nods and pulls out a glass from the same drawer. He closes it with his hip, and moves back towards the sink. He fills his mug first, the water still steaming. Setting it aside, he twists the temperature knob and lets it run as he opens a different cabinet. From there, he pulls out a tea bag, which he places in his cup. When the water is no longer steaming, he holds the glass under it, filling it. He shuts the tab off and hands you the glass, which you immediately bring to your lips.

The water is crisp and cold, leaving you feeling refreshed. You have to twist in your seat to place it in the remaining cup holder, and when you turn back, you see that Zemo is leaning against the opposite counter, looking at his phone.

You continue eating, idly noting that his phone is the same model as yours.

Wait…

Your shoulders sag as you realize that your phone is seven years old. You shove another spoonful of cereal in your mouth.

Wanting to distract yourself from your financial woes, you knock against the side of the cabinet your chair was up against, drawing Zemo’s attention.

You ask, “So… what’s in here? Like… in a ‘galley’?”

He tilts his head, still looking at his phone. “The usual things.”

“... I told you that I’m a freelance artist, earlier. Do you think that I’ve been in a jet before?”

He chuckles. “Well, I suppose not.“ He puts his phone back into his pocket and crosses his arms, eyes flickering to the various cabinets and drawers across from him. “There’s a faucet capable of dispensing water at high temperatures at a moment’s notice. A small convection oven intended to cook and heat up meals. A coffee machine. A fridge, which you know is broken at the moment. Dishware. Various shelf-stable food items.”

“Huh… any specifics on the food?”

“Breads, pastas, soups. Prepackaged snacks.”

You perk up. “What snacks?”

He reaches forward and opens a cabinet and a drawer. “See for yourself.”

You stand up, still holding your bowl and spoon. Partially stepping into the galley, and careful to not disturb Bucky, you look. It’s a lot of brands you don’t particularly recognize, on account of some of them being foreign, but you see that there’s plenty of snack foods. Different chips, pretzels, assorted nuts. Some granola bars and protein bars. 

What draws your attention, however, are the small packs of what appears to be cookies and candies in the drawer. Dropping your spoon into the bowl, you lean forward and, eyes flickering to Zemo in case he stops you, grab a pack of cookies.

Smiling, you drop back into your seat and continue eating your cereal. You place the sweets beside you in your seat, to be had later.

Meanwhile, it appears that Zemo’s breakfast is ready. He pulls the teabag out of his mug, opens a cabinet near the floor, and throws it in - a trash can. He stirs his oatmeal and, pleased with its consistency, goes to grab the handle of his mug.

“That for me?” Across from you, Bucky has opened his eyes and is looking at Zemo. There’s a twinkle in his eyes.

Zemo stops his movement, his grip momentarily tightening on his bowl, and his eyes momentarily tightening as well. Schooling his expression to that careful amusement, he says, “Really, James, how convenient of you to awake at this particular moment.”

Bucky shrugs, turning it into a back stretch. “I’m a convenient fella.” He moves his seat out of the reclining position and raises an eyebrow at Zemo. “Well?”

Drumming his fingers against the bowl in his hand, Zemo must decide to cut his losses, because he hands the bowl over with barely a sigh.

Grinning, Bucky takes it and immediately digs in.

Muttering under his breath, Zemo takes a sip of his tea and gathers the necessary supplies once again.

“Ya’know, a coffee would be nice too.”

Zemo silently pulls out a mug and opens a different cabinet, placing it inside. You hear small electronic beeps, and conclude that it’s the coffee machine.

Hiding a smile by eating another spoonful of cereal, you make eye contact with Bucky.

He winks and takes a bite of his oatmeal.

By the time that Zemo’s (second) oatmeal is ready and he moves out of the galley, you finish your bowl and take his place. It takes almost no time at all to wash and dry your dishes, and when you’re done, you place them back where they belong, just like you saw Oeznik do the day before.

When you return to your seat, the hidden table is extended again, giving Zemo the space to place his breakfast. He’s idly eating, scrolling through his phone, likely reading news articles.

In front of you, Bucky is smugly eating his breakfast, content with sitting there in silence.

With a shrug, you return to your phone. You notice that the battery is low, so you quickly rummage through your backpack for the charger. The electrical outlet thankfully has an US outlet, which is fantastic, because you don’t have a travel adapter. The cord is more than long enough to accommodate your continued usage of your phone, so you do.

It’s about twenty minutes until Sam stirs. He blearily looks out from his squinted eyelids as he stretches awake, and as he does so, he quickly twists his head to stare at everyone in the cabin.

Throwing his hands up, he asks, “So you all decided to just let me sleep in while you all got breakfast?”

You immediately start nodding. “Of course!” You lay a hand over your heart and look as earnest as you can. “Because we care about you.”

Bucky audibly snorts and Sam rolls his eyes as he stands.

“Yeah, yeah,” is what Sam says as he waves the sentiment away and makes his way to the restroom.

You let out a small laugh as you return to what you were looking at on your phone.

Ten minutes later, Sam is sitting back in his seat with his own coffee and oatmeal. His loss, considering there were perfectly sweet cereal in the cabinet.

Now that there were no sleeping occupants, everyone lifted the shade on their window, allowing sunlight to filter through to the cabin. Although, after closer investigation, you see that it was beginning its descent.

Just like the day before, everyone resumes doing what they were doing - with the exception of Zemo, who has finished his book and is now scrolling through his phone.

Over the next couple hours, everyone periodically makes their way to the galley to get more food. In addition to the cookies, you eat two granola bars, something to fill you up without leaving you too heavy in case things went wrong when you landed. Sam and Zemo take some as well, but Bucky takes the most, polishing off an entire pack of protein bars.

You weren’t surprised, remembering how much Steve used to eat. A super metabolism meant a super appetite. You could only kinda relate, only being familiar with how after being bigger and taller than you actually were for an extended period of time, extending large amounts of energy, when you changed back you were left feeling off. You’re pretty sure it has something to do with glucose levels, which is why you had some candy hidden within pockets in your jacket. Just in case.

Less than an hour before landing, as indicated by the screen behind Bucky, you grow tired of your phone. You had ran out of stuff to look at on social media and defaulted to reading some free fanfics online. They were fantastic, no doubt about that, but your retinas didn’t appreciate staring at a bright rectangle of light for almost seven hours straight. You had to plug in your phone a second time at the end and as the battery grew hot in your hand, you were taking that as a cue to cut yourself off.

Looking out the window, you note that it’s been quite some time since the sun settled. It was probably pretty late, and you hoped that Zemo’s lead was still awake. You grin sardonically. Of course they were awake, criminals loved late nights. You figured that even though you were heading to an apparent ‘criminal safe haven,’ some part of them just felt more comfortable operating under the cover of night.

Tapping your fingers against the armrest, you glance at Zemo. The whole time you’ve been on this plane he hasn’t mentioned how exactly he was going to use this Selby lady to find information about the Flag Smashers. Sure, he might have talked to Sam and Bucky about it when you were asleep, but you highly doubted it. Did he even have a plan? Or was he just going to wing it?

You get the impression that it’s more likely that he does have a plan and is simply keeping it close to his chest. Maybe to ensure that none of you won’t just immediately tie him up and send him back to prison? Taking leverage where he can.

Well, might as well see if you can get any info from him.

Clearing your voice, you get his attention. “So...is there a plan? Or are we just hoping for the best?”

The skin around his eyes tighten as he tilts his head, giving the impression of thought. With a small smile, he says, “Of course there’s a plan.” He doesn’t elaborate and instead returns his attention back to his phone.

Sam huffs. “Well?” he prods.

Releasing a small sigh, Zemo turns his phone off and sets it down. He continues, “Selby owns a small bar, which we’ll be visiting. We’ve met before, so she should take audience with me.” His eyes flick over you, Sam, and Bucky. “All of you, however, will need to play a part.” He smirks. “James, I’m sure you already know the intricacies of your part.”

Bucky just huffs a breath out of his nose in lieu of a response, glaring Zemo down.

Zemo hardly seems bothered. Looking between you and Sam, he says, “You two, however, will need to not look out of place in a place such as Madripoor. Which is why I took the liberty of ordering clothes for everyone.”

“Is that what you were doing on your phone?” Bucky questions, eyes narrowing more than before.

“Among other things.”

“How’d you get our measurements?” Sam questions, leaning back into his seat and propping his head with his hand resting on the armrest.

Zemo chuckles, “As if that information isn’t publicly available online.”

“Well, how’d you get my measurements?” you ask, jerking your chin up in questioning.

He shrugs his shoulders. “I know the dimensions of these chairs and was able to go from there.”

You slump back in your seat, crossing your arms in annoyance. “Okay, well, then who are we supposed to be?”

Zemo turns to look directly at Sam. “Sam, due to your public status as an ‘Avenger,’ you will have to be disguised as another man entirely. With James returning to form as the Winter Soldier, if anyone were to recognize you, they would quickly see the ruse for what it is and our lives would be in danger.” He smiles. “Thankfully, I know just the man.”

Sam already looks done with the plan and just continues to stare at Zemo.

Zemo, meanwhile, turns to you. “And you, my little friend, will play the part of my paramour.”

You immediately tense up, drumming your fingers against your arms. Sam and Bucky immediately make sounds of disapproval, making their dissent known.

Zemo holds a single hand up, indicating to the others to be quiet. “This would be the best role for you to play; we need to draw the least amount of attention to ourselves as possible, and if you were to be hanging off my side, no one will be none the wiser.”

You take a moment to think your words over, knowing that once they’re out there, you can’t take them back. You find your voice and still your fingers. Looking Zemo in the eyes, you ask him, “If… If I could be anyone else, would it be better for the mission? A-And I mean that literally. Anyone else.”

He looks right back, assessing you. After a moment, he offers you a, “Perhaps.” His voice is inquisitive and you can feel his eyes on you as he tries to figure you out. You know that he knows that he’s missing a piece of the puzzle. Why exactly you were even here.

You briefly break eye contact to look at Sam and Bucky. They both seem tense, but give no indication that you should stop what you’re doing. It seems like they trust you.

Dropping your eyes onto the table, you make the decision. After all, there was always the chance that something went wrong and you would shift out of necessity next to Zemo, and, with no knowledge of your powers, he harms you. This was better for the long run, you tell yourself. Really, you should have told Zemo earlier - but it was better late than never.

Eyes drifting upward, you lock them onto Zemo’s. You uncross your arms and fiddle with your belt, unbuckling it. He ever so slightly tilts his head, narrowing his eyes and drawing his eyebrows ever so closer.

Your waists weren't the same size, so this was necessary for the full effect.

You lean closer, bracing your arms against the table in between you two. And, within a moment, there are two Zemos in the cabin.

Zemo immediately straightens up, smile completely disappearing. He narrows his eyes and scans them across your skin - well, his skin, technically.

You smirk and, keeping your voice deadpan, say, using his voice, “Hello, I’m Zemo and I delight in making those around me vaguely uncomfortable.”

Sam laughs, drawing both yours and Zemo’s attention to him. “Just like the real thing.”

You huff a laugh, but Zemo remains neutral. You can almost see the gears turning in his head as he takes in this new information about you.

You wonder if this was going to be what pushed him into thinking you violated his code.

He breaks the tense silence. “So… you’re a super.”

You lean back and cross your arms, regarding him as cooly as you can. You nod your head down. “I would hardly call myself a ‘super’… but, sure. I have powers. I can shapeshift.” You look down at your hand, examining your nails. Zemo kept them short, but clean. His cuticles were pushed back. You wondered if that was his choice or the prison’s.

“The… Your previous form, is that even what you actually look like?” His voice is carefully neutral, but you pick up on a slight accusatory tone being stifled.

You drop your hand onto the armrest. “Yeah, it’s me. Someone didn’t tell me that he broke you out of prison and we were meeting you.” You glare at Bucky, who only returns one in turn. Dropping your gaze, you scoff, “Not that it would’ve mattered, I guess.” You return your gaze back to Zemo. “I can’t remain shifted if I’m unconscious,” you offer as an explanation.

Zemo huffs and draws his eyes across your body. “So… how do these powers of yours work?”

You shrug and cross your hands behind your head, intending to look as different as Zemo does at the moment as possible. Laid back and relaxed to contrast with the tension and distrust emanating from the real thing. “I dunno. I discovered this back when I was in high school. Didn’t exactly come with an instruction manual. I just… focus on being someone, and,” you move your shoulders, “here I am. Normal one day, powered the next.” Idly you note that the oversized shirt is still technically oversized on Zemo. Not as much on you, of course, but probably a size bigger than Zemo wore.

Across from you, Zemo taps his fingers on the table. “I must admit, it’s like looking into an inverted mirror. Am I to expect that you can create a perfect copy of someone by simply thinking it?”

You laugh. “Near perfect, I think. I’ve only ever been able to show off to a handful of people, and they’re typically someone I’m close to. I think… I think that makes a difference.” You move your arms down and lay your left arm across the table. ”What d’ya think? Missing any moles or scars?”

Zemo grabs your wrist and turns your arm around, examining it. His lips slightly curl. “... definitely.” He releases your wrist to move his own sleeve back, placing his arm next to yours.

Beside you, Sam and Bucky sit straighter to get a better look.

Comparing the two arms, you can see that they’re definitely different. You had some moles, some scars - but not all of them.

“Huh.” Within a moment, you make them match.

Zemo huffs and slides his sleeve back down. “So… what else do you know about your powers?”

You drum your fingers across the table. “Like I said, I think the closer I am with someone, the more I can look like them? But I’m not really sure.” You look out the window, avoiding eye contact with the rest of the cabin. “I don’t make a habit of turning into someone else and stripping. I… guess I could turn into a celebrity, then look up scenes of them unclothed online? But, whenever I think of doing something like that I just feel like a creep who’s violating their privacy, so I don’t. All I know is that when I’ve turned into some random goon in a warehouse, I get major features, but when I go confront them face to face, to scare them, I notice that they have a mole or something on their arm that I didn’t copy over.”

Returning your gaze to the cabin, you see that everyone is staring at you, listening to your every word. With a start you realize that back at the party with Steve and everyone, you didn’t really offer any explanations. You had showed off your powers, sure, but you were far more interested in them and the whole final showdown with Thanos.

And of making fun of Steve.

Scratching your neck, you continue, “But… other times, I shift into someone else and immediately know that they were recently injured because my body starts aching. Like, once I shifted to someone and I guess they had gotten stabbed sometime before then? Because my side instantly opened up and started bleeding. I was fine, of course, but it wasn’t like I knew they were stabbed beforehand. But… after I made sure to not shift an open wound,” you wince, “I… might have… punched him there… and he immediately dropped and cursed me out. Y’know. Because he had a bandaged stab wound.” You raise your shoulders and raise your eyebrows. “I have no idea what he was doing trying to rob a liquor store with a stab wound, but I hope he learned his lesson.”

Everyone takes a second to think that over, the cabin filling with silence for a moment.

“And, as you can see, my powers don’t extend to my clothes.” You pluck your shirt’s collar, releasing it shortly thereafter.

The side of Zemo’s lips quirk up. “Admittedly, your fashion choices make more sense.”

You look as offended as you can, attempting to mirror the way Zemo looked when Sam told him to shut up. “Are you telling me that wearing clothing several sizes too big for me is unfashionable? I’m hurt, truly.” At the end of your sentence, you break, unable to stop a smirk from growing.

Zemo shrugs and opens his hands palms outward in lieu of an answer.

You huff, getting a bit defensive. “I mean, I would wear clothes that fit if I didn’t care about popping the seams on all my clothes. I have a black shirt in every size at home, but that would be impractical to pack, to say the least. At least this way, I don’t draw too much attention to myself. It’s easier to get away with oversized clothes than clothes that are clearly too small.”

“Well, I think your outfits are very nice.” Sam placates you. 

“Thanks, Sam.” You smirk. “Besides, I think that Zemo just wants to see himself wearing a shirt a few sizes too small.”

Zemo rolls his eyes. “So, you’ve said that you were able to shift a stab wound away?”

You hum, thinking about what he wanted to know. “I mean, technically yes. But I was only able to do it because my skin wasn’t actually damaged.” You shift your head side to side, thinking it over. “Although, even when it is, I can temporarily heal it? At least, until I have to go to sleep. But before that, if I concentrate, I can make sure that I’m not bleeding out or anything. But… But then, my skin doesn’t scab or scar over. Well, actually-” You cut yourself off, thinking about how to explain this very weird phenomenon.

Everyone’s eyes are on you, patiently waiting.

“Okay, well first... take a look at this.” You lean down and unzip your backpack, rifling the inner contents until you find your pen. You see that your rolled up cuffs are around your upper calves right now, but resist unrolling them. You’d just have to redo them in a second anyways. Pen found, you sit up and raise your other arm up to the rest of the cabin. Sliding the red ink down, you draw a quarter-sized circle where everyone can see it on your arm, filling it in with scribbles, the flesh underneath peaking through. 

Holding your arm up so everyone can see, you shift. You now look like Zemo if he was absolutely jacked - at least, your arms are. It felt disproportionate and your brain itched, wanting to make everything normal, but it was fine. People skipped leg day all the time, this was technically feasible.

Across from you, Sam looks absolutely disgusted while Bucky just frowns.

Zemo, on the other hand, is focused on the red circle, as intended.

You bring your arm back down and look at it yourself. Just as you planned, the circle is now much more broken up and scribbly, as well as bigger than a quarter. You nod and say, “Okay, so see how it’s basically like my skin was stretched? How there’s little lines across each pen stroke? I think how it works is I just… grow? Like a growth spurt? But… like, in a second. So, it’s still my skin… just different.”

Sam nods. “Like, how when I was younger I got a scar from falling off my bike, and I still have it, but it’s broken up and moved?”

You nod and smile. “Yes, like that exactly! But…” you hold your arm back up, “also like this.”

And just like that, you’re you again. Your shirt is a lot looser than you’d like, but you could fix that in a moment. Everyone’s eyes are on the circle.

Looking down at it yourself, you can see that instead of it being the scribbly quarter-sized circle you drew, it was now a perfect dime-sized red circle, no flesh peeking through. “See! It’s like… it’s like my skin tightens and gets smaller! And, it’s not just my skin. My hair’s the same way! All of me! It’s weird!”

Sam quickly nods. “Yeah, I can’t argue with you there. That is pretty strange. But,” he nods his head at Bucky, “no weirder than him, at least.”

Bucky shoots him a glare, but otherwise stays silent. He motions to you to continue.

“Okay, so, everything is still technically me. So, I can create an open wound and then seal it back up, because, like, nothing is damaged? Like…” You squint off into the distance, trying to think of a suitable comparison. Snapping, you point at Sam. “Like, y’know those resealable packages?”

He gives you a single nod, slightly hesitant.

“It’s like, if you open them the right way, they’re able to be sealed completely closed again, air tight. But if you tear it wrong, it doesn’t close because you damaged the seal!”

Sam starts nodding, this time looking like he understands.

“Yeah! So, when someone slices me open or I get a cut or whatever, I can immediately close the wound, but it’s only a quick fix. It’ll take the normal time for it to actually heal, and not just stretch itself close, I guess. But, unlike everyone else, I don’t scab or scar anymore, which you might think is a good thing, but it isn’t. Those things are there to protect you. Which means, for me, I either have to actively create a scab, which does, thankfully, stay with me if I go to sleep or I can just make my skin look like normal and randomly check in to see the progress my cells have made. It’s weird, and I don’t really understand it, but if that’s the price I pay for not being poked and prodded in a lab, I’ll take it.”

Everyone takes this new information in, thinking it over.

Zemo asks, “Are there any limitations on what you can shift?”

You nod. “I can’t do unnatural hair colors. Pretty much, if it’s something that can naturally occur though, I can make it happen.” Your eyes drift to Bucky and snap back to Zemo. “Like, I can look like Bucky and even make my left arm disappear, but I can’t make a metal arm, because humans can’t grow metal. And, even if I looked like Bucky, it doesn’t mean that I’ll suddenly have super strength and everything. That is caused by foreign agents in the body, the serum, which I can’t reproduce.”

“How’d you know that?” Bucky questions.

You let out a small laugh. “Um, well.” You smile and focus your eyes on the ceiling. “I might have tried to see if I could artificially catch the flu back when I was in school?”

Bucky snorts and Sam laughs.

Zemo tilts his head. “Did it work?”

You bring your gaze back down. “Kinda? I can make my body go through the motions of being sick, but because I wasn’t actually sick, I didn’t get any classmates or family members sick or anything. Did get to miss a day, so that was fun!” You smile at the memory.

Bucky speaks up for the first time. “So, no foreign agents… Does that mean you can’t replicate tattoos?”

“It’s funny you say that, because I can do tattoos, kinda?”

You concentrate on making a small illustration of Captain America’s shield on your arm, just the linework.

At everyone’s expressions of amazement, you think you did a good job.

“I can make black lines easy, because that’s just melanin. For colors though…” You shift the tattoo to be filled in, red, white, and blue.

Everyone immediately squints at it.

You laugh. “Okay, so… this is technically a bruise.”

Sam’s head immediately snaps up. “Excuse me?”

Smiling, you bring your arm closer to your body. “Well, technically not all of it, but let me explain.” You point to the white. “Just like people have melanin, this is just me removing all of it from the area.” You point at the red. “Some people get really red when they’re mad, and it’s just blood getting close to the surface of the skin, which is what I’m doing right here. You move your hand over to the blue and accidently prod it, stifling a wince. “Okay, so the only way a body is blue is if it’s frozen or bruised. Bruises are… so many colors. They only happen because you burst open blood vessels underneath your skin, so… this is just my body popping some open extremely evenly.”

Sam stares at the tattoo for a moment. Looking directly into your eyes, he says, “I hate this.”

“... Do you want to see it turn green, yellow, or purple?”

He throws his hands up. “No!”

You can’t stifle the giggles that erupt from you at his disgusted expression, the tattoo disappearing in the middle of your giggle fit. You rub your hand over the space it occupied, dispersing the leftover blue cells that were repairing themselves. It takes a moment for you to get your laughter under control, but when you hazard a glance at the display above Bucky and you see that it’ll be about thirty minutes until you arrive in Madripoor, you calm down.

Looking back at Zemo, you settle in your seat and raise your eyebrows. “So… does knowing this change anything?”

Zemo leans back, thinking the question over. Opening his mouth, he says, “It would still be for the best if you play the part of my companion. While it does appear that you can look like anyone, it doesn’t mean that you instinctively know how they act. Much like Sam, you’d have the added pressure of ensuring you don’t slip up and break character. By being my date, the only thing you’d have to keep in mind is that you’re completely infatuated with me.”

You partially fail in stifling a snort. At Zemo’s glare, you motion to him to continue, pulling yourself together. It wasn’t like Zemo was a bad looking man, quite the opposite! You simply didn’t have feelings for him like that.

“Admittedly, if I had known the cause behind your clothing choices, I would have ordered accordingly.”

“Yeah? What’d you order for us?” You swivel your thumb to gesture to Sam, Bucky, and yourself.

Zemo’s lips curl up. “For you, I ordered an outfit that should go along with my own.” He looks at Sam. “For you, I ordered an outfit that fits the fashion sensibilities of the man you’ll be playing. Fortunately, it appears you two are in similar stature.” And finally, his gaze settles on Bucky, his lips curling further. “And for you, a uniform perfect for my soldat.”

And with that single word, the once cheery atmosphere quickly turns cold.

Bucky releases a heavy breath out of his nose, nostrils flaring. He glares back at Zemo, but drops his gaze to his own lap. Sighing, he focuses on the window, at the lights below.

You drop your gaze onto your own lap. You weren’t exactly comfortable with the part you had to play, but you could deal. The worst you’d have to do is be physically affectionate with Zemo, but that wasn’t such a big deal.

You hated the part that Zemo was having Bucky play. Bucky, who partway through each of your meetups, stopped looking so tense all the time. Bucky, who had to fight for his independence, fight to control his own body. Bucky, who was Steve’s best pal, who despite their bond, lost Steve just like you did

He didn’t deserve this.

But… there was no other option.

Like you said earlier, you could look like Bucky, but you didn’t have the arm. You didn’t understand Russian, or German, or whatever language the Winter Soldier had been forced to understand and obey. You didn’t have his training, his strength. You couldn’t look like him, but then fail in all the ways that it mattered.

Besides… Bucky needed to come too. He was willing to do this for the mission.

You just wished there was something you could do to help.

Chapter Text

As the jet touches ground with Madripoor and everyone stands from their seats, you hazard a glance out the window. To your surprise, a small vehicle was making its way towards you.

Noticing your confusion, Zemo follows your gaze. Smiling and clasping his hands together, he addresses the cabin, “Ah. It looks like your clothing is here. How punctual.”

Oeznik readies the stairway down, meeting the driver of the small vehicle. Sure enough, on the seat beside them are garment bags and shoe boxes. After exchanging some words, Oeznik takes the aforementioned items and the driver returns from whence they came.

Zemo meets Oeznik at the top of the stairway, the rest of the cabin’s occupants gathering in the narrow galley.

From where you’re standing, you can see that each of the bags and boxes are labeled with initials, but certainly not ones that belonged to you or your friends.

It seems that Zemo, who had ordered everything in the first place, knew what items belonged to who.

Taking the box at the top, Zemo glances at the label before wordlessly handing it to Bucky. He passes the next box to Sam and the last to you.

While Zemo distributes the garment bags, you give your box a hesitant jostle. It sounds exactly like you’d expect - the noise of shoes in a box. When a garment bag is held out to you, you silently drape it over your arm.

Finished with distributing everyone’s outfits, Zemo opens a cabinet, one of the larger ones. Reaching in, he pulls out his coat and starts shrugging it on. “I’ll grant you all some privacy while I arrange for our transport.”

Pulling his phone out of his pant’s pocket, Zemo descends the stairs, Oeznik following a step behind, allowing everyone the privacy to get dressed.

Sam speaks first, eyes flickering between you and Bucky. “Hey, kid, if you need privacy you can take the bathroom.”

You snort and set the box on Zemo’s seat, which allows you to hold the garment bag by the hanger. “I may have gotten dressed in there twice already, but if given the option to change here or in that cramped room, I’ll take here.”

You weren’t really bothered with the concept of nudity - well, to be specific, you weren’t too bothered with your nudity. You were a little on the younger range of the spectrum, which just meant that you had to rely on others moreso than most. Toddlers weren’t exactly known for staying clean, which meant help during bath time, help getting dressed, and help getting ‘changed'.

Just because you were mostly potty trained didn’t mean you didn’t need help with your pull-ups from time to time. And, when you were at your youngest, aged two, you weren’t exactly all too concerned with staying dry, meaning that it was in everyone’s best interest if you were just kept in a diaper.

Between the sitters and the rotating cast of volunteers at your daycare, you had lost your sense of modesty along the way.

Besides, right now, you weren’t even undressing fully. You highly doubted that Zemo would order undergarments for everyone requiring you to fully strip, which was more than can be said than when you had to be cleaned up after a naptime accident.

Sam shrugs and goes to stand near the bathroom, placing his bag and box on the lone seat there. “Fair enough.”

Bucky cranes his head to look out the plane’s door, likely checking to make sure that Zemo and Oeznik didn’t just bail. Apparently satisfied, he hangs his garment bag on one of the handles of the many cabinets.

When you return your gaze forward, you can hear Sam and Bucky unzipping their bags.

Immediately, they make their displeasure known.

Bucky forces a breath out his nose, while Sam makes a small annoyed groan.

Unzipping your own garment bag, you’re greeted to a very nice looking blazer. Annoyingly, it looked to be exactly your size. Even more annoyingly, with a start you realize it is the exact color of Zemo’s turtleneck.

You roll your eyes. Of course Zemo’s concept of a couple included color-coordinated outfits.

Although… you do have to admit that you do think outfit coordination is pretty fun.

Damn it.

You push the blazer open to get a good look at the shirt and trousers hanging. It’s a black, silk sleeveless button-up and standard black dress pants. There were no visible wrinkles on anything, which couldn’t be said for any of the clothes in your backpack.

Around you, you hear the shuffling of clothing. Keeping your eyes forward, your fingers fly across the buttons on your shirt, replacing your button-up for the new one. As you pull your jeans off and the dress pants on, you notice that looped around the waist is a belt the same color of the blazer.

Looking down, you tilt your head to the side as you try to make out how the silver buckle works. Your normal belt had a simple buckle where all you had to do was flip a tab open and it released, but this was different. It takes you a moment, but you think you figured it out, so you tuck your shirt in and buckle up. Although, you were pretty sure the belt was unnecessary considering that the pants hugged your waist perfectly.

Right as you were about to get annoyed that Zemo managed to guess all your measurements accurately, you realize that he was off.

Just barely.

The pant legs were almost a full centimeter short, stopping right above your ankle.

An easy fix, you simply make your legs shorter.

There, now you were in a perfectly tailored outfit.

Well, looking down at your avocado socks, you correct the thought to almost perfect.

Standing in place, you reach over and flip the top of the shoe box open. Sure enough, Zemo had the foresight to order black dress socks. Your eyes shift ever so slightly and you have to stifle a laugh. Placed inside the box are a pair of all-black leather sneakers. Classy, but practical.

Scooting the shoe box on Zemo’s seat to the side, you partially sit as you swap your socks, tossing the old pair into your backpack. You make quick work of lacing the shoes on, making sure to double knot them to prevent any mishaps.

You twist behind you to grab the final piece, pulling the blazer out of the bag, off the hanger, and over your shoulders.

Looking at the box beside you and taking the garment bag in hand, you check to make sure you’re not missing anything.

Turns out that you are. In the corner closest to you in the shoe box is a small, square, velvet box. A watch maybe? Or a bracelet?

You toss the empty bag back on the seat beside you. Taking the small box in hand, you flip it open, revealing a single thin silver cuff, no wider than your index finger. You slide it onto your nondominant wrist, where it rests comfortably.

You reach forward and rifle through your jacket’s pockets, pocketing some candy and grabbing your phone. Only taking the necessities.

Turning your phone on, you open up your camera app, setting it to the selfie-camera.

You take a good look at yourself. Unlike the others, you had the choice of simply not being yourself in Madripoor. And, considering who you were going to be cozying up against, you figure that it would be in your best interest to not be immediately identifiable. 

So, one feature at a time, you shift them to be ever so slightly different. Nothing too drastic, just a smidge... off. On top of that, you style your hair to be what you hope is good enough for Madripoor. Task finished, you stare back at the person on the phone.

You looked like you could be related. A cousin, perhaps. A stranger that your own mother may approach in a store, but once close enough, would apologize for disturbing, shrugging off the resemblance because you clearly weren’t you.

Except… you still kinda were.

At least, it should be enough that any facial recognition software shouldn’t be able to connect this face with your own.

“Everyone decent?” You ask the room in general as you pocket the phone, not wanting to catch anyone off guard.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, voice gruff.

A sigh. “Sadly, yes,” is Sam’s response.

Standing up and turning towards Sam, you immediately see what his problem is. You’re greeted to a red three piece suit with a... loud pattern on it. Definitely not something Sam would wear of his own volition. He had slid on some rings and was clasping a second necklace on.

It was certainly… a statement.

What exactly that statement was was to be determined.

Your mouth opens and closes, struggling to find the right words. Shutting your jaw closed, you come to a measured response. “You… wear it well?”

Head tilted forward to accommodate his necklace placement, he glares at you from underneath his brow.

Behind you, you hear Bucky coming to see what the fuss is about. He almost immediately stops in his tracks. “Okay, this makes me feel better about what Zemo’s got me wearing.”

Your eyes immediately snap to Bucky. You’re immediately greeted by his vibranium arm. Unlike the last time, however, it didn’t look like he ripped this sleeve off, this being a design choice. Other than that though, it seemed like his outfit was more or less the same as his standard uniform.

Except for one thing.

Eyes focused on the chest harness, your head slightly tilts to the right. “What does he have you wearing?”

With his non-robo hand, he picks at it. “I don’t even know.” He scrunches his nose. “I had something like this, but it had a holster on the back. This one doesn’t. It serves no purpose... except for aesthetics, I guess.”

Looking up from the harness, you can see that Bucky looks pretty displeased with everything as a whole.

Wanting to ease the tension in the air, you tease, “Did he give you any eye shadow then? Or eyeliner? A lump of coal?”

It works, just a bit. The smallest amount of tension leaves his shoulders and he quips back, “That was tactical eye makeup, okay? To disguise my identity or whatever.”

Sam joins in. “To tactically make you look like a racoon?”

“Brave words from a man in a suit that can be seen from space.” Bucky rolls his eyes and turns back to the front of the plane.

You laugh and follow, Sam a step behind.

As everyone exits, all eyes snap to Zemo, who pulls his phone away from his ear, ending a call. Beside him, Oeznik sits in the driver’s seat of a small cart, awaiting you all.

“The cab that will take us to our destination will meet us on the bridge.” Zemo calls out, pocketing his phone.

“...Is there a reason it isn’t meeting us here?” You quirk an eyebrow as you make your way down the steps.

Zemo immediately turns to face your group. Answering you, his eyes dance across everyone, his eyes fixating on random points of everyone’s ensembles, “Yes. It's a good habit to not trust anyone in Madripoor, especially those that might have something to gain by knowing we arrived by private jet.” His eyes snap to your face, head slightly tilted.

You nod and try not to squirm under his intense gaze. “Makes sense.” When you reach the bottom step of the stairs, you notice there’s a small gap, so you hop the small distance to the ground. Behind you, Sam simply takes the long step, holding onto the handrail for support.

Quirking the side of lips up, Zemo addresses everyone, “Your clothes, they fit well?” His eyes, however, are now locked onto Bucky.

Bucky huffs a breath out his nose and gives a single nod, stalking towards the passenger seat besides Oeznik.

You huff a laugh. “Yeah. Your estimate of my inseam was off though, so I’m a bit shorter than I should be. Although, I think the shoes have brought me back to normal eye level.”

Sam adds, “Mine are fine... if I ignore the colors and excessive jewelry.”

Zemo rolls his eyes, turns around, and slides into the back seat behind Oeznik, muttering under his breath.

You and Sam lock eyes, shrug, and enter the cart. Sam takes the middle seat beside Zemo and you take the seat behind Bucky.

Oeznik wastes no time and immediately directs the cart out of the tarmac and towards the front entrance. It only takes a few minutes, all of which are spent in silence.

Upon reaching the front gate, Zemo immediately exits the cart, and with a nod towards the tinted security office’s windows, the gate is unlocked and slid open. Without breaking his stride, he continues past the gate, presumably headed to the bridge that looks to be no more than half a mile away.

Everyone takes a quick moment to look at one another, before following suit. As the gate closes behind you, you hear Oeznik turn the cart around, presumably to return to the jet.

It takes no time at all to catch up with Zemo, and instead of trailing behind him in a uniform line, your group decides to stand on either side of him. Sam stands to his right, while you and Bucky stand to his left.

The group occupies a fair amount of space on the road, but at the complete lack of traffic, you don’t think it’ll be a problem. It doesn’t look like many people need to traverse to the airport at… You pull out your phone, and after adjusting some settings, you see that it is currently two am.

While your phone is out, you might as well make sure that your phone is on ‘Do Not Disturb’ mode. It is, of course, because you activated it the second you boarded the jet. Anxiety nipped in the bud, you slide your phone back into your blazer’s pocket.

“We have to do something about this, I’m the only one here who looks like a pimp.” Out of the corner of your eyes, you see that Sam is fidgeting with his outfit.

“Only an American would assume that a fashion-forward Black man looks like a pimp. You look exactly like the man you’re supposed to be playing.” Zemo pulls out his phone and scrolls a bit before handing the phone to Sam. “The sophisticated, charming African rake named Conrad Mack, aka The Smiling Tiger.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “He even has a bad nickname...” He takes the phone and his eyebrows shoot up. “Hell, he does look like me though.”

Curious, you lean over to get a look. Sure enough, on the phone is a photo of a man with a striking resemblance to Sam.

Wanting to make Sam feel better, you say, “I dunno,” you jerk your head toward Zemo, “the fur collar kinda gives me pimp vibes?”

Sam barks a laugh.

Zemo gives you a small look while he takes the phone back and pockets it.

You immediately break eye contact and press your lips together. Eyes focused forward, you see a pair of headlights quickly making its way towards your group - the cab, presumably.

“You guys smell this?” Zemo asks.

Knowing better from living in a city, you tactfully don’t smell this.

Sam, however, is either brave or desensitized. “Yeah, what is that, acid?”

“Madripoor.” Zemo continues, “No matter what happens, we have to stay in character. Our lives depend on it. There’s no margin for error.”

The cab that Zemo ordered swerves into a u-turn, facing the way it came.

“Hightown’s that way. Not a bad place if you want to visit… But Lowtown’s the other way.” Zemo takes the passenger seat, while Bucky takes the seat behind him.

“Let me guess, we don’t have any friends in Hightown.” Sam and you walk around to the opposite side of the car. He holds the door open, looking at you expectantly.

You take the hint, barely catching Zemo’s dumb smirk at Sam as you take the middle seat. Sam follows shortly. As soon as he shuts the door, the cab driver takes that as his cue to get moving.

Everyone here, remembering your little spiel about seatbelt safety, immediately buckles up.

It looks like the cab came just in time, as it begins to sprinkle outside, the raindrops splattering across the windshield.

A few minutes after it starts, the cab enters into the threshold of the city.

From behind, a small brigade of motorcycles emerge from the darkness. Immediately, everyone in the back seats turn to analyze them.

Three on either side, six in total. They were fully armed, openly carrying semi-automatic weapons.

Two pull ahead of the cab, and it is then that you realize that they're escorting you all into Lowtown.

You can't decide if that's comforting or not.

Once the cab reaches the overpass, Zemo unbuckles his seat belt and everyone follows suit, exiting the vehicle.

You see Zemo hand over a small stack of cash before the cab turns around and drives away, the motorcade following.

Everyone stands huddled together, eyes locked onto the cab as it fades into the darkness. Once it disappears, everyone looks to Zemo.

He looks at everyone, but his eyes stop on you. He lifts his right arm and gestures you to come over.

Oh, so the show has begun.

Placing a carefully made smile on your face, you tuck yourself close to Zemo’s side. His raised arm comes to rest over your shoulders.

You slide your arm underneath his coat, resting your left hand on Zemo’s opposite hip.

A happy couple.

Across from you, Sam and Bucky’s eyes have hardened, staring directly at Zemo’s face.

Looking at Sam, with a curl of his lips, Zemo says, “Follow me, Conrad.” And with that, he starts moving, you making sure to keep stride. You hear footsteps following after a moment of hesitation.

Zemo leads everyone through the twists and turns of Lowtown. Up stairs, across small narrow walkways several feet in the air, down into the streets.

There in the streets are where all your senses are assaulted. There are neon lights no matter where you twist your head. There is music blasting from various sources, conversations all around you, all of which are in various languages, everything mixing together into a cacophony of noise. It’s no longer drizzling, but the puddles haven’t had the time to evaporate yet, leaving the atmosphere muggy and uncomfortable. The aforementioned smell of acid permeates the air, mixing with smog, leaving each and every one of your breaths unfulfilling.

And still, you remain smiling tucked against Zemo’s side. When colored lights blind you, you look up at him with stars in your eyes. When you pass by a speaker on the street, you simply nuzzle into his side, pressing at least one ear against something to muffle the sound.

For all intents and purposes, you look deeply, terribly in love.

You’re a good actor.

As Zemo directs your group around, you can’t help but to focus on the individuals around you. Something to keep your mind busy. You see people in all shapes and sizes, and almost every single one was committing a felony of some kind.

(Although, weren’t you aiding and abetting a criminal?)

There are so many people openly brandishing weapons that normal civilians weren’t supposed to have their hands on. Storefronts openly advertising the fact that they sell pharmaceuticals that you know should require a prescription at least. Other storefronts displaying product that no doctor in their right mind would prescribe. Large sums of money changing hands at every turn and every corner.

You now see why Madripoor was considered to be a criminal’s safe haven.

It isn’t too long until Zemo leads everyone to one of the many establishments. “Here we are.” Above the entrance is a glowing purple illustration of a screaming monkey.

As you enter, you twist your head around as casually as you can. Above you are triangular overhead lighting, but if you look between them, you can make out lingering rain clouds - an open roof. To the left you see a wall made out of monkey skulls, below it a couch. To the right are various chairs and tables and other seating arrangements, but also a fish tank. Directly ahead is the bar raised on a slight platform. It’s hard to miss, considering the bartop appears to have embedded lights within it. All around the room are red, industrial looking support columns.

Turning around to look at Bucky, Zemo spews some Russian, you think. You catch the word ‘soldat’ at the end, and figure he’s probably ordering Bucky to do something. If you had to guess, you think he’s only doing this to attract everyone’s attention.

You hope so, because eyes snap to Zemo, to you, to Bucky. You hear murmurs of “Is that the Winter Soldier?” from across the crowd.

Zemo ignores this and walks directly to the illuminated bar. On either side of you and Zemo, Sam and Bucky follow.

As you approach, the bartender briefly looks at you before they snap just slightly to the side. Ah, so he recognizes Zemo. That’s… good?

“Hello, gentleman.” His eyes lock onto Sam, and they narrow ever so slightly. “Wasn’t expecting you, Smiling Tiger.”

Damn, he’s familiar with the real Conrad Mack. That’s bad.

Thinking fast, Zemo explains, “His plans changed. We have business to do. With Selby.”

Still staring at Sam, the bartender asks, “The usual?” You can see it in his eyes, the fact that he knows what Smiling Tiger looks like, but is being presented with something that is just a bit off. It’s a look you’re familiar with, and you know that all Sam has to do is do something in-character. Anything.

Didn’t Zemo say that Conrad was charming? Maybe if Sam just smirked or winked or cracked a joke or something, the bartender would leave close enough alone.

Sam, however, is evidently not used to playing someone he’s not. He looks grim and serious when he gives a nod of confirmation.

The bartender looks confused, but he takes a look at Bucky and turns around to prepare the drink.

Hopefully he thinks that the Winter Soldier’s presence is enough to make Conrad act weird.

Zemo rubs his hand against your shoulder, and it is then that you realize that you’ve tensed up. Dropping all the tension, you roll your head up and shoot him a happy little grin. He huffs a small breath out of his nose while his lips curl, a subtle laugh.

Just to the side, however, you see Sam tense up even more than he was before. His eyes are locked to across the counter, so you follow his gaze.

The bartender is holding a snake.

Your nose wrinkles as he places it on the counter and he cuts it open. Gross.

Zemo, on the other hand, can’t hide his delight. With a wide grin and a nod, he teases, “Ah, Smiling Tiger, your favorite.”

Bucky takes one look at the dissected snake and turns to look at the crowd, expression unchanging.

As the bartender plucks something from the innards and places it into a shot glass, you kind of wished that you looked away as well.

You’re in too deep though and now need to see Sam drink this.

Pressing your elbow onto the counter, you prop your head up, your fist pressing against your cheek as you turn to look.

In front of you, the bartender quickly pours two additional shots, slides them in front of you and Zemo, and places the bottle down. His eyes are still locked on Sam.

Sam gingerly takes his glass. He raises it up and proclaims, “I love these,” in a voice that suggests otherwise.

“Cheers, comrade.” Zemo clinks his shot glass against Sam’s, a gentle encouragement.

You grab the shot in front of you and raise it up in solidarity. Zemo clinks against yours, and within a moment you both down your drinks.

It burned, but it was nothing compared to what Sam was going to have to gulp down in a moment.

All eyes on him, Sam ‘mmhm’s, makes like he’s going for it, until he stops at the last second and lowers it, where he then forces himself to down it.

Your amusement is genuine.

Sam gives the bartender a single thumbs-up. The bartender, eyes still locked on Sam’s face, nods and moves on, apparently satisfied.

You feel movement behind you, so with your arm still bracing against the countertop, you twist your head all the way to the left, looking out the corner of your eyes. Similarly, beside you, Zemo turns to look.

A bald man with a fairly groomed beard is directly at your back.

“I got word from on high.” He’s glaring at Zemo. “You ain’t welcome here.”

You turn around completely, leaning against the counter, the edge of it pressing into your back.

Zemo gives a small nod of his head in acknowledgement towards the man. “I have no business with the Power Broker, but if he insists, he can either come talk with me…” He gestures towards Bucky.

Although he is just out of your peripheral vision, you can only assume that he’s glaring again.

“New haircut?” the man questions.

There’s only silence in response.

Zemo continues, “Or bring Selby for a chat.” The threat is implicit.

The man looks at Bucky, to you, to Zemo, and to Sam before he turns around the way he came.

Everyone returns to their positions prior to this interruption.

Looking very tired, Bucky asks Zemo, “A power broker? Really?”

“Every kingdom needs its king. Let’s just pray we stay under his radar.”

“Do you know him?” Sam asks.

With a small tilt of the head, Zemo admits, “Only by reputation.” He turns to face Sam fully. “In Madripoor, he is judge, jury, and executioner.”

With a squint of your eyes off to nowhere in particular, you prod, “So you never met them? How’d you know he’s a ‘he’?”

Turning back, you see a small quirk of his lips. Zemo starts, “Admittedly, I -” His eyes flick towards the crowd behind you and he quiets, turning around completely. As you go to turn, Zemo barks something in Russian, the only word you catch being ‘soldat’ once again.

All around the bar, you feel eyes snap towards your little group.

More importantly, however, you see a decently-sized man in a beanie rapidly approaching, his eyes locked onto Zemo.

Another Russian order is spoken, this one almost a whisper compared to the previous words.

Curiously, instead of facing the threat, Zemo turns around and pulls you close.

Between you two, a hand is thrown on top of Zemo’s shoulder.

Immediately, Bucky’s metal hand shoots out and crunches around the man’s wrist, forcing him away.

Behind you, you see a space opening up as the patrons of the bar step away from Bucky.

Zemo spins you both around, eyes on Bucky.

Unwavering in his grip, Bucky forces the man into the cleared area. Bucky briefly locks eyes with Zemo and glares. The man’s face is contorted with pain, his opposite hand attempting to pry the vibranium fingers off his wrist. 

Flashes of lights appear from the gathering crowd. How wonderful, you sardonically think, they’re recording this.

Within an instant, Bucky releases the man’s wrist, only to brace his opposite hand behind the man’s neck. He throws his prosthetic back and slams the man onto the floor, landing on his shoulders. His uninjured hand grips onto the assaulted shoulder and he groans in pain.

Beside you, you hear Zemo chuckle.

A second man steps into the clearing, this one with stubble adorning his face. He swings his arm back, telegraphing a punch, when Bucky catches it, curling one arm around the man’s arm and locking it into place while he knocks his metal fist into the side of the man’s head. 

Immediately, he drives his fist into the man’s torso, swipes away the arms that go to protect the organs, and kicks the man back, throwing him into an approaching third assailant.

Both of them are thrown several feet away and don’t get back up.

Gasps and murmurs and more phone cameras increase.

Another man attempts to enter the fray, this one on the opposite side of a table. Instead of simply going around it, he moves to slide over it. Instantly, Bucky drops down and swings his leg out, breaking off a leg of the table, causing it to tilt towards him.

The man attempts to abort the move, but it’s too late, both feet on the edge of the table. The smooth surface works against him and forces him down.

Bucky is back on his feet and wastes no time driving a kick into the man’s abdomen.

This whole time, a million thoughts are running through your mind. The first thousand are about Bucky, and if he's okay. A few hundred are spared to think about if the people that Bucky is tossing aside like ragdolls are going to be okay. The next hundred thousands are about every single observation you can make about the way that Bucky is moving, is fighting.

And, stumbling over these observations, one sticks out: This is Bucky, not the Winter Soldier. These moves he's making, he's not moving quickly and efficiently because that's what the Winter Soldier was programmed to do; It's because he wants to get this over with. His eyes are filled with exhaustion and annoyance, his face not showing an obedient soldat, but of a man that's doing what needs to be done, even if he's not happy about it.

You're so deep in your thoughts, eyes tracking Bucky's every movement, that you don't catch what the man to your side is doing until it's too late to stop him. With the hand not curled around you, Zemo grabs a bystander by the arm and throws him towards Bucky.

This man attempts to get a grip on Bucky’s forearms, trying to force them down. Bucky instantly throws a right hook, forcing the man to turn with the punch. It’s followed immediately by a left hook, which throws this man into the table guy, who barely stood up again. They both fall to the ground.

The man who had attempted to join the fight earlier is apparently getting his chance, because he’s stalking toward Bucky. Bucky immediately swings the man around and pummels his fists into his back. One swing forces the man into the air, and the other throws him into a structural support beam.

Zemo leans towards Sam. “Didn’t take much for him to fall back into form.”

He sounds entirely too smug for being so wrong. You drive your elbow into his gut.

A huff of air is forced out of his nose. You don’t move your eyes from Bucky, wanting to make sure that he’s okay, but you can feel Zemo glaring down at you.

In front of you, the man in the beanie makes it back to his feet. Bucky turns around and zeros in on him.

Everyone takes a step back, you and Zemo stepping to one side, Sam to the other.

Bucky grabs the man by his neck and throws him on top of the counter, the vibranium reflecting the counter’s lighting. The man struggles for breath.

It is at that moment that you realize that the phones are no longer recording.

The sound of various weapons being cocked fills the air.

Sam grabs Bucky’s arm.

Zemo, forcing you both to step closer, hisses in a whisper, “Stay in character or the whole bar turns on us.”

Sam draws his arm back.

Clearing his voice, Zemo says some Russian, loud enough for the entire bar to hear.

Bucky slowly drags the man off the counter, his grip loosening.

From the opposite side of the counter, the bartender speaks up, “Selby will see you now.”

“Thank you.” Zemo nods and leads you away, heading to the door in the back of the bar.

After a moment, two sets of footsteps follow.

Behind the door is a small maze of security cameras, metal shelving, and metal fences. Another man joins your group, this one armed. You understand the precaution when, after turning a corner, you see one table piled high with cash in various currencies and the other with various handguns, daggers, and knives laid across it.

“You should know, Baron, people don’t just walk into my bar and make demands.”

Turning one last corner, you see the source of this voice. Sitting on a couch in the middle of what appeared to be a standard backroom, upturned tables included, is a woman with short white hair, draped in multiple layers of fabrics.

Selby.

Zemo leads you both in front of her, his arm draped casually on your shoulder. “Not a demand,” he corrects, “An offer.” There’s an armchair across from Selby and he gently moves you into it. You look up at him and smile as you settle into it, while he stands directly behind it, bringing his hands to rest on your shoulders.

Out of your peripheral vision, Selby looks intrigued. “A lot has changed since you were here last.” She briefly looks at Bucky, who is standing guard to your right, before looking back at Zemo. “By the way, I thought you were busy rotting away in a German prison. How did you escape?”

Zemo chuckles. ”My ‘companion’ here is more than a pretty face.” His hands pat your shoulders.

Bringing a hand up to rest gently on top of one of Zemo’s own hands, you briefly shoot him a dazzling smile before bringing it down to Selby. You shrug, looking as bashful as you can.

“How romantic,” She drawls.

“I’m sure you’ve already figured out what I’m here for,” Zemo cuts to the chase.

Selby, while retaining eye contact with Zemo, points directly at Sam, who has settled to stand to the left. “You’re taller than I’d heard, Smiling Tiger.” She turns her head to face him.

Sam stays silent and only gives a small nod in response.

Selby looks a bit put out, only to let out a teasing purr.

Sam looks just as uncomfortable as ever, which is fine, you suppose.

Turning back to Zemo, Selby smiles and asks, “What’s the offer?”

“Tell us what we want to know about the super soldier serum.” He moves his hands from off your shoulders, and he moves to the right, towards Bucky. Circling him as if he was no different than a car for sale, Zemo continues, ”And we’ll give you him… along with the code words to control him, of course.”

You hazard a glance at Selby, and it looks like she’s very interested in this offer, if her growing smile is anything to go by.

Apparently wanting to be absolutely positive that Selby is interested, Zemo goes on to say, “He will do anything you want.” He plays with Bucky’s bottom lip, wriggling it. Bucky looks as dead-eyed as he can be, a facsimile of the Winter Soldier.

Oh, you hate this.

Selby, however, seems to be eating this up. “Now that’s the Zemo I remember. I’m glad I decided not to kill you immediately.” She settles back into the cushions and nods, smile as wide as can be. “Yeah, you were right to come to me. Arrogant - but right.”

Zemo leaves Bucky’s side and returns to his position behind your seat. Instead of placing his hands back on your shoulders, however, he settles them on the cushion behind your head.

“The super soldier serum is here in Madripoor. Dr. Wilfred Nagel is the man you want to thank,” Selby glaces at Bucky and blows a small raspberry, “or condemn, depending on what side of this you’re on. The Power Broker had him working on the serum but… things didn’t go as planned.”

Zemo inquires, “Is Nagel still in Madripoor?”

Selby’s lips curl up. “Oh, the bread crumbs you can have for free, but the bakery is going to cost you, Baron.” She stands up and stalks around the small coffee table in the middle of the room. “And before you get all cute, don’t think you can find Nagel without me.”

It is at that exact moment, you hear a phone vibrating.

Everyone’s eyes snap directly to the source.

Sam slowly pulls it out of his jacket’s pocket.

You slowly deflate, each vibration leaching every bit of hope that this plan was going to go smoothly out of you.

Selby, the person nearest to Sam, looks at the screen, then at Sam. “Answer it,” she demands, “On speaker.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you realize that Bucky has left his position and was making his way to Selby.

An armed guard realizes this as well, as he moves closer to Sam.

Looking around, Sam slowly accepts the call. In a voice a tad deeper than his normal tone, he answers, “Hello.”

Out of the speakers, you hear, “Hey, umm, we need to talk about this situation. It’s been driving me nuts." You think it’s Sam’s sister, who you barely know anything about. This isn’t good at all.

“What situation are you talking about?”

“...Are you high? You know what situation, it’s the only situation me and you have.”

Selby stalks the outskirts of the room, eyes locked onto Sam like a predator stalking prey.

“What situation, Sarah? Say it!”

“The damn boat! And watch your tone, okay? I let you slide at the bank.”

Sam scoffs, attempting to play it off, “The bank, yeah, laundered so much…” He chuckles, “Yeah, they’ll come around.”

“If that was the case, then why’d they dog you out, Big Time?”

Looking directly at Selby, Sam continues, “Yeah, you’re damn right I’m Big Time. You’ll see when I have that banker killed.”

Static-y, as if she pulled the phone away, the whole room can hear Sarah shout, “Cass! What’d I tell you about the Cheerios? I don’t have time for this!”

Around you, all your teammates’ release a silent breath.

Clearer, Sarah says, “Sam, I’m going to have to call you back.” A moment later, the screen in Sam’s hand goes black. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, the movement filled with regret.

“Sam?” Selby shouts. “Who’s ‘Sam’? Kill them!”

The second those orders leave her lips, a window shatters, a spray of red mist surrounds her, and she drops.

You’re out of the chair, eyes snapping to the window in the back of the room. A third party was listening in.

Around you, Bucky and Sam disarm and knock out the two armed guards.

Zemo calmly walks to the back of the room, your teammates and yourself following shortly behind him. Their eyes are locked on the narrow hallway you’d all entered the room from, weapons drawn.

“They’re going to pin this on us,” Sam states, looking at Zemo.

Zemo takes a single look at Selby’s body and raises his hands up to gesture. “We have a real problem now, so leave your weapons and follow my lead.”

With extreme hesitance, they both do as they’re told. It’s not like anyone here has a choice.

Zemo opens the backdoor, and within a moment, you have left the bar behind.

Walking, not running, your group heads the general direction in which you’ve originally arrived.

Unfortunately, not even ten yards from the glowing neon sign, from all around you hear the noise of several phone notifications going off.

From all around, people’s faces are illuminated by their phones. Which is probably why it’s very easy to see their eyes go from their screens to your group.

Verbalizing the obvious, Zemo says, “This is not good.”

Of course, not even a second later, the lights on the street go dark. 

Almost instantly, that’s when the gunfire starts.

Instinctively crouching, you don’t even think as your legs take you to the nearest alley for cover, as the main gunfire seems to be from ahead.

It seems that Zemo’s instincts have the same idea, as he’s right there beside you.

Which means that Bucky and Sam stayed on the street.

Which is fine. Everything is fine.

Barely ahead of you, his sprint just a tad faster than yours, you see Zemo launch himself at a man who seemed to be struggling to load his handgun.

You hear a motorcycle rev up behind you.

Shit.

And, before you can even fully process what you’re doing, you skid to a complete stop.

Evidently, the motorcycle driver, as well as his armed passenger, weren’t expecting this, as bullets shoot out to where you would have been if you kept running. And, as you hear the engine growing louder louder-

You brace your feet, yank off the metal bracelet that was around your wrist, think strong, heavy, and stable, and you throw your very large arm out as you step to the side -

And you completely clothesline both riders, twisting to slam them onto the ground, the motorcycle speeding forward without them and rolling over, narrowly avoiding Zemo, who looks over at you and furrows his brows.

Beside him, his would-be assailant is crumpled to the ground.

You immediately shift back to how you looked moments prior. A bigger body was just going to be a bigger target. You start running and shout, “Let’s go!”

Zemo doesn’t need to be told twice.

Running beside him, you see that he’s acquired the other man’s weapon. How nice.

You also realize, to your great displeasure, that you ripped the clothing Zemo gave you. The sleeves of the blazer were hanging off the torso by threads, not even clinging to your arms. On top of that, you’re sure that you tore through the backs of both the blazer and the button-up. Your calves and part of your thighs also seemed to be getting an awful lot of air, so you can only assume that you popped some seams there too. How wonderful.

You turn a corner, and straight ahead you see two familiar figures. And a third unfamiliar figure, facing away from you.

Beside you, Zemo lifts his pilfered gun.

You hear a gunshot, alright.

Just not from Zemo.

This bullet comes from above, plunging into the man’s head.

Sam and Bucky look just as startled, and it is then that you notice that there are two more motorcycles behind them, these lacking armed passengers.

So you don’t know why you’re surprised when you hear two more gunshots and they drop.

Confusion evident in all your faces, everyone gathers to the middle of the alley.

“You seem to have a guardian angel,” is all Zemo has to say.

Behind you, you hear, “Well, this is too perfect.” When you turn, you see a blonde woman approaching, gun drawn but aimed only at Zemo. “Drop it, Zemo.”

Without turning, Zemo crouches and drops his gun to the ground.

“Sharon?” Bucky asks. Did Bucky know her?

She ignores Bucky completely. “You cost me everything.” She steps closer, eyes hardened and glaring at Zemo, weapon still drawn.

You and Zemo step closer to the others.

Sam holds his hands up in a placating manner and places himself between Zemo and her. “Sharon, wait.”

She kicks Zemo’s gun to the side and steps closer.

Sam continues, “Someone recreated the super soldier serum and Zemo had a lead.”

She nods her head, “That explains why you’re here. And Selby’s dead.” Her arms are still up.

Bucky asks, ”So what are you doing here?”

She narrows her eyes. “I stole Steve’s shield, remember?”

Oh! Sharon! You know who she is, Steve told you about her! She was a good guy!

Admittedly, a good guy that was still pointing a gun at an ally. “I also took the wings for your ass,” she gestures the gun towards Sam, “so you can save his ass” she gestures it to Bucky, “from his ass.” She points the gun back to Zemo. She narrows her eyes at you. “I also have no idea who this ass is. And I don’t care.”

Okay, scratch that, she isn’t a good guy, she was mean.

She huffs at Sam, “Unlike you, I didn’t have the Avengers to back me up.” Finally, she lowers the gun. “So, I’m off the grid in Madripoor.”

“Don’t blow smoke at me, we were on the run too,” Sam fires back.

“Was. Is. Big difference. I don’t speak to my family anymore.” She shakes her head. “I can’t. My own father doesn’t know where I am.”

“Listen…” Bucky starts, “Sharon, we need your help.”

She immediately lets out a laugh.

“Please,” Bucky pleads.

Shaking her head in what looks to be amazement at his audacity, she sighs, “This isn’t over.” Her shoulders drop and she tilts her head to the side, further down the street. “I have a place in Hightown. You should be safe there for a while.”

And with that final remark, she stalks away.

Bucky quickly makes eye contact with Sam, then you, before he jerks his head towards Sharon and follows. You take that as a sign that she’s trustworthy (or, bare minimum, the closest thing to trustworthy in Madripoor when you all currently had a bounty of some kind on your heads) and you follow as well. Out of your peripheral vision, you can see Sam pushing Zemo ahead of him as they are just a step behind you.

The back streets are dead quiet and illuminated only by neighboring light pollution and moonlight peeking from behind the lingering rainclouds. It's a stark contrast to the near sensory-overloading speakers and neon that marked your arrival to Lowtown.

Everyone keeps their footsteps light, not wanting to draw any attention. The most attention-grabbing noise you hear is the soft whistles of the wind and the crackling of litter being blown across the streets.

You wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly all too aware of the state of your clothing, the breeze chilling your skin where it was revealed through the rips and tears. It's nothing that you haven't dealt with before, but the chill of the air mixed with the heat of adrenaline rushing through your veins leaves you feeling clammy and uncomfortable.

On the edge of your peripheral vision, a fur-collared coat is held out.

Turning your head, you see that Zemo has shrugged his coat off and was currently holding it out to you. Behind him, Sam is squinting his eyes at Zemo, but other than that, he makes no move to stop him. 

You stare at the coat without fully comprehending what’s happening. 

At your silence and befuddlement, Zemo offers, in a voice low enough that you’re unsure if you would’ve heard if you weren’t directly beside him, “It’s my fault that the clothing I’ve gotten for you is… in this state. Please, take my coat. It’s the least I could do.”

Hesitatingly, you take it. It’s a large coat, but not long enough to drag on the floor with your frame. You shrug it on and instantly start feeling better, the inside having retained some of Zemo’s body heat. The fact that it completely covers your torn clothing only helps, easing any anxiety of it being used to identify or hinder you or your group.

You whisper, “Thank you,” and keep your eyes on Bucky and Sharon up ahead. 

Much to your relief, after only a few blocks, Sharon reaches into her pocket and fishes her keys out. She presses a button and the lights of a nearby vehicle briefly illuminate as she unlocks it.

As she pulls the driver’s door open, Zemo quickens his pace to get to the passenger’s side door.

It is at that moment that Sharon’s voice cuts through the silence, “Hey. Absolutely not.” 

Zemo’s hand rests on the handle as Sharon glares at him from across the top of the car. He looks somewhat offended.

Sharon continues, “In fact, you know what? I don’t even want to risk seeing you when I check my mirrors. You’re sitting behind me, got it?” She doesn’t bother waiting for a response, immediately sliding into her seat and starting the car.

Zemo pouts, but does as he’s told, Sam taking the passenger’s seat in his stead.

Unfortunately, this means that you are once again saddled in the middle seat, Zemo to your left and Bucky to your right.

As soon as Zemo shuts his door, the car immediately gets moving.

The first few minutes of the drive are spent in tense silence as Sharon maneuvers the car throughout the various backstreets of Lowtown.

Beside you, Bucky tenses his jaw, but upon closer reflection, you think it might just be because Sam adjusted his seat back, causing it to stop right where it made contact with Bucky’s knees.

You couldn’t really blame Sam, as it was a small car, but for Bucky’s sake you hope that Madripoor doesn't have much traffic at two in the morning.

As the minutes pass, your heartbeat slowly gets back to pumping normally, adrenaline no longer filling your veins as your body becomes aware that you were no longer running for your life. Of course, this leaves you feeling worse than you did before.

Mindful of the two bodies on either side of you, you dig inside your blazer’s inner pocket. Fingers brushing against your phone, you pull out a small lollipop. You crumble the wrapper in your hand and pop the candy into your mouth, dropping your head against the headrest. The fur collar tickles the sides of your cheeks, but you do your best to ignore it.

Of course, in the silence of the car, the crumbling of the wrapper draws everyone’s attention back to you. Straight ahead of you, Sharon adjusts the rearview mirror, and within a moment you’re staring into her eyes.

There’s a long moment as you both just stare at each other, you idly sucking on the sucker, before she refocuses her gaze onto the road.

Sharon clears her throat before she speaks. “... I might have been a tad overzealous earlier. What’s your deal?”

You think it over. Even though she seemed a bit jaded now, Steve told you about Sharon and how she was a good person. She was helping all of you, Zemo included, even though he was arguably the reason she was here in the first place. What was the harm in telling her the truth? Besides, Zemo already knew, and he was literally a terrorist.

You push the lollipop to your cheek and answer. “I’m a shapeshifter. I’m here to help Sam and Bucky. I can’t shift clothes. I went huge for a moment, and now I’m suffering the consequences of my actions.” You pop the candy out of your mouth for a moment, holding up the lollipop. “Glucose levels get weird sometimes. Sugar helps.” You pop the candy back into your mouth, dropping your arm back to your lap.

“Huh.” Sharon looks back at you for a moment, eyes assessing as they flick between the road and you. “That explains your current get-up.”

You roll your eyes until they land on Zemo. “Yeah, for some reason I put off telling the man we helped escape from prison that I had powers until the last minute. My mistake.” 

Zemo only narrows his eyes at you.

“He,” you look back to the mirror and jerk your head towards Zemo, “ordered everyone’s clothes without asking. They fit perfectly… until they didn’t.”

She nods. “That explains Sam’s current get-up.” She shoots him a smile.

Sam gives her a withering look in return.

Sharon continues smiling as she focuses on the road. “Well, you’re all in luck. I have racks of clothing intended for overnight guests, but I suppose you can all borrow some items. Probably for the best, considering the bounty on your heads.”

Sam lets out a small sigh, “Thanks again for doing this for us.”

Tight-lipped and in a sigh, Sharon replies, “Yeah, don’t mention it.”

The inside of the car remains silent after that. It doesn’t take too long for you to realize when you’ve left Lowtown behind for Hightown, the most defining characteristic being the amount of high rise buildings all around. Sharon navigates with the sort of automatic ease of someone familiar with every turn and bend. Before long, somewhere in the middle of the city, she pulls up to a gated building.

“Here we are.” Sharon takes the keys out of the ignition, and everyone exits the vehicle.

Woah.

In your experience, the higher the gates, the deeper the pockets, and considering the front gate looked to be about twelve feet high, you think that Sharon has been working hard in Madripoor.

As you cross the threshold, you see two guards on either side of the pathway. Both were well-dressed and well-groomed, but you could just barely make out the lines of concealed weapons on them. If you weren’t looking, you don’t think you would have noticed. Remembering the fact that everyone in Lowtown was openly carrying, you think that this might be another difference between there and here.

Sharon leads everyone inside, revealing a threadbare but extravagant lobby. There’s a woman at a front desk, whom Sharon nods to as she passes. Continuing forward, you’re greeted to a hallway with four elevators, Sharon immediately summoning one down.

In less than a minute, several floors up, you can see why the security outside was needed.

There had to be several dozen displays spread throughout the room, every single one of them eye-catching - that wasn’t even taking into consideration the fact that they were all outlined in bright LEDs, standing out in the otherwise black and reflective room. No, what your eyes were focused on were what was being displayed - art.

Not just any art though. Famous art. The ones that were in history books, the ones’ whose artists were household names. The kind that were displayed at museums, and, if you squint, you think you even saw one of these a few years ago at an exhibition… at least, a version of one.

“Looks like breaking all those laws is treating you well,” Sam is the first to speak.

Sharon shrugs, “I thought if I had to hustle, might as well enjoy the life of a real hustler.” She jerks her thumb to one of the many displays and quips, “You know how much I can get for a Monet?”

Sam scoffs, “Deactivate your hustle mode, you sell fake Monets.”

“No, she means real,” Zemo corrects. “This gallery is specialized in stolen artworks. Monet, Van Gogh, the classics.”

Sam stops walking and stares at the nearest painting - Monet’s Woman with Parasol. His wife and their son, if you remember art class correctly. You slow down and stand next to Sam, admiring it.

“It’s true,” Bucky pipes up as he slows his pace. “Ya’know, half of the artwork in museums like the Louvre is fake. Real stuff sits in places like this.”

Sam shakes his head and pulls out his phone. “Okay, guys, I see what you’re doing. You’re more worldly than good ol’ Sam.”

You laugh. “Nothing ‘worldly’ about it, this comes up in, like, every art heist movie. Some museums even have multiples of each painting and rotate them out!”

Bucky passes behind the both of you, teasing Sam, “What’s Google say?”

Sam finishes scanning his screen before looking at the painting in front of him in amazement. “No shit.”

Sharon interrupts Sam’s worldview being shaken by saying, “C’mon, you guys need to change. I’m hosting clients in an hour.”

You pat Sam’s back as you both follow the rest of the group.

Sharon leads everyone to a stairwell and up a floor, the upstair’s door requiring a swipe of a keycard. Upon entering, you’re greeted to rooms almost entirely the opposite of the gallery below.

Whereas the gallery was modern, straight lines, sharp angles, bright lights, and reflective surfaces as far as you could see, this level of the building was… almost the opposite. The lighting was warm, emanating from various lamps spread across the rooms, and unlike the floor below you, this floor had large ornate windows, showing off just a bit of the streets below.

Turning a corner, Sharon leads everyone into what you can only assume is her main office, the main giveaway being a table in the corner with an actual, real life, rolodex on it. You guess that they still had value, physical index cards being something that others couldn’t simply hack, and that Sharon and her clients might appreciate the lack of digital paper trail.

In front of it, sat a large, yellow couch, stylistically curved, yet still looking comfortable. Matching ottomans sat around the room, one sitting in front of a glass counter that displayed golden stemware and gold-accented glasses alongside various liquors and decanters. Speaking of glass, you notice three glass displays set against each wall of the room, each displaying some kind of sparkling jewelry. On the opposite side of the room sits a grand piano, and you wonder if Sharon knows how to play.

Walking further into the room, Sharon turns around and you realize there’s a small curtain next to an additional staircase, this one likely leading to more of Sharon’s actual living quarters. She pushes the curtain aside and pulls out a clothing rack filled with clothes of various sizes. It reminds you of your closet at home, except instead of the clothes originating from thrift stores, these clothes most definitely cost more than a handful of crumpled dollar bills.

“Alright, take your pick. Anything that you leave behind, I’ll either add to the rack or,” Sharon’s eyes latch onto Sam’s suit jacket and she smirks, “burn.”

Bucky immediately unbuckles and strips the harness off, tossing it onto the nearby couch. “Feel free to start with this.”

Zemo huffs, but otherwise stays silent as he walks around the perimeter of the room, eyes latching onto every little thing.

Sharon looks back at Sam, eyes darting from shoulder to shoulder. With a small sigh, she says, “I have a jacket that should fit you, I’ll bring it after I change.” She turns around and ascends the small staircase, instructing, “Everyone else? Don’t touch anything you’re not supposed to.”

Stepping beside Bucky, Sam stays back and leans against the back of the couch, giving you and Bucky the space to browse.

Your options were pretty limited. It seemed that Sharon’s ‘overnight guests’ were big fans of sequins, considering that there were several pieces of clothing that were completely covered in them. Besides that, you note that all the options here seemed to skew ‘rich.’

Beside you, Bucky unzips his one-armed jacket off, tossing it to the same place as the harness.

You reach up and pull the first pair of pants you see off the rack. They’re black denim and several sizes too big. They’re perfect.

While they’re still in your hands, you take a step back and start cuffing the legs so as to not stumble over them when you put them on. Bucky slides some pieces aside, looking for pants in his own size. 

Folding the pants over your arm, you go to unbuckle the belt you were wearing. It takes a moment, your fingers momentarily forgetting that it isn’t your usual belt and stilling. You knew how to put it on, but how did you take it off?

You grasp at it, fingers looking for a notch or something, before you roll your eyes and just shift your hips enough that you can simply shove the torn pants off. You leave it at a pile at your feet for the moment, tugging the perfectly pristine pants on, mindful of the long coat you were still wearing.

With one hand gripping the waistband of the oversized pants, you scoop the belt and the shreds of fabric it was attached to up and walk over to Zemo.

Crossing the room, you ask, “Hey, how does this belt buckle work? It’s weird.”

Head turning and lips quirking, Zemo turns from inspecting the grand piano to face you. “You were able to get it on, no? Do you really need my help taking it off?”

You roll your eyes as you stop in front of him, shoving the belt and pants into the grip of your opposite hand, mindful of the fact that you were not interested in pantsing yourself. “I mean, I could figure it out…” You shrug Zemo’s coat off your shoulders, momentarily switching hands to get it completely off, before you hold it out to Zemo. “But I also wanted to give this back to you.”

Still smirking, Zemo takes the coat and immediately drapes it over his arm. “Of course,” he concedes. His hands open up towards you, and you deposit the belt and fabric into them.

His eyes immediately analyze the buckle, hands turning it over. Gesturing you closer, he brings your attention to the bottom of the buckle. “There’s a switch here,” his thumb pushes it, “which unlocks the faceplate. From there, it should be like normal.” He proceeds to fully unbuckle it.

“Ah.” You take it back and turn around, wiggling the belt to get it out of the belt loops. “Thanks.”

“Happy to help.”

Facing away from him, you release a silent sigh. As you return to your spot next to the rack, you note that Bucky had pulled his pants on without incident while Sam had done the same, both pairs draped over the couch. Sam was currently standing next to Sharon’s desk, pulling off the assorted jewelry he’d had to wear. 

As soon as you reach the rack, you drop what used to be pants where Bucky had placed his stuff. You loop the belt into your belt loops, tightening and buckling it. Your eyes scan the clothing rack before you choose a purple, almost black, button-up. As you pull it off the hanger, you realize that the fabric itself was semi-lustrous, as when you moved it, light partially reflected on it, revealing that it was patterned with stars of varying sizes, the purple nature really coming through. It was subtle, which was more than can be said about all the sequined items. As a bonus, you loved stars.

Laying the shirt on the back of the couch, you look down at the shirt and blazer you were currently wearing. They were already torn… so you might as well get some joy where you can get it. With a smile, your hands moved away from the buttons, moving your phone into your pant’s pocket, and up to your shoulders, gripping the fabric there.

Rip!

In each hand, you gripped a piece of your shirt and blazer, both having torn apart completely at your back. You immediately shrug your chosen button-up on, fingers working on the buttons as you turn around.

Sam and Bucky are both staring at you, eyebrows raised. Bucky was sliding a black blazer on over a black shirt, while Sam was unbuttoning his own button-up, his jacket and vest draped over a chair next to the desk.

You laugh, “What? It was already ruined!” You drop the remains of the clothing onto the pile and move to sit on the end of the couch.

Sam lets out a small chuckle, while Bucky just rolls his eyes, moving past you to sit on the center of the couch.

You look back over to see what Zemo’s up to, and see him smiling as makes his way over to Sharon’s small bar.

You hear footsteps descend down the staircase, and right as Sam goes to stand in front of the clothing rack to pick something for himself, Sharon reappears.

Taking one look at Sam’s shirtless torso, with a smile she says, “Much better.” She continues past him and you can see that she’s swapped her turtleneck for a black blouse with a square neckline. 

Sam rolls his eyes and takes a turtleneck off the rack. “What’s going on, Sharon? You don’t ever want to come back home?”

“They’ll lock me up if I step back in the States.” You can see that she has a brown leather jacket in her arms, which she places on the couch next to you. Continuing to her desk, she explains, “Madripoor doesn’t allow extradition.”

Sam sighs. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t call, but after the Blip and the chaos, I…”

“Look, you know the whole hero thing is a joke, right?” Twisting to look behind you, you see that Sharon is staring Sam down. “The way you gave up that shield, deep down, you must know it’s all hypocrisy.”

“He knows. And not so deep down,” Zemo pipes up from Sharon’s bar. You can see that he’s disregarded Sharon’s request, leaning against the counter with a drink in his hand.

“By the way, how is the new Cap?” Sharon asks. Evidently, it looks like the news of ‘Captain America’ and the Falcon’s fight against the Flag Smashers has made its way to Madripoor.

“Don’t get me started...” Bucky huffs, turning to look out the window.

Sharon scoffs, “Please. You buy into all that stars and stripes bullshit.” She walks around the couch, sitting on Bucky’s opposite side. “Before you were his pet psychopath,” she gestures to Zemo, “you were Mr. America! Cap’s best friend!” She bites her lip and her shoulders shake, stifling laughter.

You snort. “Bucky spends, like, a quarter of all the time we’ve spent together complaining about how he had hoped the government would’ve gotten their shit together by now.”

Bucky squints his eyes at you, unsure of whether or not you were helping, while Sharon’s eyebrows raise and smile grows, clearly interested in this facet of Bucky she hasn’t witnessed.

Sam interrupts this little conversation by bringing things back on track. “Karli Morganthau and at least seven others have taken the serum.” He fixes the turtleneck’s collar as he settles into a chair nearest to the couch, next to a side table by the windows.

“You guys really should steer clear of all this,” Sharon’s smile drops and she shakes her head, “for your own safety.”

“We know it’s a risk, but we’re not going to leave until we find the person who cracked the code.” Sam leans forward, determined.

“We got a name,” Bucky adds. “Wilfred Nagel.”

Sharon thinks for a second before she stands up, headed toward her bar. “Nagel works for the Power Broker.” As she approaches, Zemo wisely steps away, heading to the chair on the opposite side of the side table. He drapes his coat over the armrest before sitting.

“We need your help, Sharon.” Sam pleads. “I can get your name cleared.” 

Sharon pours herself a drink, placing the decanter down with a bit more force than necessary. “You haggling with my life?”

“Not like that.”

“I don’t buy that. You pretending like you can clear my name.” She settles down on the ottoman next to the counter, staring Sam down.

“Okay, maybe it is hypocrisy. Maybe you’re right, what happened to you.” Sam stands up, making his way to Sharon. “But I’m willing to try if you are.” He stops in front of her, dropping his voice low. “They cleared the bionic staring machine and he killed almost everybody he’s ever met.”

“I heard that,” Bucky snarks.

Sharon shakes her head, “I don’t trust charity.” 

“All right, a deal then.” Sam crosses his arms. “You help us out, and I get your name cleared.” He holds his right hand out.

Sharon stares at it for a moment.

With a sigh, she accepts it.

Taking a sip of her drink before she sets it on the counter, Sharon stands up and walks toward the stairs. “Well, I sell to pretty connected people. Lay low, blend in, enjoy the party. Try to stay out of trouble, I’ll see what I can find.” She heads up the stairs, disappearing from sight.

Zemo shrugs. “Trouble.”

Beside you, Bucky rolls his eyes as he stands up, heading back to the stairwell.

Everyone follows, getting to their feet. Zemo takes a look at his coat, before stepping forward and leaving it behind on the chair.

With everyone ready, your group heads downstairs.

While walking down the stairs, Sam looks back at Zemo. “You’re not going to leave anyone’s sight, got it?”

Zemo rolls his eyes. “Please, if I wanted to leave, I’d have done so earlier.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course. I have a mission, and I intend on completing it.”

“Sure you do,” is all Sam has to say.

As you exit, you see that quite a few guests had already arrived, including a DJ, who had set up and was playing music that didn’t seem all too different from what played in clubs back in New York. The lights had dimmed just a smidge more, allowing the lights of the gallery and the lights of the screens embedded on the wall to take precedence.

It looked like any other club, if you ignored the fact that there were literal masterpieces spread throughout the room.

Sam takes the lead and leads everyone to the bar, immediately ordering himself a drink. Zemo orders one as well, but Bucky shakes his head, not interested. When the bartender looks at you, you request a simple Shirley Temple, not interested in any more alcohol for the night.

Drinks acquired, Zemo looks over to the mass of bodies that were thumping to the beat, head nodding along to the music. Looking back at Sam and Bucky, he wordlessly jerks his thumb towards the dance floor, a silent request.

Sam sighs, taking a sip of his drink. “You know what? Knock yourself out.”

With a smile, Zemo finishes his drink and immediately joins the mass of moving bodies.

From your spot at the bar, you can still pick him out from the crowd.

He…

Well, you couldn’t deny that what he was doing wasn’t dancing.

You take a sip of your Shirley Temple to hide your amusement.

Sam looks at his empty glass before glancing at you. His eyes roam the crowd before he finds Zemo again. “You okay with keeping an eye on him?”

You smile. “Yeah, I’m cool with that.”

Sam returns the smile. “We’ll be over there,” he points to the right of the room, “looking at the art if you need to find us.”

You nod, adding, “We’ll join you when he’s done.”

Sam nods and he and Bucky move through the crowd, out of your sight.

You take another sip of your drink as your eyes find Zemo.

Nursing your sweet drink, minutes pass as you watch Zemo move around the dance floor, attempting to - and, surprisingly, succeeding at - getting others to dance with him.

When you reach the bottom of your glass, you twist in your seat to place it on the counter behind you.

With a jolt, you are suddenly all too aware of your bladder. It sits heavy in your abdomen, and it is at this moment that you realize that you've only dealt with some of the side effects of shifting large.

You had completely forgotten about the shot you took earlier, and the water on the jet.

You had known that after the whole 'running for your life' thing that you were sober. You didn't take into account that it meant that your kidneys and liver had done their job.

Sliding off the stool, you look around. Sharon had to have a bathroom for these parties somewhere. Eyes jumping from wall to wall, you try to take note of anywhere that would potentially lead to a hallway, which would in turn lead to a bathroom.

There. On the opposite end of the room, on the other side of the bar. You knew that on this side of the bar, it only led to the stairwell, which would theoretically mean that on the other side, it would lead to something else. A bathroom, hopefully.

Of course, that meant that you would have to straddle the line between the bar and the dance floor. Taking a deep breath, you start walking.

Predictably, despite your quiet utterances of “excuse me” and “pardon me”, the drinkers and the dancers aren’t too keen on getting out of your way. Breathing carefully, you do your best to go around anyone in your path, everso mindful of the liquid that was sloshing in your bladder.

Unfortunately, someone near the edge of the dance floor, right as you’re going around a woman at the bar, stumbles into you. They mutter a quick apology, barely even acknowledging you, before they return to the large mass of dancing bodies.

You still for a moment.

It didn’t feel like you leaked. You look down at your pants, and upon seeing nothing, tentatively continue on your journey.

As you make your way to the end of the bar, you almost relax when you see that there are, in fact, bathrooms over here. Almost. You know better than that and you instead tense your body up even more as you make your way over to the first doorway you see.

It’s a fairly large bathroom. Looking around as you continue to walk, you realize that both set of doors led to this room, each wall having both stalls and urinals, a row of sinks lined up in the center of the room.

You make your way to a stall, for maximum privacy.

Your hands go to your belt buckle. They still, and your head darts down. How did… How did this one work again? A bead of sweat forms on your forehead as you bounce up and down, fingers dancing around this stupid buckle Zemo gave you. Thighs press together as you struggle to remember how it opened barely twenty minutes ago, fingers trembling as they unbutton and unzip your pants.

You shove them off as you twist to sit on the toilet, knees giving out under you.

You made it.

You let out a shaky breath and rest your head in your hands as your bladder empties itself not a moment too soon. As you finish and remove them, however, you’re greeted to an unwelcome sight.

The crotch of your underwear.

There was a baseball sized wet patch on the crotch.

Blood rushes to your face and here, in the privacy of this stall, you allow it.

How could you let this happen?

You weren’t little right now. You were big. Why didn’t you notice you had to go earlier?

You take a deep breath and slowly release it.

It’s okay. Accidents happen to everyone, but especially littles, which is what you were, no matter your headspace. Earlier, you had more pressing matters to concern yourself with, such as the objectives of not being shot and changing into untorn clothes.

You sigh.

It still didn’t mean that you had to like it. Besides, you know that you have a low alcohol tolerance. You know that shifting to a different size meant that your organs got all confused sometimes. You guess that your brain was just too panicked to think properly.

You wad up some toilet paper and squeeze the crotch of your underwear. Tossing the paper into the toilet that you sat on, you looked at the damage.

It… definitely could’ve been a lot worse.

Looking at the actual pants, you could see that there wasn’t a drop of liquid within them.

Okay, you could work with that.

You squeeze out your undies again, and examine them. They weren’t… that bad, you guess. They were definitely damp, but they weren’t soaking wet.

You think it over.

While wearing damp undies weren’t preferable, going commando wasn’t an option. You had literally torn your pants open earlier, your underwear saving any dignity you pretended to have. Evidently, right now, they had saved you from wet pants. That meant that if something happened, you would much prefer to have underwear on.

You rub some dry toilet paper over the crotch one last time, attempting to pick up as much moisture as possible. You clean yourself up. And you pull everything back up.

Yeah, it wasn’t very comfortable.

But, you didn’t really have a choice.

You buckle your belt back up, flush, and thoroughly wash your hands clean. Looking up at the mirror, you make sure that your cheeks are no longer reddened. Satisfied, you run your wet hands through your hair, styling it to your liking while also drying your hands.

Okay. You could handle this.

With a carefully constructed smile on your face, you leave the bathroom. Sitting down would just make you all too aware of the state of your underwear, so instead of returning to your spot at the bar, you decide to see if you can find Zemo.

You really hoped that he didn’t bolt while you were… otherwise occupied.

Shimmying and moving through the crowd, you head towards the last spot you saw him at.

It takes a moment but soon he’s in your sights. 

A giggle works its way out of you, muffled only by the music that surrounds the dance floor.

Zemo danced like… like a dad.

Which is to say that there was lots of shuffling side to side, head bopping, and unnecessary clapping - only some of which timed to the beat.

It takes a moment, but when he snakes his head side to side, his head moves enough that he turns to see you.

Immediately, his grin grows wider. His hands gesture you over.

Humoring him, you step closer. 

He takes your hands in his own, pushing them back and forth, moving your shoulders in the process.

You laugh, this move reminiscent of how you used to dance with friends at school dances.

Emboldened by your laughter, Zemo releases one hand, only to take your other hand and use it to spin you around.

Absolutely none of this was to the beat of the music, but you couldn’t find it within yourself to care.

You had just spent the last three- no, four? days doing your absolute best to make sure that Sam and Bucky would see that you were a little that was perfectly capable of doing what needed to be done for the good of the mission. Worrying about a bunch of people with super strength. Having to deal with not one, but two government agents that looked to have a bit of a stalking problem, who were a bit too invested in your friends.

Sure, the man that you were currently dancing with may or may not have escaped from prison, may or may not have killed other people.

But, technically speaking, couldn’t the same be said about Bucky? About Sam?

Admittedly, it looked like Sharon avoided prison. But you definitely saw her shoot at least three people less than an hour ago. People that intended to cash in on a bounty on your head, sure, but people nonetheless.

Bare minimum, you think you could be allowed a moment of levity - if it was with Zemo, so be it.

So, with a genuine smile on your face, you take one of Zemo’s hands and twirl him around.

He squints at you when you complete the rotation, nose crinkling, but his eyes and smile betray his amusement.

You release his hand with a snort, moving both of your hands as you do your best to actually dance with the tempo. With each pulse of the bass, you can’t help but to bounce on the balls of your feet.

Zemo briefly attempts to match your moves, before reverting back to his own.

It turns out that both of you have an excess of energy, because it takes a full hour before either of you tires.

Zemo slows his moves as he glances around the club. His eyes land on the closest piece of art, and he jerks both his head and a thumb towards it.

Getting the message, you nod, and both of you make your way through the crowd. You think nothing of it when he reaches back and takes your hand.

Unlike your earlier experience, this journey goes much more smoothly, people seemingly more willing to get out of Zemo’s way than your own.

The music is still loud, but it’s no longer blaring as you get closer to the art gallery. Despite this fact, there are still people dancing around the edges of the gallery, alarmingly close to these priceless artworks.

You’re very grateful for the foresight Sharon seemed to have, as the art closest to the dancefloor seemed to be hung higher than the rest, out of reach from the boisterous crowd.

Even though it’s a bit hard to see from your height, you can make out men and women in suits standing next to each pillar as well. More of Sharon’s security. Their presence makes sense, serving to both protect and sell the art, tablets visible in their hands as you near them.

You see Sam from around the corner. He’s chatting with a small group of people, Bucky right next to him. Bucky’s eyes wander, eyes flicking over to Zemo, then to you, and he mouths, “He good?”

You shoot him a thumbs up and a nod, releasing Zemo’s hand, and Bucky gives you a small smile in return.

Not up to making conversation right now, you decide to just look at Sharon’s gallery. After all, being this close to so many masterpieces wasn’t something that happens everyday. If anything, this may very well be one of the last times these pieces are displayed in public and not stashed away in some guy’s mansion.

Mindful of Sharon’s potential clients, you look at the painting directly in front of you.

You saw it before, in a museum. Except…

You squint, trying to make out the specific brushstrokes in this more than subpar lighting.

There.

Right at eye level, you remember looking at his exact spot. That day in the museum, you had taken note of the movement of the brush in the oil paint. You had pictured the way that the artist would have moved their arm, moved their wrist just so -

You had remembered this spot, this painting, because you had specifically wondered if that painting was the real thing.

And now, as you saw how the brushstroke was just a smidge different, how it curved just a moment too soon, you have your answer.

You huff a laugh, remembering your conclusions that day.

You had decided that it didn’t matter if it was real or not, who the real artist was. What mattered was, as you take a step back to see the full painting, that it was nice to look at.

Taking a step back, you give the painting one last look before moving on to the next piece of art.

You lose track of time, too focused on the artwork that you knew you’d likely never see again.

When Sharon rears her head again, you and the rest of the guys have gathered together, looking at a painting.

“Hey, guys.” She nods her head toward the exit, “I found him.”

“Here we go,” Sam says, and after one last lingering look at the gallery, you all follow after Sharon.

She leads everyone back to her office. “Probably best if we don’t show up empty handed,” she adds as an explanation.

She disappears for a moment, in one of the rooms above her office.

Zemo takes the opportunity to shrug his coat back on.

Sharon returns promptly, sporting a green raincoat and holding a large, metallic briefcase in hand, settling it down on her desk.

Everyone crowds around her, Zemo wise enough to keep a fair bit of distance between him and Sharon.

As she unlocks the case, she opens it up to reveal several firearms.

She passes a handgun and its magazine to Bucky, who immediately checks it over, loads it, and places it in the waistband of his pants, at his back.

Sharon offers one to Sam, who looks at it before he takes it, resignedly doing the same as Bucky.

When Sharon holds out the third handgun to you, you let out a nervous laugh. You hold your hands up and stammer, “O-Oh-! Thanks…! I can’t - well, I can, but - I can’t… use this…"

As expected, everyone turns their eyes to you.

“What do you mean you ‘can’t use this’?” Sam asks, not unkindly.

You drop your hands down, forcing them into your pockets so as to not fidget with them. “I mean that the most that I’ve done with guns is immediately unclip its magazine, empty its barrel, or flick the safety on? Just… y’know, getting it to a state where it can’t be used to shoot me? I tend to just kick them away and fight hand to hand...” You shrug and mumble, “Technically, Steve taught me how to aim and stuff, but that was three years ago…”

Nobody lets out a sigh, but you’re pretty sure that it’s only because they have more restraint than you. Their silence is almost worse, though, as when you look to their faces you can see each of them thinking this information over.

Likely coming to the conclusion that you were more of a liability than an asset. That they should just leave you behind.

That you weren’t worth keeping around.

You gulp, mouth suddenly very dry. 

Bucky’s mouth tightens to a narrow line as he steps closer to you, taking the gun from Sharon’s hand. He looks it over.

“Steve taught you?” Bucky clarifies.

You nod.

Bucky looks at the gun then back to you. “Okay.” He holds it out from the barrel.

Hesitantly, you take it.

“Now,” he narrows his eyes, “show me what you know.”

Looking down at the firearm, you repeat what you saw both Sam and Bucky do just moments prior. You pay extra attention to making sure that the safety is on before you aim it at the empty office, assuming the position that Steve told you was best to counter recoil.

You can feel everyone else’s eyes on you, judging your form.

Each and every single one of them had joined a government branch that involved firearms, you couldn’t be blamed for not doing the same.

Bucky’s nostrils flare a bit as he huffs out a silent breath through his nose. He gives a single nod and you slowly move out of position, moving the gun to the waistband of your own pants.

“You’re not in New York. You’re in Madripoor. These aren’t going to be some two-bit mugger with a box-cutter or somethin’, looking for some spare change. We’re likely going to run into bounty hunters - people who intend on killing us for much more than just pocket change. If you see someone, you need to be the first to shoot. Got it?”

“Got it,” you squeak out.

Eyes sweeping the briefcase on the desk, Zemo asks, “Do I get anything?”

You drift back to the rack of clothing, searching for a coat or jacket that can cover the gun in your waistband.

Sharon laughs in Zemo’s face. “Definitely not. If you think I’d be willing to give you a weapon, you’re crazier than I thought.” She smiles, wiping an imaginary tear from her eye as she turns back to the briefcase. “You can however… have this.” She holds out a small flashlight, no larger than a marker.

Right when you think that you’re going to have to settle with something covered in sequins, you manage to find a bomber jacket wedged between some pants. It’s not as large as the shirt you’re wearing, but it’s enough, so you shrug it on as you re-group.

Zemo’s mouth is drawn into a tight line, but he accepts the flashlight without a word.

Everyone as armed as they can be, Sharon leads the group to a smaller elevator within her apartment. It takes everyone directly to the ground floor, to the opposite side of where Sharon had directed you all when you’d arrived.

Stepping outside, the golden glow of a sunrise reflects off the various reflective surfaces, including the many puddles left over from what you can only assume was another rain shower.

Right outside the front gates, Sharon’s car is prepped and ready.

Everyone reoccupies their seating from earlier and within a moment, Sharon’s apartment is just a speck in the rearview mirror.

“Got word that the Power Broker has set Nagel up with a lab down at Buccaneer Bay.” Sharon pulls her phone out, pulling up a tracker of some kind, before she secures it to the car’s dashboard.

“Buccaneer Bay?” Sam asks, lips curl upwards and eyes crinkling.

Sharon rolls her eyes. “Yes. Buccaneer Bay. It’s a harbour on the other side of the bridge. There’s a yard full of shipping containers and apparently he’s hiding out in one of them.”

Sam nods. “You find out the number he’s in?” 

“Yeah.” She gestures to her phone screen. “Was able to plug in the container unit, so this should lead us right to him.”

“Easy as that?”

“Easy as that.” She turns and shoots Sam a smile. “Seven years is enough time to make the right connections.”

The car is quiet as Sharon navigates throughout Madripoor, the golden hour ending as the sun rises in the sky. It isn’t long until you can see the sea again, a sign that you’re close by.

Sharon removes her phone from the dashboard and exits the car, everyone quick to follow. She leads the small group to where a fleet of shipping containers are lined up and stacked together. Walking beside them makes you feel like you’re trapped in a labyrinth, and you’re immensely grateful that Sharon had a map of the place.

“Madripoor could give New York a run for its money,” Sam remarks, filling the silence.

“They know how to party,” Zemo agrees.

“With that bounty on your head, the longer you stay in Madripoor, the less likely you’re ever leaving,” Sharon interjects, putting an end to the small talk before it could even really start. “Alright, he’s in there. Container four-two-six-one.” She reaches into her coat’s pocket and holds her hand out, revealing four ear comms. “I’ll keep an eye out while you guys talk to Nagel. But hurry, we’re on borrowed time.”

Everyone takes one and places it in their ears. You didn’t expect the ear piece to feel as reminiscent of a bluetooth earbud as it did, but you also hadn’t put much thought into it before.

“D’ya need another set of eyes?” you ask, not wanting to leave Sharon without backup if needed.

She shakes her head. “I’ll be fine. Stick with the others.” And with that, she walks off, likely to circle the area.

Sam takes the lead and approaches the shipping container. Right there on the door, in white paint, are the numbers four, two, six, and one, all in order. He looks back at you, Bucky, and Zemo before he takes hold of the door and swings it open.

You and Bucky peek over Sam’s shoulder, and it’s clear that the container is empty despite the darkness within.

Aloud, Sam asks, “Hey, Sharon, you’re sure this is the right one? It’s completely empty.” He glances above and around at each surrounding unit.

In your ear, clear as day, you hear Sharon reply, “Positive. Has to be.”

With that confirmation, Sam hazards a step inside, looking around. Nothing happens, which is unsurprising since there doesn’t seem to be anything in there.

Zemo enters next, left hand pulling out the flashlight he was provided. He flicks it on and waves it around each wall, the light revealing… nothing.

You take a step inside, leaving Bucky to guard the door. Your eyes adjust to the relative darkness to no avail.

Sharon seemed so sure that her information was legit though, you couldn’t help but to feel like you were all missing something.

When Zemo steps closer to the opposite end of the container, you notice that he angles the ear that doesn’t have the comm towards it. Light shining all around the door, it isn’t until he pushes against it, that you realize that it’s a secret door embedded into the real one.

The door gives way with a loud ca-clunk and the faint sound of music echoes in the empty container.

Immediately, Sam and Bucky ready their guns. Zemo steps back and allows Sam to take back the lead, helpfully shining the light over Sam’s shoulder.

There’s a small staircase, leading you to what you believe is to be the unit stacked behind the one you were in. As you ascend it, the music becomes clearer and louder, the stairwell opening up to what you assume is Wilfred Nigel’s lab.

The first things in your sight are rows of several large, metallic canisters on one side and bright, yellow hazmat suits on the other.

Things that you should have been expecting to see in a lab for a bioengineer, but, in person, definitely had you feeling some type of way.

Your group splits up, Zemo following Sam and you following Bucky. You don’t draw your own firearm, feeling more comfortable, within the confines of this lab, to stick with your fists. The music seems to be coming from the corner of the lab, and as you further explore the room, it’s clear that this lab is composed of several separate shipping containers, large machinery and even more metallic canisters spread throughout.

Bucky halts, and you stop just a step behind. Peering over his shoulder, you see that Sam and Zemo had Nagel cornered, his own music concealing your friend's approach.

Quickly, Sam lifts the record player’s needle and returns his hold to his firearm, Nagel gasping and looking over his shoulder.

“Dr. Nagel,” Sam states more than ask, Nagel’s identity being more than confirmed by the fact that he was currently messing with chemicals in a shady lab in Madripoor.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

“We know you created the super soldier serum.” Sam is still aiming his weapon at him, but he lowers it just a tad.

“Get out of my lab,” Nagel huffs and walks past Sam.

“Hey!” Sam shouts, and while Nagel does freeze, you think it has more to do with the fact that Bucky has stepped forward, directly in his way.

“You know who he is, right?” Sam asks, gripping Nagel’s arm to keep him in place. Jerking him back, Sam adds, “This is Baron Zemo. I know you heard of him too, right?”

Nagel’s eyes dart around, realizing that he’s surrounded. He sees you, but as you have no reputation to speak of, his eyes flicker between his assailants that he is familiar with.

“You seem like a pretty smart guy.” Sam leads him to the center of the lab, throwing Nagel against a metal grate that seemed to house some hazardous materials. “So you better become conversational real quick.”

“How about a counter proposal?” Nagel straightens up and stares into Sam’s eyes. “Make me a better offer and I’ll talk.” 

Before anyone can dignify that with a response, Sharon’s hushed voice echoes in your ear, “Guys, we have company.”

Immediately, Bucky jerks forward, grabbing Nagel’s collar with his metal hand.

You can hear grunts of exertion through the comm, Sharon evidently having made contact with the so-called company.

Bucky shoves Nagel past you, towards an empty chair in front of a desk a few feet away. He slams Nagel into the seat, pressing his firearm against Nagel’s temple.

“Every bounty hunter in the city is here, we gotta go!” Sharon manages to order before she’s thrust into another fight.

Right as Sharon lets out a strangled yell, Bucky moves his gun to just behind Nagel’s head and fires.

“Okay! Okay.” Nagel winces but otherwise doesn’t move. “I was brought into Hydra’s Winter Soldier program to pick up their work after the five failed test subjects in Siberia.”

Bucky moves his firearm away from Nagel’s head when he begins to speak, shooting Zemo a look at the mention of Siberia.

You can still hear Sharon through the comm, when her grunts are loud enough for the microphone to pick up. You do your best to tune it out, figuring that as long as you could hear her, she’s still alive.

“When Hydra fell, I was recruited into the CIA. They had blood samples from an American test subject with semi-stable traces of the serum in his system.”

At this, both Sam and Bucky share a look. Did… they know who the test subject was?

“After much labor, I was able to isolate the necessary compounds in his blood.” Nagel leans forward, locking eyes with Bucky. “I was a god. I did what no other scientist since Erskine was able to do. But mine was going to be different.” He slowly shakes his head. “No clunky machines or jacked up bodies. Mine was going to be subtle, optimized,” he smiles, “perfect.”

You had to give Nagel some credit; he was really going for that evil mad scientist aesthetic.

Sam shakes his head, asking “Why haven’t we heard about this?”

“Because, before I could complete my work, I turned to dust. When I returned, it was five years later, the program had been abandoned… So I came here. The Power Broker was more than happy to fund the recreation of my work.”

“How many vials did you make?”

“Twenty. Karli Morganthau stole those, so...” Nagel trails off, “I can only imagine what the Power Broker has planned for that poor girl.”

“Where’s Karli now?”

“I don’t know where she is, but a couple days ago, she called and asked if I could help someone named Donya Madani. Poor woman has tuberculosis. Typical of overpopulation in displacement camps like that.”

“Well, what happened to her?”

Nagel shrugs. “Not my pig, not my farm.”

Bucky speaks up for the first time, asking, “Is there any serum in this lab?” When Nagel doesn't immediately answer, Bucky brings his gun back up, pressing it against Nagel’s temple.

“No.”

Bucky huffs through his nose and turns to stare at Sam. “Now what?” He jerks the firearm away, Nagel breathing a sigh of relief.

“Guys, we’re seriously outta time here.” Sharon’s voice comes from both the comm in your ear and the entrance of the lab, disorientating you. You hadn’t even noticed that she had gone quiet in your comms, having dealt with the bounty hunters on her end.

Which might be why, a second later, you’re caught off-guard when Zemo grabs the gun from your waistband. You twist, one arm raising to push him back and one hand moving to curl around his wrist, but his finger pulls the trigger faster than you can move.

A bullet plunges into Nagel’s neck.

Your ear is ringing, but nonetheless you slam Zemo into the metal grating that Bucky shoved Nagel against only minutes prior, your shoulder and bicep keeping him pinned.

Sam and Sharon immediately go to his outstretched arm, wrestling your firearm from Zemo’s grip.

You think you can make out Sharon saying something, but it’s not loud enough for you to understand it. Glaring up at the man you were keeping pinned, you can only see a look of complete satisfaction as Zemo locks his gaze onto Nagel’s body.

Of course, just as Sharon had warned you all when she walked in, you all really were out of time.

This is made extremely evident when what you can only assume is an RPG crashes through the side of the shipping container.

You barely register the impact before your legs move from under you, moving away to take cover.

You’re thrown onto the floor from the force of the blast, skull bouncing off the floor as you skid.

For a brief moment, your vision goes black.

With a shuddery breath, you force your eyes open, arms and legs automatically moving to push yourself up. Your whole body aches, but your head definitely feels worse off. You can’t hear anything, the only noise registering being a high pitched ringing. As you move onto your knees, you see rubble, smoke, and flames spreading throughout the lab. Beside you, you see Sam and Sharon, but not Bucky or Zemo.

That’s not important though, what’s important is the fact that as you walked through the lab earlier, you saw so many metal canisters containing who knows what, along with several chemicals strewn about.

And now, the lab was on fire.

Coughing to clear your lungs, you see Bucky approaching, who had apparently taken cover someplace else. You get your feet under you, and pull Sharon up as you stand, you both using the other for support.

Confusion covers her face as she looks at you, before understanding dawns on her. You see her lips move more than hear her say, “Right, shapeshifter…”

Your brows furrow before you realize that you had shifted back to normal. As you rush through the lab, towards the exit, you remember the face you looked back at in the mirror at Sharon’s place. You shift back to it, not wanting the bounty hunters to get a glimpse of what you really look like.

Back in container four-two-six-one, you feel and hear the lab succumb to its own hazardous materials in a fiery explosion. Everyone stumbles a bit, the container you’re all in damaged but still standing.

You wonder if Zemo managed to get out.

Ahead of you, Sam and Sharon draw their guns, and you can only assume that Bucky is doing the same behind you. When you go for yours, you realize that it’s missing. You think back to the lab and realize that it wasn’t on the ground when you opened your eyes - neither was Zemo. You huff and figure that he took it and and booked it.

Sam exits first, Sharon and you following behind, with Bucky exiting last. Despite the fact that he was standing directly beside you, you can barely make out Bucky shouting, “All right, wait for my signal!” It was muffled, as if you were holding a pillow over your ears.

Almost immediately, Sam fires a shot towards where you can see a small pack of bounty hunters taking cover. They return fire, and Sam runs off for better cover around the corner.

Well, shit. This was a firefight, and you had stupidly let Zemo take your only weapon. You don’t have time to wallow in self pity though, and when Bucky goes to the left and Sharon goes to the right, you decide to head to where there were two people who had long distance weapons - towards the right.

It turns out that one of the shipping containers that used to be on top of another had been knocked off, creating a small alcove of cover.

As you crouch low to avoid getting shot, you see that despite heading off in the other direction, Bucky had still managed to stay with the group.

Bucky, Sam, and Sharon all cover different angles. Despite this, they are all still only equipped with handguns, and they only have so many bullets.

“And you like living here?” Sam shouts. You know it’s a shout from his body language, but unfortunately, it sounds like he’s speaking at a normal level.

You see Sharon shrug and that her lips move, but her response is too quiet for you to make out.

It isn’t long until you see Bucky attempt to make a shot before he makes a face at his gun, nothing discharging. Wordlessly, when he comes back to this little spot of cover, you reach into your back pocket and toss him the extra ammo that Zemo had neglected to take.

As he reloads his gun, Bucky glares at Sam and says, “I thought we were going to go left?”

“You went the wrong way!”

“I cleared the way!” Bucky turns back to cover his side of the alcove, immediately firing bullets at the bounty hunters that were attempting to close in.

“I came out first, you were supposed to follow me!”

“And where are we now?”

Sam rolls his eyes and shouts something back at the same time that Sharon attempts to interject something, causing you to not be able to make out anything they’re saying.

“We leave this barricade-!” Bucky starts, but he turns his head to aim another shot and you can’t make out the rest of his sentence.

Sam is evidently out of ammo, as he moves in closer to the center, continuing to yell at Bucky. “It’s in every action movie!”

Sam and Sharon still hold onto their firearms, peeking on the many bounty hunters. Evidently, the bounty hunters realize that there is a lack of return fire from your group, and some start moving in.

With the only functioning firearm in the group, Bucky swings around to shoot at a few of the oncoming individuals. He takes some down, but the others simply take cover. It isn’t long until Bucky’s gun refuses to fire, empty once again.

So this is how you die - not strapped down in a laboratory, dissected for your powers, but outside a burning one, shot because someone else assassinated a person with a lot of power.

Somehow you think that they weren’t going to take ‘her head just did that’ as a suitable answer.

As the bounty hunters start moving in, you know you’re not going down without a fight. Hands gripped into fists, you’re about to charge at one of them wearing their own face, when another explosion goes off.

To the right, directly next to a large approach of bounty hunters, you think one of them accidentally fired at the large pipe that ran through the aisle.

A moment later, however, you see some of the smoke clear, and a figure wearing a purple mask and a fur-collared coat making their way down from the top of a shipping container.

Huh.

Well… it looks like Zemo was telling the truth earlier, when he said he wasn’t leaving until the job was done.

You silently watch as he takes down one, two, three, four bounty hunters. After he fires a bullet into the last man’s head, he stares directly at your little group.

Behind you, Bucky lightly taps your shoulder, and you immediately get moving, following Sharon.

Running through the aisles between the shipping containers, you hope that any approaching bounty hunter feels as disoriented as you do.

As your group turns a corner, there’s not one, but two bounty hunters waiting there, one on either side. Sam thinks fast and swings the nearest container’s door open, the steel blocking some bullets.

Everyone but Bucky enters the container, who you see rip some piping off the other door, swinging it against one bounty hunter and launching it towards the other. Sam drags him in, and you all stalk the length of the container in darkness. Sharon attempts to push the door open, but when it doesn’t bulge, Bucky swings his fist forward and breaks it open.

Stepping out, immediately to your left, you see a car approaching. There, right in the driver’s seat, is Zemo.

“Supercharged,” is all he has to say.

You dully stare at him. Where did he get this car?

Sam flatly tells him, “You’re going back to jail.”

“Do you want to find Karli, or not?”

You release a silent sigh.

Bucky releases an audible sigh. “He’s right, we need him.” He proceeds to open the passenger side door, taking the seat. “There’s three of us and at least twenty of them, c’mon.”

You don’t need to be told twice, hopping over the side of the car and sliding over to the seat behind Zemo.

“Fine,” Sam takes the seat behind Bucky, “But if you try that shit again-” 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Zemo assures Sam.

Sharon grabs the car door and shuts it. “Well, that was one hell of a reunion.”

Sam’s eyes follow the movement, and he says, “Come back to the states with us.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t. Just get me that pardon you promised me.” And with that, she walks away, off towards where she parked her car.

“Thanks for everything,” is what Sam manages to say before Sharon leaves your field of vision.

Returning your attention back to the car, you go to buckle up, except...

Of course.

There aren’t any seat belts installed.

You drop your head against the headrest behind you. You were in a convertible, which had no seat belts, and there were bounty hunters after you. This made perfect sense.

Beside you, Sam addresses Bucky, “You’re not going to move your seat up, are you?”

In a tone devoid of any emotion, Bucky replies, “No.”

Zemo shifts gears and, within a moment, you’re all heading back to the airport.

You swallow thickly and take assessment of your own body; your shoulder aches, but it was probably nothing worse than a bruise. In fact, your whole body aches, but that was probably because of hitting the deck when the first explosion went off more than anything serious. As you shift your legs to get comfortable, you become aware of an itching between your thighs, but you had an inkling that that was unrelated to what had happened in the lab. More pressing was the fact that your head hurt. The fact that one ear was still ringing and processing sounds all muffled-like certainly wasn’t helping matters. 

Pulling out the comm Sharon gave you, you hold it in the center of your hand as you rub your fingers together beside each ear. Sure enough, the ear that didn’t have a gun fired directly beside it was much better off.

You huff a breath out your nose, brows furrowing as you glare at the seat in front of you. “My ear is still ringing, no thanks to you.”

You can see Zemo’s head nod, hair bouncing. “Yes, that can happen after an explosion.”

“That’s not what I mean,” you whine. “It started when you stole my gun to kill Nagel.” And, before you can stop yourself, you bring a leg up and kick the back of his seat. 

Zemo grunts as you make contact, quickly adjusting the rear view mirror to make direct eye contact with you. He glares at you and, in a clipped tone, says, “You were hardly using it.” He returns his gaze to the road, continuing, “I’m not sure how children are raised in America, but I would think that you have the sense to not antagonize the driver.”

You seethe, a snide reply at the tip of your tongue. Before you can escalate matters, however, Sam interjects.

“Your ear is still ringing?” He glares at Zemo before he turns to look at you, eyes softening.

You nod and slump in your seat, brushing your hand through your hair. “It’s not as bad as right after the gunshot, but the explosions certainly didn’t help. I don’t know if my headache is from them, this ringing, the jetlag catching up with me, or everything, but -” You stop, fingers brushing against something warm and wet at the back of your head. You hesitantly withdraw your hand, revealing blood against your fingertips. “Oh.”

Sam’s brows furrow and he scootches across the middle seat, one hand hovering behind your head. “‘Oh,’” he repeats. “What do you mean ‘oh?’”

You immediately cup the back of your head, ducking away from Sam’s outstretched hand while hunching your shoulders up. “It’s nothing. I think I hit my head when I fell. I’ll be fine.”

Sam closes his hand but doesn’t withdraw it. “Let me take a look at it. Just to make sure.”

You think it over. Right now, you’re cornered in the backseat, and you’re about to board a small jet. If it was bad, you’d just be delaying the inevitable.

You slowly drop your shoulders, hand remaining in place. “Well… okay.” Sam gestures for you to lean closer, and with the lack of seatbelts, you simply turn around. “Should I… shorten my hair so you can see better?”

He pauses, caught off-guard. “Well… yes. If you don’t think it’ll mess anything up, it’ll help.”

You nod and, as you slowly remove your hand, you bring your hair to a close buzzcut.

Immediately, Sam’s hand gently takes your head and tilts it so he can better see. As your head is tilted downward, you bite your lower lip, eyes nervously flittering around. You can see various warehouses passing by and that Bucky was not-so subtly looking over at you and Sam from the front seat.

“Okay… Okay.”  Sam’s thumb brushes just above where you felt the blood. “It looks like it’s just a small scrape. There’s no bump or anything.”

You release your lip as you let out a relieved sigh. “Will I be fine just making it into a normal scab?”

He hums, “Yeah, everything looks fairly shallow.” He removes his hand, and you sit back up properly.

Before you shift your hair back down to it’s normal length, you concentrate, eyes fixed onto your lap. You need your blood to clot and congeal together. After a moment, you slowly let your hair down, keeping your attention on keeping your wounds closed.

Sam watches this all with a sort of morbid fascination. As you finish up, he asks, “Do you do this often?”

You look back at him, running your hand through your hair as you attempt to re-style it to your liking. “The closing wounds part or the head-injury part? Because, I have to close wounds pretty often. Comes with the territory of poking my nose into other people’s business and stopping assault. I do, however, make an effort to keep my head safe. Secret-identity and all.” You drop your hands into your lap, the wind making any attempt at styling your hair futile, and shrug. “I had concussions before, I should be fine.”

Sam frowns. “I was talking about making a scab in a matter of seconds, but now I’m concerned about your brain.” He looks over at Zemo. “Hey, you still have the flashlight Sharon gave you?”

“Of course.” Keeping a hand on the steering wheel, Zemo digs into his coat’s pocket and produces the requested item.

Sam takes it and immediately shines it into your eyes. “Did you lose consciousness?”

You fight the instinct to shut your eyes, remembering the concussion checks that Steve gave you. “Uh… I think so. I unshifted, so… maybe for a second?”

Sam moves the light from one eye to the other. “How many other concussions you’ve got?” He clicks the flashlight off, fiddling with it in his hands.

You blink rapidly, looking away as your eyes re-adjust. “Uh… definitely more than three, less than eight.” When you look back, Sam looks less than impressed. You’re quick to defend yourself, “It’s not like I’ve gone to a doctor for this stuff! None of them are confirmed or anything. But, after looking at the symptoms list online… no more than eight minor concussions, but... probably definitely at least three.”

“Eight!? And you haven’t gone to a doctor?”

You scratch the side of your neck. “I haven’t gone to the doctors in six years.”

“What.”

You shrug and slump back into your seat. “I haven’t gone to the doctors ever since I discovered I had powers,” you clarify. “Like, what am I supposed to do if my bloodwork comes back all weird? Laugh it off?”

Sam sighs. “You could, I don’t know, come to the Avenger’s compound?”

“If I did that, then I’ll have to agree to the Accords. I don’t want to be poked and prodded to see how my powers work. Be tracked every minute of every day.” You close your eyes, focusing on the wind that blows against your face. “Be thrown in a cell for the rest of my life…”

“Okay, well… the ringing eased up, right? Not getting any worse?”

You nod. “Yeah, it’s slow, but it’s definitely getting better.”

“And your only other symptom is the headache?” Sam clarifies.

“Uh-huh.”

“If your headache gets worse, tell me, alright?”

You open your eyes and give a single nod. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Sam sits back in his seat and, after giving you one last look over, he turns his gaze to the passing scenery.

You do the same and it isn’t long until you see the bridge to the airport in the distance. The gate opens as soon as the car approaches, Zemo driving right in. Everyone surveys their surroundings, not wanting to be ambushed once again. When the jet is in sight, Zemo kills the engine and everyone exits the convertible, walking the final distance.

It looks like Oeznik had seen your approach, as the stairs to the jet are down and he’s standing to the right of them.

“I see you and your guests are all in one piece,” Oeznik greets your group, eyes on Zemo.

“Not for a lack of trying,” Zemo replies, a smile accompanying his words.

Oeznik barks out a laugh, and you and your teammates roll your eyes as you all ascend the steps. You notice that the cabin has been cleaned and cleared of all the garment bags and shoe boxes that had been haphazardly strewn about when you had left.

A minute later, the jet is ready and everyone is buckled up. After a brief discussion, Oeznik is given the destination of Munich, Germany - the last known location of Karli and her Flag Smashers. It was very likely that they had moved on by now, but with the lack of any other information than the name Donya Madani, it was all your group had at the moment.

As the jet leaves the ground and you watch as Madripoor becomes a speck in the distance, you relax and shift your face back to normal.

You’re very grateful that you had the foresight to disguise yourself. While you doubted that the bounty hunters that you were leaving behind were dumb enough to persue Bucky or Sam, there was no telling what they would do if they found out you weren’t an Avenger.

Thankfully, only Sharon had seen your face in that lab, and if Steve and his friends trusted her, you did too.

After all, if you could trust a terrorist with your identity, you’re sure that someone who was willing to stick their neck out for you even after being burned by doing something good was a really good person at heart.

Even if said terrorist that you had disclosed your identity to proceeded to take your firearm and kill a man with it.

(Granted, he then used it to protect you and everyone else, but… it didn’t mean it didn’t leave you feeling some type of way.)

Well… 

You can only assume that Steve’s intuition was better than your own.

Chapter Text

The instant the seatbelt light turns off, hands scramble to unbuckle their restraints.

As you push your own seatbelt aside, your eyes flick over to the door in the back of the cabin. It was currently unoccupied, but there was no telling for how long. The itching sensation between your legs begs for your attention, starting to rival even the pulses that emanate from the back of your skull.

Surely the others in the cabin may require the facilities, even for something as simple as giving themselves a simple wipe down to clean up the remnants of Madripoor that clung to everyone’s hair, skin, and clothes.

Which, now that you think of it, could be an easy out for you to head to the bathroom.

You grab your backpack from its cubby and stand up, making a show of dusting yourself off. You strip your bomber jacket off, tossing it carelessly to your seat. “Too much dust, dirt, ashes, and smoke on these clothes for my liking. Be right back,” is what you tell the cabin’s occupants as you stalk the length of the cabin, towards the bathroom. They don’t bat an eye, accepting your reasoning without question.

Technically, you’re not lying.

But if you were to be completely honest, you’d have to reveal to them the little accident you’d had back at Sharon’s.

And you were not doing that.

Locking the door behind you, you place your backpack on the counter and immediately empty your pockets and unbuckle your belt - or rather, the belt that Zemo gave you. The one with the stupidly complicated buckle.

Thankfully, you had learned from your mistakes earlier, so it only takes a moment before you can shove everything below your torso off.

You release a sigh when you see what the problem is.

You have the beginnings of a diaper rash, the skin around your genitals and thighs inflamed and chafed. 

Unfortunately, much like you didn’t have the foresight to pack some soap, you had also neglected to pack some diaper rash cream. You didn’t even bring any powder, which probably would’ve helped you feel a little less sweaty in general.

You gather some toilet paper, run it under some cold water in the faucet, and carefully wipe the irritated skin. You bite your lip at the stinging sensation, but keep quiet, knowing that only a few feet away were all the people that you did not want to get the attention of. You toss the paper into the toilet and, while you were here, decide to use it as well.

Keeping the faucet on after you wash and dry your hands, you quickly strip yourself of all other clothing, dropping everything onto the floor.

As you gather some more toilet paper and dampen it, your eyes flick over to the mirror as you give your body a quick wipe down. Beyond the accumulated sweat and oil from the past few days and the irritated skin between your thighs, you can see a few scrapes and the beginnings of a few bruises scattered across your body. Turning around, you see that the shoulder that took the brunt of the force as you fell from the explosion was the worst of it - a patch about the size of the palm of your hand was already beginning to discolor.

It could be worse.

Flushing the toilet paper away, you pump more soap into your hands and lean over the sink. Just as before, you shift your hair to be cut close to your head and lather everything up, especially mindful of the scab at the back of your head.

Head and face fully lathered, you duck under the running faucet until the water runs clear. You switch it off, pull a towel off the hanger, and pat your head dry.

As clean as you can be, you finally open up your backpack.

Your rolled up sweats are pushed to the side, just where you placed them. You pull the bundle out, placing it on the counter, doing the same with some clean undergarments. Shoving your arm to the bottom of the bag, past all your clothes, you withdraw it when you reach a pull-up.

With a grimace, you pull it over your hips. Your rash certainly didn’t appreciate it, but you weren’t taking any chances; evidently, you need the security of a pull-up.

You quickly dress yourself in what you’re now considering to be your pajamas, finishing with pulling some socks with little dinosaurs all over them on. You shove your feet back into the leather sneakers that you were wearing, your boots having been left next to your seat.

You gather all your clothes that you left on the floor, haphazardly folding and rolling everything up - everything except one thing. You shove the clothing into your backpack and turn your attention to the offending item:

Your soiled underwear.

Drooping your shoulders, you grab it and throw it into the trash can with a bit more force than necessary.

It wasn’t like you could wash and dry them without the others finding out, afterall. And you definitely weren’t going to contaminate all your other clothes in your bag. It was a necessary loss.

Everything taken care of, you zip your backpack closed, grab your phone from the counter, and exit the bathroom with everything in hand.

Immediately, you realize that Sam is on a phone call, so you make your way back to your seat as quietly as you can.

You settle back into your seat and do your best to pretend that you’re not listening.  Considering the fact that Bucky wasn’t listening to his music and that Zemo himself was just standing in the galley, you figure that they’re doing their best as well.

As far as you can tell, Sam is talking to his sister.

Movement in front of you catches your attention, and you realize that Bucky is cleaning his vibranium arm. Armed with a damp kitchen napkin, he’s methodically going over each and every panel.

With a jolt, you remember something - that people had filmed Bucky in that club.

Turning your phone on and opening up Youtube, you search: winter soldier madripoor fight

Sure enough, there are a few videos. Thankfully, unlike the Bucky’s arrest, it didn’t seem that the public was aware that these were the real deal, as each clip only had a handful of views each.

You debate fishing your earbuds out, before realizing that you had left them in your leather jacket.

Which, if you remember correctly, you had left right here in this seat earlier.

Jerking your head around, you don’t see it anywhere in the cabin. The movement makes your head spin, but that doesn’t matter right now, because where was your jacket? It was here! It was yours. Oeznik wouldn’t throw it out with everything else - would he?

A hand on your shoulder startles you out of your frenzy. Your head snaps to it, quickly moving up the arm to its owner; Zemo looks down at you, concern on his face.

You take a shaky breath, calming yourself down. You were okay. Everything was okay. Eyes flicking over to Sam on his phone call, you see that even though he was mid conversation, his eyes are also on you.

You can’t bring yourself to check if Bucky is also staring at you.

Dropping your eyes into your lap, you manage to mumble out, “My jacket… it’s not where I left it…”

The solid, grounding presence at your shoulder leaves then, causing you to jerk your head up at its absence.

Zemo stands in the gallery, and with your attention on him, he opens the coat closet. Reaching in, he pulls out the jacket you had grown accustomed to wearing over the past five years.

Which… of course.

You knew that that closet exists. You had watched Zemo place his own coat in there when you had first boarded this jet yesterday. You had watched him pull it out before you’d all left for Madripoor literally just a few hours ago.

Although in your defense, Zemo had forgone taking his coat off in the rush to leave Madripoor.

He’s still wordlessly holding your jacket out to you, and as you lean forward to take it, you see his coat hanging in there - he’d likely took it off while you were in the bathroom.

You do your best to make sure a blush doesn’t come to your cheeks, but with your breathing still not quite regular and your head still pounding, you’re not too sure if you’re successful.

Leaning back into your seat, you fix your eyes on your jacket as you mumble out a quiet “Thank you.”

Wow.

That was kind of embarrassing. Definitely an overreaction. You had worked yourself up and for what? A jacket? You weren’t even all that attached to it.

So why was it missing enough to send you into a mini panic attack?

You don’t have much time to dig much deeper than that, as that’s when a glass of water is thrust into your field of vision.

Confused, you don’t immediately take it, choosing to instead stare at it. Moving your eyes back up, you see Zemo looking at you expectantly.

You raise your brow in a silent question.

He responds by jiggling a small white container in his other hand.

Oh, pain medication!

Now eager, you accept the offered glass and hold your other hand out for the bottle.

Instead of simply handing you the bottle, he shakes out two small pills into the palm of his hand, before turning them over to you.

You would be offended to not be trusted with the bottle of medicine before you realize that it is, in fact, labeled in a language that isn’t English.

If he did hand it over, you wouldn’t have been able to figure out the correct dosage.

You accept the medication with a smile, which he returns in turn.

As you pop them into your mouth, bringing your glass of water to your lips to swallow them, you watch as Sam looks at Zemo and silently holds his hand out, recounting to whoever he’s on the phone with the fact that he was a bit busy with the mission and that they should do whatever they think they need to do with the boat.

Zemo goes to hand him the pills in the same way he did with you before Sam rolls his eyes and reaches for the bottle itself. Huffing, Zemo hands it over, allowing Sam to look over the label. He seems to be satisfied with whatever it is that he reads, because he shakes out three pills and pops them into his mouth. Handing the pill bottle back, he turns to his cup holder before he realizes that he does not, in fact, have a drink to wash it down with. He shoots a glare at Zemo, who shrugs as he heads back to the galley, obediently opening the glassware cupboard.

You personally don’t like swallowing pills dry nor do you appreciate the taste of them when you take a moment too long to wash them down, so as Zemo prepares Sam a drink, you silently offer him your own glass.

Smiling, Sam takes it, takes a glug, and hands it back to you. He mouths you a thanks before he reiterates to whoever it is he’s on the phone with that, really, he’s over it.

As you take back your glass, settling it in your cup holder, you risk a glance over at Bucky. He was halfway down his arm, flexing to open up the panels wide enough to polish.

If you hadn’t grown used to Steve offering you medicine for when you sparred together while he himself took none, you’d think that Bucky was lucky for not needing any.

You know better though. Their super soldier healing just meant that the pain didn’t last as long, not that it didn’t happen.

Even if Bucky wanted to take some medicine for any aches he had, it'd probably take the full bottle to account for his metabolism.

Poor Bucky.

Bringing your attention back to your lap, you stare at your jacket. You’re about to reach into the packets for your earbuds when you realize that, actually, emitting sound directly next to your recently damaged eardrums is probably not the smartest idea. You place your jacket off to the side and pick your phone back up. Making sure that your volume is off, you look at several thumbnails depicting a fairly blurry Bucky. You click the video with the longest runtime.

It looks like the videographer was somewhere to the left of where you had been standing. This was one of the people who had turned their flash on, which meant that the low-lighting environment simply wasn’t properly captured. The movements were jerky, the person filming trying to keep up with Bucky’s fast-paced actions. The end result was a video that was about a minute long and almost too shaky to follow.

Scrubbing through the footage again, you try to see if you can spot yourself to no avail. 

You hoped that all the videos were like this.

Going back to the search results, you begin the process of going through each video. Each one is from a different vantage point, but, to your great relief, none of them seemed to get clear footage of either Bucky’s face or your group. Without the volume on, you’re careful to keep your face neutral as you happen to listen to Sam’s side of the conversation; although you didn’t have all the details, from what you could gather, it sounded like he and his family were going through some financial woes.

“Okay, love you too. I will, don’t worry,” Sam finishes as he finally pulls his phone away from his ear, releasing a sigh.

“... Was that your sister?” you hesitantly ask.

Sam nods. “Yeah, Sarah. We needed to talk.” Eyes downcast, he swipes through his contacts, dialing Torres.

You give a careful nod in return. It’ll be at least ten more minutes before the medicine kicks in, and you don’t want to agitate your head any further. Your skull feels as though stuffed with cotton, not unlike the stuffed animals that you’ve left behind in your bedroom. The pulsating from the back echoes forward, meeting with the echoes from your temples in the center of your brain.

You’ve had concussions before, but this one just felt different. All the other ones seemed to mostly stay confined to where you bonked your head in the first place, but this one? It seems to come from all over.

Maybe it was just jetlag catching up with you.

Afterall, you have never had to deal with crossing time zones before. People always complain about feeling bad after plane rides, and you’ve just been on a bunch.

You’ve never heard anyone talk about having to deal with jetlag and a concussion.

Well. From what you can tell, it sucks.

Pressing the back of your skull into the surrounding cushions, you bring your feet onto the seat to prop your knees up in front of you. You rest your phone on top of them, hands on each side, making it eye level with you. The light from your phone probably wasn’t going to help, but you didn’t have much else to entertain yourself with. You open up the group chats that you’re in, curious to see what friends and family have been up to.

You idly listen as Sam recounts the past couple hours to Torres, with emphasis on getting a pardon for Sharon. By the time he’s wrapping up, you’re mostly caught up on the backlogs and the medicine is finally kicking in.

“Donya Madani. She’s a refugee.”

Bucky stretches out on the couch, having made it to his hand. The napkin moves around and between the joints of his fingers.

“Okay, call me if you get a hit.” Sam pauses a second before replying, “Thanks, Torres.” He hangs up, flopping into his seat with a sigh.

“You okay?” Bucky asks, voice low.

Sam gives him a glance before answering, “Yeah… Just thinking about all the shit Sharon had to go through.” His voice quiets, and you’re unsure if it’s so you don’t hear or Zemo. “And Nagel referring to the American test subject, like Isiah wasn’t even a real person.”

Regardless of who it is he’s trying to keep out of this conversation, you’re pretty positive that both you and Zemo can hear Sam clear as day. It is, afterall, a small jet.

Sam sits up. “Just makes me wonder how many people have to get steamrolled to make way for this hunk of metal.”

“Well, it depends on who you ask. This hunk of metal saved a lot of lives.” Bucky’s voice is deliberately calm.

“Yeah, I get that, alright.” Sam nods. “Maybe I made a mistake.”

“You did.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have put it in a museum… I should have destroyed it.”

Bucky stops polishing his knuckles. “Look, that shield represents a lotta things to a lotta people, including me.” Bucky sits up straight, turning to look at Sam. “The world is upside down, and we need a new Cap, and it ain’t gonna be Walker. So before you go and destroy it, I’ll take it from him myself.”

Bucky and Sam stare at each other, eyes locked and foreheads close.

Sam’s phone vibrates, breaking the tension.

He immediately goes to answer it, holding it to his ear with only a glance to the caller ID.

Zemo chooses that moment to exit the galley, a plate in each hand. He walks past you and hands a plate to Sam before sitting down himself, across from you. He sets the second plate down on the table between you, sliding it over. You drop your knees back down, revealing four bread rolls - presumably, this is what he’s been keeping an eye on while he was in the galley.

You reach out and grab one, and it’s warm to the touch. Taking a small, hesitant bite reveals the obvious - warm, buttered bread is delicious, especially after not eating much earlier. You take another bite, careful to chew with your mouth closed.

Over on the couch, Bucky watches you before grabbing a roll of his own.

“Yeah… yeah,” Sam responds to the caller. He listens, a grim expression on his face. “Okay. Thanks, good work.” Hanging up, he drops his gaze to the ground. “They found Madani… dead, ” Sam reveals. “She died in Riga, a city near the Baltic Sea.”

Zemo turns this information over in his mind. “I have a place we can go.” He leans back in his seat. “I, for one, am looking forward to coming face to face with Karli.” He raises his voice, just enough that it can be heard throughout the entirety of the jet. “Oeznik, we’re changing the course.”

Oeznik must move in the galley, as it takes a moment before Zemo continues. “Riga.”

Evidently, Oeznik must know the exact location you all need to go, because after a moment, the information on the display above Bucky’s empty seat changes. What was once going to be an eighteen hour flight just turned into a fourteen hour flight.

You finish your bread roll and reach for a second. As Bucky leans back into the couch and takes a hesitant first bite, Sam eyes the roll at his mouth before settling them on the plate.

“This all we got?” he directs his question towards Zemo.

Zemo twists his head just enough to see what he’s talking about. “No. We have plenty of pasta and oatmeal at our disposal.”

“That’s it?”

“With the fridge out of order, the only food available are shelf-stable products.” A smirk settles on his face. “Next time, I’ll be sure to offer you a more substantial menu.”

Sam rolls his eyes but grabs a roll nonetheless. As he settles into his seat, murmurs of how there wasn’t going to be a next time can be heard under his breath.

As the cabin quiets, you return your attention to your phone, careful to keep any butter-coated fingers away from the screen.

You think about what you could do to pass the time for the foreseeable future.

If you were going to Riga, it would be nice to know something about it, you guess.

As of now, all you know is that it’s a city in Latvia. You know where Latvia is on the map thanks to your old world history teacher making sure that everyone in his class memorized every country in the world. Extra credit was given to those that got over ninety-five percent correct; you weren’t one to turn down a challenge and you were always happy to get extra credit where you could get it.

Being able to point at its general location on a map wasn’t much though.

You pop the last piece of bread into your mouth and wipe your fingers across the denim across your knees to clean them. Typing Riga, Latvia into your search engine, you learn two things:

One is that Riga is the capital of Latvia, which is a fun fact.

Two is that there was breaking news in the nearby country of Lithuania. Your eyes are drawn to the news articles that are recommended to you: “Breaking News!” They read. “GRC Depot Bombed, Fatalities to be Reported”

This fact wasn’t that fun.

Clicking on the first linked article, you quickly skim through it. You sit up, swallowing the remains of the bread to clear your mouth. “Um, guys? I don’t want to jump to any conclusions, but I think Kari’s been busy.” Looking up from your phone, you see everyone’s eyes on you. You elaborate, “I think the Flag Smashers maybe just bombed a building. A GRC building.”

“What?” Sam asks, eyes diverting away from his own phone and focusing on you.

Eyes flying across your screen, you say, “It says here that it was a GRC depot, a storage facility, and that people were tied up inside. Guards. They don’t have an exact number, but this article says that there’s at least two confirmed fatalities, with even more hospitalized. A couple of them are in critical condition.”

Sam sighs, eyes closing as he rubs his temples. “How long ago was this?”

You scroll back to the top of the page. “An hour ago?” The page you’re on reloads, triggered by the excessive scrolling upwards. A gasp escapes from you, unbidden. “Wait-! The story’s just been updated. They…” you grimace, reading the update as fast as you can. You swallow a lump in your throat. “It’s them.”

Sam removes his hands, looking over at you with tired eyes. Bucky is staring back at you, frustration simmering just underneath the surface. Zemo is the only one of them that looks calm to this news - not relaxed, but not surprised. He gestures for you to continue.

You drop your eyes back to your screen. “I… The Flag Smashers released a… statement? They’re owning up to it. They’re saying they took all the medicine, clothes, and other supplies that were just gathering dust in storage. Giving it to the people that need them. That… That they’ll do it again. They have a list of demands they want met.”

“She’s getting worse.” Zemo straightens up, looking at you, Bucky, and settling on Sam. “I have the will to complete this mission. Do the three of you?”

“She’s just a kid.” Sam keeps his gaze steely against Zemo’s.

“I think she’s only a bit younger than I am,“ you can’t help but to interject, “and I know that it isn’t cool to be a terrorist.” 

Zemo gestures to you, a silent agreement. “You’re seeing something in her that isn’t there. You’re clouded by it. She’s a supremacist. The very concept of a super soldier will always trouble people.”

“Like you?” you snark. Just because he was right in that Karli was old enough to know that right from wrong, didn’t mean you had to agree with his views on super people.

Zemo continues, narrowing his brows at you. “It’s that warped aspiration that led to the Nazis. To Ultron. To the Avengers.”

“Hey, those are our friends that you’re talking about,” Sam huffs.

“The Avengers, not the Nazis,” Bucky oh-so helpfully clarifies as he leans back into the couch.

“So Karli is radicalized,” Sam acquiesces. “But there has to be a peaceful way to stop her.”

“The desire to become a superhuman cannot be separated by supremacist ideals. Anyone with that serum is inherently on that path. She will not stop. She will escalate until you kill her.” Zemo pauses. “Or she kills you.”

“Maybe you’re wrong, Zemo. The serum never corrupted Steve.” Bucky glares at him.

You can’t help but notice that he didn’t bring himself up as an example...

“Touché.” Zemo leans back into his chair. He raises a single index finger. “But there has never been another Steve Rogers, has there?”

Well… you guess he has you all there.

You slouch down into your seat, dropping your phone onto your chest. “Damn. I just can’t believe she fell victim to one of the most classic blunders that folks seem to make when you guys are involved.”

“Which is...?”

You flick your eyes over to Zemo. “Committing an act of terrorism.”

Nobody liked that, if the narrowed eyes sent your way says anything about it.

You throw your hands up. “Some of these ‘villains’ keep on making great points! But no one wants to agree with a terrorist! So by trying to, what, make things serious? They just drive away any vocal support!” You sigh. “Bare minimum, this might mean less people are going to want to keep quiet about where she and her friends are. I dunno though, I guess it depends on if the GRC people were jerks to the locals or not.”

“What are you talking about?” Bucky asks, annoyance clear. 

Doubling down, you sit up and continue, “What? Are you telling me that upon landing, if we were to hear that a foreign organization were letting people die in the streets while medicine and supplies were gathering dust in a warehouse, you wouldn’t steal and distribute it? That’s basically what she and her Flag Smashers are doing. Them blowing it up just made it a lot less ‘Robin Hood and his merry band of thieves’ and a lot more ‘CIA’s most wanted’,” you sigh.

“You telling me that you’d support them if they didn’t just kill some people?” Bucky scoffs. “How about all the other people the Avengers fought? You support them too?”

“No!” you sputter. “They want everything to go back to how it was before everyone came back! As the only person here who was there , I can tell you that it sucked. I’m happy they were able to find a silver lining during that time, really, but they’re definitely in the minority.”

You continue, “As for the peanut gallery that the Avengers have fought?” You lock eyes with Bucky and shake your head. “I don’t think so. Just a bunch of fascists and rich guys looking to get richer or get power for themselves or something.” You blink, losing steam as you try your best to remember all the villains that have hit the news. “Except, uh, that one guy who ‘stole’ some already stolen artifacts from a museum, I guess? And maybe that bird guy who wrecked Coney Island.” You look over at Sam. “What did he want again?”

He throws his hands up. “Just because we both have wings doesn’t mean that I know what that dude’s deal was!”

“If anything, the fact that he was stealing your MO for crime should mean you know what his deal is! What if he tries to steal your wings?”

Sam levels you an even stare. “He’s been locked up for six years. I think I’m fine.”

While retaining eye contact, you wordlessly gesture over to Zemo.

“He doesn’t count!” Sam bites back.

You let out a dramatic groan and throw yourself backward into the cushions of your seat. The back of your head scuffs against the cushions and you let out a small wince, having forgotten to account for the injury there. Sighing, you do your best attempt to drop the topic and change the subject. “At least we know that we are on their trail, right? They’re probably either laying low tonight or driving to Riga from Lithuania as we speak.”

Sam sighs but nods, accepting the subject change for what it was. “Let’s hope that that’s the case.” He brings his phone back up, putting his attention towards it.

Looking back over at Bucky, he too seems willing to drop the topic. He does, however, finish his single roll of bread, before standing up and entering the restroom, closing the door with a tad more force than necessary.

Bringing your phone off your chest, you stare at the blank screen for a moment before placing it off to the side. You think it’s done enough for the moment.

Sitting up properly, you pull out your sketchbook and pen and lean back in your seat. Idly, you flip to a blank page and bring your pen to paper.

You draw whatever comes to mind, and if what comes to mind happens to be the people lounging in front of you in the jet, then so be it.

Each portrait is given it’s own page, Sam and Bucky on one, and Zemo and Oeznik on another.

(While the secondary pilot may be sitting still for the entirety of the time you’d been on the jet, the fact that his headset and sunglasses have covered his face for the majority of the flights disqualified him from a sketch of his own likeness.)

(That and the fact that his complete silence and lack of acknowledgment kinda made you a bit nervous.)

You keep your sketchbook close to your chest, and with your seat’s location in a corner, you don’t think anyone is none the wiser. When the portraits are done, you continue to sketch your oblivious subjects on the following pages, small snapshots as they adjust their bodies.

The next few hours blur together, and you’re unsure if it’s from your total concentration at the task at hand or just a symptom of your concussion.

What you do know is that Zemo - or is it Oeznik? - makes some cheesy pasta. It may have a bunch of green bits in it, and it might be called something else, but you know in your heart that it’s essentially mac and cheese.

Unlike the spaghetti from the day before, you don’t get any on your face and clothes. Small miracles.

You brush your teeth not too long afterwards, along with ensuring that your bladder is as empty as you can get it to be. 

Outside your window, you’re vaguely aware of the passage of time as the sun moves in the sky. Admittedly, you’re unsure of how to account for the jet flying west, but a quick glance at your phone tells you that it’s three hours after boarding when Sam, speaking to the whole cabin, suggests going to sleep.

With how fuzzy your head feels, you don’t object. Neither do the rest of the cabin’s occupants, as everyone dutifully lowers the blinds on the windows nearest to them.

While Zemo goes to properly wash up, you put your drawing utensils away and plug in your phone to charge.

Unlike the previous day, you know how to properly recline your seat. Pulling your leather jacket over you, you kick off your sneakers and bring your legs up onto the seat. Curling up comfortably, you face the wall of the cabin.

You hear Sam move his seat further away from Bucky’s for optimal space for reclining, while Bucky moves his legs partially into the aisle as he slides down his own seat.

In the dim of the cabin, you can make out Zemo forgoing returning to his seat in favor of sleeping on the couch.

Closing your eyes, the embrace of sleep falls upon you shortly thereafter, your exhaustion catching up with you.

Blinking awake, you’re greeted to a dimmed cabin, the sun having fallen and not yet risen. The soft sounds of snoring comes from all around, and as your vision clears up, you see that everyone in the cabin is still asleep.

How long did you even sleep?

As you straighten up in your seat, you feel the familiar sensation of a wet pull-up between your legs, as well as a sharp, stinging sensation. You let out a soft, involuntary gasp, wincing at the pain.

At least you could probably blame this accident on your concussion. Which, as you fully awaken, you’re feeling the full effects of. Evidently, the medicine you’d taken earlier has worn off, leaving you fully aware of the pounding behind your eyes, the stinging between your thighs, and, as you lean down to grab your backpack, the aches that are scattered across your back.

You bite down on your lower lip, keeping your breaths steady.

You roll onto your feet, your socks silent against the short carpeting that spans the cabin. The loudest noise on the jet is the soft clings of the metal of your zipper-pulls bouncing against the teeth of the zipper itself with each step you take. Your thighs chafe against one another, slightly dampened by the moisture of your pull-up.

The door to the bathroom opens easily and silently. Flicking the light switch on and locking the door behind you, you lean against it and hold your bag to your chest. You take a deep breath. You let it out slowly.

You aren’t feeling very good.

You sink down to the floor, keeping your knees close. There wasn’t much space, afterall.

You feel… bad.

A part of you wants to open the door you’re leaning against. To carefully call out to Sam - or maybe Bucky? - and ask for some help. To just be little for a little bit. To have one of them help you clean up, to give you some medicine, and all you have to do is let them. And then you could lay back in your seat and go back to sleep.

Sure, they may be baselines, but you doubted that either of them would be mean about it… 

But. You’ve never been little around them before. So it’s not like you know for sure.

And… it’s not like they told you it was okay to be little.

When you got Steve in a good mood, you’d been able to get him to tell you about some of the Avenger missions he’d been on. He’d told you that whenever there was a little on the team, it was his job as a leader to tell them when it was safe to be little.

Plane rides were almost always a safe place to be little. Especially ones that spanned hours. Afterall, if it wasn’t safe to be little hundreds of miles in the sky, where was it safe?

But, it was perfectly reasonable to assume that neither Sam or Bucky even viewed themselves as the leader of the mission.

But still. Leader or not, they knew you were a little, right? But neither of them had even encouraged you to be little at all the past couple days.

Sam seemed like the type of person who encouraged people to be as healthy as they could be, and that would include indulging in headspace.

If Bucky was anything like Steve, he might’ve even held the old-timey belief that littles should be in headspace for as much time as possible.

And yet.

Here you are. On the ground of a bathroom so small you couldn’t even fully stretch out your legs in front of you. It’s been what? Five, six days since you’d been little? All this time zone hopping makes it a bit hard to pinpoint exactly how long it’s been since the moment you picked up the phone, but even if it’s been five days, you’d gone that long before.

It definitely wasn’t willingly, sure, but if you managed once, you should be able to do it again.

… Maybe they just thought you had a better grasp on your headspace than you actually do. Afterall, some people regressed for an hour or two every two weeks and were just fine. It certainly wasn’t something a doctor would recommend, but that doesn’t stop a lot of people from doing it.

A doctor also wouldn’t recommend going into a burning building or fighting another person in hand-to-hand combat, but you're sure that both Bucky and Sam would have no problem with either.

Ugh. Why couldn’t you have just disregarded recommended health guidelines like a lot of people did? Maybe if you had, you wouldn’t feel all out of sorts at the moment.

You let out a sigh. All this thinking wasn’t helping your headache. You’ll just deal with it on your own.

If Bucky and Sam think you could stay big for the mission, you’re not going to make them think otherwise.

Besides, Zemo was here. You’ve heard more than enough about his beliefs about powered people, you weren’t interested in finding out his thoughts about littles first hand.

Pulling the backpack away from your chest, you zip it open. Staring down at all the clothes you’d thrown in there, you reach in and pull out a shirt at random. As you unroll it, you see that it’s a heathered grey t-shirt, only a size larger than your actual measurements.

It’ll do the job.

You toss it up onto the bathroom’s counter, immediately turning your attention back to your clothing options. You’d worn all your pants at this point, so it was only really a matter of how dusty each one was. After a moment of hesitation, you pull out the pants that you were wearing when you’d visited Munich a few days back. That too is tossed onto the counter.

You push aside the rest of your clothes, reaching in for a clean pull-up. As your fingers make contact with the familiar material, you pause.

There were two left in the bag.

You hold back an annoyed groan, but you don’t stop yourself from throwing your head backwards.

Of course, that leads to you letting out a surprised and pained yelp when you slam your poor injured head against the door.

Oof.

You immediately stiffen up and press your lips together as the pain reverberates through your skull. The noise was probably heard throughout the cabin, but if you were lucky, maybe everyone slept through it?

Listening for any movement on the opposite side of the door, you sit as quiet as you can on the floor. When no such movement is heard, you grab a pull-up from your bag and haul yourself to your feet.

As you balance yourself, you find yourself looking into the mirror. Your hair is mussed from both sleep and your descent down the bathroom door. Your eyes are puffy, the skin around them darker than you’d like. Your bottom lip is a tad too red, your teeth evidently having worked it too hard.

You think about extending your energy to shift yourself to ‘normal’. As your body aches, however, you decide your energy is better spent on actually healing than just looking healed.

For the moment, at least.

You make quick work of cleaning yourself off, wiping and drying your damp and irritated skin. Your sweats are discarded directly into your bag, replaced by the clothes on the counter. You dig through your bag for the belt you’d left looped in your earlier jeans, easily buckling it around your waist.

Looking back at the mirror, you see that your eyes look a bit better as you’ve calmed down. You run your hands through your hair, fixing it to your liking. You lick your lips.

There.

That was better.

At least, a bit.

Turning your attention back to your backpack, you haul it to the counter in search of your toothbrush.

Just because you probably brushed them only a few hours ago wasn’t an excuse for poor dental hygiene.

You attempt a smile in the mirror as you finish, though it comes out looking more like a grimace.

…

You decide to look through the galley for the pain medicine.

Zipping your backpack closed, you shut the light off before you open the bathroom door.

Everyone looks to be where you left them, and you let out a silent sigh of relief. Straight ahead, outside the cockpit’s uncovered window, you see that the stars have disappeared as the sun begins its ascent.

Dropping off your bag in your seat, you continue into the galley.

Standing before the many cabinets and drawers, you fidget as you try to remember if you’d paid any attention to where Zemo got the medicine from. It definitely was somewhere here.

You pull open the first drawer, right at your hip. All that greets you are various snacks in their packages. You close it and open the next, only to see the various dishes and utensils. Right, you knew this already. What cabinet have you not opened already?

Your eyes flick upwards at the top cabinets, high above your head. You reach up, catching the bottom edge of it with your fingers. Swinging it open, you see various baskets, each filled with… something.

You go onto your tip-toes for a moment before falling back into the balls of your feet.

Huffing, you shift your legs to be taller. When the rolls of your jeans reach your shins, you can see the actual contents of the baskets. One held assorted bandages and gauze, while the other held pill bottles, boxed tablets, and some liquid medicine.

Your satisfaction is short-lived, however, when you take the medicine basket into your hands and are greeted to labels in a language you don’t understand.

Hesitantly, you pull a bottle out, this one fatter than the rest. The pills within rattle as you angle the container to squint at the label.

While you may recognize the letters individually, each word is a mystery to you.

Your lip is once again caught underneath your teeth. Turning your head into the cockpit, you check to see if Oeznik was awake.

Unfortunately, you see him asleep on the small pull-out bed. Which meant the only person awake was the pilot.

Who has yet to say a single word in the past several hours you’ve been aboard this jet.

Which meant you were on your own.

Thinking back to earlier, you remember when you tried reaching for the bottle. Zemo held it easily in his hand. That meant that it was a smaller bottle.

You put the bottle back, picking another up, this one the size of your palm. Just as the last, you can’t glean any information from the bottle itself. With a huff, you set the basket onto the counter.

If you can’t tell what each bottle contains, you’ll just have to look at the pills themselves. Zemo gave you two pink circles, you just need to find them again.

Looking quickly at the cap, you see that it’s a squeeze-to-open one. Pinching the sides with your fingers, you squeeze and twist.

The lid doesn’t budge.

You let out another huff of air through your nose. You readjust your fingers and try again.

It still doesn’t budge.

A flare of anger courses through you. Why was the lid being so difficult? Why couldn’t it be one of the ones where all you had to do was press down and twist, those didn’t give you any trouble. You’re pinching the lid like you're supposed to, why isn’t it working?

Squirming around, you grab and twist the lid to no avail. Your movements are sharp and jerky, the pills within the bottle bouncing around.

“You okay there?”

You jump, turning around to see the source of the whisper.

Bucky sits in his seat, which has been twisted to face the aisle. His eyebrows are slightly raised.

Standing in the galley, your rolled-up jeans dangling above your shins and medicine bottle gripped in your hands, you realize he’s waiting for your answer. You straighten up. “I’m just- The bottle won’t- I can’t- “ Your voice is quiet, just above a whisper. “I… didn’t wake you up, did I?”

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter.” Before you can protest, he barrels forward, jerking his chin towards the bottle in your hands. “Need help?”

You look down at the bottle in your hands before silently handing it over. Keeping your eyes focused onto the floor, you miss the way Bucky’s lips jerk upwards as he reads the label.

“You needed congestion relief?”

Your head jerks up, a blush coming to your cheeks. Snatching the bottle out of his hand, you quickly turn around to put it back in the basket. “N-No!” you whisper-shout over your shoulder. You start lifting each bottle up, just enough to glance at each label. “I didn’t- I don’t know which one is the pain relief.”

The cabin is filled with the soft sounds of rattling pills for a moment. When you hear the soft sounds of a person standing up, the way the chair gently creaks as a weight is lifted off it, you force your hands to still, resting on top of the various lids.

Bucky stands beside you. “Here, let me.” His fingers rest gently on the edge of the basket.

Hesitating only slightly, you lift your hands up, allowing Bucky to slide the basket in front of him. While he checks each bottle, you stand there, hands awkwardly staying in the air until you lay them on the counter top.

In only a few seconds, Bucky’s hands still, a container in hand. He easily pops the lid off before holding the bottle out to you.

Wordlessly, you take it. You shake two pills into the palm of your hand, before focusing your attention to the label. The least you could do right now is commit the way the letters are arranged to your memory. After a moment, you hand the bottle back and whisper “Thanks,” stepping away from the galley and back to your seat. For each step you take, the roll of your jeans lowers until it rests right around your ankles; if you didn’t have to put the medicine away, there was no need to be shifted for the moment.

Settling back into your seat, you pop the medicine into your mouth with one hand and bring your old glass of water to your lips. It’s a bit warm at this point, but it’s fine.

The sound of a rustling plastic wrapper draws your attention back to the galley. A moment later, Bucky emerges, one unwrapped protein bar partially sticking out of his mouth and another held in his hand.

Unbidden, a surprised exhale of breath escapes you, your lips turning up in amusement.

Steve used to do that too, right after you guys sparred.

Bucky makes eye contact with you as he settles into his own seat, his own lips curling around the bar in his mouth.

You avert your eyes then, but the small smile remains on your face. Looking down at your seat, your eyes follow your charging cord to your phone. You unplug it, sure that it’s fully charged by now.

Flicking your eyes over to Bucky for a moment, you see him pulling his music player out from his pocket, his first protein bar already partially eaten.

Attention back at your phone, you see that it’s around… seven am?

It takes a moment for you to remember that you’re traveling through time zones. With a glance at the screen above Bucky’s head, you see that you’re eight hours into your flight.

Which means that you’ve only slept for about five hours. It’s not the best, but nor is it the worst amount of sleep you’ve gotten before.

Peeking around your phone, you see Zemo and Sam blissfully asleep.

You could join them if you really wanted to. There’s still six hours until the jet is going to touch down in Riga.

But you only had a single pull-up left.

If you fall asleep right now, there is no telling what your body would do without your permission.

You could hazard a guess though.

If you’re really lucky, the Flag Smashers are going to be exactly where you think they’re going to be. Which would mean that you could wrap up here and go home and regress.

You doubt you’d be so lucky.

If you were to assume the worst, which is that the Flag Smashers aren’t in Riga, you’ll need at least another pack of pull-ups. You don’t want to be caught without any spare protection.

It’s an easy choice if you put it that way: either go to sleep, wet another pull-up, and search Riga for the Flag Smashers without a clean change or you can stay up, stay dry, and not worry about any potential accidents later.

It’s not even a choice, really.

Drooping your shoulders, you carefully lean back into the cushions of your seat and fully unlock your phone. 

If Bucky is surprised by your resolve to not go back to sleep, he doesn’t show it.

You find your earbuds and pop them in. You’ll pass the time by watching videos.

Three commentaries, two video essays, and one documentation of the rise and fall of a piece of technology from a bygone era later, everyone in the cabin is fully awake. When Sam woke up, you had him pass you some packaged cookies, and when Zemo woke up, you had him give you a bottle of apple juice.

Not exactly the healthiest breakfast, but with only Bucky there to fully witness your breakfast crimes, you don’t mind.

Returning to your seat after your fourth bathroom trip in as many hours, you check the jet’s progress to your destination. There’s still two more hours until it’s time to land and you’ll get to properly stretch your legs.

The bathroom trips may have started just as insurance that you’ll stay dry, but to be honest with yourself, you just liked the excuse of getting to walk across the cabin.

Although, after doing some mental math in your head, you think that now’s around the time for another round of pain medication.

In just three steps you’re where you need to be, right in front of the correct cabinet. Unlike the previous hours, however, you know what you’re looking for. It only takes a moment before you have the right bottle in hand, and with a pinch and a twist, the top pops off easily. Pouring out some pills into the palm of your hand, you turn around and distribute the correct dosage for Sam, Zemo, and yourself - although, Zemo politely declines.

You give an easy shrug and take your own medicine without a problem. Placing the bottle back, you settle into your seat, happy to not have to deal with aches and pains at the moment.

Powering your phone back on, your thumb hovers over the Youtube app. You think you’ve had enough for the moment. 

You just need to find something that’ll occupy you for the next few hours.

Well… if Bucky’s music player was enough to keep him occupied for the past several days, then your music streaming service should be more than enough.

Selecting one of your playlists at random, you put your earbuds back in and direct your attention to the clouds passing you by.

It isn’t until a hand on your shoulder pulls you out of a daydream of a potential animatic someone could make to go with the song you were listening to, that you realize that maybe you were a little too into your daydreams. A quick look around the cabin reveals everyone buckling up for the descent, Bucky excluded so as to snap you out of it.

Pulling your earbuds out, you flash him a thankful smile before buckling your own seatbelt.

As the jet lands, you begin gathering your things. A quick glance at your phone reveals that it’s around four pm in Riga time before you shove it into your pocket. You push your feet into your boots, double lacing them to keep them secure. As for the leather sneakers that Zemo gave you, they’re shoved into your backpack, the presence of Sharon’s jacket taking up much of the space that remained.

If they didn’t intend on you keeping them, they shouldn’t have let you wear them.

Bucky and Oeznik wait on the tarmac, while you, Sam, and Zemo gather your bags.

As you slide your backpack on, however, you remember the company you were keeping - namely, two heroes and a wanted criminal.

When you emerge from the jet, you’re wearing the face you wore back in Madripoor; afterall, you might as well stay consistent.

No one makes a comment at your shifting, though Bucky’s eyes do linger on your face for a moment.

Stalking across the pavement and through the lobby of the private airfield, your group exits through the front doors.

Awaiting just outside is a black taxi cab, Oeznik presumably having called it on your group’s behalf.

After taking Zemo’s duffle bag and placing it in the trunk, Oeznik turns to face Zemo. As you and Sam place your bags in the trunk, you hear Oeznik and Zemo exchanging words in Sokovian.

When you turn around, you see Zemo and Oeznik embracing one another. As they pull apart, you hear Zemo whisper something, his eyes crinkled and shiny.

You hurry away to slide into the backseat, right beside Bucky. A moment later, Sam follows, closing the door behind him.

The backseat is quiet as you all wait for Zemo.

You don’t have to wait long, as Zemo settles on the passenger seat after only a few moments.

When he turns to instruct the driver as to where to go, you see that his eyes are clear, his face neutral.

As the car starts, you settle your gaze out the front window.

The first ten minutes of the ride is spent driving alongside the nearby river, along with various residential buildings and small businesses. A few minutes after crossing the bridge over the river, the road ahead changes from black asphalt to cobblestone.

The driver takes your group as far as the roads allow, stopping when the streets narrow too small for a car.

As you and Sam gather the bags from the trunk, Zemo pays the driver, Bucky standing guard. You hold onto Zemo’s duffle bag so Sam can shut the trunk - just in time, as the driver seems to take that as his cue to drive away.

Zemo begins walking down one of the narrow streets, though not before you make him carry his stuff. His lips curl at the corners as you shove the bag into his arms, but you pay it no mind.

He leads the way, you staying a step behind Bucky and Sam as you walk. Looking around, you take this as your opportunity to sight-see; afterall, it wasn’t everyday you left the country, and unlike the previous trip, you weren’t stuck in a car for most of it.

Gazing around, you see cafes, bars, centuries-old cathedrals, markets, and even a toy shop. It’s pretty here, if a bit chilly. 

Even though it’ll probably be for the best for you to zip your jacket up, you can’t bring yourself to do so. The chill feels nice against your skin, cooling you down.

“I heard what has become of Sokovia,” Zemo begins, conversationally. “Cannibalized by its neighbors before the land was cleared of its rubble. Erased from the map. I don’t suppose any of you bothered visiting the memorial?”

Silence.

Zemo gives a sharp nod. “Of course not. Why would you? We are here.” He walks up a short set of stairs, you and Sam following shortly behind.

“I’m gonna go on a walk.” Bucky says, drawing everyone’s attention to where he stood on the pavement.

Did… did Zemo’s comment get to him?

Sam asks, “You good?”

“Yeah, I’ll see you guys in a bit.” Bucky turns and starts walking the opposite direction.

You watch him for a moment, before turning to follow Sam and Zemo up the steps.

Zemo opens the front door and you’re greeted to... an elevator, only a few steps ahead.

Huh. That’s a bit odd.

You step into the small foyer. To the left, you see three locked boxes with slits at the top, each presumably a mailbox for each apartment. To the right is a closed door, and you wonder if it leads to a stairwell.

Zemo pushes the button to summon the elevator, but it seems it’s already at the ground floor, as the main door obediently opens. Pushing aside the outer safety gates, Zemo enters.

You share a look with Sam, both of you silently acknowledging the weirdness of the situation, but pushing past it.

Sam enters first, you a step behind. Zemo pulls the safety gate closed before he presses the button for his floor - it’s on the third and highest story. Zemo leans against one of the walls as he reaches into his duffle bag, withdrawing a small loop of keys.

Just how many properties did Zemo have? And how many of them were the various governments of the world aware of?

When the elevator comes to a stop, Zemo pushes the doors open and strolls ahead, eyes and fingers occupied with the keys. Departing the elevator, you and Sam watch as Zemo triumphantly holds a single key from the loop up before he inserts it into the lock on the double doors.

An audible click is heard as the door unlocks.

With a smirk, Zemo pushes the doors open. “Welcome to one of my many apartments. Please, make yourself at home.”

A witty remark at the tip of your tongue, you quiet when you actually see the place. Your eyes are immediately drawn to the stained glass mosaic windows that took up most of the far wall, stretching floor to ceiling.

As you step closer to properly make out the shapes of each piece of colored glass, your attention is diverted away to the large metallic chandelier that hangs in the center of the entryway. Directly above you is a mural, clouds and constellations painted onto the curved ceiling. Around you are large blue-tiled columns that circle away from the entrance, though as you look around, more are scattered around the apartment.

Turning around, you note two doors on the left wall, a large cluster of brown and blue couches, a kitchen area, two non -mosaiced windows with even more seating below them, a bookshelf embedded into a wall, a small table with accompanying chairs, and a second set of double doors.

It was… nice.

Was it a tad extravagant? Sure. But it also felt cozy, almost warm.

Although that might just be yellow-tinged light bulbs playing tricks on you.

Drawing your attention back to your ‘host’, you see Zemo standing near the entryway, entirely too smug for your liking.

Sam, after readjusting the duffle bag slung over his shoulder, breaks the silence. “Well? You gonna give us a tour?”

“Ah, of course. Where are my manners?” Zemo says, walking towards the left wall. Opening the door nearest to the entrance, he reveals a modestly sized closet. “As you can see, this is the coat closet.” He reaches out for a wire hanger and, after placing his own duffle bag at his feet, begins shrugging off his own coat. “Feel free to use it for your jackets or luggage,” he nods at you and Sam.

You make no move to shrug off your own jacket, nor do you hand over your backpack; however, Sam, after a moments’ consideration, does swing his duffle bag off his shoulder and onto the floor of the closet - although he does retrieve his laptop before doing so.

Grabbing his own duffle bag, Zemo moves onto the next door, swinging it open. “This is the master bedroom.” He pauses. “It is also the only bedroom.”

You lean forward to get a good look at the place, Sam craning his head around the door frame. It’s fairly large compared to the rest of the apartment, large enough to accommodate a king-sized bed in the center of the room, along with a night table on each side of the bed. Each holds a single table lamp. Pushed against the left side of the room is a large dresser, while the opposite side contains a moderately sized vanity and a wardrobe.

Similar to the living room, embedded into the right wall is a single mosaic window, right in the center, spanning from the ceiling to halfway down the wall. Right below it is a cushioned bench, wedged in the area between the vanity and the wardrobe.

It’s simultaneously almost too intimate to be staring at yet it’s devoid of any identifying or personal items.

Nonetheless, you take a step away, turning around to face the rest of the apartment. Zemo takes this as his cue to shut the door and stride along the back of the living room. He knocks his knuckles against the top of the desk that resides behind the couches, passing by it without pausing. “My desk,” is his eloquent description.

As he continues forward, your eyes land on the mosaic windows. Now that you’re beside them, you can see that it was entirely comprised of colorless and yellow hexagons and red and blue six-pointed stars.

It’s pretty.

Zemo swings behind the counter, entering the kitchen area. Pointing to a small wooden cabinet, he says, “That’s the beverage cabinet.”

You and Sam elect to stay on the opposite side of the counter, though you both continue to follow him.

Walking onwards, Zemo simply nods his head towards the cabinets behind him. “I would hope that you’d be able to deduce that this is the kitchen.” He switches his duffle bag into his other hand, throwing his right hand out towards the medium sized table and the accompanying chairs. His fingers sweep across the surface as he walks. “This is the dining area.”

And finally, he comes to a stop at the double doors. “And this is the wet room - or the bathroom, as I’m sure you Americans call it.” He pulls both doors open, revealing the room in question. Two high windows shine light into the room, reflecting off blue tiles and a large, ceramic tub, of which was in the direct center of the room.

Zemo gazes curiously at the tub for a moment, eyes squinting in thought. Looking back at you and Sam, he states more than asks, “James will likely be out for a few minutes more, no?”

Sam quirks a brow. “... possibly?”

Zemo nods, and steps forward into the room. “Then there should be no problem with me taking a quick wash.”

“I don’t know about that-”

“Please, Samuel, I simply would like to rinse off. If I’m quick enough, you can go ahead right after me. I’m sure that you’d also appreciate a proper bath.”

Sam narrows his eyes at Zemo. He looks over Zemo’s shoulders into the bathroom, eyes now searching for a possible exit. Upon finding none, he sighs. “Fine,” he relents. “But keep it quick - unless you want us to leave you behind if we get a lead.” 

Zemo smiles. “Of course.” And with that, he closes the doors.

You glare at the doors for a moment. You and Sam hadn’t properly showered for the past couple days, having to resort to improvised wipe downs in the various airport and jet bathrooms; if anything, you guys deserved a quick shower.

Turning your head, you and Sam stare at each other, both equally peeved.

He releases a gentle sigh and schools his face back to indifference, strolling back to the counters. He places his laptop on the countertop, then he works his jacket off.

You move towards the center of the couch, before a spike of anxiety shoots through you.

It’s completely unfounded, but you can’t help but feel the need to be close to someone right now.

Eyes flicker over to where Sam sits, landing on the two remaining stools next to him. Taking hold of one of your backpack straps, you swing the bag off your back and onto the end of the couch nearest to the kitchen. Your leather jacket quickly follows, draped over the seat.

You pivot to sit towards the stools that lined this side of the counter. The one nearest to Sam is occupied by his jacket, so you settle on the remaining seat on the opposite end of the counter.

The need to be around another quickly subsides, apparently sated.

Furrowing your brows just so, you shrug this incident off as just a rare instance of your anxiety acting up and you dig your phone out of your pocket. Your brain probably just got too used to being around so many people in very limited quarters for the past several hours.

Probably.

Your legs dangle just above the footrest, gently swaying as you open up your social media of choice and start scrolling.

Zemo exits the bathroom after only five minutes, wearing a robe, white pants, and black patterned loafers. He has a small brown bottle in his hands.

You don't have time to fully process what kind of weirdo wears loafers of all things after bathing, because almost simultaneously, Bucky busts through the front doors.

“The Wakandans are here,” he announces, striding into the room. “They want Zemo. I bought us some more time.”

“Were you followed?” Sam asks, spinning in his seat to face him.

“No.”

Stopping in front of the mosaic windows, in front of the beverage cabinet, Zemo asks, “How could you be so sure?”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “‘Cause I know when I’m being followed,” he scoffs.

Zemo turns around, the ends of his lips upturning. “It was sweet of you to defend me at least.” He upturns the bottle onto his fingers, and from where you’re sitting, you smell the cologne it contains. He blots it under his chin.

“Hey, you shut it, no one’s defending you,” Sam cuts in. “You killed Nagel.”

“With my weapon,” you add, pouting.

“Do we really have to litigate what may or may not have happened?” Zemo sets the cologne bottle on the counter space between you and Sam, continuing into the kitchen.

“There’s nothing to litigate,” Sam says. “You straight shot the man.”

“The man had no loyalties.” Zemo opens up a cabinet, revealing it to be decently stocked. He reaches into a box, withdrawing a shortbread cookie. “If he was able to make twenty vials of serum, there was nothing stopping him from creating more for the highest bidder.” He shrugs, “A bullet seemed to be a good deterrent.” He takes a bite out of the cookie and moves onto the next cabinet.

“Maybe we should give him to the Wakandans right now,” Bucky suggests.

“And you’ll give up your tour guide?”

“Yes.”

The back of Zemo's head moves as if he agrees with that sentiment, and he moves onto the next cabinet. From where you’re seated, it looks like they’re all filled with shelf-stable items.

You wonder if anything here has expired, or if Zemo has someone come in to periodically replace and dust things.

“From my understanding, Donya was like a pillar of the community, right?” Sam looks around. “So back when I was a kid, my TT passed away-”

“Y-Your ‘Tee Tee’?” Bucky repeats, unsure if he’d heard correctly.

“Yeah.” Sam nods. “My TT, yeah.”

“Who was your ‘TT’?” Bucky asks, looking over from the couch.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Fine, when I was a kid my aunt passed away. And the entire neighborhood got together for a ceremony. It was like a week long. Maybe they’re doing the same thing for Donya.”

“Worth a shot,” Bucky shrugs.

“Your ‘TT’ would be proud of you,” Zemo turns around, revealing a metal tin in his hand. He reaches in, pulling out a wrapped candy. He holds it in the air and gives it a little wiggle. “Turkish delight,” he reveals. He tosses the piece over to Sam, who catches it easily. Turning back over to the counter, you hear more than see the rest of the being poured out onto the counter top. “Irresistible.”

You look over at Sam, who regards the wrapped treat with narrowed eyes. “Thanks,” he flatly replies, setting the candy next to his laptop.

A dull thwack and a rustling of plastic draws your attention to the Turkish delight that lands, slides, and stops directly in front of you. Looking up, you see Zemo smirk as his gaze is fixated on opening a drawer and withdrawing a brown paper bag.

After only a moment of hesitation, you pick it up, looking it over. You… doubted that Zemo would go through all the trouble of the past few days only to attempt to poison everyone now. It was just a small, slightly squishy candy that was tinted orange.

You free the candy from its wrapping, only to get some powdered sugar on the tips of your fingers. Interesting…

You pop the candy into your mouth and chew.

Huh.

So this is what Eglund betrayed his siblings for in Narnia.

You’re not sure this would be enough for you to betray your loved ones, but you guess he was in extenuating circumstances.

It’s good though, and you decide to let the candy dissolve in your mouth so you can enjoy the taste longer. Crumbling the wrapper in your hand, your eyes flick over the kitchen in search of the trashcan. When it’s not immediately visible, you assume that it’s hidden away behind one of the lower cabinet doors. Resolving to toss your trash out later, you tuck the wrapper into your pants pocket.

Looking back over to Sam, you see that his own Turkish delight remains untouched besides his laptop. The screen displays Sam’s own search results of the nearby GRC resettlement camp, the location of which is displayed on a satellite map.

As his eyes scan the page for information, Sam evidently sees you looking over in his own peripheral vision. The corner of his lip twitches upwards, and he wordlessly slides his Turkish delight over to you.

Smile growing, you take the candy, swinging your legs underneath the stool freely.

As you unwrap this gift, Zemo swings around the corner of the counter, cabinets closed and a filled paper bag in hand, his gaze landing on Sam’s screen. “Ah,” he perks up, “I know exactly where that is.”

“Yeah?” Sam questions.

Zemo gives an affirmative nod. “Not too far from here.”

Sam leans back and twists in his seat, looking over at Bucky. “You up to heading over and asking around?”

Bucky nods, bracing his hands against his knees as he stands from the couch. Stretching his back, he replies, “Sure.”

Nodding, Sam turns back to the laptop and shuts it closed. Zemo, meanwhile, crosses the living room towards his bedroom to - presumably - grab a shirt.

Popping the ends of your fingertips into your mouth, you lick away any residual powdered sugar from your acquired treats. As you slide off the stool and onto your feet, you brush your fingers against your jeans to further clean them.

Sam joins Bucky in the center of the pillars, leaving his laptop on the counter beside you. It is then that Zemo returns, zipping up his weird part-shirt-part-jacket turtleneck over a clean white undershirt. He’s switched out his white trousers for new, clean, black dress pants.

As you watch him open the coat closet, shrugging on his fur-collared coat and joining the others, your steps slow to a stop as you take them all in.

They looked… imposing. Bucky and Sam with their hero status, and Zemo with his natural air of superiority.

You think about the people that would be living at the resettlement camp. How, for them, Karli was their hero. How it might look, if a group of three Americans - one a World War Two hero and another an Avenger - plus an escaped convict came into their home asking about a funeral.

It would be suspicious to say the least.

You certainly wouldn’t narc on one of your heroes, why would they?

You think.

If you went with them, you would automatically be labeled as untrustworthy.

You also happened to be a shapeshifter.

Would they be okay with what you wanted to do?

“You alright?” Sam’s voice draws you out of your thoughts.

“Um…” you trail off, swallowing the remaining bits of Turkish delight. You bring a hand up to scratch the back of your head, careful to avoid your head wound.

Wait… That’s perfect.

“Actually, I’m not… feeling great. Would…” you lick your lips, “Would you guys mind if you went ahead without me?” You slouch a bit on yourself, one hand gripping into your opposite arm.

“Is everything okay?” Concern washes over Sam’s face, taking a step closer to you.

You resist the urge to take a step back, instead allowing Sam to get close. “I mean… yeah. But also, um, my head does hurt… I’ll be fine, I’m sure, I just… don’t think I can handle walking around much right this moment…” It’s not even entirely a lie, now that you think about it. But, you’ve dealt with worse. “I don’t think the jetlag is meshing well with the concussion…”

Sam turns this information over. Behind him, Bucky and Zemo are looking over at you with concern. Lowering his voice, Sam asks, “Are you going to be alright?”

You give a quick, short nod. “Yeah, I think so.”

“Okay.” Sam straightens up. “If things go well, we shouldn’t take long.”

“Okay. I’ll be, um…” you look around the room, gaze fixing onto the couches. “I’ll be laying down, I think.” You return your gaze to Sam. “Call me if you need any help though.”

“... you sure?”

“Yeah.” You quirk a smile. “I’m always ready to rumble.”

Sam huffs a breath of air out his nose. “Sure.” He pats you on your shoulder and, turning around to face the others, jerks his head to the door. 

They get the message and start heading out, Bucky and Zemo nodding you a goodbye.

Sam is close to follow, but he lingers in the doorway. Looking back over to you, he instructs, “Get some rest,” before he shuts the door, preventing you from replying in the negative or affirmative.

A small part of you feels a bit guilty, standing there in the empty room.

You stand there for a moment, eyes on the door, watching to see if any one of them returns for something left behind.

When no such return occurs, you head directly for the bathroom, swallowing the small ball of guilt down.

It was only a little lie. And, if all went well, you could maybe even own up to it.

Your eyes lock onto the mirror as you push the double doors open. As you evaluate yourself, you brace your hands against the counter.

Unaccompanied by three very recognizable faces, you don’t think anyone should have any reason to distrust you by looks alone.

The longer you were here though, the higher the chance that any soliciting you’d do would be tainted by the presence of Sam, Bucky, and Zemo.

Your nails clack against the sink as you think about the easiest way to work around that.

Slowly and hesitantly, you watch as you get shorter, your facial features softening and skin smoothing.

You stop when a nine year old in much too big clothes stares back at you - except for your shirt. That alone looks to be an acceptable amount of baggy.

Releasing a ragged sigh, your hands go up to fix your hair, to get it as nice as you can without any hair products or even a simple comb. Your entire body aches, all the bruises and injuries from the previous day rearing their ugly heads. Shrinking just condensed and concentrated all the injured flesh together, the back of your head being no exception. The injuries themselves may be smaller, disappearing even as you focus on making sure the bruises and scrapes get superficially healed, but the aches and pains remain. 

Unfortunately, there’s not much you could do for that. Being this small meant adult’s pain medication wouldn’t be safe to consume and if you decided to take some despite that fact, when you shifted back it would mess with the efficiency anyways. You’ll just… deal with it.

You won’t be shifted like this for long anyways.

Looking down, you adjust your belt so your pants don’t slide off your hips. They are now excessively large, almost to a comical degree, but untucking your shirt hides the excess material that bunches up around your waist.

It covers the top of them, at least...

Striding towards the kitchen, your head swivels around as you try to find the scissors. Each step is careful, as you avoid tripping over the material that dragged on the floor and kicking off your oversized boots.

It takes you two tries to find the correct drawer. Taking the scissors in hand, you crouch down and unroll your jeans.

Sure, you could just continue to roll your pants up, but there comes a point where it just looks ridiculous. The least you could do would be to cut these jeans to fit you when you’re not a pipsqueak.

It looks like the scissors are properly sharpened because they cut through the denim without a hitch. You reach up to set them back into the drawer while you sit on the ground to re-roll each pant leg. Poking your tongue out the corner of your mouth, you undo the laces on your boots, only to re-do them as tight as you could. You have to shift your feet to be a bit larger than they were at this age just to ensure they don’t slip off - as long as you don't have to run, you think it’ll be fine.

Tucking the cut material into a pocket as you stand, you look over to where your discarded jacket was laid out. It was already large on you normally, in this form it’ll be ridiculous. Walking over to your backpack, you pull out the bomber jacket. Was it also pretty big? Yes. But at least you could roll these sleeves up.

Your outfit as adjusted as you could make it, you pat your pockets to ensure you have your phone. Nodding to yourself, you pull it out as you head out the door.

Standing at the bottom of the front steps, you open the GPS app and search for the GRC camp.

Thankfully, it didn’t seem to be too far; it was only fifteen minutes away by the main roads - although, according to the map, you could shave off four minutes by taking some walking paths.

You think you could make it there even quicker if you walk fast enough.

Wasting no time, you begin your journey.

Just as you thought, you make it to the resettlement camp in a solid nine minutes - you may be a bit out of breath, and your legs a bit tired from having to lug around your boots, but you’re here, which is what matters.

You tuck your phone away and lean against the outside wall, both to give yourself some time to get your breathing under control and to think about how you were going to proceed.

Peeking around the corner, you see a small group of children in the center of the courtyard, idly playing with a kickball. There’s six of them. Around the edges of the courtyard are a few adults, all paying a varying amount of attention to the game the kids were playing.

Sam, Bucky, and Zemo are nowhere to be seen.

This should be a breeze. Afterall, it isn’t the first time you’d deaged into a child in order to get some info - although, admittedly, the previous times you’d done so were because you’d needed some info about less-than-savory people that were interacting with kids.

Approaching children to get them to sell out where one of their only champions were going to be, specifically a funeral for someone they were probably even closer to, however, was admittedly… different.

Taking a deep breath, you relax your shoulders before you approach. You feel a bit nervous, but that’s okay - you could use that to your advantage.

Instead of directly approaching the group, you idly walk around the perimeter of the courtyard, hands in your pockets and eyes not leaving the ball.

It doesn’t take long for one of the players on the outskirts to take notice of your presence. They nudge one of their friends, and it isn’t long before the group as a whole is sneaking glances your way. There’s a few whispers before one of the kids, a boy that looks to be eight, maybe seven, takes the plunge in talking to you.

“Are you from around here?” is what he asks, direct and upfront.

You straighten up, looking around as if you think they may be referring to anyone other than you. After confirming the obvious, you shake your head. “No.” Before you have to elaborate on that point, you barrel onwards, “My dad heard that someone he knew… passed away. So we’re here because he wants to pay his respects.”

The group’s interest is piqued. “He knew Mama Donya?”

You slowly nod. “Yeah, years ago. He said that, um,” you bite your lips, thinking of the vaguest thing you can say without arousing suspicion. “That Mama Donya really helped him when he really needed it.”

The boy nods. “Yeah, she does-” he winces, "did. She did stuff like that a lot.”

A girl steps forward, maybe only ten. Despite the fact that you’re both nearly the same height, she looms over you, distrust in her eyes. “How’d she help your father?”

You take a step back and say the first thing that comes to mind. “Helped him find a job. A good one. It’s outside the country, so... It was the last time he saw her.”

The tween nods, tension leaving her shoulders. Good. She believes you. “Where is he now?”

You shrug, giving a glance around. “I dunno. He found out the news last night and booked a flight immediately. We barely dropped our bags off at the hotel before coming here. He said that even if he misses the funeral, it was important to him to be here.”

“Well…” Her eyes flick back over to you, assessing you. “You’re here early,” she reveals. “It isn’t until tomorrow.”

Jackpot.

“Oh, that’s good. Will I… see you wherever it’s at? I mean- if I even attend, my dad’s self-conscious, he doesn’t like large crowds, so I’m not even sure-”

She interrupts you with a snort, raising her hands up to placate you good-naturedly. “Yeah, probably. It’ll be here. It’s at seven, early.”

You smile. “Oh, cool. He’ll be real happy to not have missed it.”

She smiles back. “D’ya wanna play until he comes back?” She kicks up the ball, catching it in her hands.

“Oh-!” You’re taken aback. You didn’t think this far ahead. After getting the information needed, it’ll be kinda weird if you just left… right? What’s the appropriate amount of time to play? You absolutely doubted that you’ll play well in these boots. Maybe you can say your dad wanted you to meet him in a couple of minutes? That could work, but only if you say that the meeting place is away from any prying eyes.

A familiar voice comes from over your shoulder, startling you out of your racing thoughts. “Have you already made friends, entlein?"

Whipping your head around, you see Zemo strolling towards you, hands in his pockets and smiling.

Whelp. It looks like you’ve been caught.

You’d say you’re surprised he even recognized you, but considering you were wearing essentially the same thing he saw you wear earlier, it shouldn’t be hard to put two and two together.

You let out a small huff of a laugh, part nervous and part embarrassed. “D-Daaaaad,” you whine, hunching your shoulders for effect.

Snickers and snorts come from the group beside you, evidently amused.

You hope above all else that he plays along.

Zemo comes to a stop beside you. “What?” he asks, the corners of his eyes crinkling with a good-natured smile.

“I mean-! I barely-! I dunno!” you sputter, bringing a hand to the back of your head so as to block some of your face with your arm as you turn to fully face him.

“Well, have they helped you? Invited you to play, perhaps?” he tilts his head. ‘Have they told you where Karli can be found’ is the unspoken question that hangs between you.

You give a couple nods of the head as you drop your hand back to your side.

His grin widens - just like the Cheshire cat. “How kind of them!” He turns to face them fully.

The group as a whole perks up at the compliment.

“Unfortunately, we must start heading out,” he turns back to you, his smile dropping and face turning sympathetic.

“Oh,” you sigh, shoulders drooping. “Because- Because you don’t like crowds, huh.” You raise your eyebrows, locking eyes with him.

His eyes twinkle in both amusement and understanding, and he nods. He raises a single index finger in the air, drawing everyone’s attention to it. “However,” he reaches into his coat’s pocket, “Such kindness should be rewarded regardless, no?”

Eyes not leaving the hand in his pocket, you give a small, unsure nod.

Smile stretching across his face, Zemo withdraws a crumpled paper bag. Understanding dawns on your face, though your audience remains cautious yet optimistic.

He shakes the bag over his hand, enough that a couple of Turkish delights fall into his palm.

Hushed excitement falls over the children, eyes sparkling as they spot the treats.

Zemo’s own shoulders relax, his smile softening. “For you and your friends.” He drops the few in his hands back into the bag, handing over the bag to the nearest child - the tween girl.

She accepts graciously, clasping onto the top of the bag.

While both their hands are grasping the bag, Zemo leans down, not yet releasing his own grip.

The girl subtly tilts her head, locking eyes with him.

Zemo quiets his voice, so low that if you weren’t standing directly beside him you wouldn’t even hear him. “As my child has told you, I’m not particularly fond of large crowds,” he whispers. “If you’d be so kind as to help me pay my last respects in private?”

The girl gives a nod in understanding - that this is a bribe and that she’s being paid off. Evidently, the bag full of treats is a fair price, as she tightens her grip and whispers back, “There’s a side entrance. I can wait for you around the back?”

Zemo releases his grip with a smile, a silent confirmation. The girl clutches the bag to her chest equally satisfied. 

Raising his voice back to a normal volume, Zemo places a hand on your shoulder and tells the kids, “Don’t make too much trouble.” He winks, and begins leading you away.

You compliantly walk with him, giving a small wave to the group as you turn away.  

Glancing back over your shoulder - and around Zemo’s arm - you watch as the girl eagerly shares her loot with the other children. Each taking a handful from the bag, a few see you looking back at them and they give you a happy wave goodbye.

A small smile settles on your face, and you turn your attention to where Zemo was leading you. Up ahead, where you had first entered, you see Sam and Bucky staring back at the both of you, neither one looking particularly pleased.

Uh-oh.

Your smile falls as you press your mouth into a thin line, dropping your gaze to the ground in front of you.

Zemo’s hand remains wrapped around your shoulder, and, approaching the exit, his steps don’t slow. In spite of your short stature, you keep pace with him.

Walking you right past Sam and Bucky, Zemo remarks, “Cute kids.”

There’s a moment where the only sounds you can hear are Zemo’s and your own footsteps and the distant sounds of the group of children you’d left behind. Quickly, however, two pairs of footsteps follow.

For three or four minutes, those are the only sounds your group makes, walking down the Latvian streets.

The silence takes its toll on you, and you’re the first to break it. “D-Did-” you start, too low and too nervous for your liking. Clearing your throat, you try again, this time as if nothing was wrong. “Did you get any information?” At this point, you finally raise your head, glancing between Sam and Bucky.

Both of them have settled on a steady pace directly to your left.

Sam is the one who turns his head to acknowledge you. “... I got nothin’.” 

“Oh.” You look back down at your shoes.

Sam doesn’t look mad. He doesn’t look happy either. But maybe that’s more so because he didn’t find out anything, than because you lied to him?

Leaning forward a bit, enough to see past Sam, you look directly at Bucky. Zemo’s hand leaves your shoulder, but settles on the center of your back. “Bucky?”

His eyes flick over to you, but they don’t look any more displeased than usual. “No,” he answers.

“Oh,” you dully repeat. Straightening up, your eyes briefly flick over to Zemo before you look at Sam again. “I found some info…”

Sam quirks a brow. “You did?”

You nod. “Yeah.” Jerking your head towards Zemo, you add, “He helped, kinda.”

Your group turns a corner, silent in case of any potential eavesdroppers. 

“Anything useful?” Sam prods, after passing a couple.

“Uh-huh.” You wet your lips. “It’s tomorrow morning. Seven am.”

“Did you find out where?”

“It’ll be there.”

Sam sighs. “Just our luck.”

You quirk a brow, a silent request to elaborate.

“They’re Flag Smashers themselves - or, at least, they’re sympathizers. If they see us coming, they’ll probably warn Karli and the others before we can even get close enough.”

“Oh.” You turn your head towards Zemo. “You gonna tell them?”

The corner of Zemo’s lips twitches up. “I managed to find an associate willing to lead me through a side entrance.”

At Sam’s look of curiosity of how Zemo’s managed that, you elaborate. “Zemo bribed a kid with candy and she’ll sneak him in.”

Simultaneously, Zemo’s eyes narrow at you while Sam hisses his name.

“Zemo.”

The man in question moves his gaze from you to Sam, tilting his head in the process. “You want to find Karli, correct? Evidentially, your methods weren’t enough to get the necessary information.” He smirks, eyes focusing back on you. “And this little bird seemed to be struggling as well.”

How dare he shift the attention back to you. You wince. “I was trying to be subtle.”

Bucky pipes up, “Yeah? That why you lied to us?”

Shoulders jerk up, and you focus on the path ahead of you. “I technically didn’t lie?”

“Yeah?” he prods.

“I mean, my head does feel funny. I can deal with it though,” you’re quick to add.

“Hm.”

Suddenly defensive, you elaborate. “I mean-! You remember what I said on the plane yesterday! Robin Hood! Merry men!”

Your frenzied outbursts draws the attention of random passerby on the opposite side of the street, eyes jerking over to you.

You quiet, the rest of the group following suit. It isn’t until a minute passes, the bystanders left far behind, do you continue your train of thought. Voice low and level, you continue, “I just thought that if Karli was Robin Hood… then you guys would be Sheriffs of Nottingham.”

The group walks silently, thinking this over.

“No one was willing to talk to me,” Sam admits.

You nod. “Sorry for not telling you what I was going to do.”

“What,” Bucky leans and looks you over, “did you do? You’re what, seven?”

“I’m nine, thank you very much,” you hastily correct. “And, I, uh,” you hesitate. “I guess I just lied to the kids. Told ‘em that my dad knew Donya and if they would be so kind as to tell me the funeral details.” Saying this out loud makes it sound worse, you think. “I probably could’ve gotten all the details if Zemo didn’t pop in.”

Zemo’s eyes twinkle. “I recall seeing an expression that one would describe as ‘panicked’ and ‘in need of assistance’ when I stumbled upon you, but I guess I could be mistaken.”

You huff. “Totally had it under control,” you fib. “But, um, yeah. I wasn’t sure if anyone was going to be willing to help us. So, uh… an unsupervised child seemed like someone people wouldn’t assume would be coming to take away their so-called ‘hero.’”

The rest of the walk is silent, but not uncomfortably so. Sam, in fact, seems to be deep in thought.

It isn’t until after the elevator ride, as Zemo pushes the doors to the apartment open, does Sam break the silence.

“Karli is the only one fighting for them,” he states as fact, plopping down on the couch.

Bucky sighs, gently easing himself down on the opposite couche. You’re less gentle, kicking your boots off and throwing yourself on the couch beside Sam, finally able to shift back to normal. You nod to show you’re listening, though your attention is placed on rolling your jeans down. Zemo heads to the kitchen.

“And she’s not wrong.”

“Not you too,” Bucky groans.

Sam does his best to find the words to make Bucky understand. “For five years, people have been welcomed into countries that have kept them out using barb wire. There were houses. Jobs. Folks were happy to have people around to have them rebuild. It wasn’t just one community coming together, it was the entire world coming together. And then, boom! Just like that, it goes right back to the way it used to be. To them, at least Karli is doin’ somethin’.”

“...Wow,” you interject. “That would be nice if it was true.” 

Sam turns to face you, Bucky doing the same.

“What d’ya mean?” Sam prompts you to elaborate.

You let out a sigh and sit up. “I mean, I guess it would look like that to someone who wasn’t here, but… That’s not how it was.”

Taking a moment to gather your thoughts, you hear the gentle clinking of glassware in the kitchen. You ignore it.

“Everyone was gone - or, well, half of everyone. And landlords refused to reduce their tenants’ rent. And employers refused to raise their wages. Which meant that people couldn’t afford their homes anymore, which meant that they had to move someplace else and hope the price of living was lower. Yeah, sure, borders were opened up - but only because everything else didn’t change. They could have the rent be high and wages low, because someone was desperate for the cash, for the shelter. It was 'better for the economy’ or whatever.”

Sam thinks this over. “But if that was the case, then why are the Flag Smashers trying to get things the way things were back then? You saw the resettlement camp. The people there didn’t have anything, losing their homes and jobs when everyone came back.”

“Yeah, they lost the homes they’ve been at for the past five years - but a lot of people returned from the blip and found that their homes of ten, twenty, thirty and more years had new occupants. Homeowners are prioritized, not renters. It doesn’t matter if you survived the snap or not, what matters is if you bought the property you were living at. As for jobs? From what I’ve seen, it’s been a roll of the dice whether or not employers have kept new hires or old ones. I think most are just favoring whoever has the lowest salaries.” You run a hand down your face, sinking back into the cushions. “I don’t know why these Flag Smashers are blaming the Blipped, it’s not like you all chose to leave.”

When you remove your hand, you can see that Sam takes your words to heart. Looking over at Bucky, though, you’re unsure that you’d helped the Flag Smashers’ case.

On the coffee table in front of you, Zemo makes his presence known as he sets down a tray of a glass tea set, a flower visible within the tea pot.

Bucky’s eyes flick over to him, staring. “Y’know that the Dora’s coming for you. They might even be lurking outside right this moment.” He narrows his eyes. “What’s stopping me from turning you in right now?”

Zemo smirks. “My associate will be expecting me specifically.”

Bucky shrugs, unblinking. “I’m sure that our friend here wouldn’t have a problem taking your place.” He lazily gestures over to you.

“Ah, but they’ll be playing the part of my child. Without me, the plan falls apart.”

Bucky stands suddenly, stepping closer to Zemo within an instance. Taking hold of the small glass cup in his hand, Bucky rips it out and chucks it against a wall near the kitchen. As you’re startled by the impact, Sam jumps to his feet, coming right behind Zemo.

“Take it easy,” Sam tells Bucky. “Don’t engage him. He’s just going to extort you and do that stupid head tilt thing.”

Notably, from where you’re sitting, you see that Zemo is, in fact, tilting his head, straightening it after Sam’s comment.

“Let me make a call,” Sam continues, before walking off to get a slight resemblance of privacy in the dining room, giving Bucky a pat on the back as he passes.

Bucky adjusts his stance, eyes not leaving Zemo’s face.

“You want some cherry blossom tea?” Zemo offers.

“No, you go ahead,” Bucky scoffs, glaring at Zemo before following Sam.

You see Zemo exhale, his shoulders drooping ever so slightly, before he straightens back up and turns around to face you, a carefully made smile on his face.

“Would you like some cherry blossom tea?”

“Um,” your eyes flick down to the tea pot. “Sure?”

He hums as he grabs one of the remaining three glasses, filling it with vaguely-pink liquid.

“We found the camp,” you can hear Sam say into his phone, leaning against the tiles that overlapped into the dining room. “But no one here is telling us shit. All we got is that the funeral is tomorrow, seven am.” His voice is quiet, but just loud enough for you to make out. Beside him, leaning against the small patch of wall between the window seats, is Bucky, arms crossed and brows furrowed.

Zemo turns to you then, passing you the small glass.

You take it carefully, making eye contact with him. “Thank you.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners, his grin remaining. “You’re welcome.” He straightens back up and turns to the closet then.

“Sharon, listen, I know I owe you already, but we could use a trustworthy set of eyes on the camp. You got any more tricks in your bag?”

You look down at your glass. Hesitantly, you bring it to your lips and take a sip.

It… tastes like flowers.

You’re not sure why you’re surprised by this, considering that you can see the flower itself in the teapot.

You take a second sip.

It still tastes like flowers, but you guess it’s kinda nice?

If you were to be honest with yourself, you’d have preferred to have some sugar to stir in.

Alas, the tray Zemo settled onto the table is woefully bare of either a sugar bowl or sugar cubes.

“Thank you,” Sam’s voice floats over to you. “I’m sorry,” Sam finishes his phone call. Looking over to Bucky, he gives a small shrug. “She said she’ll see what she could do.”

Bucky’s nostrils flare, but other than that, some tension seems to leave his shoulders.

Sam begins walking your way, though Bucky remains where he is. “That was Sharon,” he holds up his phone as an explanation.

“Oh?”

“She has access to a satellite.” He settles himself on the opposite couch. “Hopefully she’ll be able to warn us if something big is gonna go down.”

You nod, taking another sip of your tea. “That’ll be nice. Hopefully she’ll get pardoned.”

He sinks into the couch, nodding. “Yeah, I’ll work on that in a bit. Draft some emails. Make some calls.”

Looking down at your glass, you swish the liquid inside around. It was half full. You hold it out to Sam, a silent offer.

The corner of his lip quirks up, and he takes the glass. He brings it to his lips, takes a sip, and holds it back to you.

“You can have it, if you want,” you offer, not taking it back.

He exhales a laugh, gives you a silent cheers, and takes another sip before letting the glass rest on his knee. “Thanks.”

“Welcome,” you recite. You lean back into the cushions behind you, and it’s at that moment that you realize that Zemo is crouched next to the couch, dustpan and brush in hand, gathering the shattered glass. His coat is gone, but his zippered turtleneck remains. Part of you wants to help, but a quick glance across the room reveals Bucky, his glare focused on Zemo.

It’ll probably be for the best if you keep to yourself.

Returning your attention back to Sam, you ask, “So, are we gonna stay put until tomorrow?”

He looks down into his glass. “Yes.”

You nod. That makes sense. With the amount of Flag Smasher sympathisers around, your group couldn’t afford someone blabbing and warning Karli and her super friends ahead of time.

Your eyes move over to the bathroom. “Plenty of time for a shower, right?”

Sam lets out a small laugh. “Y’know what? Yeah.”

You nod your head towards the double doors. “You can have first go.”

“Yeah?” He gets to his feet, placing the tea down on the coffee table. 

“Yeah. You’ve been running around a bit more than I have. You deserve it, really.”

He looks down at you, smile lopsided and eyes narrowed. “Is that just your way of telling me I stink?”

“I think we all do, if I’m being honest.”

Sam lets out a huff of a laugh and gathers his things from his duffle bag in the closet. “I’ll be quick,” he promises, closing the bathroom door behind him.

As the lock of the doors clicks into place, your ears are drawn to the gentle clinking sound of glass on glass on plastic. Turning your head, you see Zemo emptying his dustpan into a trashcan hidden within a cabinet, right next to the stove.

It is then that Bucky leaves his post, stalking across the dining room and living room only to settle on the end of the couch - the one as far away from the kitchen as possible. He crosses his arms and keeps his eyes on Zemo the entire time.

More cabinet doors are opened, accompanied by the sounds of metal scraping against metal.

Your curiosity piqued, you speak up. “What are you doing?”

Zemo’s head pops up from behind the counter, a medium sized pot in hand. “I thought that I’ll prepare a late lunch for us - or rather, an early dinner.”

“... What’s on the menu?” you can’t stop yourself from asking.

The pot is set down on the stovetop, and another cabinet is swung open. Held up in his hand is a box that, although in another language, is very clearly soup.

Even though you have no problems with this meal, you wrinkle your nose. “There’s a coffee shop right next door.”

“And?” Zemo questions, continuing to gather the necessary supplies to heat up and serve the meal he’d picked out.

“And they definitely carry pastries. Like muffins. Cookies. Slices of cake, maybe. Oh! Maybe even cinnamon rolls!”

Zemo hums, unscrewing the cap of the boxed soup. “That’s not a proper meal.” Before you contest that fact, he continues, “However, I will not stop you from going over and purchasing something for dessert.”

You perk up, no longer slouching against the cushions.

“As long as you pay for it yourself.”

You deflate. “... do you know if they accept USD?” You didn’t exactly have any time to get some travel money, your wallet currently only carrying thirty-something dollars when you came running when Bucky called you. American dollars.

He tsks, pouring the soup into the pot. “I’m afraid they don’t.”

“... they have a card reader though, right?” You didn’t want to think about international fees on your card, but that would be a problem for future-you. As for present-you, all you wanted was something sweet and filled with sugar, not something savory and probably good for you.

“No.”

“Ugh.” You throw yourself back into the cushions. Turning to face Bucky, you ask, “Don’t you want something better than soup?”

The corner of his lip briefly quirks up before returning to a flat line. “No.”

“Ugh!” You were surrounded by baselines that didn’t have any taste.

Pulling out your phone, you scroll through your preferred social media. You only scroll so far, however, as, true to his word, Sam exits the bathroom within a minute or two.

“It’s all yours,” he tells you, returning to his duffle bag in the hall closet.

Grabbing your backpack by the handle and walking towards the now unoccupied bathroom, you ask over your shoulder, “Sam, you wouldn’t happen to have any Euros on you, do you?”

“Uh, no?”

“Ugh. Thanks anyway.” You shut and lock the door behind you, leaving a mildly confused Sam behind.

Wasting absolutely no time, you immediately set your backpack on the counter and strip out of your clothing, piling everything together into a small heap on the floor, your shirt, your socks, your pants -

As your fingers wrap around your waistband, to your great displeasure, you realize that your pull-up is wet.

You take a deep breath and slowly let it back out, willing the tears that gather at the corners of your eyes to go away.

You didn’t even know you had to go. The fact that you had wet yourself sometime over the past few hours, without a warning that you had to go or even the knowledge that you had gone was… concerning.

You were big right now.

You were almost positive of the fact.

But, nonetheless, your body was acting the way it did when you were little.

It wasn’t even something that happened when you were at the top of your age range! When you were feeling four, you usually knew that you had to go - even if, admittedly, you pushed off a bathroom break or two. When you were three, or two however? That was when your body tended to work without your oversight.

If you were at daycare, with the scheduling and the constant supervision, you usually made it to the bathroom, but it was hardly your own doing.

You had diapers in your room for a reason.

Your temples pulse, and with a ragged sigh you rip off your pull-up. 

Maybe your concussion was just a bit worse than you thought.

You ball the offending item up, stinging eyes searching for the trashcan. To your relief, it’s not completely empty. When you drop your soiled garment into it, the surrounding trash hides it.

Now completely naked, you look down. Blood rushes to your checks as you realize that your irritated skin hasn’t cleared up. In fact, you would say that it had gotten worse since the last time you looked.

This… wasn’t ideal.

You were really hoping that it would clear up on its own, but it looked like you had to face the facts: You have a diaper rash.

It certainly explained the flares of pain that you’d been doing your best to ignore whenever your thighs brushed against one another when you walked.

Rubbing the heels of your hands into your eyes, you do your best to scrub away the tears that had refused to vanish.

The only thing you could do right now was scrubbing the rest of your body clean.

Thankfully, it seemed that the bathroom was well stocked, having shampoo, conditioner, and body wash on the counter behind the tub. To the right of the room, there was even a shelf full of towels of various sizes. You take one of the smallest ones for use as a washcloth, and hop into the tub.

There’s a handheld spray nozzle attached to the tub's faucet, so you grab it and aim it towards the drain as you fiddle with the hot-cold knobs. It takes a moment to get to your preferred temperature, but once achieved, you immediately hose your body down, rinsing off the excess dirt and wetting your hair. Satisfied, you let the spray nozzle dangle in the tub as you move onto using the various soaps.

Mindful that Bucky was next and was likely waiting just outside for you, you wash yourself up as quickly as you can. You shampoo and condition your hair at its full length, not too worried about how wet it’ll be afterward. Unlike the jet, you could actually properly towel it dry when you’re done. Tension that you didn’t even know you were holding leaves your body as you’re finally able to properly wash yourself. As you run the washcloth over your torso, you actually feel clean, sweat from days ago lathered and washed away.

As you bring the washcloth lower, however, you pause.

With a sigh, you carefully clean the irritated skin, hissing a breath through your teeth. You quickly clean the rest of your body and, satisfied with the lather, take hold of the spray nozzle once again.

Shutting your eyes, you run your hand through your hair under the spray of the water, cleaning off the conditioner and any remaining shampoo.

Satisfied, you turn the water off. You shake off the water droplets that clung to your body while squeezing out the excess water in your hair. Leaning out of the tub just a bit, you reach out and grab a towel from the rack, quickly patting your body dry.

Task accomplished, you bring the towel to your head as you do your best to dry your hair as you step out of the tub.

You pick up your washcloth, squeezing out the water over the tub, and look around for a hamper. To the left of the door, on the opposite side of the sink, there’s a large cabinet, and, right beside it, a large wicker hamper. Walking over, you drop the washcloth in, and after a quick check in with your hair, drop your towel in as well.

Walking over to your backpack, you easily find your pajamas, pushed to the side of your bag. You pull them out and set them on the counter as you continue to search for all of your undergarments.

A clean top and socks are found quickly, but when you go to grab your underpants, you release a ragged sigh.

It was your last pull-up.

This… definitely wasn’t ideal.

Maybe… you could sneak out tonight to buy more? Except, you didn’t know what markets and stores around you even sold them, nonetheless which ones accepted your card.

You supposed that you could just tell either Sam or Bucky that you needed more pull-ups? If you phrased it just right, you could imply that it was just for nights…

But… if everything went to plan, then wouldn’t that mean that, by this time tomorrow, the Flag Smashers would be caught? And if they were caught, wouldn’t that mean that you’d all go home? Bare minimum, you think that if you were careful about it, you could probably make it long enough that you can buy a small pack of pull-ups at the airport.

And then that way, neither Sam or Bucky would think that you were a baby who couldn’t tough it out and stay out of headspace long enough to keep your pants dry.

Tossing it over in your mind, you pull the pull-up up. As it brushes against your rash, you take in a shuddery breath.

Okay. You could keep this to yourself. You can make it one more day, right?

Biting your lip, you reach back into your bag for a pair of boxer briefs. The legs were long enough that they’ll cover the small bit of irritated skin on your thighs, so it hopefully would prevent any more chafing.

You pull your sweatpants on top of everything and hop foot to foot as you tug on a pair of socks - these were blue and had little clouds on them.

You roll some deodorant on and pull the rest of your clothes on top, mindful of your damp hair.

Looking at yourself in the mirror, you release your lip and pull a content smile. Bare minimum, properly washing yourself made you feel a lot better.

Even if you were pretty sure that the jetlag was starting to take its toll on you.

Or that your concussion was worse than you thought.

Did it really even matter at this point?

Even so, you hesitatingly reach out to the medicine cabinet. Just like the rest of the apartment, it’s fully stocked. Thankfully, you know what you’re looking for, grabbing the bottle of pills that you need.

You take two pills and rinse it down with some water from the sink, cupped in your hands. You fling off any remaining water droplets before placing the bottle back where it belongs, shutting the cabinet with a soft click.

Looping your arm through one of your backpack’s straps, giving one last look at yourself in the mirror, you pull open the door and stroll out.

Directly outside, Zemo is still at the stovetop while Sam sits at the counter, laptop charging in front of him.

As you walk further in, you see that Bucky hasn’t moved an inch since you last saw him, sitting hunched over at the end of the couch.

“All done!” you announce, throwing yourself back to your spot on the couch.

Bucky huffs some air out of his nose, lip curling as he stands up. “About time,” he teases.

In mock offense, you place your hand over your heart. “Well, excuse me. I’m used to regularly bathing, unlike some people.”

He waves you off as he continues to walk towards the bathroom. When he reaches the doors, however, he pauses, taking a moment to turn around.

Tilting your head, you ask, “Something wrong?”

That gets Zemo’s and Sam’s attention, both of them turning their eyes to Bucky, awaiting his response.

“Uh. Yeah, actually.” He shifts his weight from foot to foot, eyes darting from you to Sam. “I don’t… uh, have any spare clothes.”

“Oh,” is your immediate response.

Narrowing his eyes, Sam gives Bucky a once-over. “I think you might stretch my shirts.”

Zemo looks thoughtful. “I don’t believe that any of my clothing would fit you.”

Rolling your eyes at their responses, you tug your backpack back onto your lap. “Yeah, yeah, no need to ask, you could borrow something.”

“You don’t have to-”

“Nah, it’s cool,” you cut him off. You pull out a pair of jeans, a light blue t-shirt, and the button-up that you wore on the jet before you’d charged for Madripoor. “These are all mostly clean. They should fit.” You ball them up before tossing them over the span of the room.

Bucky catches the bundle effortlessly. “Oh. Well… thanks.”

“It’s no problem. I buy everything from thrift stores anyways, you can keep ‘em.”

He absentmindedly nods as he turns around into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

Pulling your phone back out, you continue scrolling where you left off. It isn’t until a few minutes later, when Bucky walks out of the bathroom, do you put it back down.

He was barefoot, wearing your loaned jeans. Stretched across his chest is the light blue t-shirt, which looked to be a tad too small.

You’re suddenly reminded of one of the many moments you and Steve shared. You’d teased him for wearing too-tight shirts, while he insisted that he was buying the right size.

Oh god, you’re part of the problem.

As Bucky makes his way back to the couch, you speak up, apologetic. “Oh, the shirt-! I’m sorry, I can get you another-”

You’re already reaching down into your bag, hand on the zipper, when Bucky waves you off. “It’s fine.”

“... you sure?”

He rolls his shoulders as he settles down beside you. “It’s fine,” he repeats.

Slowly, you ease your bag back down to the ground. “Well… okay then.”

Zemo loudly clears his throat, drawing everyone’s attention to him. “The soup is ready.” True to his word, you drop your eyes down and see a row of four bowls on the counter top in front of him. He gestures over to the dining table. “If you’d all take your seats?”

Bucky rolls his eyes at the dramatics, but obediently stands back up. He offers a hand to you, and you take it, and you’re roughly drawn onto your own feet.

Sam shuts his laptop closed and reaches over for a bowl.

“Ah, Samuel, you’re offering to take the bowls over. How kind of you.” Zemo says, eyes narrowed as he gathers the cutlery.

Even though you can’t see it, you’re positive he rolls his eyes. “Sure.” 

You settle into one of the four chairs around the small, round dining table, Bucky right beside you. 

Sam sets down a bowl of steaming soup in front of each chair, along with smaller bowls of rice, before settling down on Bucky’s opposite side.

Zemo sets down the bundles of napkins and cutlery in the center of the table, though he doesn’t settle down just yet. He walks over to the beverage cabinet, and, holding up a bottle, asks, “Would any of you care for a drink?”

Mixing together a concussion, medication, and alcohol? Pass.

“No thank you,” you politely decline.

“I’ll take a water,” Sam requests, already unwrapping his napkin and placing it over his lap.

Bucky turns his head, contemplative. “Sure.”

If Zemo is surprised by that request, he doesn’t show it, obediently pouring a glass for himself and for Bucky. He drops them off at the table before returning with glasses of water for you and Sam.

Everyone settled down, no one wastes any time before digging in.

The soup, while not full of sugar like you wanted, is pretty good. The accompanying rice is too. Both are seasoned beyond what would come in a package, so you can only assume that while you were otherwise occupied, Zemo had done more than just heat things up.

Your one complaint is that the soup might not be the best choice for current weather, as it makes you much too warm. Bare minimum, Zemo could’ve turned the temperature in the apartment down. Even though it doesn’t seem that the others have this problem, you roll the sleeves of your sweatshirt up so you can continue eating.

After a minute filled with the sounds of cutlery scraping against ceramics as everyone fills their spoons or forks, Sam voices the question that needs to be answered. “Okay, where are we all going to sleep?”

“Presumably,” Zemo starts, “I’ll be sleeping in my own bed. I’m sure that the rest of you can work out the logistics of the couch.”

Everyone audibly scoffs.

“Why do you get the bed?”

Zemo shrugs. “This is my apartment, afterall.”

“Well, that’s not fair,” you pout. “You’re only here because we haven’t brought you back to prison.”

“Ah, yes. However,” he raises his spoon up, “you’re all only here because I graciously accepted you into my home.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “We would have just gotten a hotel room.”

Zemo tilts his head, eyes locking with Bucky’s. “It’s a king-sized mattress. If anything, two of us can comfortably fit.” His eyes crinkle. “You’re welcome to join me.”

“Absolutely not,” is Bucky’s swift response.

Zemo shrugs, bringing a spoonful of soup to his mouth.

“What if instead you and Sam share?” you suggest to Bucky.

Sam freezes, his spoon part of the way to his mouth. He looks over to Bucky and squints, likely debating if the merit of sleeping in an actual bed was enough to overcome the fact that the bed would also be occupied with Bucky.

Bucky looks similarly suspicious of Sam, engaging in yet another staring contest.

Zemo watches, amused, while you roll your eyes and direct your attention back to your bowl; you don’t want to spill any soup over your only pair of comfortable loungewear. 

Bucky breaks the silence by clearing his throat. “I don’t want to leave Zemo unattended over here. He’ll just walk out the front door.”

“Hey-”

“I have a mission-”

Bucky waves away your offense and Zemo’s own defense of himself. “It’ll be better if he’s in his own room. There’s no way out, unless he’s willing to break the windows.”

Your pout remains, irked at the implication that you wouldn’t be able to stop Zemo on your own. “… Okay, so that leaves Zemo and Sam.”

Sam immediately shakes his head, eyes directed to his own bowl. “I don’t think so. I’d rather take a couch.”

“You sure?” you pry. “I just assumed that I’d be getting the couch in this scenario. What with me being the youngest and all.”

Sam quirks an eyebrow. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Giving a small shrug, you very pointedly keep your eyes focused on your soup. “I mean… My back could handle a night on a couch… “

“... Are you calling us old?”

You bring your spoon to your mouth. It’ll be rude to talk with your mouth full, after all.

In your silence, Sam rolls his eyes. “Are you fine sharing a bed with this weirdo or not?” He jerks a thumb over to Zemo, just to make it clear which weirdo he was referring to.

Turning to face said weirdo, you make eye contact with him. “... Only if he promises to be good.”

Zemo smiles, the tops of his cheeks puffing up. “I’ll be on my best behavior,” he promises.

You pretend to give it some thought. “Hmmm,” you draw out, eyes squinting. “Sure,” you accept, bringing more soup to your mouth.

“It’s settled then,” Sam confirms. “You and Zemo get the bedroom, while Bucky and I will take the couch.”

Everyone nods, agreeing to these sleeping arrangements.

The rest of the meal is spent in silence. Bucky gets seconds, finishing off the soup and the remaining rice is record time. When everyone finishes, you step up and offer to wash the dishes.

It’ll just feel weird to not help.

In the meantime, Sam returns to his spot at the counter, presumably to work on getting Sharon her pardon. Bucky remains in the dining room, content to sit at the bench next to the window, his music player in hand. Zemo, on the other hand, settles at his desk, his phone right in front of him.

When you’re done, you throw yourself back to the couch. Picking your phone back up, you scroll through your apps until you find a game that the developers hoped beyond all belief that people would get drawn in and buy as many in-app purchases as possible.

Unluckily for them, you refused to purchase any cosmetic digital item if there was a way for you to obtain it without paying.

Sure, to get those items without paying meant putting some hours in the game, but you had time. In fact, you had several hours.

Of which, you spend either in the game or in the bathroom, as you make frequent trips to prevent any more accidents.

As the sun sets and the moon rises, your digital avatar has never looked better and your pull-up remains bone dry.

You’re drawn out of the colorful world on your phone when Sam shuts his laptop closed and announces, “We should head to bed.”

Everyone seems to agree, as they power off their devices and stretches.

It’s only ten pm, but considering all the time zone hopping and the fact that you’d probably be waking up at six am, you can’t find it within yourself to complain.

“Allow me to change,” Zemo says, before shutting the door to his bedroom behind him.

Well. Okay then. You take your backpack back into the bathroom, taking out your toothbrush and brushing away. After rinsing your mouth, you take another dosage of pain medication.

And, of course, you make one last attempt to empty your bladder.

When you exit, you see Sam brushing his teeth at the kitchen sink, while Bucky sits at the furthest couch.

The door to the bedroom opens, and Zemo strolls out, dressed in striped button-up pajamas, the stripes purple and white. He heads in your direction, presumably to do what you’d just done.

“Goodnight, Bucky. Goodnight, Sam,” you say, shrugging your backpack onto a shoulder as you walk across the living area, passing Zemo.

Bucky gives you a wave of acknowledgement while Sam, mouth full of suds, makes a sound that vaguely sounds like goodnight and your name.

When you reach the door frame, Sam clears his mouth and speaks up. “Hey.” His eyes flick over to the closed bathroom door. “He gives you any trouble, let us know.”

You give him a thumbs-up. “Sure thing.”

He smiles. “Rest easy, okay?”

“I will. Don’t murder Bucky.”

He huffs a laugh, while Bucky rolls his eyes.

“That goes for you too.”

“What, don’t murder myself?” he can’t help himself from asking.

“Yeah,” you respond without hesitation. “Don’t kill yourself and don’t kill Sam.”

“Fine,” he accepts.

“Good. See ya’ in the morning,” you give one last wave over your shoulder before you enter the bedroom.

You hesitate at the foot of the bed. Adjusting your grip on your backpack, your eyes flicker between each side.

What… What side were you supposed to sleep on?

You stand there for a minute, uncertainty making you unable to move from your spot.

Behind you, Zemo shuts the door, startling you out of that trance.

“I’ll take the left,” he says, strolling to that side. “Then, perhaps the rays of the sun won’t wake you first.”

“Thanks…” you murmur, walking to the right of the room. You place your phone on the side table and drop your backpack to the ground, scooting it underneath the bed.

The bed frame is high enough that you have to give a small hop to get on top of the mattress. Moving the comforter and sheets aside, you can’t stop yourself from rubbing it against your fingers. It was soft.

You struggle to remember what it is that all the grown-ups say when talking about sheets. Looking over to Zemo, you hold up the bundle in your hand. “High thread count?”

Zemo settles on his side of the bed. Tilting his head and crinkling his eyes, he smiles. “You know what? I can’t recall.” He swings his legs under the sheets and pulls the blankets to his waist. His fingers graze the comforter, eyes examining. “Although, I’m sure that it’s Egyptian cotton.”

“Huh.” You hum, before laying down and pulling them over your shoulders. Reaching out to the side table lamp, you utter a “Goodnight,” before switching it off.

“Goodnight, entlein.” He reaches over and turns his side table lamp off, plunging the room into relative darkness.

"Entlein,” you repeat the word. Zemo called you that earlier too, when he approached you in the courtyard. Mindful of the back of your head, you turn to face him. “What’s that mean?”

Across the vastness of sheets between you, there’s enough moonlight for you to see him turn his head, a smirk on his face. “A baby duck - a duckling, I believe.”

Your brows furrow. “Why’d you call me a duckling of all things?”

“Well… do you not trail behind the others?”

You huff. “I mean- yeah. But-! It’s not like I’ve left the US of A before. How am I supposed to know where to go?”

An amused huff escapes him. “Goodnight,” he repeats.

Rolling your eyes, you turn back around, tightening the covers around you. “Goodnight,” you repeat right back.

And, there, in the bed of the enemy, you think maybe it’ll be in everyone’s best interest to not fall asleep before he does.

In practice, however, surrounded by soft sheets, back on a mattress for the first time in a week, you can’t keep your eyes open any longer than a minute.

You drift off to sleep.

Chapter Text

As you awake, the first thing you notice is that you were laying on your tummy. And that the sheets that brush against your cheek are very soft. The pillow is too! You snuggle your cheek into the pillow. Oh yes, it was very nice.

Why are you awake though? You crack your eyes open. The room is still dark. Except, not too dark. Moonlight filters through the window. That means that it isn't time to wake up yet. What time was it though?

Your hand blindly reaches out until you feel your phone. You bring it next to your face and see the number two. Oh, it was very early. Or very late? Same difference. It’s past your bedtime. You put your phone back on the side table.

You had only been sleeping for one, two, three, four hours. That wasn't very much sleep. In fact, it was less than you got yesterday.

And you didn’t even get a nap to make up for it.

Now that you are awake though, you realize that your head feels funny. Not like... not like it was earlier. Except, kinda? It almost feels like you have a heartbeat at the back of your head - but it’s not that bad, you think. Your medicine must still be working. It’s something else that you can’t quite put your finger on.

Besides that, though, you feel kinda warm. Warmer than usual. Kinda hot. Your skin is all clammy, you think.

You should probably sleep more, until you feel better.

Except, now that you were thinking of earlier, there was a difference between then and now. 

There was only one heartbeat coming from your head. Right at the back.

Above your eyes, at the edges of your forehead, there was nothing. Your brain no longer feels like there’s stuffie stuffing surrounding it, as if there were blankets piled on top of it, smothering it.

Instead, now, it feels airy and a bit fuzzy at the edges.

You were little right now.

Why weren't you supposed to be little?

Oh. You were on a mission right now. And you were supposed to be big.

But... But that wasn't fair? Because... Because Steve told you, that when he went on missions with Shield, that they let Clint be little. When they were safe, like at a hotel or on a plane, he was little. Because it wasn't wrong to be little.

Well... you guessed it was different. Because, on those missions, they weren't working together with a bad guy. So, maybe if Clint was you, he wouldn't be allowed to regress either.

But why was a little voice in your head telling you that it wasn't good to be little right this very moment?

Oh well. You should be asleep right now. You snuggle your head into the pillow and bring your thumb to your mouth. You know that you have a nice, clean pacifier in your backpack, but that was too far away. Your hand was right here.

Hm, the bed is very comfy, but you could get comfier. You wiggle around a bit, but freeze.

Uh oh.

You know this feeling.

Your pull-up had leaked.

That isn't very good at all.

You push yourself up and squint in the darkness. 

Oh no.

Your pull-up didn't just leak. It was soaked.

Your pants were all wet. And the bed was wet. And you even got your shirt wet.

Your eyes start getting wet too, but you ignore that.

And now that you pushed yourself up, sitting on your knees a bit, you can now see another one of the reasons that you being little right now was not a good thing.

You were sharing a bed with the bad guy.

And... And you just... you just went potty all over his bed.

His very soft and comfy, extremely roomy, probably very expensive bed.

You shove your thumb back into your mouth, trying to stifle a sob.

Beside you, Zemo moves. You freeze. He moves again. Was he waking up? Hunched over your accident, you think about what you could do.

You grab the blanket that had moved down your back and move it over your head. You curl up.

Maybe, just maybe, he would think you were asleep? Or, or that you left the room, and this lump was just the blankets?

Under the covers, you suck your thumb, trying to breathe through your nose as quietly as you can. It was kinda hard, considering that it was getting stuffed because your eyes were still crying.

You hear the bed shift. There’s silence.

Zemo awakes. He had been dreaming, the memories of it fading as he wakes. Why had he awoken? Blinking his eyes open, he looks over the room. 

Windows remained unbroken, the door was shut, it did not appear as if there was an unknown assailant in there with him.

His eyes drift to the left of the bed.

Well, that was unusual. It appears that his bedmate was attempting to hide underneath the blankets.

He sits up. Quietly, he calls your name.

A wet sniffle is his only response.

Ah.

He may have an idea of what was going on.

Helmut Zemo was many things: a baron, a widow, a criminal, a colonel, a caregiver. A fool, he was not.

He had his suspicions the moment he laid eyes on you, only confirmed in the hours he’d spent only an arm’s reach away from you. He obviously noticed the big things, such as your preference for sweets, your predisposition to whining, to pouting, and how you couldn’t seem to keep your face clean when presented with a plate of spaghetti.

Besides that, he had also noted that the way you said 'babies' was as if such creatures were beneath you - but not in a mean way, no, but as if they were beneath you because you were just barely bigger than them.

Of course, there was also the fact that you rushed to a bathroom immediately upon waking, backpack in tow.

It was abundantly clear that you were a little. A toddler, if he had to place you.

He was curious, however, about how neither James or Samuel seemed to acknowledge your classification. At first, Zemo thought that they had known but were simply putting it off. It soon became apparent that they were completely unaware, however, when you began showing minor symptoms of regression deficiency.

He had debated stepping in, but a small part of him was curious to see how it played out. He had no clue how long it was since you last regressed, nor the length of time you spent little. 

Perhaps, James would see you struggle to not nod off and come to his senses. Zemo liked to think that he knew James Buchanan Barnes better than he knew himself, and knew that since he was classified in the nineteen-thirties, he was a caregiver. Hydra had taken advantage of this, of course, but Zemo did not think that anything would have happened for him to switch classifications.

Maybe, Samuel, a former pararescueman, would recognize what your jetlag and concussion was hiding, and help you regress. Through his research of all the Avengers all those years ago, Zemo had found that Sam had been tested multiple times - he had been classified a baseline, though he was right on the cusp of being a caregiver. It was a shame that he accepted your explanation without problem.

Or, although this was much less likely given how you were the one to drive yourself to a deficit, you would simply ask if you could regress. More likely, though, was that you would fall into headspace unintentionally.

When you had agreed to share a bed, he had meant it when he told you that he would be on his best behavior. However, he recognizes that perhaps he could have been kinder and informed the others of your classification. It appeared that he alone was now the only one qualified to handle you.

So, as you begin to slightly tremble underneath the blankets, he supposes that he may have made a slight error.

Perhaps, waking in the bed of a partial stranger, likely wet, was not an ideal way for a toddler to awake.

He sighs. It had been quite a while since he had dealt with a toddler. Even longer since he had caregiven.

Ah well. Lesson learned.

He slides down in bed. Grabbing the blankets, he himself goes under the covers. "Are you quite alright, little one?"

A pitiful sight greets him. You were hunched over damp sheets, thumb in your mouth, tears making their way down your face. Upon noticing his presence, you blink owlishly. What was he doing under here?

Zemo sympathetically tsks. "Oh dear. Did you have an accident?"

He... wasn't yelling at you. That was good. His eyes didn't look angry either. You sniffled. Well, it looked like he already knew, so you nod your head.

He hums. "What are you doing down here? It's a bit stuffy, don't you think?"

You wobble on your knees. It was stuffy down here. You nod again, sucking your thumb.

"Shall we take the blankets off? Perhaps that would help."

You don't want him to see your accident though. But... he was just looking at you with kind eyes. And, and the hot air was making your face feel extra hot, so maybe that would help. You hesitantly nod.

"Alright then, allow me." And with that, his face disappears from your view as he sits up. A moment later, he reappears as the blanket is pulled away from you, thrown towards the foot of the bed. You rapidly blink, the cool air whipping at your face at the movement. You sit up and rub your unoccupied hand against your eyes, trying to clear them from irritation and tears.

Zemo takes a second to take in your appearance. While he had been mostly able to make out your figure underneath the darkness of the blankets, now, with the light of a full moon bathing you, he can now see that your accident is bigger than expected. Whatever protection you had put on was clearly inadequate, as it appears that not even your shirt had escaped unscathed.

On top of that, what he had assumed was a blush of embarrassment now appeared to be something worse, a fever if he had to guess. It was the most logical conclusion, considering that a rising temperature was a common symptom of regression deficiency.

Raising his eyebrows just so, he gently says, "I think you may need a bath." It would serve two purposes: remove any stubborn urine that currently coated your lower half and lower your temperature to prevent it from rising to dangerous levels.

You try to wrinkle your nose to show your displeasure, but the effect is lost on account of your itchy eyes and runny nose. To make up for it, you carefully shake your head.

You didn't want to take a bath right now. You already had a bath. Couldn't you just be wiped down? Like... like when you had an accident at daycare?

"...No? Do you not want to be cleaned up, entlein?" Zemo knew that toddlers often went to extreme lengths to avoid a bath, but he had figured that you would have wanted to get out of your soiled clothing as soon as possible.

You shake your head again, this time fast enough that your thumb gets pulled out of your mouth. You did want to be clean! You just didn't want a bath. You wanted to sleep, and that can't happen in a bathtub. You feel icky and maybe a teensy bit sicky and you just want to lay back down.

Zemo hums as he gets out of bed. So, you wanted to be clean but not with a bath. He takes his time sliding his slippers on before he slowly walks around the bed until he's beside you. It was entirely possible that he was the problem in this scenario, considering that you had only known one another for only a few days. He crouches down beside the bed, so that he's looking up at you and you're looking down at him.

You sit and watch him the whole time, popping your thumb back in to soothe yourself. Your other hand grips your shirt, right above the wet spot. What was he doing?

Zemo asks, "How old are you?"

You hesitate a moment before releasing your shirt. Holding up your hand, you raise one, two, three, four fingers.

It's not technically a lie. That was the top of your age range.

Zemo chuckles. "Okay. Is that how old you are right now?"

You make a soft whining noise at the back of your mouth. You drop down two fingers.

"Wow!" His eyebrows go up and he has a big smile. "Two years old! That is pretty neat!" His voice is soft.

You drop your hand down, but don't grip your shirt again. You being little is neat?

Zemo drops his smile a second later though, an apologetic expression taking its place. "Sadly, you're too little to clean yourself up, huh?"

You nod. You had to clean up all your other accidents the past couple days and you weren't sure if you were doing the best job.

"So, you see why you must be given a bath. I can give you one, but if you would prefer, I can go wake James or Samuel."

"... Bucky or Sam?" quietly slips out of your lips, around your thumb.

"Yes, Bucky or Sam. I'm sure that either one w- ..." he trails off as you start rapidly shaking your head again.

You did not want Bucky or Sam to see you right now! They couldn't! This was exactly what you didn’t want them to see - wet pants and tears in your eyes! They would think that you were a baby and that you couldn't help them with anything! And if you couldn’t help them- ! They might not want to hang out or even talk with you ever again!

You stop your head shaking by pointing emphatically at Zemo. "No!” you whisper-shout. “You!"

He tilts his head and squints his eyes ever so slightly. "Me?" He points a single index finger at himself.

"Uh-huh!" You give a single big nod for emphasis.

Zemo may have been a bad guy, but so far he was a nice bad guy. He had been very nice to you. He fixed you things to eat, and let you try some candy and pretty tea, and didn't seem all that mad that you had an accident in his bed.

You had no idea how either one of your two baseline friends would react to having to deal with giving you a bath, and you didn't want to find out. Zemo was already awake. If he wanted to help, you weren't gonna stop him.

"...Alright then." Zemo stands, and with you sitting on top of the bed still, you're both at the same height. He licks his lips and looks between you, the bed, and the door. He stays quiet for a moment.

You start to squirm in place but quickly stop with a wince. Your pull-up started leaking a bit more, and the movement made your bottom feel very bad.

Zemo observes you for a moment more before speaking. "Here's what we are going to do.” He clasps his hands together. “We are going to go to the bathroom and I am going to give you a bath. I'm going to have to carry you so there won't be clean up needed for the floors. Okay?"

"... bath and then sleep time again?"

He releases a small breath with a smile. "Yes, after a bath you may rest again."

Satisfied, you reach out toward Zemo.

"Alright then... " He places one hand around your back. "Can you please sit up all the way for me?" You sit up on your knees completely, allowing him to place his other arm and hand underneath your knees. He lifts.

Wow, he was strong for a baseline! It didn't seem like he struggled to carry you at all. Nonetheless, you wrap your arms around his shoulders for stability. With you safe in his arms, he turns and walks toward the bedroom door.

He whispers, "Can you get the door for me?"

You silently reach an arm out and turn the door handle, and he walks forward, pushing it open.

It's quiet and dark in the living room. Your door opening hand goes back to your mouth.

Zemo bounces you once, and quickly makes his way through the apartment.

Looking to your right, you can see the couches. Sam is asleep on one couch, snoring softly. Bucky is… asleep on the floor? Why? Maybe he didn't want to share the couch with Sam? Even though it was so big they wouldn't even touch, maybe one of them just didn't like sharing. Some people in your daycare didn't like sharing either...

Your thoughts are interrupted when you and Zemo finally make it to the bathroom doors.

Reaching out, you oh so carefully grip the handle. Once he's sure you got it, Zemo takes a single step back, pulling it open. When you let go, he enters and spins around, holding you close to the handle. You grab it and he takes two steps back, it closing with a soft click.

You both breathe a sigh of relief.

He leans down and sets you down next to the tub. Satisfied that you're not going to fall over, he rolls his sleeves up and begins the process of filling the tub. Soon, the sound of rushing water fills the room.

Meanwhile, your bottom and a bit of your tummy was starting to feel really itchy and uncomfortable. You go to scratch your tummy, when a hand reaches out and stops you right before you make contact, grabbing your wrist.

"No, no. Don't touch." Zemo's brows are knitted together as he looks at you. Before you can even think of moving your other hand, he grabs that one too. "It's not clean."

You make a whining noise at the back of your throat, but don't attempt to jerk your hands away. Tears spring back to the corners of your eyes.

He immediately releases your wrists, holding his hands up and closing them.

You bring your hands to scrub at your eyes. It mostly stops the tears, but leaves them feeling even more warm and itchy. "S-sorry..."

" ... You have nothing to be sorry for." Zemo brings his hands down.

Your brow furrows, and you move your hands away to look at him. "Uh-uh." You look down at your wet clothes and the small drops of pee that had made their way to the tiled floor. "'m sorry f-for being icky... "

He sighs. "Like I said, you have nothing to be sorry for."

Before you can even start to protest, Zemo turns away from you and kneels by the sink. He opens the small cabinet underneath, rifles around, and holds up a small bottle.

"Would you like bubbles?"

Slightly disoriented by the change of conversation, it takes you a moment to process the question. You bring your hands to your chest and fiddle with your fingers. After a moment of deliberation, you start nodding. Bubbles were fun. You weren't having a very fun time right now, but maybe bubbles would make it better?

Satisfied with your response, Zemo closes the cabinet and walks back to the tub. He twists the cap off the bottle and pours a small amount of purple colored liquid directly where the water was filling the tub. It instantly starts bubbling.

Caught off guard, you release a gasp. You point at it and look back to Zemo with an amazed smile. He returns it.

Zemo thought you looked rather adorable. As you are occupied watching the bubbles grow, he gathers the necessary supplies. He grabs the small wooden stool that sat abandoned in the corner in the room and drags it next to the tub. It'll save his back and knees while he bathes you. He grabs a small washcloth from his towel shelf and gathers the body wash. Setting the supplies next to the tub, he sticks his hand in it to check the temperature - it was a tad cooler than he'd preferred, but it should do the trick in lowering your fever. You definitely needed it, the heat of your body tangible even through clothing when he had held you. He twists the knobs and water stops filling the tub.

Standing back up, he turns to you. You're idly rubbing one of your eyes with the back of your hand, your other hand occupied as you sucked your thumb. Poor thing. Zemo's not even sure if you're aware that you bought this on yourself.

Plastering a soft smile on his face, he gently takes your shoulder to turn you to face him. “Okay, let’s get you into the bath. Can you take your shirt off yourself?”

You look down at your shirt. You… You could take your shirt off all by yourself… but you weren’t sure you could do it without getting it tangled up around your head. Your eyes lock onto the wet patch. You didn’t want to get anything else icky… You slowly shake your head as your eyes flick up to look at him.

Zemo nods as if he was expecting this answer. “Alright. Can you reach up to the sky for me? Above your head?”

Popping your thumb out of your mouth, you oblige.

Immediately, Zemo takes the bottom of your shirt, one hand on each side of you, and in one swift movement takes it off. He drops it onto the floor next to you.

You immediately pop your thumb back into your mouth.

He lets out a small huff of air through his nose in amusement. “Okay, I’m going to take your bottoms off now.” He hooks his thumbs onto the waistband of your sweatpants and pull-up, tugging them down to the floor.

You let out a small gasp from behind your thumb. The air felt weird on your wet skin!

Zemo’s brows furrow, eyes drawn to your irritated skin. It looked like you had the beginnings of a diaper rash around your thighs and stomach, but your genitals were much worse off. Just how long were you in wet clothes?

You start squirming, the thumb you weren’t sucking rubbing against the side of your fingers. Zemo was kinda just staring at you…

He blinks, snapped out of his stupor. Eyes softening, he asks, “You ready to be in the tub?”

You nod and Zemo wraps his arms around you, lifting you up and into the tub.

The second your skin touches the water, you attempt to cling back onto Zemo. “C-Cold!” you manage to blurt out.

Zemo hushes you and continues to lower you into the water despite your protests. “I know, I know. You have a fever, entlein, you're too warm. The bath will help, I promise.” His voice is honey smooth, warm in the way you wanted this bath to be.

You… You were warm… Zemo did seem to know lots of things that have helped these last couple of days.

Taking in a shuddery breath, you slowly remove your arms from around Zemo’s neck and settle down in the water, immediately sniffling.

Zemo rubs your shoulder comfortingly as he drags the wooden stool closer, settling down on it. “It’s alright, you’re alright, I’m right here.”

The bath was cold. But… You did have to admit that it didn’t feel entirely terrible. The bubbles surrounded you completely, tickling just a bit as they brush against your chin. 

Taking hold of the washcloth and swishing it around the water, Zemo carefully brings it to your face, wiping your face clean.

You lean into his touch, the cool water easing the stinging caused by your tears.

“Okay, let’s get you cleaned up.” Zemo pulls the washcloth away, pouring some body soap into it. He rubs the cloth against itself to work up a lather, before bringing it behind your ears.

You squirm a bit in place, but make no other move to get away. You drop your eyes down to your bath, focusing on the bubbles that cover the surface of the water. Hesitantly, you cup some in your hand. You quickly close your hand, causing the suds to shoot out the sides of your hand. A small smile grows on your face and you move to do it again.

Zemo meanwhile, slowly works his way down your body, gently scrubbing your skin clean. He smiles at your innocent amusement, happy that at least you weren’t fussy, even though you had all the right to be.

Unfortunately, he wants some answers and the fact that you were stuck in the tub for the time being was just advantageous.

“Your rash looks pretty bad… Have you not put any cream or ointment on it?”

You shake your head, moving to gather some more bubbles closer to you. “Forgot to bring some. Didn’t- Didn’t think I’d need it.”

Zemo hums, scrubbing your back. His eyes are drawn to the mottled purple and blue skin, and he takes care to gently bring the cloth over them.  “Do you not have accidents often?”

Moving your head side-to-side, you say, “Only when little.” You grab a handful of bubbles and stack it on top of a small pile in front of you.

“Have you not been little these past few days?” He takes one of your arms, scrubbing it from shoulder to fingers.

You obligingly let him, switching hands to work on your bubble tower. You shake your head. “Been big, ‘cause Bucky and Sam have- haven’t told me it’s safe to be little.”

He takes your other arm. “But, have you not had an accident previously?”

Your cheeks flush and you hunch your shoulders a bit. “Maybe… Maybe a couple,” you admit, gathering more bubbles.

Zemo nods, letting the conversation drop for the moment. “I have to clean the rash now, okay?”

You bite your lip and give a nod.

Not wanting to draw this out, Zemo quickly plunges the washcloth below the water level. As the cloth brushes against your irritated skin, you release a shuddering breath, the contact creating a stinging sensation.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I’m already almost done, it’s okay.” Zemo comforts you, rubbing small circles on your shoulder. The stream of words and the physical touch gives you something to focus on that isn’t pain. “And… there we go.” He raises the cloth from the bath, water trickling down into the water.

You take in another shuddery breath, quickly nodding. Your eyes search for a distraction and they land on your bubble tower.

It’s as tall as you are, so you take a deep breath and blow. Bubbles fly everywhere, most simply being pushed into the tub, but some float off into the air.

It works, and you manage to get your breathing under control. Giving another small blow, you push a bubble that was drifting downward back up.

Zemo watches as you work your hardest to move forward. “Your leg, if you please.” he requests.

You nod, and lean back, moving your leg up.

Promptly, Zemo takes your ankle and continues to scrub you down. "Why have you not asked your compatriots if it was alright for you to be little?"

You wrinkle your nose. "'Cause, 'cause they're baselines." You look back up at him. "No offense..."

Zemo chuckles. "I'm not sure how I would find offense in that statement, considering that I'm not a baseline." He releases your ankle and you promptly raise your opposite leg.

It takes you a moment to process that statement. Not... a baseline? You furrow your brow. Hesitantly, you ask, "Not... not a little either, right?"

He smiles patiently.  "No, I'm not a little." He tilts his head. "What does that leave?"

"... Caregiver?" you say as you point at him, your voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid that you might be wrong.

He finishes cleaning you, dropping your leg back into the water. He drops the washcloth onto the edge of the tub and takes your pointing hand in his, giving it two solid pats. "Very good. You did a very good job figuring it out."

“Didn’t… Didn’t know…” you mumble out, dropping your hand back into the tub when he releases it.

He hums, suspecting as much. “I’m afraid your reasoning for not requesting time in headspace is faulty as well.”

You tilt your head.

Zemo elaborates. “While Sam may be a baseline, I’m positive that he’s the kind of man that would advocate for a healthy amount of regression time.”

Giving a slow shake of your head, you counter, “Uh-uh. He didn’t- He hasn’t, um, told me when it’s okay.”

Okay, obviously getting a toddler to come to their own conclusions is tougher than it looks. “Okay. Let’s think of it this way: You thought that I was a baseline, correct?”

You nod.

“And Sam?”

You nod again.

“How about James?”

You nod.

“Okay… why do you think that?”

“Well… Because…” You poke at some bubbles.

Zemo patiently waits.

You let out a small huff. “‘Cause, Stebe- Steve didn’t tell me.”

“Didn’t tell you what?” he prys.

“Steve pro’lly woulda told me if friends are little or caregiver,” you stress.

Ah. It looks like Zemo has found yet another flaw of Steven Grant Rogers.

“Alright. Well... what would you say if I told you that James is, in fact, a caregiver?”

You think through the implications of that statement. Bucky… is a caregiver? But that can’t be true. That should’ve been something that Steve told you.

But… Zemo did know a lot about Bucky… Why would he lie?

You give a small shrug, not knowing how to continue.

Thankfully, Zemo knows how to talk. “Of course, if Rogers hasn’t told you that James is a caregiver… would that mean that he wouldn’t have told them that you were a little?”

Oh.

Voice as small as a mouse, you bring yourself to ask, “They don’t know?”

Sympathetically, Zemo rubs your unbruised shoulder. “I’m afraid not.”

“But… if they don’t know… they didn’t know I should be little for a lil’ bit?”

He shakes his head. “I think you and your friends may have forgotten that, in Rogers’ time, people didn’t tend to share classifications with one another as freely as we do now.”

You give a single, sharp nod. “I woulda- I would’ve told them if I knew!”

Zemo sympathetically nods. Taking hold of the spray nozzle, he turns the water on and sprays your back and torso down. “I’m sure you would have. As it is, you can only move forward.”

You give a weak shrug, still feeling bad.

As the last of the suds rinse off you, he turns the water back off. “Okay, it looks like you’re as clean as you can be. I assume you have all your little supplies in your backpack?”

Your eyes flick down to the bubbles that remained in the tub. “Um…”

“... Yes?” Zemo prompts you.

“I… maybe… ran out of pull-ups…”

Although he would like to release a sigh, Zemo knows that you would simply take that action as something directed at yourself rather than frustration at the situation. Instead, Zemo takes in a deep breath and gives a single nod. “... That may complicate matters.”

“... I can go without?” you offer.

Zemo snorts. “Absolutely not.”

You cross your arms, but don’t argue. After all, you did have an accident. Multiple accidents...

“Do you wear diapers?”

You give a huff. “... sometimes.” You weren’t willing to lie, but you also weren’t going to admit that you wore something that mostly babies wore. You were a big kid! …Most of the time, at least. “Didn’t bring any...”

He taps his fingers against his thigh. “What did you bring?”

“Clothes. And toothbrush. Toothpaste. Deorder- Deodorant. Pen. Sketchbook. Wallet and phone and charger and keys… Pacifier…”

Well… at least you had brought something for when you were little.

Zemo nods to himself, thinking his options through. It wasn’t like he could go out to purchase what you needed. As it was, his instincts were yelling at him to make sure that you were safe and protected. Leaving you completely alone while he bought the supplies didn’t sit right with him. But, neither did having either Sam or James watch you.

They could, however, get the supplies themselves…

Solution found, he stands up. “Okay, here’s what we can do: I awake your teammates, they buy the things that you need, and, when all that is done, you can go back to sleep.” He grabs your wet pull-up from the pile on the floor, tossing it into the trash can.

“... You're going to tell them?”

He smiles. “Yes. It’s their own fault for not noticing sooner, and I’m sure they would be more than willing to make sure that you’re okay.” He gathers your clothing, strides over to the large cabinet beside the hamper, swings it open, and reveals a washer and dryer. He tosses your clothes into the washer, leaving the cabinet door open as he walks away.

You nibble on your lip before giving an agreeing nod. There wasn’t much you could do right now, anyways…

“Excellent. You stay there. I’ll be back in a moment, along with your bag. Bare minimum, we can pick out your clothes while we wait.”

“Okay.”

He gives one final nod, before slipping out the door.

Closing it behind him, Zemo's eyes immediately land on the two ‘guests’ that were asleep in the living room.

He slowly exhales a breath out of his nose, brows furrowing.

While James and Sam were supposed to be smart, Zemo knew that that wasn’t completely true.

Right under their noses, their supposed ‘friend’ had been struggling with regression deficiency alone.

Zemo could forgive you for your lapse of judgement. You were a little - and a young one at that. He can even forgive your incorrect assessments of classifications, as afterall, it was a bit harder to identify a caregiver from a baseline.

Them, on the other hand? He found it hard to believe that they didn’t know you were a little. Had they not spent any amount of time with you?

He huffs.

Despite his better judgement, he needed them at the moment.

Strolling across the apartment, he comes to a stop before the couch, just beside where James was laying.

Zemo clears his throat, and within an instant, James is blinking awake.

Glaring at Zemo, voice deepened by sleep, he asks, “What?”

“It appears that your duckling isn’t house-broken. If you could make yourself useful, it would be much appreciated.”

Pushing himself into a sitting position, James uncomprehendingly stares back at Zemo. “...What?”

Zemo rolls his eyes and walks towards his bedroom. As expected, James immediately rouses Sam awake, not willing to deal with Zemo’s antics alone.

Entering the master bedroom and flicking the lamp on, Zemo spots your backpack partially shoved underneath the bed. As he grabs it, both Sam and Bucky appear at the door frame, Bucky’s hair tousled and Sam’s eyes bleary. Their eyes lock onto the empty and soiled bed.

Gesturing toward the puddle that had yet to seep into the mattress and sheets, Zemo repeats himself, “Your duckling isn’t house-broken.”

Brows knit together, understanding dawns on the heroes. 

Sam’s jaw opens and closes as he struggles to find the words he needs.

Bucky voices their conclusions, “So… they’re a little.”

“Yes. A toddler, if they’re to be believed.”

“Where are they?” Sam immediately questions.

Zemo smiles, happy that at least their first concern was your well-being. “I’ve run them a bath, where they’ll be until one of you can bring us some much needed supplies.” He walks past them, back to the main room.

Both the heroes’ brows knit together, following.

Sam’s jaw tightens, eyes flickering towards the bathroom door, almost as if about to demand to see you for himself. Instead, he asks, “What do they need?” 

“Diapering supplies.” Zemo strolls over to the small closet, reaching into his coat’s pocket. “They’ve apparently been wearing discrete pull-ups these past few days, which have proven to be ineffective tonight. Additionally, they’ve run their supply dry. Unfortunately, it seems that they’re currently fostering a diaper rash, so some ointment will be necessary.” Withdrawing his hand, Zemo reveals a twenty euro bill. Holding it out, he continues, “There’s a corner shop just two streets down, it should be open.”

Sam and Bucky lock eyes before Sam releases a sigh and takes the money.

“I’ll do it. However, we will be having words.” Sam turns back to the couch to pull the necessary clothing items on.

“Of course.” Zemo nods and shuts the closet closed. “If someone can save my mattress in the meantime, that’ll also be much appreciated.”

Bucky rolls his eyes but heads back to the master bedroom regardless. From within, he shouts, “You got a washing machine in this place?”

Raising his voice just enough that’ll carry, Zemo answers, “It’s in the bathroom, feel free to bring it in. I should have a spare set of sheets in the wardrobe.”

As he shrugs a jacket on before he leaves, Sam looks at Zemo. “Need anything else?”

“Perhaps a spouted cup? You can keep the change.”

Sam nods and goes to leave, while Zemo enters the bathroom.

You were right where he left you, if a bit slouched with exhaustion. When you see him enter, however, you perk up.

In a small voice, you ask, “Did they take it well?”

Zemo lets out a chuckle as he retakes his seat. “Of course. Although they might be a bit dense, I’m positive that they care for you.” He reaches out and presses the back of his hand to your forehead, gently pressing it against your cheeks as well. “It looks like the bath is working, you’re no longer burning up.”

You nod and lean into the touch. “‘m tired…” you mumble out.

Zemo tsks and moves his hand through your hair. “I know, but we need to wait a bit longer.”

You nod and idly poke some bubbles that remained in the tub, much like you’ve been doing as you waited for Zemo’s return.

“... We could pick out your clothing for tonight, in the meantime?”

That perks you up, making you sit a bit straighter. “M’kay.”

Zemo pulls your backpack onto his lap, unzipping the main pocket.

You certainly had… a lot of clothes in here.

He pulls the largest item out, revealing the bomber jacket you’d acquired from Sharon. He drapes it over his arm, continuing his search. Now that that’s out, he can see your actual options.

There were two t-shirts and two button-ups that looked like you’d already worn them, each crumbled more than folded back into the pack. Besides those, were the more promising items, each rolled and folded properly - likely done when you’d first packed.

He pulls the first item out, a heathered-grey bundle. Before he can unroll it, however, your voice speaks up, “That’s too small.”

Zemo nods, and sets it aside. It made sense that you had clothing that simply wouldn’t fit you unless you’d shifted.

He pulls out another bundle, this one red and crisp.

“That’s too stiff. Not for sleeping.”

A small puff of air is pushed out of Zemo’s nose. “... What here is for sleeping?”

Your fingers fidget at your bottom lip, and you hum as you think it over. Pointing into the bag, you answer, “The… that one? Maybe?”

Zemo pulls up the requested item, unfolding it to get a better look. It’s a mint green t-shirt, two sizes larger than what you wore.

“Nice choice.” Nodding, he leans over and places it onto the bathroom counter.

Now, for your bottoms… Zemo pushes aside the multiple denim jeans you’d been wearing… only to find nothing besides them.

Were the sweats the only comfortable bottoms you’d packed?

Pushing aside the remaining shirts, socks, underwear, the shoes he had bought you, and your sketchbook, he doesn’t find any other pants - however, he does find two things that are of interest.

“Ah, so here is where you’ve been hiding things.”

You tilt your head. Things, plural? You only remember your pacifier...

Right at the very bottom of the bag, he retrieves the objects, one in each hand. In his right is your black pacifier, protected in its case, and in his left is a little, plastic astronaut.

“Who’s this space explorer?” Zemo shifts your backpack back onto the ground, bringing the toy closer to the tub.

You let out a small gasp. You had completely forgotten about them! You eagerly reach out for it, going as far as to remove the thumb that had made its way into your mouth.

Zemo lets out a low chuckle, handing you the toy. You immediately bring it close, eyes focusing onto it. “I forgot about them! I got them a few days ago with my little meal!”

“Is that so?” He places your pacifier on the counter, alongside the shirt.

“Uh-huh! Back when-” your voice quiets as you attempt a whisper, “back when Sam and Bucky went to talk with that guy we’re not s’posed to know about.”

“Ah,” Zemo nods in understanding.

The astronaut walks along the edge of the tub, your hand clutched loosely around them. The bathtub could be a planet, you think. One where the land was porcelain and the water was filled with bubble islands.

Zemo leaves you to your own devices and pulls your bag back into his lap, in search of your underclothing. While briefs were unnecessary, the apartment was cold - cold enough that he’d prefer you had socks on even if your legs might have to remain bare. His lips quirk up at the selection; all but three pairs of socks were colorful and patterned - one of which was the black pair he bought you. His eyes flicker to where you’re toddling your space explorer on the edge of the tub and he selects a pair of navy blue socks patterned with various approximations of planets and stars on them, placing them with your other clothes on the counter.

The door behind Zemo swings open, a pile of sodden sheets and blankets walking in. You freeze, tensing up and eyes locking onto the figure.

At the top of the pile, a pair of eyes lock onto yours. They quickly avert their gaze while Bucky shuts the door behind him. He glances to his right, catches sight of the washing machine, and continues into the room.

The soft caress of Zemo’s fingers against your cheek draws your attention back to him. “Does your space explorer have a name?”

“U-Um…” You drop your attention to the figure in your hand. Did they have a name?

You ignore the quiet sounds of the washer’s settings being adjusted to run through a mental list of space-related names. Star? Moon? Luna? Sunny?

The showerhead sputters to life, a gentle drizzle, aimed away from you while Zemo readjusts the water temperature.

Comet? Galaga? Wait, that was a video game… 

Zemo gently brings the water over your back. Tension you didn’t realize you were carrying drains from you as warm water cascades over your shoulder. You didn’t even realize how cold you’ve gotten until this moment, your body having acclimated to the bath water sometime earlier.

Did this mean your temperature broke? You sure hoped so.

Gazing into your toy’s little painted eyes, your brows knit together. They needed a name. That was what was important right now. They needed a perfect name. Something that would have inspired them to explore the cosmos-

“Cosmo?” you test under your breath, tilting the figure in your hand. You repeat yourself, a bit more sure of yourself, “Cosmo.”

You think the astronaut looks pleased with the name.

Holding the toy out to Zemo, you confidently introduce your plastic friend. “His name is Cosmo!”

“What a pleasure to meet you, Cosmo,” he looks into Cosmo’s dotted eyes, smiling.

You smile in Cosmo’s stead. “It’s nice to meet you, Zemo,” you respond in an approximation of what you think Cosmo may sound like.

Zemo lets out a chuckle, reaching over to shut off the showerhead.

In the corner of the room, the washing machine whirs to life.

Your eyes dart over to Bucky. He’s facing the small closet, though his head is turned just enough that you can tell that he can see you. He doesn’t look angry. Or disgusted. Or even annoyed.

He just looks… a little nervous, if anything.

That makes you feel better. At least you weren’t alone in your nervousness.

Holding Cosmo up, you introduce him. “This is Cosmo,” you pipe up, voice quiet and hesitant. “He joined the mission a couple days ago… “ 

Bucky’s eyes drop to the figure. Both his eyebrows raise and he walks over to the tub. Crouching beside Zemo, he brings himself down to your eye level. Gently, he says, “It’s nice to meet you, Cosmo. I’m James. But you can call me Bucky.”

“Hi, Bucky,” you whisper, bringing Cosmo back into the tub with you. You drop your gaze to his painted features and, thumbing over his face to clear a water droplet, you murmur, “Are you a caregiver?”

He nods, swallowing. “Yeah…”

“Oh.” Your fingers tap down Cosmo’s side. “Stebe- Steve didn’t tell me.” Your eyes dart up to meet Bucky’s eyes. “I’m a little… did Stebe tell you?”

Bucky shakes his head, letting out a silent sigh. “No.”

You nod, returning your attention back to Cosmo. One by one you unfurl the fingers wrapped around him, allowing him to float on the surface of the water, bobbing gently. “Zemo said that people- That when- That a long time ago, people didn’t share classes?”

“Classifications?” Bucky clarifies, unfamiliar with the slang.

“Uh-huh.” Cosmo bobs towards a bubble island, stopping at the edge.

He thinks the question over. “Only with strangers. It was something that friends shared when they became close enough.”

You stare directly at Cosmo, pressing a finger against his center. He slides to the side of it, bobbing back to the surface covered in bubbles. Your voice is only slightly wobbly when you ask, “Is that why you didn’t tell me?”

“I thought- I thought that Steve told you.”

“Same,” you whisper, attention fully diverted to your plastic friend. You push Cosmo back down, only to get the same result. It looks like Cosmo’s space suit had enough air to keep him floating.

But if Cosmo had oxygen in his spacesuit, then didn’t that mean that he could walk along the bottom of the tub like a scuba diver?

Wrapping your fingers around him, you attempt to set him at the bottom of the tub, only for him to rocket back to the surface.

Bucky remains by your side, the corner of his lips twisting ever so slightly upwards.

As you channel your inner Sisyphus, Zemo gets to his feet.

Bucky’s eyes snap to the movement, lips straightening out.

Bucky and Zemo lock eyes with one another, neither one completely pleased with the other. With a narrowing of eyes and subtle changes in their facial features, turning their heads ever so slightly to gesture to you or a towel or the door, they manage to have a full conversation about what is to be done right now.

It isn’t until a yawn overtakes your frame is the silence interrupted.

Zemo clears his throat, drawing your attention away from Cosmo floating on a bubble island back to him. “Entlein, it’s time to get out of the bath now. Would you prefer James or I to carry you?” He unplugs the tub’s drain, and you watch as a small whirlpool whisks bubbles and water away.

You’re more than ready to leave this freezing tub. Your eyes move between your two options, before hesitatingly settling on Bucky.

Grabbing hold of Cosmo, you’re slow to raise your arms towards Bucky, so as to be more easily lifted out of the tub.

An amused exhale is pushed through Bucky’s nose, while he yanks a large towel off of the towel shelf. He wraps the towel around your shoulders, careful to not let it touch any remaining bathwater. You rise onto your knees, and within a moment, Bucky hoists you onto his hip.

You miss the smug look that Bucky throws Zemo’s way and the eyeroll that Zemo returns.

Bucky feels so warm. You can feel the heat radiate off his hands through the towel, off the chest he presses you against. As he swipes water droplets off you with an edge of the towel, you can’t help but to sag against him, your damp hand clutching the back of his loaned t-shirt.

He stands in the center of the bathroom, his eyes flickering between you and Zemo, who was currently shuffling through his medicine collection. He gently sways and bounces you, attempting to keep you calm and placid yet not enough that your eyelids are tempted to slide shut.

Zemo grabs a clear bottle containing almost fluorescent red liquid from the medicine cabinet. Nodding to himself as he checks the label, he gathers your clothes from the counter and motions to Bucky towards the door.

“Okay, squirt, let’s get you ready for bed, okay?” Bucky’s voice rumbles under you as he crosses the dining room into the living room. Nodding, your cheek rubs against him, unwilling to put in the effort to raise your head. 

Standing before the couch, Bucky hesitates a moment, aware of your tight grip on his shirt. He decides to sit down, settling you on his lap. Taking hold of the edge of your towel, he more thoroughly dries your skin. He’s gentle, mindful of your various purple and blue bruises.

Zemo settles beside him, scowling at the front door as he sets your clothes on the coffee table. Letting out a small huff, he unscrews the cap of the red liquid, takes the accompanying small plastic cup, and pours until it reaches the second printed indicator line. Schooling his face back to an expression devoid of frustration, he gets your attention by rubbing your shoulder.

Twisting your head just enough to see what he wants, you immediately bury your face back in Bucky’s shoulder upon spotting the artificially flavored medicine in Zemo’s hand.

Zemo lets out a gentle tsk, Bucky giving you an encouraging bounce.

“You need to take the medicine, little one,” Zemo urges you. “It’ll keep your fever down and help you feel better.”

You let out a small whimper into Bucky’s neck, not quite convinced.

“C’mon, kid,” Bucky joins in. “It’s a pain reliever too. Doesn’t your head hurt?”

Letting out a soft whine, you peek out from your sanctuary. Eyes darting over to the medicine cup, you hesitate only a moment more before opening your mouth.

Zemo wastes no time and promptly holds the cup to your lips, pouring the cherry-flavored liquid into your mouth.

Yuck.

Your expression must betray how you feel about the medicine, because Bucky starts bouncing you in his lap, rubbing comforting circles on your back, while Zemo promises, “We’ll get you something to drink in a moment,” as he sets the medicine bottle on the coffee table.

You pathetically sniffle against Bucky’s shirt, partly for dramatics and partly to prevent your nose from running.

Above you, Bucky and Zemo share another look.

“You must have chills,” Zemo conversationally states, bringing your stack of clothing to his lap. “Hopefully, it’s a sign that your body is going to get back on track and not further deteriorate.”

Your brows knit together and your bleary eyes lock onto his own.

“Ah.” He rolls the fabric of the mint green shirt around the neck opening, bunching it together. Nodding to Bucky, he tells you, “You’re sick with regression deficiency. You’ve gone too long without being little, so your body is doing what it can to get you, and everyone around you, to listen to it’s needs.”

Oh. That might explain a few things… 

Bucky pulls you away from his chest, giving Zemo the opportunity to push your head through the shirt in one swift, easy motion. 

As Bucky untangles your fingers from the fabric of his shirt and directs your arm to a sleeve, you ask aloud, “I’m sick?”

Shirt fully pulled on, Bucky turns you over in his lap so you’re facing Zemo, the towel remaining wrapped around your waist and lap. “Not exactly,” his voice rumbles behind your head.

Zemo takes a space-themed sock and pulls it over a foot, straightening it out as he speaks. “You’re not infectious, if that’s what you’re wondering. Let's just say that the best medicine would be staying in headspace, rather than treating the individual symptoms.”

“Oh.” You remain placid on Bucky’s lap, only moving your opposite foot closer to Zemo while your sock is properly adjusted. You look down at Cosmo, still gripped in your hand.

If staying little was the best way to feel better, how were you supposed to help with the mission?

You don’t have much time to ponder that dilemma, as the front door chooses that moment to click open, unlocking and opening to reveal Sam.

Catching sight of a plastic bag in his hand, you attempt to bury your face back in Bucky’s shirt. Unfortunately, due to the arms wrapped around your waist, you only succeed in turning your face towards the couch, your left cheek smooshing against Bucky’s chest. Your free hand reaches over and clutches onto his shirt, attempting to pull yourself as close as you can.

While you may have been wrong about Bucky and Zemo, Sam was, in fact, a baseline.

Would he be mad? If he didn’t know until now that you were a little, how were you supposed to know whether or not he even liked them? Would he even have let you join in on the mission if he had known you were a little?

These thoughts and a million more swirl around your head, each one serving to force you further into your headspace yet tempting your psyche to age up and be big again.

Your head kinda feels like it did earlier, before you went to bed.

You release Cosmo, the astronaut tumbling towards the back of the couch, and bring your thumb to your mouth, anxiously attempting to soothe this storm brewing in your head.

Bucky jiggles his leg, half-heartedly attempting to bounce you in his lap. “Sam’s here with your stuff, isn’t that swell?” His words brush against the hair on your head, his lips close.

Your nose wrinkles, brows furrowing. You pull away from Bucky, scooching down his lap and twisting to stare him in the eyes. “Swell?” you repeat, briefly pulling your thumb out to properly speak.

Bucky stills underneath you, a huff of a laugh audible from Sam not too far away from you.

Was that a blush on Bucky’s face? “Ah…” He clears his throat. “I haven’t talked to a little since the forties. Cut me some slack.”

There’s a rustling of plastic, of packaging being torn open, but you ignore that in favor of squinting at Bucky. Deep in your core, the part of you that is simultaneously a toddler and a twenty-something year old, you need to tease him. Fully releasing his shirt, you briefly pop a finger against his nose. “Old.”

Bucky scowls, moving your offending finger down. He turns his head to where Sam is sitting on the edge of the coffee table and ripping apart cardboard and plastic packaging and Zemo is looking over the pack of diapers Sam picked out. “Can we get them dressed now?”

Zemo rolls his eyes but refrains from making a comment on how Bucky looks fine for his age. Instead he scootches down the couch, widening the gap between him and Bucky. “Set them down here.”

Having already pushed yourself away to tease Bucky, you don’t get the opportunity to clutch onto his shirt to prevent being moved. Instead, Bucky slides you off his lap completely, a hand on your back angling you to a laying position. You have to fold your right leg to avoid kicking Zemo, tucking the other in the space between him and the cushions behind him.

You huff a breath through your nose, narrowed eyes locking onto Bucky even when he appears to be upside down.

A finger comes down then, overtaking most of your field of vision. Your eyes follow the appendage, going cross-eyed as it makes contact with the tip of your nose. Immediately, you whip your head side to side, scrunching your nose even, all to force Bucky to draw it back.

Noises of amusement come from all around you.

You’re unsure how to feel about that. Are they laughing at you? Or how you forced Bucky’s hand away?

Your thumb finds its place outside your mouth. It plays with your lips, unsure that if you began sucking it, more laughter would come.

Around your legs, a loud crinkling sound draws your attention. Your eyes find a diaper in Zemo’s hands. There’s a teddy bear on it, laying on a balloon shaped like a crescent moon. A clearing of a throat moves them to Zemo himself.

“Let’s finish up and get you to sleep, entlein.”

The towel around your waist is unwrapped, left beneath you and covering the sofa. Your skin is dry, having air dried awaiting for Sam’s return.

“Can you move your hips up for me?”

You worry your lip a bit more, but you comply, familiar with this sort of routine.

The soft, cotton padding is slid underneath you.

Directly above your face, a familiar sight greets you: your black pacifier, the silicone nipple poised above your mouth.

Automatically, your mouth opens, eager to accept. Still though, you tilt your head back just so, curious about who was offering it to you.

It’s Bucky, of course.

Returning your head to its previous position, your gaze returns to Zemo. He has a yellow tube in his hand, his attention drawn to the label and its instructions. Right over his shoulder, you distantly take notice that you can make out Sam in the relative darkness of the kitchen. Something plastic catches the light of the nearby lamp in his hand, and within a moment, Sam fills this up with water from the sink.

As you track his return, you can see him twisting a lid on it, tightening it until it’s secure.

Pointing a finger at him, you’re about to ask if the sippy cup is for you, when a yelp comes out instead, the pacifier dropping from your mouth.

Something cold and slimy makes contact with your thighs.

You can’t help but to let out a whine, attempting to move your legs away all the while.

Behind you, Bucky attempts to hush you, pressing a hand against your chest and rubbing small, soothing circles. “Shh, shh, shh,” you can make out just a tad louder than your whine.

At your legs, Zemo is once again apologizing, voice mellow. “It’s just rash ointment, entlein. It’s medicine, and it’ll soothe your skin.” A hand free of cream wraps around your ankle, bringing your leg closer.

It’s cold is what it is.

You stop squirming though, your whine turning into sniffles. A part of you wants the ointment more so than even the other pain medication, knowing that your skin needs to be treated and not ignored.

Bucky continues to soothe you, though he does stop his shushing.

The ointment is smoothed over your skin, gently and carefully.

Sam re-enters your vision then, standing above you beside the couch.

Reaching up, your hand reaches for the sippy cup in his hand.

His attention is drawn to where Zemo was applying the ointment, his mouth drawn to a thin line. As your fingers brush against the plastic of the cup, though, his head snaps to you, a gentle smile settling on his face.

“Here you go, kid,” Sam tells you as he passes it to you.

You immediately pop the spout into your mouth, a steady stream of cool water trickling down your throat. As you swallow, you can’t help but notice how much better you begin to feel.

Around your bottom, it seems that Zemo has finished applying the cream, as tapes are secured around your waist.

“Thank you,” you murmur around the spout of the sippy cup, neglecting to fully draw it out of your mouth. You’re a bit unsure who exactly you’re thanking right now - whether it be Zemo for bathing you and getting you into a diaper, Sam for the sippy cup and getting you the diapers in the first place, or even Bucky for cleaning up your mess and being here and soothing you in his own way - but it feels like the right thing to say right now.

Zemo chooses to respond. “It’s no problem,” he reassures, adjusting your shirt before he stands.

You hum in acknowledgment, neither agreeing or disagreeing. You resume drinking, the motion familiar and soothing.

As Zemo disappears to wash his hands, your gaze moves between Bucky and Sam.

Sam is looking away from you, towards the bedroom. His mouth is drawn into a frown.

Bucky meets his gaze, and, voice low, he tells Sam, “The bed’s dry, if you’re wonderin’.” 

Sam gives a single nod, the smallest bit of indent forming between his eyebrows. He turns around to where Zemo’s washing his hands. “They’ll stay over here.”

Zemo shuts the water off, drying his hands with a nearby towel. “Why? Surely, they’ll be more comfortable in a bed.”

You can catch the corners of Sam’s eyes crinkling. “You know why. They’ll stay here, where we can keep an eye on them.”

There’s a sigh. “Of course,” Zemo cedes. There’s footsteps, and before you know it, he’s leaning over the side of the couch.

The corners of his eyes winkle as he smiles down at you. Briefly, a hand pushes a few strands of hair back. “Goodnight, entlien.” 

You hum in reply, too tired for words.

He straightens up, exchanging a look with Bucky, then Sam, before he returns to his bedroom, the door shutting quietly behind him.

Sam lets out a sigh, running a hand down his face. “Alright, Buck, let’s get back to sleep.”

Behind you, Bucky makes a grunt of acknowledgement. The hand that was rubbing comforting circles on you disappears, and after a brief moment, you can feel Bucky shift off the couch and onto the floor.

He’s kneeling beside you, and when he reaches over to somewhere beyond your head, you’re unsure what he’s reaching for. When his hands come to your shoulders, you let him maneuver you slightly up, your head coming to rest upon a throw pillow.

You catch him smiling, satisfied.

Even though your eyelids are so heavy, you meet his gaze. “Good night, kid,” he tells you, before he slides away for a moment. He settles down to lay on the floor beside you, taking a throw pillow for himself.

Equally as quiet, Sam repeats the sentiment. “G’night, kid.”

The room is quiet, filled with the soft noises of you suckling down the water. You can hear Sam shifting on the opposite couch, making himself comfortable.

Slowly, gently, you let your eyelids drift shut, the pause between each suckle extending longer and longer until your weakening grip drops your sippy cup down to rest on your chest.

Murmured voices come from above and around you, rousing you from sleep. The fog of headspace lays over you, warm and inviting. It tempts you to ignore your surroundings and to go back to sleep.

However, your curiosity is always stronger than any other instinct you may have. Keeping your eyes closed and your breathing steady, you listen to see if it’s worth waking up for.

“-so what should we do?” a voice asks. They sound far away, like they’re on the other side of the room.

“I suppose they can stay here until we return.” This is Zemo. He sounds close by.

“Alone?” a new speaker asks, and, slightly more conscious, you recognize it as Bucky. He must be slightly closer than the other guy - Sam, it had to have been.

“Unless you’d like to stay with them.” Even though you can’t see it, you can hear the smug smile on his face.

You feel your shirt being pulled up, cool air tickling your tummy.

“If anything, you’d be the one staying here,” Sam retorts.

There’s the distinct sound of velcro unsticking, along with a plastic rustling noise.

“Ah-! But then, how would you find the way inside?”

The reply is interrupted, your eyes fluttering open as you let out an involuntary shudder when cold wipes are swiped against your bottom. “Gah-!”

Blinking the sleep away from your eyes, you raise your head to see Zemo kneeling on the floor beside the couch, wipes and a clean diaper in hand. Colored beams of light stream down on both of you, the morning sun shining through the mosaic windows. Tilting your head to the right, you see both Sam and Bucky, fully dressed and looking straight at you, the former sitting at a chair in the dining room and the latter sitting on the opposite couch.

They quickly avert their gaze back to Zemo, but considering that he was in the middle of giving you a diaper change, this was hardly any better.

“My apologies, entlien,” Zemo draws your attention back to him. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” He continues wiping your skin, gentle as he can.

You sputter. “W-Why are you… changing me, then?”

The corner of his lip briefly curls up before straightening back out. “You have a diaper rash. If you want it to clear up, you should be changed as soon as you’re wet.”

“O-Oh,” you murmur. “I knew that.” Defeated, you drop your head back down onto the cushions, keeping your gaze focused on the high ceilings.

The room is silent save for the gentle crinkling of the diaper Zemo slides under you.

You run through the snippets of conversation you caught. Brows bunching up, you ask the room at large, “Were you talking about me right now?”

Zemo simply keeps his mouth shut, prompting you to turn to Sam and Bucky for answers. 

“Uh…” Sam trails off, which is an answer in itself.

Pulling your head up, you turn to face the others, your eyebrows shooting up. “Were you… gonna leave me behind?”

Sam readies himself. “You’re little,” he states.

You scowl. “I’m well aware. I’ve been one for a while, actually.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he steadies himself. “I meant that, well-” His eyes briefly dart over to where Zemo is in the midst of rubbing a tube of diaper rash ointment between his palms in an attempt to warm the contents.

Heat encompasses your face, and though you attempt to redistribute the blood flow away from your blush, it only serves to pump blood directly towards your pounding headache. Flustered, you bark out, “You meant what?”

“You dropped last night,” Sam supplies as if it explains everything.

Before you can interrupt, Zemo chooses this moment to smear the ointment on your inflamed thighs, resulting in your body tensing up at the cold cream. Shooting him a glare, he can only give a shrug as he concentrates on the task at hand.

“You involuntarily dropped last night,” Sam stresses, “because you’re suffering from the effects of regression deficiency.”

“A-And I’m big a-again right now,” you manage to spit out through the discomfort. Thankfully, while Zemo is thorough in his application, he’s also efficient, because he brings the front of your diaper up to meet your stomach.

Sam sighs. “We both know that that’s not how regression deficiency works. You went too long without regressing. And now your body is going to do whatever it feels it needs to do so you stop what you’re doing so it could be little.”

Uncrossing your arms to throw them up, you counter, “I don’t know if that's the case for me! I’ve never gone through it before! How do we know that I won’t just rise above my basic needs to do what needs to be done?”

Zemo finishes taping you into a fresh diaper, and you immediately sit up and swing your feet off the couch and onto the floor, glaring at Sam. Zemo narrows his eyes, but chooses to hold his tongue while he goes to toss your balled up diaper into the trash and wash his hands.

Your cheeks burn as you catch sight of this in your peripheral vision, but you continue glaring at Sam. He glares right back, already desensitized by Bucky’s own incessant staring.

This is exactly your nightmare scenario.

Here you were, thinking that Sam and Bucky already knew that you were a little. That, despite that fact, they trusted you to do what needed to be done for the mission. That you were capable. That you were helpful.

Except, that wasn’t true at all. They didn’t know you were a little. Would they have let you join in on the mission if they have? Would you have been here at all if you or Steve had told them? 

Would they have kept in contact with you at all?

Your gaze drops to your diapered lap, unable to continue to stare Sam in the eyes. Pinpricks of liquid have gathered in the corners of your eyes, and you roughly brush them away with the back of your hand. Your diaper has a different design than the one you’d been put to sleep in; this diaper has a teddy bear floating in the sky holding a trio of balloons on the front panel.

It’s cute and fun and in any other circumstance would make you smile. For all those reasons, it only serves to make your heart ache, a reminder of what made you different. 

You take a deep breath in and let it out slowly. “Where’s my backpack?”

You can hear a sigh from Sam.

“I want my pants, Sam. Where’s my backpack?” Your eyes sweep the floor around the couch in search of it, finding only your boots.They dressed you last night, didn’t they? Shouldn’t it be here?

Silence is your only response.

Glaring from under your brow, you raise your head just enough to see everyone.

They’re all exchanging looks with one another, conversing without words.

Scratch that, they’re arguing without words if the scowls present on everyone’s faces is any indication.

Finally, after a tense moment, Sam huffs, Bucky rolls his eyes, and Zemo turns to you and flashes a smile as he strolls through the dining room to the bathroom. “Ah, I must have left it in the washroom. I’ll fetch it for you.”

Dropping your gaze back to your lap, you murmur “Thanks,” under your breath, crossing your arms.

The room is silent once again.

Bucky fills the silence this time. He clears his throat, then asks, “When was the last time you regressed?”

You shrug, slow to meet his gaze. “I regressed for, like, an hour the day before we headed to Munich, I think.”

“That’s… That’s over a week ago.” He seems dumbfounded. “Why didn't you say anything?”

Your shoulders hunch higher as you pick at some lint on the couch. “I dunno. I just assumed that it wasn’t safe? Or, that it would just be a distraction to the mission, I guess. I didn’t… I didn’t know that Steve didn’t tell you guys I was a little.”

Sam sighs. “If I’d known, I would’ve told you to regress on all those damn flights. Not much else to do.”

You contemplate this as Zemo walks over and hands you your backpack.

If Sam had known, he’d have told you to regress on a flight. Flights. Multiple. Because you’d be on the mission.

Slowly, hesitantly, your shoulders drop from the defensive hunch.

He’d have told you to regress, you repeat to yourself, and he wouldn’t have stopped you from joining in on the rest of the mission.

You settle your bag on your lap. Zemo strolls over to the kitchen counter, spinning a stool around to face the living room - giving you space.

Fiddling with the zipper of your backpack, you look up from your lap to the rest of the room’s occupants. “I almost did regress…” you confess, “But, I talked myself out of it… like…” you bite your lip, contemplating your next words. “Like… Steve always told me that when he went on missions, as the leader, he’d tell the team when everything was safe enough to be little. And… no one told me it was safe… so I just… stayed big.”

Sam’s brows furrow, Bucky’s lips press themselves into a tighter line, and Zemo tilts his head ever so subtly, each of them contemplating your words.

You unzip your backpack. Pulling out Sharon’s bomber jacket, you can see that your sweats have been shoved into the bag, clean and neatly folded. You push these to the side, along with your sketchbook.

You’re going to finish this mission, whether Sam wants you to or not.

You’re supposed to meet up with the little girl from yesterday - or, technically, Zemo’s going to meet up with her, and you’re tagging along to ease any hesitancy she may have. Part of the act.

You should go with the same pants as yesterday, then. Even after your interaction with the girl, they’ll fit you well enough afterwards. You pull them out, push your backpack to the cushion beside you, and stand as you push your planet-adorned feet through the pant legs.

Risking a glance at the others, you see that Sam and Bucky are still staring at you, trying to figure you out and recontextualizing all the moments you’ve shared together.

(Zemo, meanwhile, is narrowing his eyes at you as you stumble a bit, your balance thrown off as you switch feet to stand on. You barely stop yourself from rolling your eyes. You’re fine. You’re big. You don’t need any help right now. You can dress yourself, thank you very much.)

Quietly, as if what you said next was quiet enough, then it wasn’t a big deal, you decide to throw Sam and Bucky a bone and admit, “I was under the impression that, as baselines, you both just didn’t want to deal with a toddler…” Legs properly threaded through your pants, you button and zip them closed, buckling your belt to fit nice and snug for the moment.

Your admission doesn’t seem to make Sam and Bucky feel any better, though Sam’s face does soften. “Well… I’m sorry that we didn’t make you feel safe.”

Shrugging, you sit down and reach for your boots. Shoving your feet into each one, you take a shoelace in each hand and begin tying one. “It’s okay, it’s not your fault.” You pause, contemplative. “Might be Zemo’s though, if I’m being honest. Stranger danger and all that…”

Bucky huffs a laugh, causing the edge of your lips to turn upwards.

On the edge of your peripheral vision, however, Zemo scowls, evidently not pleased with the insinuation that a little may not be comfortable voluntarily regressing in the presence of a known terrorist.

You finish the knot, the bow on your boot looking nice and secure. You roll your eyes, moving onto the next boot. “Not that you’re not a pleasure to be around, Zemo,” you placate, not entirely lying. Smile turning slightly sheepish, you continue, “Besides, I should have been able to stay big longer.”

Sam head snaps towards you, the action drawing your attention away from your laces. “Okay, well, no. A whole week?” he stresses. “That’s… not healthy.”

“I mean… yeah.” You stop moving the laces and roll your eyes once again. “But neither is getting less than eight hours of sleep a day, and pretty much everyone gets less than that.”

“But that’s different-”

“Is it?” you interrupt, voice high and tight. Clearing your throat, you attempt to finish tying your shoelace. “I mean, I’ve heard of littles that regress, like, for a couple hours each month. If they could handle that, I should be able to handle a full week…” Scowling, you realize you messed up somewhere and have to start your knot at the beginning. Ugh.

“No,” Sam’s firm. “You know that they experience serious side effects from that.”

You wilt, concentrating on straightening out each lace before you can start again.

Sam continues, “On top of that, if they’re even telling the truth, those people likely have conditioned themselves to go that long without regressing by gradually increasing the breaks between each session. You said you last regressed an hour a week ago? How about the days before that? What’s the longest you’ve gone without regressing since you’ve been classified?”

You resist the strongest urge to immediately drop from this scolding, crossing the laces over one another. You force yourself to answer, “I mean- I usually- I try to make sure I regress everyday since the day I’ve been classified. But-! I, uh, I sometimes go two days without regressing, sometimes, if I’ve been real busy…”

Pulling a lace over the loop, you push the opposite into it. “I have a daycare I go to. It’s one of the free government ones that I qualify for because I’m self-employed and don’t make much money… I go, like, three times a week... “ You pause, having realized that you messed up again, a jumble of lace on your boot.  You felt so close to tipping over the edge.

Sam watches on, eyes softening but composure still firm. If you were going to go on the mission, he needed you to see sense.

Getting your breathing under control, you continue, remembering the last question, “T-The longest I’ve been completely big since I’ve been classified was almost five days. It was- It was after I got hurt. Real bad. Had to stay awake and big the whole time, because of the whole ‘no scars’ thing.” You physically shudder at the memory. Most of it you’ve done your best to block out. “Other- Other than that, though, it’s like I said. An hour or so everyday, with a couple daycare sessions through the week.”

“Okay.” Sam nods, looking as if he’s physically restraining himself on having you elaborate on how, exactly, you got hurt - but. Priorities. “Okay,” he repeats. “So, you can see how your body, your brain has gotten used to regular little time, right?”

“I mean… I guess.” you relent, a bit petulant. Tugging on a lace, the knotted mess doesn’t budge. You take a deep breath, both to calm your nerves and to brace yourself. “If I ask for help on my boot, are you going to make me stay here?”

Sam’s gaze drops from your face to the tangled laces. A single brow raises. “How’d you even manage that?” Despite this, he steps forward.

You shrug helplessly. “I dunno.” Kicking up your perfectly fine boot, you pout, “I did this one no problem.”

The edge of Sam’s lips twitch upwards before he schools his expression. He kneels beside you, pushing your foot back to the ground. “Maybe it’s a sign that you shouldn’t come with?” he offers.

You pout, brows angled downward. “Or maybe it’s a sign you shouldn’t make me feel bad for somethin’ that’s at least partially your fault.”

Fingers already untangling your mess, he scoffs. “How so?”

“Should’ve figured out I was a little, even if Steve didn’t tell you,” you shrug.

If he wasn’t concentrating on navigating the laces properly, you’re sure Sam would be rolling his eyes. “It’s not like you’ve texted me anything outside of memes, how am I supposed to figure it out?”

Huh. He had a point. “Yeah well- You’re one to talk. It’s not like you’ve told me much about yourself. I barely found out that your sister’s name is Sarah two- no, three days ago.”

He frowns, the laces finally free. “That can’t be right. Didn’t I send you a picture of her and my nephews?”

You shrug, slumping in your seat. “You didn’t name ‘em. You just said you were visiting them and sent the photo. I didn’t want to pry…” That and you didn’t want to bother him. “It’s not like we talk much anyways…”

Sam’s brows knit together and you can see his throat working, but he doesn’t say anything, contemplating your words. He finishes tying your laces before his eyes meet your gaze. “Well… maybe we should change that.” And with that, he pats your knee before he stands up and heads back to his seat.

You watch him, your own brows knitting together. When he turns around, flipping open the laptop settled in front of him, attention fully diverted from you, your eyes flicker to the others.

Zemo has moved to get something from the cabinets while Bucky remains on the opposite couch, gaze focused on Zemo.

You nibble on your lower lip.

Technically speaking, Sam never answered your question pertaining to your status on the mission. Whether or not you were even going to go to the funeral in search of Karli.

How long until it started, anyways?

Normally, you keep your phone close by when you sleep, but you definitely didn’t originally settle down in the living room.

Right as you’re about to rise to your feet, about to check to see if it’s in the bedroom, your eyes land on your phone, set carefully on the coffee table.

Settling back on the couch, you carefully pick it up.

Huh. You wonder who brought it over for you.

Turning it on, you’re greeted to the current time. There’s a little more than an hour until the service starts.

Your gaze shifts back to Sam, typing away. Licking your lips, you take a moment to deliberate your question. “So… are we going to interrupt the service? Or wait until afterwards?”

Sam’s fingers slow, gently tapping against the keys. He scoffs, shoulders drooping ever so slightly. “After, of course!”

Relief floods your system. No corrections about that ‘we’? You were going to complete this mission.

Cracking a smile, you throw back, “Hey, I don’t know! They blew up a building yesterday, how am I supposed to guess the necessary response to that?” Turning your attention back to the screen, you unlock it, tapping on your social media app of choice for morning scrolling.

Before you can really get started, however, a pair of legs enter your peripheral vision.

Eyes trailing upward, you see that they belong to Zemo.

He hands you a nondescript white paper bag, folded at the top. “Breakfast,” is his explanation.

Your eyes flick over to Bucky, just in case this is a trap of some sort, though he seems unconcerned.

Curious yet cautious, you flip the top open and peer into the bag.

It’s a cinnamon roll. From the place next door, if you had to guess where it came from.

You smile, a genuine one this time. Looking back at Zemo, you can’t stop the playful lilt to your voice as you point out, “I thought that this ‘hardly qualifies’ as a meal?”

He hums, the corners of his lips turning upwards. “I can always take it back and make you a bowl of porridge if you prefer?”

Holding the bag protectively to your chest, you laugh out, “No!” You reach into the bag, about to grasp the sugar-glazed treat, when you catch Zemo’s face contorting to a genuine, disapproving scowl.

Freezing, you watch as he pointedly looks over to the counter, to where there's a plate laid out alongside the appropriate utensils.

Oh, so that’s what he was doing earlier. “Ah, yup, of course, mmhm, that makes sense.” You get to your feet, hopping onto the appropriate seat. Wiggling the cinnamon roll out of the bag and onto the plate, you chirp a “Thank you!”

“You’re welcome,” Zemo’s voice follows you. You turn your attention to him as you grab the fork, quirking a brow when you see that he’s right beside you.

Before you can ask what he’s doing, he grabs a cloth napkin from the counter, whipping it out to unfold it. It’s as large as the front of your shirt, and the tips of your ears burn when you realize what he’s doing.

“You had a rough night,” he says as he wraps the napkin around your neck as a makeshift bib, “and I figured this sugary treat was well earned.”

Somehow, this was more embarrassing than him changing your diaper. You would object, but as you eye the glaze dripping off the pastry and onto the plate, you figure that this was a necessity for the meal.

From the couch, Bucky sardonically asks, “Wasn’t I the one who picked it out for them?”

You can feel the heat of Zemo’s breath as it brushes across the back of your head as he scoffs, tying the ends of the napkin into a loose knot. “Sure,” he amicably agrees, “however, who’s cash paid for it?” 

You’re positive that Bucky’s only possible response to that would be a glare or an eyeroll, and with your bib properly secured, you don’t even bother to check, immediately jabbing the pastry with your fork.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Zemo tuts. He reaches over to the counter space beside you, to a small, plastic cup containing almost fluorescent red liquid.

You let out a dramatic sigh. “Fine,” you relent, letting go of your fork for the cup of medicine.

Does it taste good? Of course not. Was it going to make your head stop aching at the back of your skull? Hopefully.

Handing back the plastic cup to Zemo, you tear off a piece of cinnamon roll and shove it into your awaiting mouth, eager to replace the flavor with something better.

As you do so, you catch Zemo settling on the dining chair opposite Sam, pulling out his phone with a smug look on his face. Behind him, draped across the back of the chair, is his coat.

You figure that everyone else had gotten breakfast before your rude awakening and start chewing. Explained why they were already fully dressed.

The cinnamon roll is delicious - if a bit sticky. It has all the qualities a good cinnamon roll should have, and you distantly hope that Zemo had given the coffee place a tip.

After two more forkfuls, enough has begun to stick to your teeth that you desire something to rinse it off.

Your eyes sweep the counter and you’re pleased to recognize the sippy cup from last night.

Your fingers wrap around it, and you’re touched at the realization that it’s your favorite color.

Sam must have remembered it from your text conversation months ago.

Taking a sip, you make a happy keen as the liquid touches your tongue. It’s yummy and it tastes like juice.

“What is this?” you turn to the others, jiggling the sippy cup for emphasis.

Zemo smiles from over his phone. “Hibiscus tea.”

Satisfied with this answer, you return your attention to your breakfast.

It isn’t until your mouth is full with another bite, that you remember what you were planning on doing before Zemo had interrupted you.

Pulling out your phone, you set it on the counter and turn it on, eyes locked onto it as you scroll through your social media app of choice.

By the time you’re halfway through your cinnamon roll, you’re caught up on the superficial news of the day.

Tapping your fingers on the counter space above your phone, you think about if there’s anything else you should check on.

Well… yesterday, when you searched for Riga, you had found out about the bombing. 

You know that the Flag Smashers kept their digital presence basically nonexistent, but that didn’t mean that their supporters would have the same luxury - at least, you hoped they wouldn’t.

Swiping your way onto Instagram, you search for all posts geotagged with Riga, Latvia. If luck was on your side, then maybe someone would have snapped a pic with Karli and her friends in the background?

It was a long shot, but after the night you had, you could only hope for the best.

Sorting by recent, the first few posts are just of tourists enjoying the sunrise. A couple rows down, however, you pause. Wedged between two photos of people’s breakfasts, a flash of red, white, and blue catches your attention.

Was that… Walker?

Clicking on the photo, and bringing your phone closer to your face, you can clearly see that it is Walker, shield and all, strolling down a street somewhere in town. The photo was taken twenty minutes ago.

The photo is tagged with the hashtag #CapIsBack, and upon clicking it, you’re brought to photos upon photos of Walker stopping for selfies with various fans, scattered among fanedits and criticisms alike. Sorting by recent and scrolling and scrolling, you can track where he’s been the past couple days.

There’s pictures of him in Riga, apparently having landed the night before. Scrolling past those, your scowl deepens when you see a photo of him, his friend Hoskins, and a small group of security guards from a Berlin prison.

The Berlin prison that Zemo was at a few days ago.

You bump the edge of your phone against the top of your head, frustrated yet gentle enough to not actually injure yourself.

What were you going to do?

Walker doesn’t know that you’re a shapeshifter and you’d like to keep it that way.

As he so eloquently said in that Jeep, he basically was the United States government. And the US, along with over a hundred countries, have agreed to the Sokovia Accords.

Of which, your presence here, helping on a mission in another country, was in direct violations of.

He can send you to the Raft. No trial, no goodbyes to your family, just - poof! Welcome to a prison in the middle of the ocean. Enjoy your stay forever.

Steve wasn’t here to break you out if you got caught.

Okay, you have to think. Taking a large forkful of your cinnamon roll, you chew and think about what Walker knows.

He’s met Jack Conner. He might have taken notice of your aged-up, taller self waiting in the lobby of that German prison, no doubt captured on the security tapes. And he does not know about the face you’ve been wearing around since Madripoor - at least, as far as you’re aware.

You turn your phone back on. If he’s been able to find out that your group was here, in Riga, then he must have been tipped off by something.

You erase the search term #CapIsBack, replacing it with #TheFalcon. Sorting by recent, you scroll and only find fanart, fanedits, and various reposts of the clip from a few days ago that led you to the police department.

Now that you’re thinking about it, this same video probably led Walker directly to the station that day.

There isn’t anything else here that would connect Sam with Riga, though. But there has to be something somewhere.

Though you doubt that Bucky would be tagged in anything beyond his arrest video, you dutifully type #BuckyBarnes for any results.

The results are exactly what you expected. Reposts of the video, conspiracy theories, and people thirsting over him.

Your eyes slide off your phone to the man dressed in a turtleneck, his fur-collared coat draped across the back of his chair.

You type #BaronZemo into the search bar.

Of course.

It would have been nice if that German prison was too ashamed or embarrassed or whatever that Zemo was able to escape in the first place that they neglected to inform the public that he was at large and kept it hush hush.

Alas, it seems they’ve done their duty and have informed the public to call a hotline if they happen to spot him. In a few different languages even.

And, sorting by recent, past a few reposts of this PSA, you see a slightly blurred photo, taken yesterday.

Zemo is the only one visible in the photo - small miracles - and you have to assume that the photographer had spotted him walking and waited until he walked right past them. Their caption reads, “Did I just see the guy who tried to kill the Avengers???”

It is very clearly him.

Ugh.

Turning your phone off, you look down at your attire. The shirt is big enough that it should fit Jack Connor. As for your pants…

You doubted he could rock the highwater look.

You slide off the stool, the last bite of your cinnamon roll abandoned. The legs squeak as they get pushed back, though you pay it no mind.

“I need different pants,” is the explanation you give as everyone’s eyes snap to you.

“... why?” Sam asks, eyes not too subtly flicking to the crotch of your pants.

You roll your eyes. “Not because of that. ” Dropping to your knees in front of the couch, you bring your unzipped backpack closer in search of alternative pants. “Walker’s been following us.”

“What?”

“Walker and his friend are here. Someone took a picture of Zemo yesterday and someone else posted a picture of them twenty minutes ago.” Inside your bag, there’s only two other pant options - your jeans from Berlin and Sharon’s from Madripoor. “I can’t be me. If he meets up with us, I’m not going to be shapeshifting. He doesn’t know I can and I intend on keeping it that way.” With a small sigh, you pull out the jeans from Madripoor - the belt Zemo gave you is still looped around the waist, which means you don’t have to unthread the one around your own waist. “I also shouldn’t be stuck as a kid if we run into trouble with the Flag Smashers.”

Bucky is on his feet next to you, brows furrowed. “Where are they?”

You unlock your phone and navigate back to the post, turning around to settle on the edge of the couch as you do so. “I dunno. Somewhere here.” You hand it over and set the black denim beside you, both hands now free to unbuckle your belt and get your pants off.

Bucky takes it, eyes locked onto the screen. His perpetual frown deepens, and he walks over to where Sam and Zemo are looking over from the dining room table.

Wiggling your pants off it a bit tougher than you’d like, hindered by the boots that you refuse to take off - you do not want to deal with those shoe laces again. Nonetheless, by the time you’re worming your boots through the larger pants, Zemo speaks up.

“It would appear that he’s just beyond the bridge.”

“Do you think he’ll be nearby?” Sam asks.

You catch the edges of Zemo’s mouth turning downwards. “Unfortunately, yes. If I were to hazard a guess, he’s combing the streets for our presence. If he doesn't catch us, he may head over to the GRC camp, either for us or for Karli. He’s likely to start patrolling the perimeter once he arrives.”

Bringing the waist of your pants over your diaper, you begin buckling your belt, mindful enough to give it a little slack.

A little extra bulk on Jack Connor would be useful, you think.

Sam sighs. “If that’s the case, we should get going soon.” He turns to you and, jerking a thumb to your plate, asks, “You done with that?”

“Uh-huh,” you respond, scrunching the excess fabric around your ankles for the time being. You’ll shapeshift in a moment, for now you just need to not trip over the excess fabric. “Just let me brush my teeth, then we can go.”

He nods, turning his attention back to the screen of his laptop.

You grab your backpack, quickly shoving the bomber jacket into the main pocket as you cross the apartment - if you didn’t need to be nine, you weren’t going to wear it. As you pass by the dining room table, Bucky hands your phone back to you and you mutter a “Thank you,” as you shove it into your jean’s pocket.

Closing the bathroom doors, you turn to the bathroom counter and set your backpack down.

Taking out your toothbrush and toothpaste, you risk a glance at the mirror in front of you.

You looked a little pale, the bags under your eyes looking heavy and a tad too prominent for your liking.

The make-shift bib that Zemo had tied around your neck remains, icing and cinnamon coating the front. There’s some at the corners of your mouth too.

Frowning, you stick your toothbrush into your mouth, yanking the napkin off. Wetting a corner, you use it to clean your face.

Cheeks free of sugar, you toss the napkin into the hamper.

Grabbing hold of your toothbrush, you let your mind roam as you complete the task of brushing your teeth.

So. You had a case of the headspace holdouts - regression deficiency.

The good news is that this meant that your concussion wasn’t as bad as you thought it was.

The bad news is that it was only a matter of time until you dropped into your headspace.

You meet your own eyes in the mirror.

Well. You had regressed for, what, half an hour last night? Maybe more, maybe less, it should count for something.

(The voice of your high school biology teacher echoes in your head, dully reciting from the textbook. 'Regression deficiency is a psychosomatic disorder. Until a little is no longer fighting headspace, their body will respond with whatever it believes will get its host to settle down and get taken care of.’)

Ugh.

Fine. If your headspace was gonna use your own body’s immune system against you, you’ll just fight back.

Reaching out to the medicine cabinet with your opposite hand, you withdraw the pain reliever. Holding your toothbrush between your teeth, you only struggle a little to get the cap off. You pop out two pills onto the center of your hand, placing them on the counter for when your mouth isn’t full of suds.

Placing the pill bottle back in its place, you swing the medicine cabinet shut and pull your toothbrush out of your mouth.

After rinsing your mouth and your toothbrush, while the water is still running, you cup some in one hand, using it to rinse the pills down.

There. That, along with the cherry-flavored medicine from earlier, should keep you going. No fever, no headache, you should be good to go.

Besides, if you think about it, you had only dropped last night because you were asleep. Your guard was down.

As long as you’re awake, you’ll be fine.

Placing your dental hygiene supplies back in your backpack, you look back at the mirror.

Okay, what did Jack Connor look like again?

Oh yeah. An action movie hero.

You think back to how you felt, sitting on the hood of that busted car.

Slowly, mindfully, you shift.

The tapes around your hips crinkle, but they hold strong.

You didn’t adjust your belt that day, afterall.

Okay, this seems right - feels right. Looking in the mirror, you run a hand through your hair. You didn’t look sickly, not one bit. There’s not even a look of exhaustion either. You flash a smile.

Yeah, this was it.

Grabbing your backpack and pulling it over a shoulder, you exit the bathroom. 

All eyes are on you. Bucky and Sam may narrow their eyes a bit, but they remember this look, so there’s no comments from them.

Zemo, on the other hand, tilts his head at you, curious. “Now, who’s this?” he asks, eyes crinkling at the corners as they narrow, a corner of his lip jerking up in amusement.

You hold a hand out, smile widening. “Jack Connors - friend of Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes.”

He hums, accepting the handshake.

“Nice to meet’cha,” you tack on, as you withdraw your hand and move across the living room.

“Any reason in particular you’ve chosen this form?” Zemo stands, grabbing his coat from the back of his chair.

You place your backpack down on the cushions, plucking your leather jacket from where you’ve draped it yesterday afternoon. “It was just something I put on after I hit Walker with a car.” You shrug, pulling your jacket on.

Sam snorts. “What happened to ‘He fell on the windshield’?” He shuts his laptop, strolling to the entrance.

“I mean, for him, it probably felt like being hit with a car.” Picking up your backpack, you make your way to the small closet. “Maybe. Probably not, as the alternative was being super punched and skidding on asphalt - but please, Sam, let me have my cool cred.” You toss your bag on the ground of the closet, right next to Sam’s very own duffle bag, shutting the door behind you as you walk away.

Zemo’s eyes narrow, not quite sure how much credence to give you all.

Regardless, with everyone gathered in the entryway, it was time to go.

Zemo takes the lead, Sam right behind him. Bucky and you trail behind.

Once outside, the early morning air perks you up, cool and crisp. You place your hands in your jacket’s pockets, keeping them warm.

After only a minute of walking, light shines into your eyes for a moment, catching your attention.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can make out a man angling his phone around the center of his chest, apparently attempting to remain discreet while taking a photo of your little group. Sunlight reflects off the phone itself, as he’s chosen to go case-less. 

You run a hand through your hair, looking away.

At least Walker has something to use to track you guys now. You hope he finds you all before the funeral, rather than having him burst in randomly and ruin everything.

You can’t help but wonder which person in your group grabbed his attention, though. Was it Bucky or Sam, the literal Avengers of the group? Or did Zemo’s face make the rounds of local news stations, the PSAs working?

Pondering this question, you decide if you really wanted to know, you can check social media later and see what the guy captioned the photo.

After a few more minutes - with only two or three minutes until you arrive at your destination - with Bucky walking beside you more or less, you decide to break the silence.

“Hey, Bucky?” You wait until he’s made a noise of acknowledgment to you before continuing. “How did you not know I was a little? I mean, I guess Sam has an excuse - the only time we’ve met up before this week was when Steve introduced us. But Bucky,” you stress, “we’ve gone to fairs and museums together. What happened?”

He has the decency to appear properly chided, though he averts his gaze. “I mean- It’s not like I’ve spent a lot of time around the youths of today. I assumed that you’re all like this.” Before you can draw attention to the fact that no one refers to ‘the youths’ anymore, Bucky continues, “And it’s not like I’ve spent much time around littles before, one on one.”

You raise a single brow. “You’re a caregiver, aren’t you? Weren’t there, like, volunteer programs, even back then?”

Bucky scoffs, a smile pulling on his lips. “Sure. But I was too busy making sure a little punk of my own didn’t get himself killed.”

You let out a chuckle. “Y’know, Steve used to tell me that you were the ultimate mother hen - guess I should have read between the lines.”

Bucky huffs, eyes narrowing straight ahead. “‘Course he’d think so.” he replies, though he seems distracted.

Said distraction makes itself known only a second later.

“Karli Morganthaou is too dangerous for you guys to be pulling this shit,” Walker’s voice cuts through the air.

Just up ahead down the road, John Walker and Lemar Hoskins come barreling down a staircase towards your group.

And your conversation was going so well too.

“Ah! How’d you find us now?” Bucky shouts back, moving off the sidewalk onto the road.

“C’mon, you really think two Avengers can walk around Latvia without drawing attention?” Hoskins looks entirely too smug for someone who absolutely just looked at social media, same as you.

You shout back, “D’ya really think ‘Captain America’ can walk around Latvia without drawing attention?” Air-quotes and all. You jerk your head behind them, towards where not one, but two people were filming this encounter with their phones.

Hoskins’ eyes narrow when their gazes return back to the group, Walker’s jaw tightening.

“No more keeping us in the dark,” Walker orders. “You can start by telling us why you broke him,” he gestures to Zemo, “out of prison!”

“He did that himself, technically,” Bucky is quick to correct.

Walker’s nostrils flare. Throwing his arms up, he gets louder despite the fact that he’s literally in front of you guys now. “Oh, this must be an unbelievable explanation-!”

Sam cuts him off, pressing a hand to his chest. “Hey, take it easy before it gets weird.”

Walker’s jaw tightens and you can swear you can hear his teeth creak, his eyes darting between Sam and Bucky.

Beside you, Zemo speaks up, “I know where Karli is.” He looks between Walker and Hoskins, nods, and makes to move around Walker.

Walker side steps, directly blocking Zemo. “Well, where?” He looks down at him.

Sam answers for him. “All we know is, it’s a memorial. So,” he continues, “we’re going to intercept her there.”

“That means civilians,” Hoskins surmises, “high risk of casualties.”

“All right, good, we’ll move in fast. Take her by surprise,” Walker attempts to take charge.

“No, I want to talk to her alone,” Sam interjects.

Walker huffs. “I’m not losing her again.”

“Look,” Sam sighs. “The person closest to her died, she’s vulnerable. If there’s any time to reason with her, it’s now.”

Walker doesn’t like this. “What? No. Wait, no! Stop!” He runs ahead of the group, turning around to block the path once again. “Stop, okay? I think we’re way past reasoning with her, unless you forgot that she blew up a building with people still in it.”

Looking past Zemo and Walker, down the street, a familiar face peeks around the corner.

It’s the girl.

Hoskins looks between Walker and Sam. “Sam, if you walk in there cold, she’ll kill you.”

“If I go in there hot and the op goes wrong, more people will die.” Sam is determined, unwilling to stand down.

She’s slow to move away from the corner, eyes moving between this direction and the swarm of people moving around her. It’s hard to keep sight of her amongst the crowd.

Walker turns to Bucky. “You’re going to let him do this? You’re going to let your partner walk into a room with a super soldier alone?”

“He’s dealt with worse. And he’s not my partner.”

The girl’s eyes sweep your group, once, twice, before settling on Zemo. She looks a bit confused, maybe a bit hesitant.

“I used to counsel soldiers dealing with trauma. Okay, this is right in my wheelhouse,” Sam reminds them.

“Yeah, I know.” Walker sounds dismissive. “And I know those soldiers, which is how I know this is a bad idea.”

“Wait, John,” Hoskins interjects. “If he can talk her down, it might be worth a try.”

They exchange a lingering look, in which you glance back over to the girl. She looks flighty, like she might run off at any moment.

When you look back at Walker, he’s silently scoffing, although it looks like Hoskins has convinced him… for now.

He looks directly at Zemo and says, “We’ll deal with you later.”

“I’m sure it will all come to an agreeable conclusion,” he gestures a hand past Walker, to the girl. “My associate is just up ahead.”

Walker doesn’t stop Zemo taking the lead, possibly too confused to protest. You trail next to Sam, not too close to Zemo, but not too close to Walker. You don’t want the girl to recognize you, nor do you want her to see you as a threat.

As Zemo approaches the girl, the rest of you stay back, giving them some space. Her eyes scan your group once again, and you realize she might be looking for you - that is, nine year old you.

“Hello, my friend,” Zemo greets the girl, and her eyes snap to his face, some weariness still visible. He reaches into his coat’s pocket and withdraws something small and flat, possibly a piece of paper, holding it out to her. “This is for your family.”

She immediately takes it, and all weariness is gone as she shoves whatever it is into her pocket.

Oh. It was cash.

“Can you show us the way?” Zemo asks after a moment.

The girl nods and gestures Zemo along as she turns towards the street behind her.

Everyone follows.

“What the hell…?” Walker exclaims, not entirely quiet behind you.

Leading everyone straight past the entrance that you saw a swarm of people enter earlier, the girl takes everyone around the side of the building.

Everyone keeps their mouth shut, the only noise audible being the sound of gravel crunching underneath boots.

There's a pair of doors up ahead, right across from one another. The girl goes to the left one, not hesitating as she pushes it open. She waits only a second to make sure Zemo catches up before she disappears inside.

Bucky picks up his pace and holds the door open, everyone following suit.

By the time you make your way inside, down a small set of stairs at the entrance, you’re greeted by large boilers, definitely responsible for bringing hot water to the entirety of this resettlement camp.

Past them, however, is another door, along with your tour guide. As she holds that door open, she silently points upward.

“Karli’s in there,” Zemo says over his shoulder, and with that, the girl has done all that’s been asked of her and she’s gone.

Everyone gathers in the middle of the room, eyes locked onto the empty door frame.

Sam walks ahead. “All right.”

Zemo moves to follow, when Walker reaches out and grabs his wrist.

Walkers jerks Zemo’s arm behind his back, moving a leg to push Zemo towards a boiler.

Zemo lets out a groan at the movement, along with an annoyed, “Really?” under his breath.

You’re unsure if you should intervene.

“Hey,” Walker calls out to Sam, waiting for him to turn around at the door frame. “You got ten minutes.” He pulls out a pair of handcuffs from his belt, slapping one end onto Zemo’s wrist. “Then, we’re doing things my way.” He emphasizes this point by slapping the other end of the cuff around a pipe on the boiler.

Sam nods, before he leaves your sight.

“Aggressive,” Zemo says as he leans against the boiler. “But I get it,” he flourishes with a half-shrug.

On second thought, keeping what happened at the Madripoor docks in mind, keeping Zemo chained up is definitely the right call.

Walker’s expression straightens, like the next ten minutes would be better spent away from this man. He walks towards the door frame, but comes to a stop as he’s right across the second boiler. He stands tall, his eyes flickering towards Bucky, Zemo, and yourself.

You walk to the back of the room, arms crossed and eyes wandering. There’s a clock on the wall to the left, dutifully ticking for each passing second. You focus your gaze on it as you make it to the end of the room, letting your body tilt until your shoulder makes contact with the wall.

Leaning against the wall, you think this is a good spot to be in. You’re guarding the door you all entered, you can see the stairwell Sam entered, and you can see the time without taking your phone out.

Zemo’s directly in front of you too, though you’re unsure if that’s a positive or not. He’s facing away from the boiler now, an arm resting over the front. Idly, he toys with the metal cuff around his wrist.

To the left, Hoskins leans against the perpendicular wall, only a foot or two away behind Walker.

Across the room, Bucky has taken residence to the right of the stairwell, guarding it. His eyes are focused to the unoccupied side of the room, though you’re sure he’s only doing it to avoid conversation.

You can’t blame him, as you intend on doing the same by staring at the clock.

Alas, Walker has other plans.

“Where’ve you been?” Walker asks, breaking the silence.

It takes a moment to register that he’s talking to you. “Excuse me?” you ask, unsure of what he’s asking.

Hoskins elaborates for him. “We didn’t see you with them.” He nods his head towards Bucky, to where Sam went. “It is Jack Connors, isn’t it? You haven’t shown up in any public flight records. In fact, we haven’t even found your ID yet. It’s almost like you don’t exist.” His voice is light, to a calculated degree.

Internally, alarms start going off. They know, they know, they know, your panicked brain repeats and repeats.

But the thing is - they can’t. You’ve been careful. Your name, your actual name, should only be on a single flight record: from Michigan to Berlin. Even if you’re to take another public flight, it wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for someone on vacation (that is what you told your daycare, isn’t it?) to be a couple hundred miles away a few days later on a return flight. This is Europe. They have trains here. No one should be able to know.

They don’t know. What they’ve just said is something that can be said about anyone on an undercover mission, not something that’s exclusive to the fact that you’re a shapeshifter and you’re lying to them right now. They don’t know and they’re prying for answers. You don’t owe them an explanation.

Mustering an expression as serious as you can manage, you give a single sharp nod. “Good.” 

Walker's nostrils flare, but he doesn't look surprised. He settles down on a small set of stairs that lead to a room to the left, eyes downcast as he removes his shield from his arm. Hoskins looks contemplative, but nods and looks at the ground.

Your eyes dart from Bucky to Zemo. Both of their expressions are unreadable at a glance.

You look back at the clock. One minute down, nine more to go.

The second hand ticks with every second, silent in the large room. It makes a full rotation, then another. The only sounds you hear are the shuffling of a chain against metal as Zemo readjusts his cuffed arm, then the shuffling of Walker’s footsteps as he begins to pace in the center of the room.

As he nears you, his jaw twitches. “Uh-uh. No, no, no” he mumbles under his breath. He turns away from the starwell. “This is a bad idea,” he states more clearly.

“It hasn’t been ten minutes, John. Just sit tight,” Bucky responds.

“Don’t do that.” Walker stalks to the back of the room, past Hoskins, past Bucky, and past Zemo. “Don’t patronize me,” he snarls. 

“He knows what he’s doing,” Bucky reassures Walker, his voice remaining level.

Walker comes to a stop between you and Zemo, looking down to the single clock in the room.

He’s only a couple feet away from you, and you can see his eyes. They look at the clock - it’s part of the way to four minutes - and they darken.

You straighten your shoulders out against the wall behind you.

Walker turns away from the clock, a new resolve present. “I’m going in.” He hastens his pace, adjusts the shield, and moves towards the stairwell. Hoskins follows a step behind him, you a step behind him.

Bucky moves to the center of the doorframe right as Walker comes up to him. He pushes Walker back with a single shove.

“This is all really easy for you, isn’t it?” Walker’s voice is dark, almost gravely. “All that serum running through your veins.”

They make direct eye contact with one another.

“Barnes, your partner needs back-up in there,” Walker attempts to bargain. He leans to look over Bucky’s shoulder, and adds, “Do you want his blood on your hands?”

You huff a breath through your nose, offended on both Sam and Bucky’s behalf. “Sam knows what he’s doing,” you say. “It hasn’t even been five minutes. We should let him do his job, so you can do yours.”

Walker remains where he is, his shoulders moving as he takes exaggerated, frustrated breaths through his nose.

Bucky looks to Walker, to you, to Walker again. He repeats himself, “He knows what he’s doing.” It sounds like a reassurance, and you’re unsure if he’s trying to convince Walker or himself.

Walker stands there for a few seconds more, his breaths evening out, his glare focused on Bucky.

You and Hoskins exchange a look with one another, unsure if you’re working with one another or against.

Finally, Walker gives a single, curt nod. He turns around, and you and Hoskins take a step to the sides, parting to give Walker room to move away. His brows are furrowed down, his smile drawn into a tight line, as he glowers at the floor.

The air remains tense.

The next instant, Walker whips around, arm and shield narrowly avoiding collision with your own torso as he launches the shield at Bucky.

Instinctively, you throw your own arm outwards in an attempt to grab hold of him - you’re a second too slow, witnessing first hand Walker’s ‘record breaking’ reaction times. His  head and shoulders are brought low as he charges forward.

Your hand makes contact with Hoskins instead, fingers curling around his vest.

Bucky, meanwhile, barely has enough time to dodge the shield he’s been so vocal about getting his hands on.

It bounces on the edge of the doorway, directly to where Walker is a moment later as he darts through it. He grabs it, disappearing from view as he settles it back on his arm, his footfalls echoing in the stairwell.

Hoskins’ own hand is pressing against your chest as he attempts to push you away and backwards, giving you no choice but to yank your arm - and his vest - down. He stumbles, just enough for you to get out of arm's reach.

By the time you reach the stairs, Bucky is already only a few steps away from Walker.

You take the stairs two at a time, barely managing to put distance between yourself and Hoskins.

If you think you can feel the brush of his fingertips against the back of your jacket, this only spurs you to move faster.

Unfortunately, the speed you’re moving at proves to be just the thing to make you stumble, the toe of your boot catching underneath a stair it should have been passing by.

Hoskins attempts to shove his way past you as you catch yourself from tripping by barely managing to grip your hand over his shoulder. Though you’re still unsteady, you’re forced to keep pace or trip completely.

Thankfully, it seems that up ahead, Bucky and Walker seemed to have tussled a bit as well, just enough for them to have not left either yours or Hoskins’ sight.

Bucky, however, can’t seem to get a hand on Walker properly, the shield secured around the latter’s arm serving to protect him.

Walker’s eyes dart ahead and, evidently, he finds where Sam has run off to.

“Karli Morganthau, you’re under arrest,” Walker bellows as he tries to enter the main room, Bucky managing to shove his shoulder back.

A few steps behind them, you and Hoskins are doing the same with one another, free from the danger of tumbling down the stairs.

If it wasn’t for the ever-looming threat of inadvertently committing treason and the repercussions of assaulting - or, bare minimum, hindering - a law enforcement officer, this would be comical, you think.

You can’t help but think back to your daycare center, when you and another little are toeing the ‘No hitting’ rule. Shoves and pushes hard enough to discourage the other from doing, or more often, taking something that the other wants, but light enough to not draw tears or the attention of the caregivers or assistants.

Stakes are a little higher right now, though. Shoves are a bit harder too.

You can hear Karli’s voice from up ahead. “So this is what that was,” her words come fast, angry with a touch of betrayal.

“No, Karli, wait-” Sam struggles to de-escalate this rapidly escalating situation.

“Tricking me until back-up arrived?” she snarls, and looking up, you can see that she’s on her feet, getting away from Sam as fast as possible.

“I think we’ve had enough time to talk,” Walker says, as he makes it to Sam, holding a hand out to him as he moves closer to Karli.

You jerk an elbow back, attempting to push Hoskins further back. He retaliates by grabbing your shoulder and jerking it back, forcing your upper body to twist with the movement.

“Why don’t you-” and whatever Walker was going to say is lost in the noise that results from Karli throwing a fist forward, making contact with the shield, and throwing him against Sam, against a nearby table.

Hoskins and you grapple for a moment, before you each forgo this tussle so as to assist your own friends.

He runs off to Walker while you run off to Sam, Bucky already sprinting towards where Karli had run off to.

You help Sam up from his hands and knees, unable to help yourself to stop yourself from asking, “You good?”

He makes a noise in the affirmative, which is going to have to be enough.

You’re both running off towards where Bucky has run off to, having to avoid colliding with where Hoskins was still pulling Walker up from the ground.

There’s a few people staring off at a doorway, as if offended by poor manners, and you can only assume they’re staring after Bucky.

You and Sam come to the same conclusion, going straight towards it.

Unfortunately, it comes to both an open door frame and a staircase. Making eye contact with one another, you jerk a thumb towards yourself and say, “Down,” while Sam does the same and says, “Up.”

Wasting no time, you both go your respective routes.

Running straight ahead, right as you push the door open, you spot a fairly sized group of people towards the end of the room.

They’re turned away from you, parting just enough to give you a glimpse of the back of Bucky’s heels.

Oh. They’re Flag Smasher sympathizers.

Before your footfalls draw their attention back to you, you sweep the crowd in search of someone, anyone, in comparable size to Jack Connor.

Not a moment too soon, your face isn’t yours nor is it your alter ego - you look like one of them.

“Excuse me,” you mutter under your breath, voice unfamiliar, as you continue forward, slowing down just enough for the glimmer of recognition to sink in.

You avoid looking anyone in the eyes, keeping your head turned to the ground.

Confusion evident in the room, no one gives you any trouble.

Thankfully, the person who’s face you’re borrowing either does not see you or is too shocked or startled or whatever emotion one feels when faced with a doppleganger to say anything.

You make it out of the room and break into a dead sprint straight ahead, face shifting back to Jack Connors.

At the end of the hallway, to the left, is a fairly sized room that, no doubt, led to other rooms. To the right, however, is an industrial looking stairwell.

Running in, you lean against the safety railing, head turning to listen for footsteps either above or below you.

Your breaths are heavy, but not loud enough to obscure the sound of a door closing under you.

Wasting no more time, you head down.

Was it just a floor down, though, or more?

You look at the door leading to the first floor and bite your lip.

It was worth a shot.

Grabbing the handle, you rush forward.

Head turning this way and that, you’re greeted to a room full of rusty machinery.

If you were playing hide and seek, these would make hiding very easy.

Slowing down, your eyes search for a tuft of red hair while your ears are listening carefully for the sound of another person.

You cross the room with no results.

There’s no one here.

Frowning, you open the door at the end of the room, finding a hallway of more doors and more rooms.

God, this place was huge.

You peek into the room next door and find that it’s another entrance to the room you were just in.

Great.

The next door also leads to the previous room, but the one after that is a small closet, containing only paper towels.

Okay. So this was being used for storage. That makes sense.

Would Karli hide down here, though?

You begin to wonder if you should call Sam or Bucky.

Before you can even pull your phone out, however, a quiet yet unmistakable bang echoes through the hallway. Another follows, and you’re moving towards the source.

You jog down the hallway, turning, taking small glances at the rooms you whiz by. 

Wherever the gunshots came from, it echoed - ergo, they came from a large room.

There’s another gunshot, sounding closer than before. On one hand, that was good - you were on the right track. On the other hand, this could be very, very bad, depending on who was shooting who.

As you come to the very end of the hallway, you slide to a stop. It continues left and right, and you have no idea where to go.

Hoskins comes barrelling out a doorway from the right.

Huh. Was there another stairwell? Probably.

You both make eye contact, before you turn left and pick up the pace, Hoskins a step behind you.

There aren’t any more gunshots, and you’re unsure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

There’s a door straight ahead, at the end of the hallway.

You push it open, eyes scanning the room, ready to start swinging - when, there in the center of the room stands John Walker, adjusting the shield on his arm.

Zemo’s body lies prone on the ground.

You freeze, eyes trailing from his splayed legs to his closed eyes.

You start breathing again when you see Zemo doing the same, his chest rising and falling.

It doesn’t look like he’s nursing a bullet wound, though that leads you to wonder who was shooting who and why Zemo was unconscious in the first place.

From above, across the room, Sam's voice echoes. “What did we miss?” Beside him, atop a staircase, he and Bucky stand, overlooking the room.

You’re snapped out of your stupor then, crossing the room to Walker and Zemo.

Walker takes a moment to answer, his eyes darting from Sam and Bucky to you and Hoskins. He clears his throat and drops his gaze to the ground before answering, “Karli isn’t here.”

As you get closer, something crunches underneath your boots, giving you pause. You notice there’s an overturned table beside you.

Looking down, there’s small shards of glass sprinkled across the floor. There’s splatters of something streaked every which direction.

“Your friend got her cornered, but let her escape. Instead, he decided the best use of his time was to destroy the vials containing the serum. I tried to stop him, but it was already too late.”

You crouch, careful to keep your feet firm on the ground so as to not lose balance and fall directly onto the shattered glass.

Now that you’re closer, you can make out a tint to the splatters - it’s blue.

Turning your head towards Zemo’s unconscious form, you can see that the bottom of his boots are, in fact, covered in the remains of the serum. You can even make out some stains extending as far up as the hems of his pants.  

“Oh,” is all you can say for a moment. Then, your brain processes this. Alarmed, you ask, “Wait, did you throw the shield at his skull?”

“Yeah?” Walker doesn’t seem concerned.

You’re unsure if you’re up to the task of explaining to him that giving brain damage to allies isn’t particularly nice.

Licking your lips, your eyes dart around the room instead. They once again take stock of Zemo and the glass that covers the ground. There’s a gun a few feet away from him, answering your question of who was shooting who. They come to rest at the overturned table and, stepping closer, you find a small black bag right beside it. A small splatter of red next to it grabs your attention.

“Karli’s injured,” you verbalize, eyes locking onto the barely there droplets on the concrete floor.

You look back up, brows hardening as you glower at Walker. “Zemo probably managed to get a shot in, there’s blood splatter. If she got shot, she probably isn’t far.”

Walker’s jaw tenses, and he dramatically steps closer to the where you’re looking, leaning down to confirm. He huffs as he straightens back up, adjusting the shield on his arm. He looks to Hoskins and gives a single nod.

They start towards the only entrance to the room no one had used, and as such was likely the escape route. Loudly, echoing throughout the room, Walker barks, “Don't go anywhere.”

Everyone is silent as they watch Walker and Hoskins head up the stairs and storm out.

As the door slams behind them, a small bit of tension drains from the room.

You turn your attention back to where Zemo remains unconscious. “Is he… okay?”

Bucky places a hand on your shoulder then, startling you - you didn’t notice him and Sam coming down.

“I don’t know,” Sam admits. He walks past you, crouching beside Zemo.

He reaches into his jacket’s pocket and withdraws a familiar looking flashlight - it’s the one he’d used on you in Madripoor. Pushing an eyelid open, he shines the light directly into Zemo’s eyeball.

Zemo remains unconscious, a twitch of his fingers being the only outward reaction you could see.

Sam runs a hand down the back of Zemo’s head, down his neck.

Deep in his throat, Zemo makes a noise, his brows furrowing and eyes squeezing tightly shut.

“Oh, thank god,” you can hear Sam mutter under his breath. He leans back, giving Zemo space as he awakes.

Zemo groans, before his eyelids flutter open. Though his eyes are glazed, they move past you and Bucky, landing on Sam.

He moves to get up, but a hand on his shoulder keeps him in place.

“Hey, take it easy,” Sam warns him. When Zemo stills, clearly listening, Sam continues, “You took a nasty blow to the head. What’s your name and where are you?”

There’s a deep groan in the back of Zemo’s neck, eyes squeezing tightly closed. “I’m Baron Helmut Zemo, we’re in Riga, Latvia, and I’m sure that John Walker isn't particularly fond of me.”

You huff a laugh, while Sam rolls his eyes. “Can you tell me what year it is? Month? Day?”

Zemo brings a hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Twenty-twenty-four. May seventh- no, eighth.” He pulls his hand away, blinking his eyes open, clearing them. He focuses them on the high ceilings. “Karli got away.” It’s both a statement and a question.

Sam sighs. “Yeah, she did. Looks like you destroyed the serum though, so I guess you won’t have to worry about any more super soldiers.” He pockets the flashlight. “Your vision okay? Your head hurt?”

Zemo fixes him a dead-eyed gaze. “I was knocked unconscious by Captain America’s shield.”

Sam returns the gaze with a frown. “That’s exactly why I need to check if you’re okay. What happened?”

“I found Karli and I shot her. She was carrying the serum with her, and they all fell. I was destroying them, when a blur of red, white, and blue hit me.” He frowns, eyes blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear them. “If the pain in my right cheekbone is any indication, that’s where the shield found its target.”

Immediately, Sam fingers brush against said cheekbone. Despite a hiss of pain from Zemo, Sam continues to carefully press them down and around the surrounding area.

“Looks like it’s your lucky day: Nothing seems to be fractured.” He sighs and withdraws his hand. “We should get it iced soon, prevent any swelling.”

You frown, turning to look to where Walker and Hoskins left. “Should we leave?”

Sam stands from his crouch, looking down at Zemo. “I don’t even know if he’s capable of walking back.” He turns to follow your gaze. “But if we don’t, I don’t think Walker will be amenable to providing basic pain medication to a convict.”

Zemo huffs, his nostrils flaring and nose wrinkling as he pushes himself into a reclining position by his elbows. “I’m more than capable of doing so.”

You turn back to face him. “Yeah? How many fingers am I holding up?” you ask, holding up a single hand.

“S-” Zemo immediately cuts himself off, and you can see his eyes bounce from finger to finger to confirm his conclusion. Turning his gaze towards you, he scowls, unamused.

You’re undeterred. “How many fingers, Zemo,” you repeat, face carefully neutral.

He rolls his eyes, and immediately regrets it, wincing. “Seven,” he finally answers.

Satisfied, you retract the extra digits. Smirking, you look at Sam. “Hmm, I dunno, Sam. He might be seeing things.”

Sam is also unamused by your antics. “Stop messing with him.” 

You pout. “Fine. If that’s the case, I think he’s fine.” Stepping closer, you hold your hand out to Zemo. “C’mon, up you go.”

He takes it, and you pull Zemo to his feet. He sways a bit, and you don’t hesitate when you hook your shoulder under his arm to steady him.

Now that you’re in his personal space, you can tell that he doesn’t look too good, face pale and slightly clammy. His eyes are focused, though he’s focusing them onto a far corner.

You hope he doesn’t throw up.

Looking away, you see that Sam’s frowning, brows knit together and eyes focused directly on Zemo’s face.

“You okay? Dizzy?” he asks Zemo.

You can hear him gulp with your ear so close to his throat. He clears it, and pasting on an obviously strained smile, he says, “I’m fine, Samuel.”

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling loudly. “Sure,” he relents, as it’s not like he has a choice, really. Removing his hand, he looks at you. “You fine carrying him, kid?”

“Mhm,” you nod, making sure your one-armed grip is secure.

Turning to the staircase he’d entered the room from. “Let’s go, then.” He walks past Bucky, who’s been standing, arms crossed, a few feet away this entire exchange.

You and Zemo start walking. He’s still supporting most of his weight at the moment and you wonder how long that’s gonna last.

When Sam reaches the first step of the stairs, and Bucky hasn’t made a move to follow, he turns to face him, eyes weary. He raises a single brow.

Bucky sighs, turning his gaze towards where Walker and Hoskins disappeared to. “They’re gonna come back soon.”

You and Zemo start ascending the stairs, one step at a time.

“Yeah, that’s exactly why we should be going. Right now.” Sam glares at Bucky, already too tired by the events of the last ten minutes to deal with Bucky’s antics.

Bucky returns the glare, resolute. “I’ll stay here, just to make sure Walker doesn’t flip his lid.”

“What, you’re gonna try to get him to calm down?”

Bucky scoffs. “No. I’ll just keep an eye on him long enough that to make sure he isn’t going to do something stupid.”

Sam turns around, stomping behind you and Zemo. “Yeah, good luck with that. We’ll be at the apartment, you better not end up in cuffs again.”

Bucky only huffs in response, stalking to one of the many blindspots in the room.

You, Sam, and Zemo leave the room only a moment later.

With this being the route that Sam and Bucky took, Sam leads everyone out.

It appears the universe gives pity to your little group, as the way to the streets of Riga are clear of any resettlement resident.

Zemo only stumbles a little.

It isn’t until your group has made it to the elevator of his apartment building, do you all breathe a sigh of relief.

Waiting for the machinery to work, you turn to Zemo and flash a smile. “Now we’re concussion buddies,” you smile, jostling him a little.

The corners of his lips curl up for a moment and, even though he straightens them out almost immediately, you count that as a win.

“Ah, yes. Half of this group is nursing brain trauma. I’m sure that Karli and her reactionaries will be pleased with this factoid.”

You hum, thinking the words over. Only half? “Y’know, a day or two before Bucky busted you out of prison, he jumped out of a low flying plane without any gear. He could’ve landed on his head. Sam might be the only one here with a functioning brain cell.”

The elevator reaches its destination, and you all walk out.

Under his breath as he opens the doors, you can hear Sam saying, “I know I do.”

Zemo narrows his eyes at you. Whether it’s from insult or disbelief, you can’t tell.

You drag Zemo inside, the door behind you closing with a definitive click, closed but not locked.

“Take him to the couch,” Sam tells you, already heading into the bathroom for medical supplies. Directing a pointed look over his shoulder, he tells Zemo, “You are going to lay down.”

There’s a small grunt from the man propped up by your shoulder, a quiet, “No protests here,” audible to you only.

Your lips quirk at the corner.

You take him to the couch that you were laying on only hours previous, bending your knees slowly to give Zemo the time needed to do so himself. As his weight is transferred to the cushions, another exhale is forced through his nostrils as he settles down.

He moves to take his coat off, and unprompted, your hands are already clutching around it. “Let me help,” you say, working it off him.

Zemo makes no protest, and once fully off and draped over your arms, you stand beside him and the couch, unsure of what to do with it.

“Fold that and place it in the corner,” Sam returns, pill bottle and a glass of water in hand, nodding his head to gesture to the coat. “His neck should be supported right now.”

You nod, rolling the coat up into a small bundle, placing it in the appropriate spot. You grab a nearby throw pillow, placing it over it.

Sitting on the edge of the coffee table, Sam maneuvers Zemo down, so he’s more reclined.

Standing there beside them, you wait for further instructions.

“Go see if we got any ice,” Sam tells you, before returning his attention back to Zemo.

Ice. You could do that. That’s easy.

Turning towards the kitchen, you check the only cabinet that’s large enough to hide a fridge.

Pulling the door open, you pull open the freezer.

There’s… nothing in here.

Okay, the absence of food in here you can understand - no perishables, nothing to worry about if the safehouse can’t be checked up on often.

But not even an ice tray?

No built in ice machine?

You frown, yelling over your shoulder, “There’s no ice!”

“What do you mean there’s no ice?”

Shutting each door, you throw back. “I mean that there’s no ice.” Turning to Zemo you ask, “What kind of weirdo doesn’t have ice?”

Zemo’s only response is to throw his hands up, just barely visible over the arm of the couch.

Sam sighs. “Just get him a wet cloth then.”

Nodding, you head over to the bathroom for the small cloths there.

Taking one of the washcloths from the towel shelf, you go to the sink, adjusting the faucet all the way to its coldest setting.

As you wait for the water to get cold, you can hear Sam and Zemo exchanging words with one another.

Your lips quirk at the memories you have of Steve checking you over for brain damage.

The smile slips off when you remember that Steve will never go through the checklist with you again.

You flick your fingers underneath the stream and when it’s so cold it starts to numb, you hold the cloth under it, soaking it.

Squeezing the excess water over the sink, you stroll back to the living room, folding it into a rectangle.

Sam’s sitting back, mouth drawn into a thin line. “So… where’d you get the gun?”

“Please, Sam. As if I would confront any serum-enhanced individual unarmed.”

Sam looks to the ceiling, looking for the strength to deal with this non-answer.

“Here you go,” you interrupt, handing Sam the cold cloth.

“Thanks,” he grumbles, taking it. He sets it over Zemo’s right cheekbone.

It covers almost the entirety of the right of his face, including the nearby eye. The opposite eye focuses on Sam.

“Keep it there until it warms up,” Sam instructs before standing up, turning towards the dining table - his laptop is right where he left it. “I’m gonna ask Sharon if she can keep an eye on Walker.”

You nod, letting him pass by you.

You turn back to Zemo, unsure if there’s anything else you could do.

“Would you be a dear and get me a drink?” he asks, his uncovered eye looking at you.

Twisting a bit, you look at the partially drunk water set on the coffee table. “You have some water?”

He follows your gaze and smiles. “I was referring to a stronger drink, if you please?”

You frown. “Didn’t you just take some medicine?”

“Yes,” he admits. “But a drink would be much appreciated,” he insists.

Shuffling your feet, it takes only a moment more until you relent, heading over to the decanter set on the beverage cabinet. You pour the amber liquid into a glass, two fingers worth of the stuff.

When you turn back around, you see Sam frowning at Zemo, brows furrowing. “You don’t need me to tell you how you should not be drinking, right?”

Below the washcloth, Zemo’s lips twitch into a smile. “All the more reason for me to do so.”

Sam sighs, turning his attention back to his laptop. “Whatever. Don’t expect me to hold your hair back for when you inevitably can’t keep it down.”

“Ah, of course not, Sam. I’m sure that our mutual friend here will be all too happy to help.”

You hand the drink over, nose wrinkling. “That’s gross. You could deal with that on your own.”

He smiles, huffing through his nose though he’s clearly amused. He pushes his head up to take a sip, savoring it. The washcloth slides down his face, and as he sets his head back down, he pushes it up, adjusting it so it lays over his eyes.

“Thank you, entlein.”

“No problem…” you trail off. Your gaze shifts off Zemo and onto the floor beside the couch.

Pushed right against it is a plastic bag.

Tilting your head, you push your foot against it, the bag crinkling as you check to see what it is.

Oh.

It’s the pack of diapers that Sam had bought for you last night.

A shock of surprise moves through your system, and you remember that you haven't used the bathroom since you’ve woken up.

At least, now that you think about it… not the physical bathroom.

Doing your best to dissipate the blush that so desperately wants to form, you lean down and grab a folded up diaper from the opened pack.

“Be right back,” is what you manage to mumble out as you cross the living and dining room to the bathroom.

Unfortunately, while Zemo’s eyes are currently covered, he does have ears. At the same moment, Sam’s eyes flick over to you, hand poised at the top of his laptop, ready to jump into action.

“Don’t forget the wipes and ointment,” Zemo reminds you, this overlapping with Sam’s “Do you need help?”

You freeze, halfway between the two men.

You surrender to the battle of the blush in an effort to put all your concentration on moving as fast as possible. Turning around, you just grab the plastic bag, legs moving to get you behind the double doors of the bathroom as soon as possible. “I’m good-!” is what you manage to spit out in the meantime, voice higher pitched than you’d like.

Pulling the doors closed, you make sure to lock it.

Ugh, how embarrassing was that.

You drop the bag onto the counter.

You could clean yourself up all by yourself.

Taking hold of your belt, it only takes you a minute to remember how this buckle worked.

Staring down at your diaper clad pelvis, you frown.

Admittedly, while you were absolutely capable of cleaning up after yourself… that didn’t mean that that meant you were used to changing your diapers.

It’s just… pull-ups were more in your wheelhouse.

You let out a sigh. If you remember correctly, the last time you diapered yourself was two years ago.

Your eyes flick up to the mirror.

This will probably be easier if you were in your own body for this.

You concentrate, and after a moment, you’re staring back at yourself, eyebags and all.

Hm.

Okay, that was better. You don’t want Sam to get too concerned.

Looking back down, you grab hold of a velcro tape. It comes off easily, and you do the other side, until you’re able to remove the diaper and ball it up.

Tossing it into the trash, you grab the wipes, the plastic packaging echoing loudly in the bathroom. You peel back the resealable opening, pulling out a fairly sized wipe.

As you wipe it where it needs to be, you take in a sharp intake of air, hissing as your irritated skin gets irritated.

Tossing that wipe into the trash, you turn and grab both the clean diaper you had already pulled - same pattern as the one you'd just removed - and the diaper rash treatment.

You were never going to pack a bag without some ever again.

Looking around the bathroom, you frown at where, exactly, you were supposed to put the diaper on. Were you gonna have to sit or lay on the floor?

Ugh, no thanks. You’ll just lean against a wall, and hope for the best.

Doing exactly that, you pin the open diaper between you and the wall. Popping open the lid to the tube, you squeeze some of the paste onto your fingers. Making sure the lid snaps shut, you toss it across the room and into the plastic bag - Score!

As you smear the paste anywhere that it stings, you can’t help but be at least a little appreciative of - while your wake-up was far from pleasant - the fact that Zemo attempted to warm the cream was nice of him.

It was cold.

With everything as covered as it’s going to be, mindful of your cream-coated fingers, you pull the diaper up around your waist. You carefully place the tapes where they need to go, and once secure, you slowly move away from the wall.

The diaper stays in place.

With your pants below your knees, you shuffle over to the sink to wash your hands before you even think of attempting to pull them up.

White diaper rash cream combined with the black denim was only going to be a disaster, no matter how careful you try to be.

Only when your hands are fully washed and dried do you bring your pants back up.

Okay, there. You did it!

You put a diaper on, all by yourself.

Could a baby do that? Certainly not.

Giving yourself a once over, making sure your shirt isn’t rolled up or something, you look at the plastic bag full of diapering supplies.

Shrugging, you decide that you'd rather it stay here than the living room.

Coming out of the bathroom, you head directly to the counter. Your mouth was dry, and though your plate is cleared, your sippy cup remains at your previous seat.

Zemo and Sam are exactly where you left them.

Settling on the stool, you bring the spout to your mouth, the refreshing hibiscus tea quenching your thirst.

Not a second too soon, the front door is opened, the sound of the lock engaging a moment after it’s closed.

“Something’s not right about Walker,” is Bucky’s greeting as he walks in. He takes off his jacket, tossing it to the counter space beside you as he walks into the kitchen.

“You don’t say?” is Sam’s dry response.

“I know a crazy when I see one,” Bucky says, pulling a different decanter from a cabinet. “Because I am crazy,” he tacks on, pouring the amber liquid into a glass.

“Can’t argue with that.”

“Shouldn’t have given him the shield.”

“I didn’t give him the shield.” Sam rises to his feet, turning around to face Bucky.

“Well, Steve definitely didn’t.” Bucky brings the glass to his lips, eyes unwavering from Sam.

The sound of wood fracturing echoes through the apartment as a deadbolt is forced through an opposing door. The front doors slams open as John Walker himself kicks them open, Lemar Hoskins undoubtedly by his side.

Startled, your brain works on instinct.

Your brain recognizes that an intruder comes in and that they can’t see you the way you are now.

Your brain chooses to believe that it’s because you’re nursing a sippy cup.

In the split second before the intruder enters, you throw your sippy cup across the counter, into the kitchen sink. 

If this was the correct reasoning you’d be in the clear.

Unfortunately, the reason you shouldn’t be seen right now was because you were not currently Jack Connor.

Before you recognize your mistake, John Walker and Lemar Hoskins stroll through the doors Walker kicked open.

Walker’s eyes sweep the apartment, likely in search of Zemo. They find him, of course, as he’s settled on the couch directly across the front doors, but they also slide over you before they land on their intended target.

Opening his mouth, Walker is about to say something, when his eyes dart back over to you right as you turn around.

It doesn’t take a genius to recognize clothing, afterall.

You lock eyes with one another. You can see the gears turning in his head, and his sour expression turns even worse.

His adam apple bobs down as he swallows, his eyes hardening.

Behind him, Hoskins’ own eyes narrow at you.

“We knew something was up with you.” Walker sounds pissed.

Fear seizes your heart, freezing you in place.

They know, they know, they know.

Bucky moves around the counter, settling on the stool beside you. His hand lays on your kneecap, its presence grounding you in the moment.

You take in a shuddery breath, forcing air into your lungs. It’s almost too shallow to be useful, so you take another and another, each breath as quiet as you can make it as your eyes lock onto Walker.

Ready to run, if need be.

“All right, that’s it, let’s go,” Walker’s voice booms through the apartment. “I’m now ordering you to turn him- her- them and him over.” He stares directly at Sam, hand sweeping out to gesture to you and Zemo.

Zemo rises from the couch, his drink in hand as he strolls towards the corner of the dining room, sparing you a brief glance as he does so.

“Hey, slow your roll,” Sam responds, keeping Walker’s eyes on him. “Man, let’s be clear, shield or no shield, the only thing you’re running here is your mouth.”

Even though you thought it impossible, Walker’s face somehow looks even more displeased.

“I had Karli and you overstepped. He’s actually proven himself useful today, and we’re going to need all hands on deck for whatever’s coming next. As for them?” He gestures to you, and you straighten in your seat. “They’re an ally, working with us, not against.”

“They’re obviously enhanced - which, okay, isn’t a crime in itself.” Walker’s nostrils flare. “But by assisting in this mission, they’re violating the Sokovia Accords - or were you not aware of this? Section eight, subsection B - ‘Any enhanced individuals are prohibited from taking action in any country other than their own without prior clearance.’”

Sam steps closer, brows drawn together. “If I remember correctly, that only applies to those who sign.”

“Oh, so they’re unregistered? Fantastic.” Instead of stepping away, he steps closer, glaring at Sam. “What are they, some sort of vigilante you’ve gotten all buddy-buddy with? They shouldn’t be here. This is an active mission, as described in the Accords.”

Sam doesn’t respond, simply crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes, resolute.

Walker takes this in, shoulders moving with each breath he takes. “How do you want the rest of this conversation to go, Sam?” he says, voice low and gravelly. He not so subtly adjusts the shield on his arm.

The tightness in your chest lessens as you observe this stand-off. Is he trying to intimidate Sam?   Wow, he’s dumber than advertised.

“Should I put down the shield,” Walker continues to dig his own grave, “make it fair?”

Sam can only let out a faint breath of disbelief, amazed at the sheer nerve of this guy.

You all watch as Walker makes a show of placing his shield down, leaning it against a nearby pillar, and if you didn’t feel so lightheaded at the moment, you’ll be resisting the urge to dart down and grab it, sprinting as far away from him as you can.

Right as he straightens up, though, a spear is thrown across the living room into the pillar, embedding it deep within the stone. It’s right where Walker’s head just was.

Head spinning, you turn to see who threw it, and you’re greeted by a dark-skinned woman dressed in a red uniform emerging from the bedroom.

Before you can even wonder how she got in, when she got in, two more women, both dressed similarly, approach the front door from where the stairway should be.

They’re the Wakandans that Bucky said wanted Zemo. The Dora Milaje.

They turn to face Bucky and tell him something in a language you don’t recognize. Whatever it is, Bucky only drops his gaze to his lap in response.

“Release him to us now,” she says in English, likely for the benefit of everyone who wasn’t Bucky.

The only problem is, that's what Walker wants. And, apparently, he isn’t afraid to let them know. 

“Hi, John Walker,” he greets, taking a step towards the woman who spoke. “Captain America,” he clarifies, as if there was a single person on Earth who has escaped the onslaught of promos and posters.

When there are no introductions in return, he nervously looks around. Clearing his throat, he continues, “Well, let’s, uh, put down the pointy sticks… and we can talk this through.”

Somehow, you get the impression that this isn’t up to discussion.

“Hey, John,” Sam interjects, “take it easy. You might want to fight Bucky before you tango with the Dora Milaje.” It’s a warning, and you remember that he’s fought side-by-side with these very women.

Walker doesn’t heed this warning.

“The Dora Milaje don’t have jurisdiction here.”

“The Dora Milaje have jurisdiction wherever the Dora Milaje find themselves to be.” Her response is measured and cool, which only serves to make Walker a bit more hot-headed.

“Mm-kay,” he nervously lets out a laugh, turning to Hoskins for a brief moment. Turning back around, he raises a hand to place on her shoulder, saying, “Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot-”

The moment his hand makes contact, she moves her spear and uses it to push him back. The woman to her left joins in, and before you can fully process how it happens, Walker is thrown against the spear sticking out from the column, crumbling to the ground below.

When he attempts to grab the shield, the speaker of the group flips into the air. The moment that Walker brings the shield in front of him, her spear strikes against the surface.

Woah.

Behind them, right as Hoskins moves to join the fray, the woman from the bedroom jumps off the coffee table and catches the spear from the second woman that entered through the front door. She strikes Hoskins with the blunt end at the back of his knees, forcing him to drop to the ground.

This was… a lot. There’s grunts, there’s yelling, and there’s a sharp sound of glassware breaking as one of the Dora Milaje knocks something off the coffee table.

You wince, your headache threatening to return.

Right as one of the warriors forces Hoskins into a chokehold with her spear, Bucky gives your knee two solid pats before he stands from the stool to join Sam.

“We should do something,” Sam tells him.

Hoskins forces one of the approaching Dora back with a kick, pushing and ducking underneath the spear at his neck. He whips around and uses the force of his rotation to spin the Dora behind him to take a step back.

A loud clang next to you draws your attention then, and you see Walker being forced towards the dining table, fending off blows from a spear with the shield.

“Looking strong, John,” Bucky encourages Walker.

The Dora attacking Walker swings her spear shoulder to shoulder, managing to catch Walker in the jaw with the blunt end.

“Bucky…” Evidently, that’s not what Sam meant.

You watch as Walker falls to the ground, right next to the dining table, forced down to his knees from the unrelenting blows.

The Dora aims the spear directly at his head, pausing for a moment.

She brings her arm back and, for a moment, you think you’re going to watch the last moments of John Walker’s life.

A vibranium hand stops the spear before it reaches its destination.

“Ayo,” Bucky says, as Ayo pulls her spear from his grip. “Ayo, let’s talk about this!”

She pulls him further into the dining room for a brief moment, before pushing him back.

You’re about to turn your head to follow them when movement on the edge of your peripheral vision draws your attention.

Zemo is briskly walking towards the bathroom, gently settling his drink on the bookshelf behind him as he passes by.

Brows furrow, confused about what he was doing.

His eyes remain on the fight, though you can’t tear your eyes from what he’s doing. Upon reaching the doors, he spins around, eyes still directly aimed towards the fight, when he does a small double take, noticing you noticing him.

You lock eyes with one another.

A smile comes to his lips. Taking the door handles, he winks. A moment later, the doors are closed.

You turn back to the living room, curious if anyone else has taken note of this. Alas, it seems that even Sam has gotten roped into the fight.

No one is looking this way.

You gulp, returning your gaze to the door. Your mouth is dry and, once again, you regret that you had tossed your sippy cup into the sink. Everyone here is fighting because they want to take, primarily, Zemo away.

Zemo is in the bathroom right now, and it seems that you’re the only one who has noticed.

Maybe… Maybe he just has to use the potty?

Afterall, no matter if the Wakandans or Americans won this small fight, he would be promptly brought to a jail cell. Or another plane ride to a jail cell. He wasn’t wearing a diaper, afterall…

Your fingers tap against the counter top, watching the door. Time slows to a standstill, each second that passes feeling like an eternity.

Yet, your sense of unease grows exponentially.

You struggle to muster the words needed to get the attention of someone, anyone in the living room.

“G-Guys?” Your voice is barely above a whisper, the word lost in the ruckus from the fight. This seems like something more people should be aware of.

Unless… Maybe Zemo is just getting more medicine for his head?

But…

But, he just got some. Sam gave it to him.

You jump, startled, when a spear is embedded into the dining room table. Walker is struggling against the table, the shield unmoving.

That’s not what’s important right now, though.

You moisten your lips, tongue darting in and out of your mouth, as you refocus on the bathroom doors.

You slide off the stool, feet touching the ground.

Each step you take towards the bathroom is unnoticed by any of the combatants, light and quick.

Standing right in front of the double doors, you raise your hand, hovering above the door handle.

Maybe he got sick and is throwing up? And that’s why he’s taking an inconveniently timed bathroom break?

You’ve thrown up after a concussion once before. And Zemo, he had taken his medicine with alcohol. You’re not supposed to do that.

Closing your hand, you knock against the door, three solid knocks.

You strain to hear a response.

You don’t think you hear anything.

Your eyes drop to the door handle, fingers unwilling to grab it.

Your hand is brushed aside.

Ayo is looking down at you, and you automatically take a step back, letting her take the lead.

Her hands wrap around each door handle, and with a simple, easy twist, she pulls them open.

It wasn’t locked.

The first thing you notice is that the bath is moved, pushed back.

The second thing you notice is that there’s a hole right where it was, a metal grate set beside it.

It is then that you realize that Zemo isn’t here.

You’re frozen to this spot, and you watch as Ayo steps into the bathroom, gazing down into the hole.

Her lips twitch into a frown before she schools them back to careful indifference.

You startle when behind you, a loud clatter grabs your attention. Whipping around, you see that a Dora Milaje has removed the spear keeping Walker in place, the shield having fallen to the ground. Walker follows, his gaze locked onto the Wakandan warrior.

She brings a foot down, and in an instant, the shield is secured to her arm.

“He is gone,” Ayo’s voice draws your attention once again. She’s beside you now, spear upright and in her hand. “Leave it,” she orders before nodding her head towards the front doors, not waiting for a confirmation before leaving.

Dutifully, the woman hands Walker the shield before following.

Looking out to the rest of the apartment, you find all non-Wakandan occupants sprawled out on one surface or another, the exception being Bucky - he’s kneeling down, grabbing something off the ground.

As he straightens, you realize that he’s missing his arm.

It takes another moment to realize that that’s what he’s picked up.

“Did you know they could do that?” Sam asks, getting to his feet.

Bucky brings the arm to his shoulder, and even from a distance, you can hear mechanical sounds as it’s reattached to his torso.

“No,” he answers.

Beside you, Walker lets out a groan, reminding you of his presence.

You take a step back, and another, until a bathroom door is pressing against your back.

Your eyes meet Hoskins, who’s gaze quickly moves away and down. “You all right, man?” he asks Walker.

It takes a moment before he responds. “They weren’t even super soldiers.”

He sounds… defeated. Broken.

Hoskins eyes flick over to you.

You drop your gaze to the ground, one of your arms coming to grip your opposite shoulder.

There’s a quiet sigh, and you don’t know who it's from.

“C’mon, man,” Hoskins says, and when you risk a glance upward, you see him pulling Walker to his feet, away from you.

Walker glances over to Sam and Bucky, before following Hoskins out the busted front doors.

A breath you didn’t know you were holding is released. Your shoulders feel heavy, and they droop as Sam and Bucky approach you and the bathroom.

Their eyes look you over, top to bottom.

You think that they might be looking you over for injuries.

There aren’t any, of course.

You had just… sat there. Stood here. While Zemo ran away.

Their gaze shifts to the bathroom, each pair of eyes locked onto the hole in the center of the room.

“I can’t believe he pulled an El Chapo,” Sam says, lips pulling into a tight line.

“I can,” Bucky responds.

Turning away from the bathroom, your eyes glaze over the wreckage of the apartment. The tea set is shattered on the ground, tiles are broken, and the dining room table has a fairly sized hole in it.

Your eyes land on the spot on the couch Zemo vacated.

Right there, wedged in the corner, he had left his coat.

It makes sense that he’d leave it behind, you think. It was flashy and is likely what had drawn at least part of the attention from onlookers. Without it, he’d be more likely to register as just another face on the streets of Riga, almost unremarkable.

You wonder if he’d come back for it, before immediately dismissing the thought. Why would he? He had Wakandans, Americans, and the local government looking for him. It wouldn’t be long before local law enforcement is swarming the place.

It wouldn’t be worth it.

“C’mon,” Bucky sighs. A hand is placed on your shoulder, and you snap out of your daze.

Tearing your eyes from the coat, you tighten your jaw and give a stiff nod of acknowledgment, jerking away from the grip.

It was too grounding. Too comforting. You’ve made it this far, you’re not going to leave this mission now.

If that means you need to tough it out, and deny yourself comforts for just a bit longer, you’re going to do your best.

With Zemo gone, Sam and Bucky need as much help as they can get - help you can only give them if you stay big.

Bucky and Sam exchange a look over your head as you all cross the apartment.

Setting your gaze on Sam’s back as he follows Bucky through the busted front doors, you don’t look back.